"Hell, it came in late yesterday, chief!"
Greel retrieved his phone, thumbed through a slew of messages, and held one up for the sheriff to read.
Uriah grunted, "'You kill, you lie, you die?' You shittin' me, Mikey? If that's one of your warped psyops wackos, trying to freak out our people, I'll fire his ass!"
"That did not come from inside Metro, sir! I threw our IT guys on it, and they turned up zip. Not traceable. No IP address. Nothing. This threat came out of the blue, like from God himself.
"And I damn well know that Steele bastard's behind it!"
"Give me a break, Mikey! Steele kills Krupa and Akaka, and hacks every cell phone on the force? Look, Steele's no spy, and he can't hide his cyber-tracks! He's not wired into any super-spooks, and he obviously does not talk to secret agents on the phone!
"You spent thousands of dollars and man-hours snooping and pooping, but you don't have dick-all on Steele!"
Greel said nothing. The two men detested each other, but were inextricably entwined by mutual needs and misdeeds.
"I can't explain how, but Steele's behind these murders," Greel persisted stubbornly. "He's gotta be! Who else would have the motivation to kill those two police officers?"
Uriah ignored the outburst. Mikey had become obsessed with Win Steele, blaming the ex-reporter for every anomaly Metro encountered of late. Totally irrational.
"Right now, we'd better forget Steele and nail down a strategy to contain this mess," the sheriff snarled.
Greel agreed. "I'll clamp a lid on it, sir. And I'll take care of Steele, too."
You really don't want to know how, chief.
"Then get on it," Uriah ordered. "Other than the coroner, absolutely nobody—I mean nobody—is to know about Krupa and Akaka. Understand?"
Greel nodded. Of course, it was too late for containment, but he had no energy or desire to argue. Suppressing the particulars of two cops being killed in such bizarre ways was impossible.
The street cops, who had responded to an anonymous emergency call and discovered Akaka's decimated body, had already spread the disturbing news far and wide.
Uriah wouldn't understand, of course. For years, he'd been ensconced in The Tower, surrounded by yes-men eunuchs. The egotistical, mercurial sheriff was completely divorced from the realities of frontline police work.
And Uriah had been drinking his own bath water far too long. He believed he only had to issue an absurd edict and the impossible would magically manifest.
Greel had underestimated how rapidly gossip about Krupa's and Akaka's demise would spread. The story's flame was fanned at each telling, ensuring it moved faster than a Texas grass fire.
Nat Preston, the Department of Homeland Security liaison to Metro, fueled fears by surreptitiously e-mailing the most shocking coroner's photos to selected Metro employees. A few lines of text accompanying the images identified the bodies as those of officers Olek Krupa and Kale Akaka. Every cop on the force knew them as the two primary shooters, who had killed Erik Steele.
In addition to those shocking, lurid photos, one officer's cell phone fielded a text message written for his eyes only. A thoroughly frightened Loring Malovic reread its stark directive:
Two down. Immediately report to the Los Angeles FBI office. Tell the LA Special Agent In-Charge everything you know about Erik Steele's murder and subsequent cover-up. Do NOT go to the Las Vegas FBI office. Precisely follow these instructions, and you will be protected. Ignore them and you, too, will be neutralized.
Malovic read the message several times, his mind ping-ponging among options. It would be impossible to drive into downtown Los Angeles, spill his guts to the fibbies, and get back to Las Vegas, before he had to report for duty.
After considerable mental self-debate, the disillusioned rookie made what seemed like a trivial choice. It would prove to be a life-and-death decision.
CHAPTER 29
DEADLY DECISIONS
"When you have made evil
the means of survival,
do not expect men to remain good."
Ayn Rand
ATLAS SHRUGGED
LAS VEGAS
Officer Loring Malovic was losing his nerve. Standing at the door of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Las Vegas office, spilling his innards to the local Special Agent in Charge suddenly seemed like a really bad idea.
Go in? Or bolt?
All he had to do was return to the parking lot and drive away.
He'd convinced himself that a mysterious text message warning him to not talk to the local FBI SAIC was a joke. His Metro buddies obviously were yanking his chain, knowing he'd be freaked-out by photos of Krupa's and Akaka's mutilated bodies.
