“Are you kidding me?” he muttered.
Enough was enough. He hooked a second finger under the edge and, because right now the thought of breaking something appealed to him, gave the cover a hard yank.
It hung for a split second, then popped open. A wire clipped to the inside support of the cap snaked down the filler tube into the tank.
Kaye froze for a fraction of a second before turning and sprinting away from the truck just as a muffled thud came from under the bed.
Moving as fast as he could, he made the few feet to the end of the pump island just as the woman who’d smiled at him was reaching for her SUV’s door handle. Without thinking, he took a sideways step, hooked one giant arm around her waist, lifted her from the ground and kept running, shouting, “Get down! Everybody down!”
The now-screaming and struggling woman didn’t slow him. In another split second he rounded the front of the SUV and headed into the open parking lot, pulling the woman around in front of himself to protect her as much as possible.
He’d cleared the SUV by less than five feet when his truck exploded into a huge fireball.
The pump island and the SUV helped lessen the shock wave, but it still pummeled Kaye, pushing him forward and causing him to lose his balance. He staggered and started to go down, doing his best to shelter the woman from both the blast and his weight before hitting the pavement.
He glanced back over his shoulder. His pickup was a blazing inferno, fully engulfed in flames. The pump island’s overhead canopy was still intact, but tilted and twisted at a crazy angle. The back half of the SUV was ablaze. He could feel the heat, but thanks to the rain there was no immediate danger.
He pushed himself from his elbows to his knees. The woman was curled in a fetal position, her arms wrapped around her head as she whimpered and trembled uncontrollably.
Kaye laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said, sounding to himself like he was talking in the bottom of a barrel. He used the other hand to check his ears for bleeding. It came away dry.
“It’s okay,” he repeated. “We’re okay. We made it.”
Her arms slowly unwrapped from her head. She twisted to look up at Kaye, her eyes huge.
“It’s okay,” he said again, gently squeezing her shoulder. “You’re okay.”
She dissolved into hysterical sobs.
Kaye stayed down with her, pulling off his Big Boar jacket and grabbing his cell phone from the pocket before draping the jacket over her shoulders and head to give her some shelter from the rain.
He dialed 9-1-1.
“This is Detective Kaye,” he said in response to the operator’s ‘what is your emergency’ question, giving her his badge number and location. “I need a full response at this location. Explosion and active fire, possible injuries.”
The dispatcher acknowledged and told him units were in route.
He turned his attention back to the woman.
Her sobs had quieted to occasional hiccups and ragged breathing.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you hurt anywhere?”
“I…I think I’m okay,” she said. “I can’t…think… What happened?”
“My truck exploded.”
“What? How…?”
“I don’t know,” Kaye said. “Help is on the way. Let’s get you out of this rain. Can you stand up?”
“I think so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Emmary.”
“Okay, Emmary, let me help.” He went to one knee and offered his hands. “Take it slow. If it hurts, tell me and we’ll stop. On three, just roll over and sit up.”
He counted slowly. On three she grabbed his hand and he helped her roll to a sitting position. She put her heels on the ground and tried to hug her knees. He made sure the jacket stayed on her shoulders.
“Good,” he said. “You doing okay?”
She nodded.
“Okay, on three again. I’ve got you.”
With his strength helping, she stood up, wobbly but up.
“Oh, my God,” she said, eyes huge as she looked past Kaye at her burning vehicle.
Kaye’s truck was already burning out as the fire units arrived and set a perimeter.
Two LAPD units, followed closely by two medic units, rolled into the parking lot, all lights blazing. Officers and paramedics immediately fanned out and started assessing the scene. Kaye saw one of the officers talk into his lapel microphone and then head his way while the other three spread out and started establishing crowd control.
“Detective Kaye!” the approaching officer shouted just as Kaye recognized him as Devon. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” Kaye said. “But this lady needs to be checked out.”
Devon turned, caught the attention of one of the medics and waved her over.
“Emmary, I’m going to turn you over to more capable hands,” Kaye said. “They’ll take good care of you.”
She nodded and looked at him, and he saw her notice the badge and holstered Kimber on his hip.
“You’re a cop,” she whispered.
“I am.”
She stared at him for a long second, then flung herself forward, wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest as she again began to sob.
“Thank you,” she said, gasping. “Thank you.”
“We’ve got her, Detective,” one of the medics said as he reached out for Emmary’s shoulders. Then he held out the jacket and said, “This must be yours.”
Kaye took it and his heart sank.
The Big Boar patch showed how hot and powerful the blast had been. In places the thread was badly scorched. In others it had been burned away altogether, leaving only tiny bits of frayed thread sticking out of the backing.
He felt the back of his pant legs. The fabric was still there, but the texture had changed. Unconsciously he reached for his head. His hair felt…different and he felt some of it break off under his fingers.
He realized how close a call he’d just had, then looked up and let the rain pepper his face.
He didn’t care.
It had just saved his life.
***
It took nearly two hours for the scene to clear.
