Cordoza kept walking toward Merrill, crossing the threshold of the door and stepping over Prole’s bloodied and motionless body. He’d put another one in her head on the way out. The Wick woman first. He raised the gun, picking his spot with confidence now that he was only five feet away. A movement out of the corner of his left eye caught his attention and he turned. Two teenagers, dark little rats like their filthy father, cowered on the other side of the room. Not just cowering, though. They were huddled over something. A little girl. Trying to protect her. How sweet. Cordoza flipped the release on the gun and the clip slid out. Might as well load up since he was going to need more bullets and do them all at the same time. He fumbled slightly with the clip in his pocket, finally deciding to tuck the gun under his armpit and use his left hand to retrieve it. It took an extra five seconds, but no one moved, not a sound except the whimper of the little girl being covered by her cousins, or brothers, or whatever. It was like everyone had agreed to a brief time out. Cordoza enjoyed it enough that he let himself smile, which only intensified the horror on Merrill’s face.
He got the clip in the gun and comfortably positioned in his left hand. The kids first, in case they got brave and decided to run. Merrill wasn’t going anywhere. He turned and raised the gun at them – a nice spread of half a dozen shots should do it and he could finish up whoever was still breathing when he was done with Wick. Then he felt the shock of agony in his right leg, just behind the knee, almost before he heard the unexpected shot from behind him. His knee cap seemed to explode and he hung in air by pure inertia for a moment. The second shot hit higher, just above the fourth lumbar, severing his spinal cord and paralyzing him, though he didn’t know it yet. He slid to the ground, the gun frozen in his hand, useless. The shattered right leg forced him to do a small pirouette as he fell, and he was facing back toward the door. And Prole. She was up on her knees, gun in her right hand, left trying to hold it steady. For just a second, as he fell, their eyes were at the same level and she could see recognition of his mistake in his face. His first shot had grazed her shoulder blade, lots of blood but not much damage. The shock had knocked her out, but not for long. He continued his downward slide and ended on his right side, lightly banging his broken cheek on the hard floor. The jolt of pain surprisingly took his mind off his more serious concerns, and distracting him from the anger at himself for not finishing Prole off before turning to the others.
Prole got to her feet and took the gun from Cordoza’s limp left hand. He had no strength to grip it and watched her take it away. She stood over him and he turned his head up slightly, not aware that he could only move from the waist up. He put on a crooked, evil grin.
“Hey, bitch, nice shooting. I should have put one in your head first.” Prole barely moved as she kicked him hard in the face. The already fragile, shattered bones finally gave way and the sharp pieces of cheek and eye socket crumpled. The force crushed the eyeball and Prole was shocked, but not distressed, by the appearance of Cordoza’s face seeming to cave in on itself. But it didn’t kill him and the intense adrenaline flow kept him conscious. He remained absurdly confident he’d get out of this and Brant would clean everything up.
His voice croaked, but held no less venom. “Fuck you, bitch. I’ll kill you and your boyfriend soon enough. And those fuckin’ rat kids there, too.”
Prole believed he meant it. Cordoza was a piece of shit, the kind that continued to stink no matter how hard you scraped it off your shoe. She knelt down and leaned in to the horribly disfigured, yet distinctly ugly face. Whispering, but clear as a bell so he’d hear it, she said almost tenderly, “No you won’t shithead.” She shot him in his good eye and watched his body relax into death.
The squeal of tires echoed into the room as Furyk spun the Honda against the curb, skirting the cars in the driveway, and flew out the door with gun in hand. Prole turned to the open door and muttered under her breath, “Great, the cavalry.”
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Brant used the phone in the kitchen to try to get Cordoza a third time, but it went to voicemail again. The Sheriff stood in the glow of the light from the open door on the enormous Viking refrigerator, scanning the shelves for something to ease his stomach. He flung the cordless phone onto the counter to his right and it clattered a few feet down the smooth marble. Work shirt off, t-shirt untucked, he absently wiped at one of the stains on his belly and reached for the peanut butter jar. Stupid cow kept it cold and it always tore the bread when he tried to make a sandwich. He put it in the microwave and after five seconds sparks started to fly. He’d forgotten to take off the metal lid.
