Last Shot

by Gregg Hurwitz

  To the chagrin of the overworked criminalists, cops and Service brass clomped through the house. They were hot on the trail at last, and preservation had to bend to the exigency of a fast search.

  The legal file box in the corner haunted Tim’s peripheral vision despite his efforts to focus elsewhere. Bear regarded it with a canine absorption usually reserved for In-N-Out Double-Doubles, toeing it just above the ESTEBAN MARTINEZ stamp. Standing with his arms crossed so his jacket bunched at his compact shoulders, Tannino alternated his attention among Tim, Bear, and the box, slowly piecing matters together. “Bear,” he finally said, “why don’t you go put that in your truck so you can deliver it promptly back to Counselor Martinez in the morning?”

  “Right,” Bear said, hefting it into the crook of an elbow. “Good idea.”

  Denley puzzled over a new answering machine by the fireplace. It had been removed from its box but still appeared unused, ensconced in bubble wrap. “No phone line, so what the fuck’s he want with this?” he asked nobody in particular.

  Thomas’s face stayed drawn and bloodless, and he apologized to Tim at intervals. “I’m sorry, Rack. I thought you were him, you know, a ruse. Jesus, I almost…”

  After dispensing another “Don’t worry about it” that he hoped would have a longer shelf life than the two prior, Tim dug through the duffel bag, impressed with the range of equipment Walker had managed to accumulate. In his brief break between crime scenes, Aaronson had pegged Walker’s bullets as homemade. The slugs were composed of an alloy containing titanium—titanium!—which would have required sophisticated equipment not present even at this most finished of Sunnyslope homes. Which raised the possibility of a cache elsewhere—a cache from which Walker, when he slipped through LAPD’s net, could replenish. The disposable cell phone—another terrorist advance recently appropriated by fugitives—on the mantel was so cheap it didn’t have a call-history feature. A single key beside it fit the front door.

  Bear, crouching over the duffel as if regarding a picnic basket, said, “Looky here.” He withdrew a DVD case and showed Tim the label. JUNE 1. As Bear stepped off to argue Aaronson into a laptop loan, the chief tapped Tim’s shoulder with his cell phone. “Pierce Jameson wants to talk to you. They transferred his call from the command post.”

  Tim pressed the phone to his ear to hear Pierce say, “The hell’s going on down there? My lawyer’s en route.”

  “Wise choice.” Tim let the silence stretch out an extra beat. “Your son was here.”

  “Ain’t that something.”

  “Funny—he had the key, too.”

  “Well, we left the site as it was. Someone must’ve left a key behind.”

  “And you know what else is odd?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You turned the electricity on in the model unit again, just this morning.”

  “I don’t actually oversee the electrical for all of my companies, Deputy. There are quite a few of them. Companies. On that particular site, you might have heard that we had some problems with sewerage? ’Nuther round of testing coming up next week, the guys need somewhere to plug in their gear.”

  “I thought there would be a simple explanation.”

  “There usually is. Adios, ’migo.”

  “Wait a sec. About the ‘sewerage’—”

  “My contractor just informed me that our system accidentally got routed into the storm drains. I’m furious. With what this’ll cost me to fix, heads are gonna roll.”

  “Yes,” Tim said, “they will.”

  By the time Tim handed off the phone to the chief, Bear had the security footage paused at the appropriate frame on Aaronson’s laptop.

  The image unfroze to show Tess waiting in The Ivy’s side drive as Porsches and Ferraris rolled through the valet. She wore a cocktail dress, staying hunched as if cold, her hands tucked under her bare arms. She held a ticket out to a valet, explaining something—Tim could read the words “purse” and “car” on her lips. The valet handed her a set of keys, then jogged off to retrieve another car. Tess glanced around, then climbed into the Mercedes Gelaendewagen positioned in the prize front spot.

  “Wait a minute,” Bear said. “Isn’t that…?”

  Tess leaned over to the driver’s side and dug through the jacket hung over the seat. She came up with something and tilted it in her hands.

