by Robert Crais
Morgan quietly told his assistants to have plainclothes units position themselves around Echo Park. She heard Dick Leyton speaking softly into his cell phone, alerting the Bomb Squad. She ignored them.
HOTLOAD: Yes.
MR. RED: Park on the south side of the pond and walk toward the concession stand. Walk all the way to the concession stand, and only from that direction. I will be watching you. If you come alone, we will meet. If not, I will think less of you.
HOTLOAD: You’re a fool.
MR. RED: Am I, Carol Starkey? I am Mr. Red. The truth is out there.
They set it up on the roll, coordinating SWAT and the Bomb Squad to meet in a parking lot six blocks east of Echo Park. Plainclothes spotters of Latin descent were posted on the streets surrounding the park, equipped with radios. All uniformed officers and black and white radio cars were pulled.
The phone people wrapped a wire on Starkey there in Kelso’s office, even as the orders were being given. Starkey was to drive to the park in her own car and do exactly as John Michael Fowles had instructed. Once in the park, if and when he approached her and identified himself, the area would be sealed. Snipers would be in position if needed.
Pell said, “You okay with this?”
It was happening so fast that she wanted to throw up.
“Sure.”
They hustled her out to her car less than eight minutes after the computer was off.
Starkey drove to Echo Park pretending that none of this was happening. She knew that this was the best approach. Forget about all the activity in support of her, just like approaching a bomb. Do it that way, and she wouldn’t be caught looking for the snipers or the plainclothes people, and give herself away.
The drive from Spring Street to Echo Park took twelve minutes. She parked on the south side like he said, fighting the urge to throw up. He wouldn’t be standing there with a grin and a hot dog in his hand. He was Mr. Red. There would be a surprise.
“Radio check.”
“One two three, three two one.”
“You’re clear.”
“I’m pulling the plug.”
“Rog.”
She took the plug from her ear. If he saw it, he would know she was wired. The mike taped between her breasts would pick up her voice. If she said, “Hello, Mr. Red,” they would hear.
The plan was simple. Point him out, hit the ground, let everyone else do their jobs.
Starkey locked her car and walked toward the concession stand. It was a weekday summer afternoon. The park was jammed with families, kids with balloons, bladers and boarders and plenty of ice cream. It was so hot that the tarmac beneath her feet was soft. Starkey hoped that it wouldn’t get hotter.
A long line waited at the concession stand. She had to cover about sixty yards, which she did slowly so that she could search each face in the area. She didn’t care if Fowles thought she was being careful, but she didn’t want him to think she was stalling to give other officers a chance to set up.
When she reached the concession stand, she stopped. No one approached her, and no one even looked like they could be Mr. Red. The crowd was mostly Latin, with a smattering of blacks and Asians. She was one of the few Anglos that she could see.
Starkey shook out a cigarette and lit up. The minutes stretched. He could be anywhere, he could be nowhere. She wondered if he had changed his mind again.
A short, squat woman and her children joined the line. She reminded Starkey of the women she had seen from Dana’s window, the women trying to catch their bus. This woman had four children, small ones, all boys, all short, squat, and brown like their mother. The oldest boy stood close by his mother’s side, but the other three ran pell-mell in circles, chasing each other and screaming. Starkey wished that they would shut the hell up. All the screaming was getting on her nerves. The two smallest boys raced behind the concession stand, came out from around the other side, and skidded to a stop. They had found the bag. At first, Starkey wasn’t sure what they were doing or what they had, but then the earth heaved up against her feet and she knew.
The two smallest boys looked in the bag. Their older brother joined them. A plain paper shopping bag that someone had left at the corner of the concession stand.
Starkey wished she had eaten more Tagamet.
“Get away from there.”
She didn’t shriek or rush forward. This was Mr. Red. He would have a remote. He was watching, and he could fire the charge whenever the fucking hell he wanted.
Starkey dropped her cigarette and crushed it. She had to get those kids away from there.
She walked toward the bag.
“We have a possible device. I say again, possible device. I gotta get these kids away.”
When she was closer, she raised her voice, made it sharp and angry.
“Hey!”
The boys looked. They probably spoke no English.
“Get the fuck away from that.”
The boys knew she was talking to them, but stared at her without comprehension. Their mother said something in Spanish.
Starkey said, “Tell them to get away from that.”
The mother was chattering in Spanish when Starkey reached the bag and saw the pipes.
“BOMB!”
She grabbed two of the boys, she could only get two, and lunged backwards, screaming, “BOMBBOMBBOMB! POLICE OFFICER, CLEAR THE AREA, MOVE MOVE MOVE!”
The boys screamed, their mother lit into Starkey like a mama cat, the people in the line milled in confusion. Starkey pushed and shoved, trying to get the people to move even as police units bucked over the curb and roared toward her across the park—
—and nothing happened.
