by Meg Gardiner
“Remember our disaster preparedness day?” she said.
“You were a strange little kid.”
“But the only one who would have been prepared for Götterdämmerung.”
She now realized how far back her sense of calamity went. She’d always had the notion that she needed a safe house and an escape plan.
“Riss worked there for a while,” she said.
Seth actually snorted. “Nerissa, working retail, in a store devoted to beds and bedding.”
“Really.”
Beyond the Beddie-Buy near a freeway entrance was another strip mall. It had a tanning salon, Vietnamese noodle house, and palm reader. Gas station and car wash. Seth pulled in and drove around to the back.
Behind the car wash was a parking area for half a dozen cars. It was empty aside from a dark blue Chrysler minivan. Seth stopped.
Rory said, “That’s it?”
It was dusty and freckled with bird shit. Dried mud was splashed along the wheel wells and bottom of the chassis. On the dashboard, crumpled McDonald’s wrappers and crayons were visible.
“You sure it isn’t here for a wash and vacuum?” she said. “It looks like something an overwhelmed mom of triplets would drive.”
“I’m sure.” Seth turned off the engine and climbed out.
Rory followed. The noise of the car wash blended with the drone of traffic on the nearby freeway. She put her hands in the pockets of her peacoat and circled the vehicle, looking for whatever had tipped him.
Parking permit for a Montessori school. Back window showing a fan of clean glass, cleared by the wiper, surrounded by heavy dust. Tailgate crusted with dried, splattered mud.
“I’m not seeing it,” she said.
He nodded at the license plate. “Van’s dirty, but the plate’s clean.”
She stepped closer to the van. He was right: the mud crusted on the tailgate didn’t touch the license plate. And the plate didn’t look as though it had been wiped; it looked pristine.
“They switched the tags?” she said.
He nodded. “I still have contacts at the DMV. I asked them to run it. These plates come back as belonging to a Fiat 500.” He pointed at the corner of the windshield. “The VIN”—vehicle identification number—“comes back to this van.”
She shook her head. “Did you drive around town all night, looking at every vehicle on the street for tiny inconsistencies?”
“Process of elimination.” He walked around the van. “The gunmen would want to park a switch car close to the courthouse, but not too close. And not in a direct line of sight. They’d want witnesses and the police to lose visual contact when they fled the scene.”
“Right.”
“And they’d want to park the switch car someplace where it wouldn’t draw suspicion. For instance, a quiet residential street—a strange van might be noticed by alert neighbors. And they would want to position it so they could swap vehicles and get going again immediately, and at high speed.”
“The freeway,” Rory said.
“Yeah. So they’d want a public place, somewhere the vehicle wouldn’t stand out, with quick access to the interstate.”
“But not the mall?”
“Big malls have CCTV cameras that cover the parking lot and the loading dock. On the other hand, a strip mall might only have an interior camera near the cash register in a convenience store.” He looked around. “And none at all surveilling the back side of a car wash.”
From where they stood Rory could see the freeway entrance. It led over the hill and soon reached a coagulated mass of other arteries: I-5, the 215, the 405. Get on the freeway, and in less time than it took to watch a sitcom, you could have your hostages headed for Northern California, Las Vegas, or the Mexican border.
“How long did it take you?” she said.
“Three hours. Give or take.”
She huddled deeper into her peacoat. His tenacity and devotion were thrilling and alarming in equal measure.
“And it was the license plate that told you you’d hit pay dirt.”
“Plus the way the vehicle’s parked. It’s facing the street. The driver doesn’t even have to put it in reverse to back out of a slot. It’s ready to roll.”
“I’m impressed.”
He gestured her toward the passenger-side window but said, “Don’t touch it.”
She gave him a Do I look stupid? look. She stretched on tiptoe. “Dear God.”
On the front seat was a sealed Baggie, full of heavy cable ties. And airline sleep masks. Another Baggie held four cell phones.
“Their getaway kit,” Seth said. “These guys came prepared to transport hostages and cover their tracks.”
“Burn phones?” she said.
“Prepaid, probably bought with cash earlier this week. Untraceable. And the fact that they’re here in this vehicle, not with the gunmen, speaks to the team’s determination not to be tracked. I bet they’ve never been used. Only turned on once to make sure they work. Turned off, so no GPS system or phone company can back-trace their path through the grid.”
An employee of the car wash came around to the back to throw a trash bag into the Dumpster.
“I’ve seen enough,” Rory said. She didn’t want to be recognized, now or later. She checked her watch. “And I need to get to the courthouse.”
“Let’s book,” Seth said.
They got back in his truck and headed downtown.
“Big question,” Rory said. “You found the switch car. Why haven’t the police?”
“Last night they were overwhelmed with other matters. They were securing the crime scene, sending in the forensics techs to process the courthouse. Debriefing the hostages. Rounding up witnesses. Terrorizing you.”
