“Do you want to come in here, Mr. Palomino?”
The voice startled Rey. It had a baritone quality. Deep and penetrating. The pool man twisted ninety-five degrees to his right to find a gray-suited man seated on a nearby sofa. He stood, revealing the sizeable frame of a former basketball player and a curly shock of white hair.
“Scared the shit outta me,” said Rey.
“Apologies,” said the gray-suited man. “Nobody told you I was going to be here?”
“Nobody,” said Rey. “Who are you?”
“Just a government lawyer,” said the gray-suited man, showing both his palms. “Pull up a seat. Let’s talk.”
“So it’s gonna be you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been waiting,” said Rey. “For my, you know. Debrief, I guess? Nobody’s talked to me yet.”
“And more importantly,” added the gray-suited man. “You haven’t talked to anybody else.”
“Exactly.”
“Very good. Then this shouldn’t take long.”
“The interview?”
“We don’t want to interview you, Rey. Can I call you Rey?”
“Sure… Why don’t you want to interview me? I mean, I haven’t talked to anybody yet.”
“Which is just the way we want to keep it.” The gray-suited man sat on the sofa and, with his fingertips, swiveled a short stack of documents to face his host.
“What’s that?”
“NDA,” said the gray-suited man. “Non-Disclosure Agreement.”
“What’s that?”
“Contract between you and the federal government. In it you agree not to discuss any details or events of and relating to the man you know as Greg Beem.”
Rey brought his hands to the side of his head. His unmanicured fingernails massaged his temples.
“Talk to nobody?” asked Rey. “About anything?”
“Of and relating to—”
“I heard that part,” said Rey. “You know, I may not have finished college but—”
“Twenty-two units at College of the Canyons,” said the gray-suited man. “Is that not finishing or not starting?”
“You know my college stats?”
“We know a lot about you, Rey. We know you have outstanding debts and some accounts payable adding up to a pretty penny.”
Rey glanced back at his dining room table covered in bills. All those neat stacks. Had the man in the gray suit—or his minions for that matter—rummaged through every red letter of his lousy finances?
“My business is my business,” said Rey, hoping to find some depth in his own vocal cords.”
“FBI Special Agent Dulaney Little? You remember him?”
“Yes. How is he?”
“Recovering nicely. At least as far as I know. Why I mention him is for this reason alone. He says that you’d inquired about a possible reward.”
Rey suddenly felt flush with embarrassment. His ears, he was certain, were turning beet red. After all that had transpired, the significant tally of the dead, Rey felt sickened at his own greed. The loss he’d suffered when Danny had died had been compounded fifty-fold. Because of Greg Beem—and the complicity of one Granada Hills pool contractor—families all over Southern California were grieving over their own dead sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers.
“I wasn’t really serious—”
“There is a reward,” said the gray-suited man. “And the check is right here in my pocket.”
“A government reward?”
“No. Third party. But I’m authorized to hand it to you. But only once you’ve signed the NDA.”
“What if I don’t want the reward?”
“Take the money. Pay off your debts. Treat your girlfriend to a vacation in Hawaii.”
Rey, who’d been plotting his words—his thorough and complete recitation of his involvement in the new crime of the century—found himself stuck on pause.
“Questions?” asked the gray-suited man. “Because after you sign this it’s locked lips and riding off into the sunset.”
“If I don’t sign…” began Rey.
“More than you can imagine,” said the uninvited guest.
And Rey had imagined plenty. Federal prison for one. Intent to violate Lord knows how many export laws. Conspiracy to receive stolen property. Of course, then there’s accessory to mass murder. If Rey didn’t sign, it would quickly become The Granada Hills Pool Man versus The United States Government of Kiss Your Ass Goodbye.
“One last question,” said Rey. “How much is the reward?”
The gray-suited man grinned broadly.
“You gotta gimme your signature to find out.”
* * * *
During the short hours when Gonzo could find sleep, she had dreamt of flying helicopters. Then she’d wake up to find her right arm angled in place by a fiberglass cast. The four temporary pins used to set her artificial right elbow extended two inches beyond both sides of her arm, tearing holes in her bed sheets.
As for painkillers, Gonzo wasn’t a fan of anything harder than the most basic anti-inflammatories. She'd woken every hour or so, soaked in perspiration from the pain that radiated deep into her shoulder and neck. The throbbing was often so intense it made the tiny chunk of muscle carved out of her glutes by that second bullet feel like little more than a sore hamstring.
“Sorry, Lydia. But until you’re totally rehabbed we can’t even consider you continuing with helo training.”
If there was a silver lining in Gonzo getting shot in the line of duty, it was her LAPD union rep calling to inform her that her next petition for permanent disability retirement would be nothing short of a slam dunk.
“Only I don’t want to retire anymore. I want to fly Air Support.”