  Chase’s BlackBerry.

  Tim chuckled with a kind of awed respect.

  Tess worked furiously on the tiny keypad, glancing at intervals back at the restaurant. Her focus grew more intense, and she punched another flurry of buttons. The face of the BlackBerry was visible—given digital enhancement and a miracle, they might be able to discern what she’d typed. She did a double take as the valet taxied a Carrera back through the drive, and then she returned the BlackBerry to the jacket pocket and hopped out while the valet was distracted with the Porsche handoff.

  She held up the ticket and explained something, gesticulating her confusion.

  “Poor thing,” Bear said. “They switched her and Chase’s valet stubs.”

  “Inconvenient.”

  The valet puzzled over her ticket, then ran off. A moment later he returned with Chase, who smiled at Tess, clearly uncomfortable. Tess greeted him with poise, shaking his hand. Chase retrieved his own valet stub, and they compared them, then the keys, and then they and the valets shared a strained laugh. Chase waited with her while the valet ran off to get her car. They stood side by side, looking out at the street in parallel rather than at each other. Chase smoothed his suit jacket and spoke, his expression indicating he was offering a few words of apology or contrite explanation.

  The valet rattled up with Tess’s car. She nodded good-bye to Chase, even squeezed his arm, climbed in, and drove off.

  “Home girl’s got moves,” Bear said. He was popping the DVD out from the laptop when the disposable phone on the mantel rang. Everyone in the room froze. Down the hall Denley’s hoarse Brooklyn-accented voice continued until someone hushed him harshly.

  Tim stood before the plastic phone, watching it rattle against the wood. After the third ring, he answered, keeping his voice gruff. “Yeah.”

  “Not bad, Troubleshooter. Payback for the stunt I pulled with your digital transmitter and the Doberman. That was nice.”

  If Walker already felt safe enough to make time for a chat, they’d lost their opportunity at him. Tim guessed he’d have needed a car—the Camry, strategically hidden?—to put that kind of comfort distance between himself and the house so quickly after he’d washed out through the culvert. Knowing Walker, he’d stashed fresh clothes and equipment in the trunk, a kit bag that’d help him roll right into the next phase of his plan.

  “I could have killed you,” Walker continued. “Tonight.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “You’re more useful alive. For now. Remember that. You live because of me.”

  Tim kept the phone against his face until the dial tone turned to a hiccup.

  “Two phone calls, one day,” Tannino said. “This guy might come after you.”

  “Rack’s not a target.” Bear pocketed the DVD. “He’s his idol.”

  “Or vice versa,” the marshal said wryly. “But I’m not complaining. That’s the one goddamned thing we have going for us.”

  Chapter 56

  ESTEBAN MARTINEZ, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Tim, Bear, and Dray sat on the couch back, their feet on the cushions, regarding the verboten file box centered on the throw rug before them.

  Frisk and his ESU team had doggedly backtracked the records from the disposable cell phone company. They’d managed to source Walker’s incoming call, only to learn that Walker had anticipated them and left a customized taunt, routing the connection—again—through the Vector switchboard. The trail before that was impossible to trace.

  The early-morning light at the windows was sufficient that they didn’t need the lamps in the living room. Dray shifted her weight impatiently.

  “Confid
entiality is still attached,” she said. “You crack that box, you lose those files as evidence.”

  “We don’t have them as evidence to lose,” Tim said.

  “Maybe the box spills,” Bear said. “Maybe the files fall out and they’re not clearly marked.”

  Dray eyeballed the fluorescent orange labels. CONFIDENTIAL: LAWYER-CLIENT MATERIALS. “That’s bullshit.”

  “Yeah,” Bear said. “Sure is.”

  “The AUSA’ll have your ass,” Dray said, “but it might be worth it. Then again, if the box contains the only solid evidence you get, since Walker is nicely killing the roster of prosecution witnesses, you could blow any possible case against the Kagans and Vector.” She added quickly, “Not that you’re pursuing one.”

