Mild turbulence on final approach and snow streaking past the windows had elevated their anxiety levels considerably. As soon as the 737's landing lights were switched on, Pam's son, Evan, started crying, frantically pointing to swirls of what he thought was smoke.
Win had leaned across the aisle and calmly explained that the "smoke" was merely fog created by the wing's aerodynamics. Although Pam and the two kids really didn't care about the physics of wingtip vortices condensing moisture-saturated air, creating eddies of dense fog, Win's measured patter held their attention, until the jet's wheels greased onto the runway.
Then all Hell broke loose.
The airliner had swerved violently, skidding sideways on snow-glazed concrete. The pilots fought for control, but the aircraft's right landing gear left the runway, slammed into frozen soil and collapsed. Screeching metal and wild gyrations prompted screams of passenger panic, before the jet finally slewed to a halt. Its right wingtip was spiked into the snow, bent upward.
A flight attendant was instantly on the intercom, ordering an immediate evacuation. Win was already in an exit row, flipping armrests up. He removed the overwing hatch, and returned to find Pam and her kids still strapped in, paralyzed with fear.
Win had unbuckled them, picked up Jodi, Pam's youngest, and grabbed Evan by the hand. Steele had wriggled through the overwing exit, helped Evan and Pam onto the snow-covered wing, then slid off the flap with the young girl in his arms.
After helping the others down, he scooped up both kids, ordered Pam to hold onto his belt, and circled the aircraft to join a cluster of frightened passengers. They, the flight attendants and two pilots had escaped via the entry-door emergency slide.
Win was berating himself about going out the overwing hatch, instead of the entry door, when a loud whoosh drew his attention. Leaking wing fuel had ignited, enveloping the mid-fuselage in a ball of flame.
Against all odds, the slightly damaged jet ultimately burned to a smoking skeleton.
Later, Win had driven Pam and her traumatized children to the Broadmoor Hotel and turned them over to her father—who was in town for a meeting at Air Force Space Command headquarters. The father, who would become Mister Covert Ops, had expressed profound, emotional thanks for assisting his daughter and grandkids.
The men had stayed in touch, but Win hadn't seen the stately government executive, since he'd retired from Aerospace International. It was a long shot, but maybe Pam's dad could help now.
Steele thumbed his BlackBerry's roller ball and selected an unlisted cell phone number. The call was answered immediately. Win quickly recapped the details of Erik's execution and asked the powerful executive for assistance.
Amid repeated condolences, the man assured Win he'd "look into this horrendous incident and do whatever I can to help. God bless you and your family, Win," he said, signing off.
Frankly, Steele had no idea what kind of assistance the man could provide, or if he truly was motivated to do so. But if he did deliver… .
The Northcom iPhone sounded off, its distinctive jangle reminiscent of a 1950s-era circular-dial instrument.
Doc Black.
"Hey, Doc. What's up?"
"Well, I'm checking on you. Where are you?"
"Ohhh… . Maybe two hours east of Richfield, Utah. I'll overnight there."
"Good plan. Are you staying 'Starbucked?'"
The ex-sheriff had extracted a promise that Steele would drink plenty of coffee and pull over, when the drowsies attacked.
"Yeah, I am. Hell, I haven't blinked twice, since leaving the Springs. 'Course, I have to stop and take a whiz every hundred miles."
Doc laughed. "Hey, this may sound like I'm butting in again, but it's important. I want you to contact a guy in Vegas: Lincoln Mann. Goes by 'Link.' He runs his own public relations firm and is a real pro. Link knows all the key movers and shakers in Sin City."
"A PR expert? What would I… ?"
"Win, the newsies are going to be all over you, as soon as they know you're in town," Black interrupted. "Young, hard-charging reporters out to make a name will run with anything the cops leak. Erik's murder is big news in Vegas, and every reporter will want a piece of you to get the other side.
"It's critical that you get Erik's story out there, but with the guidance of someone who knows the media players. The good, the bad and the uglies. Link does. He'll run interference, and keep you from being blindsided by badge-licking apologists, who are sleeping with cops."
"I see," Win said, skeptical. "I'll think about it, but I'm gonna be damned busy, Doc… ."
