In keeping with a sign that ordered her to do so, Lee stopped next to a glass-enclosed shack and handed her ID to a uniformed security guard. His smooth-shaven face was professionally blank, and his words were stilted. “Your name is on the list. Please surrender your weapon. I will return it when you leave.”
“Dream on,” Lee said sweetly. “I can’t do that. But what I can do is radio in and ask for backup. Then the SWAT team will arrive, we’ll shut the complex down, and request a search warrant. Once we have that, we’ll go to Bishop Jones’s office and take a look around. You decide.”
The guard wasn’t allowed to make decisions. Especially ones that involved the bishop. “I need to check with my supervisor,” he said, and entered the shed, where Lee could see him talking on a phone. He was back moments later. “Please follow the signs to the visitor parking area and use slot three. Have a nice day.”
“You, too,” Lee said as she removed her foot from the brake. From there she followed the signs to slot three, where a young woman was waiting. She had shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, and was dressed in what looked like a sailor suit. “Good morning, Detective Lee,” the woman said, as Lee exited the car. “My name is Sharon—and I’ll be your guide.”
“Thanks,” Lee said, as she closed the door. “I have an appointment with Mr. Jones.”
“Yes,” Cindy acknowledged. “I know. Mr. Jones is in his office. Please take a seat on the cart, and I’ll drive you to building one.”
The golf cart was so well maintained that it appeared to be brand-new. A paved two-lane path led them past the first three buildings in the so-called “staircase” to the twenty-story building where, according to Sharon, “Bishop Jones is leading the effort to purify Pacifica.”
Lee knew that Sharon, like the rest of the church’s followers, believed that Bacillus nosilla had been sent by God to cleanse the planet of evil. And, since mutants were infected with BN, they were ipso facto evil . . . And evil should be eliminated. That included men, women, and children. The cart came to a stop in a small parking lot. “Please follow me,” Sharon said. “Bishop Jones’s office is located on the top floor.”
Of course it is, Lee thought to herself, as she followed Sharon through a security checkpoint and into the gleaming lobby beyond. A steady stream of people were coming and going. The men were dressed in snowy white shirts, blue blazers, and khakis, while the women wore Puritan-style blouses, knee-length skirts, and high heels. The latter were a mystery to Lee, who sought to avoid them whenever possible.
Sharon led Lee onto an elevator, which paused occasionally so that people could get on and off. A pair of stainless-steel doors parted to let them out on the twentieth floor. And as Lee followed Sharon into an expansive lobby, she saw that the domed ceiling and the surrounding walls were covered with beautifully executed murals.
The ones above her were replete with fluffy clouds, angelic beings, and joyful people, while those on the surrounding walls featured all manner of monsters. The heaven-and-hell motif had clearly been borrowed from traditional Christianity, with mutants standing in for demons. Never mind the fact that mutants were victims of a disease—not people who had chosen to be evil. The whole thing was massively screwed-up.
Sharon led Lee over to a huge desk, where she spoke with a prim-looking secretary who, like all of the other secretaries Lee had seen, was female. “You’re three minutes early,” the woman pointed out. “Please have a seat.”
Sharon apologized for the error and led Lee over to a nicely furnished sitting area. “We’ll wait here,” she said brightly. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Lee responded as she glanced at her watch. “I’m fine.”
Exactly two minutes and forty-five seconds later, the secretary waved them over. “Bishop Jones will see you now.”
“I’ll wait for you,” Sharon told Lee. “Have a nice meeting.”
Lee thanked her and had to circle the secretary’s desk in order to pass through a doorway. A privacy wall prevented her from going straight ahead, so it was necessary to turn left or right. Lee chose left and emerged in a brightly lit room. The windows along the south wall offered a sweeping view. Rather than the desk and credenza setup that Lee expected to see—a table large enough to seat a dozen people was located at the center of the space.
