'Jesus,' Terry said. 'Did you get the shooter?'
'There was no shooter, sir. Your daughter Emily and her friend over there...' He stopped to check his notepad. 'Her name is Heather Gore.'
'Yeah, I know her,' Terry said. 'What did they do?'
'They downloaded some sound effects off the Internet. A scream and three gunshots. My partner and I heard it, we called for backup, and ran to the house.'
'And that battalion of cops out there,' Terry said. 'That's the backup?'
'We radioed in a 246. They know we're watching your house, Detective,' Kaczmarek said. 'Everyone scrambled. Code 3.'
Terry turned back to Emily. 'So you were stuck at home on a Friday night, and you thought, What can I do to have some fun? How about rousting up every cop from here to Ventura County?'
'It's not what we wanted to happen,' Emily whined.
'What were you hoping for? Fire engines? Media coverage? Ryan Seacrest? What?'
'Heather started it,' Emily said.
'Did not,' Heather said.
'You're somebody else's problem,' Terry said. 'I want to know what my daughter was thinking.'
Emily had stopped crying. 'Dad, we were sitting upstairs with nothing to do. My entire social life was completely ruined,' she said, sliding comfortably into surly teenager mode. 'I was trapped in my room like a rat.'
'A rat with a high def TV, hundreds of video games, and a brand new sound system that she got for her birthday,' Terry said.
'It doesn't matter. I was still trapped with the cops guarding my life like I was the king's daughter or something.'
'I got the picture. Princess Emily locked in the palace tower. Get to the part about the gunshots.'
Emily tossed her hair back and threw Terry a grown- ups-just-don't-understand-anything look. 'So we're bored to death, and Heather said, "What can those cops do to protect you anyhow? They're parked in front, and your room is in the back. The killer could climb that tree out there, bust your window, smoke you, then split before the cops even know what's happening.'"
Terry looked at Heather. 'You said that?'
Heather shrugged, it's true. You ever watch 24 with Kiefer Sutherland? He could sneak past fifty cops.'
'True,' Terry said. 'But usually it's to save the planet from imminent danger, not to smoke sixteen-year-old girls.' He turned to Emily. 'So you thought you'd test Heather's theory.'
'Why should I live in a bubble if some guy with a gun can sneak past the cops and kill me anyway?' she said. 'I might as well go to the mall. I'd have a better chance of escaping if I was at the Galleria.'
'Absolutely,' Terry said. 'They should post signs. When you're life is in danger, head for the nearest shoe department.'
Sarah laughed, and Emily threw her sister the finger. 'Dad, you're making it sound like I'm an idiot.'
'Sorry,' Terry said. 'Let's get to the genius part where you downloaded a scream and three gunshots and blasted it to see if the cops would actually be able to save you.'
'We only downloaded the gunshots,' Emily said. 'Heather did the actual scream.'
'We wanted it to sound authentic,' Heather said.
'Had I but known,' Terry said, 'I would have left you girls an actual gun.'
'Those shots sounded real enough, sir,' Kaczmarek said.
'And how fast were these officers up here?' Terry said to Emily.
'Very fast,' Emily said. 'If it was real I would have been dead, but they'd have caught the guy who did it.'
'Thank you, Officers,' Terry said. 'You're everything a cop dad could hope for.'
Kaczmarek looked a little pained. 'I'm afraid we did some damage to your back door,' he said. 'The frame is all splintered, and it's gonna need some new hinges. I'm really sorry about that.'
'Don't apologise,' Terry said. 'You did what you had to do. I can only imagine what kind of damage that size- thirteen boot did to it.'
'Actually, Detective, it was my size six,' the female cop said.
Kaczmarek grinned. 'Officer Lester is a lot tougher than she looks. But I'm a pretty good carpenter. I can come over tomorrow and fix it.'
'No need,' Terry said. 'The Biggs family has inconvenienced LAPD enough, and we apologise, don't we Emily?'
'Sorry,' Emily mumbled.
'No problem,' Kaczmarek said.
'Got room for one more cop in here?'
We turned to the front door. It was Kilcullen.
'I heard the 246,' he said. 'Shooting at the Biggs house on Alana Drive. I came running.'
