Demolition Angel

by Robert Crais

“I thought they show this stuff live.”

  “They do, but they record it at the same time. We’ve got both the wide shots and the close shots, so that means there’s twice as much to watch.”

  Starkey was already thinking that the close shots wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She pulled out the wide-angle VHS cassettes and brought them to her desk. She considered calling Buck Daggett, but decided that she should review the tapes first.

  Behind her, Santos said, “I’ve got us set up in the TV room upstairs. We can go up as soon as I’m done.”

  Spring Street had one room that contained a television and VCR. CCS and Fugitive Section rarely needed or used it; much of the time it was used by IAG investigators watching spy tapes of other cops, and most of the time the VCR was vandalized because of that. Chewing gum, tobacco, and other substances were found jammed into the tape heads, even though the room was kept locked. Once, the hindquarters of a rat were found wedged in the machine. Cops were creative vandals.

  “You sure the machine up there is working?”

  “Yeah. I checked less than an hour ago.”

  Starkey considered the tapes. Three different views of Charlie Riggio being killed. Anytime there was a bomb call-out, the newspeople got word fast and swarmed the area with cameras. Camera crews and newspeople had been at the trailer park the day she and Sugar had rolled out. She suddenly recalled joking with Sugar about putting on a good show for the six o’clock. She had forgotten that moment until now.

  Starkey took a cigarette from her purse and lit up.

  “Carol! Do you want Kelso to send you home?”

  She glanced over at Hooker, not understanding.

  “The cigarette.”

  Starkey crushed it with her foot as she fanned the air. She felt herself flush.

  “Didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

  Hooker was watching her with an expression she read as concern.

  Starkey felt a stab of fear that he might be wondering if she was drunk, so she went over to his desk and squatted beside him so that he could smell her breath. She wanted him to know that she wasn’t blowing gin.

  “I’m worried about this ATF guy, is all. Did he say anything last night when he finished with the medical examiner?”

  “Nothing. I asked him if he found what he was looking for, but all he said was that they found some more frag.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?”

  “Nothing. He spent today over in Glendale, looking at the reconstruction.”

  Starkey went back to her desk, making a mental note to phone the medical examiner to see what they’d found and also to call John Chen. Whatever evidence was recovered would be sent to Chen for examination and documentation, though it might take several days to work its way through the system.

  Hooker finished logging the tapes and put the box under his desk. Official LAPD filing. He waved one of the three-quarter-inch tapes.

  “I’m done. We’d better get started unless you want to wait for Marzik.”

  Starkey’s hands grew damp. She leaned back, her swivel chair squeaking.

  “Jorge, look, I’d better return these calls. You start without me, okay?”

  Hooker had spent a lot of time getting the tapes together. Now he was disappointed.

  “I thought you wanted to see this. We’ve only got the room for a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll watch them at home, Jorge. I’ve got these calls.”

  Her phone rang then. Starkey snatched it up like a life preserver.

  “CCS. Starkey.”

  “Don’t you return your calls?”

  It was Pell.

  “I’ve been busy. We’ve got a wit who might have seen the man who placed the 911 call.”

  “Let’s meet somewhere. We need to discuss how we’re going to handle the case.”

  “There is no ‘we,’ Pell. If my guy isn’t your Mr. Red, then it doesn’t matter to me. I still want to see what you have on the first seven bombings.”

  “I have the reports. I have something else, too, Starkey. Let’s get together and talk about it. This is important.”

  She wanted to brush him off, but she knew that she would have to talk with him and decided to get it done. Starkey told him how to get to Barrigan’s, then hung up.

  Santos had been watching her. He came over with a handful of cassettes.

  “Are the feds taking the case?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “I guess it’s just a matter of time.”

  She looked at him. Santos shrugged and gestured with the tapes.

  “I’m gonna go up. You sure you don’t want to come?”

  “I’ve got to meet Pell.”

  Starkey watched Santos walk away, embarrassed that she had not been able to look at them with him. She had been to the bomb site, she had seen Riggio’s body, she had smelled the heat and the blast in the hot air. After that, her fear of seeing the tapes seemed inexplicable, though she understood it. Starkey wouldn’t be seeing only Riggio on the tape; she would see herself, and Sugar. She had imagined the events of her own death a thousand times, but she had never seen tape of the actual event or even thought that the moments had been recorded until now: Joking with Sugar, the news crews watching with electronic eyes, tape reels spinning for the six o’clock news. Memories of those things had vanished with the explosion until now.

  Starkey fingered the three cassettes, wondering if that tape of her own death still existed.

  After a time, she told herself to stop thinking about it, gathered her things, and left to meet Pell.