A shaft of light angled down through a skylight to splash a man in a gray business suit. A halo of fuzzy white hair circled his mostly bald pate, his skin was brown like hers, and when he stood, Lee saw that he was about five-five. As the bishop came around the table to greet her, Lee was struck by the stern expression on his jowly face. He had a deep basso voice and a firm handshake. “Good afternoon, Detective Lee . . . I’m Herman Jones.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lee replied. “Thanks for slotting me into what must be a very busy schedule.”
“I didn’t have much choice, now did I?” Jones said. “But I’m glad you came. I have nothing to hide. Please have a seat.”
Although most of the table was bare, Jones had clearly been working at it because there was a laptop and a scattering of printouts in front of what Lee imagined to be his favorite chair. Once they were seated, Lee placed the recorder in front of her and asked for permission to use it. “Absolutely,” Jones said. “And please be aware that I plan to record our conversation as well. In fact, I may decide to broadcast our conversation over the church’s radio station so that all of our members can hear it.”
“That’s up to you,” Lee replied, and wondered where the microphone was. Not that it mattered. “So,” she began. “You know why I’m here.”
“Of course,” Jones answered. “And if trying to protect the church’s members, not to mention the rest of Los Angeles, from mutants is a crime, then I’m guilty.”
“So you admit to cutting a deal with Mayor Getty.”
“Of course I admit it. You’ve seen the tape. More than that, I’m proud of it—and Mayor Getty should be as well. I hope that the DA indicts me. That would give me an opportunity to tell people how dangerous the mutants are. Many of them already know, of course . . . Church attendance is up thanks to the Aztec attacks and so are donations!”
Lee could tell that Jones was serious. The DA didn’t have much leverage where he was concerned. “I see,” she said, noncommittally. “And the deals with other people? Do you approve of those as well?”
Jones shrugged. “I don’t know anything about them, so I’m not qualified to say.”
That was a dodge but one Lee couldn’t counter. The trip had been a complete waste of time. She thumbed the STOP button and put the recorder in her bag. Then she stood. “Thanks for your time, Bishop . . . I’ll show myself out.”
Jones smiled for the first time since they’d met. And why not? He’d won. “Stop by any time, Detective Lee,” Jones said. “It was a pleasure.”
Sharon was waiting for Lee in the lobby and took her back to the sedan. Then she waved like a princess as Lee drove away. So far, including her last run-in with the Church of Human Purity, the score was one–one. Could she go one up? Time would tell.
Lee glanced at the readout on the dash. It was midafternoon by then, and she hadn’t had lunch. But rather than eat, she decided to visit Kane. Then she’d go back to the office.
It took more than half an hour to reach the MDC, fill out the same form all over again, and pass through security. The crowd in the waiting room was smaller than it had been during the last visit, and it was only ten minutes before her number was called.
Lee crossed the room and sat down in a grubby cubicle where thousands of painful conversations had taken place over the years. She was staring through scratched Plexiglas when Kane appeared. Her heart fell as she caught sight of the black eye, the white bandage across his nose, and the purplish lips. He’d been beaten and beaten badly. “Hey, hon,” Kane said, as he picked up the receiver and sat down opp
osite her. “This is a nice surprise. It’s good to see you.”
Lee frowned. “What happened?”
Kane tried to smile and winced instead. “There’s this guy . . . His name is Teddy Rexall—but the guys call him T-Rex. And when he began to pound on my buddy Tom—I decided to attack his fist with my face. How bad is it?”
“Your modeling career is over,” Lee informed him. “Fortunately, I’m more interested in your cooking than your good looks.”
“That’s a relief,” Kane replied. “I was worried.”
Lee pressed the palm of her right hand against the Plexiglas, and he did the same. “I’m sorry, baby,” Lee said. “Hang in there. We’re going to get you of here . . . I promise.”
“There’s no hurry,” Kane assured her. “I like the bologna sandwiches. With mustard.”
