Marge was in her living room drinking coffee, flipping channels via remote control when she received a call from newly minted Detective Cindy Decker Kutiel.
“Do you know where Dad is?”
“Have no idea.” Marge pressed the mute button. “You can’t reach him on his cell?”
“It’s turned off.”
“Maybe he and Rina are watching a movie.”
“He usually has it on vibrate.”
“Maybe the battery is low. What’s up, Cindy?”
“I’m here at Hollywood doing Sand Dune tape duty. I’ve put in a call to Rip and Tito, but I figured that maybe someone from your neck of the woods might want to come over as well.”
Marge sat up abruptly, almost spilling coffee onto her lap. “You found him?”
“I think so. Actually, I didn’t find him. I was reviewing the tape when Petra Conner came in to help me. Do you know Petra?”
“I met her at your wedding. She’s from Homicide. You two are in a bowling league together.”
“Exactly. Petra’s also an artist. Her eye is particularly well trained to notice nuances in faces. I don’t know why we didn’t think of her before.”
“I’m calling Oliver and we’ll be right over.”
“Good…I’m getting a call. I think it’s Dad. I’ll see you later.”
ONCE THEY DETERMINED that it was most likely Rudy’s face, they discovered that he’d frequented the place before, one time with a bald head—probably a head cap—and another time with a blond wig. The most recent visit—three weeks ago—showed him wearing a baseball cap with a bomber jacket.
“This one…” The clerk hit the photograph with the tips of his fingers. “He likes them with meat.” The clerk was Cecil Dobbins: fifty-eight, five six, two forty with a raging potbelly, white hair, and milky blue eyes.
It had been a slow night and Dobbins was in a talkative mood. He had been under Mr. Craddle’s employ for the last year and a half. The work was okay, a little boring. The hardest part was keeping a clean establishment, making sure that whatever went on was legal and lawful and between two consenting adults. “Mr. Craddle don’t want any problems. That’s why he’s cooperating with you.”
“We appreciate it,” Marge told him.
“Just keep your eye out for this guy,” Garrett said. “If you see him, don’t try to apprehend him yourself. He’s dangerous.”
Decker added, “Just don’t let on that you know who he is.”
“You need a flat face to do my work.” Dobbins spoke as he filled in a number in a Sudoku puzzle. “Nonjudgmental like, know what I mean? Lot of nervous men here. The more bored you look, the calmer they are. Besides, I play cards in Gardena every weekend. I got a good poker face.”
“You ever win?” Oliver asked.
“I win just enough for me to keep coming back. I could probably save a little more if I stopped, but what’s life without a little risk?” Dobbins went back to the numbers grid. “You don’t have to worry about me letting on. I’m one smooth guy.”
Garrett said, “You see this man, give a call.”
Diaz said, “Immediately.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dobbins said.
Marge said, “Any time and any day. Call one of the numbers we gave you.”
Decker said, “And if you don’t have the numbers in front of you, just call 911 and ask them to patch you through to one of us.”
Dobbins said, “We ain’t talking brain surgery. I know how to deal with the customers.” He finished the puzzle. “Stop worrying.”
Diaz said, “Just don’t try to take him down—”
“I got it, I got it.”
With nothing more to add, they left Cecil Dobbins to his dreary job. He picked up the paper and began to fill in letters in the daily crossword.
MONDAY: NINE P.M.
Garrett to Decker. “We got him!”
Decker was at home in front of the TV. He couldn’t believe what the voice on the other end of his cell was telling him. “You got Rudy Banks?”
“He’s in our sights. Came into the Sand Dune about ten minutes ago. I’m about twenty minutes away: Tito’s bogged down in traffic and is about thirty minutes away.”
Decker gathered his keys and his wallet, then went over to his gun safe, spinning the combination dial, trying to steady his hands enough to align the correct numbers with the wheel notch. “Who’s watching the place?”
“I’ve called up Santa Monica and asked them to send some unmarked units. They’re starting to block off the perimeter area with cruisers, but I emphasized to make sure that nothing was visible. I don’t know how many people are in the motel, but it’s not empty.”
“The last thing we need is a hostage situation,” Decker said.
“Agreed. Last time I checked, there were two plainclothes units in the vicinity.”
“That’s good. Where should we meet?”
Garrett gave him an address. “He ain’t gonna slip away this time.”
The safe door popped open, and Decker slipped his Beretta into his shoulder harness. “I’ll be there in a half hour to forty minutes.”
“Let’s hope it’s all over by then.”
AS HE PULLED out of the driveway, he called Marge and brought her up to date. “I’m on my way. Call Oliver and tell him what’s going on.”
The traffic gods weren’t with him. It took over an hour just to get off the freeway, and as soon as he exited, Decker knew there was trouble. All lanes were at a standstill. He punched in a news channel and when he heard the headlines, he hit the dashboard. “SHIT!”
Click, click, click, click…
“No one knows how many people are in the Sand Dune or how many, if any, have been taken hostage. There have been several unsubstantiated reports of at least one gunman—”
Decker turned off the radio and tried Garrett’s cell phone. When no one answered, he tried Diaz’s cell phone. Still no answer.
