Yessum shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that there’s more.”
“What? Is Ma going to roll over, too?”
“Not that I know of,” Yessum replied. “But this involves him.”
Getty listened in shocked silence as Yessum told her about her husband’s gambling debts, the way Ma had used that leverage to turn her husband into a hit man, and what appeared to be his failed attempt on Detective Lee’s life. It was a shocking allegation. But a credible one. Mark was a weak man . . . That, plus his wealth, was why Getty had chosen him. She was strong enough for two people. “So what’s going to happen to him?” she inquired.
“We’ll find Mark,” Yessum predicted. “And we’ll charge him with murder. At this point, it looks as though he killed a sanitation worker in order to go after Lee. And, while we hold him on that charge, we’ll examine the possibility that he shot Chief Corso as well.”
Getty sat up straight. “Corso? Why would Mark do that?”
“There are two possibilities,” Yessum answered. “Maybe Ma ordered him to do it as a way to slow if not halt the investigation. Or maybe he took a shot at Corso as part of a misguided effort to protect you. Maybe he figured that once Corso was dead, you’d be able to choose a chief who would kill the investigation.”
Getty stared at him. “And I chose you.”
“Yes, you did. But the situation was too far gone by then. Tell me something, Melissa . . . How much does Mark know about our relationship? When we catch him, is he going to blab about it? If so I’m about to have problems of my own.”
Getty shook her head. “No, Sam, he doesn’t know anything about that part of our relationship. And I won’t tell.”
“Here’s your coffee,” Chloe said as she entered, carrying a tray. “But be careful . . . It’s very hot.”
Yessum thanked her and waited for the secretary to leave before picking up where they’d left off. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Does the press know about Mark?”
“Not yet,” Yessum replied. “But they will soon.”
“I think that closes the door,” Getty said. “I’ll discuss the situation with my staff, but it would be silly to stay on.”
“So you’ll resign?”
“Probably, yes.”
“And if Mark contacts you?”
A single tear rolled down Getty’s cheek. Was it for her? Or was it for him? Getty wasn’t sure. “If Mark contacts me, I’ll dial 911,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
• • •
Even though the garbage-truck attack seemed like ancient history by that time, it had occurred earlier that day, and after receiving a late-afternoon call from Marvin Codicil, Lee left work early. And now she was on her way to get Kane. The feds had been notified about Olin and promised to investigate, but there wasn’t much doubt as to what they would find. Then, within a matter of days, the murder charge would be dropped. And that was why Kane had been able to make bail. Lee felt nervous and didn’t know why. She knew Kane, after all . . . But what if things had changed? For him, yes, but for her as well. Lee had put Kane’s marriage behind her, as well as his failure to tell her about it, or had she? Lee would know the answer soon.
The sedan was a beater that the folks in the motor pool referred to as “the garage queen” because that’s where the ancient car spent most of its time. But it was the best vehicle they’d been able to come up with on short notice. One of the belts was screeching as Lee turned into the parking lot. Then, as she guided the sedan into one of the slots, Lee had to stand on the brake pedal to keep from hitting a waist-high concrete wall.
Once the car stopped, Lee got out, locked the doors, and began the short walk to the MDC and the side door through which prisoners were released. And that was where Marvin Codicil, Carla Zumin, and her camera operator were waiting.
“Hi,” Zumin said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Lee made a face. “Someone tipped you off.”
“Of course someone tipped me off,” Zumin said shamelessly, as the camera operator turned to capture the conversation. “So let’s catch up,” Zumin said. “Is it true that the Mayor’s husband, Dr. Mark Holby, tried to kill you with a garbage truck?”
Lee sighed. “It’s true that someone murdered a sanitation worker, stole his truck, and tried to kill me with it. But I didn’t see the driver.”
“But the department issued an APB on Holby,” Zumin insisted. “What does that suggest?”
“I think you should contact our Public Affairs office for information on that,” Lee replied. “I have no comment.”