'Thanks for coming,' Terry said. 'False alarm.'
'But you're happy with the department's response,' Kilcullen said.
'More than happy, sir.'
'Good, because after our little talk this afternoon, I upgraded your level of protection.'
'Thank you. The officers on duty did the department proud, Lieutenant. They were right to call out the cavalry.'
'God only knows what it cost the taxpayers,' Kilcullen said. 'But we do what we have to do to take care of our own.'
Terry just stood there and let Kilcullen have his fun.
'I'll be going now,' Kilcullen said. 'Glad your family is safe.'
He left. Kaczmarek and Lester said goodbye and followed him out the door.
The rest of us stood there in silence. Finally Terry looked at Emily. 'How do you feel about all this?' he said.
'Terrible. Especially about the way your boss just treated you. Like it was your fault. I'm sorry, Dad. How do you feel?'
'Me?' Terry said. 'I feel like Ben Stiller.'
Chapter Thirty-Three
Saturday morning. Serenity had returned to the Biggs household. Sort of.
Marilyn insisted that we have a big family breakfast, which didn't sit well with her two teenage daughters, who rebelled against the very thought of 'getting up before noon to eat food that's only going to make us fat, Mom.'
Marilyn's response was plain and simple. 'This is not a democracy. And, even if it were, after what Emily pulled last night, she doesn't get a vote for at least a year.'
Sarah came back at her with, 'What did I do to get punished?'
'First of all, breakfast with your family is not punishment,' Marilyn informed her. 'And second, you ratted out your sister. Next time don't point the guilty finger at her and proclaim your own innocence. It's not cool. It's certainly not sisterly.'
'Does that mean you expect me to lie for her?'
'No, I expect Emily to tell the truth. It's not your responsibility to drop a dime on her if she doesn't.'
And so, we all sat down for a big breakfast of Marilyn's four-cheese omelette, raspberry-lemon French toast, fresh fruit, and figgy scones.
'What do I look like?' Sarah asked. 'A lumberjack?'
'Stop moaning and eat,' Marilyn said, 'because this is the most exciting thing you're going to do all day.'
'Am I grounded too?' Sarah said.
'No. You're just quarantined till Mike and your father catch this crazy person.'
'That cop from last night,' Sarah said. 'Tim. Will he be back tonight?'
'Why?'
'No reason.'
'He's thirty years old if he's a day,' Marilyn said. 'You're eighteen.'
'I'm not marrying him,' Sarah said. 'I'm stuck in the house. He's cute. Maybe I just want to hang with him while he's on duty.'
'Cops aren't allowed to hang with the people they're protecting,' Terry said. 'Besides, he's got a girlfriend.'
'You don't even know him. How do you know he has a girlfriend?'
'All good-looking cops have girlfriends. It's part of LA police procedure. Look at Mike. He's a cop. He's good- looking. And guess, what?' he said, pointing at Diana. 'Girlfriend.'
'And not only is she a girlfriend,' Diana said, 'but last night she was promoted to carpenter's helper. While the four of you were sorting out family matters, Mike and I found some plywood in the garage and nailed it over the back door.'
'How are we supposed to get in and out?' Emily said. 'Are you and Mike g
onna put in a doggie door?'
'Don't be fresh, young lady,' Marilyn said. 'You're on thin ice as it is.'
'It's OK,' I said. 'This is what happens to the youth of America when you let them hang around with Terry Biggs. Actually, my good buddy, Kemp Loekle, who is a world- class carpenter but a lousy gold prospector, is driving down from Oregon as we speak, and he'll be glad to build you a new doorjamb. But first, he has to renovate our house, so we can move out of your way as soon as possible.'
Emily stared at me. 'Who said you're in our way?'
'Duh,' Sarah said. 'We're in their way. He's just too polite to say it.'
'If Mom and Dad would let us out of jail, we wouldn't be in anybody's way,' Emily said.
'Don't hold your breath,' Marilyn said. 'You're under this roof for the weekend. When it's time to go to school, Big Jim will drive you.'
'I have a better solution,' Emily said.
'I can't wait to hear it,' Terry said.