Lee laughed in spite of herself. “You’re crazy. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. I’m a psychologist.”
Lee smiled. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
That was followed by a long moment during which they stared at each other . . . As if to drink the images in and save them. Lee blew him a kiss. “I have to get back to work, babe . . . Call me.”
“I will,” Kane promised, and the visit came to an end. Lee could still see Kane’s battered face in her mind’s eye as she left the building—and felt a renewed sense of urgency about the need to get him out of there.
Once back in the office, Lee booted up her computer and scanned the list of e-mails that had accumulated during her absence. There were messages from Jenkins, Yanty, and Prospo. But it was the e-mail from Harmon Sloan that captured her attention. “Urgent—Call me.” The message consisted of a phone number.
Lee dialed it, and Sloan answered right away. He was grumpy as usual. “It’s about time . . . I spoke with Codicil. He verified what you told me. So, based on the new information, I’m going to interview Mr. Jarvis in half an hour. You can watch if you’re willing to keep your mouth shut. Can you handle that?”
Lee knew that Jarvis, AKA Tufenuf, was one of the men who had attacked Olin, and she was very eager to hear what he had to say. And, even if Sloan wasn’t very tactful, Lee knew he was being nice to her in his own way. Sloan could get into trouble for allowing her to be present. “No problem,” she said. “And thank you.”
Lee left the office in a hurry, got in the sedan, and drove to the LA County Jail. Sloan was waiting for her when she arrived, and they went through security together. After handing over their weapons, they were shown into one of the jail’s interview rooms. It was little more than a box with green walls, mismatched plastic furniture, and ceiling-mounted cameras.
There was a long, somewhat awkward silence. Sloan was a mystery to Lee. He didn’t like her, or anybody else so far as she could discern, yet he had chosen to help. And at some risk to himself. Why? The question went unanswered as the door opened and a man wearing a dark blue jumpsuit entered the room. He had close-cut hair, a smoothly handsome face, and his expression brightened when he saw Lee. “All right! That’s what I’m talking about. You’re fine, girl . . . What’s your name?”
“Her name is none of your business,” Sloan said sternly. “Sit down and shut up.”
Jarvis winked at Lee and took one of the two remaining chairs.
A guard had entered the room by then. He had a paunch and was clearly bored. “What’ll it be? Cuffs on? Or cuffs off?”
“Leave ’em on,” Sloan replied.
The guard nodded to the phone. “Dial five when you’re finished.” Then he left.
“Maybe my lawyer should be here,” Jarvis said hesitantly.
“Maybe so,” Sloan agreed. “It’s up to you. Or, maybe you’d like to have a chat without her. This has to do with the night D-Eddy got shot. We have a photo of you with your arm around a woman’s throat . . . A jury would love that. But what if I told you that we’re more interested in the woman than we are in you?”
Jarvis was a master of cool. But Lee could see the wheels turning as his eyes flicked to her and back to Sloan. “What’s in it for me?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” Sloan replied. “Only the prosecutor can do that. But if you’re helpful, I’ll ask him to reduce the charge to a misdemeanor. You could be back on the street by tomorrow night.”
Jarvis perked up. “Now you’re talking.”
“Good,” Sloan said. “So why did you and D-Eddy attack the woman? So you could rob her?”
Jarvis shook his head. “Hell, no . . . That bitch is a crackhead . . . And D-Eddy let her run a tab. He said she was somebody important but wouldn’t tell me who. Then, when the bill came due, the skank stiffed him. So we went out to teach her a lesson.” Jarvis shrugged. “That’s when D-Eddy got shot.”
“Did D-Eddy have a gun?”
“Yeah . . . He was pointing it at her.”
“What happened to it?”
“I took it.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I sold it for twenty nu.”