  Barrigan’s was a narrow Irish bar in Wilshire Division that had catered to police detectives since 1954, when suits from the Homicide Bureau had held court with tales of blackjacking New York mobsters as they deplaned at LAX. The walls were covered with four-leaf clovers, each bearing the name and date of an officer who’d killed a man in the line of duty. Until only a handful of years ago, female police detectives were discouraged as customers, conventional wisdom being that the presence of female officers would discourage the emotionally dysfunctional secretaries and nurses who flocked to the bar eager to dispense sexual favors to any man with a badge. Though there was some truth to this, the female detectives replied, “Tough shit.” The gender barrier was finally broken the night a Robbery-Homicide detective named Samantha Dolan shot it out toe-to-toe with two rape suspects, killing both. As is the custom after such incidents, a party was held for her at Barrigan’s that same night. Dolan invited every female detective of her acquaintance, and the women decided they liked the place and would return. They informed the owner that they would be accorded proper service, else they’d have the good sisters over in the Department of Health close his ass down for health violations. That ended that. Starkey had never met Dolan, though she knew the story. Samantha Dolan had later been killed when she’d stepped through a doorway that had been booby-trapped with a double-barreled shotgun.

  When Starkey entered Barrigan’s late that afternoon, the bar was already lined with detectives. Starkey found a bench between a couple of Sex Crimes D-2s, struck up a fresh cigarette, and ordered a double Sapphire.

  She was taking her first sip when Pell appeared beside her and put a heavy manila envelope on the bar.

  “You always drink like that on the job?”

  “It’s none of your goddamned business what I do. But for the record, Special Agent, I’m off duty. I’m here as a favor to you.”

  The D-2 next to her glanced over, eyeing Pell. He tinkled the ice in the remains of his double scotch, offering Pell the opportunity to comment on his drink, too.

  Starkey offered to buy Pell a drink, but Pell refused. He slid onto the bench next to her, uncomfortably close. Barrigan’s didn’t have stools; the bar was lined with little benches hooked to a brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, each wide enough for two people. Starkey hated the damn things because you couldn’t move them, but that’s the way it had been since 1954, and th
at’s the way it was going to stay.

  “Move away, Pell. You’re too close.”

  He edged away.

  “Enough? I could sit at another table if you like.”

  “You’re fine where you are. I just don’t like people too close.”

  Starkey immediately regretted saying it, feeling it revealed more of herself than she cared to share.

  Pell tapped the manila envelope.

  “These are the reports. I’ve got something else here, too.”

  He unfolded a sheet of paper and put it on the bar. Starkey saw that it was a newspaper article that he had printed off the net.

  “This happened a few days ago. Read it.”

  BOMB HOAX CLEARS LIBRARY

  By Lauren Beth

  Miami Herald

  The Dade County Regional Main Library was evacuated yesterday when library employees discovered what appeared to be a bomb.

  When a loud siren began wailing, librarians found what they believed to be a pipe bomb fixed to the underside of a table.

  After police evacuated the library, the Dade County Emergency Response Team recovered the device, which contained the siren, but no explosives. Police officials are calling the incident a hoax.

  Starkey stopped reading.

  “What is this?”

  “We recovered an intact device in Miami. It’s a clone of the bomb that killed Riggio.”

  Starkey didn’t like the news about this Miami device. If the bombs were clones like Pell said, that would give him what he needed to jump the case. She knew what would happen then: The ATF would form a task force, which would spur the FBI to come sniffing around. The Sheriffs would want to get their piece of the action, so they would be included, and before the day was done, Starkey and her CCS team would be relegated to gopher chores like overnighting the evidence to the ATF lab up in San Francisco.

  She pushed the article away.

  “Okay. A hoax. If your boy Mr. Red is in Miami, why aren’t you on a plane headed east?”

  “Because he’s here.”

  “It looks to me like he’s in Miami.”

  Pell glanced at the D-2.

  “Could we move to a table?”

  Starkey led him to a remote corner table, taking the outside seat so that she could see the room. She figured that it would annoy him, having his back to the crowd.

  “Okay, no one can hear you, Pell. We’re free to be spies.”

  Pell’s jaw flexed with irritation, which pleased her. She struck a fresh cigarette, blowing smoke past his shoulder.

  “The Miami police didn’t give the full story to the papers. It wasn’t a hoax, Starkey, it was a message. An actual note. Words on paper. He’s never done that before, and he’s never done anything like this. That means we have a chance here.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Would the deaths of these people put me in the Top Ten?’ ”

  Starkey didn’t know what in hell that meant.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He wants to be on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “It’s a symbol, Starkey. He’s some underachieving nobody who resents being an asshole. He’s not on the list because we don’t know who the hell he is; no one makes that list unless we have an ID. We don’t, so he’s getting frustrated. He’s taking chances he didn’t take earlier. That means he’s destabilizing.”

  Starkey’s jaw felt like an iron clamp, but she understood why Pell was on it. When a perp changed his pattern, it was always good for the case. Any change gave you a different view of the man. If you could get enough views, pretty soon you had a clear picture.

  “You said he’s here. How do you know that? Did his message say that he was coming to Los Angeles?”

  Pell didn’t answer. He stared at her as if he was searching for something in her eyes, leaving her feeling naked and uncomfortable.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t tell you and Kelso everything. When Mr. Red goes hunting, he does not hunt randomly. He picks his targets, usually senior people or a tech who’s been in the news; he goes after the big dog. He wants to say he beats the best a Bomb Squad has to offer. It’s the ego thing.”