"Hey! No 'buts!' Your experience as a reporter doesn't count. Now you're on the other side. You're going to be fresh meat, surrounded by media wolves. You get in touch with Link and hear him out, okay?"
Win rubbed his neck. "Alright. I'll call him, Doc. What's the number?"
"You hang up. I'll call back and leave a voicemail with his number."
Message received: Don't try to write it down, while screaming along at seventy-five.
Doc was a rabid safety advocate. First as a deputy, then a county sheriff, he'd scraped more than a few careless drivers off the pavement.
"Got it. Many thanks, Doc."
"My pleasure. If you… better… hol… ."
The call dropped. Win ignored the iPhone's jangle, assuming it was Doc leaving Link Mann's number.
An hour after sunset, Win checked into a Richfield hotel, ditched his briefcase and overnight bag, and hoofed it to a Wendy's for a burger, fries and soft drink. Hardly healthy. Frankly, he didn't really give a damn whether he lived another day or not. One of his terrific sons was dead.
While eating, he thumbed the BlackBerry, sorting through another flurry of e-mail and voicemail messages. Quick calls to Layna and Kyler assured them that he'd made it to Richfield and was down for the night. Kyler had plenty to relate, but most of it could wait, until his dad arrived in Vegas.
Although pooped, Win reluctantly dialed Link Mann's cell number. The public relations expert answered immediately. Win identified himself, noting that Doc Black had recommended he call.
"Doc said you would," Mann replied. He sounded like a radio announcer, blessed with a deep, commanding voice. "And I really appreciate the call, Mister Steele. As soon as I heard the horrible news, I wanted to get in touch with you, but had no idea how. Then Doc sent an e-mail, totally out of the blue."
"My dad's the only 'Mister Steele' in our family, Link. Just 'Win,' please. So, you and Doc Black worked together?"
"You got it, sir," Mann laughed. "Yes, we met about two years ago, when he was consulting for one of my clients, a private-security firm here in Vegas. I was very impressed with Doc and his expertise. By the way, he had nice things to say about you, as well."
Win grinned. "Sounds like Doc. Link, I'd certainly appreciate having you shepherd me through the Las Vegas media gauntlet. But, to be perfectly honest, I doubt if I can afford you."
"Not an issue," Mann declared. "I'm a hundred percent volunteer. See, I knew your son. I worked with Erik and Max Decimus, when they were trying to build that high-rise condo complex on the South Strip.
"Erik was the consummate professional and an all-around great guy." Mann hesitated a long moment. "Don't take this wrong, but… . Damn it! I loved that kid, and I want to take out the shit-birds who killed him! I'd be honored to help you, sir!"
Steele swallowed a catch in his throat.
"Thanks, Link. I didn't realize you knew Erik."
Win coughed and changed the subject. "As for the media, I know Ned Scott at Channel Seven. He told me to give him a heads-up, when I get to Vegas. Said he'd park me in front of a camera to tell Erik's story."
Link gave an immediate verbal thumbs-up. "Ned's a heavy hitter here in town. He's definitely the right guy for your first interview. I'll call him and set up a time."
He added, "I have to run, but let's get together for dinner tomorrow night. After you get your bearings, give me a call. We need a game plan, before the me
dia craziness begins."
Signing off, Link interrupted himself. "Oh! One other thing, sir. Erik and I have the same birthdate—April twenty-third. Different year, but same day. That's another reason I feel connected to your son."
Win agreed to call the next day and punched the BlackBerry's hang-up key. He closed his eyes and fired off a whispered prayer of thanks.
Both celestial and Earth-bound angels were congregating around him. He couldn't see the former, but definitely felt their presence.
Earth-angels were using cell phones.
CHAPTER 12
VADER'S RAVENS
"Everything they do is crooked and wrong."
Proverbs 2:15
The Living Bible
LAS VEGAS
Officer Loring Malovic parked behind a red Ford F150 pickup sporting oversized tires and gleaming chrome wheels. Its personalized Nevada license plate read, MAKE, Hawaiian for Death.
Gotta be Akaka's.
Throughout their police-academy training, the burly Hawaiian had rarely missed an opportunity to flaunt his island heritage.
