We already knew the man behind the Burger King bombing. Declan Brady, code name Yeats. The guy in L.A. was a Basque, code name Cervantes. And the one in New York was Greek, code name Sophocles. “I hope you catch that fuck,” Barber said. “He was more trouble than he was worth.”
Barber created scenarios for their next targets. It was almost midnight when we e-mailed each one and told him to catch an early morning flight. We sent Yeats to Chicago, Sophocles to San Francisco, and Cervantes to Miami. Then we faxed Brady’s photo and sketches of the other two to every office in the net.
“Now we wait till morning,” Church said.
“It’s my day off,” Terry said. “I think I’ll go home.”
I didn’t want to go home. I went to Diana’s apartment. “Sorry to wake you,” I said, when she let me in.
“Shut up,” she said, and kissed me.
She led me to the bedroom. I peeled off my clothes and crawled into bed with her. Human contact never felt so good.
“I have good news,” she said. “Hugo’s counts are up. The docs tell me this is the sign of remission we’ve been waiting for.”
“I thought you weren’t going to the hospital today,” I said.
“I didn’t, but I still called in.”
“That’s fantastic,” I said. “Tell Hugo as soon as he’s ready, he’s invited for the grand tour of our squad room.”
She kissed me. “Have I told you lately that you’re a very nice man?”
“I don’t believe you have,” I said. “Ever.”
“Oversight. So, how’d it go at the office for you today?”
“Excellent, but I’d rather give you the details in the morning.”
“Well, I’m wide awake now,” she said. “I hope you’re not going to just roll over and go to sleep.”
I held her close. “Have no fear.”
CHAPTER 112
Sophocles was the first to be caught. He pulled up in a taxi at the American Airlines terminal in JFK at 7 a.m. At least a dozen agents were waiting for him, posing as skycaps, gate agents, and fellow travelers. He entered the terminal and was looking up at the departure screen when two of the agents grabbed his arms and a third one cuffed him.
Cervantes met the same fate at LAX. Henry Collins headed up the team who made the capture. Both arrests were clean and simple, almost routine. There was a lot more drama in Dallas.
The FBI agents at DFW had staked out every airline that had direct or connecting flights to Chicago. But Yeats took a cab to the international terminal, then hopped on the monorail that circles the airport. He arrived unnoticed at his departure terminal and actually got as far as the gate, when the FBI agent behind the counter recognized him.
She was nervous and must have given herself away, because Yeats knew he’d been spotted and he bolted. Three agents chased him down the corridor.
There’s a lot of pent-up energy in airports since 9/11. People eye their fellow travelers suspiciously. Who’s carrying a bomb? Who smuggled a deadly pair of tweezers past airport security and plans to storm the cockpit? So when the three agents ran down the corridor, one of them yelled out something that caused all that pent-up energy to explode. “Stop that man, he’s a terrorist!”
Weary travelers heard the call and rose to the occasion. At least half a dozen men lunged at the fleeing criminal, but the one who nailed him was, appropriately enough, a 330-pound football tackle from North Dallas High School, a seventeen-year-old kid named Darryl Jenks.
The photo on Page One of almost every newspaper the next day showed young Darryl with his knee dug into the back of an Irish citizen named Declan Brady. The headline in The L.A. Times said Teen Tackles Burger King Bomber.
As soon as the last assassin was accounted for, Ike Rose was ready to hold a press conference. He and Brian had flown in the night before, leaving his senior management in Missouri to figure out how they could downplay the involvement of their much-beloved founder.
Ike’s first proposal was that we sweep Deanie under the rug. “Just say you captured a gang of terrorists and skip the details.”
“Yeah, that should fly in twenty-first-century America,” Church said. “Especially with this Freedom of Information Act we’ve got going for us.”
Ike didn’t press the point. “I knew you wouldn’t buy it,” he said, “but I had to take a shot.” I hoped that Amy Cheever was looking down from on high and laughing at the sheer audacity of it all.