“Shit!” as he pulled at the door handle, grabbing the jar and burning a scar onto his palm. He spun and hurled the glass container across the room and it hit with a heavy splat against the far wall. The glass cracked in a dozen places but none of the pieces hit the floor. The thick peanut butter was better than wallpaper paste and held the shattered jar against the tile until it slowly oozed down, an inch at a time, like maple syrup from a tree on a cold Vermont morning.
Brant stared at the wall but in his mind pictured Cordoza chasing Furyk, or Prole, or Merrill, doing something stupid and getting caught or killed. The latter wouldn’t be so bad, but if the son of a bitch decided he was better off trying to cut a deal, Brant might as well put a bullet in his own mouth right now. He didn’t think it would happen – all Cordoza had was what a tough guy he was. But still. Brant needed to do more.
He heard the thud of the peanut butter jar as the adhesive quality of the muck lost its battle against gravity and hit the floor. He retrieved the cordless phone and used the light of the fridge to dial another number. He knew it by heart but had only used it a couple of times.
It took twelve rings, this late at night, to get an answer. No rollover to voicemail on this line. A slightly groggy voice picked up.
“Yeah? Who the hell is this?”
Brant figured there couldn’t be that many people with the number, but apparently there were enough. “It’s Brant. We need to talk, Councilman. Now.”
“Sheriff? Are you out of your goddamn mind? What the hell are you doing calling me on this line? I didn’t ask for…goddamnit! What the fuck is your…” Brant’s mood wasn’t generous.
“Shut up, you stupid, sick asshole. You’re gonna get in your car and meet me, right now. You got that? Unless you want some anonymous source talkin’ to the LA Times about how the next Mayor is a twisted, card-carrying pig fucker who likes to play hard with little girls!” Brant’s voice was rising, out of control in a way he never got. Harte heard it and he got a nauseated feeling that crept from his stomach to the back of his throat.
“You listen to me, Brant. There’s nothing…there’s not a goddamn thing you can…” Harte didn’t know what direction to go. Brant had him by the balls and was squeezing. Smart as Harte was, he somehow had believed he was invincible and this moment would never come. Powerful men with mutual, dark secrets didn’t threaten to ruin their perfect worlds. Brant was saying he’d do exactly that. “Listen, Sheriff, whatever’s going on, with Wick and all that, we can clean it up.” What he was thinking was that there had to be a way to keep himself out of it and feed Brant to the wolves. He just couldn’t think of it.
“Yes, okay, let’s meet. Now. Where?”
Brant calmed enough to think of a place and tell Harte to be there in fifteen minutes. He hung up and stood in the full dark of the kitchen, the refrigerator door closed and the house silent except the ticking of the freezer unit. Brant wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to get from Harte, but he needed help and twisting the Councilman with the threat of blackmail seemed a good start.
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
Furyk had his gun pointed at the door but swept it side to side, not knowing where else the threat might come from. He’d heard the last shot, coming from just inside the door, and he had his finger taut on the trigger. Running in an aggressive crouch he raced to the door. His thoughts were on Merrill, w
anting her to be safe. But his fear was for Prole. If Cordoza hurt her, Furyk knew he would go over the edge, lose any control he had gained in the last few years over his fury at the world. He tucked away for later the realization that she was the first thing on his mind.
Seeing her standing loosely in the doorway, gun relaxing in her hand by her side, brought a relief that was instantly replaced by shock at the amount of blood covering her. She didn’t sway, didn’t look like she was about to collapse, and for a moment he wondered if the blood was hers.
“Hey, nice timing. Maybe you could get a broom and sweep up a little. But call 911 first. Couple of bodies, maybe one still breathing.” She moved to the side and Furyk could see past to the carnage. His eyes went immediately to the closest body. Cordoza lying on the floor, looking like he had fallen a thousand feet down a rocky cliff and then been shot in the face. “’Cept that one. He didn’t make it.” Furyk heard the wryness in her voice but didn’t have time to ask. Merrill stood in the middle of the hall, the body of Hamid and one of the women practically leaning against her. She was in the same position she had been when Prole shot Cordoza. Face frozen in horror, hands against her mouth, a tremble starting to take over her body. Despite all that had happened, less than a minute had passed since she’d seen these people gunned down, and then the police woman shoot the man who’d tried to kill everyone. It was as though time had stopped, waiting for it all to be over.