The cop locked his car and followed a faux-stone sidewalk to the front door of a stuccoed tract home. Oleander bushes and cactus plants flanked a five-foot-square slab fronting the doorway.
He punched the doorbell, heard muted chimes, and was greeted by a plump woman with straight, thin hair.
"Hi! I'm Loring Malovic. S'posed to see Mr. Krupa?"
The woman stared. "The other shooter."
She about-faced and led him inside.
"They're in there," she said, pointing. "Want something to drink?"
Before he could answer, she turned toward the kitchen.
"No, thanks," Malovic said to her back. She flipped a palm at the ceiling.
Whatever.
Olek Krupa and Kale Akaka were in a spacious walk-in closet, eyeballing floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with cartons of ammunition.
"Hey, rookie," Krupa said, pointing. "Check out my stash."
Malovic whistled. "Dude! You expecting an invasion?"
"More'n twenty-thousand rounds," Krupa boasted. "Everything from twenty-two long-rifle and hollow-point forty-five to Win-Mag three-oh-eight. Some redneck or gangbanger starts a war, I say, 'bring it on, a-hole!'"
Malovic nodded, trying to seem impressed. Inside, his gut rolled in disgust.
"Hey, you look like hell, rookie!" Krupa said, smacking Malovic's upper arm. "Old lady holding out on ya?"
Malovic shot the guy a withering glance. The comment was too close to painful truth.
"I…haven't slept much."
Krupa laughed, a cross between a rasp and giggle. "Awwww! Boo-hoo! Rookie got a spell of guilty conscience, and mama's bitchin' about her darlin' killing a perp?"
Malovic left the closet, ignoring Krupa's taunts.
"What's keepin' ya awake, rookie? First time ya ever shot somebody?"
Malovic crossed his arms and looked down at the pot-bellied officer. "Yeah, it is. Of course, you hosed that dude in oh-six, so no big deal. Kill once, and the next time's a piece of cake, right?"
He turned to the Hawaiian, adding, "How 'bout you, Mongo? You ever kill anybody? I mean, before you pumped four, five rounds into Steele's back?"
The emphasis was intentional.
Akaka's black eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I have. I whacked seven Iraqis in Fallujah. They were trying to kill us, so I took 'em out."
Malovic looked away, embarrassed. He'd forgotten Akaka had served as a Marine ground-pounder in Iraq. The menacing jarhead had been mustered out of the corps, under less-than-ideal circumstances.
The doorbell chimed.
"That's Dick Nardel," Krupa said, heading for the door.
"The union guy?" Malovic asked.
"Yeah," Akaka answered, following Krupa to the living room. "Vader said Nardel's supposed to brief us on next steps."
Malovic nodded. Captain Greel had called Sunday morning, telling Sandy to make sure her husband was at Krupa's house by 10 a.m. Monday for "a debriefing." At the time, Malovic had been in the shower, precluding follow-up questions.
He'd assumed Vader would inform the three cops about standard department procedures, following an officer-involved shooting. Why would the union chief be handling such details?
Krupa introduced Richard "Dick" Nardel, and asked, "Okay, who wants a beer? I've got a frige full of cold Pabst."
Nardel gave a thumbs-up. Malovic shook his head.
"Thanks; got my own," Akaka said, pulling a can of Red Bull from an oversized cargo pocket of baggy shorts.
Nardel popped a can's pull-tab, took a long draft and wiped his lips.
"Ooo-eee! Good stuff!"
The sandy-haired director of the Las Vegas Police Protective Association settled into an overstuffed recliner and crossed his legs, a picture of casual self-confidence. Dressed in a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up two turns, dark slacks and tasseled loafers, Nardel certainly looked the part of a polished union exec.
He'd been a street cop, until the night he slammed a woman facedown onto the hood of his cruiser, giving her a concussion. Nardel had assumed she was just another sexy "working girl," but not so. She was a well-connected graduate student at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas.
To duck a lawsuit, Sheriff Uriah had quickly benched the cocky officer and opened an internal-affairs investigation of the incident. Thanks to Nardel's wife, a corporate lawyer for resort-casino mogul Antone Galocci, "Dickie" had breezed through the cursory probe unscathed.
