by Steve Gannon
*****
“Nate? You awake?” I called, hesitating outside my son’s bedroom door. Although it was past midnight, light was filtering from beneath a crack at the bottom of his door.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m still up,” Nate’s voice came back.
“Good. We need to talk.” I opened the door and stepped inside. Nate’s bedside light was on, and he was sitting at his desk writing on a yellow pad of paper.
I looked around the room, again thinking that it looked like a tornado had just passed through. “Jeez, what’s with the mess?”
Nate glanced around, seeming surprised by the condition of his bedroom. “I’ll . . . I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”
“See that you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What were you writing?”
Nate turned the yellow pad facedown on his desk. “Nothing. Just homework.”
This wasn’t going the way I wanted. After my conversation with Dorothy, I had remained on the swing after she’d gone to bed, thinking about what she had said. I still rejected the idea that something was wrong with Nate. Like every member of our family, he had been through some hard times, and his sadness was understandable. On the other hand, I had learned not to discount Dorothy’s opinion. Although I didn’t understand how, Dorothy, like Catheryn, often simply knew things. And she thought Nate was in trouble.
“Can’t sleep, huh?” I said.
Nate shook his head. “Actually, I haven’t been sleeping much lately. Sleep is overrated. Do you know that lots of people get by on just a couple hours of sleep each day?”
“Is that so? Is this something you’re trying to do? Get by on less sleep?”
“Maybe,” Nate answered. “I just finished reading a book on Ubersleep. The book talks about polyphasic sleep systems—forty-five minute naps several times a day and you’re good to go. A number of famous people like Leonardo da Vinci, Napoleon, and Tesla were polyphasic sleepers.”
“I always try to get eight hours myself,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not sure functioning on a couple hours of sleep is a good idea, Nate.”
Nate shrugged, not meeting my gaze. “Whatever.”
For some reason, Nate seemed agitated. He had been bouncing his left leg as we talked, his nervous movement vibrating items on his desk.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” I asked, glancing at his leg.
“Huh?” Nate replied. Then, catching on, “Oh. Burns off energy. It’s a good way to get exercise.”
“Can you stop, please?”
Again, Nate shrugged. He stopped briefly, then started up again, seemingly unaware of what he was doing. “What did you want to talk about, Dad?” he asked.
“You okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Grandma Dorothy thinks something is wrong with you. We talked about this before, but—”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Nate interrupted, suddenly angry. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”
“Everyone? Who else?”
“Those morons at Samohigh, for instance,” Nate shot back. “By the way, I quit the baseball team. You’ll be hearing about that soon enough, I imagine.”
“You quit the Vikings? Why?”
“Because nobody over there likes me. Besides, it’s a stupid game, and I was never any good at it anyway.”
“You were good at it, Nate. And you still are. Where did you get the idea that you weren’t? You were the Viking’s starting pitcher last season. I thought you liked playing ball.”
“Not anymore.”
“I can’t believe that. How’s about next weekend you and I toss the ball around on the beach? Maybe you’ll—”
“I gave away my glove, Dad,” Nate broke in again. “Look, baseball isn’t important to me anymore. A lot of things aren’t important anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, surprised by Nate’s sudden anger.
“I’m sorry, too, Dad. I know you’re disappointed,” Nate went on, his anger suddenly deflating. “And I’m sorry that you’re worried about me. I know most of the problems around here are my fault. I don’t want to make things worse for you, or for anyone else.”
“You’re not making things worse, Nate. I’m just concerned. And so is Grandma Dorothy. You seem so sad sometimes. I understand, I really do. Your mother’s death was—”
“I don’t want to talk about mom.”
I hesitated, then pushed on. “I know we discussed this before, but if you ever want to get some counseling—”
“I don’t. And don’t worry about me. Things will get better soon, I promise.”
“Okay,” I sighed, unsure of where to go from there. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we try to get some sleep, and not the polyphasic kind, either,” I added with a smile. “And if you ever want to talk . . .”
