Within minutes, Kyler Steele was booked on a return flight to John Wayne Airport in southern California. He tucked the boarding pass in a briefcase pocket, lowered his lean, six-foot-five frame onto a boarding area bench seat, and scrolled through a cell phone's contact list.
Over the next few minutes, he informed a sympathetic medical equipment company's regional manager that he wouldn't be showing up in New Orleans, and left a couple of urgent voicemails for his mother, Layna. His dad, Winfield Steele, was attending a thriller-writer's conference in New York City.
Probably in the middle of his panel session, Kyler thought, staring at a chronometer-style watch and working the time zone math. His mind was a jumble of thought fragments that defied organization.
Think, dammit!
He'd be in the air for two hours, cell phone off, which dictated calling his dad, before boarding. He tapped Win Steele's mobile number, and delivered the toughest message of his life.
One more jolting call, this one to his wife, Andrea, and Kyler powered-off the phone. He joined a line of passengers shuffling aboard an American Airlines Boeing 767, vaguely wondering how those around him could be laughing, reading e-mails, yakking on cell phones and scolding tired kids.
Didn't they know that the universe had been ripped apart? That nothing would ever be the same again?
As Kyler buckled the seat belt, fighting tears that threatened to reduce him to an embarrassing, blubbering mess, two voicemail messages were being stored on a distant T-Mobile server. He wouldn't hear them, until the 767 landed in Southern California.
* *
RESTON, VIRGINIA
The moment Kyler's aircraft took the active runway in Texas, Gray Manor was listening to the younger Steele's voicemails. The director of Checkmate had received a steady stream of audio and e-mail messages intercepted by the National Security Agency's Echelon system. Any communication initiated by a rapidly growing list of phone numbers and e-mail addresses associated with Clark County, Nevada, government officials were snagged by the extremely sophisticated, voracious Echelon system, analyzed for key words, and routed immediately to Checkmate's operations center and Manor's classified e-mail account.
The retired general was hunched over a notebook computer balanced on the corner of his den's scarred oak desk. The laptop's digital clock said the hour was crowding 10 p.m. On a summer Saturday night, he'd normally be watching a movie, arm wrapped around his still-lovely wife of forty-two years. That wonderful, understanding woman—who had followed him across the globe and taken care of business on the home front, while he'd fought wars and led troops as a U.S. Marine Corps officer—had graciously postponed their movie date, given him an affectionate peck and quietly gone off to bed. She'd deferred to his pained reasons for having to take care of pressing leadership duties.
Julia Manor never asked questions, knowing full well that her rugged-featured mate was in charge of an ultra-classified Homeland Security organization, and he couldn't talk about it. What he could share, he always did. Besides, like any career-military wife, she'd find out soon enough. Though her husband had retired almost a decade earlier, she remained an integral, active node in the informal "Washington Wives Network." In less than a week, she'd have a fair inkling of what was causing him such visible anguish tonight.
Manor's forehead wrinkled as he scrolled through a list of phone-call tags. Why would somebody from a county Public Administrator's Office be calling Erik Steele's brother in Texas? Manor double-clicked the first audio file's icon, adjusted its volume, and started taking notes on his iPad:
"Yeah, Kyler. This is Rob Vaca from the Public Administrator's office out in Clark County, Nevada. I spoke with you a little earlier, after the coroner's investigator spoke with you. Uhh… I need to get in touch with you right away. Give me a call at seven-oh-two, three-two-five, nine-eight-one-four, regarding your brother's property."
Hmmm… What the hell was that about? Manor grumbled.
He remotely accessed a classified Checkmate database, searching for Roberto Vaca and the Clark County Public Administrator's office. Summary data popped up immediately: Former Las Vegas Metro cop. Resigned from the department in 2008, after an Internal Affairs investigation into Vaca's role in a high-profile incident involving a prominent black Las Vegas lawyer, who had been roughed up and arrested.
Of the three cops on-scene, only Vaca had been fingered for allegedly slamming the attorney's head into the sidewalk—after the man was handcuffed and lying facedown. The battered black attorney subsequently filed a civil rights-abuse lawsuit against the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and the three officers. Shortly thereafter, Vaca had resigned from the police department, resurfacing as a Deputy Public Administrator.
