“What you mean is that he was here,” Prospo said disgustedly. “He’s long gone by now.”
Lee looked at him. “All I could smell was cinnamon.”
Prospo grinned and tapped his generously proportioned nose. “See this? It can detect a taco from a hundred feet away.”
Lee laughed, the first fire engine arrived on the scene, and a news helicopter appeared overhead. It was going to be a very long day.
• • •
Mayor Melissa Getty entered the wood-paneled press conference room at precisely 3:00 P.M. It was crammed with reporters of every possible stripe. Lights strobed as the still photographers clicked away, camera operators jostled each other for position, and reporters tried to elbow their way to the front of the crowd. None of them knew what Getty was going to say—but all of them had a feeling that she was about to drop some sort of bombshell. The result was a feeding frenzy. As Getty stepped up to a thicket of prepositioned microphones, she was having something akin to an out-of-body experience. It felt as if she were looking down on herself the way a spectator would while analyzing what was about to take place.
Getty had been an English major before making the switch to political science in college. As such, she’d been entranced by the perfection of the poem “If—” by Rudyard Kipling. And there was one passage that seemed especially apt given what she was about to do.
“If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose, and start again at your beginnings and never breathe a word about your loss,” Kipling had written, and that described what she was about to do. Because consistent with Yessum’s advice, Getty had decided to release the incriminating tape herself rather than wait for someone to leak it.
That would give her the opportunity to put her own spin on the content. And if she lost the next election, then so what? She was happily married, her husband had a lot of money, and she’d be free to do whatever she wanted. As for Silverman, Jones, and the rest, they’d have to fend for themselves. But if they were smart, they’d fall in line and back her narrative.
Getty turned to make eye contact with Press Secretary Marv Barker. He was vehemently opposed to the “let it all hang out” plan. Was he right? No second thoughts, Getty told herself as she gave him the nod. You have a plan. Stick to it.
Barker addressed the room. “Okay, everybody . . . You can go to our Web site for the press release and the video that the mayor is going to tell you about. She won’t be taking questions . . . But there will be a follow-up press availability within the next couple of days. Thank you.”
At that point all eyes and cameras turned to focus on Getty. She smiled. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming on such short notice. As most if not all of you know, rumors about me have been circulating of late. And given all of the problems that face this city, I thought it would be a good idea to clear the air so we can focus our energies on terrorism and real, rather than contrived, issues.
“Marv told you that a video has been posted to the city’s Web site. It consists of vignettes, clips really, from five different conversations all captured by a security camera located in a friend’s apartment. Unfortunately, he was killed during the Aztec assault on our city, but it seems that some of his belongings, including security videos, were stolen by parties unknown.”
Getty paused at that point, and as her eyes swept the room, she saw that she had their full attention. Secret tapes! The press was enthralled—and some were trying to access the Internet. “So,” Getty continued, “since we don’t know who took what must have been a number of tapes, we don’t know why. Not for sure.
“But it seems safe to assume that one of my political rivals was involved. Especially since they went to great lengths to edit the videos in a way that would make it appear that I, along with prominent people including Syd Silverman, Carolina Moss, George Ma, Jack Stryker, and Herman Jones, was plotting to win the next election.”
Getty smiled. “Well, guess what . . . ? We were plotting to win the next election! That’s how politics works. And I need to win if I’m going to build on the successes we’ve had so far. But as you watch the vignettes, here’s something you won’t see . . . You won’t see me accepting anything that would benefit me personally. What you will see is a cynical attempt to win the next election through the use of doctored security videos. So if you want answers regarding the tape, I suggest that you take your questions to the people who have the motive to publish lies about me. Thank you.”
And, with that, Getty left the room. At least a dozen reporters shouted questions at her back, all of which went unanswered. Channel 7’s Carla Zumin was one of those people—and she was looking forward to viewing the tape. Was Getty correct? Was the tape part of a plot to discredit her? Or had she and the rest of the press corps been witness to a bullshit blizzard? Time would tell.