Although Nate smiled back, his eyes were hollow and empty. “You know I love you, Dad,” he said.
“I know that, Nate,” I replied, now more confused than ever. “I love you, too.”
Chapter 25
Hey, Kane. What’s the difference between pizza and an award-winning foreign film?”
Along with Taylor and four other Bureau agents, I had been on stakeout in Westwood for the past week, detailed to one of the FBI’s pizza-sting operations. Like me, everyone there was tired, bored, and more than a little sick of pizza. Nevertheless, it was better than interviewing uncooperative mullahs and running down questionable hot-line tips. “I give up, Jenkins,” I said, turning from a second-story window to regard the agent who’d asked. “What’s the difference?”
Jenkins looked up from a game of solitaire he had spread across a nearby desk. “Simple,” he laughed. “Pizzas are good.”
“After eating pizza for seven straight days, one could argue that,” Taylor noted from her station at a window across the room. “Speaking of which, whose idea was this pizza sting, anyway?”
“Kane’s,” grumbled Frank Gillespie, another stakeout agent. “I swear, if I eat one more slice of pepperoni, I’m gonna puke.”
“No one’s forcing that pizza down your throat, Frank,” I pointed out.
Gillespie grinned. “What can I say? It calls to me.”
I smiled and resumed staring out at the street, waiting for our next pizza delivery. Not every delivery vehicle leaked oil, but from the ones that did we were getting clean samples. So far none of the collected oil had matched the drips found at the Welch residence, but the comparison process took twenty-four hours, and we still hadn’t received the results from material gathered the previous day. Nevertheless, after a week of ordering pizza, things didn’t look good. And this was assuming the terrorists hadn’t gone in for an oil change in the meantime.
None of the tire-tread impressions recovered from sections of cardboard laid across our pizza-sting driveways had matched the casts from the Welches’ estate, either. Nor had a murder squad shown up at any of the sting locations. The general feeling was that if our operation were going to draw out the killers, it would have done so by now.
On the upside, a DNA comparison of saliva on the dumpster pizza had proved a positive match with blood found in the Welches’ master bathroom, as well as with DNA present on the inside of bloodstained clothing discovered in the dumpster. Not much, but something. Also on the plus side, there had been no further terrorist attacks.
“Hey, get down here,” Duffy called from the living room. “You guys have to see this. I swear to God, you’re not going to believe it.”
Curious, I followed Taylor, Jenkins, and Gillespie down a flight of stairs to the living room, where we joined Duffy and a long-haired Asian named Beverly Choi, the final two members of our surveillance team. Duffy and Choi were staring at a television across the room. Filling most of the TV screen was the tanned, perfectly symmetrical face of a reporter I knew all too well: Brent Preston. I groaned, expecting the worst.
“. . . CBS Evening News regarding the recent beheading murders in Los Angeles,�
�� Brent was saying, delivering his lines directly to camera. “Sources close to the FBI/LAPD Joint Terrorism Task Force have confirmed that investigators now believe the killers responsible for last week’s execution-style murders may have gained entrance to gated estates in Bel Air and Holmby Hills via a pizza-delivery vehicle. Authorities are searching for a van or other delivery vehicle that might have been used in the murders. Anyone with information please call the number shown at the bottom of the screen.”
Disgusted, Duffy thumbed a remote control, sending the TV screen to darkness. “Damn,” he said.
“Pretty much blows our sting operation,” Gillespie noted. “Not that it was going anywhere anyway.”
“Yeah. I heard they were gonna pull the plug tomorrow,” added Jenkins.
“Nonetheless, it was the best lead we’ve had,” Taylor pointed out. “I wonder who leaked.”
“Probably some hump at LAPD,” said Gillespie. Then, glancing at me, “No offense, Kane.”