How convenient.
Manor's mental antenna was zinging. He'd seen dozens of cases like this in Las Vegas over the past year, all involving alleged police brutality. The Checkmate director would bet a month of his U.S. Marine Corps pension that Vaca was guilty of using excessive force. Some big wheel, probably Metro's gutless sheriff, was mitigating the department's image by sidelining a bad-boy cop, without actually firing him.
But why would Vaca be trying to get into Erik Steele's home?
Manor double-clicked the second audio file and heard the same voice: "Yeah, Kyler. This is Rob Vaca again, from the Public Administrator's office. Uhh… I contacted a locksmith, because we have no key to get into your brother's apartment at this time. And… uhh… the locksmith is en route to change out the dead bolt, so we can go in and secure weapons and valuables that are still in the apartment.
"The… uhh… girlfriend has been stonewalling me. Keeps telling me she doesn't know where the apartment is, even though most of her belongings are at the apartment, and they're in the process of moving to another apartment, but she won't tell me where that's at. And she's telling me now that she's contacted your parents, and that their attorney does not want me entering the apartment. Well, that's why I gotta get ahold of you, because I don't think she's contacted your parents, because, if you can't get ahold of them, how could she get ahold of 'em?
"And… uhh… the attorney has nothin' to say about me going in and securing his property. If the apartment's in his name, I got full authority to break the door in, if I have to… uhh… to get entry, if I have to. Right now, I have an open window, and… uhh… I can get in through there. Or, like I say, the locksmith's already en route to change out the locks, and… uhh… we'll go through the front door.
"I guess the Metro police will come back, when the locksmith gets here. And… uhh… I still need you to call or text me. The area code is seven-oh-two, three-two-five, nine-eight-one-four. So, as soon as you get this message, please call me back."
Manor studied his scrawled notes, circling Vaca's mention of "Metro police."
That's it! That's why the PA's so desperate to get into Erik's place. The damned cops don't have a warrant! Because they have no evidence of criminal activity.
Manor replayed both messages, listening carefully and halting frequently to fill in his notes. An idea was taking shape in the retired general's keenly honed mind, but he pushed it aside. Not yet. He needed more information.
* *
LAS VEGAS/ERIK STEELE'S CONDOMINIUM
Detective Brian James threaded an unmarked police car through a web of two-story condominiums and garages. Near the gated complex's southeast corner, he recognized a figure waving at him.
James parked and was greeted by a blast of 105-degree air, despite the late-afternoon hour. Ignoring the heat, he slipped into a dark-blue sports jacket, ensuring his worn, stained-leather shoulder holster and 9-mm Glock were concealed.
The shaved-bald, portly detective picked his way across a border of lava rocks and grunted, "Hey, Rob. Figured you'd get tapped for this one."
Vaca extended a hand. "Yeah; lucky me. Greel called and… uhh… demanded I get into this perp's place ASAP. Said he was sending one of you homicide dicks, and I should… uhhh… wait to go
in. What's the deal?"
James waved a hand. "Another OIS [Officer-Involved Shooting]. The perp was supposedly acting weird at Ho's-Summerlin, and a dumb-ass undercover-security kid called it in.
"Olek Krupa… . You remember him?"
Vaca shook his head.
"Krupa killed a guy in ought-six. Anyway, Krupa wound up shooting this dude today. Two rookies 'bout wet their skivvies and opened up, as well. The perp took seven, eight rounds."
"So… the guy's dead, or we wouldn't be here. Why'd Krupa pop him?"
"Little fart claims the suspect pulled a gun on him."
Vaca eyed the detective closely. "You don't buy it, though."
"My gut says 'no.' There were tons of eyewitnesses, because some bright-spark lieutenant had ordered an evacuation, while she was inbound. 'Bout ten percent of the witnesses thought the guy pulled a gun on Krupa."
"And the other ninety said he didn't."
"Yeah. Then Vader shows up and takes over. That tell you anything?"