'OK, listen to this. Rebecca is free to come and go as she pleases, right?'
'That's because Rebecca is in St Louis,' Terry said.
'The killer has a pattern, and we don't expect him to fly halfway across the country for his next victim.'
'So how about if I stay with Rebecca in St Louis?'
'That's a fair question,' Terry said. 'But no.'
'Why not?'
'This is difficult,' Terry said. 'But the truth is, we think the killer is actually focused on getting you, so if you fly to St Louis, you'll be putting Rebecca in jeopardy.'
'Ha, ha, ha,' Emily said. 'You just better catch him fast. I'm wasting away the best years of my life.' She turned toward her mother. 'Why did you make this fancy breakfast anyway? Two more of your friends got shot. It feels like we're celebrating.'
I've never had kids, but even if I had years of practice, I wouldn't have been able to handle a crack like that as well as Marilyn did.
'We are celebrating,' she said, her voice calm and even, although I could see that her breathing was much more pronounced. 'We're celebrating life.'
Emily came right back at her. 'Whose?'
'Mine. A few days ago there were five women in my little partnership. This morning only two of them woke up alive. I'm thrilled to be one of them, so I decided to mark the occasion by making breakfast for some of the people I thought would be just as thrilled. I was working under the assumption that you were one of them. But even if you're not, suck it up, and eat your figgy scone.'
Breakfast went very well after that, and for the next twenty minutes we were one big happy family.
Our plan was to drive back to Martin Sorensen's apartment after breakfast and ask him about those criminology courses he had taken. We were getting ready to leave when my cell phone rang.
'Wendy Burns,' I said, looking at the caller ID and flipping open the phone. 'This is Lomax. What's up?'
Wendy wasn't supposed to be working the weekend, so I knew that whatever was up wasn't going to be good.
'Tony Dominguez was shot,' she said.
I repeated it for Terry, and Marilyn let out a loud gasp.
'I don't have any other details,' Wendy said. 'Meet me at the scene.'
'We're on our way,' I said heading toward the door. 'Where are we going?'
The answer stopped me cold in my tracks. '611 South Cherokee.'
'Holy shit,' I said. 'That's the flip house.'
Chapter Thirty-Four
A new team of cops was parked outside Terry's house. He ran over, and within seconds their doors swung open, and they headed for the house.
'I told them to get their asses inside and watch the girls from in there,' he said as he peeled out of the driveway. 'Give your father a call. Until we know what's going on, I want some backup.'
We flew along the 101, and I called Big Jim. It was one of those rare times when he followed orders without asking questions.
We were on Cahuenga just a few minutes from the scene, when Wendy called back.
'We've got two dead,' she said. 'Tony took a bullet, but the paramedics say they've seen worse.'
'Can you ID the two victims?'
'Yeah. Bad news. One is Tony's wife, Marisol. The other is Martin Sorensen.'
'Are you sure?'
It was a dumb question, but the information was so impossible to digest that dumb was the best I could do.
'Mike, I knew them both,' Wendy said. 'I'm sure.'
As soon as we rounded the corner onto Cherokee I thought about the last time Terry and I were at the flip house. One lone cop car, the house cordoned off with tape - all for the theatrics built around Nora's book. But it was nothing compared to the real thing. Uniformed officers were rolling out an even wider yellow perimeter. The street was a logjam of cruisers, EMS units, and a growing convoy of media trucks. We were bombarded with lights, cameras, radio chatter, and the organised chaos of TV reporters yelling unanswered questions into microphones. I'm sure Marisol would have revelled in the drama.
'Murder at 611 South Cherokee,' I said.
'It's got bestseller written all over it,' Terry said.
'Lomax. Biggs.' It was Wendy Burns. She was standing by as the paramedics lifted a cart into the back of an EMS bus.
'He's in a lot of pain,' she said, 'but they say he'll make it.'
The paramedic was about to shut the doors. 'Give me ten seconds,' I said, and without waiting for an answer, I climbed in.
Tony Dominguez was strapped to a stretcher, his left shoulder covered in a field dressing. Bags of fluids were hanging from an IV tree running down to his arm. His face was contorted, and he was looking up, moaning something in Spanish.