Russ Daigle, wet with sweat, his face drawn in the way a person’s face can be drawn only when they work a bomb, said, “There’s no charge in the pipes.”
Starkey had guessed that forty minutes ago. If Mr. Red had wanted to blow it, he would have blown it when she was standing there. Now she was sitting in the back of Daigle’s Suburban, just as she used to sit when she was on the squad, and winding down from de-arming a device. Daigle had sent the Andrus robot forward with the de-armer to blow the pipes apart.
“There was a note.”
Daigle handed her the red 3 × 5 index card. Dick Leyton and Morgan had walked over with him.
The note said: Check the list.
Starkey looked at them.
“What the fuck does this mean?”
Leyton squeezed her arm.
“He’s on the Ten Most Wanted List. As soon as the Feebs had his identity, they added him.”
Starkey laughed.
“I’m sorry, Carol. It was a good try. It was a really good try.”
They were done. Any relationship she’d had with Mr. Red was history. He would’ve seen what they had tried to do. Wherever he was, he was no doubt laughing his ass off. She might sign on to Claudius again, and he might be there, but any hope of baiting him into a trap was gone. He had what he wanted.
Kelso came over and told her pretty much the same thing. He even managed to look embarrassed.
“Listen, Carol, we’re still going to have to deal with what happened, but, well, maybe we can work out something to keep you on the job. You won’t be able to stay with CCS, but we’ll see.”
“Thanks, Barry.”
“You can even call me by my first name.”
Starkey smiled.
The two ATF agents hovered around Pell like his personal guards. Starkey caught Pell’s eye. Pell spoke to the agents, then walked over.
“How you doing?”
“Been better. But I’ve been worse, too. You hear they put him on the list?”
“Yeah. Maybe he’ll retire. The sonofabitch.”
Starkey nodded. She didn’t know what to think about that. Would Mr. Red stay in Los Angeles? Would he continue to kill, or would he simply vanish? She thought about the Zodiac Killer up in San Francisco, who had murdered a string of people, and then simply stopped.
&nbs
p; She looked at the two feds.
“What’s going to happen with your friends?”
“They’re not going to drag me away in chains. They want me to come in to the FO for an interview, they advised me of my rights, and told me to get an attorney. What does that tell you?”
“That you’re fucked?”
“You have such a way with words.”
Starkey smiled, even though she didn’t feel much like smiling.
“That’s a nice smile.”
“Don’t.”
“I need to talk to you, Carol. We have to talk about this.”
Starkey shoved off the back of the Suburban.
“I don’t want to talk. I just want to go somewhere and heal.”
“I don’t mean talk about what’s going to happen to me. I mean talk about us.”
“I know what you meant. Good-bye, Jack. If I can help you when they interview me, I will.”
Starkey looked deeply into the two dimming eyes, then walked away so that he could not see how very much she wanted that time with him.
22
• • •
Starkey did not drive back to Spring Street. The summer sun was still high in the west, but the air was clear, and the heat felt good. She drove with the windows down.
Starkey stopped at an A.M./P.M. minimart, bought a jumbo iced tea, then took a turn through Rampart Division. She watched the citizens and enjoyed the play of traffic. Every time she saw a black and white, she tipped her head at them. The pager at her waist vibrated once, but she turned it off without checking the number. Pell, she figured. Or Kelso. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was done with the bombs. She could walk away and live without working the bombs or being a bomb investigator and get along just fine. She was heartened by what Kelso had said. She thought that she might like working Homicide, but most detectives wanted Homicide. It was a tough billet to get, and she hadn’t done all that well at CCS. When word got out that she had withheld information from her own detectives, she’d be lucky to find a spot in Property Crimes.
Starkey thought about these things until she realized that she was doing it so she wouldn’t think about Pell, and then she couldn’t get him out of her head. The tea was suddenly bitter, and the knowledge of how Red had played her was a jagged pill that cut at her throat. She threw away the tea, popped two Tagamet, then turned for home, feeling empty, but not so empty that she wanted to fill that lost place with gin.
That was something, and, she guessed, maybe she had Pell to thank for it, though she was in no mood to do so.
By the time Starkey reached her house, she was hoping that she would find Pell waiting in the drive, but she didn’t. Just as well, she thought, but in that same moment her chest filled with an ache of loss that she hadn’t known since Sugar had died. Realizing that did not improve her spirits, but she forced the thought of it and what it meant away. She was better now. She had grown. She would spend the rest of her day trying to save her job, or deciding how best to leave it and the memory of Jack Pell behind.
Starkey shut her engine and let herself into her home. The message light was blinking by the front phone, but she did not see it, nor would it have mattered if she had.