  “That what he told you in his little note?”

  “We know because he etches the target’s name on the bomb casing. The first two techs he killed, we found their names in the frag during the reconstruction. Alan Brennert in Baltimore; Michael Cassutt in Philadelphia; both sergeant-supervisors who’d been involved in big cases.”

  Starkey didn’t say anything. She drew a large 5 in the water rings on the table, then changed it to an S. She guessed it came from “Charles.” Charlie Riggio wasn’t exactly the big dog of the LAPD Bomb Squad, but she wasn’t going to say that.

  “Why are you telling me this here in a bar and not in Kelso’s office?”

  Now Pell glanced away. He seemed nervous about something.

  “We try to keep that information on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Well, I’m honored, Pell. I sure as hell have a need to know, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Makes me wonder what else you might be holding back.”

  Pell glanced back sharply.

  “As the lead, you could make statements to the press to help advance his destabilization. These aren’t just little machines that he’s building. These bombs are who he is, and he’s meticulous about them. They are very precise, very exact. We know he takes pride in them. In his head, it could become a one-on-one game that keeps him in Los Angeles and gives us a better shot to nail him.”

  “Me versus him.”

  “Something like that. What do you say?”

  Starkey didn’t have to think about it.

  “I’m in.”

  Pell sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging as he relaxed, as if he had been afraid that she wouldn’t go along. She smiled to herself, thinking how little he knew.

  “All right, Starkey. All right. We believe that he builds the bombs locally. He’ll go into an area, acquire the things that he needs, and build the bomb there, so he doesn’t have to transport anything, risking capture on the airlines. I put a list of the Modex components in with the reports. I want you to run a local check for people with access to RDX.”

  Even though Starkey was already running the search, it irritated her that he was giving instructions.

  “Listen, Pell, if you want to run a search, do it yourself. You’re not giving the orders here.”

  “It’s important, Starkey.”

  “Then you do it!”

  Pell glared at her, then seemed to reconsider. He showed his palms and relaxed.

  “I guess you could look at it this way, Detective: If I do it, I’m taking over your case; if you do it, I’m only advising you. Which do you want it to be?”

  Starkey looked smug.

  “It’s already happening, Pell. I punched it in today.”

  He nodded without expression and went on. She found herself irritated that he didn’t acknowledge that she was ahead of him.

  “Do we have a photograph of this guy? There must’ve been a security camera.”

  “There aren’t any security cameras in the downtown branch, but I’ll have a sketch by tomorrow. The wits described a white male in his twenties with bright red hair. We also have two other sketches from previous incidents. I can already tell you that all three look different. He changes his appearance when he lets himself be seen.”

  Starkey shrugged noncommittally. Lester had described an older man, nothing even close to young, but she decided not to mention Lester until they had the sketch.

  “Whatever. I want a copy of all three of your sketches when you have them, and I want something else, too. I want to see the bomb.”

  “As soon as I get the report, you’ll get the report.”

  “You didn’t hear me. I want the bomb. I want it in my hands. I’m a bomb technician, Pell. I want to break it
down myself, not just accept someone else’s report. I want to compare it to the Silver Lake bomb and learn something. I know we can do this because I’ve traded comparative evidence with other cities before.”

  Pell seemed to consider her again, then nodded.

  “Okay, Starkey, I think that’s a good idea. But I think you should arrange it.”

  Starkey frowned, wondering if Pell was going to be deadwood.

  “Your people have the damned thing. It would be easier for you to get it.”

  “The more I do, the more pressure I’ll get from Washington to take over the case before the FBI comes in.”

  “Who’s talking about the FBI? We’re not dealing with a terrorist here. This is domestic.”

  “A terrorist is whoever the FBI says is a terrorist. You’re worried about me coming in, I’m worried about the FBI. We all have something to worry about.”

  “Jesus Christ, Pell.”

  He showed his palms again, and she nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll do it myself.”

  Pell stood, then gave her a card.

  “This is the motel where I’m staying. My pager number is on the back.”

  Starkey put it away without looking at it.

  “Anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”

  Pell was staring at her.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Red is dangerous, Starkey. A guy like this in town, you don’t want to be too drunk to react.”

  Starkey rattled the ice in her glass, then took a sip.

  “I’ve already been dead once, Pell. Believe me, there are worse things.”

  Pell considered her another moment, Starkey thinking he wanted to say something, but then he left. She watched him until he stepped out of the bar into a wedge of blinding light and was gone. Pell had no fucking idea.

  Starkey returned to her bench at the bar and ordered a refill. She was convinced that Pell knew more than he was saying.

  The Sex Crimes dick leaned close.

  “Fed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re all pricks.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Starkey spent most of the afternoon thinking about the tapes that waited in her car. Those tapes and what was on them were real. After a while, it was the weight of the tapes that pulled her from the bar. It was almost eight when she left Barrigan’s and drove home.