  A few minutes passed, their focus intensifying. Finally Bear lumbered off the couch, popped the lid from the box. He chuckled and raised a sheet of paper with a handwritten note: Thought you could make better use of this than I could.

  Bear set aside the paper and started rooting inside. Tim joined him. Dray mumbled to herself a few moments before sliding down and circling the box, peering in at first, then finally settling between them. There wasn’t much inside on Tess’s case—the only paperwork detailed Esteban’s hiring and firing and the dates and times of the two visits. Esteban had been her attorney for four days, not long enough to get past preliminary discussions or generate much paperwork. Tess met with and retained him May 28. But why had she discharged him the same week? No clear answers. After all they’d staked on the confidential files, they hadn’t yielded much.

  Bear ran a thumb across a rectangular indentation in the manila folder that housed Tess’s thin sheaf of documents. Something had been stored there that had fallen out or been taken. Bear dug around the bottom of the box, past the other clients’ files, and came up with a microcassette. He held it up, matching it to the indentation. “I suppose this explains the answering machine at the safe house. Walker must’ve been getting ready to use it when we stormed his ass.”

  Dray went to search for the microcassette recorder she used to take statements in her deputy days; once she set it on the coffee table, they huddled around like kids listening to a game on a transistor radio.

  Rustling. Background voices. The clink of silverware. After a few moments, Bear grew impatient and fast-forwarded a few bursts.

  Dean Kagan’s voice: “Hello, Ms. Jameson. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” The sound of a chair pulling in and then, “Pellegrino, please. No ice.”

  Tess said something inaudible, the recorder—buried in her purse?—rubbing against fabric.

  Dean said, “You threatened my son yesterday. I think this is going in the wrong direction.”

  “It seems like a lot of things are.”

  “He should have known not to try to handle this himself. He’s not a bad businessman, but he’s a poor negotiator.”

  “I’m not much of a negotiator, either. Good thing there’s nothing to negotiate.”

  “I suspected I was dealing with a smart woman. A lot smarter than my son, surely.” A thoughtful pause. “Here’s the part where I offer you money and you say it’s not about money, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Of course it’s not.” The jangle of ice cubes against glass. “No ice, please, as I said.” Pause. “All of these issues are resolvable without any disruption of your life, ours, or Vector’s important work on behalf of those afflicted with AAT. As much as we matter, I’m sure you agree, they matter more. So let me be plain—”

  “Please.”

  “I’ve dealt with mobsters and health ministers and other extortionists in more countries than you’ve heard of, young lady, and I’m certainly not going to be blackmailed by you and whatever attorney you can afford. I could purchase your whole block tomorrow and have it bulldozed. We can do this the wrong way, my playing the asshole CEO, you playing white trash—”

  “Don’t count out trash.”

  “—but I suggest you will do much more for your son by continuing your relationship with Vector than by trying to bring out big guns. Our guns are bigger. And our leverage better.”

  Beside Tim, Dray stiffened.

  “I understand, of course, that you want to prosecute Chaisson,” Dean continued. “As I’d guess even your own attorneys would caution you, this is in the line of ‘acquaintance rape,’ as they put it now, I think. You got into the car willingly, knowing his interest in you. Of course, your attorneys have told you all of this. What they may not have is that Vector, the biomedical firm of which the accused is chairman, cannot expose itself to the liability of actually treating, particularly in the clinical trial of a drug involving risks, a patient who is the accuser’s son. If something should go wrong, it would be impossible for Vector to defend itself against the allegation that this was willful malpractice, in some kind of sick revenge.”

  Tess released a rush of air. “Trials start in a few months. I already have a signed agreement for Sammy.”

  “Of course you do. Your consent to his involvement. No obligation by Vector is provided, however. That’s why I suggest we do nothing to jeopardize our relationship. You love your son. As unlovable as they may be, I love my sons. Let’s start over. On the right track. We’re having a celebration tomorrow night at The Ivy to commemorate Xedral’s patent approval. It won’t be complete if you’re not a part of it.”

