"Who knows? At the least, I could make the dork lose sleep, wondering. At best? Uriah and a boatload of his killer-cops will be sporting the latest in orange jumpsuits."
Her husband grinned, the last rays of sunlight reflecting from mischievous dark eyes.
"I see. Now, remind me, counselor! Aren't you that brilliant attorney? The one who tells clients to forget about revenge? That the law's about justice, not vengeance?"
"Yep. The same smartass attorney who always gets even."
She raised the long-stemmed wine glass in salute.
"To destroying bad-boy bullies and killers with badges."
* *
HENDERSON, NEVADA
Officer Loring Malovic thumbed a wall-mounted switch, made sure the garage door closed completely, and stepped into his home via the back door. A rush of cool air greeted him, a blessed relief from the hundred-plus-degree, superheated garage.
He was beat and emotionally spent. Lingering symptoms of shock made it difficult to think clearly. Reliving the awful Steele shooting over and over, while detectives carefully coaxed the proper words from him, had been bad enough.
But also having to endure Captain Vader's disgusting "debriefing" and pointed "suggestions" about what actually happened had left Malovic nauseous—and more discouraged than he'd ever been, since joining the Metro police force.
He walked into a kitchen-family room and tossed the car keys onto a Formica-topped island. His wife, Sandy, was sitting on a love seat, back to the kitchen. She turned, wiping her eyes.
"Hey, Mal," she sniffled. "You're awfully late."
Concerned, Malovic slipped onto the plush cushion, beside his young bride.
"Hey! What's with the tears, Angel?"
She tried to smile, but lip corners drooped, as tears flowed. Sandy buried her head on the young officer's chest, waving a hand toward the TV screen.
"That!" she cried.
Malovic glanced up and froze. Staring back at him was a smiling image of Erik Steele, dressed in a coat and tie.
"I knew that guy, Mal!" Sandy cried, clutching her husband's waist and trying to suppress chest-heaving sobs. "They brought him into the ER today, while I was on duty. I was there, Mal! He had seven bullets in him! Seven! He was already dead!
"Oh, God. He was such a nice man!"
Malovic was speechless. Stupefied, he stared at the big-screen TV, mind racing. A breathless reporter was interviewing a tall, good-looking man, who described the victim in glowing terms. Steele's image shrank to a box in the screen's lower-left corner, smiling broadly.
"That… Steele guy?" Malovic finally asked, barely a whisper. "You knew Erik Steele?"
The rookie cop's empty stomach was churning. He didn't like where this was going.
Ash-blond head nestled in the crook between her husband's neck and shoulder, Sandy's words were muffled.
"Uh huh. We met last week. I was working a cardiac-arrest emergency, and Doctor Esah decided the patient needed a pacemaker immediately. Erik — he works for Cardiac Response — was the rep who responded and assisted with the case.
"A real professional, and very nice. He was so polite. Treated all of us nurses with respect. Some of the reps are real jerks, but Erik was genuine and thoughtful, you know? We were all impressed.
"God, I can't believe this happened to him, Mal!" she cried. "Why would your guys shoot Erik? What could he have done to justify murdering him?"
She looked up. "I'll bet one of those rogue killers shot him! Like the one you said took out that black kid?"
Sandy was a wreck. Her tears wouldn't stop, requiring yet another Kleenex. Malovic had never seen his life-partner so upset.
He remained silent, motionless. Breathing was increasingly difficult. He kept staring at the TV, dazed.
Suddenly, Sandy pulled away and searched her husband's face. He glanced at her, eyes narrowed, embarrassed.
"What's wrong, Mal? You know what happened, don't you?"
Pale blue eyes were bloodshot, accentuated by mascara smudged across a prominent cheekbone. She clutched the officer's shoulder, shaking him.
"Mal, talk to me!"
He looked away, unable to meet her probing gaze. Running a hand across a shaved-bald cranium, he mumbled something unintelligible.
Sandy grabbed him by the chin and turned his head.
"Mal, you talk to me. Now!"
Fear and suspicion flashed across her eyes. She knew… .
"Sandy, I… I mean… ," he stammered.
