by Ty Patterson
‘I’m not sure about that, but someone’s surely interested in me.’
He gave them a breakdown of all that had happened while Beth punched in the plates and ran a search. Due to their security clearances, the program was connected to multiple intelligence databases nationally and internationally. Broker also had a crew of trusted hackers in Ukraine in the event any system needed entering stealthily.
‘The first number’s false. No such plates were registered. The second is registered to a law firm in L.A.’ Beth recited an address and followed it up with a text to Zeb.
‘You need any backup, bro?’ Bwana asked softly.
‘Nope, I’m good. I just want to ask this Morrow guy some questions.’
He hung up and they resumed playing.
They would range beside Zeb if he was in the slightest trouble. They didn’t have to discuss it, didn’t have to articulate it.
It was the code they lived by.
Chapter 7
Zeb was in Los Angeles fifteen hours later.
He had made one last call to check with the sheriff who reported that Bill Frayne had checked in with him; Knowle had traced the plates to the same address Beth had read off.
‘I haven’t done anything yet with that address, other than passing it on to Rogers. It’s his investigation in any case,’ Knowle said carefully.
His meaning was clear.
Zeb smiled, warming to the man even more. ‘Leave it that way. I’ll look into it and let you know.’
He took the US-189, made a short detour to Salt Lake City, where he fueled up and napped for an hour and then hit the I-15. He kept an eye out for tails, but didn’t spot any.
I am not yet a threat to whoever is behind the killing.
He stopped a few times to catch up on sleep and to let his SUV cool down. The SUV was weighed down by steel plates, ballistic nylon and Kevlar in the body. Its floor and roof were reinforced similarly, its windows had half an inch of polycarbonate and leaded glass. It had GPS, Wi-Fi, a built in satellite phone and all kinds of gadgets that would have felt at home in the Batmobile. A six and a half liter, turbocharged engine left other vehicles behind on the highway.
He drove through the vastness of Utah, cut across Nevada, skirted the edge of the Mojave National Preserve and hit L.A’s gridlocked traffic late evening. He checked into a hotel in West Hollywood and thought briefly of using one of several covers he carried.
The hotel clerk tapped his desk impatiently and repeated, ‘Name, Sir?’
‘Zeb Carter.’
I want to see how good they are.
Zeb headed to Morrow’s office the next day, a swanky mirrored-glass building in downtown L.A. He read a list of occupants engraved in brass plates in the enormous lobby; Morrow’s law firm occupied five floors in the twenty-floor building, the rest of the occupants were other law firms, accounting firms, and insurance companies.
A young woman approached Zeb, smiled at him and escorted him to the sixth floor. She led him to a bank of elevators and broke the silence just once to ask if he had an appointment. Her porcelain brow furrowed when he replied he didn’t.
She escorted him to a reception area, whispered something to another smiling, young woman behind the desk who asked him to wait.
Zeb waited.
Men and women in suits walked purposefully, many of whom looked at the tall, lean, brown haired, dark eyed man in a white shirt tucked in blue jeans. Many of them gave a second glance. This was L.A., the land of jeans, but still, a law office was a law office. Appearances mattered. Zeb, supremely indifferent to appearances, crossed his legs and waited.
It’s a power game to them.
He idly flicked through a magazine, the firm’s in-house magazine that boasted how good and great the firm was.
I can wait.
Forty-five minutes later the woman behind the desk flicked her eyes at Zeb, whispered in her headset, and led Zeb to a glass office.
A white-haired man greeted Zeb. ‘Mike Lomax, Senior Partner.’ He shook hands firmly with Zeb and gestured at Zeb to seat himself. His suit and shoes could have fed a small village in a third world country. His tan spoke of vacations in far off lands. His teeth gleamed and sneered, my dentist’s better than yours.
The tanned face wrinkled in a smile. ‘Mr. Carter, I’m told you’re here to meet Steve Morrow. Unfortunately, he is no longer with our firm; he left us two years back. May I ask your interest in him?’
