Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  “And no one saw him leave?” Crandall asked.

  “In this neighborhood, no one ever sees a thing.”

  “How about phone records?” Tess asked. “If we know who he was talking to within the last twenty-four hours—”

  “Already got ’em. He had two phones, a landline and a cell. The cell received a call from another cellular phone yesterday afternoon. He called that number back from his landline a little later. Later still, he called the same number from his cell. That was at five-forty-two p.m.”

  5:42 was right after the assailants fled the scene in Santa Ana. “The first two calls involved preparations for the hit,” Tess said. “The last one was his after-action report.”

  “So we assume. But there’s a hitch.” Carson smiled. “Isn’t there always? The other cell was a clone.”

  A cloned cellular telephone was a unit programmed with someone else’s ownership data. Tess knew it would be impossible to determine the actual caller. “Do we at least know where the cloned phone was operating from?”

  “Somewhere between McFadden and Edinger, near Harbor Boulevard. But that covers a lot of territory. And it’s prime turf for the Scorps. Unless we find the cloned cell in someone’s possession ...”

  Crandall looked unhappy. “It’s probably already been destroyed or reprogrammed.”

  “Probably,” Carson agreed. “These Scorps aren’t so dumb. They do know how to cover their tracks.”

  Tess asked him what was happening now.

  “We’ve rounded up most of Garrick’s scumbag friends for Q and A. So far it’s all Q and no A. They’re shut up tighter than a nun’s—well, they’re not cooperating.”

  “You grilling anyone in particular?”

  “Yeah. Shanker.”

  Tess remembered Hauser mentioning him. “Ronald Shanker. Her runs the club.”

  “His official title is president.” Carson noted Tess’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. They’re organized, these guys. Got themselves a vice president, a secretary-treasurer, and a sergeant at arms.”

  “How corporate.”

  “They’re essentially a business concern. Sell ecstasy, coke, crystal meth. Stuff is manufactured in Latin America, and the Scorps do the distributing here in the states.”

  “Sounds lucrative.”

  “For the top membership, it is. The guys at the bottom don’t get much of a cut.”

  “Are the gang members still being held?”

  “Some are. Some aren’t. They’ll all be let go before long. Nothing to hold them on. Being a dirtbag isn’t a crime. Though maybe it should be.”

  “How about Garrick’s whereabouts before he was shot?”

  “He was with his buddies. They were all hanging together last night. The guy who popped Dylan was probably chugging beers with him a couple hours earlier.”

  “Where did they hang out?”

  “Bar, name of Fast Eddie’s.”

  A bar. The kind of place where Dylan Garrick might have met someone. A female someone. “Did he leave the bar alone?” Tess asked.

  “I told you, no one’s talking.”

  “How about employees of Fast Eddie’s?”

  “We talked to the bartender. He’s as tightlipped as the rest of ’em. Word is, he’s an honorary Scorp himself.”

  “And no one saw him come home?” Tess pressed.

  “Folks in this building aren’t too talkative, either, like I said. Besides, the guy was always coming and going at all hours. Believe me, we’re following up every available angle. We’ve got this thing covered.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Tess said, though she was pretty sure there was one angle they had missed. Her gaze panned the bedroom, and she noticed Crandall watching her with unusual concentration. The look on his face disturbed her. He seemed to be reading her thoughts.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” Carson said, “I have to use the can.”

  Tess frowned. “Here?”

  “Scene’s already been processed. There’s no harm in it.”

  Tess knew there wasn’t any harm. But using Dylan Garrick’s toilet seemed ... disrespectful, somehow. What made it worse was that Carson grabbed one of Garrick’s porno magazines for reading matter before disappearing into the bathroom.

  Crandall tapped her on the arm. “Let’s talk,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you think we’ve been doing?”

  “Let’s talk about something else. On the landing.”

  She followed him out of the apartment. He stood looking over the parking lot, not facing her.

  “Something wrong, Rick?” she asked, keeping the tone light.

  He still didn’t look at her. “I know something funny went down at Andrea’s house yesterday. Making me stay outside while you cleared the premises—that wasn’t standard procedure. Was Abby in there? Did you send her away before I came in?”

  She hesitated a long moment. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

  “God damn it. I knew it had to be something like that.” He finally turned to her. “She killed Dylan Garrick, didn’t she?”

  Tess gave him an honest answer. “I don’t know who killed Garrick. Abby denies having anything to do with it.”

  “You already interrogated her?”

  “I asked her,” Tess corrected. “Not interrogated. Asked.”

  “That’s why you disappeared from the field office after the briefing. You had to do a little briefing of your own.”

  “I didn’t brief her. I asked her what she was up to last night.”

  “Is she alibied?”

  “No. But she says she had no way of tracking down any of the assailants.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “I’m not sure what I believe.”

  He thrust his hands into his pockets. “We cannot keep a lid on this, Tess. We have to tell the ADIC.”

  “No, we don’t.” She said it firmly, leaving no room for discussion.

  “Then how about Hauser?”

  “I’m not saying anything to anyone until I find out what happened.”

  “You can’t keep covering for this woman.”