We agreed to a more believable and almost accurate story. We would let the world know that Dean Lamaar had faked his death and embarked on a mission to destroy the company he had birthed. But we would also emphasize that he was suffering from severe mental illness and that at this time, the extent of his involvement was not clear.
“I think that’ll hold the press for now,” Ike said. “I’ve got four of our best screenwriters working on a story that will make Dean Lamaar sound more like a confused victim than an evil perpetrator. It won’t be the Whole Truth and Nothing But the Truth, but we have to preserve our image. If we give the public full disclosure, it could wind up destroying the company, and Dean and his partners in crime will have succeeded.”
“I appreciate the need for a corporate cover-up,” Church said, “but you’re going to have to talk to someone higher up the food chain than me.”
“I understand,” Ike said. So he called the highest person up the chain he knew—the President of the United States. He in turn called the Director of the FBI, who agreed that it was in the country’s best interest not to go public with details of the crime, lest it hurt one of America’s premier corporations and damage the nation’s economy. It took less than an hour for the Director to pass down the official FBI position to Garet Church.
“Pretty fucking amazing,” Terry said to me, “when you consider it took me five months to clear up a two-hundred-dollar overcharge on my Visa bill.”
The press conference was at 2 p.m., which guaranteed it would be the lead on the six o’clock news in the East. By order of the Los Angeles Chief of Police, Terry and I were both on the platform with Garet Church and Ike Rose.
Church read an opening statement. When he got to the part about Dean Lamaar being alive, the reporters went nuts. When he followed up by saying that Dean had been part of the conspiracy, they went ballistic. Forget that he was in the middle of a prepared script; they started screaming like a bunch of adolescent groupies at a Justin Timberlake sighting. Church didn’t give the details of how the case was solved, but he did give me a lot of the credit.
Ike read a statement that promised the American people that Lamaar Enterprises would return bigger and better than ever. He thanked the law enforcement agencies for their tireless efforts in bringing an end to the crime spree, the public for their support and understanding, and the President for making this an issue of national concern. He went on and on and on. At one point Terry leaned over and whispered in my ear, “If this were the Academy Awards, they would have cut to a commercial five minutes ago.”
Ike announced that the company would reopen for business in the morning and that all employees who had quit were welcome to return. Those who took a leave of absence would be paid. Familyland would reopen on Saturday. Admission for the first one hundred thousand people would be free.
“One more thing,” Ike said. “Our company stock has gone down significantly, because investors weren’t sure how badly these crimes would affect us. Now that the ordeal is over, I can promise you that the future looks brighter than ever for Lamaar.
“With that in mind, tomorrow morning when the market opens, I will be buying $10 million worth of Lamaar stock. Every senior executive who was with me throughout these difficult days has agreed to also buy at least $200,000 worth of stock. We are going to make Lamaar Enterprises great again, and we’re all putting our money where our mouths are. Thank you.”
I don’t think the media usually applaud during press conferences, but this group did.
CHAPTER 113
Lieutenant Kilcullen was waiting for me and Terry after the press conference. He was with a woman I didn’t recognize. Five-foot-two, early thirties, minimal makeup, no-nonsense pants suit.
“Good job, boys,” he said. “This is Shannon Treusch. The Chief will ram a hot poker up my ass if LAPD doesn’t shine as bright as the FBI when the kudos are given out for solving the crime. Shannon is your publicist. She’ll set up all your interviews and coach you along the way.”
I shook her hand. “Do we really need a publicist?” I said.
“Maybe you don’t,” Shannon said. “But the Department does. We get enough bad press. Hero cops are what I live for.” She walked up close to Terry and looked at his face. “I heard you got all cut up in the explosion.”
“We can cover it with makeup,” he said.
She laughed. “The hell we will. I don’t want it to heal. A wounded hero cop is as good as it gets.”
“In that case,” Terry said, “tomorrow I’ll shave with a Swiss army knife.”