“Okay, let’s change subjects,” Zumin said. “I understand that Dr. Kane is about to get out on bail. How do you feel about that?”
“It’s long overdue,” Lee replied carefully.
“Why is he being released now?” Zumin demanded. “What happened?”
“New information has come to light regarding the case,” Codicil put in. “We can’t share the details yet, but suffice it to say that Dr. Kane is innocent, and we’re confident that the charge against him will be dropped soon.”
Zumin was about to follow up, but the door opened, and a young man in his twenties emerged. He saw the camera, pulled his sweatshirt up over his head, and hurried away.
Kane appeared next. He blinked as if unused to the sunlight, and Lee was shocked by how pale he was. The black eye was better but still in the process of healing. His trademark grin was firmly in place, however—and his sense of humor was intact. “Really? Only one camera? My feelings are hurt.”
“Carla Zumin, Channel Seven News,” the reporter said as she shoved a mike in his face. “You’re a well-known psychologist . . . What was it like to spend weeks in jail?”
“The food was execrable, I had to watch a lot of daytime television, and it’s noisy at night. But I got my first tattoo . . . Would you like to see it?”
Of course Zumin wanted to see it. And as Kane rolled up his sleeve the camera zoomed in. And there, on his slightly reddened bicep, was a well-executed likeness of Lee’s face. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Kane said proudly. “The guy who did it is a pro . . . His name is Nicky, and he’s waiting to be arraigned.”
All three of the other people turned to look at Lee. “I think the tattoo says it all,” Zumin said. “Don’t you?”
The truth was that Lee didn’t like tattoos, not most of them anyway, but she had to admit that this one was special. She wasn’t looking at Zumin or the camera. Her eyes were on Kane. “Yes,” she said simply. “I think it does.”
• • •
The sun had started to set as Holby drove north. And as the orb went down, so did his spirits. What had begun as a promising day had been transformed into a rolling disaster. The attempt to kill Detective Lee had been an abject failure. And somehow, by means that weren’t clear to him, the police had successfully ID’d him. A fact made clear by the fact that the public had been urged to be on the lookout for Dr. Mark Holby.
As a result, he’d been forced to ditch his car and steal another from an old lady in a supermarket parking lot. Had the police been able to connect him with carjacking? He didn’t know . . . But even if they hadn’t, he was still in trouble.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Melissa was in hot water, too . . . And partly because of him. That made his heart ache because he was in love with his wife. Unfortunately now, when they needed each other most, they couldn’t communicate. Were the police monitoring Melissa’s phone calls? And watching their home? Of course they were.
That left Holby with only one person that he could turn to: George Ma. Which was why he was headed north on I-5. He was supposed to meet the businessman at a truck stop called Joe’s Travel Plaza up in Castaic. Why Ma wanted to meet him there wasn’t clear, but the trip would get Holby out of LA, which was a good thing.
So when Holby s
aw the brightly lit sign for Joe’s Travel Plaza, he followed a sixteen-wheeler off the freeway. It led him straight to the truck stop. Joe’s was huge, with what seemed like acres of parking, and lines to buy fuel. There was a restaurant, too . . . And according to the brightly illuminated signs, truckers could get a haircut there, take a shower, and watch sports on a big-screen TV. But that was the last thing on Holby’s mind.
He wanted to find Ma—and to do that, he had to make a call. Though no expert on such things, Holby knew that the police could track cell phones. So after throwing his phone away, Holby purchased a disposable plus some tacos at a convenience store. And that’s what he used to call Ma. The phone rang three times before a male voice answered. “Yeah?”
“This is Mark Holby. I just arrived.”
“Go to the northwest corner of the lot and look for the trailer with the name Dobson Logistics printed on it.” Click.
Holby followed the directions he’d been given, spotted the truck, and parked the car fifty feet away. As Holby got out and began to approach the big rig he saw that two men were busy working on a tire. Or were they? As the men stood and turned to face him Holby got the feeling that they were muscle. Paid muscle. One of them spoke. He was built like a fire hydrant—short and strong. “You need something, pal?”