  “Just let me handle it, Rick.”

  “You’ve been handling it ever since the Rain Man. You’re in really deep. I’m not sure you still have a professional perspective on the situation.”

  “Are you saying I’ve lost my ability to make sound judgments?”

  “Where Abby Sinclair is concerned, quite possibly.”

  “She doesn’t have any sort of hold on me. I just want to be careful, that’s all. I’ll keep you out of it. Carson can take you to the RA. You can talk to some of the people they’ve rounded up.”

  “And where will you be?”

  “Running down some ideas of my own.”

  Crandall sighed. “It’s getting harder and harder to back you up on this. What if she’s gone rogue? What if someone else dies? The congressman, even?”

  “There’s no chance of that.”

  “How do you know? You can’t say what she might do. We need to tell Michaelson and get it out in the open.”

  “It hasn’t reached that point yet.”

  “I think it has.”

  She felt a flutter of dread. “You’re not planning to go to the higher-ups on your own, are you, Rick?”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that.” But he said it with less conviction than she’d hoped.

  “Just let me handle it,” she said again.

  “Right. So far you’re handling everything just great.”

  Crandall walked back inside. Tess stared after him. He wouldn’t rat her out. She was almost sure of it.

  But he would never again be her friend.

  34

  Abby waited in the restroom until she was sure Andrea had lured the FBI guys into the food court. She didn’t want to be spotted by the feebs. It was always possible that one of them would remember her cameo appearance in the Rain Man case.

  Besides, she really did ha
ve to pee. She had kind of a nervous bladder today. Nervous everything, in fact. She felt like she was hopped up on some designer drug that had her thoughts racing and her body humming.

  When enough time had passed, she left the ladies’ room and returned to her car. She was driving the Mazda, since she didn’t anticipate any undercover work, except the small deception necessary to get past security at Jack Reynolds’ house. Her fake press pass was in the glove compartment, along with a camera, notebook, and pen—a journalist’s tools of the trade, or so she assumed.

  Reynolds’ address was unlisted but easy enough to find in the Internet databases she used. He lived in a gated community in Newport Beach. Abby was relieved to find Wanda Klein listed in the gatehouse logbook.

  The guard directed her down a long, sweeping curve of immaculately landscaped homes. Reynolds’ house was the last one on the right. The barbecue was already underway; parked cars clogged the cul-de-sac and the courtyard driveway.

  She found a space, assembled her paraphernalia, and hiked to the front entrance, where a female staffer and two men in suits were posted. The men had the look of off-duty cops moonlighting as private security. She gave her name as Wanda Klein. The rent-a-cops confirmed that she was on the media list, then scanned her with a handheld metal detector. Wanda gets wanded, she thought. Having anticipated the screening, she’d left her gun in the car.

  The staffer handed her a new name tag, which she was supposed to wear around her neck along with her press pass. “Now just wait here, please, while I get Mr. Stenzel.”

  “That’s not necessary. I can find my way around.”

  “I’m afraid he insists on personally escorting reporters at events like this.”

  Great. Abby waited as Stenzel was paged. She wondered if Reynolds had told him to expect her.

  Apparently he had. She saw Kipland Stenzel approaching at a fast clip, a false smile plastered on his face.

  “Ms. Klein,” he said, offering her a perfunctory handshake. “I’m glad you were able to make it. Any trouble finding the place?”

  Abby matched his phony smile with one of her own. “I never have any trouble finding things. I’m a regular bloodhound.”

  With a certain deftness he had managed to pull her away from the cops so they could speak more privately. His expression altered instantly from a counterfeit smile to an entirely genuine scowl.

  “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re running,” he said quietly. “But please understand that you will not get away with it.”

  “What makes you think it’s a scam?”

  “Everything you do is a scam. You’re a lying, manipulating little bitch.”

  Abby cocked her head, curious about this outburst. “Kip, are you mad at me for quitting on your boss?”

  “My personal feelings have nothing to do with it. I just want you to be aware that I am looking out for the congressman’s interests.”

  “Good for you. Now may we get going?”

  “I have half a mind to throw you out and tell Jack you never showed up.”

  “That wouldn’t be smart. I came here because I have something to say to your boss. Something he needs to hear, involving Bethany Willett.”

  Stenzel did a fairly good job of looking nonplused. “Who?”

  “Maybe you know her as Andrea Lowry.”

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “I’m referring to the onetime, illicit relationship between Ms. Lowry nee Willett and the congressman.”

  “There was no relationship.”

  “I’m afraid there was, whether you know it or not. And maybe you don’t. It was well before your time. What are you, like, fourteen years old?”

  “Insults won’t get you anywhere.”

  “How about threats? Either I meet with the congressman or I track down a real reporter and do my talking to him.”

  He gave her a shrewd look. “Your career depends on keeping a low profile. You’re not going to get yourself in the headlines.”

  “I’m more than happy to be the anonymous source behind the scenes. Just think of me as Deep Throat.” Abby frowned. “On second thought, I want a different nickname.”

  “It would be a serious mistake to go that route, Ms. Sinclair. The congressman is not somebody you want to cross.”