Against doctors orders, Gonzo had been driving ever since the day after her surgery. She would drop off Travis at Madison Prep, then point herself east until she arrived in Glendora at Foothill Presbyterian Hospital. Once there, she’d play temporary nursemaid to Lucky and his laundry list of injuries. In addition to the litany of broken bones, the Kern cop suffered a number of internal complications, including a torn spleen, severe liver and intestinal bruising, and two punctures to his left lung. To keep him immobile, the docs kept the deputy narced on morphine derivatives, dripped into his veins along with bags of sustaining fluids replaced on the hour.
When Lucky was awake, Gonzo was at his side with a book or the TV remote. And when he slept, she’d escape to the rehab unit for a little work on her new elbow.
Not once, though, had Gonzo been ordered to the Glendora hospital. When the directive to attend the federal debrief landed in her voicemail box, she didn’t volunteer that she’d already planned to spend her day at the locale. She dutifully replied in the affirmative via both email and text, shuffled Travis off to school and continued on with her new routine.
FBI debrief. I’ve been waiting for this.
But why in Glendora? Clearly it was because the feds felt they’d needed to include Detective Lucky Dey in the meeting.
Maybe someone should’ve told Los Feebos that Lucky spends most of his day comatose on Demerol.
For the scheduled debrief, the hospital moved Lucky out of the room he was sharing with a pneumonia-fighting octogenarian and into a single-bed unit with a view of the freeway. Gonzo supervised the transfer, hovering like a mother hen. And once the nursing staff ran down their list, checking every IV line, drainage port, and electronic monitoring connection, the all-clear was given.
Deputy Attorney General Lawrence Knockburn entered the hospital room no differently than he would a White House soiree. He swept in and turned in place until he found a hand to shake.
“Larry Knockburn,” said the deputy A.G., hand stuck out toward Gonzo.
Gonzo, parked in her usual spot off Lucky’s left ear, pushed to her feet. She offered her left hand.
“Detective Lydia Gonzalez.”
“You’re the other cop,” said Knockburn. “LAPD, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m with the Department of Justice,” said Knockburn. “Deputy A.G. of the United States. And this, I presume, is Detective Dey.”
Lilly Zoller, still decked out in her funeral black, had followed Knockburn into the hospital room. Gonzo quickly recognized the lawyer from both their elevator tête-a-tête and from Long Beach, only moments before the big bad boom that had tragically transformed so many lives.
“Hi. Lilly Zoller,” she introduced herself.
“Lydia,” replied Gonzo with a nod.
“Is he awake?” asked Knockburn.
Gonzo bent down to Lucky’s ear and whispered. His face, despite the reduced swelling, was still discolored beyond human recognition. Speech of any kind was going to be painful. Yet Lucky’s lips moved and his eyes fluttered open.
“He’s good to go,” said Gonzo.
The Deputy A.G., who appeared round and Sicilian from head to toe, unbuttoned his jacket and pulled up a chair. Lilly shut the door until it clicked, but remained standing on her stacked heels.
“This shouldn’t take long,” said Knockburn. “We just need to go over a few investigative facts.”
“This is it?” asked Gonzo.
“You were expecting?” asked Knockburn.
“Detectives,” said Gonzo. “Federal investigators. Not lawyers.”
“Detectives dig up the facts,” said Knockburn. “Lawyers try the facts.”
“We haven’t been officially interviewed yet. Or interfaced with any of our immediate superiors,” said Gonzo. “I’ve made notes but haven’t had a chance to file any kind of substantive report so…”
“But you’ve had conversations. Over the phone…”
“Sure. With my immediate boss. But Lucky, he hasn’t had any chance to download—”
“So consider this as something preemptive,” interrupted Knockburn. “A way of cutting to the chase, so to speak.”
“Okay.”
“I want to talk about your alleged attacker.”
“Greg Beem,” confirmed Gonzo.
“The Long Beach bomber,” added Knockburn. “Now, as far as the government knows, he died in the explosion. So how do we know that was him you followed to…”
“Azusa,” finished Lilly.
“Right, Azusa,” said Knockburn. “Did either of you make an ID?”
“Not exactly.”
“You did or you didn’t.”
“Lucky…I mean, Detective Dey here. He identified a refrigerated truck in Granada Hills. A white Freightliner. We followed it out this way.”
“Based on what intel?”
“Detective Dey encountered a man of the same description in the Long Beach hospital after the bomb.”
“So Detective Dey ID’d him?”
“ID’d the truck. The bomber said it was a Freightliner full of frozen peas. Right, Luck?”
Lucky gave the slightest painful nod.
“The trailer that was recovered was empty,” said Lilly. “No frozen blood or peas.”
“Once again,” said Knockburn. “Was there ever a positive ID?”
“He drove. We followed,” said Gonzo. “Until he led us to a place where he could engage us.”
“But you don’t know who he was,” confirmed Knockburn. “Yes. There was a gunfight. Yes. You both sustained injuries—”
“I shot him.”
“So you say. But there’s no body. No evidence whatsoever.”
“What about the timeline?” asked Gonzo. “We picked up the Freightliner minutes after the attack in Granada Hills.”
“Yes, you did. But once again. There’s no witness that can place the bomber there either.”
“C’mon. It can’t be a coincidence!”
