by Nick Keller
Bernie would have to start a one-man search for an armed killer floor-by-floor.
“Shit…”
Gun in hand he wrenched open the stairway door. A few flights up he heard footsteps echoing. He looked up through the well. Couldn’t see. Someone was up there. They were running. Bernie started pounding up the flights drawing himself along with the hand rail. He hit the third landing and heard screaming out in the hall.
The high-pitched squeal of a child. A girl. Maybe ten.
Bernie went dizzy. His ears shut off like a pressure boiler was in his head. He’d been here once before—a child screaming for help, him in pursuit. He had to blink it away. The day had been a nightmare. It still was.
There was no time to hesitate, though, no time to let fear grip him.
He slammed the door open and looked left, right, leading his gaze with his weapon. No one was in the hall. No one here had screamed.
Help, ayeeeee!
He looked up.
Shit—it was a flight above.
He took the steps three at a time…
No dead children this time. Please God…
… and rammed open the door to the fourth floor. Left, right, no one. The door to the nearest apartment unit was open. He could hear crying muffled by terror. Something didn’t feel right. Bernie crept toward the doorway probing for sound, fighting the shakes. They swept over him, made him nauseous.
No—not this time!
He sprang into the opening waving the .45 left to right. He gasped pulling his gun up. There were two kids against the far wall, wide-eyed, hands pulled up to their mouths. One of their eyes drifted to the door. Bernie read him.
Komatsu was behind the door.
Bernie dropped down as a pair of gun blasts went off over his head. He slammed the door against the wall with a shoulder, hearing a grunt. He reached around and wheeled Komatsu out of hiding. Flailing arms knocked the nearby TV over in a shower of sparks. Komatsu fended, giving Bernie a number of fist and elbow shockers to the face and midsection. Bernie tried to grab him, tried to control him, but his motions were too precise, too quick—they were perfect. Bernie floundered against the wall dislodging a portrait which fell in his face blinding him. The kids screamed. When Bernie looked up, Komatsu was gone, heading down the hallway.
“Stay, stay!” he screamed and hit the hallway expecting to see his target moving away from him at top speed. Instead, he faced him dead on from a dozen feet down the hall. Bernie grunted surprise raising his firearm, but he was too late. The asshole unloaded the rest of his clip — four shots, right in the chest.
Bang Bang Bang Bang Click Click!
The force of it pounded Bernie back a few steps and he collapsed flat on his back, stunned, sinking into shock, trying to suck a breath. He was only vaguely aware the gun in his hand was gone, he’d dropped it, and his target was now sprinting away down the hall, getting away.
Bernie looked back into the apartment unit with fading eyes to see the kids staring at him, mouths slack, eyes gleaming and huge. What beautiful innocence. What angels. Such a good, long life.
Thank you, God…
All he could do was grin at them, fading, fading....
KOMATSU MADE it to the end of the hallway and around the corner when gun blasts registered, bullets coming at him from way down the adjoining hallway. Smyth and Neiman had caught up and were now coming at him from the far stairwell. Komatsu ducked under flecks of plaster exploding in the air, reversed his direction, and headed back toward the opposite way. Once there, he leapt over the fallen Bernie, but an unexpected bear’s paw snagged him by the pants leg reeling him against his own momentum and slinging him to the floor.
Bernie rolled over, fueled by fury, numbed by adrenaline, holding the struggling Komatsu under his weight, ripped the handgun from his adversary’s belt and started hammering him over the head with it, pistol whipping him furiously and snarling in rhythm, “Fucking. Shoot. Me. Mother. Fucker. I’ll take. Your fucking. Gun. And beat. Your ass. To death. With it!”
“Bernie!” Mark Neiman yelled as he rounded the corner, gun up.
Bernie looked over and dropped the gun. Jackrabbit lay dizzy and groaning on the floor. He wasn’t going anywhere. Bernie got up and took a few steps away pulling open his shirt letting buttons fly and inspecting the Kevlar vest underneath. Four bullets showed like nickels embedded in the vest, having released all their energy right into his body. He hit his knees feeling a few of his ribs rattle inside. They were broken, easy. Probably shattered. But he was alive.
