Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  “This is Detective Cassandra Lee with the Los Angeles Police Department. I would like to interview Mr. Silverman in connection with an active investigation.”

  “I see,” Facey said gravely. “May I inquire as to the nature of your investigation?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  A moment of silence followed. Lee had a feeling that Facey didn’t hear the word “no” very often. “Okay,” Facey said finally, “I can fit you in next Wednesday. Mr. Silverman has an opening at two o’clock.”

  “That isn’t acceptable,” Lee replied coolly. “I want to see him tomorrow. Please take another look at his schedule.”

  Although Lee had been careful to stop short of issuing anything that would sound like a threat, Facey said, “Just a moment,” and went off-line. Or pretended to. Then she was back. “Could you meet with Mr. Silverman at noon? During his lunch hour?”

  “That would be fine,” Lee replied. “Where will he be?”

  Facey supplied an address, and the call came to an end. Would Silverman be worried? No, not yet. Curious, maybe, but not concerned. And that was fine.

  Lee ran some errands after work, went home to the condo, and changed her clothes. Then it was time to put a three-hundred-calorie chicken and rice dinner in the microwave. The meal was a far cry from the dinners Kane prepared—and a reminder of how much she missed him.

  She ate on the deck, and time seemed to drag during the lead-up to seven o’clock, when the phone finally rang. Lee brought it up to her ear. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Kane said. “How’s it going?”

  Lee could tell that he was trying to keep it light—but she knew the situation was bringing him down. “It’s going well,” she answered. “Now that the face case is closed, I’m spending most of my time on my nails. Which do you like better? Green? Or Blue?”

  Kane laughed. “Green. And I want to see them.”

  “Enough about me,” Lee said. “I’m sure Codicil told you about the guy that Keyes turned up.”

  “Yeah, that sounds promising. Do you have any news?”

  “A little,” Lee answered. “Tufenuf’s real name is Elias Jarvis. A couple of patrol officers nabbed him yesterday, and he’s sitting in the LA County Jail.”

  “Too bad,” Kane said. “I’d like to chat with him.”

  “I’ll bet you would,” Lee said dryly. “And that’s why he’s being held somewhere else.”

  “Okay, so what does Mr. Jarvis have to say for himself?”

  “Nothing so far,” Lee replied. “He lawyered up. But he’ll want to cut a deal at some point.”

  “Really?” Kane inquired hopefully. “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do. Hang in there. We’ll get through this.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kane said. “You have enough on your plate already.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lee said. “I miss you.”

  “And I miss you,” he said. “I love you, babe. Be careful out there.”

  “I love you, too,” she assured him. “And be careful in there.”

  “I’ll call you at the same time tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, bye, hon,” Lee said, and heard a click. There was a lump in her throat, and she wanted to cry. But she didn’t. It isn’t that bad, Lee told herself. We’re making progress.

  • • •

  It was well past midnight, and southbound traffic was relatively light. The motorcade consisted of an armored limo, the bus-sized RV carrying George Ma, and an SUV loaded with bodyguards. All of the vehicles wore the same shade of gunmetal gray paint and had tinted windows. The interior of the bus was equipped with every possible convenience, including a lounge, a bath, and a private bedroom in back. That meant the relatively short trip from Los Angeles to San Diego should be pleasant.

  But, owing to the nature of the journey, Ma had reason to worry. As one should worry if they’re about to do a deal with the devil, or if not the devil himself, then one of his close associates. And based on what Ma had heard about Senora Anna Avilar, she was a very formidable person. An ambassador who could cut deals on behalf of the Aztec Empire and literally knew where at least some of the bodies were buried.

  “Can I get you a whiskey, Mr. Ma?” Lora had been employed as a cocktail waitress at the Silver Spur Casino in Sacramento until Ma spotted her. Now she was his personal assistant and an attractive one, too. She had bleached blond hair, sloe-shaped eyes, and Slavic good looks. And rather than one of the skimpy outfits that Ma required his cocktail waitresses to wear, Lora was dressed in a nicely tailored suit.

