Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  After serving herself, Getty eyed Yessum over the edge of her cup. “I won’t dance around it Sam, I need your advice, and your help.”

  Yessum met her gaze. “Regarding the investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I figured that would come up,” Yessum told her. “So I brought you a present. Just a sec . . . I’m going to load something into your player.”

  A flat screen was mounted on the wall next to the display cabinets—and a universal player was sitting on the console table below it. Getty watched Yessum insert a thumb drive into one of the ports and wondered what he planned to show her.

  Yessum took his seat, took the remote off the coffee table, and waited for the directory to appear. Then he selected an item titled “Getty Video” and pressed PLAY.

  Video swirled, and Getty wasn’t sure what she was looking at until the picture locked up. Then she saw herself sitting across from Syd Silverman in Maxim’s apartment! Getty felt a chasm open at the pit of her stomach as the audio came up, and Syd began to pitch the Oceana project. Damn Maxim! The bastard was still screwing her, albeit in a different way. Getty looked at Yessum to get his reaction, but his face was blank. “So how many conversations are there?”

  “Five,” Yessum answered. “There’s this one, plus vignettes with Carolina Moss, Jack Stryker, Herman Jones, and George Ma.”

  Getty felt nauseous. “How bad are they?”

  Yessum thumbed a button, and the video froze. “They’re pretty bad.”

  Getty’s mind was churning. The tape was Maxim’s insurance policy—a way to make sure she couldn’t dump him. Not without a financial settlement. That much was clear. But Maxim was dead—so how had the tape come to light?

  The answer was obvious. Detective Cassandra Lee! She’d been part of the rescue team, she’d been to Maxim’s home, and she was in charge of the investigation. Or so the reporter on Channel 5 claimed. Assuming that chain of logic was correct, Lee had been able to get her grubby hands on the tape and had given it to Corso, who wanted her job. The bastard.

  Yessum was sipping coffee and waiting for her to absorb the full import of what she’d seen. As Getty put her cup down, she discovered that her hand was shaking. “I want to speak in my own defense,” she said. “Yes, I cut deals, but not to make myself rich . . . Not a single penny went to me or my family. Everything I did was aimed at winning reelection, so I could continue to serve the people of Los Angeles.”

  Yessum nodded. “I believe you, Melissa. That’s why I brought the tape over.”

  Getty looked at him and remembered what she’d been taught. “Never let them see you sweat.” She forced a smile. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate that . . . And believe me—I won’t forget. So, given the nature of my motivation, can you help me?”

  The moment the words came out of her mouth, Getty regretted them. What if Yessum was wearing a wire? He isn’t, her inner voice told her, but even if he is what difference will it make? Things are about as bad as they can get.

  Yessum frowned. “‘Help you,’ as in put a stop to the investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Melissa, but that’s impossible. There are too many people involved—and too many copies of the tape floating around. Not to mention the fact that the DA has the bit in his teeth—and believes the investigation will get him reelected. All I can do is what I’ve done . . . And providing you with early access to evidence will cost me my job if it comes out.”

  Getty swallowed. “I won’t tell . . . You can count on that. What advice, if any, can you offer?”

  “Beat the DA to it,” Yessum replied. “Put the videos out there yourself, spin them up as best you can, and let the voters decide.”

  Getty was silent for a moment. Then she sighed. “That makes sense, Sam. Thank you. Can I keep the thumb drive?”

  “Yes, you’ll need it. But please protect my identity.”

  “I will,” Getty promised. “And one more thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Push Detective Cassandra Lee in front of a bus.”

  • • •

  It was 7:36 P.M., and Marvin Codicil was sitting in a van two car lengths north of the Olin residence. Why? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why, Codicil thought to himself. And because I’m a sucker for a cause. In this case, Cassandra Lee and Dr. Lawrence Kane. Both of whom deserve something good.

  So rather than pay for around-the-clock surveillance out of Kane’s quickly dwindling bank account, Codicil had assigned the six-to-midnight shift to himself. That left the midnight-to-six slot uncovered, but that was okay since it seemed unlikely that Mrs. Olin would visit her daughter during the early-morning hours.