She twisted to face the uniformed officer, kneeling on the love seat.
"You were there, weren't you? You saw it happen! Oh, Mal… ," she cried, wrapping slender arms around his neck. "It had to be horrible!"
Malovic swallowed, clutching the most precious person in his life. Afraid to let her go, afraid to tell her. He knew what her reaction would be, and that vision evoked far more fear than he'd felt, when Krupa opened up on poor Steele.
"Sandy… ," he tried again.
She unwound, but kept her hands clasped behind his neck, gorgeous blues only inches from his own eyes.
He took a deep breath and admitted, "Yeah, I was there. I fired one shot. But I didn't… "
"No! That can't be! Not you, Mal!"
Sandy recoiled. Horrified, she drew both knees under her chin, as if to shield herself. A hand flew to her lips, eyes wide.
"Please tell me you didn't kill Erik! Please… ."
The words were a whisper, pleading.
Malovic reached for her. "No, Sandy. I didn't kill him. Krupa fired first. Then Akaka, this big Hawaiian dude, started blasting away. I couldn't tell what was… "
"But you shot him, too?" Sandy interrupted, shock and disbelief prompting her to withdraw further.
Malovic backed off, alarmed. "Yeah, I had to," he said defensively. "Only once, though! I thought… . I mean, Krupa thought the guy had a gun!"
Sandy wrapped both arms tightly around her shins, wide-eyed, fearful. He'd never seen Sandy so unnerved. As if she'd encountered a beast. As if she no longer knew the man beside her.
"Oh, noooo," she wailed. "No, no, no, no! Please, Mal. No! In Jesus' name, please tell me you didn't kill that beautiful man! Please!"
Invoking the Lord's name was akin to slapping Malovic. Now he recoiled.
Thou shalt not kill!
The commandment had been screaming in his head for hours. The Devil himself, in the form of Captain Michael Greel, had tried to soothe Malovic's guilt, assuring the rookie that shooting Steele had been the right thing to do.
"You were protecting your fellow officers, your brothers," the captain had stressed, over and over. As much as Malovic had wanted to believe him, Vader's black eyes had said the opposite. They'd been lifeless, devoid of compassion. The eyes always revealed a soul's truth, and Greel's confirmed the words were empty, merely heartless lies. He, Loring Malovic, and the other two officers had clearly murdered Erik Steele — but Vader didn't care.
And now, his beautiful wife, an astute emergency room nurse and the center of Malovic's life, knew the same truth that Vader had damned.
"Look, Angel. I had to fire. The other guys were… "
"Like hell you did!" she shouted, exploding to her feet.
The lady never swore! She was every bit as religious and God-fearing as he was!
"Mal, I watched every interview tonight. A lot of them were with eyewitnesses. People who were there, just a few feet away," she said, voice quavering. "Every single one of them said Erik did not touch his concealed weapon!"
Hands folded, she raised her eyes to the ceiling.
"Oh, Lord in Heaven, please forgive my husband, for he has sinned and violated your law! Please… ."
"Sandy, look at me!" he barked, standing.
She did, but warily, drawing away from him.
"You know how I feel about this job, but I… . Come on, Angel… ."
Malovic dropped to a knee and tried to embrace his wife, but she stiff-armed him. Again, fear and… something e
lse, something heart-stopping, was in her frightened expression.
Revulsion.
That was it. His wife was revolted by his very presence.
Astonished, he retreated, desperately wanting to escape. To run, to hide from Sandy's accusing eyes. They conveyed the same indictment he'd seen in those of the witnesses, that crowd under the Ho's portico. A mixture of fear, loathing, hatred — and revulsion.
"Mal?" Sandy called softly, halting his retreat. She was still crying, but softly, calmer.
"Would you mind sleeping in the guest room tonight? I'm… . Don't take this wrong, hon, but… . I can't bear the thought of being touched right now. You know… ," she floundered, waving.
"By a killer," he finished, harsher than intended.
Frightened, tear-blurred eyes answered.
Her reaction and unsettling, foreign stare sucker-punched him. The slight woman hadn't physically touched his body, but she might as well have clobbered him with a crowbar.
