Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  McGinty’s head jerked as if he’d been slapped. “Alma? What do you know about her?”

  Lee was sorry she had spoken by that time but couldn’t see a way out. “I have a picture of her standing between you and my father; I know she’s buried at the Evergreen Cemetery; and I know she committed suicide.”

  McGinty stared at her. “Suicide? What makes you think so?”

  Lee was telling him about the obituary when the food arrived. McGinty leaned forward once they were alone. Lee could see the anger in his eyes. His voice was low and intense. “You’re a good detective, Cassandra. That’s why you’re here. But you are obsessed as well. No, don’t try to bullshit me. I know that most of your spare time is spent looking for the person or persons who killed your father. But once you start searching for the truth, there’s no telling where that journey will lead. Alma was a wonderful girl. I was deeply in love with her. And your father? Well, he wanted her . . . But only as a plaything—and because Alma was important to me.”

  Lee started to speak, but McGinty shook his head. “No. You wanted the truth, and you’re going to have it. Now, where was I? Your father wanted Alma, too. And, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, she wanted him.

  “Then the plague struck, and she became ill. Very ill. The symptoms were consistent with B. nosilla. Millions died, but some people caught the plague and made a full recovery. Others weren’t so lucky. They became ill, survived, and became mutants. That possibility terrified Alma. I told her it didn’t matter. I told her I would love and care for her no matter what happened.

  “But when I returned to my apartment one night, I found an envelope taped to the door. The letter was from Alma. ‘Dear Ross,’ it said. ‘I can’t face what could happen, so I’m going to a place where the plague doesn’t exist. Thank you for everything. Love, Alma.’”

  Lee could see the pain in McGinty’s eyes. “I was a cop . . . So I knew where to go. And they let me inside. Because I told them it was part of a criminal investigation I was allowed to see the body. There were so many dead people waiting to be buried that they were stacked inside a supermarket freezer. It took fifteen minutes to dig Alma out. And once they did I saw the bullet hole. It was dead center in the back of her head.”

  At that point, he just looked at Lee—waiting for her to process the information. Lee frowned. She knew that a self-inflicted wound would have to be at an angle. “Dead center?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “So someone else shot her?”

  “Yes. Your father shot her.”

  Lee was shocked. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” McGinty replied grimly. “I went to him . . . I asked, ‘Did you shoot Alma?’ And he said, ‘Yes.’ He said that she asked him to. So I hit him . . . That led to a fight, and I lost. I requested a different partner, got one, and that was the end of it. So, Cassandra, that’s the real story about who Alma Kimble was . . . And, I’m sorry to say, it’s the real story about who your father was as well. A cold-blooded son of a bitch who didn’t care about anyone other than himself.”

  Lee didn’t want to believe that. But even if it was true, that didn’t mean her father was a monster. It sounded as if Alma wanted to die—and knew McGinty would refuse to help. So perhaps her father was in love with Alma. Maybe he loved her so much that he’d been willing to kill her. Or was that a bunch of self-serving crap? There had been something remote about him . . . A coldness that Lee rarely allowed herself to consider because to do so would be disloyal. “I’m sorry,” she said, and discovered that she meant it.

  McGinty looked away and swallowed as if to control his emotions. There was a crooked smile on his lips as his eyes came back into contact with hers. “Me too,” he said. “Enough of that. Let’s eat.”

  The cheese on Lee’s crab meat had congealed by then, but the meal was good anyway. McGinty ate half of his food before pushing the plate to one side. “Let’s get back to the case at hand,” he said. “A crime was committed, and it doesn’t matter what Screed and his followers believe. Our duty is to solve it.”

  Lee paused with a fork halfway to her mouth. “And the crime is?”

  “Kidnapping,” McGinty said grimly. “Bishop Screed’s daughter Amanda was abducted in broad daylight on Rodeo Drive. We’re searching for her but no luck thus far. And, because Screed’s followers have a tendency to vote as a block, the mayor is involved. She called Chief Corso and asked for you. ‘I want the cop that killed the bank robbers.’ That’s what she said.”