As Furyk went to her, he saw the teens off to the left huddled over a young girl. There was cooing and whispering as they calmed her and he could almost hear the echo of the shots that had been fired just moments ago. He didn’t have to check pulses to see that Hamid was dead at Merrill’s feet, the woman with the shattered skull just past them no luckier. To the right, there was a soft moaning. A younger woman was rolling onto her back, smearing the blood that was pooling on the floor. Furyk grabbed Merrill by the shoulders. Shock was setting in, but there was no time for that. She had seen enough, been through too many killings. He shook her gently, but Merrill’s eyes didn’t focus. He slapped her sharply and a look of surprise brought her back to him, and then anger. She reached up to slap him back, an instinct she didn’t know she had, and Furyk let her. It was like a gnat gently buzzing against his face, but it was a good thing.
“It’s almost over, Merrill. Look at me.” He turned her toward him after she started to look side to side, then down at the bodies. “Stay with me, Merrill.” She looked up, lost but not gone. “It’s going to get better soon. Detective Prole will take care of you.” It sounded hollow, with the blood still oozing out of three dead and one dying bodies, but he meant it. He could hear Prole calling in the ambulances and homicide unit, plus backup. He noted that her voice was starting to sound weak, even though he was focused on Merrill. The blood on her shoulder and covering her front was from her. Furyk wanted to stay, wanted to protect the people he had failed. But he had more to do. He drew Merrill close to him and hugged her for a moment, the two of them standing with Hamid’s body touching their legs, the whimpers of a little girl coming from across the room, and from Merrill. Furyk slowly broke the embrace and kept an arm around her shoulder, gently driving her toward the front door and Prole.
“Protective custody for now. You personally.” He looked at Prole’s shoulder. Lots of blood, but not much damage. “Keep her with you while they patch that up.”
Prole ignored her shoulder, despite the fact it was sagging and she was starting to feel lightheaded. The sound of an ambulance drew closer. A neighbor must have called in the barrage of gunfire before Prole did – nice to know there wasn’t a see-no-evil policy.
“Where they hell you goin’ now, genius? Vacation time after all the hard work?” She knew where he was headed.
Furyk stopped and gave her a tight-lipped stare. He was exhausted, his back hurt, and he was angry he hadn’t been the one to destroy Cordoza. “Check Cordoza’s car. It’s probably the black sedan half a block down the street. Alycia may be in it. Coroner or medic – I’m not sure which.” He turned away and walked out the door.
“I’m going for Brant.” He didn’t bother to holster his gun.
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Furyk’s timing had been lousy for days. Catching a break surprised the hell out of him as he pulled onto the street where Brant had no right to live on the Sheriff’s salary, no matter that it was five times that of the average on-duty officer. He had been there once before, when Brant had read him the riot act and told him he could play along or pay the price. It had been an impressive performance, in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday, with Brant barbecuing in the backyard and half a dozen of his yes-men standing around drinking beer. Brant had the chat with him out of earshot of the others, standing over the smoking coals with the smell of overcooked meat nearly choking Furyk. The Sheriff had been smiling, but there was nothing pleasant about it. When Furyk had demurred from being part of the coterie of deputies who looked the other way – or worse – and benefited from it, Brant gave him a long, uninterrupted stare while the burgers blackened and shriveled. That was the last time he had seen Brant, and a week later there was the confrontation with much of the same group that had been at the barbeque – but late at night and in a quiet, darkened street behind a downtown hotel. Cordoza never forgave him for that night.
