Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  The photocopy of the charge slip and driver’s license was the next step in the trail. Art was happy, and thankful as hell that Aguirre had had her brainstorm. Otherwise the car would still be buried among hundreds of others and the trail would be dead. He reminded himself that it wasn’t the end. Just a little closer.

  “Harry Obed...hmmm. This isn’t the same guy in the picture with the kid.” Art compared the two again. The photocopy was grainy, but it would do.

  “Nope. New York is sending a copy of the license info. We’ll have a better photo then.”

  Art studied the face. Middle Eastern features. And the name added credibility to his guess. But from where? Egypt? Lebanon? Yemen? This wasn’t looking like an easy one to deal with. Solving it might bring even more problems, considering the way of the world. “I think tonight is going to be busy. How about you?”

  “Shoulda brought my jammies,” Eddie joked. He was good for some comic relief when needed. Things were liable to get stressful now that they had a suspect, or a knowing accomplice.

  “So, what’s our next move?” Art mused.

  “I think we should wait until the American Express records get here. That’ll give us a trail.”

  “If they used it.”

  Eddie became serious. “They used it once. Why not again?”

  “What if they used the other card? Forensics found that blue tint in the melted card. Amex is green.”

  “Right.”

  “It was dark blue,” Art added. “Visa and Diner’s Club both have blue in them. Maybe they were trying to spread their trail around.”

  Eddie got up from the table and walked to the two-pot coffee machine someone had brought from the office. It was saving trips to the 7-Eleven already. “You want some?”

  It was placed close to Art’s area, and his fill for the past hour or so had been achieved. “No thanks.”

  “You know, boss, it still all comes back to their carelessness.” Two sugars were emptied into the cup. “We’ll have their bio before long, but what about whoever was in the background? How do we find them?”

  Art knew that was supposing there was an accomplice, or accomplices. It was becoming more apparent that there was considerable help given. “It’s not going to be a direct link, that’s for sure. We’ve got possible assistance with the car. Maybe it was rented for them in advance.”

  “The records don’t show that,” Eddie said.

  “Then check back to the reservation, and the credit card. Who’s paying the bills?” That was already in progress, a task made easier by the proliferation of credit and computers. “Someone who dealt with the transaction might remember something.”

  Eddie returned to his chair. “Slim, but worth it.” He didn’t really think so. His hunch was that the car end of things would be cold soon.

  Art had a thought. He stared away from Eddie as the concept formed. “Ed, these guys were sacrificed. They were willing, at least I’d think they’d have to be, but they were used. Whether they knew or not... I doubt it.”

  “What’s your track?”

  “Obed. Picture. Name. It’s a good bet he’s middle eastern, and probably his partner. If there’s a connection here with any terrorist groups, then we might want to get with some people who have experience with this sort of terrorism.”

  Eddie agreed. “That’s one possibility. Israeli Intelligence.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Right. Do you have copies of the license info and picture?”

  “Plenty.”

  The senior agent scribbled a note onto his legal pad, then tore it off and folded it down. “Here. Give this guy a call. Meir Shari. He was with the embassy in D.C., if I remember right, but he’s back home now. I was at a seminar he spoke at in Frisco. Smart, realistic thinking sort. No politico thought there.”

  “Connections?” Eddie asked.

  “He was it. Military liaison with a full portfolio.” Art remembered another bit of information. “He’s the guy who cuffed Eichmann.”

  “Who?”

  He was young, Art realized. “Adolf Eichmann. He was a Nazi war criminal hiding out in Brazil back in the sixties. Mossad sent a team in to bring him home. He had a date with the gallows.”

  “And Shari was in on it? Sheee-it...”

  “His connections go back. Way back. He might be able to help us. Hell, he may already be looking into it. The Israelis get nervous when any Arab kills someone in a big, loud way.”

  “But how would they know the killer might be an Arab?”

  Art smiled. “I’ll give you a book to read. It’s called The Guys. It’s on the restricted list, but we’re cleared. The topic is intelligence appraisal, Mossad style. The way they get some of their stuff is spooky.”