“Yes,” Holby replied. “I’m here to see Mr. Ma.”
“Your name?”
“Holby.”
The man nodded. “Follow me.”
Holby could hear the persistent purr of a generator as the man led him to the back of the trailer and some fold-down stairs. That was when Holby realized that Ma was inside the trailer. And he wondered why. “Go on up,” the man instructed. “Knock on the door.”
Holby did as he was told. He had to back down one step as the right-hand door swung out and threatened to hit him. A man was waiting to greet him. There was a smile on his face. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Come in . . . Mr. Ma is expecting you.”
Holby stepped up and in. Much to his surprise, the interior was nicely lit and tastefully furnished. He was taking that in when two thugs stepped in to grab his arms. “Search him,” Smiley ordered. One of the men put a pistol to Holby’s head while the other patted him down. “Holy shit,” the second man said, as he jerked the Contender out of its holster. “What the hell is this?”
“Keep looking,” Smiley said, as he accepted the pistol. “He might have a backup.”
The search continued but didn’t turn up anything more than a wallet, some change, and a pocketful of loose .45 cartridges. “Okay,” the second man said. “He’s clean.”
“Good,” Smiley said, as he stepped into position. The blow hit Holby in the gut and was enough to bring the tacos up. Smiley took a step back. “Hurt him, but leave his face alone.”
The beating lasted for less than a minute but seemed to last forever. And if it hadn’t been for the man who was holding him, Holby would have fallen face-first into his own vomit. “That’s enough,” a voice that Holby recognized as belonging to George Ma said. “Clean up the mess and bring him here. Dr. Holby and I are going to have a chat.”
Holby wanted to throw up again but didn’t have anything left to give as they escorted him back to a nicely furnished lounge and ordered him to sit on what looked like a kitchen chair. A coffee table separated them, and Ma was seated on a couch. “So, Dr. Holby . . . You want my help.”
Holby wiped the last of the vomit off his lips. “Yes,” he said weakly. “The police are after me.”
“Yes, they are,” Ma agreed. “You were given a mission and failed. Why should I help you?”
“I almost killed her,” Holby said defensively. “But she managed to escape.”
“Just like you almost killed Chief Corso,” Ma observed. “Almost isn’t good enough. Let me explain something to you, Doctor . . . Because your wife was stupid enough to let someone tape our conversations, and because you are a grade-A fuck-up, I have to leave the country. But the only place I can go is the Aztec Empire—and they won’t grant me asylum until Detective Lee is dead.
“Now, I could send a professional after her . . . And maybe I will. But that would cost money, and I need to conserve my capital. So I’m going to give you another chance. If you kill her, really kill her, I’ll arrange for you to cross the border with me. You won’t be rich, but I will take fifty thou off what you owe me, and the freaks can use a dentist. In fact, I’ll bet some of them have extra teeth! So get out there and kill Detective Lee or die here . . . It’s up to you.”
Holby’s mouth was dry and when he tried to speak, all that emerged was a croak. So he tried again. “I’ll need some expense money, a different car, and a way to contact you when it’s over.”
Ma was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “Okay, Doctor . . . But don’t disappoint me again. We’ll kill your wife if you do.”
Holby was horrified. Melissa! If they killed Melissa, it would be his fault! “Don’t do that,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”
• • •
When Lee awoke, it was to the feeling that something was different. But what? Then she heard the rasp of Kane’s breathing and knew . . . He was back! And the knowledge filled her with joy. His homecoming had been enjoyable to say the least. Lee didn’t like to cook but could get the job done when she had to, and was determined to stage a warm welcome. So they had steaks, grilled veggies, and a bottle of Shiraz. But good though the meal was, Lee barely noticed the food. Both of them had a lot to share—and the conversation lasted for hours.