Zeb sidestepped his question. ‘You still remember him?’
Lomax’s smile faltered but came back brighter. ‘No, Sir, but I looked him up in our system before meeting you. We like to be prepared.’ His hands spread wide as if to say this is why we bill three grand an hour.
‘You know him? You two had a business relationship?’ Lomax fished.
Zeb thought about it for a second and then told him about the prank. He watched the man’s eyes widen and his mouth open in shock.
‘Morrow identified you? Specifically?’
Zeb nodded.
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ He apologized hastily. ‘Pardon my language, Sir, but I’ve never heard something like that and I’ve seen some grim stuff before.’
Zeb looked around his office, at the framed degrees on the wall, photographs of him with celebrities. ‘What kind of law firm are you?’
Lomax fell into a practiced spiel. ‘We are mostly into corporate affairs, mergers and acquisitions, litigations, due diligence, international expansion and every service that large corporations would need. We handle some divorce cases since our clients have a funny habit of separating from their spouses.’ A laugh boomed out from him, all bonhomie and good cheer.
‘And Morrow? What kind of lawyer was he?’
The smile slipped and a look of distaste briefly flashed on his face. ‘He was a partner here. He brought in a large client who turned out to be something else. We ended the client relationship and severed Mr. Morrow’s employment.’
He opened up reluctantly when Zeb looked at him. ‘The client turned out to be a front for a drugs cartel, and Mr. Morrow was found embezzling from them. Needless to say, it became very messy.’ He shuddered theatrically. ‘The FBI was camped in our office for a few months and we got slaughtered in the media. Lost a few clients too. Thankfully that’s well behind us.’
Yeah baby, we’re back to the high charge-out rates.
‘Was he arrested?’
‘No, Sir, I believe the Feds are still hunting him.’
Zeb looked behind Lomax’s shoulder, through the picture window, at the skyline of downtown L.A bathed in sunlight. In the distance was U.S. Bank Tower, the tallest building in California; the 9/11 terrorists had originally planned to crash one plane in the tower. Zeb eyed the building, lost in thought. If Morrow was on the run, why didn’t he use an alias?
‘Do you have a photograph for him? I’m sure you would.’
Lomax hesitated a moment, relented under Zeb’s unwavering gaze, picked his phone and whispered instructions. A knock sounded on his door moments later and a file was thrust in his hand by a smiling woman.
Lomax flipped through the file and removed a sheet of paper on which was affixed Steve Morrow’s photograph and personal details.
Tall, clean shaven, blond and green eyes.
Zeb ignored the frown on Lomax’s face as he took a picture of the sheet of paper. He memorized Morrow’s addresses, two of them, and handed the file back. He rose and Lomax trotted behind him when Zeb headed out of the office.
The lawyer shook his hand firmly and pasted another smile. ‘Glad to have been of help, Mr. Carter.’ He stood watching as the elevator doors closed behind Zeb, probably to make sure his visitor didn’t turn around and waste another billable hour.
Zeb texted the addresses to the twins and turned his attention to fighting the traffic snarls that increasingly defined L.A. He spotted the tail fifteen minutes later.
It was a silver Toyota that flashed in the sunlight as it overtook three cars and fell
in two vehicles behind Zeb. The Toyota stuck like a leech as Zeb swung through the city without any apparent reason. He took an evasive maneuver and lost it for half an hour before another flash of light announced its presence.
That takes organization. Probably two more vehicles tailing me in rotation.
He frowned. How did they make me?
He had parked the SUV in a public lot and had hoofed it to the law firm.
My presence at the law firm must have set off an alarm. There’s probably a protocol in place when anyone comes asking for Morrow. That’s why I was kept waiting; to get the tails organized. Once they had eyes on me, the rest was easy.
Not many organizations in the country have the resources to organize such a tail so quickly.
He headed back to the motel, found an empty parking space, waited in the lobby and presently three men appeared, walking at a rapid pace. They slowed when they saw Zeb and the man in the middle broke off and approached him.