  He wasn’t an avid reader—his last book had been The Hunt for Red October—but this one sounded worth the effort. Eddie figured he’d take Art up on it.

  “We better keep this quiet.” Art knew that would require a secure line. There were plenty at the office, but secure sometimes meant ‘away from colleagues.’ “The Israeli consulate will have a direct line to Tel Aviv. Head on—”

  Their attention shifted to Dan Jacobs. He entered the Hilton’s nearly empty banquet room carrying something wrapped in a white towel. “Dan,” Art said.

  “Hell. When are they going to get you a desk.” Jacobs unwrapped the item. It was a two-by-four with fractured pieces of drywall nailed to its shorter edges, one side of which was singed an uneven black. “This might interest you, Art.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Just a wall member with a story to tell. Look.” He pointed to the top, exposed part of the wood. Eddie and Art came close, leaning over the piece. “They’re faint, but we can print them. We already did.”

  “Scuff marks,” Eddie offered.

  “Actually from a black sole, we think. This is virgin wood. It was above a doorjamb, so it was clean as a whistle. Not even dust. There was an acoustical hanging ceiling to about here.” Jacobs traced along an obvious line where paint on the drywall had faded from exposure to light.

  “Where was this originally?” Art asked.

  “Do you have those floor plans—fifth floor?”

  Eddie retrieved them from a nearby table.

  “Okay,” Jacobs began, “here’s the room where the fire came from. We figure that the charge was about here, in the center of the room. The blast went every which way, but less so to the left and right, or east and west in this orientation. Everything, street side, shooters, walls, and all, was blown out onto Seventh, while the interior south wall blew straight across the back side of the building.”

  “We know all this, Dan.” Art was impatient.

  “I know. Bear with me. So, we had most of the blast go north and south, plus up and down, more up though. This wall”—his finger pointed to the blue line—“was an interior support structure. You see it runs from the exterior north to almost the interior south. There’s this little indentation here; it kind of makes the room look like a lopsided L.”

  “That was the east wall,” Eddie observed.

  “Right. This little alcove—it measured about seven by seven—used to be an open area to the room, just like these prints show. But we found this piece of wood strapped to the northwest corner junction of the alcove’s walls. That’s code. It’s for earthquake safety. See, these prints are from the late sixties, but there was a major remodeling done in the late seventies when an art school moved into the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. This room where the shooters did their dirty work was an AV class—audiovisual. The little alcove was walled in a year after the remodeling to create a small room to store equipment in. Recorders, cameras—stuff like that. It had a single door”—Jacobs sketched the location’s most recent appearance—“right here. And it was padlocked. Only the teacher and dean had keys because there was about two hundred grand’s worth of stuff in there. Anyway, this piece was from right here.” The pencil point came down. “Right above the door.”

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p; “I’m not clear on this,” Art said. “What’s the significance?”

  “Lifelong cop, right?” Jacobs inquired. Art nodded. “Do you know how I put myself through school? I was a draftsman. Learned it in high school, three years of it. It paid damn good. All my meager knowledge told me that a wall went from floor to ceiling.”

  “Right. So?”

  “So why, or better, how did the scuff marks get there? I’ll tell you how—the new wall did not go all the way to the true ceiling. It went about three inches above the suspended ceiling. That gave maybe twenty-seven inches of clearance to the true ceiling.” There was still no light of revelation. “Shall I expand?”

  “Please.” Art didn’t let on that an image was forming in his mind. It both intrigued and angered him.

  “The wall that closed off the alcove was weaker structurally than the rest of the east wall, so it folded back against the north side of the small room when the blast went off. Strapping kept some of it intact, including this part and the doorframe. A lot of debris was blown into this seven-by-seven area, and the stuff in there was buried by it. Layers of debris. The outer layer was stuff from the room—bits of chairs, etcetera. Next were the actual parts of the blown-in wall and door, including the padlock, still closed on the hasp.” He raised an eyebrow. “Then the electronic equipment, all smashed to pieces. Finally, along with little parts of all kinds, were twelve empty soda cans and cookie and candy wrappers. The bottom of the pile.”