  “No, Lora . . . Thank you. I’ll need to have my wits about me for this meeting. But I would like a glass of orange juice and half a sandwich.”

  Lora didn’t need to ask what kind of sandwich since she already knew. Ma’s favorite consisted of sliced cucumber on French bread with light mayo and a sprinkle of pepper. As she left for the galley, Ma’s thoughts returned to the upcoming meeting.

  The initial contact had been made through a paid intermediary. Now he had to cut a deal. The sort of deal that would protect him and his holdings should the Aztecs overrun the state of California. It was insurance. But how much would that insurance cost him? Avilar was said to be a tough negotiator.

  After eating his snack, Ma retired to his bedroom for a nap. The intercom woke him up. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the driver said. “But we are going to arrive at Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcalá in fifteen minutes.”

  Ma pushed a button, said, “Thank you,” and sat up. He understood the need to meet in San Diego. Odds were that Avilar had some way to sneak across the border from what had once been Mexico. But the mission? The point of that escaped him.

  The businessman slipped into his bathroom to freshen up and was ready by the time the motorcade left the freeway—and took a series of turns that led to San Diego Mission Road. A left took the convoy up to the mission.

  Ma was up front by then, waiting for the “all clear” from Luis Ontero, his chief bodyguard. A full five minutes elapsed before it came. The radio in Lora’s hand burped static as Ontero spoke. “Everything looks good, boss . . . There are some guards outside, but most of the ’tecs are in the mission. Our guys are in position.”

  “Thanks, Luis,” Lora replied. “Mr. Ma is on his way.”

  Cool air surged into the bus’s interior as the door hissed open, and Ma descended to the ground. The Spanish mission was about a hundred feet in front of him. Floods threw fans of light up the white walls to highlight the bell tower and the beautifully scalloped roofline. There were armed guards to each side of the arched entryway, the wooden door was open, and Ma could see the soft glow within.

  “Your mask,” Lora said, as she handed it to him. It was a so-called doppelganger. Meaning a mask made to look like him and was sufficiently flexible to replicate a frown or a smile. Ma looked through the eyeholes as he brought the self-adhesive mask up against his face and pressed it into place. The membrane that covered his mouth was designed to intercept and block all airborne pathogens including B. nosilla.

  Lora, Ontero, and one of Ma’s bodyguards followed him as he approached the mission and went inside. The long, narrow chapel had a high ceiling that was supported by exposed beams. A beautiful altar flanked by two side niches could be seen against the far wall. An ambo sat in front of that. And farther back, divided by a central aisle, were rows of wooden pews. Only one other person was present—and she was seated halfway back.

  The sound of Ma’s footsteps echoed between the whitewashed walls as he made his way forward. Once he arrived at the pew where the woman was seated, the businessman slid in beside her. Her eyes were closed, and she was speaking Spanish. A prayer? Ma assumed that to be the case as she crossed herself.

  When Avilar turned to look at him, Ma saw t
hat she had carefully coiffed black hair which was partially covered with a lace-edged scarf. Her eyes were dark, her eyebrows were perfect, and her lipstick was red. “Good evening, Mr. Ma,” she said. “I am Anna Avilar. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” Ma said carefully. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Avilar smiled as if to acknowledge the compliment. “I asked you to meet me here for a couple of reasons,” she said. “First, the mission is convenient to the border. And second, it’s symbolic of what my people are fighting for. Simply put, we were the first to rule this land.

  “The Mission Basilica San Diego de Acalá was the first Franciscan mission in the Las Californias Province of New Spain. It was founded in 1769 by Friar Junipero Serra. Think about that, Mr. Ma . . . He came here seven years before the United States of America proclaimed its independence from Great Britain!

  “The mission was named for Saint Didacus . . . A Spaniard commonly known as San Diego. And the rest, as they say, ‘is history.’ Come, let’s take our conversation outside. It would be unseemly to discuss earthly affairs here.”