He held a business card out. ‘Mr. Carter? Leon Cottrell, Special Agent in Charge, FBI, Los Angeles Field Office. Can we speak in private?’
Zeb led them silently to a corner, seated himself with his back against a wall, and ignored the two agents who flanked their boss silently. ‘How long have you been tailing me?’
Cottrell ignored him and fired a question of his own. ‘What’s your interest in Steve Morrow, Sir?’
Zeb grinned. ‘I didn’t know he existed till about ten days back when he took an interest in me.’
He outlined the events for the second time in the day and watched the SAC’s face for a reaction. There wasn’t one. Cottrell had on his poker face.
‘Can anyone verify this story, Mr. Carter?’
‘Sure. Those three guys in Pinedale.’ He gave them Bill Frayne’s number and made a mental note to give the man a heads-up.
‘Will you be in the city for long, Mr. Carter?’
They know I am not an Angelino. Fast work.
‘Can’t say. I wanted to ask Morrow why he picked on me, but I guess I will never find out. I might hang around for a few days, take in the sights.’
‘Can you share a contact number, Sir? Just in case we wanted to talk to you again.’
Zeb had enough. ‘Look Cottrell, I’ve no idea where your man is. You’ve done enough research on me to know I’m from out of town. If you had dug deeper, you would have found that Director Murphy knows me well. He’ll know how to find me should you need to meet me again.’
He left them gawking and headed back to his room.
Three men entered the motel at three a.m. the following night, glanced at the clerk who was fast asleep behind his desk and moved noiselessly to the stairs. They wore dark clothes, were average looking and anyone who saw them wouldn’t remember anything noticeable.
Their rubber soled shoes gripped the steps noiselessly and when they reached the sixth floor, not one of them was gasping. They paused for a moment on the landing, checked the room numbers and turned as one to the right. They knew their man was in the room; they had been watching the motel all day and had manned all its exits and had made a move only when they were sure.
They passed several rooms and when they reached the one they were seeking, two of them flanked the door, while the third extracted a plastic card from his pocket. The three nodded at one another and the man slipped the card, fiddled for a couple of seconds and cracked the door open.
He widened the door, took two steps inside and fired six shots rapidly at the shape on the bed. He stepped back; the second man took his place and emptied his gun.
The three men turned swiftly and headed down the stairs in controlled haste. Their guns were silenced, but twelve shots deep in the night could still draw attention. The hotel was still quiet by the time they reached the lobby and they breathed easier.
Maybe the neighboring occupants were heavy sleepers.
If they had been spotted, the three men would have fired indiscriminately and would have escaped in the ensuing chaos. If they were killed in the skirmish - that was the price they paid for living by the gun. They went to the parking lot, skirted dark vehicles and headed to their ride.
The lead shooter opened his door and just as he was slipping inside, a voice called out softly.
‘Looking for me, boys?’
Chapter 8
The three men moved instantly. The one in the center dropped to the ground, fired in the direction of the voice, all in one move. The two by his side leapt sideways and fired. They didn’t have a target to aim at though, and their bullets flew harmlessly in the air.
Zeb, crouched behind his SUV, took out the man in the center with a double tap. He was the easiest since he was lying on the ground, motionless. The two shooters poured fire in his direction, and bullets struck the SUV and pinged off.
He crouched low and ran behind it, used the cover of two other cars to flank the men.
Wrong idea.
The thought came to him as a shape emerged from the darkness, one of the shooters having the same idea as him.
Down!
He threw himself to the ground just a bullet whined angrily through the air he had breathed moments ago. His gun came up and blossomed, once, twice and thrice and the shape fell.
Where’s the third one?
Zeb rolled desperately beneath a pickup truck and scanned for legs. Behind him was the surrounding wall of the lot. And a dead body. Ahead of him were wheels and a whole lot of empty ground.
No legs.