  Time dragged by. Neighbors came and went. Codicil listened to classical music, grew weary of it, and switched to a news channel. The city was still recovering from the terrorist attacks and prepping for more. Armed forces from Pacifica and the Republic of Texas were involved in joint exercises in Arizona. Could that mean they were getting ready to invade the Aztec Empire? It would be a bloody business if they did so—but what else could the two countries do? And who knew? Maybe an alliance between the red and green zones would lead to a better relationship in the future.

  Codicil’s thoughts were interrupted as the front door opened and light spilled out onto the porch. He jerked the earbuds out and tossed them aside as a silhouette appeared, turned, and pulled the door closed. Mrs. Olin? Yes, it must be. Where was she headed? To the store for a quart of milk? Or to a meeting with her daughter? Codicil would have prayed for the second possibility but why bother? He was an atheist, and if God existed, he or she was unlikely to grant him any favors.

  Mrs. Olin, if that’s who she was, made her way down off the porch and walked to the street. Lights blinked on and off as the especiale answered to her remote. As the woman entered her car, Codicil got ready to start his engine. Though no expert on stakeouts, the attorney figured that his vehicle would be less noticeable if he started the engine after she pulled out.

  Once the sedan pulled away from the curb, Codicil started the engine and followed. If the woman in the car was alarmed, he saw no signs of it as she turned onto an arterial and entered the flow of traffic. They passed a supermarket not long thereafter, and Codicil felt a rising sense of excitement. She wasn’t after a quart of milk then . . . Although there were still plenty of possibilities other than a meeting with her daughter.

  Even though Codicil hadn’t had much experience tailing people, he knew it was important to hang back, but not too far back, lest he lose Mrs. Olin at a light. So Codicil had reason to worry until the woman he was following made a series of turns and pulled into the parking lot outside a restaurant called Nero’s Steakhouse. She parked, and he did likewise.

  After giving Mrs. Olin a head start, Codicil followed her into the restaurant. It was a dark, gloomy place, much given to black leather booths, dim lighting, and shadowy corners. Was that what Mrs. Olin preferred? Or was it a place her daughter was familiar with? Assuming Janice Olin was there. Codicil watched Mrs. Olin walk to a booth where a younger woman was seated. Bingo! “Can I help you?” The receptionist was a plump woman in a black dress.

  “Yes,” Codicil said. “One for dinner. I would like to sit over there please . . . It’s my favorite booth.”

  Codicil pointed, and the woman nodded. “Certainly . . . Please follow me.”

  The two women were already deep in conversation by the time Codicil sat down across from them. The attorney wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said—but he recognized Janice Olin right away! Was Mrs. Olin telling her about Kane? Codicil hoped so.

  “Good evening,” the waiter said. “My name is Pedro . . . And I’ll be serving you tonight. Can I get you something to drink?” Pedro was twentysomething and had his hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

  “Yes,” Codicil replied. “A gin and tonic wou
ld be nice.”

  “Excellent. And an appetizer?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll be back with water and your gin and tonic,” Pedro promised, and left for the bar.

  Codicil was hungry and didn’t want to order something that would take a long time to prepare lest Janice Olin get up and leave before he was finished. So he settled for a French Dip sandwich. And as he put in the order, he asked for the check. Pedro was clearly surprised but took the request in stride.

  As the waiter left, Codicil took a sip of the gin and tonic and winced. The house gin had a medicinal flavor. Rather than stare at the women, Codicil pretended to surf the Internet on his phone while watching them from the corner of his eye. It appeared that they were arguing about something. Time passed, their food arrived, and Pedro brought the French Dip two minutes later. Codicil tackled the sandwich as Pedro went off to run his credit card.

  Pedro returned, Codicil signed, and put the card away. He was halfway through the second half of the sandwich when the women got up to leave. Codicil wiped his mouth with his napkin and followed them out. He was focused on Janice Olin now—and cognizant of the fact that she was an experienced law-enforcement officer. Tailing her was likely to be more difficult than following her mother had been.