Yeah, he was worried, given that he might be the next name on some sicko's hit list. But he wasn't about to give academy classmates the satisfaction of watching Loring Malovic run for cover.
Still, the text message had rung his bell. Following the inquest hearing, he'd been plagued by paralyzing guilt and sleepless nights. Lying to a jury had disturbed him immensely, exacerbated by pre-hearing threats from Captain Greel and two unprincipled Assistant District Attorneys, who had orchestrated the farcical six-day event.
He'd been raised by Bible-thumping parents, who believed lying was a ticket to hell. And until recently, Malovic had considered himself a man of strong integrity.
That self-image changed drastically, after Erik Steele was shot to death and the rookie had lied under oath. His inquest testimony wasn't really lying, though, according to the smooth-talking chief of Homicide.
Brothers protect each other, Captain Greel had stressed repeatedly. Ya go along to get along.
That was the warped Blue Wall mantra repeated by a staggering number of Metro cops. If protecting a "brother" meant looking the other way, you did. Maybe shading the truth helped your fellow officer stay out of trouble, or made sure the bad guys went to jail and stayed there. And your brothers would do the same for you.
We're in a war, Captain Greel liked to preach. It's us against drugged-up crazies and gun-nuts. Collateral damage happens. Don't dwell on it.
Malovic had blown off the text message warning about speaking to local FBI officers. Why make an exhausting ten-to-twelve-hour round-trip drive into Los Angeles, when the bureau had a well-staffed facility on West Lake Mead Boulevard a few miles from home?
He assumed a local agent would be as snotty and unreceptive as the LA variety. Federal agents were cocky Ivy League desk jockeys, who didn't have a clue about real-world law enforcement. Consequently, FBI elitists rarely warranted the respect of savvy street cops.
Even though he'd managed to rationalize much of the text message's warning, the rookie wasn't prepared to completely dismiss it. Frankly, he'd been wrestling with the idea of going to the feds for some time. Middle-of-the-night guilt attacks, exacerbated by his wife's suggestions that God would forgive him, if he'd "do the right thing," had brought him within a whisker of approaching the FBI, long before the text message arrived.
Resigned, Malovic opened a heavy door and entered a waiting area. A front-desk receptionist took his name, listened to vague reasons for "dropping in," and offered him water or coffee.
"Water would be great," he said. "Thanks."
Through a half-moon opening in protective glass, she handed him a half-pint bottle of Arrowhead Mountain Spring Water.
Cheapskates. Feds are having budget problems, too, he concluded.
He downed the eight-ounce bottle in one pull. His mouth and throat still felt dry, and his heart was thumping wildly.
"Special Agent Kassen will see you now," the receptionist said. An electronic lock buzzed and Malovic passed through a security barrier.
She escorted him to a corner office, where a trim, balding forty-something with penetrating, intelligent gray eyes circled his desk and offered a hand. A wedge-shaped placard on the desk announced, "Kent Kassen—Special Agent in Charge," the head honcho.
A second man, maybe ten years older, intr
oduced himself as Special Agent Marco Angus. With short-cropped, prematurely gray hair, beefy facial features and a good fiftenn pounds hanging over his belt, Angus was the stereotypical federal employee counting the days to retirement. A surly, suspicious expression was magnified by permanent frown lines between bushy eyebrows.
Not a friendly dude, Malovic concluded.
"Thanks for coming in, officer," Kassen said, waving his visitor to one of two chairs facing an expansive desk. Angus took the other.
"I'm familiar with the Erik Steele case and know about your… role. We monitored the inquest hearing, but I'd appreciate hearing your version of events." He paused, then added, "Particularly those that occurred immediately after the shooting."
The smile was still there, but sharp eyes were probing.
He knows! Malovic flashed. A wave of panic flashed through him. He glanced to his right, prompting a growl from SA Angus.
"I'd like to know why you're here. And why now?" His tone was Midwestern, with an edge that transmitted loud and clear: No BS'ing.
"That one's easy," Malovic said. He pulled a Samsung smartphone from a pocket, touch-tapped the screen, and handed the device to Angus. The man slipped on a pair of reading glasses, glanced at the image and blanched.
