Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  Seven Sam came across the street diagonally from the gas station and into the house’s driveway. The three doors came open and the agents jumped out. Deans and Harriman pulled up in front, facing traffic on the wrong side of the street.

  Art went right up the porch steps, taking a position on the knob side of the door. There was no screen. Hal was hinge side, his back flat against the house. Omar ran to the south side of the house to cut off any escape route there. Deans and Harriman placed themselves on the north side, in the driveway, with Rob moving along the structure toward the rear, keeping well below the high window lines every step of the way.

  “Seven Sam, King One in position,” Shelly reported from the back. The house was completely surrounded.

  Agent Harriman directed the four LAPD officers to cover the garage and the windows overlooking the driveway. Two of them had shotguns from the patrol car racks. They all moved to the safe side of a stone wall between Jackson’s house and his neighbor’s, three of them working their way back to the single-car garage.

  Hal looked to Art and got the nod. “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!” Lightman’s voice boomed. Anyone in the house would have heard it.

  They listened for a few seconds. It was quiet. Not just in a lack of response to the entry demand, but hushed. Deserted. Art had thought as much. Jackson was gone. But they had to do it by the book.

  “FBI! Open up, NOW!” Hal added decibels to the last word.

  There was still no response.

  “Hal,” Art said, holding his Smith & Wesson two-handed and pointed low. “Kick it.”

  Hal warned the other units by radio that they were moving in. He looked back to the street while putting the radio in his back pocket. Traffic was stopped. He couldn’t see south, toward the freeway, but a hundred feet north there was an LAPD unit blocking the street in both directions. “I’m ready,” he said, getting the go from Art.

  The lock was flimsy, as most single locks were, and the door swung violently inward under the force of Hal’s flat- footed kick. There must have been a table with something glass on it near the door as the breaking sound indicated.

  Hal went in first, with Art right behind. Harriman followed them. They moved quickly, their guns pointed forward and to one side—Art left and Hal right. Andy also swept the right side, double-checking entryways as the trio passed them. Room after room was checked. The house was empty. For good measure Hal stuck his head through the covered opening to the attic. It was also empty.

  Two of the uniformed cops entered as Hal hopped off the kitchen chair. They saw the dark hole to the attic above his head. “Damn brave, mister,” one of them commented. Its meaning was more ‘damn stupid.’

  Art’s head turned sharply to the lawmen. “Secure the outside, please.” The words were not a request. Having jurisdiction did have advantages. Both of the cops retreated out in silence. Art turned to Hal. “Let them handle perimeter, but I don’t want them in here. This is Bureau territory.”

  “Got it, Art,” Hal said. “Gladly.”

  Outside, the senior LAPD officer—a sergeant—instructed his men, more of whom had arrived, to secure the scene. That meant stringing a line of yellow perimeter tape all around. It also meant closing the right northbound lane of traffic. The FBI vans belonging to the forensic teams would need the parking space very soon. The downside was obvious; this close to the Santa Monica freeway there was bound to be a hell of a traffic jam on La Cienega, especially at four in the afternoon—the height of rush hour.

  “Hal, you’re front,” Art said. The agent moved to block the front door. Only those with a suit and a shield would get past him. Andy opened the back door, letting Shelly and Drew in.

  “Shelly, check the back. Drew, you secure it. Watch the back wall. We don’t want any busybodies getting over. Andy, you’re with me—let’s take a look.” Art lifted the hand-held Motorola to his mouth. “Seven Sam to dispatch.”

  “Seven Sam.”

  “Notify forensics that we’re going to need two teams at this location. Roll six more teams out here, ASAP. Copy?”

  “Ten-four, copy.”

  The two men first took stock of the front room. An older TV stood on a wobbly looking stand. Stone age, Andy thought. The rest was sparsely furnished. Nothing extravagant. Art led off to the back of the house, to the lone bedroom. Andy detoured back to the kitchen. Their inspection wasn’t detailed, just designed to pick up any obvious clues. Forensics would tear the place apart.

