the Kill Clause (2003)

by Gregg - Rackley 01 Hurwitz

  He removed his glasses again and rubbed his eyes. The lenses were concave, thick at the edges. "There's a reasonable chance I may be blind someday. I don't mind having extra money to buy books, to travel around and see things. Different oceans. Arctic snow. I took a helicopter ride around the Grand Canyon last May, and it was divine." He tapped his chest gently with his fingertips. "It's all more than I should do, given my heart condition, but it's my one pleasure." The glasses slid back on again, and his turtle eyes blinked at Tim. "I like money. It doesn't make me a bad person."

  "No, I don't think it does."

  They sat awkwardly for a moment.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Rackley. I don't have much occasion to talk to people, so when I start..." He cleared his throat moistly. "Perhaps we should get moving."

  Tim reached into the backseat and removed two magnetic logos the size of garbage-can lids. He stepped out and stuck one on either side of the Chevy, where they proclaimed PERFECT TINT WINDOW WASHING.

  The Stork pulled back down the narrow street, past the loading dock, and looped around the front of the building. Tim's watch blinked from 12:59 to 1:00 precisely as Robert stepped out the maintenance door on the west side, rags hanging from the pockets of his overalls, baseball cap askew.

  It took him fifteen steps to reach the van--already Tim had the side door rolling open--and he ducked in as the Stork pulled away. They rode in silence for several blocks. The Stork stopped the car on a deserted street, just behind Tim's parked Beemer.

  Robert coughed into a fist, then spit out the window. He tapped a cigarette out of a crumpled pack he pulled from his shirt pocket. He snapped open the lid of a Zippo with an American-flag decal. "Mind if I smoke?"

  "Yes," the Stork said.

  Robert lit up and blew a gust of smoke up at the driver's seat. It wreathed the head of the displeased Stork like a laurel. The Stork tried to hold in a cough, but it hiccupped out of him.

  Tim looped his arm around the headrest so he was facing Robert. "The fourth and tenth floors are empty, right?"

  "Yeah, they are. The dot-coms that used to rent them went the way of the dodo."

  "Are there still infrared-strobe motion detectors in place?"

  "Both floors are rife with 'em--SafetyMan casings. They're off during the day because of the occasional maintenance guy or mover, but I'd imagine they go hot after five, six o'clock."

  "Tomorrow, before we throw you back up there as a window washer, we'll figure out a way to slide you past security--as a maintenance guy, maybe--to breach the interior. I'll need those IR strobes made bad-operating. Stork?"

  "I've dealt with SafetyMan before," the Stork said. "I'll size some mirror fragments to fit the casings. Robert can get 'em in tomorrow during working hours when the strobes are deactivated. When they reactivate at night, the mirrors'll bounce the IR beam back on itself and you'll be able to do the lindy hop down the hall."

  "The lindy hop?"

  "It's a lively swing dance, Mr. Rackley. Named after Charles Lindbergh."

  "Right. Thanks for your help." Tim's eyes flicked to the door, in case the Stork didn't catch the hint.

  The Stork tossed Robert a tiny, flat camera, which he slid into his T-shirt pocket, and then the Stork hopped out, climbed into a second rental van parked at the curb, and motored off.

  In the back Robert was changing out of his overalls, throwing on a pair of jeans. "Weird dude," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the departing van. "He's a solid operator, but you don't exactly want to drink beers with the guy."

  "He's all right," Tim said. "A little soft, but he's had a tough time, I'd guess."

  Robert stuck a pencil behind his ear and slid a clipboard into a copy of Newsweek. He bent over to relace his sneakers, the Lee insignia popping out on its leather tag in the back of his fitted true-blue jeans. "So why'd you send him packing? Who cares if he overhears?"

  "Give me the intel dump."

  Robert stared at him, irritated, then inhaled sharply so the cigarette's cherry flared. "You didn't answer my question."

  "I don't have to answer your questions."

  "Look, I've done everything you asked, like a good little soldier. Now I'm not giving you shit until you tell me what the plan is."