Goddamn.
Thinking about Iva earlier had saved his life.
He fell to the floor hearing Mark call on the radio, “We got him. Perp in custody. Officer down, I repeat, officer down, Regatta and Ninth! Send medical. Send medical, now!”
36
HOSPITAL BED
“You’d think guys like me would get shot all the time,” Bernie mumbled. His words were coming slow and drunken, once he emerged from his thiopental and nitrous oxide haze. Surgeons had to glue a few ribs back together, nothing serious. “I’m big. Slow. A little dumb. But nope. First time.”
Iva squeezed his hand grinning, trying not to tear up. She wasn’t the type to cry over big, dumb man stuff, like getting shot. But this was different. This was Bernie. She choked it back well enough.
She had rushed to L.A. Memorial when she heard the news. No one bothered to call her, but no one knew she existed, at least not as Bernie’s significant other. It was only once William put the pieces together from fractured reports on his police scanner radio he realized Bernie had been shot. Four times. The first person he called was Iva.
When she arrived, she had to plow through a sea of other law enforcement officers to reach his room, all looking shocked Bernie had a live-in girlfriend. No one needed to know she was a former escort. Aside from that, their secret was out.
As for William, son of Oscar Erter—he decided not to go see his friend in the hospital. It was better their little partnership stayed under the table.
“You’re not dumb,” Iva said.
Bernie blurted laughter, then cringed in pain. “I got shot, sweetie. Dumb…”
“You’re the smartest man I know.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Captain Heller poked his head in the room. “Can I come in?”
Bernie waved him inside.
Heller stood over him looking down, shaking his head. “Now, Bernie, why the hell would you be dumb enough to step in front of a bullet? Four bullets, in fact.”
Bernie looked at Iva. See, told ya.
Heller continued, “We’re glad you were at least smart enough to wear a vest.”
Iva returned the look. See, I told you.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bernie mumbled.
“Well, congratulations. You got the bastard. I’ve, uh—been saying that a lot lately.”
Bernie smiled thirstily, “Cold Files suit me, Cap.”
“Yeah right. We can talk about that when you’re better.”
Bernie’s eyebrows went up. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Look, don’t get your hopes up, but there’s an empty desk upstairs. You might fill it.”
“Homicide?” Bernie said, grunting, trying not to sound like an excited kid promised ice cream.
“Uh-huh,” Heller said. He tapped him on the foot. “But you got to get back up on your feet first.”
“Will do.”
Heller gave Iva a sweet look, happy Bernie had someone who cared for him, and turned to leave. But Bernie stopped him. “Captain.”
“Yeah.”
“We got to talk about Komatsu.”
Heller looked down, then back up expecting bad news.
Bernie said, “He’s not the Starlet Killer.”
“Just get some goddamn rest, Bernie, would ya, please—Jesus,” Heller said, and left the room.
Bernie looked away. He could put down a dozen cases, catch an FBI’s most wanted, get re-promoted, and still, t
hose fucking politicians upstairs would give him no leeway. He saw it as clear as day. And once he made eye contact with Iva, he could tell even she saw it. He muttered, “Baby, I gotta talk to Will.”
LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS never worried William. Even when they trailed him in his rearview mirror they never made his hairs stand on edge or his skin pucker up. He respected their role in society, even envied them. Who else got to hunt the raping, murdering dregs of the world with a fat-caliber handgun at their side and justify it?
Not junior college professors.