  Their first look at the bedroom had been past the barrel of their guns, with hearts pounding and senses tuned to detect threats. They hadn’t seen the obvious. Art saw it now. Maybe people who knew they weren’t returning to a place were predisposed to leaving it disheveled as a defense against their loss. Horseshit. The drawers were open, as was the closet. Art walked to it. It was half empty, he estimated. Mr. Jackson must be doing some traveling.

  “Sir.” Shelly stepped in.

  “Yeah.” Art was scanning the room, outwardly not acknowledging the agent’s presence.

  “There’s a car in the garage. It matches with the suspect’s vehicle—license and everything.”

  Art’s eyes were wide when he turned to Shelly. “Well, imagine that. A new-looking car, right?”

  “I wouldn’t mind driving it.”

  “It looks like our friend is getting guiltier by the minute.” And he wasn’t going to make himself simple to find. “He may be using some other transportation. Oh well. Go ahead and call it in, Shell. I want an APB out on this guy.” Art looked around the room from its center, then down. The bed was made. Didn’t sleep here, did you, Marcus? Something happened here, though. Art could feel it.

  The all-points bulletin went out immediately. Mr. Marcus Jackson, whose present whereabouts was unknown, was a wanted man. The official reason was for questioning in relation to the assassination. Unofficially, the reason that often carried the most weight in the legally constrained world of police work, he was a suspect in the conspiracy and a person who had the capacity to kill. Twenty-five minutes after the broadcast went out nearly every law enforcement agency south of Sacramento had at least the verbal information. Most had photos spitting out of their fax machines. The California Highway Patrol field offices were the first to get them, and soon after, their fleet of patrol vehicles had them as well.

  The newly arrived teams of agents were pounding on doors in the neighborhood. People saw things—that was a fact of human nature. The presence of the police and serious-looking men in suits made the resident of the house on La Cienega an instant celebrity up and down the block. Soon everyone would remember something about Jackson.

  Most of it would be useless, but something helpful was bound to be sifted from the whole.

  Art left the house by the back door just as the second forensic team was arriving through the front. They would start on the house. Art’s interest was now on Jackson’s Jeep, which the first forensic team to arrive had already begun working on.

  He recognized only one of them. “Bobby. You’re among strangers.”

  “I’m the guide,” Agent Bobby Valenzuela explained. “This is the team from Denver.” He went on to introduce the three visitors. “No one thought about getting all these guys around once they were here.”

  No one had thought of that, Art now saw. You couldn’t just hand the van keys to out-of-town assistance and expect them to find their way around a city like L.A. “Where are our guys?”

  Valenzuela slid the elastic-strapped dust mask over his head, letting it hang at the neck. It was meant to keep the moist breath of the forensic agent off any prints he might be examining on the vehicle. “They’re all tied up with evidence back at the site.”

  Even with the incoming help they were still stretched thin. Art motioned to the vehicle. “What do you think?”

  “We’ll get prints for sure. I can see some with just my eyes.”

  “I want to know if there are any besides Jackson’s. If there are we’re going to need a rus
h match with any we found on the suspect debris.”

  Valenzuela shook his head. “I don’t know about that. Dan said there isn’t much, if anything, that we can use. A couple partial prints at best.”

  “Still, let’s do it,” Art persisted. “Do your best.”

  The mask came up, covering the agent’s mouth, and he turned to do his magic on the Jeep. Art stood silently at the open side door to the garage. The big double doors that opened to the driveway were still closed to the dismay of the crowd gathering across the street.

  Art didn’t see Jerry Donovan come up from behind. A tap on his shoulder alerted him. “Jerry. How the hell did you get here? I mean, in town?”

  Donovan had been on a backpack fishing trip in the Maroon Bells area of Aspen, Colorado. “Let me tell you, it’s a damn shame when an Army chopper plucks you out of a spot that God Himself made for the fisherman. What’ve we got going here?”

  It took five minutes to update his boss. “He’s got some relatives, according to some lady two doors down. But that’ll take some time to confirm.”