  Ma stood and made his way out to the aisle, where he waited for Avilar. She paused to genuflect and cross herself for before leading Ma through a side door and out into a beautifully kept garden. It was well lit and private. “So,” Avilar said as she turned to face him, “I understand that you are interested in helping the Aztec Empire reconquer the lands that rightfully belong to it.”

  That wasn’t Ma’s motivation. He hoped the ’tecs would fail. But he couldn’t say that and didn’t. “Yes,” he said awkwardly, “that’s correct.”

  “Good. We need allies . . . Especially ones who, like yourself, can bring certain assets to bear when called upon to do so.”

  Ma cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. May I ask what resources you have in mind?”

  “Money for one,” Avilar replied easily, “but other things as well. We have agents located throughout the state of California, and they need help from time to time. The sort of help that a man with your assets can provide.”

  Ma started to speak, but Avilar raised a hand that had only two digits. A reminder of the fact that Avilar was a mutant. “Have no fear, Mr. Ma . . . We won’t drain you dry. That would be foolish. But if you have fears in that regard, I suggest that you mention my name to Mr. George Nickels.”

  Ma had never met Nickels but knew the mutant owned a casino in the red zone, and had done some deals with him. So the fact that Nickels was working with the ’tecs was reassuring indeed. “Yes, Mr. Nickels and I trade favors occasionally.”

  “Exactly,” Avilar said, as if she knew all about the relationship between the two. “And when the reoccupation day comes, I promise that both of you will continue to flourish.”

  The meeting came to an amicable conclusion shortly after that, and the two parties went their separate ways. As the bus carried Ma north, he felt a sense of peace. I will succeed come what may, Ma thought to himself, as Lora handed him a whiskey. It slid down the back of his throat and produced an explosion of warmth in his belly. Success felt good.

  • • •

  Lee rose the next morning to discover that the ocean beyond the big picture windows was partially obscured by rain—and a stiff breeze was pushing an endless succession of waves in to break just short of the beach. She knew the storm would be a blessing for farmers but a curse for everyone else, especially those who were flooded. Not to mention the fact that the slick roads would contribute to a lot of accidents. It was going to be a tough day for the department’s patrol officers. The combination of the rain and slow traffic made Lee late to work. But so were lots of other people, so she got off easy.

  The morning was spent reading all of the background stuff Prospo had dug up on Getty. Even though the woman was well into her first term as mayor, Lee had never thought about her as a person until she’d been forced to do so during the rescue mission.

  Now, as Lee read Getty’s bio, she discovered that the politician had been born in Berkeley, was the only child of a single mother, and put herself through UCLA by working as a janitor. A story she liked to tell at political rallies in order to connect with blue-collar voters.

  Then, thanks to a degree in political science and what one observer later called an “air of cool invincibility,” Getty had taken a low-level job working for Senator Calvin Dealy, president pro tempore, and a very powerful man. He came to see Getty as a protégé and taught her how to handle herself. It was according to one journalist “. . . an education in how to do deals, twist arms, and game the system.” All skills that were very much in evidence when Getty moved to LA and ran for the city council four years later. She lost the first time around but won the second, and subsequently rose to the position of president.

  During Getty’s tenure, some of her opponents accused her of making unseemly deals. But none of their claims were substantiated—and most people wrote the criticisms off as being politically motivated.

  Then, at the age of forty-one, Getty met Dr. Mark Holby, grandson to Hollister Holby, the founder of Holby Computing. Though trained as a dentist, it seemed as if Holby spent most of his time playing golf and hobnobbing with the city’s movers and shakers. And according to a Times article written two years earlier, Holby’s social activities put him in a position to make friends and solicit campaign donations. All of which had proven to be helpful to his wife.

  But unknown to Holby was the fact that his wife had a boyfriend on the side. A man who seemed to be in love with Getty—but knew her well enough to have an insurance policy just the same. In this case a series of videos that could bring her down.