  "Fine. Then I drive off right now and you can explain my absence to Dumone and Rayner and carry out the mission by yourself."

  Robert leaned back and tapped ash out the window with a flick of his thumb, a sharp, efficient gesture. His movements were uniformly tense, anger simmering, violence barely contained. Tim didn't know or trust his steadiness or that of the other operators--no small part of why--on a high-risk mission that carried the potential for collateral damage and civilian injury; he preferred to keep them focused on specific, isolated tasks.

  Finally Robert said, "Maybe you should show a little respect. I got the shit you asked for. And then some."

  "So give it to me."

  Robert shot a jet of smoke in Tim's direction and began. "The skeleton is steel, walls are concrete with plaster overlay, the floors are twenty feet high and supported by metal ceiling joists and metal posts, twelve to a floor. Each floor is a rebar-reinforced poured-concrete slab base, nine inches thick, with a polished finish. The roof is plywood and tar, and it houses twenty-one air diffusers with fans and fifteen three-by-seven skylights with metal bars securing entry. Gas-fed AC and heat-pump units with shutoff valves located in the ground-floor maintenance area. Electrical power enters the building from the southwest corner, heads into an electrical closet through a main disconnect, and gets routed from there. The closet wiring's a mess--more fucked up than a nigger's checkbook."

  "Lovely," Tim said, but Robert had already moved on.

  "Each floor has roughly five electrical-distribution panels around the interior perimeters, rated from two-to three-hundred-amp service. Emergency power is provided by battery, but there are two high-capacity backup generators. Fire enunciator is located at the northeast point on each floor--zoned single-partition system, monitored locally via phone line, FireKing-manufactured panel. Extensive smoke-and flame-detection devices, fire extinguishers, fire hoses in the stairwell. The elevator does go down to the underground garage--my guess is they bring Lane in there in an armored car. The building core is very well protected--no outside windows into the inner rooms, so we have dick on a sniper angle if that's what you're thinking...?" Cocked eyebrow, pause. "Windows don't open. Garbage chutes located to the right of the service elevator on each floor. The doors on the way to the stairwells are metal, push-handle, and they all have mag strikes. Flip-style light switches are to the left of each door, interior side. Stairwell's vacuum-sealed, no floor-to-floor access--you get locked out there, you're going all the way down to the first floor. The stairwell door locks are single-cylinder handle-turns that autolock, and they open into a rear kitchen on odd floors, a conference room on evens. Interview recording usually takes place on the third floor, but--clever fuckers--they're building a replica of Yueh's set on the eleventh floor. The switched locale is a secret security precaution--I spotted construction workers with bulges at their hips moving set backdrops across the floor."

  Tim made a mental note to confirm that.

  "They've started installing metal detectors on several floors today, I assume to have them good to go by the time Lane arrives. Access-control-card checkpoints on every floor to breach the inner rooms, guard booths to boot before the editing and interview suites. And there's a brunette on the seventh floor with an ass like Jennifer Lopez who almost made me plummet to my death when she dropped her keys."

  "All right," Tim said. "Good job."

  "I don't need you to tell me that." Robert hopped out and slammed the door behind him.

  Mitchell was just leaving Rayner's house when Tim drove through the gates in the rental van and parked beside his own car. Mitchell ignored him, climbing into his truck. He was backing up fast when Tim knocked the side panel with a fist. Mitchell hit the brakes.

  "What?"
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  Tim pulled a pencil from behind his ear and pointed at the eraser. "Can you make me a contained explosive charge this size?"

  "What for?"

  "I need something I can hide inside a small item."

  "Like in a watch?"

  "Right, like in a watch."

  Mitchell's mouth shifted and clamped. "It'll be tricky. I'd have to build a minuscule, custom-made detonator."

  "What'll you use? C4?"

  "C4? And why don't we throw around a few sticks of dynamite or fire off an ACME cannon while we're at it?" He shook his head. "Leave the pyrotechnics to me. We'll need a sensitive primary explosive, like mercury fulminate or DDNT."

  "And you're thinking an electronically initiated receiver?"