He turned on the news station a second time.
“…reports of the gunman keeping at least three women hostage.”
His cell rang. It was Garrett. “How far away are you?”
“Five minutes.”
“You heard?”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“So we’re meeting in front of the Sand Dune. See you in a few.”
Decker took out the top dome light and ran the siren. Even with the bells and whistles, it took another fifteen minutes to weave through snarled lanes and pissed-off drivers. When he finally reached the destination, he flashed his badge to Santa Monica Police and was allowed to proceed.
Ocean Avenue had become a stagnant pool of chrome: SMPD patrol units in white and light blue, LAPD’s cruisers in black and white, unmarked cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and acres of news vans. Decker parked wherever he could and slowly inched his way closer to the hot spot, walking behind the protection of steel that the cars afforded. He darted his way over to Tito Diaz and Rip Garrett. Garrett had dressed in a suit and tie, but Diaz was still in jeans.
Decker said, “What the hell happened?”
Garrett was seething. “I asked for unmarkeds to the scene. When I got here, I saw cruisers. I thought at first that SMPD fucked up, but then I found out that they were responding to a 911 call from someone inside who was shot—”
“Holy moly—”
“Tito and I have just spent the last twenty minutes bringing SMPD up to date. They’re not happy with us right now.”
“We conferred with them every step of the way,” Decker said.
“Yeah, but I don’t think they believed that we were on to anything. That’s why they gave us permission to operate in their vicinity.”
“Who made the 911 call?” Decker asked.
“I haven’t heard the voice, but it was a man.”
Diaz added that he had heard it was Cecil Dobbins.
“How bad is it?”
Tito shrugged. Decker looked at the dilapidated building in front of them. It was probably a beautiful p
rivate home in the 1920s—a three-storied, white-wood-sided Greene and Greene bungalow style with a wraparound porch. Decker could imagine a family lolling about on a summer’s eve like tonight, enjoying the cool sea breezes.
That hadn’t happened for a very long time.
The place hadn’t seen a paintbrush in decades. Even with the minimal outside lighting, he could make out peeling paint flaking off like snow. Historically, it was great that the building retained many of its original leaded windowpanes. For their purposes, the cut glass hindered sharpshooters’ visibility.
Garrett said, “SMPD has sent out for a hostage negotiator.”
“What about a back door?” Decker asked. “He can’t guard two portals at once.”
Garrett said, “SMPD managed to get a few people out through the rear, but then he started shooting.”
“Didn’t hit anyone,” Diaz said.
“And it’s definitely Rudy Banks?”
Garrett said, “One of the women that SMPD rescued identified him from a picture. She also told us about the hostages.”
“We think he has three women locked up,” Diaz said. “Maybe even Dobbins.”
Garrett added, “We know the cell number of one of the ladies.”
Diaz said, “I think SMPD is just waiting for the negotiator before a call is placed.”
Decker felt his pocket buzz and answered his phone. The voice over the line had a strong Irish brogue. “I’m flipping the bloody channels and a picture of Rudy in a blond wig flashed across my screen—”
“Fuck!” Decker turned to Garrett and Diaz. “TV’s flashing a picture of Rudy Banks over the airwaves.”
“Oh shit!” Garrett mumbled. “He’s probably watching our moves right now.”
Irish said, “What the fuck is going on? Is Mudd involved?”
“I don’t know, Liam, I have to go.” He hung up, but his cell sprang to life a few moments later. It was Cindy. “Daddy, I was listening to the news, and apparently Rudy Banks is holed up at the Sand Dune with some hostages.”
“I’m already down here.”
“I’m coming down—”
“Don’t…” Too late. She’d hung up. Ah, fuck it! It would probably be over by the time she made it through traffic. Ten minutes later, Marge and Oliver arrived after having slogged through almost two hours of traffic. She was wearing sweats, but somehow Scott had found the time to put on a glen plaid sport jacket and a pair of brown slacks. It took Decker just a few minutes to bring them current.
Diaz said, “We’ve been asked to stand by. Right now, we’re just accessories.”
Garrett said, “Turf war.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Oliver said. “We included them in every step of the operation.”
“True, but if there’s a homicide, it’s gonna fuck up their statistics, not ours.”
The media started coming their way: just in time for a live report on the eleven o’clock news. There was a woman from ABC, a man from CBS, a man and a woman from NBC. There were people from the local networks, people from Fox, people from CNN and MSNBC. The print media—Internet as well as newspapers—was equally eager for answers. Big headlines sell. If Rudy Banks had expectations of regaining his bad boy spotlight, dormant for the last decade, now was his chance.
The detectives were barraged with questions.
All the respective media got for their efforts were legitimate shrugs of ignorance. The press kept at them for a while, then moved on to another group in hopes of snagging something more interesting. By then, it was eleven-thirty.
Decker’s cell rang again. It was Liam again. “How can I get over to you? I can’t get through this bloody mess.”
“Go home, Liam. You can see all the action better on your own TV set.”
“I’m already seeing it on TV, mate. There are about a hundred people with laptops. Another hundred with video cameras.”
“O’Dell, I have to go.”
“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll start talking to them. Lots of bloggers out there, mate.”