Lights turned on in the motel, voices raised and the hotel staff rushed into the lot. Zeb remained where he was; wanting to be sure the third shooter had fled.
It was only when the first black and white nosed into the lot that he rose and raised his hands when lights, bullhorns and guns pointed his way.
Zeb was released three hours later after lengthy questioning once it was established he had killed in self-defense. The third shooter wasn’t found.
He knew he was lucky that the shooters were amateurs. Professional shooters wouldn’t have bunched together the way the three had. They would have exited the hotel separately. All three would have sought cover instead of one dropping to the ground. They wouldn’t have gone after an enemy in the dark.
Two other men were found unconscious in cars, one on the street outside the motel entrance, one opposite a rear exit used for deliveries.
‘That was me,’ Zeb said apologetically when a tired looking detective looked at him questioningly.
Zeb had come to the conclusion that Steve Morrow was a deliberate cover used by the man in Pinedale. He could think of no other reason for such an unlikely legend to be deployed.
Pinedale man knew the FBI was looking for Morrow and would question anyone seeking him. That hassle would put off Joe Public from further inquiries. That’s what Pinedale man was counting on.
What if Joe Public was the persistent kind? How would they know he was minding his own business?
They would watch the nosey citizen.
Zeb hadn’t found any tails but on his third day in L.A., he had spotted the two watchers outside his motel’s exits. He had then booked six rooms closest to his and had settled down to wait. He hadn’t expected shooters; he had thought they would send heavies to rough him up.
Shooters meant the gloves were off. It also meant whoever was behind the events had juice to cover his trail.
Zeb slept in his SUV for a couple of hours once the cops had released him, showered and freshened up in the motel and when he went for breakfast, he found he had become a minor celebrity.
Cell phones flashed as some patrons photographed him; some of them approached him for more details on the event. He couldn’t do anything about the pictures, but the Zeb look, a cold, hard stare, was enough to send inquisitive patrons scurrying back.
An hour later, he was in a modern building in downtown L.A. that displayed different facets from different angles. It was the LAPD’s new headquarters, barely a stone’s throw from City Hall. It was where
Chief of Police, Jeffrey Hall had his office.
Hall, an inch taller than Zeb, was coal black and built like a tank. His eyes were flat and hard, and every year cops pooled money and bet on when the chief would smile. The bet was yet to be won in three years.
Hall and Zeb had served in Iraq; Zeb had saved him from a sniper attack that had taken out the rest of Hall’s men. Zeb had wiped out the sniper nest and had carried the wounded Hall to safety.
Hall greeted him silently and once they were behind closed doors in his office, crushed the shorter man in a tight hug. Hugging in front of the LAPD was a no-no; he had a reputation to maintain. He patted Zeb on the back with large paw-like hands and guided him to a seat.
He went behind his desk, his muscles rippling against his uniform, rose immediately again and stuck his head out. He stood there for a second without uttering a word and when he returned, he was followed by one of his men bearing a tray with coffees.
A look from Hall, and the man scampered out after placing the tray on Hall’s desk.
Hall poured for both of them, handed a cup to Zeb, leaned back and spoke for the first time with a gravelly voice.
‘Tell me.’
Zeb told him everything and when he had finished, Hall thought for a moment. He pressed a buzzer and the same man came back. He handed Zeb’s phone, which had the dead woman’s photograph on the screen.
‘Run that past MISSPER.’
‘I don’t think your Missing Persons has anything on the woman,’ Zeb told him once the man had left. ‘The Rangers and Knowle checked nationwide and no description matched the woman.’
‘We have to try,’ Hall replied. ‘You know the shooters were from the 38th Street gang? The two you killed were on our wanted list.’
He smiled in the privacy of their office. ‘That’s two less. The third man, the one who escaped, could be one Pablo Diaz, the three hung together.’
The smile faded from Hall’s face. ‘Just what have you got yourself into this time, bro? 38th Street is one of the largest and most vicious gangs in the city. They aren’t the kind of people you want on your tail.’