  Lee’s eyebrows rose. “And Corso went along?”

  “Of course he did,” McGinty replied matter-of-factly. “Corso wants to keep his job and, more than that, he might want to run for office later on. If he does, a good relationship with the present mayor could come in handy.”

  Lee knew that people at McGinty’s level and above had to play politics to survive and didn’t envy them. “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Yes,” McGinty replied. “But before you talk to them, you should speak with Screed . . . To shut him up if nothing else. And why not? You would talk to him anyway.”

  That was true, but Lee would have preferred to speak with people who might help solve the case first. “Has Screed received a ransom demand?”

  “No, not that I know of. The bishop should be home from church by now. So let’s drop in.”

  Lee was thrilled to see her boss pick up the check. Their eyes met as he put his wallet away. “The stuff about Alma . . . That’s between the two of us, right?”

  Lee frowned. “Alma who?”

  McGinty chuckled. “You’re a pain in the ass—but I like your style.”

  Lee followed him out into the parking lot, where he went over to the red sports car that was parked next to her Harley. As she took the helmet off the tank, he said, “I should have known. Follow me.”

  So Lee followed him into Beverly Hills. It had been a city prior to the plague, but half of the original structures had been destroyed during the riots of ’38 and ’39. A time when those who needed food and medicine tried to get it any way they could.

  Fires were set, which because of a drought, had plenty of fuel to feed on. The result was that a great deal of what the rioters hoped to steal went up in flames. And there was so much destruction that the surviving citizens petitioned to become part of Los Angeles. After the request was approved, the Beverly Hills Police Department became part of the LAPD.

  Most of the mansions had been rebuilt, but they were different now. The new homes were protected by high walls, surveillance systems, and rent-a-cops. A series of left- and right-hand turns led to a wide street lined with homes on double or even triple lots acquired during the days that followed the riots. A period when previously expensive real estate could be purchased for pennies on the dollar.

  One such mansion towered over its neighbors and was meant to be seen. It consisted of a bell tower attached to a building that was reminiscent of a Spanish-style mission. It was fitted with a red-tiled roof, adobe walls, and narrow gun-slit-style windows.

  Lee could see why it would have been difficult to abduct Amanda Screed from her home. The property was surrounded by a high wall topped with functional iron spikes. Pole-mounted cameras were in evidence as well, and some of them panned as the car and motorcycle came to a stop in front of a wrought-iron gate.

  As the guards came out to speak with McGinty, Lee took the opportunity to examine the arch over the gate. It, too, was made of ornamental iron and featured two angels. They were facing each other and blowing horns. A reference to Los Angeles? Or to Screed’s church? Lee didn’t know. But one thing was for sure . . . The religion business was doing well.

  The gate made a whirring sound as it opened, and the Harley roared as Lee followed McGinty into the compound. A curved drive led them up to a portico, where McGinty stopped. Lee did likewise, put the kickstand down, and placed her hel
met on the gas tank.

  Then it was time to follow her boss up some steps to a metal-strapped door. It opened to reveal a woman with blond hair and a youthful face. She was holding a small dog in her arms. Her eyes were red as if from crying. “Hello, I’m Cathy Screed. Please come in. My husband is in his study.”

  Mrs. Screed led them down a long hallway. The high ceiling was supported by dark beams, ornate light fixtures dangled over their heads, and a wall of windows let lots of light in. Eventually, they arrived at a pair of double doors that provided entry into the ground floor of the bell tower. As Lee glanced upward, she saw that a mural covered the ceiling high above where a kindly-looking God could be seen looking back at her. He was unmistakably Caucasian and surrounded by a lot of wind-whipped hair. Below were shelves of books, all of which could be accessed from a circular walkway. That struck Lee as a silly conceit since all of them would fit on her tablet with memory to spare.