'Tony, it's Mike. You're gonna be OK.'
'Bastard...killed...my wife,' he said.
'I know. I'm so sorry.'
'I got here...heard a shot...ran in...Martin running out. He fired twice. Second one nailed me. I shot back.' He started sobbing. 'My fault she's dead...'
'Don't blame yourself, TD.'
'I'm a cop...I couldn't protect my own wife...' He let out a yelp of pain, and started coughing.
The paramedic outside yanked on my pant leg. in or out, Detective. This bus is rolling.'
I jumped out, and within seconds, the ambulance was blasting its way through Saturday-morning traffic.
'Clue me in,' Terry said.
'He's in shock, but the bottom line is, Martin shot Marisol, then he got into a shootout with Tony. Tony won.'
Terry just nodded. I knew exactly what was running through his brain. This could have been Marilyn.
'Let's go see the others,' he said.
The crime lab people had already gotten started. We put on gloves and shoe covers and followed Wendy into the master bedroom.
There, just a few feet from the chalk outline of the fictional Stephen Driscoll was the very real, very dead Marisol Dominguez. She was wearing a pale blue T-shirt, covered in blood at the neckline, and a pair of skin-tight jeans. Jessica Keating was kneeling beside her.
'Another cop's wife,' Keating said, skipping the usual happy to-see-you-hoys banter. 'COD looks the same. A small-calibre bullet to the back of the head.'
'Back of the head?' I said. 'And she fell face up?'
'Tony rolled her over,' Wendy said. 'After he took the bullet he managed to get in here, but she was dead. That's when he called 911. He was on the floor with her head in his arms when I got here.'
I knelt down beside Jessica. 'Did the killer take a lock of her hair?'
'Not that I can see,' she said, 'but I haven't really given her a thorough.'
'I don't think he had time,' Wendy said. 'Tony heard the shot and came running in. Sorensen headed for the front door, but he didn't get very far. He's in the living room.'
Martin Sorensen was lying face up on the living room rug. His chest and the carpeting around him were soaked with blood. There was a .22-caliber pistol on the floor near his right hand. One of Jessica's people was taking pictures of both the body and the weapon from every angle.
'This bastard was going to kill my wife next, wasn't he?' Terry said.
'We don't know that,' I said.
'Mike, it's me. Who are you bullshitting? Marilyn is the last partner. Of course she was next.'
'Fine. She was next. But now she's not.'
'What I don't get,' Wendy said, 'is why. Sorensen had such a good thing going with Nora. Why would he kill all these people?'
'Money,' Terry said. 'Nora was making a bundle, and part of Martin's job was to watch it pour in. He must've decided he wasn't getting his fair share.'
'But what's the payoff for killing the money-maker?' Wendy said, is he in the will?'
'Not for much. That would be too obvious,' Terry said. 'I think he figured he could make a fortune on his own if he wrote a book about his life with Nora, including all the juicy stuff that happened between the sheets.'
'Wow,' Wendy said. 'I can think of ten people who would buy that book. And I'm one of them.'
'The problem is, he never would have been able to write it if Nora was still alive,' I said.
'Or Julia, for that matter,' Terry added. 'She would have at least tried to stop him.'
'So he killed the two people who were standing between him and the bestseller list,' Wendy said. 'Why did he kill Reggie Drabyak's wife?'
'I don't know,' Terry said. 'Maybe he was thinking more bodies sell more books.'
'You guys interviewed him,' Wendy said. 'What was your take?'
'He wasn't at the top of our suspect list,' I said, 'but he was starting to move up the ladder. Last night Muller told us that Sorensen had been taking forensics and other criminal justice courses that would make him a lot smarter than your average murderer.'
'How did he explain that?' Wendy said.
'I'm sure he would've said it makes him a better resource for Nora, but we never got a chance to ask him. We were planning to pay him a surprise visit this morning.'
'Yeah,' Terry said, staring down at the body. 'But we got all involved in this big family breakfast, and Tony Dominguez got to surprise him first.'
Chapter Thirty-Five
If you want to assemble a bunch of politicians in a big urban area like LA, there are two words that will get their attention in a hurry.
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