Then they went to bed. The lovemaking was tentative at first, but it wasn’t long before the awkwardness vanished, and chemistry took over. There was a long slow build followed by a spectacular conclusion. And, like most men, Kane was asleep five minutes later.
Not Lee, however. She was thinking about all of the changes in her life and what they might mean. For many years Lee hadn’t been sure what happiness would consist of. But finally, just before sleep overtook her, Lee discovered the truth: Happiness was what she had.
So as Lee got out of bed and showered she was in a good mood. To celebrate, Lee had a breakfast burrito at her favorite Mexican restaurant before heading off to work. As far as she knew, Holby was still on the loose, as was the Bonebreaker, so she kept a sharp eye out until she reached the safety of the headquarters parking lot.
As soon as Lee arrived at her desk, she checked to see if there were any new developments regarding Holby, Ma, and the Bonebreaker. But there weren’t any, and that meant she was free to tackle the administrative work that had piled up. Time passed quickly, and it was well into the afternoon when the phone rang for what might have been the twentieth time. “Detective Lee.”
“This is Carla Zumin,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“If you’re calling about Dr. Holby, I don’t have anything new to share,” Lee replied.
“No, I’m not,” Zumin replied. “This is about the Bonebreaker. I may have a lead.”
There was something different about Zumin’s manner. The normally self-confident reporter sounded hesitant. As if unsure of herself. “What kind of a lead?” Lee wanted to know.
“The Bonebreaker has to be hiding somewhere, right? Well, a source tipped me off to a suspicious man who matches the pictures you put out.”
Lee knew Zumin was referring to art that the LAPD had commissioned to show what the serial killer might look like . . . Realizing that he was a master of disguise. Still, a sighting would be a big deal. “So why did your source call you instead of me?”
“Because he knows I’ll give him fifty bucks, and you won’t,” Zumin replied. “So how ’bout it? Would you like to see what might or might not be the Bonebreaker’s latest hideout? He isn’t there anymore . . . But who knows? Maybe he left some evidence lying around.”
“Okay,” Lee said. “We’ll take a look . . . What’s the address?”
“There isn’t going to be any ‘we,’” Zumin replied. “I want this scoop for myself . . . And if you roll in with an army of forensic geeks, the competition will be there in minutes. You come, tell me if you think the place is worth bringing the tech heads in, and I’ll have what I need.”
Lee sighed. Zumin was predictable if nothing else. “Okay, what’s the address?”
In spite of Zumin’s insistence that Lee come alone she figured it would be a good idea to bring backup. Who knew? Maybe Holby would attack her with a bus.
Unfortunately, neither Yanty nor Prospo were available. So Lee was determined to be extravigilant as she drove the car out of the parking lot. According to the information displayed on the nav screen, Lee’s destination was deep within the old industrial area in the southeast part of downtown. That put it inside the zone slated for redevelopment under Mayor Getty’s “Flash Forward” urban development program. Would the initiative go down with her? Time would tell.
There wasn’t a whole lot of traffic inside the warehouse district. The area was in the midst of a slow-motion transition from shabby to chic and had been for a long time. Some of the buildings stood tall, but others were slumped under the weight of time, and waiting for the wrecking crews to arrive.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the nav system announced cheerfully. Lee brought the car to a stop in front of what had been the Caldwell Bottling Company’s main plant. The white letters were barely legible over the arched entryway—and the street address was spray painted on a wall to the right. The building was six stories tall, made of red brick, and seemed to radiate gloom. Dozens of empty-eyed windows stared down at Lee as she pulled in next to one of Channel 7’s brightly colored vans.
It was strangely quiet for a neighborhood in the heart of the city . . . And if it hadn’t been for the van Lee would have called for a black-and-white before venturing inside. Even so, she drew the .38, removed her waist-length jacket, and draped it over the pistol. The Glock was visible under her right arm. But the Smith & Wesson was hidden—and that could give her an edge.
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