In that instant, the rookie cop sensed fate had altered his earthly path. Panicking and pulling that 9-mm semiautomatic's trigger extinguished more than Erik Steele's life-force. It also destroyed Loring Malovic's marriage, his career… and his relationship with God Himself.
CHAPTER 9
AWAKENING
"Put on the full armor of God,
so that you can take your stand
against the devil's schemes."
Ephesians 6:11
NEW YORK CITY
At 4:00 a.m., La Guardia Airport's main terminal was a ghost town. Ticket counters were dark, manned only by signs suggesting when they might open.
Win Steele threaded a cluster of young men sprawled on the floor near a United Airlines check-in counter. Each was asleep, close-cropped head resting on an oversized, camouflage rucksack. One husky kid's fingers were laced across a tight-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with a large Marine Corps seal. Even in civvies, he was proud of being a tough, high-and-tight Marine serving his country.
Win carefully maneuvered a wheeled suitcase through the maze of legs and tattooed arms. More than likely, the troops were combat veterans returning from Iraq or Afghanistan, merely re-validating a tenet every old warhorse knew well: Sleep whenever and wherever you can. Never know when you'll get another opportunity.
One Marine caught Win's eye. The kid was fair skinned and sporting a buzz cut of copper-red hair.
Same color as Erik's.
The thought flashed and was gone, before Win was aware it had surfaced, before he could deflect it. A cruel ambush that sparked another wave of soul-wrenching sadness.
Seventeen years ago, Erik and his West Point buddies might have slept on this same floor, Win mused.
He forced the thought aside, aware that, since receiving the gut-punch news from Kyler, everything Win encountered seemed to trigger a silent scream: Erik's gone!
He hadn't slept for 24 hours, and was experiencing the initial grip of an all-consuming weariness that would plague him for months.
Only one food concession was open, staffed by two night-shift imports, whose command of English was marginal. Steele ordered breakfast, paid the bill, retrieved his coffee and a styrofoam plate of scrambled eggs, ham and hash-brown patties, then found a table.
The only patron in a huge food court, Win ate quickly, then returned to the waiting area to check e-mail messages on his BlackBerry. Most were shocked condolences from family and close friends. Others were about book-signing events and other business matters, which now seemed absurdly trivial and of zero importance.
Thanks to an Internet-savvy nephew and his wife, who had been scouring the 'net for news, several e-mails included postings that had appeared in the comment sections of Las Vegas media outlets. One particularly graphic account was unsettling, yet informative: "My wife and I were seven or eight feet away from the shooting, as were the police. We were to the suspect's immediate right. We heard and saw the three police officers shouting to the man in question to 'Get on your knees!'
"At that point, the man appeared somewhat stunned by the commotion and shouting of the police. His right arm went up in a defenseless position, and it appeared his left arm [was] going up, but there was NO gun in his hands. He was… shot at the same time.
"At no time did the man in question ever raise his voice, shout an obscenity or become confrontational with the police.
"We saw the [wounded,] disabled man falling to his right, facing us, with what appeared to be a bullet wound in his upper chest [and] blood coming from the wound. Immediately, his eyes became glassy, and he began to convulse. At this point, he was no threat to anyone; both hands were in full view… and there was no gun.
"As he [went] down, the police continued to shout 'Put the gun down!' several times… but there was no gun in his hand, as we had a full-vantage point [of] view. The injured man was having agonal respirations, [and] he was down, when a second volley of bullets rang out. There was no… question that, following the second barrage of bullets, the man was dead.
"His girlfriend was to the back-side of us, and [she] began to scream: 'Why did you kill him? He is a military man, with a license to carry a concealed weapon! You didn't need to kill him! You didn't need to kill him!'
"An officer then came up to the injured man — who in my opinion was… dead — and cuffed him, with his hands behind his back. No attempt [was made] by the officer to determine if the man was alive or dead. No apparent life-saving aid was given to the downed man. The man was totally lifeless, when the paramedics arrived on-scene.
"I was absolutely surprised to see that no attempt at aggressive ACLS [Advanced Cardiac Life Support] was engaged. They… just picked up the body, like a sack of potatoes, and hurled [it] onto the gurney and into the ambulance. This was a crime scene, and [it had been] violated.