But things were different when cops gathered en masse in small, contained quarters. When there was a bunch of them standing around looking bored, it made William sweat, made his pulse jam up in his ears. He figured it was another contribution from his old man. Oscar probably got nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of sliding doors whenever he stepped into a room full of cops. If William had gone to the hospital it would’ve certainly been a dozen eyeballs following him through the room, all saying— Look, that’s Oscar Erter’s fucking kid, killer in waiting, nutjob walking, dead man in the making. Like father, like son. It made him itch. It’s why he stayed the hell away from Bernie’s hospital bed. Any communication would have to be covert. So, he waited by the phone, staring at it, occasionally checking the phone cord to make sure it was plugged in. Finally, it rang, making him nearly shimmy out of his skin.
“Bernie,” he answered.
“William.”
“How you feeling?” William said.
“Shot. Listen, the FBI’s in the way,” Bernie said. “If the department continues the investigation against the Starlet Killer, them feds will have a shit fit. It’ll look like they fucked up. They’ll shut us down.”
William gestured agreeably and said, “They did screw up.”
“It was a cover. They just wanted to take Komatsu off their Most Wanted list.”
William groaned, “We led them to him.”
“How were we supposed to know one of their top priorities had a soft spot for oysters and poon?”
William huffed more agreement, bitter at the situation. He switched hands with the phone. “So, what do you suggest we do?”
He could hear Bernie take a big breath, then wince against the pain in his chest. “That’s what you’re for. We got to do this ourselves, Will. Problem is, you might have to do the legwork on this one, buddy. I’m all laid up.”
William could visualize his partner all wrapped up in sheets, stuffed in a traction device, unable to move. He paced to his door, turned, and came back. “That might not be as big a problem as you think.”
“How’s that?”
“We still have to wait for the lotto to call out an I combination, then we’ll know who, where, when—everything. That could take weeks.”
Bernie puckered his lips and said, “Or it could be the next combo they call.”
William’s lips turned up. “Law of probability says otherwise, Bernie.”
“Law of probability tells me I should be dead.”
“True. I’m going to need your investigation materials, then,” William said.
“Iva can get you my files and voice recordings. They’re at the house. There’s not much else.” William heard her say in the background, “Of course, Bernie.”
“It’s a start,” William said, satisfied.
“And Ruthi?” Bernie asked.
William thought for a second. “Do we want her involved?”
“She already is involved. Besides—could be fun, kid.”
37
CHASING GHOSTS
Iva swung the door open almost immediately after William knocked. He was expected. She said, “Come in.”
He followed her into the small dining area where she had already gathered Bernie’s notes, copies, photos, voice recordings and police records together into a file book.
“There’s also this,” she said, gathering the shoebox full of mementos from Bernie’s coffee table. Papers and fliers pooched out of its lid.
“Lesha Sanders’ things,” William said.
“Lesha Sanders-Maine,” Iva said. He looked at her and she gave him a dismissive look. “It’s what she said on the recorder. I don’t know…”
“The recorder?” William asked.
Iva went around the corner into the kitchen, then came back out offering Bernie’s digital voice recorder. “It’s on here. I listened to it.”
William thumbed the playback button and heard Lesha Sanders-Maine say, “… It was all a dream, Detective. Guess we woke up.” He clicked it off.
It wasn’t just a dream, he thought.
“Okay, thanks,” he said. “How’s he doing?”
“Crankier than an old dog and dodging his cop friends.”
“What do you mean?” William said.
She gave him a get-serious-look. “He’s shacking up with a prostitute. Now they all know it. And that fucking I.A. captain of his—Pruitt. Oh please. Yeah, my poor Bernie’s dodging.”
“You’re not a prostitute, Iva.”
“Heh—I wish you were a cop, William.”
“Mmm—so what about you?”
“I’m going back up to the hospital. Bernie says fuck ‘em, so fuck ‘em.”
William gave her a huge grin. “That’s the Iva I know.”
“Well, good luck with that stuff.”
“Thanks.” William was off, headed back home.
BEFORE HE WAS in his car he had already deduced the recorder was an Olympus four-gigabyte digital, with several recordings chaptered on the utility screen. He thumbed through them stopping at random, then playing.