THIRTEEN
LEE AND PROSPO had been forced to remain at the scene of the blast all afternoon and into the evening in order to make sure that potential evidence was properly gathered and preserved. That was especially important in light of the fact that the house might have been the scene of a murder. It was too early to say for sure, but the real Dr. Penn was missing and presumed dead.
Everyone involved in the investigation assumed that the Bonebreaker had set the trap and triggered the blast, but there was no proof of that. And there wouldn’t be unless fingerprints found in the Bonebreaker’s underground hideout could be matched to those on one or more pieces of debris. And that search was going to take a lot of time and effort.
Because of this, the police had not released any information regarding a potential connection to the serial killer. So while noteworthy, not to mention scary, the incident didn’t generate the kind of news coverage it would have had the press been aware of the Bonebreaker connection. And Mayor Getty’s afternoon press conference overshadowed the explosion, relegating it to page two in the Times. The press was fixated on it. And they weren’t alone. When Lee dragged herself into the office the following morning, she found that her fellow police officers were talking about little else. And there was a note taped to her computer screen. “My office, 8:00, Sean.”
So Lee barely had time to eyeball her e-mail and grab a cup of coffee before making her way to Jenkins’s office. As Lee entered, she discovered that Chief Yessum and Assistant Chief Wolfe were already there. “Close the door,” Jenkins instructed, “and take a seat.”
Lee did as she was told. The only available chair was located next to Wolfe. The other woman winked at her as if to say “I’m in the same boat you are.”
“Okay,” Yessum began, “all of you know why we’re here. Someone gave a copy of the Maxim tape to the mayor, and rather than wait for the DA to drop charges on her, she went public. I ordered the IA folks to investigate, and once they find the culprit, I will bring them up on charges.” Yessum’s gun-barrel eyes roamed from face to face. “That includes the people in this room should the evidence point your way.”
No one said anything—so Yessum continued. “As you can imagine, my phone is ringing off the hook. Most of the questions are the same. Will the investigation continue? And will I, as a friend of Mayor Getty’s, cut her some slack?
“The answer to the first question is an emphatic ‘yes.’ The DA looks at it this way . . . The mayor came very close to confessing during her press conference. So he’s confident of scoring a win there. But what else is she hiding? That’s what he wants to know.
“As for the second question, the answer is an equally emphatic ‘no,’” Yessum added. “I won’t back off—and neither will you.” His eyes swung over to Lee. “Tell your team that . . . And put more pressure on Getty’s coconspirators. They’re facing a clear choice now. They can sing her tune, and stick to her story, or they can go their separate ways.
“Emphasize the obvious,” Yessum said. “Point out that the first person to roll is like
ly to get the best deal. Especially if they have new information to offer . . . stuff that isn’t on the Maxim tape. Understood?”
Lee nodded. “Yes, sir. But what about the Bonebreaker? It looks like he murdered a civilian—and he blew up a house yesterday.”
Jenkins offered a wry smile. “Because you were in it!”
“I’m glad that you and Detective Prospo survived,” Yessum put in. “And Wolfe here will push for hard evidence linking the Bonebreaker to the explosion. But I want you and your team to stay focused on the Getty thing.”
Lee had mixed emotions about that—but all she could do was agree. There was more, but it was relatively trivial, and the meeting came to an end fifteen minutes later.
Lee caught Yanty and Prospo just as they cleared roll call and led them to a vacant conference room for an impromptu meeting. After Lee brought them up to speed on the meeting, she asked for status reports. Yanty spoke first. “You remember what I said earlier? That George Ma didn’t want to meet with me? Well, I think I know why . . . Not only did he cut a deal with Getty—there’s a possibility that he’s working with the Aztecs.”
Prospo frowned. “Say what?”