"What nobody is talking about is that there were many, many spectators; many, like ourselves, [were] within just a few feet of the victim, when the shots rang out. It seems to me that the greater danger was posed, not by the victim, but by the police, who fired many shots in the vicinity of the innocent public!
"I hope the media and your friends' family can get their hands on [Ho's video data and] cameras, which will, indeed, tell the rest of the story. Also, it must be confirmed whether the second gun, supposedly found by the victim's side, was, indeed, also registered to him as a licensed conceal-and-carry.
"This whole incident was a monumental tragedy; a tragedy for the family and friends, and also a tragedy for the involved officers, who were pushed into a needless confrontation that reached hysterical proportions, due to the overreaction of certain employees and bystanders. This was a needless death."
"In summary, it is our opinion that the victim did not pose an immediate threat to the public. And, in the final analysis, [this] was a case of excessive force.
Win reread the eyewitness account, virtually experiencing the agony that his son had endured. It was as if those slugs had slammed into Win's own chest, exploding his heart. He could feel the impact, pain and disbelief Erik must have suffered, as he was dying. Looking through his son's eyes in those horrible final seconds, Win also heard Erik's last thoughts: NO! I didn't do anything!
Nothing made sense. If Erik hadn't touched his weapon, why would a police officer fire? And what the hell was that BS about a "second gun?" Erik never carried two firearms! He rarely carried one! Win's gun-smart son always secured a Kimber .45 semiautomatic in a compartment between his car's front seats.
Why in God's name, son, were you carrying that forty-five yesterday?
A sleepy United ticket counter clerk appeared and the Marines began stirring, kicking their buddies awake and mumbling friendly obscenities. Win retrieved his boarding pass and followed the young troops through a TSA security zone.
He felt disconnected, as if watching himself and the passenger terminal from a perch outside his body. The unholy scene that eyewitness had described kept playing in his mind. Frankly, it was too graphic for a father in the initia
l stage of disbelief and shock, but there it was: The initial round of mental and emotional blows the Steele family would encounter, as it confronted a bottomless cesspool of Las Vegas corruption and evil.
Somewhere above 30,000 feet, Win stared through the Boeing 767's window, half-aware of forests, rectangular fields, housing clusters that defined small towns, and bug-like vehicles inching along paved ribbons. Buildings and trees brushed by the early Sun extended long fingers of deep shadow to the west. Most inhabitants of that distant world were still in bed, grabbing a few extra Sunday-morning winks.
Win tried to doze, but the killing-Erik movie kept playing, an endless-loop horror film. It always ended the same: His son gasping for air, eyes glassy, sightless, as life left that sculpted, buffed-up body. A sneering, shaved-bald, Neanderthal standing over him, smoking gun in a two-handed grip.
Then another mindless insult: Cuffing a dead man. Tossing the still-warm, bleeding body of his eldest son onto a gurney, "like a sack of potatoes."
How could an American police officer be that incredibly cruel to a fellow human being? That shit might be normal fare in third-world dictatorships, but not in the United States of America!
Win finally gave up. Sleep wasn't happening. Couldn't, and probably wouldn't, until his body reached its physical limit. He pulled a spiral-bound reporter's notebook from his briefcase, and did what he'd always done, when facing an intractable, knotty problem. He wrote. First, the facts.
What did he know, for sure? Damned little, so he assigned question marks to the hearsay and opinions of Internet postings. To the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department spokesman's quotes, he assigned "unreliable; minimal value." The exercise didn't take long, because there wasn't much to go on.
Next, he jotted questions that demanded answers, consigning them to three categories: those of Win-the-father, Win-the-engineer, and Win-the-reporter. They were difficult to isolate, repeatedly elbowing into each other's territory, fighting for priority.
The father kept screaming "Why?" as his shell-shocked brain visualized his first-born son as a blue-tinged corpse lying in a frigid meat locker. Surrounded by the brutal, stainless-steel tools of a coroner's lab, Erik was just another stiff, a mere toe-tagged number, to compassionless bureaucrats. But that body was his son!
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