  There was more reading to do, but Lee had to quit at that point in order to keep her appointment with Silverman. His offices were located in the Pacifica Bank Tower at 633 West Fifth Street. That put the seventy-three-story building within walking distance on a nice day. But since it was raining, Lee decided to drive.

  Unfortunately, the need to go outside and dash across the partially flooded parking lot meant that she was damp by the time she reached the car. A short drive through rain-slicked streets took her to the tower. It was so tall that the top was lost in the mist—and Lee liked the vaguely art deco look that the structure had.

  Lee’s badge got her through security and into the underground parking garage where, as a visitor, she was relegated to what seemed like the bowels of the Earth. After parking the creeper, and writing the stall number down, Lee followed the signs to the elevators. There were two. A high-rise and a low-rise. And, since Silverman’s office was in Room 7103, Lee had to wait for a high-rise elevator before stepping aboard.

  The elevator stopped on the first floor. But after that it was a straight shot up to thirty-five, where the low-rise lift topped out. Then, after pausing occasionally, the ride came to an end. Lee found herself in a nicely furnished lobby as she got off. A mahogany reception desk was located directly in front of her—and a pair of security guards was stationed behind it. Both wore blue blazers emblazoned with gold logos. One, a stern-looking woman with her hair in a bun, nodded politely. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Silverman Enterprises. How can we help you?”

  “I’m Detective Lee. I’m here to see Mr. Silverman.”

  The woman glanced at a screen. “Right . . . Could I see some identification please?”

  Lee produced her ID case and flipped it open. The rent-a-cop eyed the picture and made a production out of comparing it to Lee’s face. “Thank you, ma’am. Please have a seat. Miss Facey will come out to get you as soon as Mr. Silverman is available.”

  Lee had no choice but to do what she was told—and took a seat next to a nattily dressed businessman. He looked up from his tablet to smile at her before looking down again. She saw that three other people were on hold and wondered how long they’d been waiting.

  Time crawled by. And when twelve thirty rolled around, Lee wonder
ed if she was being punished for being pushy. She was about to get up and leave when a door opened and a woman entered the lobby. She had long black hair, steely gray eyes, and slightly mannish features. But the combination of high cheekbones and the way she carried herself made her attractive. And what Lee estimated to be five or six thou worth of high-fashion clothing didn’t hurt either.

  Was Lee looking at Facey? Yes, she thought so, and that impression was confirmed as the woman came straight over to greet her. It was as if Facey knew what Lee looked like. “Detective Lee? Please accept our apologies. Mr. Silverman’s eleven o’clock teleconference ran long. Please follow me.”

  Facey’s high heels produced a clicking sound as she led Lee through the door and into the sprawling offices beyond. Dozens of workers could be seen—all sitting in semitransparent U-shaped enclosures. The atmosphere was hushed, like the interior of a library, and the scent of freshly washed linen floated in the air. It was a far cry from the atmosphere in the bull pen where Lee worked.

  No one turned to look as Facey led Lee down the central corridor toward a pair of frosted-glass doors. They parted as if afraid to slow Facey down. As Lee entered, she saw that there was a minikitchen off to the left and a bar on the right. A glass-topped conference table claimed the center of the room, and an executive-style desk could be seen beyond that, along with the enormous window that framed it. “Please,” Facey said, as they arrived at the conference table. “Have a seat. Mr. Silverman will be with you in a moment. He’s having a crab salad for lunch. May I order one for you as well?”

  Lee hadn’t had lunch yet but wasn’t about to accept a gift or hospitality from a suspect. “No, thank you.”

  “As you wish,” Facey said, and turned away. Her heels made a clacking sound as she left the room.

  Lee took the opportunity to remove a small recorder from her bag and place it on the table. That was when she noticed the folder with her name on it. She flipped it open to see a picture of herself and a thick sheaf of newspaper clippings. Someone, Facey seemed like the best bet, had been doing some homework. Had the folder been left there by accident? Or was it part of an effort to intimidate her? The answer was obvious.