  Eddie looked at Art. He was staring down at the wood, his jaw muscles flexing. The Joker had never seen his boss this pissed.

  “So,” Art said, the air coming from his lungs like steam passing from a pipe, “we suspected they hid out for a day or two.” His body straightened up, hands in pockets, the right one squeezing his key ring for all it was worth. “The tow date on the car was Friday. That means they spent two nights in the Eight One Eight, in a locked room.”

  “Correct,” Dan affirmed. “They went into the building, maybe that evening, and somehow got into that classroom. From there, just move a couple ceiling panels and climb over.”

  “The scuff marks,” Eddie said. Jacobs nodded agreement.

  “A few snacks and forty hours later they climbed back over and...”

  “God damn it!” Art cursed loud and slow, each word distinct and filled with the anger his body was frying to suppress. His hands came to his hips as he turned away, looking up to the ballroom’s patterned ceiling. The lines crisscrossed and twisted, interconnecting each design with the eight to all sides of it. Go easy. Art. Breathe. Breathe. The compressed feeling in his chest abated slightly with the last of the three breaths, and he turned back. “That building was swept by the Secret Service on Saturday, and again on Sunday before it was secured. For Christ’s sake, how did they miss this?”

  “It’s just a guess, but the Service was working off of floor plans only as recent as the remodeling.” Jacobs had thought that one out. It pissed him off royally.

  “Which didn’t have the new room on it.”

  “Right, Eddie.”

  Art was shaking his head. Idiots. “That’s a bullshit excuse. There was a door. They had to see it, and they should have checked it. Dammit!” His heart rate rose again. “Why didn’t they just stick the key in the lock? What the hell was so hard with that?”

  “No excuses, Art.” Dan wouldn’t try to make any for the Service. “The maintenance super for the building was supposed to meet the Service security detail on Sunday morning for the lockdown of the area. The one Saturday wasn’t real thorough. That was supposed to be the one on Sunday. Anyway, the maintenance guy didn’t show, so they contacted his assistant. Apparently, though, they didn’t wait for him. By the time he got there the detail was already to the sixth floor.”

  “How the hell did you get all this?” Art had calmed somewhat. He sat down, his hand massaging one comer of his growing forehead.

  “The assistant super was over at the building with some people from the management company that oversees the place.”

  “When?” Something clicked in Art. A quick look to Eddie confirmed that he had caught it also.

  “This morning. They’re pretty worried about the structure, you know. They want to get some engineers in there as soon as we’ll let them.”

  Dan Jacobs was an agent who specialized in the scrutiny of physical, inanimate evidence, not the oddities and nuances of human behavior. That was the street agent’s territory. Art’s and Eddie’s. They had worked the street, knocked on doors, and asked thousands of questions during their years in the Bureau. The potentially important clue Dan had unknowingly brought to their attention might have been discovered later—maybe too late.

  “Do you think that’s funny?” Art asked.

  “I think it is.” Eddie smiled, his expensive and perfect dental work open for viewing.

  Just as the two senior agents had failed to comprehend Dan’s analysis of the physical data without extended explanation, he did not follow what they had deduced. “What’s up?”

  Art took a pen in hand. “What’s that assistant’s name, Dan?”

  Within twenty minutes Eddie was en route to the Israeli consulate, and Art, with six other agents, was heading for address on La Cienega Boulevard, less than thirty minutes away.

  * * *

  It was a small house on the east side of the street, set on a small lot like those on either side for several blocks. The peeling yellow trim and dirty white clapboard siding were just one of the many signs of decay indicative of the neighborhood, and of many of the urban areas around the downtown area. Of course there were corridors of wealth, the high- and low-rise glass towers that were the main scenery visible from the freeways. Art wondered sometimes if it was planned that way, considering that most visitors to Los Angeles never left the freeway between their touristy destinations.