  "Yeah, but that'll be the problem. There's not much space--especially if you're wiring this shit into the existing circuitry of a watch-- so I doubt I can fit anything that'll pick up a specialized electrical transmission from any sort of distance. Maybe I can get you a couple hundred yards' range on a remote-control device."

  "A couple hundred yards would be fine. And the charge can't send out shrapnel. We can't hurt any bystanders with the explosion."

  Mitchell ground his teeth. "Ya think?" He started the truck rolling again, and Tim had to step back so the tire wouldn't run over his foot.

  Tim drove to the Moorpark firing range to break in the .357, practicing his draw, getting a sense of the new metal. It felt like home.

  When he left, he inadvertently drove several blocks toward his and Dray's house before realizing his mistake and turning around. Passing a park where he used to take Ginny, he broke out in a clammy sweat. He detoured, heading past the long drive leading to Kindell's garage. The .357 fit snugly in his old hip holster. He removed it and pressed it to his thigh, felt its heat even through his jeans. The fact that he had again moved from grief to anger was not lost on him.

  Anger was easier.

  After driving downtown, showering, and cleaning his gun, he stretched out on his bed and finally checked the Nokia's messages. Two, both from Dray, over the past couple hours.

  She sounded discouraged on the first. "I've been hitting walls in every direction on the accomplice angle. I finally caved and called the LAPD detectives who worked Kindell's priors--they were actually really kind, had heard about Ginny...." She cleared her throat, hard. "They still wouldn't give me specifics, but they took a turn through their case logs and assured me there weren't any trails or red flags. Almost all of what they had, they said, would be in the court transcripts, which I already have. I played the guilt card with Gutierez and Harrison, pressed them pretty hard, and they rousted Kindell for us one last time. Said he's not talking--his lawyer made real clear that keeping his mouth shut is what's gonna keep him out of jail. He's a regular constitutional expert now, even ordered them off his property unless they were gonna press charges. We're not gonna get anything from him. Ever." A deep sigh. "I hope things are panning out better on your end."

  The sadness expressed in her voice on the first message gave way to irritation on the second, since Tim hadn't gotten back to her. He tried her first at the office, then at home, finally leaving a vague message saying he had nothing to report on his end and explaining he'd wanted to wait until he was alone to talk to her. Hearing her voice, even on a recording, set the hook of his grief more firmly.

  He took a moment to consider how lucky he was to have so much to do.

  He relieved Robert at four o'clock. Robert slid out of the coffee-shop booth, leaving a clipboard full of notes and charts on the table, hidden in the Newsweek. Tim sat and glanced through his jottings. Calendar of movements, times the trash went out, security positions. It was impossible to deny Robert's proficiency.

  Tim sipped coffee and watched who came out of which exits and when. Just before five he crossed the street, passing the immense window full of suspended TVs, and entered the lobby--a large marble cavern with a grotesquely baroque chandelier, oddly dated given the building's exterior. Just inside, a newly positioned guard directed a perfunctory glance at Tim's license--thank you, Tom Altman, RIP--before letting him pass. A huge screen, composed of sixteen close-set TVs, formed the west wall. No side doors, no open stairs, no pillars behind which to hide. About twenty yards in from the revolving doors, a massive security console greeted visitors.

  Tim took note of the cameras at each corner of the ceiling before acknowledging the security guard with a nervous smile. "Yeah, hi, I, uh, I was wondering if I could fill out a job application form. For, you know, maintenance or whatever."

  "Sorry, sir, there's a hiring freeze right now. You might want to try ABC. I've heard they're looking."

  Tim leaned forward on the counter for a moment, taking in the bank of bluish-white screens the guard was monitoring. The angles were largely south-facing, capturing the faces of visitors as they entered. Tim searched them for blind spots. "Thanks anyways."

  "No problem, sir."

  Tim turned and headed out. The security lenses above the revolving doors represented the sole cameras devoted to recording people as they exited. Tim kept his head lowered when he pushed through onto the sidewalk.