  Donovan took it all in. He had obviously come straight from a quick change of clothes and a shave. His balding head of black hair was longer than he usually wore it. “A smart one, it seems.”

  “Maybe.” Art wasn’t sure about that. Fortunate, possibly, and well directed more likely. He felt it in his gut that there was a further player in this, someone behind Jackson.

  The second agent felt his top collar button pop. “Damn fast dressing!” He left it undone. “Hey. What say you and me head on back to the barn.” The barn was the office, and Art hadn’t been there since the morning of the shooting. Donovan bent forward and down, examining Art’s chin. “If that’s the worst you ever get...”

  “I know. I’m lucky.”

  “Who’s senior here?”

  “Hal Lightman.” Art looked to the front.

  “Good. Ready?”

  The drive to the FBI office was slow in the lingering Los Angeles rush-hour traffic, taking nearly forty-five minutes.

  “I went a little out of channels, Jerry,” Art admitted as the car exited the freeway. Donovan’s silence meant ‘go on.’ “Eddie’s over at the Israeli consulate. I wanted to contact someone I knew from their embassy—a terrorism expert.”

  “I don’t know, Art.” Donovan could see how that might backfire. “Picture the media if they get a hold of it. ‘FBI and Israelis investigate the middle eastern connection in the assassination.’” His gaze emphasized the words. “You get my drift? Especially if this Jackson connection pans out. The press would read that as a homegrown job, even if it’s not.”

  Art wanted to tell his superior that his line of thought was bullshit, but wisely toned down his tongue. “I understand, but one of the shooters is—”

  “Alleged shooter, Art.” Again, Donovan spoke louder with his eyes. “Remember that.”

  “Are you telling me to back off on that?” Art asked, with no love of the idea in his voice.

  Donovan paused. “No. It’s your call.”

  There hadn’t been any doubt in Art’s mind. His boss was just doing his job, and in a small way, he was right. But then he thought in political terms, not those of a cop. He had come up through the ranks from the financial investigations section, a path that was safe and deskbound from beginning to end. That, Art believed, made him a candidate for something, somewhere, someday. Fortunately, though, he didn’t impose his own skittishness on those he supervised. And there was that small bit of truth in Donovan’s words. The whole thing could be taken wrong, and that could lead to even more problems. International incident? Maybe. But the detrimental effect it could have on the investigation was what worried Art the most. The Israelis certainly wouldn’t be happy to share any information if their role were disclosed and twisted. He had to make sure it was kept quiet, and he had to get a good, solid link. Evidence that Obed was one of the shooters, and that there was something substantive in any relation he or the other assassin had to any terrorist backing.

  From the underground parking garage at FBI headquarters Art went up six floors, directly to his office. The guard sitting at the reception area near the elevators paid little attention to the senior agent.

  Art opened the door to the outer office. Carol, his secretary—administrative aide, he corrected himself—was gone. He checked his watch. It was almost six. Shit... Eddie. He picked up the phone.

  Eddie answered on the first ring as it echoed in the Hilton’s banquet room. “Toronassi.”

  “Ed. How’d it go?”

  “I hear you’ve been kickin’ doors, boss.”

  “It keeps me young. What happened at the consulate?”

  “It went good. They were helpful, to say the least. Damn nice people. I guess they’ve had enough experience with this crap too. Anyway, I spoke with Meir. He said he would personally work this through and call back as soon as he has anything.”

  “Ed. I want you to take the call. No one else.”

  “Okay.” Eddie wondered what the problem was. “Something up?”

  There was no need to burden Eddie, or anyone else, with the trivial crap that had trickled down. “No. I just want to keep this under wraps.”

  “No problem.” Someone was laying something on the boss. Eddie figured that had to be it. The boss didn’t let little things show, but he couldn’t hide those things very well that really bothered him.

  “Great. Thanks for handling all that.” Art pulled off his tie with a tug and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then the jacket came off and landed on the couch. “Jackson was clean gone. No suitcases or anything like that left in the house, and lots of his clothes were gone, so I think we can safely say he wanted to get out of town before the—“ Art’s phone buzzed. “Hold on, Ed.” He pushed the intercom button. “Jefferson... Okay.” Art pressed another line. “Hal, what’s up?”