“They have to suspect a second vehicle exists,” she said. “After all, they taught you to look for one. Right?”
“They’re not stupid. They’ll find that van and impound it. Probably”—he checked his watch—“about now. A new shift came on at eight a.m.”
“What are you going to do with this information?” she said. “I don’t see you phoning the PD.”
“They don’t pay me anymore,” he said.
“Seth, why are you playing Lone Ranger?”
His shoulders tightened. “If that’s what you think I’m doing, I can let you off at the next corner.”
“No. Sorry.” She said it so automatically that it surprised her. “I don’t mean to impugn your motives. But you got the vehicle identification number. What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to use it as the starting point to build a case against the gunmen. And to find out who was behind them and why they’re after you.” He glanced across the truck. “We’re going to use it to get you protection, via federal law enforcement if we need to.”
“And you also want to use it against the Ransom River PD?”
“That would be a dividend. The point is, I don’t believe they’re going to protect the victims of the attack. They’re going to protect their own asses.”
“Hi-yo, Silver, away.”
He rolled along the tree-lined boulevard toward the civic center. “So does that mean you’re happy to see me?”
She laughed. That surprised her too.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “So I’ll presume you want to know how I came up with the name of the second gunman.”
21
“You got Reagan’s name?” Rory said. “You’re kidding me. How?”
“Through the van.”
“I thought Sylvester Church stole the van.”
“He did. From a used-car lot in Las Vegas. But he didn’t hotwire it. Somebody got the keys from the office and gave them to Church. And the dealership is owned by the brother-in-law of a young man named Kevin Berrigan.”
“Berrigan’s the second gunman?” she said.
“And model citizen. Married, father of two kids under seven, usher at his church. Steadily employed in Las Vegas for the past five years.”<
br />
“What the hell happened to him? How did he get from A to Z?”
“That,” he said, “is a fascinating story.”
Ahead lay the broad, sycamore-dotted lawn of the courthouse. A news crew was camped on the corner, and police cars parked along the curb.
Seth pulled over and stopped. “I’ll let you out here.”
“You really don’t want anybody to know you’re in town.”
“Nope.”
She paused, her hand on the door handle. Traffic passed by. “Thank you.”
“Call me.”
For a moment he held her gaze. A shadow darkened his lively, renegade’s eyes. Maybe he had been thrown back, never thought he’d hear her thank him again in his lifetime. Because he looked like he had heard a ghost.
“Where have you been?” he said.
“Helsinki, London, then Geneva. Working for Asylum Action. A refugee charity—it helped people who were threatened with being sent back to danger zones.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Why’d you come home?”
“The corporation that funded the charity pulled the plug. Completely.”
“Without warning?”
“New PR team. They retooled the corporation’s branding to breast cancer and Formula 1. The Asylum office in Geneva shut down, days before the office in London.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “All the case files are locked in storage. Families are in limbo—some in danger. Nothing I could do. Not a goddamned thing. Besides take the first plane home.”
Seth gave her a long, concentrated look. And she knew he couldn’t read her. He was trying. But in the past two years she had learned camouflage.
He thought he’d lost her. He didn’t know the half of it.
“You might want to think about laying low,” he said. “Out of town.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing the past two years? Like I said, Helsinki, London, and Geneva. Yet here I am.”
She climbed out. He glanced at his rearview mirror and pulled away.
For a moment she stood on the sidewalk. Who was that masked man?
It wasn’t the devil-may-care boy who had wanted to protect her when they were kids. It wasn’t the idealistic, daring cop who had swept her away. That’s not who had just driven off. This guise, she didn’t know.
Inside the courthouse, Rory’s pulse picked up again. Everything seemed brighter than normal, etched with black borders, and loud. Granular—small sounds pinging and hitting her with the velocity of tiny stones kicked up by a passing car. At the weapons checkpoint, two uniformed L.A. County Sheriff’s deputies greeted her.
One held up a hand. “Court’s been suspended today. All divisions.”
She got out her driver’s license. “I’m a juror on the Elmendorf trial. I was told to report.”
His expression softened. He checked her ID against a list on a clipboard. “Go on in. Glad you’re in one piece, miss.”
“Me too. How are the guards who were on duty yesterday?”
“Safe. Fine. They got the day off.”
She bet they did. She bet they got their careers off. And she noticed that security had been beefed up all around. Deputies were guarding the exit-only side doors, so that nobody could sneak in with a gun—as the Justice! vigilante had apparently done.
“Hope things stay calm out here,” she said.
“You said it.”
At the door to a courtroom on the second floor, a bailiff verified Rory’s ID against another checklist. It was an in-camera session—a closed meeting with a judge. When she saw the people inside, her throat caught.
Helen Ellis and Frankie Ortega were sitting in the front row of the public gallery. Helen looked pale and pasty, but when Rory sat down Helen grabbed her hand and squeezed. Rory squeezed back.
