by Steve Gannon
The SUV was still following.
Upon reaching 4th Street, I stopped in the center of the single-lane off-ramp, completely obstructing the lane. The driver behind me slammed on his brakes and leaned on his horn. The car behind him did the same. Three cars back, the SUV slowed to a stop and was immediately blocked from behind by a growing line of traffic.
Ignoring a digital salute from the irate driver behind me, I withdrew my service weapon and stepped from my car, leaving the engine running. With my pistol held loosely against my right thigh, I walked back toward the trapped SUV. As I advanced, I kept a close watch on the vehicle’s occupants. So far neither had made any suspicious movements. If they did, I planned to be ready.
With nowhere to go, the SUV’s driver watched impassively as I approached. Undoubtedly having spotted my weapon, he kept his hands visible, resting them on the steering wheel. The man riding shotgun placed his hands on the dashboard, keeping them visible as well.
When I arrived, the driver rolled down his window and grinned.
“Duffy?” I said. “What the hell—”
“Easy, Kane,” said Duffy. “You can stand down now. We’re all on the same side here.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said, holstering my weapon. “Talk, Duffy. What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you anything,” said Duffy. With the disappearance of my pistol, the man riding shotgun withdrew a cellphone and began punching in numbers.
“Bull,” I said. “You’ve been tailing me for a reason, which means someone at the Bureau is keeping tabs on me. Why?”
“I told you, I can’t say anything,” Duffy repeated. “I’m just doing my job. If you want information, you’ll have to talk with someone a lot higher on the food chain.”
By then traffic had jammed up all the way back to the freeway. Occasionally glancing at me, Duffy’s partner was speaking quietly on his phone.
“Are you going to keep us here all afternoon?” asked Duffy.
Deciding I wasn’t going to get anything from Duffy, I turned and started back to my vehicle. “This isn’t over,” I said over my shoulder.
“Whatever you say, Detective.”
Puzzled, I returned to my car, wondering what was going on. As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Shortly after I had slid behind the wheel of my Suburban, my cellphone rang.
As I pulled forward to unplug the traffic jam, I glanced at the phone display. It was Taylor. “Kane,” I said, answering.
“Kane, it’s Taylor.”
“Yeah, I know. Nice to hear from you, Taylor. By the way, I just ran into your boyfriend. For some reason he’s been tailing me.”
“Yes, I heard. And he’s not my boyfriend. Listen, we need to talk. Is there somewhere we can meet?”
“Gee, I’m flattered. But why?”
“It’s important. Just take my word for it, okay? There’s something you need to know.”
Chapter 32
After calling Dorothy to let her know I wouldn’t be home for dinner, I met Taylor in West Los Angeles at one of my former watering holes, the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin Restaurant. A holdover from earlier days of deep-red carpets, sailboat photos, and navigational charts laminated onto tabletops, the Scotch had prospered for as long as I could remember by offering reasonably priced chops, steaks, and seafood to hungry diners, as well as by serving an honest drink to any thirsty customer who happened to wander in.
I arrived early, taking a seat near the rear of the bar. Glancing around, I saw no one I recognized, although I knew that a few LAPD personnel would probably show up later. When a waitress approached, I ordered a Coke and nursed it for the next few minutes, waiting for Taylor to arrive. By the time I had finished my drink, chewed the ice, and checked my watch, I saw Taylor entering the room.
She had apparently changed clothes after work. Instead of her Bureau-approved slacks and suit coat, Taylor now had on a short wool jacket, mid-height heels, and a tight black skirt that showed off her legs. She had also applied a touch of makeup to her eyes and lips, something I’d noticed she avoided when on the job.
Taylor paused at the hostess station, peering into the dimly lit room. I waited until her eyes swept my way, then raised a hand to get her attention. She smiled and started over, leaving a host of male patrons appreciatively following her progress as she made her way to my table.
“Thanks for meeting me,” said Taylor as she slipped into a seat across from me. “Haven’t been in here before,” she added, glancing around the room. “Seems nice.”
By then the bar had begun filling with people having after-dinner drinks, along with a sizable nightclub crowd that had come to listen to a jazz combo setting up in the back.
“It is,” I agreed. “I used to drop by here a lot. Excellent food if you like steaks and seafood. The music is great, too,” I added, noticing Taylor eyeing my empty glass. “Want something to drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Coke.”
“I think I’ll need something stronger.”
“No problem. You’re in the right place,” I said, signaling the waitress.
“You’re not a drinker, Kane?”
“Used to be.”
“What happened?”
“Decided I was better off without it.”
“Huh,” Taylor said with a noncommittal shrug, her eyes making another circuit of the room.
“Some people consider this a cop hangout, but I’ve never noticed anyone here from the Bureau, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good,” said Taylor, seeming relieved.