“Since Ma wouldn’t talk to me,” Yanty said, “I went looking for someone who would. And that person turned out to be Ma’s personal assistant. A woman named Lora Millich. She was a cocktail waitress in one of Ma’s casinos before he hired her to take care of his personal needs.”
Lee frowned. “So you walked up to Ma’s personal assistant, ordered her to spill her guts, and she obeyed.”
“Hell no,” Yanty responded. “I had Misty run her name and guess what? The real Lora Millich is eighty-two years old, and lives in Medford, Oregon!”
“So I’ll bite,” Lee said. “Who is this woman?”
“Misty ran her driver’s license photo through the Facial Recognition System and came up with one Anna Kolak,” Yanty replied. “She’s wanted for embezzlement, fraud, and identity theft in Oregon.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Prospo said. “Yanty did some work.”
“Somebody has to,” Yanty replied smugly.
“All right, you two,” Lee said, “save it for your nightclub act. Nice job, Dick . . . You blackmailed her.”
“That would be unprofessional,” Yanty objected. “I merely suggested that she tell me everything there is to know about Ma, or I’d send her to jail.”
Lee grinned. “Right . . . That’s completely different. And?”
“The border is reasonably secure at the moment,” Yanty said, “and Ma went down there. While he was there, he met with a woman known as Senora Avilar. The name didn’t mean anything to me, and the records check that Misty ran didn’t produce anything, so I made a call to a friend who works for the Federal Counterintelligence Agency. He told me that Avilar is the nom de guerre used by a high-ranking Aztec agent . . . And he wants to be copied on anything that we come up with.”
“Wow,” Lee said, “that’s interesting. So what did Ma and Avilar talk about?”
“Kolak didn’t know,” Yanty confessed. “She wasn’t present when the two of them met.”
“But she’s going to try to find out,” Lee said. “Or take a trip to Oregon. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay . . . Let’s keep this to ourselves for the moment. Some asshole leaked info to the mayor—so it’s hard to know whom to trust. How ’bout you, Milo? Did you have any luck with Stryker?”
“We’re dancing the dance,” Prospo replied. “But I’m getting together with Stryker and his attorney this afternoon.”
“His attorney? Maybe he’s about to roll.”
“Or clam up,” Yanty said cynically.
Prospo shrugged. “Let’s hope for the best. I’ll let you know.”
After the meeting with Yanty and Prospo, Lee returned to her desk. In addition to the Bonebreaker and Getty cases, Lee had a third investigation to worry about because Kane was still in jail.
Things had been looking up for a while. But now, in the wake of Olin’s refusal to cooperate, the effort to help Kane was stalled. And for the life of her, Lee couldn’t see how to get things off dead center without taking yet another trip over the ethical line. Because good cops follow the rules. But a good cop wouldn’t let an innocent man be convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, Lee told herself.
That’s nothing but self-serving spin, the other her countered. If you’re going to step over the line, then do it. But spare me the bullshit.
Lee sat there for the better part of five minutes, staring at an e-mail without seeing it. Finally, with an empty feeling at the pit of her stomach, she got up and went looking for Detective Harmon Sloan. The obvious starting place was the bull pen.
After getting directions from a clerk, Lee entered a confusing maze of cubicles, stacks of cardboard evidence boxes, and water-starved plants. And it was deep inside the bull pen that Lee found Sloan. He was well past middle age, balding, and dressed in an outfit that consisted of a white shirt, a bow tie, and an argyle sweater. A pair of brown cords and hush puppies completed the look.
Sloan was on the phone, and when he saw her, he pointed at his guest chair. Lee had to remove a well-worn leather briefcase in order to sit on it. As his conversation came to an end, Sloan turned in her direction. “Hi,” Lee said, “I’m . . .”
“I know who you are,” Sloan said. “Everyone does. I wondered when you’d show up.”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. You’re in a relationship with Dr. Kane, he’s in jail, and you want to get him out. Plus you think you’re a big deal. So it was only a matter of time before you came to see me.”