"Jesus! What the hell is that?" he blurted. Angus tilted the phone, enabling Kassen to view it.
"Officer Kale Akaka," Malovic replied. "He was found dead in his pickup truck early this morning. Swipe the screen again."
Angus did, pausing at each successive photo. Kassen got up and peered over his agent's shoulder.
"Who's the second guy?" the SAIC asked. His face was expressionless, but muscles at the base of his jaw were twitching.
"Officer Olek Krupa."
Malovic watched the agents' faces. They'd recognized both names, but didn't comment, scrutinizing each successive image.
Kassen returned to his leather chair and formed a tent with joined fingertips beneath his chin. He eyed the Metro rookie closely.
"You think you're next."
Malovic retrieved the smartphone, tapped its screen and handed the device to Kassen.
"I received this a few hours ago."
For the other agent's benefit, Kassen read aloud:
"Two down. Immediately report to the Los Angeles FBI office. Tell the LA Special Agent In-Charge everything you know about Erik Steele's murder and subsequent cover-up. Do NOT go to the Las Vegas FBI office. Precisely follow these instructions, and you will be protected. Ignore them and you, too, will be neutralized."
"You were directed to the LA office," Kassen said, annoyed. "Why are you here?"
"In my shoes, what would you do?"
"I'd go to the LA office, like it said," Kassen clipped, returning the smartphone. "Whoever sent this evidently doesn't trust us."
Malovic shrugged and pocketed the phone. "There's a ninety-percent chance the message is bogus. Probably sent by one of my academy classmates, who'd get a hoot out of me running off to LA."
"But you still came in," Angus said, an eyebrow arching in question. Fat, stubby fingers were interlaced over an ample belly.
Malovic glanced at the floor, then met Kassen's unblinking gaze.
"'Cause I'm scared," he said quietly. "Call me chicken… whatever. I hoped you guys would help me. And my wife."
Kassen nodded, but said nothing.
Classic suspect-interview technique. Shut up and make the perp nervous, so he'll talk, Malovic thought.
He did. He talked about the Erik Steele shooting, Captain Greel's blatant corruption of the crime scene by placing Steele's holstered Kimber .45 in front of Ho's, and the brief, contrived "official statements" he and the other two shooters had given.
Months of repressed guilt and frustration spilled forth as a rapid-fire torrent: The knee-jerk, matter-of-fact cover-up, which began the instant Erik Steele's body hit the concrete. The post-shooting "debriefing" at Krupa's home by that police-union huckster. Having to participate in "take-out-the-trash" Raven missions. And, finally, the charade of an inquest hearing, where he'd shamelessly knuckled under and lied on the stand.
Throughout, Kassen took detailed notes, nodding and asking pointed follow-up questions. Angus sat motionless and listened, features unreadable. If anything, he seemed bored, disengaged.
Thirty-six minutes after walking into the SAIC's office, Loring Malovic had data-dumped everything he knew about Steele's shooting and cover-up. The officer had revealed more than he'd intended—far more than he'd mentally rehearsed—but once he started yakking, he couldn't stop.
Kassen pocketed the pen, folded his arms and eyed Malovic. "You've leveled some very damning charges against your fellow officers. I admire your courage and integrity, sir."
He paused. "I'll see to it that your report gets the proper attention. Charges of police-department corruption are taken very seriously by the Bureau, and we will do everything possible to validate the… deficiencies you've identified."
The weasel-worded doublespeak wasn't lost on Malovic. No promises, no commitments.
Typical feds' BS, he thought. I shouldn't have come.
"Now, what can we do for you, officer?" Kassen asked. The smile was back.
"Sir, I want protection. For my wife and myself. If Captain Greel finds out… ."
Kassen was nodding vigorously. Angus was silent, eyes narrowed.
"I understand completely," Kassen said. "It'll take a few days, but I'm sure we can get you into the witness-protection program."
He outlined, in detail, what the young Metro officer should and shouldn't do, concluding with a no-nonsense order: "Go home and stay there. Call in sick. From this minute, you have a severe case of some exotic, highly contagious flu. No duty, no visitors, no leaving the house. Consider yourself and your wife quarantined, until we get you out. Pack up and be ready to roll on short notice."