Sloan looked at Lee to gauge her reaction. Her mind was racing. Olin was a drug addict! Maybe she got hooked while working undercover or maybe anything . . . The process didn’t matter. The point was that she couldn’t come forward to help Kane without running the risk that her connection with D-Eddy would be revealed. And then she’d lose her badge. The whole thing made sense now—and Lee felt a sudden surge of hope. According to Jarvis, D-Eddy had been armed. Just like Kane said he was. She gave a nod, and Sloan turned to Jarvis.
“Okay, that’s more like it. I’m going to contact your attorney and the prosecutor . . . Then we’ll see what they can work out.”
Jarvis did a very good imitation of someone who didn’t have a care in the world. “Okay . . . Whatever.”
Once Jarvis had been taken away, and the detectives were outside the building and away from the cameras, they paused. Sloan eyed her. “I know where she is . . . It’s time for you to butt out.”
Lee nodded. “Yeah . . . You’re right. This is going to get real complicated, what with the feds and everything. I know you were doing your job,” Lee added. “But you didn’t have to keep me in the loop. Why did you?”
“I did it for your father,” Sloan replied. “We were partners for a few months immediately after you were born. We responded to a biker brawl . . . Two gangs were going at it. But when we arrived, both groups turned on us! I went down in the melee, and your dad pulled me out. He was cut, and it took eight stitches to close the wound. So I owed him . . . But not anymore.”
“No,” Lee agreed soberly. “Not anymore.”
They parted company after that . . . And Lee called Codicil to let him know about the new development. He was very excited and promised to get in touch with all the right people first thing in the morning—his hope being to get Kane out on bail pending a final resolution to the case. But rather than risk getting Kane’s hopes up only to have them dashed, they agreed to leave him out of the loop. For the first time in a long time, Lee went home feeling happy, had a glass of wine out on the deck, and watched the sun dip into the ocean. Kane would be home soon. She could feel it . . . And life was good.
• • •
The morning drive was a routine activity. A task so mundane that Lee could do it while thinking about other things, in this case Lawrence Kane and the vacation they would take once the murder charge was dropped. Where should they go? The San Juan Islands perhaps? That would be nice. Traffic was heavy, but not unusually so, and the sun was peeking over the horizon when a traffic light turned red. The bus in front of Lee came to a stop, forcing her to do likewise.
A pair of headlights appeared in Lee’s rearview mirror and caused her to take a second look. The garbage truck, like the bus in front of her, was a normal part of the early-morning scenery. But something was different. Lee could
n’t put her finger on it at first. Then she realized that the front-loading truck was holding a Dumpster out in front of it! That wouldn’t be unusual in a parking lot or an alley, but on a major arterial? Perhaps the driver is taking the container somewhere, Lee thought to herself. Then the Dumpster fell on her car.
• • •
Holby was out playing golf. That’s what his wife believed anyway. Wouldn’t she be surprised to know the truth? On orders from George Ma, Holby was about to kill Detective Cassandra Lee! Everybody knew that Lee was a crack shot. So, if Holby got into a shootout with her, he’d be toast. That’s where the garbage truck came in. It was big, it was powerful, and it would give him an all-important edge.
He pulled the control lever back, realized his mistake, and pushed it forward. That brought the so-called “can” down onto Lee’s car. It would have been nice to crush her then and there, but the lift arms weren’t long enough. So the plan was to immobilize the sedan while he got out and shot Lee through the driver’s side window.
The trunk of the car collapsed but, before Holby could apply the full weight of the Dumpster to the sedan, the light changed, and the bus pulled away. Rubber screeched as Lee stomped on the accelerator.
• • •
Lee did her best to shove her foot down through the floor in a desperate attempt to get out from under the descending Dumpster. Then she had to dynamite the brakes to avoid slamming into the back of the bus. But it wasn’t going to be enough. The truck was closing in. Lee was forced out into oncoming traffic. A horn blared as an oncoming delivery van barely got out of the way and smashed into a parked car. A sedan plowed into it, and steam billowed out of the engine compartment.
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