“None taken,” I said, thinking he might have been right. I had been reporting daily to Chief Ingram. And Ingram, or someone in his office, had been relaying that information directly to Snead’s task force, the district attorney’s office, and numerous ancillary departments at PAB. All were a potential source of leaks. But if I had been forced to guess, I would have bet the leak came from Snead or someone close to him, making me wonder whether sharing information with Ingram had been in the best interests of the investigation. On the other hand, LAPD was paying my salary, not the Bureau.
“Look at the bright side, Gillespie,” suggested Taylor.
“What bright side?” Gillespie grumbled.
“After tonight, you won’t have to choke down any more pepperoni.”
Although I smiled at Taylor’s gibe, I wasn’t feeling the humor. The pizza connection had been the only real lead we’d had so far, and we’d blown it. Which left waiting for the killers to do it again . . . and hoping they made a mistake.
*****
“Hey, Tammy,” Dr. Oliver Clark called from the entry. “I thought we were having dinner at your brother’s.”
“We are, Ollie,” answered Tammy Sanders, Dr. Clark’s surgical assistant and sometimes girlfriend.
“So why the pizza?” asked Dr. Clark, pressing the gate release button. “Oh, I get it,” he continued, watching from an entry window as a Wiseguy Pizza van headed up the driveway. “We’re bringing pizza to your brother’s, just in case. He really isn’t much of a cook.”
“I didn’t order pizza,” Tammy replied from the kitchen, her voice filled with alarm, “Ollie, I just saw a news report on those terrorists who are beheading people. It said they’re using a pizza van to get in.”
“Sweetheart, don’t worry about it. What are the odds? Besides, it’s pizza, for God’s sake.”
“I’m calling the cops, Ollie.”
“You’re overreacting, babe. Let’s just—”
“Ollie, I’m calling the cops.”
*****
Twenty minutes later my cellphone buzzed. And with that call, everything changed. I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the number. Deluca. “What’s up, Paul?” I asked, stepping away from my surveillance position at the window.
“Plenty,” said Deluca. “Or maybe nothing. Either way, I thought I’d let you know.”
Sensing something in Deluca’s tone, I glanced across the room. Taylor was stationed at another window nearby, watching the street. Jenkins was back to cheating through his game of solitaire. Gillespie had drifted downstairs, saying he wanted something to eat. “Let me know what?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“A 911 call just came in from some lady in the Palisades. She reported a pizza van in their driveway, supposedly delivering food they didn’t order. She just saw your pal Brent Preston’s news report, and—”
“Are you guys rolling on it?”
“Yep. It could be nothing, like I said, but Snead is taking it seriously. He called a SWAT unit to the location and told them to wait for his arrival. We’re on our way.”
“I don’t suppose Snead notified the Bureau.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. Snead?”
“What’s the address?”
“1102 Rivas Canyon Road. Off Sunset near Will Rogers State Park.”
“I’m a couple minutes away. I’ll meet you there.”
“Kane . . .”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you there. Just . . . stay clear of Snead.”
“I told you before. I can handle Snead.”
“Just be careful.”
As I hung up, I noticed Taylor regarding me curiously. “Who was that?” she asked.
“Nobody,” I answered. Then, with a casual glance out the window, “Look, as nothing’s happening around here, especially after that newscast, I’m taking off. See you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so,” said Taylor. “I’ve been around you long enough to know when something’s up. What is it?”
I shrugged. “Probably nothing,” I answered, irritated that Taylor had read me so easily.
“What’s going on, Kane?” she demanded, not letting it go.
“A 911 call in the Palisades. Something about a pizza delivery.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Like hell you are.”
“It’s either me, or we can invite the whole stakeout team to join us.”
I glanced at Gillespie. He was still concentrating on his cards, oblivious of our conversation. “Okay,” I sighed, again lowering my voice. “Just you. But this is LAPD business, so when we get there, stay out of my way.”
“Excuse me? Stay out of your way?” said Taylor. “Gosh, Detective Kane, I’ll be sure to do that.”