Kassen gave Malovic a special cell phone and briefed him on how to use the encrypted device. "Only two numbers are programmed in that phone: Mine and that of Special Agent Angus. Call either of us, if you need something. Day or night. Don't hesitate.
"We'll be in touch soon."
Angus tipped his chin in agreement and left the office without another word.
* *
Driving home, Malovic felt better than he had since July 9, one day before the tragic shooting that had upended his life. He mentally rehearsed how he'd break the news to Sandy about leaving Las Vegas, and why. Hopefully, she'd understand.
He pulled into his garage and felt a twinge of disappointment. Sandy's Honda Accord was gone. In the kitchen, he found a sticky note: "Hey Mal. Donna called in sick. I have to fill in for her tonight. Be home late."
Malovic desperately had to tell Sandy about his confession, and that they could be leaving Vegas at any moment.
He reached for his smartphone, then remembered: Kassen had specifically prohibited saying anything on an open line.
Drive to the hospital and intercept Sandy? Not smart. He couldn't yank her out of the ER and dump this crap on his wife in a hospital hallway! Besides, he'd been ordered to stay home.
He opened the refrigerator, snagged a Pepsi and stood at the kitchen's sliding glass door, sipping the cold liquid.
Nothing will be the same again. We'll be on the run, maybe for the rest of our lives. New identities, new home, new jobs.
But where? How soon could they escape? What if somebody at Metro got wind of what he'd done?
Malovic forced that last thought away. He knew damn well what would happen.
For her own safety, maybe Sandy didn't need to know about his confession to the FBI. At least for now.
* *
GROOM LAKE, NEVADA
A call between specific cell phones in Las Vegas triggered the National Security Agency's Echelon intercept system. Its audio content and an URGENT notification were automatically routed to a Checkmate server and Gray Manor's inbox.
Manor was at the secret Groom Lake air base, wrapping up a secure-li
nk teleconference with his boss, when the NSA alert arrived. Noting the URGENT tag, Manor told Todd Bright he had to "jump on a hot matter."
"Not so fast, son," Bright admonished. "Ya done good, taking out those two shooters, but any blips from that Galocci character?"
"Nothing. He may not know about Krupa and Akaka, yet. Metro's suppressing news of the fatalities, but Nat Preston sent photos to every Metro cop's cell phone. Just a matter of time, until the word's out."
"Mmmm," Bright murmured. "Tell ya what, son. I'll rustle up somethin' special for our boy Antone and shoot him a wake-up e-mail. Might even follow up with a personal phone call from a 'friend.'
"That critter's used to driving the Vegas boat and doing whatever he damn well pleases. I 'spect he just doesn't appreciate what he was told."
"He definitely needs re-motivating, sir," Manor agreed.
By courier, the Checkmate chief had sent a formal notice to Galocci, explaining in unambiguous terms that Operation Gold Shield was a clear-and-present threat to the Mob boss's Las Vegas empire. Either Galocci took "immediate, positive measures to rid the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, the District Attorney's Office, the Public Administrator's Office and the Las Vegas Police Protective Association of deep-seated corruption and killers," or dire consequences would follow.
How the casino billionaire was to clean up ubiquitous corruption was spelled out in explicit detail—and included names.
Galocci had ignored the warning, apparently blowing it off as a hoax. Maybe the corpses of two killer-cops in a coroner's icebox would change his mind.
"Alright, then. Here's the deal: An-tone will receive a li'l ol' reminder right pronto. You press on with the next missions, son. Keep me informed."
Per normal, Bright simply hung up. No Goodbye, See ya or whatever. It was an uncharacteristically rude quirk for a behind-the-scenes Washington power broker known for fastidious manners and Midwestern thoughtfulness.
Manor checked his classified iPhone, thumb-typed a security code and noted the URGENT NSA message. Displayed phone numbers belonged to Mikey Greel and none other than that subject of conversation, Antone Galocci. Manor tapped the voice-recording icon and listened to a brief conversation between the aging Mob boss and Metro's head of Homicide.
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