After Kaye had surrendered Emmary to the medics, he’d found Devon and made sure the patrolman took pictures of the crowd.
The bomb squad investigators interviewed Kaye. They’d been skeptical at first, ready to attribute the explosion to a fuel leak and some sort of electrical problem, or to Kaye unwittingly causing some sort of static discharge and igniting the fuel tank vapors. But after Kaye described the chain of events they slowly came around and started taking it seriously.
The delay between Kaye yanking what they thought was a trigger device and the actual explosion was, they concluded, either purposeful or the device had used a slow, deflagrating explosive compound rather than an almost instantaneous detonating compound.
“It’s just a theory, but it explains why you had those extra few seconds,” one said. “Had it been a detonating device, you’d have been blown to bits. It’s almost like somebody was sending you a warning instead of trying to kill you.”
“Pretty sophisticated, though, to fit down the filler tube,” the other said. “We’ll take a closer look at things when it all cools off and see if we can find pieces of the device and detonator. Most bombers have a signature. If we get lucky, we’ll figure out who did this.”
“Okay, thanks guys,” Kaye said. “Let me know.”
Devon and his partner were cleared to drive Kaye home, where he finally cobbled together some dinner.
While he ate, his phone buzzed. He recognized Thompson’s cell number.
“Are you okay?” the Captain asked.
“A little singed,” Kaye replied, “but not hurt.”
“I talked to the bomb squad guys. Any idea who did this? Think it’s the same guy who blew up the Ferrari?”
“I don’t believe in coinci
dences.”
“You need a day off?” Thompson asked.
“No,” Kaye said. “I’m okay. Just need a new truck.”
“You know where to find me if you need me,” Thompson said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Kaye had no doubt that the attempt on his life was connected to his investigations. He also had no doubt that whoever had been following him and planting Kanji notes was either responsible, or knew who was.
Twice during the night he was awakened by random, unfamiliar noises and got up, pistol in hand, to check the house. He found nothing amiss, which led to self-rebuke, self-doubt, and more fitful sleep.
Kaye had never feared anyone. His size and preternatural strength imbued him with tremendous self-assurance. He knew where he ranked on the physicality charts, and also knew that the odds of him ever encountering someone who ranked higher were virtually non-existent. It wasn’t braggadocio, it was simply quiet confidence, and he’d always remembered a sage piece of advice his father had offered after Kaye had gotten into trouble for beating a particular high school tormenter to a bloody pulp.
“Ben, if people even think a dog will bite, that dog never has to bite anybody.”
Since the Kanji notes, though, things had changed and the close shave at the gas station forced him to acknowledge it.
He was not invincible, physically or psychologically.
His final, fleeting thought before falling asleep was that maybe it was time to call Dr. Dellamartre, who had helped him get through the worst of it after he lost Amy. He would tell her about Aspen, and perhaps she could simply explain to him that Father Francis Healey had made him seriously consider, perhaps for the very first time, his own mortality.
DAY 19
Friday Week 3
Californians are wont to brag about their weather. After Thursday’s deluge, Friday was working on being a day of redemption. The cool morning air had yet to soak up all the moisture from the pavement on the less-traveled streets, but the cloudless sky and climbing sun promised a day to write about to the folks back home in less hospitable climes.
Now truckless, Kaye guided the Road King through uncharacteristically light mid-morning traffic, which seemed to part for him, as the Red Sea had for Moses, in payback for the tough day yesterday.
Patty Phillips, file folder in hand, was waiting when Kaye entered the squad room.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming in today,” she said. “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”
“A little sore,” Kaye admitted. “But overall, I think I got very lucky.”
“Did you see the paper this morning?”
“No.”
“You’re on the front page again. In a good way this time.” She smiled. “Mostly, anyway.”
Lister’s comment about dirty laundry flashed across Kaye’s memory.
“From zero to hero and back again in four or five tight paragraphs,” he said. “Sells papers. But, really, I’m fine.”
“That’s good news,” Patty said, then smiled again. “You’ll be finer when you hear the juicy stuff I found on social media.”
“Really? Already? That was fast.”
“Really. And thank you. I try.”
“Well then, step into what passes for my office and tell me all about it.”
When they were settled, Kaye said, “Okay, show me what you’ve got.”
“Like I figured,” Patty began, resting the folder on her lap, “Sullivan has social media accounts on pretty much every platform out there, probably because of the business she’s in. I didn’t really have to dig any deeper than the big three to find what we needed.”
“Did you find anything specific to tie her to what we already know?”
“I did.” She pulled a page from the folder and handed it to Kaye. It was a post featuring a picture of a smiling, dark-haired woman standing proudly next to a shiny black Explorer. “That’s Brianna Carson showing off her new car, purchased exactly one week before the murders.”
“I take it she’s friends with Sullivan.”
“More than that. They’re cousins. Carson is the daughter of Sullivan’s mother’s brother. They grew up together and worked together in real estate for years. They’re tight.”
“Tight enough that Carson would loan Sullivan her brand new car?”