  The women hugged prior to parting ways. Codicil watched Janice Olin head for a sports car and hurried to enter the van. There was a bad moment when a customer backed out of a slot to block him, but Codicil managed to go around, and was there to follow Olin out of the lot.

  What ensued was a stressful fifteen minutes’ worth of driving as Olin switched lanes, ran a yellow light, and made a lot of turns. Was she trying to lose him? Or simply driving the way she always did? The way she’d been trained to. Codicil hoped for the latter.

  In any case, he was still on the woman’s tail as she pulled into a decidedly downscale apartment complex. It appeared to consist of three identical concrete buildings with a common area between them. That wasn’t what Codicil expected of a federal agent, so he figured that Olin was working undercover.

  Olin parked her car, so Codicil did the same and managed to exit quickly enough to follow her. Pole-mounted lights threw a harsh glare down onto the path. Codicil passed a rickety-looking play set, a trash-filled wading pool, and a dead tree on his way to the second apartment building. Even though it was well past nine, people were lounging around the main entrance, smoking weed and drinking beer. Most were men, and Codicil heard one of them shout, “Hola, chica! You look hot, baby . . . I have what you need.”

  The coarse come-on produced a variety of ribald comments and laughter as Olin entered the building. The merriment gave Codicil an opportunity to slip through without being harassed. The lobby smelled like stale cooking, and bare bulbs lit the hallway. Olin had already passed the elevator with the OUT OF SERVICE sign taped to it, and was headed for the back stairs as Codicil hurried to catch up. An encounter in the hallway wasn’t ideal. But since Codicil had no way to know who might be waiting for Olin, it seemed like a good idea to approach the agent before she arrived at her destination. Plus, assuming she was working a case, Codicil didn’t want to blow her cover.

  “Miss Olin!” the attorney said, as he caught up with her. “My name is Marvin Codicil . . . I’m Dr. Lawrence Kane’s attorney. As you may or may not be aware, he shot the man who attacked you the night that the Aztecs shelled the city. The police put him in jail for that. Could I speak with you please?”

  As Olin turned, her right hand slipped into her jacket. To access a weapon? Yes, that’s the way it appeared, and Codicil raised both hands. “There’s no need for a gun. All I want is your account of what took place. In person, if possible. But I could arrange for taped testimony as well—and protect your identity if that’s necessary.”

  Now, in the harsh glare of the overhead light, Codicil thought Olin looked older than she had at Nero’s. And older than she actually was. There were deep circles under Olin’s eyes, her skin was bad, and he could see a cold sore on her lower lip. Her hand remained where it was. “How did you find me?” she demanded.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Codicil said, “but I did. The fact is that my client may have saved your life. The least you can do is tell authorities what happened.”

  “Nothing happened,” Olin said coldly. “Now leave me alone. And if I ever see you again, you’ll be sorry.”

  And with that, Olin turned away. Codicil could hear her heels clicking on concrete as she climbed the stairs. He felt his spirits slump. Olin knew about Kane . . . He felt sure of it. And she didn’t care. All he could do was rerun the gauntlet that was waiting outside, and return home.

  • • •

  After receiving Marvin Codicil’s phone call, Lee had gone to bed feeling depressed, and as she drove to work the following day, she was still in the dumps. Why had Janice Olin refused to cooperate? Was she working undercover? Or was she a dyed-in-the-wool bitch? Lee was inclined to believe the latter since there were a number of ways that a law-enforcement officer could testify without being publicly identified. So what are you going to do? Lee asked herself. Give up?

  Hell no, came the reply. I’ll find a way, Lee thought to herself as she joined the line of cars waiting to enter the Street Services Garage parking lot. The city was still on edge in the wake of recent attacks—and the police department had put even more security in place.