When our waitress arrived, Taylor ordered a margarita—double shot of tequila, shaken, no salt. I ordered another Coke. Although curious regarding why Taylor had called our meeting, I decided to wait until our drinks had arrived to broach the subject. By then the jazz combo was embarking on its first set, a tribute to pianist Thelonious Monk, and Taylor and I listened for a few minutes without speaking. After our waitress had delivered our order and departed, I finally asked, “So what was it you needed to tell me?”
Taylor took a sip of her margarita. “Good,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “Not too much triple sec, just enough lime.”
“Glad you’re happy. So what’s up?”
Taylor regarded me for a long moment. “First, I need to know something.”
“And that is?”
“Word on the street is that you executed those men in the Clark house,” she said. “Not that they didn’t deserve it, but is that true?”
“Damn, Taylor. Are you asking whether I murdered those guys?
“I guess I am. I have reason to believe that you didn’t, but I want to hear it from you. I remember your saying that you wanted to take the killers off the street—permanently. Is that what you did?”
“No. I gave warning. They didn’t comply. What happened afterward was on them.”
“Pretty good shooting considering it was three-against-one, not to mention the presence of an automatic weapon and two civilian vics at the scene.”
I shrugged.
“What about turning off your cellphone once you were inside?”
“I didn’t. I lost service. I can’t explain it, but that’s what happened.”
“Okay, I believe you. Probably no one else does, but I can usually tell when someone’s lying, and I don’t think you are.”
“Thanks,” I said, wondering whether the FID shooting-investigation officers had believed me, too.
Taylor drained her margarita and signaled our waitress. “Another one of these, please,” she called. Then, to me, “Any idea who leaked the pizza connection?”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Believe me, it does. It was someone on Snead’s task force, right?”
“Probably. What are you getting at?”
Taylor hesitated a moment more, then seemed to come to a decision. “What I’m about to tell you could get me fired,” she said. “I’m
asking you to keep quiet regarding what I’m about to say. Agreed?”
“That depends. You can’t expect me to—”
“You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to say, Kane. Otherwise, no deal.”
“Fine. I’ll keep whatever you say in confidence. What is it?”
“It’s not over.”
“The terrorist case? Those guys are dead.”
“Listen to me, Kane. It’s not over. We received a credible tip threatening the life of the ‘mystery hero’ and his family, meaning others are involved.”
“LAPD got the same tip. In fact, they got lots of tips like that, undoubtedly from misguided idiots looking for notoriety.”
“That may be, but the Bureau knows something the LAPD doesn’t.”
Curious, I remained silent.
“We examined the footage on the killers’ camera,” Taylor continued, lowering her voice. “It showed that there were four terrorists in the house that night.”
A chill ran up my spine. “But—”
“The fourth man escaped,” Taylor interrupted, anticipating my question. “Probably out the back door that you claim was locked, but that we found unlocked. So there is still at least one more terrorist out there, and possibly others. And you’re in their crosshairs.”
We both fell silent as our waitress delivered Taylor’s second drink.
“Agent Duffy and his friend were riding my tail to protect me?” I said when our waitress had once more departed.
“Not exactly. Actually, the Bureau thinks this might present an opportunity to capture any remaining cell members.”
“By using me as bait.”
“It was a high-level decision, and it was only supposed to be temporary. A few days at most. Considering the pizza-connection leak, the Bureau thought that if Snead’s task force got involved, the case might spring another leak and we would forfeit any chance of wrapping things up. Although your name hasn’t been revealed in the media, Vaughn thinks it’s only a matter of time. We wanted our agents present when that happens.”
“Kind of jumping the gun, don’t you think? How about having your guys back off until it becomes a problem.”
“Already done.”
“Good. By the way, this sucks.”
“I agree. And so does Gibbs and most of the other SAs working the case. That’s why I’m here.”
“Gibbs knows you’re talking to me?”
“Not officially. If any of this comes out, he’s covered his ass. But when I talked with him, he gave me tacit approval to let you know that you might become a target, with the understanding you won’t share this information with LAPD—at least not until we’ve had a chance to locate any remaining terrorists. If your name is revealed in the press, we’ll immediately bring LAPD into the loop so they can have surveillance teams covering your back.”
“How reassuring.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, Taylor opened her purse and rummaged inside. “What Gibbs doesn’t know is that I’m giving you this,” she said, finding what she wanted. She withdrew a USB thumb drive and slid the small device across the table.
“What’s on it?”
“The video from the killers’ camera,” Taylor replied. “It could come in handy, depending on how your FID investigation goes. The footage is choppy, but the audio track proves you gave verbal warning before any shooting began. It could mean my job if that’s traced back to me,” she added.
There were no guarantees that I would be exonerated by the FID inquiry, and it felt good to have a little insurance, even if I couldn’t deliver a copy of it to my Police Protective League representative just yet. “I’ll keep the source of this quiet,” I promised, pocketing the flash-drive device. “And I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.” Taylor sipped her drink, regarding me across the rim of her glass. “You know, before I came here tonight, I talked with some people about another case you worked on. The Candlelight Killer investigation. You were a member of a task force led by Captain Snead back then, right?”