Lesha Sanders-Maine’s entry played. There was nothing to gain from the recording—just some reminiscing from a jaded woman grown old far before her time trading off her dreams for suburbia. William couldn’t blame her. Hollywood had smashed her friend’s brains out—Andi Jones, the first in a string. If it was a part of showbiz, it might have derailed anyone’s dreams.
But one thing caught him off guard, something Lesha Sanders-Maine had said. William thumbed the recorder and played it back. Lesha’s voice said, “There was four of us, well then later there was five. We all shared the same rent home. You know, actresses trying to make it.”
“Then there were five…” he whispered. A detail. A tiny insight. But it smacked of an Agatha Christie subplot—the unexpected friend, the phantom objective hidden under a smile.
“Hmm…” He puttered away in the VW headed back to his Pasadena think tank.
ONCE THERE, William stormed into his unit, dumped his keys, sat at his couch, and began digging into the shoebox, laying each piece of paper, each pamphlet, each paycheck stub, each written note gingerly out on the table. This was evidence. It was important.
He had everything categorized in stacks within minutes. The entire lives of four young actresses—then a fifth—were displayed. One stack interested him the most. They were full-color, print paper printouts of photos. Someone had captured them on a cell phone or digital camera, uploaded them onto a computer and printed them out.
William looked deeply into the first one. It was a candid shot of a young girl, at a three-quarter turn, looking back over her shoulder, smiling at the camera. She had a broad mouth, gorgeous, light chocolate skin, half-moon eyes. She was beautiful. This was Andi Jones.
The next was a group shot. Four women, all cut from a similar cloth—cheerful, young, wonderful looking. Another group shot taken at a restaurant. Then a photo with two of the girls, another with three, another group shot of four, the photos went on and on, each revealing the roommates in different settings, wearing different clothes, living through different moments.
When William viewed the last picture he set it down, took a breath and leaned back on his couch. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling, pondering those pictures, trying to see the moments between each shot, the lives playing out. Ultimately, they revealed nothing; just snapshots of youth in an adventurous time. It made him frown. Those pictures reveal
ed nothing at….
He shot forward, something stabbing into his mind. He rifled through the pictures again with starving eyes. Group shot. One girl. Then two girls. Three. Another group shot. Four girls. All the same girls. All familiar. He leaned back, mouth half open.
“Where’s the fifth?”
Someone had taken those shots. It was always the same person. Whoever it was, was obviously using her own camera. She wasn’t in any of the pictures. Why not? Could the fifth roommate have been the homely one, the designated picture-taker, the one dragged along strictly for her affiliation and not her presence in the group structure?
Hmm… sounds like someone might have had a growing inferiority complex, a burgeoning jealousy.
It was a lead. Thin, but better than nothing.
When William attempted to call Lesha Sanders-Maine, he received only a voice message saying to leave his information. He did so, and waited.
38
INTERNAL WORKINGS
Mark Neiman made his way up from the records department through the investigations sector and toward Captain Heller’s office. Tucked under his arm was a manila folder, and what it contained was damning information. He had collected it based solely on duty, but delivering it to the captain’s office gave him no pleasure. Under other circumstances it would have been a joy, but Bernie Dobbs had become too important to a number of cases lately, and burning him at the stake shook Mark’s conscience.
Fucking Pruitt and his rotten Internal Affairs bullshit, man.
He stepped into Heller’s office and slapped the folder on his desk. Heller didn’t have to guess at what it was. He just looked up at Mark who said, “Fuck Pruitt and fuck I.A., Captain. I ain’t doing their dirty work next time.”
“I understand,” Heller said.
Neiman walked out leaving a small vacuum in the office behind him. Heller sighed and flipped open the folder. It was a dossier on Susan Corrington, a thirty-nine year old L.A. girl, pretty as a picture if not a bit used around the edges with a twenty-year history including loitering, several accounts of prostitution, disturbing the public, resisting arrest, public intox and two DUI’s to boot. The fraternity of escorts operating on the down-low knew Susan Corrington only as Iva.