Now he saw the big Cadillac Escalade pulling out of the driveway and heading toward him. Furyk pulled into the nearest neighbor’s drive and cut the lights. In his rearview mirror he saw Brant’s profile in the high cab of the black SUV. He looked angry, maybe scared. That wasn’t like Brant. And if he wasn’t taking his cruiser, his sign to the world of how important he was, and there was no wife in the passenger seat, then he was probably going somewhere he didn’t want to be followed to. Furyk backed out and kept a hundreds yards behind as Brant snaked through the back streets and headed toward the on-ramp to the 101 Freeway. Furyk looked at his hands on the wheel of the Honda and saw the white knuckles. He relaxed them and flexed the fingers. Looking up, the image he saw in the rearview mirror was of a stone face, a dead face. It was a look he wore with no sentiment, no emotion. He turned his attention back to Brant and got on the freeway five cars behind.
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
The EMT who tried to bandage Prole was surprised by how strong she was as she pushed him away. The blood had stopped flowing but she needed to be in a hospital to clean up the wound. It had missed most of the muscle in addition to bone, tearing mostly flesh and clothes. She was embarrassed to have passed out. If she’d stayed awake, she could’ve kept Cordoza from killing the others. The woman who’d been breathing when Furyk was there had stopped.
Prole’s lieutenant had made the trip to the house, starting to wonder about the number of shootings she was involved in over the course of a handful of days. A dead cop drew him as well. She had told him the story, as best she knew it and adding what Furyk told her but couldn’t back up, while the lieutenant watched her fight off the paramedic. He shook his head and didn’t ask many questions. Probably because he thought the whole thing was bullshit, she figured. The Wick woman was sitting in the back of an ambulance, getting herself together. Furyk’s talk with her seemed to have stuck and she wasn’t looking like she was about to faint. Prole was more concerned with her own ability to stay conscious.
“Loo, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but Furyk’s not a complete moron. He says the lawyer Margolin told him Sheriff Brant was involved in this.” It still sounded ridiculous, even after the second time saying it. But the uncovered body of Cordoza seemed to belie the absurdity of the suggestion. Cordoza had probably shot Margolin, though there was no solid evidence yet, and taken the shots at Prole. She wanted to go over and kick the corpse as she thought of that. According to Furyk, he’d also killed the girl, Felicia. Who had committed the original murder of Wick? Goddamn soap opera. No wonder the lieutenant didn’t have much to say.
“Seriously, Lieutenant, I know it sounds like a cr
ock of shit.” He raised his eyebrows, not at the language but in agreement. “I gotta keep an eye on the Wick woman. Maybe you oughta, you know, send someone over to Brant’s.” Uncharacteristically hesitant, she still didn’t want to be telling her boss that the head honcho in the Sheriff’s Department was a pimp, murderer, and probably statutory rapist or worse. What she was really worried about was Furyk. If it was Brant, he probably wasn’t sitting around scratching himself and watching the ballgame while his boy Cordoza went on a killing spree. Prole wanted Furyk to stick around a while longer. “I mean, Furyk went looking for him, so maybe for both their sakes…” She let it go and looked at him expectantly. He seemed to waver in front of her, then shimmy a little. She realized it wasn’t him. Prole was beginning to lose her balance and little points of light started to dance in front of her eyes. She quietly slipped down, the ground looming up at her. The lieutenant caught her easily, managing to avoid letting her shoulder hit his suit jacket and stain it with blood. He called over another paramedic and gently transferred the limp Prole to his arms. Then he pulled out his cell and called his boss.
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
It was getting late and the traffic had thinned to just miserable. Furyk stayed fifty yards behind the Escalade and assumed Brant was headed downtown. He was surprised when the SUV took the 134 Freeway at the fork where it split off from the 101, which went into the city. Brant got off at the Griffith Park exit and Furyk felt a flicker of excitement in his gut.
There was no way to follow Brant without being seen, not on the winding, almost deserted narrow lanes circling the park. But the headlights that would give away Furyk’s presence also made Brant’s car easy to spot from a long distance. Furyk killed his own lights and slowed, unable to see the road clearly and thankful for the reflective dots that glinted from the half moon in the clear sky. He let Brant get further ahead, taking a right then a left at the stop signs on the main road, and cutting up and over to one of the back roads lightly protected by barricades meant to deter but not defend against intruders.
A Twisted Path Page 24