Patty reached into the folder, pulled out another page and handed it to Kaye. It was a screen print of an exchange of tweets between @BCarson87 and @RealSalesMegan, with @RealSalesMegan thanking Carson for letting her borrow the new ride and that the repairs to the Caddy hadn’t cost as much as she thought they would. At the bottom of the post was #ThickerThanWater. The post was dated two days after the murders.
“You’re certain that account is our Megan Sullivan?” Kaye asked.
“Absolutely,” Patty said, then retrieved another page and held it out to Kaye. “Meet Thad Carson, Brianna’s husband.”
Kaye took the page and stared at it.
Thad Carson was a hunter. His profile picture showed him dressed in camouflage, kneeling behind the carcass of a coyote and smiling as he held the dead animal’s head up to face the camera. In his other hand Carson grasped a rifle with a scope and a long, curved magazine. Kaye recognized it immediately.
“Right caliber,” he said. “It would do the job.”
“I checked the registry,” Patty said. “I didn’t find anything registered to Carson.”
“He doesn’t have to register that gun,” Kaye said. “No pistol grip and no flash suppressor. But we now have links between Sullivan, a matching vehicle, and access to a possible weapon. Thank you.”
“I’m not done yet,” Patty said, grinning broadly.
“What else did you find?”
She grabbed more sheets from the folder, but this time she held them face down on her lap.
“Sullivan has a lot of friends and followers, so I was lucky to find this,” she said, then handed the top page to Kaye.
It was Dennis Bettencourt’s profile page, or at least what Patty had been able to capture with a screen print. A smiling Bettencourt was sitting in the driver’s seat of his red Corvette.
“Sullivan and Bettencourt are friends on social media,” Patty said. “On Sullivan’s profile page it says she’s married, but on Bettencourt’s page it says he’s in a relationship with a ‘Megan’, no last name.”
“I also found this,” Patty said, handing Kaye another page.
It was another shot of a home page, but this one was for Storm Chase.
Kaye kept staring at the profile picture and muttered, “I’ll be damned.” It was definitely Dennis Bettencourt, but what Kaye saw was the cover photo.
It was the same living room shown in Officer Devon’s photos accompanying the vandalism report taken from Sullivan on the evening of the murders, minus the damage. The photo instantly triggered Kaye’s memory on where he’d seen the living room before: On a poster promoting Bettencourt’s porn production company hanging on the wall of Bettencourt’s house before the tall man had pulled the door closed.
“The first one is on his personal page,” Patty replied. “That’s where I found out he was friends with Sullivan. But I got curious and found that one,” she pointed at the second page. “Notice he updated to those photos just after Sullivan listed the house in Paloma Canyon. I printed it because the date was so close. I also found this.” She handed him a third page.
It was another screen print of Storm Chase’s home page, but with different cover and profile pictures.
“Why this one?” Kaye asked.
“That’s what’s been on the page since the day before the murders. I thought the timing was suspicious, so I printed them. Did I do good?”
“Better than good, Patty,” Kaye said. “You did great.”
***
The loss of the truck was more nuisance than real problem. Nothing irreplaceable had been consumed in the fire, and Kaye had the resources to replace the truck without waiting for the insurance company to decide wh
at, if anything, they would cover under the circumstances.
He called the dealership where he’d bought the burned truck about a year ago, talked to the Sales Manager about what he wanted and confirmed they had a match in stock. After some haggling, they arrived at a price Kaye thought was fair. He then called his bank and arranged payment. On the second call to the dealer he was promised that the new truck would be parked in his driveway before the end of the day on Saturday.
***
Kaye was thinking of going around the corner for a sandwich when he heard Captain Thompson’s voice as his boss came through the doors into the squad.
“Let’s hope he’s here.”
“If he’s not, we need to find him.”
Kaye recognized the second voice, too. ADA Kayla Okafor.
The two rounded the corner, saw Kaye, and stopped.
“In my office, please,” Thompson said, then turned and headed that way.
“Close the door,” Thompson said when Kaye followed them in.
Thompson sank into his chair. Okafor perched on the edge of a filing cabinet and Kaye took his usual chair across from his Captain.
“What’s up?” he asked.
It was Okafor who answered.
“We just spent an hour in chambers with Judge Gardner. Megan Sullivan filed a motion this morning asking Gardner to lift the hearing delay and allow her to present her request for a restraining order.” She handed Kaye a sheaf of papers. “That’s a copy of the affidavit. She’s asking that you be removed from the LAPD and face criminal stalking charges.”
“Let her,” Kaye said. “She can’t show cause, because there’s no cause to show.”
“You’re positive?” Thompson asked.
Kaye glared at his boss. “Yes, sir, I am positive.”
“I’ve got to tell you, Detective,” Thompson said, leaning forward, “Sloan and Leale are backing her. Leale’s been bragging for two days how he’s going to put the famous Ben Kaye in jail.”
“I’m famous?” Kaye said, smiling. “I had no idea.”
“Detective,” Okafor said, “you need to take this more seriously.”
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