“Don’t do that, Liam!”
“Where are you, mate?”
“You tell me where you are.” Decker listened and then said, “I’ll send someone to get you.” He hung up and said, “Liam O’Dell is threatening to talk to the media unless we pick him up and let him watch at close range.”
Marge said, “I’ll find him.”
Decker called Rina, telling her it looked like a long night. After he had hung up, his eyes focused on five men in dark suits stepping out of a black town car. “Special Ops…or maybe feds.”
Oliver said, “It’s not a federal case.”
“Maybe SMPD requested the help,” Decker said. “Maybe FBI has a field office close to here. Or maybe the hostage negotiator lives nearby.”
“Too many people around,” Oliver said. “We should go home. We’re not doing anything here, and by morning it’ll probably be resolved.”
“You can go,” Decker said. “I’m sticking around.”
Marge managed to find her way back with Liam O’Dell in tow. He wore a sweatshirt and jeans with slippers on his feet. “Any sign of Mudd?”
“I don’t know a thing, O’Dell,” Decker shrugged. “We’re just watching, same as you.”
“Who are all those guys?”
“FBI or Special Ops,” Decker said. “Can’t tell without a scorecard.”
O’Dell pursed his lips. “Shouldn’t we go over there or something?”
“No, O’Dell, we should stay right here,” Decker said. “If the men in black want to talk to us, they’ll come get us.”
“What’re they doing?”
“If I had to guess, they’re probably figuring out how to establish phone contact with Rudy.”
“How long is that going to take?”
Decker slapped an arm around O’Dell. “Liam, my friend, the wheels of justice grind very slowly.”
Cindy showed up a half hour later with a laptop, a large keg of coffee, and a pile of paper hot cups. She poured some java for all to share, and then she logged on to one of the local networks.
The group sat around watching themselves sit around.
It was after midnight, and the crowd hadn’t thinned a whole lot. Since L.A. usually shut down by eleven, Decker figured he had provided the city with its late-night entertainment.
A half hour passed, and the suits deigned to come their way. The agent who spoke looked to be around forty. He was well dressed with a chiseled chin and an angry expression. He was chomping gum. “Who’s Decker?”
“It’s Lieutenant Decker and that would be me. Who’re you?”
“Special Agent Jim Cressly of the FBI. What do you know about this?” Decker told him everything he knew. “So you have a prior relationship with Rudolph Banks?”
“I told you I spoke to him once over the phone. What’s going on?”
Cressly said, “He wants to talk to you.”
“Who does? Rudy?”
“Yeah, Rudy. This way.” When the group of detectives started to surge forward, Cressly held up his hand. “Uh-uh. Only Decker.”
“I’ll be back.” Decker rolled his eyes and spoke in his best Governator voice. Cressly led Decker into a police mobile unit van set up with phone lines, then introduced him to Jack Ellenshaw, the FBI hostage negotiator. Ellenshaw was around forty with a long face and a prominent chin. Neatly dressed and neatly trimmed just like Cressly. The FBI liked them a certain way. Advancement could be based on an inch of hair length.
After Ellenshaw gave him a two-minute lecture on the electronics, he asked, “Have you ever done anything like this before?”
“Actually, I have.”
“One time, two times?”
“Two.”
“Were you successful?”
“I never lost a hostage,” Decker said, “One time the shooter died, one time the shooter lived.”
“Let me handle it. I’ll write down what you need to say on a pad of paper. Just stick with my lines and
you’ll be okay.”
Decker didn’t answer. He had no intention of adhering to a script. He was an ad-lib-as-needed kind of guy. “Do you know how many people he has with him?”
“Three women and Cecil Dobbins.”
“The clerk, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I heard he was injured.”
“He was shot in the arm. We need to get a move on.”
“How about the women? Names? Ages?”
“Amber Mitchell, twenty-six, Lita Bloch, eighteen, and Pamela Nelson, twenty-one.”
“Any of them have a medical condition?”
“We’re trying to find that out right now.”
“And you sure there’s no one else except those five?”
“Not sure of anything.”
“Whose line are you calling to get to Rudy?”
“Pamela Nelson. We need to get started.”
“Call him up.” Decker felt surprisingly calm until he heard the line ringing. When he heard the voice, his heart started beating full force.
CHAPTER 41
WHO THE FUCK is this?”
If Decker hadn’t recognized the timbre, he sure would have recognized the hostility. “It’s Lieutenant Peter Decker, Rudy. You asked for me.” Silence. “How are you doing?”
“How the fuck do you think I’m doing? All of a sudden, I’m looking down the barrel of the fucking U.S. Army. What the motherfucking hell is going on?”
The negotiator was writing like mad and pointing to his pad. Decker ignored him. “I’m not sure. I just got here.”
“What the fuck did I do?”
“Who said you did anything?”
There was a pause. “Then why is some fucking cunt on the news flashing my picture on TV and saying I’m wanted for murder?”
“I have no idea,” Decker told him. “Why don’t you fill me in on what happened?”
“Why don’t you ask one of your fellow morons what happened? Don’t you idiots talk to each other?”
“All we’re doing is trading ignorance. Only you know the real story.”
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