Without his sweatshirt, Frankie looked thin and tough. His right arm was a death-metal tattoo sleeve. Rory was sure people mistook it for a gang tat, but the flaming guitar told her otherwise. He looked like a spooked buck, ready to bound out of sight at the first loud noise. He lifted his chin in greeting. Playing cool.
Rory didn’t care. He was alive; he’d been there with her; he was okay. She hugged him, squeezed his bony shoulders, wanted to lift him off his feet.
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she said.
He looked abashed. “You too.”
Judge Yamashita wore a Peter Pan collar over her judicial robes. She thanked them all for coming. She explained that People v. Elmendorf was in recess. Trial was suspended. A new judge would be appointed to take over Judge Wieland’s duties.
Behind Rory, Daisy Fallon quietly began to cry.
Yamashita said that once things settled down, both the prosecution and the defense would file motions for a mistrial. She couldn’t foresee that any of the jurors before her would have to sit another hour to hear testimony in the case. After the events of the previous day, it was unthinkable that the trial would continue. The case would be declared a mistrial, and the jury would be dismissed.
Her face was kind. “You have suffered a terrific trauma. As has the court. I want to thank you for your service to the justice system. Thank you for turning up this morning. Because of you, the system will continue to work. It will not be brought down by violence and anarchy.”
Frankie eyed Yamashita without blinking. Rory didn’t know whether he was terrified or catatonic.
“However,” Yamashita said, “until the court has officially considered the disposition of the case, the trial remains active and on the docket. And you remain officially its jurors. You can be called back to court at any time. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave town.”
Nail us to the floor, Rory thought. Line us up like ducks in a shooting gallery.
On the way out Helen Ellis walked with Rory. The older woman seemed to have stiffened overnight, as though gravity had increased threefold and she had trouble pulling herself along.
“Are you all right?” Rory asked.
“My husband wanted me to go to church this morning, talk to the pastor.” She shook her head. “We were coming down Cloud Canyon Road past the tall rocks. You know how the morning sun shines through the slit between them and looks like a cross?”
Rory didn’t, but nodded anyway.
“Today it seemed so bright, it reminded me of crosshairs. I had to pull the car over. I couldn’t drive past it. Isn’t that stupid?”
Rory squeezed Helen’s hand again.
“You take care,” Helen said.
Rory was halfway down the stairs when her phone rang. It was her former law professor David Goldstein.
“My God, Ms. Mackenzie—is what I read in the paper accurate? You were inside that courtroom yesterday?”
“Me and about sixty others.”
“How dreadful. Are you all right, dear?”
Bless him; he was all cuddles beneath the starch. “Yes and no. I need your help.”
She explained as she descended the stairs to the lobby. Outside, a camera crew had set up camp. She turned her back and spoke quietly.
“I need a criminal lawyer. Somebody experienced,” she said. “A gorilla, preferably.”
“This is serious,” Goldstein said carefully. “Ms. Mackenzie, I am very concerned by what you’ve told me of the police department’s behavior.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“Leave this with me. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you, Professor. You don’t know how much.”
“Wait to thank me until we see what the criminal lawyer says.”
She told him good-bye and pushed through the door into the sunshine. A few disaster tourists lingered, pointing and snapping photos. The news crew seemed blessedly self-concerned and didn’t spot her. She was almost to the corner when she heard a voice calling to her.
“Aurora. Aurora Mackenzie.”
On the side street, a chrome-colored Toyota Land Cruiser had pulled over. A woman stuck her arm out the passenger window and beckoned to her.
Rory stopped. It was her aunt Amber.
She thought about falling to the ground foaming at the mouth, or running to the news crew and confessing. To the JFK assassination.
Amber leaned out the window, sunlight bouncing from her eyeglasses, gesturing fulsomely. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Better to get this over with in public, when she could legitimately claim to be in a hurry. She walked toward the car.
And her cousin Nerissa climbed from behind the wheel.
A swig of battery acid to wash down the saccharine. Rory neared the car. “Hey, Riss.”
Amber reached out the window and grasped her hand in an I’d like to teach the world to sing way. “Aren’t you just amazing to come back here this morning?”
“What brings you downtown?” Rory said.
Amber’s hands were cinched into wrist-support splints. She claimed to suffer chronic pain from carpal tunnel syndrome, though as far as Rory knew she hadn’t typed a word in a decade.
“We were so worried about you, honey,” she said.
Amber was a hard-wrung fifty-three and looked sixty. Her Janis Joplin hair was dyed a fretful red. Her floral blouse, splashed with enormous daisies and honeybees, seemed to fill the entire car.
“I appreciate it,” Rory said.
Riss cruised around the front of the SUV. “You escaped without a scratch. It’s a miracle. And everybody’s going to want to know exactly how you made it out.”