James hitched his belt up and glanced sharply at the deputy PA.
"Let's get this done."
He was tired and annoyed. Sergeant Schroeder, the Steele case chief homicide investigator, had phoned James at home, hours after Steele was shot to death. Schroeder was royally pissed off. Supposedly, Captain Mikey Greel had taken over the case and specifically requested James be called in immediately. Of course, Greel's demand disrupted a family get-together, smack-dab in the middle of a birthday hoorah for the detective's wife. Now she was P-O'ed, too.
But enduring her wrath was far better than being on Greel's black list. Thanks to a screwup years ago, Vader Greel had him over the proverbial barrel, and James was resigned to being Greel's primary cleanup detective. Lying, manufacturing evidence, twisting witnesses' arms—and worse—had become the norm.
James hated every dirty job he did for Vader, but there was no alternative. If you were beholden to Vader, you damn sure didn't cross the black-eyed snake. You could wind up in prison… or seriously dead.
James and Vaca watched the locksmith remove a dead bolt, then pick the condo's in-handle door lock. The detective followed Vaca into an air-conditioned combination dining-living room.
To their right, a tall bookcase spanned an entire wall, overlooking a desk blanketed with papers, a laptop computer, small printer, and myriad office supplies.
"Hey, Brian. Check those."
Vaca was pointing at oversized picture frames atop the bookshelf, a good eight feet above the floor. "Your shooters killed a West Pointer."
"Ohhhh, shit," James muttered. "And a Duke MBA!"
Framed diplomas from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point and Duke University's Fuqua School of Business were flanked by photos showing a smiling Lieutenant Erik Steele surrounded by soldiers. Some were standing on an M1A2 Abrams tank. One had an arm draped over the huge 120-mm M256 smooth-bore cannon's mean-looking barrel. Every troop's olive drab uniform was powdered with tan dust.
James felt his stomach contract. Mikey Greel had a massive problem here. Turning this victim into a disgusting criminal, who "deserved" to be shot to death by crack Metro officers, would be a challenge, even for the vaunted Vader. This time, convincing a million Las Vegas citizens already skeptical of Metro's veracity and professionalism would be damn near impossible.
"You check that bedroom and the kitchen," James ordered, pointing to a guest room to his left. "I'll have a look around."
He and Vaca had worked a Public Administrator intrusion before. Rob knew the drill: Leave James alone and focus on his PA job of "securing valuables." The "securing weapons" part would come later… maybe.
Hands jammed in slacks pockets, the detective strolled through compact dining and living rooms. High-dollar furniture. Oversized couch, a bit worn. Big-screen TV, projector style. All-in-one fax machine-printer perched on a breakfast bar separating the kitchen and dining room/office. Massive marble coffee table. Fancy box of some kind centered on the table. Papers and a leather-bound Franklin planner stacked at one end. Classy prints adorning off-white walls.
Entering the master bedroom, James locked onto a nightstand, smiled and shook his head slowly.
Mikey, you crafty son of a bitch.
As Vader had predicted, a small Ruger LCP .380 caliber pistol was right there, where the snake-eyed captain had suggested it might be found. Within easy reach, assuming the now-deceased Steele slept on the bed's right side, closest to the bathroom.
James donned latex gloves, plucked the tiny semiautomatic pistol from the nightstand and slipped it into a jacket pocket. A gloved left hand pocketed an extra magazine of .380 Auto ammunition, leaving the nightstand's surface bare.
James carefully tugged open the stand's only drawer and smiled again.
There really is a God. And he takes care of stupid cops like Krupa.
Nestled in the deep drawer was a black .40 caliber Sig Sauer P226 semiautomatic and an extra magazine. Erik Steele had damned good taste in firearms. And plenty of them.
James left the drawer open, exposing the pistol, and stepped into a tiled bath. A toilet room with privacy door was to his left, opposite a two-basin counter that extended to a glassed-in shower. James surveyed the counter's clutter, carefully lifted a prescription medicine bottle and read the label.
Gotcha, Erik!