  It took only a minute for Hal Lightman to explain the development.

  “All right. Okay, get that out as a supplemental. Good work.” He returned to Ed. “Good news.”

  “Jackson?”

  “One of his neighbors got home from work a while ago and had some very interesting info for us. It seems our friend pulled into his driveway early Saturday in a brand-spanking-new Cadillac DeVille, white with that gaudy gold trim—her words. She said it looked like a pimp’s car. He threw a few suitcases in the trunk and took off. She didn’t remember any plates on the car, just a dealer frame. She couldn’t remember where from.”

  “It looks like he came into some money,” Eddie said.

  “But from where? Or who?” Art fumbled with his sleeve buttons before rolling them up. He dropped his body into the high-back leather chair. “God, this feels good. Ed,” he said, leaning forward on the desk, “get everything you can on Jackson. Personnel records and everything. One of the neighbors mentioned something about him having relatives back East, but not much more than that. There might be something in his records somewhere. Check that against his five-oh-two arrest. Maybe his mother or brother or someone bailed him out then.”

  “Okay. We’ve already got his file from the building manager, but they don’t keep very good records. There’s nothing there about family.”

  That was a little strange. “Was there a place for it?”

  “Yeah. It was just blank.”

  Oh, well, Art thought. Nothing was going to be direct or easy in any of this. “Who was his last employer?”

  “RTD. He drove buses for them starting about ten years back. We should have that file in an hour.”

  Art nodded, looking at the coffeepot. It was off and empty. Carol usually had a pot waiting for him, but then he usually walked into the office at six A.M. “Okay. Let me know if the Israelis call, and call me if you get anything on Jackson. Jerry said the director wants an update in the morning, so I’ll be here for a while. It’s longhand tonight.”

  Eddie chuckled. “Carol’s gonna love you tomorrow. Good luck.”

  Art hun
g up and pulled his top drawer out. He set the legal pad there, then got up to make a much needed pot of coffee. Again the guard paid Art no mind as he filled the glass pot at the water cooler. Back in the office he put a prepacked filter in the drip drawer and switched on the machine. Three minutes later the first smell of fresh coffee reached him behind the desk.

  Two cups and four pages into the report he felt the uneasiness again. First he found himself focusing on his hand gripping the pen. It wouldn’t move. Damn! Two weeks had passed since his last... She’s gone. You blew it.

  The pen slid out of his hand. Art stretched the fingers from both hands out, examining the palms and his quivering fingers. They steadied after a few breaths.

  Art rose from his seat and went to the couch, sitting at the end uncluttered by his shed clothing. He wondered if anyone in the office knew how many nights he had slept here. The apartment just wasn’t the right place. It didn’t feel like a home. Home was the house in Monrovia, and Lois had gotten that as part of the divorce settlement. You drove her away. Hell, she deserved the house, and a lot more. Art was sure of that. It had been a good fifteen years, or so he thought, that had ended less than a year ago. Now she was in the house alone...or was she? He decided he was beating himself up enough without throwing in the ‘new lover’ factor.

  He took the jacket from his left and balled it into a pillow, adding that to the cushioned arm of the couch, then lay down, his eyes looking straight up. The doctor said these relaxation exercises were important as part of his overall program to better his health—and save his life. Overall program! Quit smoking and do visualization exercises. It was supposed to do good. He would do them as promised.

  First, he found a point on the dim ceiling as he closed his eyes...

  Georgetown

  As morning passed to afternoon, and afternoon to evening across the nation, people dealt with the shock of the previous day’s events in whatever way they could. Some were indifferent. Some were in disbelief. Some were openly grieving.

  Bud DiContino was quiet in his contemplation of his feelings. President Bitteredge had been a man of integrity and high morals. He only wished he had been given the opportunity to know him better and work more closely with him. Deputies did not have the privilege of easy access to the president.