  The ground floor was equally opulent. It was dominated by stained-glass windows, an enormous desk, and a fancy chair. A man Lee assumed to be Bishop Screed was sitting with his back to the double doors. He had wispy, ginger-colored hair that was just long enough to hang over the collar of his shirt.

  Mrs. Screed called the bishop’s name, and when he turned, Lee saw that he was talking on a cell phone. Her first impression was of a man with a high forehead, close-set eyes, and a long nose. It pointed to a slitlike mouth that was turned down at the corners. Screed was dressed in a white suit, pin-striped shirt, and a dark tie. He said, “Thank you, Henry. I won’t forget this,” and ended the call.

  “That was Henry Colmer,” Screed said as he stood and circled the desk. “He’s leading the effort to create a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the mutants who abducted Mandy. Thank you for coming, Deputy Chief McGinty . . . Especially on a Sunday. And this must be Detective Lee. It’s a pleasure to meet you. The mayor said she would get you assigned to the case, and I can see that she’s a woman of her word.”

  As they shook hands, Screed brought his left hand over and placed it on top of the other two as if to lock the arrangement in place. Lee was thankful when he let go. “We’ll do everything we can to find your daughter,” she promised. “You mentioned mutants a moment ago . . . Is there some reason to believe that mutants took her?”

  “Yes,” Screed said emphatically. “But let’s go over to the conference table. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

  The oval-shaped table was located off to one side and surrounded by eight high-backed executive-style chairs. Once the group was seated, Cathy Screed spoke first. Her eyes darted from face to face. “Mandy had just left a store called Cisco’s when a van stopped and four men jumped out. Two of them went for our daughter and began to drag her to the vehicle. Mandy’s bodyguards rushed to help but were attacked from behind.”

  “Excuse me,” Lee said. “Are you saying there were more than four kidnappers?”

  “That’s what we were told,” Bishop Screed answered. “Mutants attacked the bodyguards from behind and hit them with clubs. Once Mandy was in the van, it took off. The men with the clubs ran.”

  “And they got away,” McGinty put in.

  “Yes,” Cathy Screed said. “Mandy’s bodyguards gave chase but weren’t able to catch up.”

  “But they saw them,” Lee said. “So we should have descriptions.”

  “Sort of,” Screed replied. “All of the kidnappers were wearing spit masks that concealed their faces. But we know they were mutants.”

  “How so?” McGinty inquired.

  “I just told you,” Screed said irritably. “They were wearing spit masks.”

  “Anyone can wear a spit mask,” Lee countered. “Half the people on the street wear them.”

  “True,” the bishop conceded. “But if norms kidnapped Mandy, they would send a ransom note. And we haven’t received one.”

  Lee couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. “I’m not sure I understand what makes norms different from mutants in that regard.”

  Screed frowned. “Perhaps we were mistaken. Maybe you aren’t the right detective for this case. The answer is obvious. The perverts took Mandy because of her purity. They intend to use her as a surrogate mother.”

  Cathy Screed began to sob, stood, and hurried out of the study. “There,” Screed said as he glared at Lee. “See what you’ve done? The mayor will hear about this.” And with that, he, too, left the room.

  Lee looked at McGinty. “It looks like we’re off to a good start.”

  McGinty sighed. “The bishop has a point, you know . . . Female norms have been kidnapped and taken into the red zone for use as surrogate mothers. Let’s say you’re a mutant, you’re wealthy, and you hope to produce a normal child. A paid or forced surrogacy is the only way to accomplish that . . . And given the risk of contracting B. nosilla while in the red zone—very few norms are willing to go there for money.”

  Lee had heard of such kidnappings but believed them to be rare. The people who ran the Republic of Texas wanted to prevent such crimes lest they be used as an excuse to declare war. The Aztec Empire made no secret of its desire to take large chunks of Arizona and Texas back—so the last thing the Republicans needed was a conflict with Pacifica. “Yes, sir,” Lee said. “The surrogate thing is a possibility. But first things first.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as talking to those bodyguards. Plus it seems safe to assume that the surrounding stores are equipped with security cameras. So I’ll want to review any footage they have. When did the kidnapping take place?”