“Here’s a scenario,” said Knockburn. “You pick up a suspicious refrigerator rig. You follow it. The rig’s driver, who might’ve just been hauling Lord knows what kind of drug contraband, gets a little jiggy. Drives you to some out of the way place. Gunfight breaks out. You both sustain injuries and here we are.”
“That’s not what happened,” said Gonzo.
“But could it have happened that way?”
“I don’t think it did—”
“But could it have?”
Lucky pursed his lips and moaned. It sounded horribly painful. All the way from his bone marrow. Though the sound itself was wordless, nobody had trouble reading Lucky’s intent as pure protest.
“Hard for you to swallow? Sure. I understand,” said Knockburn. “But the government feels that it’s best for everybody to accept the facts that the same man who stole a truckload of frozen blood also murdered Detective Dey’s brother and two others in Kern County. In doing so, he sucked local, state, and federal agencies into his orbit. Once everybody was in his web? Ka-boom. Blows himself and everybody within shouting distance to Kingdom Come.”
“And everything else?” asked Gonzo, not trying to bury her incredulity.
“World is full of mysteries,” said Knockburn. “Some questions are meant to remain unanswered.”
“…get the fuck out,” groaned Lucky, his words followed by a tumult of painful coughs.
“I’m here as a courtesy, Detective,” said Knockburn. “I’m here to save you further pain and trouble if, for some unintelligent reason, you or Ms. Gonzalez choose to pursue those unanswered questions.”
“What you’re saying is the government won’t help us?” asked Gonzo.
“I’m saying that the government is going to close this case as quickly as humanly possible. Still, after an event as big as this, there will always be talk. Crackpot conspiracy theories. You know what I’m talking about. Do us all a favor and don’t add your voices.”
Lucky’s body shook with anger, damning all pain that came with it. He was moving his lips but didn’t make sound enough for anybody to hear. Gonzo leaned in again, her ear inches from Lucky’s mouth.
“He says all he wants is to bury his brother.”
Knockburn nodded, stood and decided not to offer his hand in goodbye.
“I hope you both recover very soon,” said Knockburn. “Have a nice day.”
The Deputy Attorney General gave a confident smile then made his exit, leaving Lilly to linger behind if only for a moment.
“I remember you both,” said Lilly without a trace of her usual fake ebullience. “We were all stuck in that stupid elevator.”
“And?” asked Gonzo, wondering what the hell Lilly’s observation had to do with the price of tea in China.
Lilly merely shrugged the shoulders of her Helmut Lang jacket and followed in the wake left by her boss.
* * * *
“Who is it?” asked Conrad Ellis. He hadn’t recognized the number on his cell phone and, based on that singular fact, would normally have let the call go through to voicemail. But maybe, having just interred his daughter’s ashes into a Forest Lawn crypt, he wasn’t ready to be totally alone with himself.
“It’s Lilly,” said the voice. “Lilly Zoller.”
“Oh, yes. I missed you at the funeral.”
“I was there for most of the service. It was really quite beautiful.”
“What do you want?” asked the mogul from the back of his limousine. He'd already peeled off his jacket and tie and was set to apply antibacterial gel to his exposed skin.
“I want to give you a couple of names.”
“What names and why?”
“Cops,” said Lilly. “They have an interesting story to tell you. About your daughter.”
“Do they know something I don’t?”
“They know what they know. But I think the three of you might be able to help each other.”
“Okay.”
“Write this down. LAPD Detective Lydia Gonzalez. And Kern County deputy Lucky Dey.”
“Lucky Dey? That’s his name?”
“I’ll text you their digits.”
“Then what?”
“Then you do whatever you have to do,” said Lilly. “Got
ta go now. Bye.”
Acknowledgments
Though I’m usually by myself when I write, I’m never alone. I’m very grateful for the following people, without whom I wouldn’t have a clue how to put one foot in front of the other.
To start, my dearest wife Karen–aka The War Department. She’s the font from which most in my world springs.
My reps, Alan Wertheimer and Valarie Phillips. You are incredible resources in my life. But more importantly you are my friends. So God Bless you and thank you.
Robert and Michelle Tepper. You know who you are and what you mean to me and my family.
Jeanne Bowerman and J.T. Ellison. You inspire, advise, and listen. A powerful hat trick.
Carrie Herbertson, Candy Dooley, and Noreen and Ivan Green. Your eyes and ears are invaluable.
Aidyl Gonzalez-Serricchio and Fred Serricchio. What you mean to my family is without measure. You’ve changed all our lives.
And last, but hardly least, Henry and Kate. I love you. You are the reason I breathe.
About the Author
Doug Richardson is the author of three previous novels—Dark Horse, True Believers and The Safety Expert. A well-known, respected screenwriter, his film credits include Die Hard 2: Die Harder, Bad Boys, Money Train, and Hostage. He lives in Southern California with his wife, two children and four mutts.
You can learn more about Doug at www.dougrichardson.com. You can contact him at [email protected]. You can also follow him at www.facebook.com/bydougrichardson and on Twitter: @byDougRich.
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