  After passing through security, Lee entered the building and went straight to her desk. Roll call was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes—and she was supposed to visit Dr. Penn at ten. That didn’t leave much time for e-mail. She was working on it when Prospo came in for a landing on her guest chair. “Good morning.”

  “You, too,” Lee said. “What’s up?”

  “What time are we leaving?”

  “Leaving? I have to attend a ten o’clock meeting with Dr. Penn.”

  “Right,” Prospo replied. “That’s what I’m talking about. I’m going with you.”

  Lee’s eyebrows floated upwards. “Okay, why?”

  Prospo looked offended. “Because I’ve been working on the case for a million years—and because I’d like to hear what Penn has to say. That’s why.”

  “I see,” Lee said. “And that’s all?”

  “It always makes sense to have backup,” Prospo said evasively.

  “So, you’re afraid that Penn will attack me?”

  “No, but someone shot Corso . . . And you’re leading the Getty investigation.”

  “Speaking of which . . . How did the conversation with Stryker go?”

  “I think I got his attention,” Prospo answered. “In spite of the fact that he did a deal with Getty, I don’t think they’re that tight. So as things stand right now, I have him pegged as the guy most likely to roll over.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “You’re welcome to come. We’ll leave at nine thirty.”

  Roll call was primarily focused on activities related to preventing another terrorist attack. There was one bit of good news though . . . Chief Corso was up and walking around. That announcement produced a round of applause.

  Lee was back at her desk when nine fifteen rolled around, and Prospo appeared. “It will be lunchtime once we clear Dr. Penn’s house,” he said. “And you’re buying.”

  “Works for me,” Lee agreed as she logged out. “But if I’m buying, you’re going to have a salad.”

  “Sure,” Prospo replied. “A salad and fried chicken. That sounds good.”

  Lee groaned as she grabbed her bag. “You’re hopeless . . . Come on. Let’s see what Dr. Penn has to say. This could be interesting.”

  There were backups on the freeway, some of which were caused by random checkpoints intended to catch terrorists. That forced Lee to take an exit and travel on arterials in order to reach the West Adams section of LA. The delays meant that the detectives were five minutes late when they pulled
into a slot two houses down from Penn’s bungalow.

  Lee made her way to the point where a poorly maintained walk led to a shabby porch and a door covered with peeling paint. That was when she saw the yellow sticky on the door: “Detective Lee, Please come in . . . I’ll be back in a minute. Alan.”

  Lee turned to look around, but other than Prospo, there was no one in sight. So she put her thumb on the latch and pushed. Lee felt the door give and knew it was unlocked. A hinge squeaked as she pushed it open. “Dr. Penn? Are you here?”

  There was no answer. So Lee went inside. Prospo followed. Judging from the worn furnishings, Penn didn’t have much money. Or, if he did, the academic chose not to spend it.

  They were standing there, waiting for Penn to arrive, when Lee noticed the heavy odor of cinnamon in the air. Some sort of deodorizer perhaps? Probably . . . And that was when Prospo grabbed hold of her arm. “Gas! I smell gas! Run!”

  Prospo turned toward the front entrance, and as he ran, Lee was right behind him. Fortunately, the door was wide open, which meant that Prospo could charge through without pausing. Lee was two steps back and closing on him when she felt the force of the blast. The explosion threw her forward, and both of them collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs as a loud BOOM shook the surrounding houses. Lee rolled over onto her back in time to see pieces of flaming debris climb high into the blue sky and trail smoke as they fell. Then Prospo grabbed the back of her collar and towed her down the path toward the sidewalk.

  Car alarms were shrieking by then, and a siren could be heard in the distance as Lee struggled to stand and look at the blazing inferno that had been Penn’s house. “It was a trap,” Prospo said thickly, “and the journal was bait.”

  Lee’s mind was reeling. The journal appeared to be real because it was real. But Penn wasn’t Penn, he was the Bonebreaker! And the criminologist was buried somewhere. “The Bonebreaker is here,” Lee said as she turned in a circle. “After flooding the house with gas, he used some sort of remote to trigger the blast.”