  Art checked his watch. Three fifty-five. “Where the hell is the call?”

  Agents Omar Espinosa and Hal Lightman did not answer. The question was to himself. The bulky Latino agent sat in the back, behind the driver, with the Atchisson shotgun resting on his lap. It was an ugly weapon, brand-new in the Bureau’s arsenal, looking like a puffed-up assault rifle less the stock. The twelve 00 buck rounds in the box magazine had only one purpose. Hal was driving, with Art to his right clutching the mike. From where they were parked the house was in view continuously, and the gas station lot afforded some protection from being seen.

  “Seven Sam.” The dispatcher’s voice brought the radio to life.

  “Seven Sam,” Art acknowledged his call sign.

  “Be advised, LAPD units are on standby two blocks north of your location.”

  “Ten-four.” Good. The local cops were in position, just in case. He was hoping they wouldn’t be needed and was fairly certain that they wouldn’t be. If he were Marcus Jackson he’d be long gone. Jackson was the maintenance superintendent for the 818, and there were more than a few questions the Bureau wanted to ask him. Thanks to Jacobs’s innocent discovery of Jackson’s absence the day of the assassination—a time when he was expected to be there—and early this day, Art and Eddie were able to find a possible link in the conspiracy. The shooters would have needed inside help, particularly if Jacobs’s theory was correct. Marcus Jackson had worked for the management group that owned the building for just six months, and he would have knowledge of the relatively easy access to the storage room.

  A blue Ford Thunderbird rolled past the three agents, going north on La Cienega. Art saw the passenger crane his neck, looking down the driveway as the car passed the house.

  “Deans and Harriman,” Hal said, identifying the two agents in the T-Bird.

  Art figured that they could all hit the house within thirty seconds. He, Omar, and Hal, along with Rob Deans and Andy Harriman, would come from the front. Shelly Murdock and Drew Smith were on the opposite street and would come over the back wall. All they were waiting for was a signed search warrant. Judge Gallanter was assigned to the i
nvestigation full-time to provide for quick and easy processing of warrants. He had, however, taken it upon himself to take a late lunch, and had further complicated matters by leaving his pager in the office. He was being “hunted” as everyone waited.

  “Seven Sam.”

  “Seven Sam.”

  “Possible suspect is identified from DMV as male, black, five eight, one sixty, black and brown. DOB of four twelve sixty. Justice shows arrest on five-oh-two; conviction on nine eight eighty-eight. Time served: one month in county. License status: valid. Possible suspect is registered owner of nineteen ninety-one Jeep Cherokee four-door, blue; license of four-Charlie-Frank-Mary-two-eight-one. Registration expires three one ninety-four. Copy?”

  “Ten-four, copy,” Art replied. The information was written on the notebook stuck to the windshield on a suction mount. LAPD cars had computer terminals that displayed such data. No such luck in unmarked Bureau cars.

  “Seven Sam, stand by.”

  They waited. Art checked the time again. It was one minute past four.

  “Seven Sam.”

  “Seven Sam.”

  “Be advised, the warrant is approved and en route. Copy?”

  “Ten-four, copy. Dispatch, clear the channel and stand by.” The time was close. Art felt for his gun. Good.

  “Channel Charlie is in priority use. Seven Sam is senior. All other units stand by. David and Edward channels are clear. Dispatch by.”

  “King One and Two,” Art called.

  “King One, by.”

  “King Two, by and ready.”

  Everyone was ready. Hal started the engine.

  “Seven Sam to King One and King Two—move in!” The Chevy lurched forward, its tires screeching only slightly until the rubber grabbed. It wasn’t like the movies, Art had realized long ago. “Dispatch. Notify the LAPD units.”

  “Tenfour.” The answer was quick and condensed.

  Art was focused on the house. Down the street King Two—the T-Bird—came around in a U-turn and approached the house from the north. Neither Bureau car bothered to activate its small red strobes, but the local cops were coming hell-bent with their racks flashing a block behind King Two.