I nodded, wondering where she was going. “It was Lieutenant Snead at the time, but yeah.”
“After hearing about your, um . . . association with the CBS News bureau chief, what’s her name—Lauren something?
“Lauren van Owen.”
“Anyway, after doing the addition about what went down on the Candlelight Case, including your nearly being brought up on charges for your relationship with Lauren, I thought you might have been the one who leaked the pizza connection.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“I know that now,” said Taylor, regarding me pensively. “Kane, for a smart guy, you sure manage to get into a lot of trouble.”
“No argument on that. What about you? Have things been going any better for you at the Bureau now that I’m gone?”
Taylor shrugged. “I was having issues at the Bureau long before you showed up.”
“How so?”
“Knowing you, I doubt you’d understand,” said Taylor, taking another sip of margarita.
Although women, for the most part, have always been a mystery to me, one thing I had learned about them long ago was that if you really wanted to know something, just be open and ask. “Try me,” I said.
“Okay, it’s simple,” said Taylor. “As we discussed at lunch the other day, the Bureau is still a boys’ club, regardless of what they say in their glossy recruitment brochures.”
“Yeah, your glass-ceiling problem.”
“For a woman in the Bureau, it’s more like a labyrinth, with obstacles at every turn,” Taylor noted. “Don’t get me wrong. I love what I’m doing, but there are problems. When I was growing up, my dad always told me I could be anything I wanted to be in life. Later I found out how things really work.”
“And how is that?”
“For one, as a woman I’m routinely judged by my appearance and what I happen to be wearing, rather than by my ability, and the FBI is no exception. It’s demeaning to be called a ‘split-tail,’ or a ‘skirt,’ or my particular Bureau favorite, a ‘breast-fed.’ It makes me feel like a fraud, posing at being competent. Well, screw that. When I was younger I tried to please everyone. I’m working hard to get over that.”
“Judging from what went on at a few of the Bureau briefings, I’d say you’re making headway there,” I joked. Then, noticing Taylor’s expression, “Sorry, Taylor. Just kidding.”
“You may be, but I’m not. I’d love to swap places with you for a day and see how you like being judged on your looks, not by what you do.”
“Judged on my looks? If that were the case, I’d be in big trouble,” I said, trying to lighten the conversation.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Taylor. “You definitely have your charms, in a tough sort of way.”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
“Seriously, Kane, the only thing in my life for which I’ve been rated on ability rather than appearance is whitewater kayaking. How pathetic is that?”
“You mentioned kayaking at lunch. What, you compete or something?”
“Occasionally,” Taylor admitted, suddenly seeming embarrassed. She drained her drink and signaled for another. Noticing my questioning glance, she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll be taking a cab home. I may occasionally overindulge, but I’m not stupid.” Then, with a grin, “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. So . . . what do you think of me?”
I laughed. “I think you’re funny, when you’re not angry. And despite the FBI being a boys’ club, I think the Bureau is lucky to have you.”
Taylor smiled. “Thanks. What’s your ex-wife like, Kane?”
“Why do you ask?” I stalled, taken off-guard by her question.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’m wondering what kind of woman would put up with you. Why did you get divorced, for instance? Was it your affair with that newswoman?”
“Taylor, I . . . I don’t want to talk about my wife.”
“Too personal? No fair, Kane. You ask me to open up, then tell me
you don’t want to talk about yourself?”
I nodded. “Exactly. For the first time in quite a while, I’m enjoying being out for the evening, and I don’t want to spoil things. And believe it or not, I’m also enjoying your company—mostly.”
“Imagine that,” said Taylor. “Well, I’m having an okay time, too. Maybe better than okay. I’m not used to being out with someone who isn’t always . . .”
“. . . trying to get into your pants?” I finished.
“I was going to say, ‘impress me,’” Taylor laughed. “But there is that.”
By then the jazz combo was well into its opening set, and several couples had taken to the dance floor. “So how about this,” I suggested. “Let’s forget about work, put aside our differences, and listen to some music.”
And for the next hour, we did just that. During that time Taylor ordered another margarita. I stuck with Coke, despite Taylor’s repeated suggestion that I join her for “just one.”
After the musicians had announced a break following their second set, I glanced at my watch. “I’m going to hit the road.” I said, having quietly settled our tab a few minutes earlier. “Are you staying, or do you want me to call you a cab?”
“Which way are you headed?”
“Malibu.”
Taylor downed the last of her current margarita and gathered her purse. “I’m in Santa Monica. It’s on your way. Can you give your ex-partner a ride?”
“No problem,” I said, deciding to make certain she wouldn’t change her mind and try to drive. “You can pick up your car tomorrow. It’ll be fine right here in the lot outside.”
“Great,” said Taylor, following me out. “You can meet my cat.”
“Chuck,” I said.
“How’d you know that?” Taylor asked, looking at me in amazement.
“You told me at lunch a couple weeks back. I have a good memory.”
“You do, huh? Okay, what else did I say?”