  He took a new post in the window booth of a deli next door to Lipson's Pharmacy and Medical Supplies. Munching on pastrami, he recorded the order of the office lights blinking out on the eleventh floor.

  Chapter 17

  THE SURVEILLANCE WAS continuous over the next forty-eight hours, an endless cycle of coffee and leg cramps. Meanwhile, public outrage against Lane continued to grow, and death threats kept pouring in. KCOM had begun promoting the interview almost around the clock--ads graced buses and taxi tops, and commercials launched on KCOM's affiliated radio station supplemented the aggressive TV campaign.

  The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting the event.

  Tim observed the intensifying circus atmosphere with equal parts awe and concern--the security machinations, gleaned through the Stork's wiretapping and Rayner's rooting, were ever shifting. Tim's plan nearly had to be scrapped several times, the first when KCOM's legal department started making noises about retracting the live aspect of the interview, wanting to prerecord Lane at an unspecified time as a security precaution. Next Lane wanted to shift the meeting to a secret location, for his own safety and cachet, but Yueh was understandably uncomfortable with this, given Lane's history and notorious hatred of the media. With the support of the brass, KCOM security finally threw down a veto, preferring to deal with variables contained in-plant rather than opening up a new locale. For this concession Lane extracted the promise that the interview would remain live, so his gospel couldn't get misrepresented or chopped up in edit. KCOM marketing and Yueh herself were more than happy to comply--putting a live spin on Event TV had already served to up the PR ante. To exploit the hype further, an added fifteen-minute viewer-call-in segment at the end ensured that Lane could respond to the Angry Public.

  The next dogfight predictably involved jurisdiction--LAPD, KCOM security, and Lane's crackpot bodyguard team were locked in a protracted and bellicose set of negotiations over everything from employee-and public-safety concerns to personnel screening. LAPD predictably forbade nearly half of Lane's crew from entering the building; the hired replacements, once selected by Lane, would be vetted extensively.

  Tuesday night found Tim in the Chevy van's passenger seat, parked on the narrow street on the north side of the KCOM building, staring at the still-lit window that would have provided a view of the service elevator and the numeric keypad had the run-down truck not remained, infuriatingly unbudged, blocking any useful vantage. The last courier usually arrived between 7:57 and 8:01 P.M.; Tim's watch showed 6:45.

  In his lap he held a stack of photographs, each containing a shot of a KCOM employee, identified by name on the back. Black-op flash cards.

  Humming the theme to The Roy Rogers Show, the Stork continued to fuss over what appeared to be a parabolic microphone attached to a small calculator. He fiddled with
some wiring, set it down, and pulled a can of red spray paint from the center console.

  "What are you doing?" Tim asked for perhaps the fifth time.

  The Stork slid out from the driver's seat. He darted across the street in an approximation of a crouch that he probably thought inconspicuous, but that in reality made him look like a constipated hunchback. He disappeared behind the dilapidated truck and moments later emerged on the far side, bent down, spraying the curb fire-engine red.

  He dashed back to the van, leapt in, and sat, recovering his breath. He removed a cell phone from his pocket--yesterday Dumone had brought them all matching Nextels so they'd be operating on the same network--and flipped it open. He dialed 411 and at the prompt asked for Fredo's Towing.

  He spoke in a deepened voice. "Yes, hello. This is KCOM security, over at Wilshire and Roxbury. I have a truck parked here in a red zone we need moved ASAP. Yeah, okay. Thanks."

  He closed the phone and leaned back in his seat, pleased with himself.

  "Smart idea, but even if the truck's moved, we're not gonna be able to see through the courier's back to read the code he's punching in."

  The Stork raised the cone-shaped piece of equipment he'd been tinkering with earlier. "That's why I brought Betty."

  "Betty?"

  "Betty trains a laser on the windowpane. She can pick up every vibration in the glass."

  Tim shook his head, still not understanding.

  "Every number on a keypad emits a slightly different frequency. These frequencies will cause a windowpane to vibrate almost undetectably. Betty reads these vibrations and translates them back to numbers for me."