Shannon spent the next hour briefing us. It was a real education.
She picked us up at 4:00 the next morning and took us to a TV studio, so the East Coast audience could see us chat live on The Today Show with Katie Couric. At 4:45 we were having a similar chat with Diane Sawyer on Good Morning America. Terry ate it up.
After that it was a barrage of newspapers and radio. Then on Friday night, we made the big time. We were on The Tonight Show.
The producers let us know that Jay Leno would interview us with all the respect and dignity a case of multiple homicides deserves. “But Jay is a comic, so he’s going to look for a place to get laughs.”
Leno was good. And at one point he said, “Now that you guys have solved the Super Bowl of homicides, I guess you’re going to Disney World.” It got a laugh.
But Terry got the biggest laugh of the night. Leno asked him what happened after the explosion cut up his face. “They took me to UCLA Medical,” Terry said. “The doc walks in and he says, ‘Don’t worry, I’m one of the top plastic surgeons in L.A. I work on all the big stars.’ I say, Like who? And he says, ‘Joan Rivers.’ So I shot him.”
The taping was over at 6:00 and Diana and I drove out to have dinner and watch the show with Big Jim, Angel, and Frankie.
After dinner Frankie asked if he could talk to me alone. We went to Jim’s office at the far end of the house. The walls are cheap pine paneling that gives it a 1950s Dad’s Den look. The floors are covered with mismatched carpet remnants, because according to Jim, “My boots are always dirty, so why would I want to spend good money on fancy carpeting?”
In one corner of the room is the desk that Jim made from an old barn door and a couple of double-drawer steel file cabinets that someone at Universal threw out thirty years ago.
Four bookcases, all painted dark green to create the illusion that they actually matched, were placed against various walls, not based on how they looked, but whether or not they fit. They were filled with car and truck manuals, parts catalogues, ledger books, files that hadn’t yet made it to the file cabinets, and a hodge-podge of crap that was my father’s life as a Transportation Captain.
The room was musty and dusty and absolutely off limits to any interloper with a vacuum cleaner or a bottle of Windex. “I know where everything is,” Jim always said. “A cleaning lady would totally screw up my system.”
My Mom had a different point of view. “A rampaging bull running through it every hour on the hour couldn’t screw it up any worse than it is.”
Frankie and I love Jim’s office. It’s where we used to come as kids to hear our nightly bedtime stories. It’s where we shared our first father-son beers.
“This place brings back memories,” I said.
“It does,” Frankie said. “Hey, I like your girlfriend.”
“And I thoroughly enjoyed meeting yours.”
“You would’ve liked her better a couple of months ago,” he said. “She was a really nice person till I walked off with her fifty thou.”
“Well, try not to let it happen again,” I said.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “Did you ever hear of Claymore House?”
“It’s in Montana. They have a twenty-eight-day inpatient program. No alcohol or drug addiction. Just gambling,” I said. “Don’t look so surprised. I’ve researched every rehab from here to Tokyo.”
“I should have known,” he said. “I’m dealing with a detective.”
“No,” I said, “you’re dealing with a firstborn. Taking care of our baby brothers and sisters is the cross we all have to bear. What about Claymore?”
“I want to go,” he said. “I’m ready for it. There’s just one small snag.”
”Let me guess. You need money.”
He laughed. Then I laughed. “Ironic isn’t it?” he said.
“Pack your bags,” I said. “I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll pay you back. I promise.” He caught himself. “Shit, I guess I’m addicted to promising, too.”
“Frankie, there’s only one way you can pay any of us back,” I said. “And that’s to get your addiction under control before it ruins your life.”
“Again,” he said. “Before it ruins my life again. I was holed up here with Dad and Angel for two weeks. I can’t tell you how many times I prayed to God for one more chance. I’m not going to blow this one Mike. I prom…”
I punched him on the shoulder before he could make another promise. Then I followed up with a serious hug. “Now let’s get back and watch me on TV. I’ll bet a month’s pay that halfway through the show Dad says, This is boring, let’s watch Letterman.”