Connections—and having considerable knowledge of Uriah's penchant for well-endowed young women—had led to Nardel's appointment as director of the PPA. Still drawing a Metro salary, he'd been the union chief for more than three years, thriving on the heady power that came with representing roughly 2,700 Las Vegas-area law enforcement officers. Mixing it up with high rollers at cocktail parties definitely beat herding inebriated tourists on the Strip.
Nardel assessed the three officers. Krupa was sprawled across an overstuffed armchair, sipping a beer. Obviously relaxed.
The big guy, Akaka, was hard to read. Stoic, with slits for dark eyes that revealed nothing.
The other rookie, Malovic, was nervous. A pinched, furrowed brow hooded bloodshot, anxious brown eyes, and he kept stroking a well-trimmed mustache.
"Alright, boys," the union boss began, "Captain Greel asked me to brief you about events going forward. You're officially on administrative leave, as you know, but what does that entail?
"Well, most importantly, it means you still get a full paycheck, and you don't go back to work, until you're told to. Now, how long will that be? Typically, a couple of months. Not until after the coroner's inquest hearing, and that won't be convened, until the homicide investigation's completed.
"Officer Krupa, I know you've been through an inquest, but you other boys haven't, correct?" The junior cops nodded. "Krupa can fill in the details later, but here's the short edition: The county coroner conducts a 'fact-finding' hearing to determine whether you boys were justified in shooting that suspect last Saturday. Of course, the official investigation is being conducted by our own homicide division, so we don't anticipate any problems."
Nardel grinned and winked.
"What about the district attorney, sir?" Malovic asked. "Can't he do his own investigation?"
Nardel nodded and tossed an arm over the chair's back.
"That's right. But DA Ryns won't. Trust me."
A long silence hung between them. Finally, Malovic asked, "Why not? That's his job, isn't it? He's the people's watchdog to make sure we do our job properly."
"Damn sure is. But this is Las Vegas, boys. The DA is… well, an integral cog of a very special machine, you might say. For forty years or so, every DA has… mmmm… . Well, the DAs tend to be very cooperative. DA Ryns and his assistants work closely with our homicide team to achieve mutually beneficial objectives, understand?"
The union chief smiled again, displaying a row of cosmetically en
hanced chompers.
Malovic glanced at Akaka. No help there. Krupa was eyeing his fellow shooters, a smirk creasing bloated features. Malovic cleared his throat.
"Got it, sir. So, what happens at the inquest hearing?"
"Well, you testify about the shooting, a jury will clear you of wrongdoing, and you go back to work." Nardel shrugged, sipping his beer.
"What if the jury doesn't exonerate us? What if they come back with a guilty verdict?" Malovic pressed.
"Look, that's never going to happen," the union chief assured. "Since Clark County switched to an inquest system in the seventies, the coroner has conducted almost two hundred hearings. This 'fact-finding' system was set up to make sure juries can return only three possible findings: Justified, excusable or criminal. In thirty-four years, only one officer has been found at fault, and he wasn't prosecuted. The DA has never filed charges against a Metro officer involved in a fatal incident."
"But the DA could come after us, even if a jury clears us, right?" Malovic said.
"Yeah, but he won't. You boys can rest easy. You're absolutely golden." Nardel smiled confidently. "The suspect you shot had a gun on his person. That's all we need to guarantee a 'justified' inquest finding."
Malovic wasn't convinced. "But Steele never touched his firearm! Krupa screwed up!" The officer pointed at Krupa and raised his voice. "He shot the guy, because Steele had a damned BlackBerry cell phone in his hand!"
Krupa glared at the junior cop. The union boss sighed, leaned forward and carefully interlaced his fingers.
"Officer Malovic, that's not the way this incident went down, and you know it. As Captain Greel summarized on Saturday, Erik Steele did draw a Kimber Ultra-Carry forty-five from his waistband and did point it at Officer Krupa, who had no option but to shoot. Had he not fired, he, you and many innocent civilians could have been killed or severely injured. Before Steele could get off a round, you and Akaka fired in support of a fellow police officer. Exactly as you were trained.
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