Chapter 26
When Taylor and I arrived in Rivas Canyon, we found an LAPD black-and-white already onsite. The police vehicle was stationed in front of a rambling, two-story home set far back off the narrow street, most of the house hidden behind a gigantic hedge of oleander. I pulled to a stop behind the police car and killed my engine, noting that the responding officers had positioned their vehicle so it wouldn’t be visible from the residence. As Taylor and I climbed from my Suburban, two uniformed officers exited their car to meet us.
“Kane, LAPD,” I said, flipping out my ID. Taylor did the same.
The older of the two officers, whose plate read “Fagen,” checked my credentials, glanced at Taylor’s, and turned back to me. “Are the feds involved in this?” he asked.
“Not at the moment,” I answered. Then, ignoring a curious look from Officer Fagen, I walked to a security gate at the end of the driveway, careful to stay out of sight of the house. I noted a keypad and intercom mounted beside the gate. No camera. A mailbox there displayed the name “Clark.”
Still keeping out of sight, I checked the residence. It lay at the end of a broad driveway, nestled in a grove of eucalyptus and fir. At the front of the house, parked beneath an overhanging porte-cochère, was a Wiseguy Pizza van.
“Damn, this could be it,” whispered Taylor, who had followed me over.
I didn’t reply. Instead, I returned to the police cruiser. “Have you tried contacting anyone in the house?” I asked Officer Fagen.
“No, sir,” he replied. “We were ordered to keep out of sight and wait for SWAT. Captain Snead and a Robbery-Homicide team will be arriving shortly.”
“How long have you been onsite?”
“Nine, ten minutes. Haven’t seen any action from the house since we got here. You think it might be the terrorists in there?”
“Doesn’t take ten minutes to deliver a pizza,” I noted.
“I need to call this in,” said Taylor.
“Do what you have to.” I thought a moment, deciding that if the Clarks were being visited by a pizza-delivering murder squad, the arrival of a SWAT unit would quickly escalate things into a hostage situation, assuming the residents were still alive by then. Either way, with SWAT and Snead on the scene, the kill
ers would have nothing to lose, and surrender was unlikely.
Coming to a decision, I started toward an adjacent residence that we had passed on the way in. Like the Clark house, the neighboring home had a long, curving driveway. Unlike the Clark residence, it didn’t have a security gate.
I hadn’t gone more than two steps when Taylor caught up and grabbed my arm. “Kane, what are you doing?” she demanded. “Didn’t you hear the officer? We need to wait for backup.”
At that point Fagen also weighed in, looking concerned. “Detective, our orders were to wait for SWAT. Captain Snead made it crystal clear that nothing is supposed to happen until he arrives.”
“I don’t take orders from Snead,” I said, freeing my arm from Taylor’s grasp. “Listen, both of you. If it is our terrorist friends in there, by the time SWAT arrives it may be too late. We need to do something, and we need to do it now. Otherwise we’re going to have a lot of dead people on our hands.”
Taylor looked doubtful. “But—”
“Make your call to the Bureau,” I said, cutting her off. “Then phone me on my cell.” I scribbled my number on the back of one of my cards and passed it to her, then withdrew my cellphone and set the ringer to vibrate. “If things go south, we can at least stay in contact.”
Next I addressed Patrolman Fagen. “Listen up, Fagen. This is important. When SWAT arrives, tell them there’s an officer inside. I can be their eyes and ears.”
“You’re going in?”
I nodded. “Tell them that. I want to make sure I don’t wind up in some SWAT sharpshooter’s crosshairs. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I removed my jacket and laid it on the hood of my Suburban. Hoping Fagen did as I’d asked, I withdrew my service weapon, a Glock.45 ACP model 21. With my index finger paralleling the trigger guard, I “press checked” the pistol by easing the slide slightly rearward, confirming the presence of a chambered cartridge. There were thirteen more just like it in the Glock’s staggered-stack magazine, and I had a pair of fully loaded spares in my holster’s magazine carrier. Satisfied, I returned the weapon to my shoulder rig and started again for the neighboring home.