  “Why not? Will he send some of his motorcycle compadres after me? Or does he only use the Scorpions when getting reacquainted with old friends?”

  “You’re raving.”

  “I guess you won’t mind my raving to the press. Here’s the bottom line, Kip. You don’t run this show. I do.”

  Stenzel hesitated, his face a tight mask. Then he turned to the two cops. “Did you pass the metal detector over her?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Do it again. Slowly.”

  The cop with the wand frowned but did as he was told.

  “Afraid I’m packing heat?” Abby asked Stenzel, smiling.

  “I’m just taking every precaution ... Ms. Klein.”

  “We can’t be too careful where the congressman’s safety is concerned.”

  “No. We can’t.”

  The cop confirmed that she was clean.

  Stenzel nodded curtly. “Come along.”

  Abby was right behind him. “Kipster, you couldn’t lose me now.”

  35

  Reynolds’ house was a massive modernistic pile. Twenty-foot ceilings soared over marble floors. Walls of glass let in the abundant California sun.

  “Nice place,” Abby observed. “I’m surprised your boss can afford it on a public servant’s salary.”

  Stenzel caught the implication. “If you’d done your homework, you’d know that Mrs. Reynolds is quite well off.”

  “The boy from the barrio married money? I didn’t catch that detail on his Web site. Maybe it doesn’t go so well with his rags to riches story.”

  “The congressman and his wife have a wonderful marriage. They recently celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

  “So I guess she didn’t hold his indiscretions against him? Or more likely, she never found out.”

  “I find you tiresome, Ms. Sinclair.”

  “Yeah, I’m a real pain in the ass.”

  They passed a game room and a small but well-equipped gym. He led her through a solarium and into the backyard. The yard wasn’t huge, most of the property having been taken up by the house, and the square footage available for Reynolds’ guests was further diminished by a swimming pool that simulated a tropical lagoon, complete with waterfall. The guests were crowded around the pool, doing their best not to fall in while they picked at plates of food. Abby was reminded that she hadn’t eaten today.

  A knot of visitors had formed around a well-dressed lady of Reynolds’ age, recognizable from her photos on the Web site and in the L.A. Times article. Nora, his wife. Nearby, Reynolds’ assistant—his constituent services coordinator, Rebecca, or as Abby called her, Moneypenny—was chatting with an earnest man who seemed in need of a favor from the congressman. Rebecca seemed a little overdressed for a summer day; she was showing hardly any skin at all.

  Stenzel proceeded to the far end of the yard. There the crowd parted to reveal His Excellency in front of a monstrous gas-powered grill. He wasn’t actually flipping or serving burgers, and Abby was a little disappointed about that.

  Reynolds was in his element, surrounded by well-wishers, the center of attention, radiating authority, accepting the adulation of the wealthy and influential. Then his gaze flickered in Abby’s direction, registering her presence, and something in his eyes told her it was a pose. Reynolds was scared. His hold on power was threatened, and he could see it slipping away. Beneath the façade of self-assurance she read fear, desperation, vulnerability.

  That was good. She could work with that.

  “I was wondering if you would actually be here,” he said quietly as Abby moved alongside him.

  She smiled. “No, you weren’t.”

  Reynolds glanced at Stenzel. “Take
her to my office. I’ll be inside in a minute.”

  Stenzel ushered her away. “Hold on a sec,” Abby said. She grabbed a plate and loaded it with chicken and potato salad, then found some plastic cutlery and paper napkins. What the hell, the food was free and she was hungry. Plate in hand, she followed Stenzel past a garden of hydrangeas, sea grasses, and bird-of-paradise, and back inside the house. Down a short hallway was a small office with oak shelving and paneled walls. It occurred to Abby that being out of public view was perhaps not the best idea, under the circumstances.

  “By the way, your rent-a-cops will remember me,” she told Stenzel. “If for some reason I don’t leave this party, there’ll be an investigation, and you’ll be the first one questioned.”

  “Are you always so dramatic?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “If you’re worried about your safety, I’d advise you to walk away from this situation right now.”

  “Sorry, Kip. No can do.”

  “I’ve given you fair warning.”

  “You’ve been more than fair,” Abby agreed.

  “Then I won’t consider myself responsible when they zip you up in a body bag.”

  There had to be a great comeback to that, but offhand Abby couldn’t think of one.

  Fortunately she didn’t have to. Reynolds stepped through the doorway, shutting the door behind him.

  Abby took a seat and started on a chicken wing. “Nice little get-together,” she said. “Few hundred of your closest friends?”

  “My biggest contributors. Which amounts to the same thing.”

  “Somehow I find that sad.”

  “You know what Harry Truman said. If you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.”

  “That’s the second Truman anecdote I’ve heard from you. Are you just wild about Harry?”

  “All politicians admire Truman,” Reynolds said as he rounded his desk and sat in a plush leather chair. “You know why?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “We like him because he was always underestimated. The party bosses thought they could control him. The pollsters thought he couldn’t win in ’48. He was dismissed as a mediocrity. And now he’s an icon.”