Frankie looked at me and lifted both hands in the air. “Nice try, bro,” he said. “But I’m not betting.”
CHAPTER 114
The next day was Saturday and we were guests at the grand reopening of Familyland. Terry brought Marilyn and the girls. I brought Diana, Hugo, his parents, and two sisters. Hugo only stayed for two hours, but you can see a lot in a short time when you have a golf cart and you get back-doored to every ride.
Saturday night Terry and I turned down at least ten dinner invitations. Everyone from the Mayor of Los Angeles to some film studio executive I had never even heard of had us on their A-List. The only invitation we accepted was to come on over to Brian Curry’s house for his own personal secret recipe barbecued chicken.
It was a nice low-key way to end a heady week. Brian’s wife Giselle was an entertainment lawyer. She also made a mean coconut custard pie. After dinner, we were sitting on the deck and Giselle asked if anyone had called us about turning the Lamaar case into a movie.
Marilyn Biggs let out a little shriek. “Oh God, no, please,” she said. “Terry’s been impossible to live with ever since he talked to Katie Couric. And after Leno, forget it. A movie would ruin our marriage.”
“But just suppose it happened,” Brian said. “Terry, who would you want to play you in the movie?”
“It’s a toss-up between Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt. Unless there’s a nude scene with Michelle Pfeiffer, in which case I’d have to play myself.”
He got a big laugh from the group and a punch in the arm from Marilyn.
“How about you, Mike?” Brian said. “Who should play you?”
“I don’t know, Brian. I’m thinking maybe Denzel Washington.”
“The hell you say. If Denzel’s in this movie, he’s definitely playing me.”
We carried on like that till midnight. Three couples, friends who had been through hell together, eating, drinking, laughing, and sitting under the stars on a warm spring night. I had forgotten what it felt like to be normal. It was almost like living someone else’s life.
Diana and I went back to her apartment and made love. It started out soft and tender, but there was a passion that had been building in both of us and what began as gentle lovemaking ended in a heaving, sweaty heap of pure animal sex. I didn’t just come, I exploded. The orgasm reached that intense peak when I nor
mally would have collapsed, totally spent, but instead it kept cresting and I rode through it to a state of sexual bliss I had never experienced before. In the middle of it all, I buried my face in Diana’s neck and said, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” over and over and over.
When the sex ended I stayed inside of her and held her. After a few minutes we caught our breath, and I lifted my head so I could look in her eyes. Maybe the first time I told Diana I loved her had to come from a screaming libido in order for me to get it out. But this time I let it come from the heart.
“I love you,” I said.
Her eyes turned liquid. “I love you too,” she said.
Sunday we stayed home, watched the Dodger game on TV, played Scrabble, cooked dinner together, and just generally basked in each other’s glow.
On Monday morning I went back to my office. Terry and I had no doubt that we would be razzed relentlessly about our TV appearances, and sure enough when I walked into the squad room, everybody was wearing sunglasses. Throughout the day ball-busting cops yelled Hollywood inanities at each other.
“Get my agent on the phone.”
“Dah-ling, you look deeee-vine. Let’s do lunch.”
“I can’t believe the Cannes Film Festival is next week and I have nothing to wear.”
Terry and I bitched and moaned that Lieutenant Kilcullen forced us to become media whores, which only made the other guys stick it to us harder. We loved every minute of it.
By the end of the day, we also got handshakes and back pats from every cop in the room.
Things settled down, and by mid-week we had wrapped up all the paperwork on the case and caught a couple of new ones: a shooting in a beauty salon and a stabbing at a car wash. It was great to be back to normal.
On Friday night Diana and I went to Big Jim’s house for Frankie’s going-away dinner. He had to be at Claymore House Monday morning, and Jim and Angel were driving him to Montana.
“Are you following Lamaar stock?” Frankie said, when we all sat down.
The Rabbit Factory Page 42