  “Yesterday,” McGinty replied. “At 3:36 P.M.”

  “So detectives responded? If so, I’ll need to read their reports.”

  McGinty nodded. “One thing though . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Detectives Yanty and Prospo were assigned to the case. They won’t like being taken off it by the chief—and they won’t like being replaced by you.”

  Lee frowned. “Me? What did I do?”

  McGinty stood. “You’re a publicity hound . . . That’s the way they’re likely to see it.”

  Lee rose as well. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  McGinty shrugged. “Do what you always do . . . Solve the case.”

  * * *

  Time was of the essence. Each passing minute increased the possibility that the kidnappers would harm Amanda, or if Screed was right, take her out of the country. So rather than go home from Bishop Screed’s house, Lee went straight to LAPD headquarters. Yanty and Prospo were there and agreed to review the evidence they had gathered the day before. And in spite of any negative feelings they may have had, the other detectives behaved professionally, and once the briefing was over, Lee thanked them for doing a great job.

  The sun was rising as Lee finished watching the last security-cam video, called Jenkins to let him know what she was up to, and went downstairs to get her bike.

  Once she arrived home Lee took a much-needed two-hour nap. Then she got up, took a shower, and put on some clean clothes. She was down in the garage and about to put her helmet on when Lee felt the strange sensation again. Her eyes went to the vacant house. Was he in there? Watching her through the blinds? Or was she paranoid?

  It was tempting to walk over and try to catch the peeper, but she didn’t have time for that. So Lee got on the motorcycle and drove away. After a burrito at Maria’s, Lee made her way onto the Harbor Freeway, and from it to West Pico Boulevard. And that is where the so-called staircase to heaven was located.

  The nickname stemmed from the fact that the four buildings located on the site of the old convention center were of different heights and “stair-stepped” up to the largest, which was about twenty stories tall. All of them were sheathed in solar panels, which meant that the Purity Center was largely self-sufficient where electricity was concerned.

 
The complex was also well protected. Lee had to show her ID before being allowed to cross the moatlike hundred-foot-wide “water feature” and pass through the twelve-foot-high “peace wall” designed to protect the inner church from the sort of debacle that had taken place on the site back in 2038.

  During the days subsequent to the plague, hundreds of thousands of people poured into LA seeking the sort of medical attention they hadn’t been able to obtain in the suburbs or rural areas. It wasn’t long before the hotels were full, and people were camping in the parks. So in an attempt to corral them, the authorities sent thousands of refugees to the city’s convention center. Within a matter of days, the facility was filled to overflowing with more than twenty thousand desperate people. Then the food ran out, sanitation broke down, and B. nosilla began to spread.

  More than a thousand brave volunteers went to help, and thanks to their efforts, plus those of people outside, the situation was brought under control. But half of those in the convention center were dead by that time and convoys of trucks were required to transport the bodies to the emergency landfill in the Angeles National Forest.

  What happened after that was still a matter of debate. Some people believed that the convention center was destroyed by an accidental blaze. An open fire perhaps—used to prepare food. Others claimed that dozens of fires were set inside the complex in a misguided effort to purify it. Whatever the truth, the convention center was reduced to rubble—and might have remained that way if Bishop Screed hadn’t offered to lease the land in 2040.

  There were hundreds of other projects that the mayor and city council considered to be more important, and they needed money, so the lease was approved. The complex took three years to complete. The result was part church, part corporation, and part fortress.

  Lee was forced to brake next to a tidy-looking shack as a uniformed security guard emerged to check her ID. He had a jowly face, a midriff bulge, and an unctuous manner. “Yes, Detective Lee . . . I was told to expect you. Please surrender your weapon, and I will return it as you leave.”