Those powerful pain pills could be exactly what Greel needed to bolster the Ho's security guard's pathetic story of Steele acting "erratically." The fact that this type of pain meds had a calming effect would be inconsequential, once Vader and a couple of morals-challenged district attorneys concocted a story for the coroner's inquest hearing.
The orange plastic container disappeared into a breast pocket of James's jacket.
A quick survey of a walk-in closet strengthened an impression of Erik Steele. Expensive shirts, dress slacks, and a half-dozen suits and sport coats hung virtually at attention, their hangars spaced precisely two finger-widths apart. Each pair of shoes was either housed in its own cubbyhole, built into one end of the closet, or neatly aligned against another wall, heels kissing.
Well beyond the short detective's reach, a top shelf displayed several hats and curled-brim ball caps. Two caught his eye: a black, western-style hat with a gold band and tassels, and an Army officer's green garrison cap sporting a gold eagle and polished bill.
An ex-GI himself, James recognized the distinctive black hat worn by officers of the storied First Cavalry. The Army may have traded horses for heavy-armor tanks, but First Cav officers still proudly wore the old-West hats and tall boots of an earlier era.
"You 'bout done in there?" Vaca called.
James reappeared in the bedroom.
"Found a prize gum-ball for you, dude," James said, pointing to the open nightstand drawer.
"Yeee-haaa! Check one-each firearm!" Vaca expertly palmed the heavy sidearm and pressed a release. He removed a full magazine, tossed it on the king-size bed, and yanked the semi-automatic's slide to verify the chamber was empty.
"Crap!" Vaca declared. "Damn thing's jammed!"
James took the pistol and tried to release the locked-open slide.
"Ya bent that tiny clip," he pointed. "It's a deficiency of the P226 - if you abuse it."
Grinning, James returned the black handgun. "Nice work, numb nuts. Now Steele's people have to fix it."
Within the next few weeks, everything Vaca was bagging and tagging would be returned to the victim's next-of-kin. So sorry about the damaged semiautomatic. Your problem now.
James winked at Vaca and returned to the living room, leaving Vaca to rifle through the bathroom's cabinets and drawers. The detective went directly to the sofa and jammed both hands in the cracks between upholstered arms and seat cushions. Nothing. He sliced a hand along the back until he found it: Yet another sidearm, an expensive Heckler and Koch .45 caliber USP Tactical model. It had been secreted behind the sofa's thick cushions, within easy reach, while watching TV.
James admired the well-bala
nced weapon, a type often preferred by Navy SEALs. He toyed with the idea of keeping it for himself.
Naw. Better turn it over to Greel.
If the H&K were reported stolen by Steele's girlfriend or family, Vader would be all over his ass. Maybe the captain would let James off the hook next time, when another officer-involved shooting necessitated cover-up assistance. Sort of a reward for lifting not one, but two semiautomatic firearms from Steele's condo. James could use a smidgen of extra capital in Vader's goodwill bank.
Erik Steele, you were damn sure locked and loaded, James thought, tucking the .45 pistol under his belt, near the small of his back.
He had to admire the dead man. The guy definitely had it together; one of the rare, smart residents, who took responsibility for his own protection.
Home invasions had swept the Las Vegas valley over the past year, striking even upscale areas. Two doors at the rear of Steele's ground-floor condo opened onto an expansive golf course, providing ready access for bad guys. Both were glass and could easily be smashed by hard-core gang members, who had terrorized Summerlin citizens in the last six months. Too bad those 'bangers hadn't targeted Steele's home. The ex-Army officer would have blown them away in a heartbeat.
James felt a wave of disgust. A low-IQ, scared little prick had murdered the condo's late owner, and cops like James were having to clean up the mess. Olek Krupa, a two-time killer, was one of Metro's "crazies," yet another blight on the department's seriously tarnished image. The jerk didn't deserve to wear a Metro badge, but he was going to get away with killing an upstanding American patriot. In James's opinion, Krupa wasn't worthy of shining Erik Steele's boots.
Maybe, based on the report he'd deliver tonight, James could convince Vader to change his mind about covering for that Eastern European cockroach. Krupa was precisely the type of worthless cop that should be thrown to the wolves.
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