Lee wasn’t sure what to make of Sloan’s attitude. His eyes were like black buttons, and they never blinked. “Well, you’re right,” she said. “About the Kane part. Here I am.”
“Yes,” Sloan said peevishly. “Here you are. But you shouldn’t be. Not if you plan to interfere.”
“That isn’t my intention,” Lee assured him. “I want to alert you to some new information regarding Dr. Kane’s case.”
“This isn’t about the missing woman is it?” Sloan demanded. “I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve heard about her from Dr. Kane and his attorney. And I looked for her, I really did, but without success.”
“As a matter of fact, it is about her,” Lee told him. “Mr. Codicil hired private investigators to learn the woman’s identity—and to find out where her mother lives.” That was only part of the story of course—but Lee wasn’t about to reveal her role in finding Olin.
Lee went on to tell Sloan about the fact that Olin was a fed who might or might not be working undercover, and wasn’t willing to cooperate. Finally, when she was finished, Sloan blinked for the first time. “So why are you here? Mr. Codicil has my phone number.”
It was a good question and one Lee should have been ready to answer. All she could do was try to spin it. “There’s a law-enforcement angle to this . . . What if Olin is undercover? That isn’t the sort of thing that Codicil’s likely to worry about.”
Sloan nodded as if that was a reasonable reply. “I’ll have a talk with Mr. Codicil,” he said. “I’d like to hear all of that information directly from him. In the meantime, I want you to back off.”
“By all means,” Lee said meekly. “I will.” And with that she left. Sloan hadn’t mentioned Internal Affairs, thank God. Did that mean he wouldn’t call them? No. All Lee could do was hope that he wouldn’t.
Having done what she could, Lee returned to her desk where she retrieved her bag and the recorder she used to conduct interviews. Five people had been taped cutting deals with Getty in her boyfriend’s apartment—and one of them hadn’t received any attention as yet. His name was Bishop Herman Jones. And, as head of the Church of Human Purity, Jones had been willing to support Getty’s reelection effort if she promised t
o leave LA’s stringent antimutant ordinances in place.
Lee thought it was a weak case since the argument could be made that Getty was doing what politicians were supposed to do . . . And that was to talk to constituents and represent their interests. But Lee thought it was important to interview all of the coconspirators, Jones included.
Lee made her way onto the Harbor Freeway and followed it for a while before exiting onto West Pico Boulevard. The complex that housed the church consisted of four buildings, all of which were located on the site of the old convention center. Because they were of different heights, and “stair-stepped” up from the smallest to the largest, media wags had taken to calling them the “staircase to heaven.”
Lee had been there before and knew the drill. In order to enter the well-groomed compound, Lee had to show her ID. Then she was allowed to cross the moatlike “water feature” and pass through a gate in the twelve-foot-high “peace wall” that was intended to protect the church’s buildings from the sort of unrest that had taken place back in 2038.
During the days immediately after the release of the plague, hundreds of thousands of people had entered Los Angeles, attempting to get the kind of medical attention that wasn’t available in the suburbs or rural areas. In a matter of days, all hotels were full, and people were sleeping in parks. In an effort to house and control them, large numbers of refugees were sent to the city’s convention center. But in a short period of time, that facility was filled to overflowing. So it wasn’t long before food ran out, sanitation broke down, and B. nosilla began to spread.
More than a thousand brave volunteers went to help and thanks to their efforts the situation was brought under control. But half of those in the convention center were dead by then—and it took convoys of trucks to remove the bodies.
What happened thereafter was still in question. Some people believed that an accidental blaze destroyed the convention center; others claimed that the fire had been set, but the result was the same either way. The convention center had been reduced to a pile of rubble and might still be that way had it not been for the previous bishop, who offered to lease the land from the city in 2040. There had been lots of more urgent projects for the mayor and city council to fund, so they agreed to a hundred-year lease. The project took three years to complete. The final result was a church housed within a fortress.
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