  Tess sounded calm, but her voice quavered, ever so slightly. “My dating history with your execs hasn’t promoted a lot of trust in your corporate culture.”

  Anger edged Dean’s voice for the first time, though not directed at Tess. “Believe me, you won’t have any problems.”

  “That’s good. I’d hate to tear another good dress.”

  “I like you, Ms. Jameson. Under other circumstances we could do some good work together.”

  “We still might. For all those AAT-afflicted you lose sleep over.”

  “I’m not sure I catch your drift.” Dean’s voice held genuine puzzlement; she’d caught him off guard.

  “I mean,” Tess said carefully, “it’s nice to have our aims aligned once again.”

  “Agreed. I’m afraid I have a meeting that got moved up. But, please, order whatever you’d like. The waiter’s already got us on my house account.”

  The sound of a chair scooting out, and then footsteps tapping away.

  Tess’s breathing was audible for a moment, and then she made a soft sigh between relief and frustration. There was a rustling, and then the recording abruptly ended.

  “Sharp,” Dray said. “And given that prick, you gotta give her credit.”

  “He is smooth,” Bear concurred. “He made no illegal threats. Didn’t have to—he held all the cards. Tess wasn’t gonna let her son get dropped over a rape case. She was boxed in before she got started.”

  “So the day after this lunch, Tess goes in and plays Esteban the tape,” Tim said. “They confer. He concedes that Dean argues a good case. Tess reconsiders her priorities. She leaves the tape in her lawyer’s hands—makes sense—then drops the rape case to protect Sam. Even shows up at The Ivy to show she’s playing nice. So why’d Vector kick him off the trial list anyway?”

  “Whatever she got off Chase’s BlackBerry that night…” Dray said.

  “Of course,” Tim said. “The rape was her wedge. Dean offered her a better in with Vector to smooth things over. She used it to dig for whatever she was looking for. Something so Vector couldn’t get her over a barrel and drop Sam later.”

  “You can bet she was rooting through unattended briefcases, poking around the lab on her visits, questioning the scientists,” Bear said. “Now, we only met Chase twice, and we know that BlackBerry is his lifeline. She saw a chance at it, and she grabbed it. If anything, she was well researched about the Vector information pipeline—either she knew something was due to come downstream or she ran a search-find on his e-mails and hit the jackpot. She wanted more insurance. What she got was too much insurance.”

>   Dray was nodding. “She picked up—as Dean said—‘better leverage,’ and the old man had to play hardball after all. She sure as hell signaled her extracurricular interest in Vector at the end of their chat here. I bet Dean watched her pretty tight after that.”

  Bear pulled himself up, grabbed the microcassette, and checked his watch. “We need to make copies now. And we’ll need an enhancement of that security footage from The Ivy. But we can’t do it at the office.”

  Tim was already dialing. He got the beep of a pager tone and punched in his and Dray’s home number. He’d barely hung up when the phone rang—it seemed impossible that the page could have gone through so quickly. Tim answered.

  “What now, Rackley?” Pete Krindon sounded rushed, as always. An off-the-books technical security specialist, Pete freelanced for all order of agencies and individuals on both sides of the law. Tim and Bear used him to boldly go where no warrant could take them and to cover technological angles that hadn’t yet filtered through FLETC and Quantico classrooms.

  “I got some digitally formatted security footage I need you to bring up the resolution on. We gotta make a high-quality copy tonight.”

  “Tonight? So you have dubious ownership over said footage.”

  “Precisely. It’s taking a brief pit stop here on its way back to its rightful owner. We want it crisp, so I’d like your equipment on it.”

  “I can make the copy, but there’s no way I have time to do an enhancement for you tonight. When you need it by?”

  “Aarrhghdfhah!”

  “What?”

  “Ty!” Tim shouted. “Get off the phone!”

  Dray jogged back to corral their son from his late-night expedition.

  “Sorry,” Tim said. “The sooner the better. Can you do it?”