The first and only thing she saw, the thing that caught her eye as if it had reached out with claws, was the device on her coffee table. An unexpected visual jolt of plastic and wires, alien and mechanical, stark and obvious as it rested on a stack of Glamour and American Crime Scene; everything about it screaming BOMB in a way that flushed acid through Starkey’s soul in the same moment her world exploded in a white fury.
“Can you hear me?”
His voice was surprisingly mellow. She could barely understand him over the shrill ringing in her ears.
“I can see your eyes moving, Carol Starkey.”
She heard footsteps, heavy heels on hard floor, then smelled the overripe odor of what she thought was gasoline. The footsteps moved away.
“You smell that? That’s charcoal starter fluid I found in your pantry. If you don’t wake up, I’m going to set your leg on fire.”
She felt the wet on her leg, the nice Donna Karan pants and the Bruno Magli shoes.
The sharp throb behind her right ear was a swelling spike that made her eyes water. She could feel her heart beating there, strong and horrible. When she opened her eyes, she saw double.
“Are you okay, Carol Starkey? Can you see me?”
She looked toward his voice.
He smiled when their eyes met. A black metal rod about eighteen inches long sprouted from his right hand. He’d found her Asp in the closet. He spread his hands, gesturing wide and presenting himself.
“I’m Mr. Red.”
She was seated on the hearth, arms spread wide, handcuffed to the metal frame surrounding her fireplace. Her legs were straight out before her, making her feel like a child. Her hands were numb.
“Congratulations, John. You finally made the list.”
He laughed. He had beautiful even teeth, and didn’t look anything like she’d imagined or anything like the grainy photos that she’d seen. He looked younger than his twenty-eight years, but in no way the shabby misfit that most bombers were. He was a good-looking man; he had all his fingers.
“Well, now that I’m there, it ain’t so much, you know? I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
She thought to keep him talking. As long as he was talking, her odds of survival increased. The device was on longer on the coffee table. Now, the device was sitting on the floor inches beyond her feet.
She tried not to look at it.
“Look at it, Carol Starkey.”
Reading her mind.
He came over and sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the device like a friend.
“The last of Daggett’s Modex Hybrid. It’s not the mix I prefer, but it’ll get the job done.” He stroked the device, proud of it. “And this one really is for you. Got your name on it and everything.”
She looked at it just to watch his hand; the fingers were long and slender and precise. In another life, they could have belonged to a surgeon or watchmaker. She looked at the bomb: Dark shapes within a plastic container, wires sprouting up through the lid to a black plastic box with a switch on its side. This bomb was different. This bomb was not radio-controlled.
She said, “Timer.”
“Yeah. I gotta be somewhere else when this one goes off. Celebrating my ascension to the Ten. Isn’t this cool, Carol Starkey? They wouldn’t put me on the list until they knew my name, and you’re the one who identified me. You made my dream come true.”
“Lucky me.”
Without another word, he reached to the black box, pressed the side, and a green LED timer appeared, counting down from fifteen minutes. He grinned.
“Kinda hokey, I know, but I couldn’t resist. I wanted you to watch the damned thing.”
“You’re insane, Fowles.”
“Of course, but couldn’t you be more original than that?”
He patted her leg, then went to her couch and came back with a wide roll of duct tape.
“Look, don’t do anything chicken and close your eyes, okay? I mean, why waste the moment? This is my gift to you, Carol Starkey. You’re going to see the actual instant of your destruction. Just watch the seconds trickle down until that final second when you cease. Don’t sweat being wounded or anything like that. You’ll reach death as we know it in less than a thousandth of a second. Oblivion.”
“Fuck you.”
He tore off a strip of tape, but stopped on his knees and smiled.
“In a way, that’s what I’m doing to you.”
“I want the truth about something.”
“The truth is a commodity.”
“Answer me, you bastard. Did all of this happen … did Buck die because I brought you here?”
He settled back on his heels to consider her, then smiled.
“Do you want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to an
swer one of mine.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“All right. Then here’s the truth. Spend your guilt on other matters, Detective Starkey. I learned about the Silver Lake bomb on the NLETS system before you and Pell ever started playing your little game. Daggett brought me here, not you.”
Starkey felt a huge wedge of tension ease.
“Now you answer mine.”
“What?”
“How did it feel?”
“How did what feel? Being used?”
He leaned closer, like a child peering into an aquarium.
“No, no, no. The trailer park. You were right on top of it. Even though it was just black powder and dynamite, it had to hit you with an overpressure of almost sixty thousand pounds.”
His eyes were alive with it. She knew then that this was what he wanted, to be the person in that moment, to feel the force of it. Not just control it, but feel it, to take it into himself and be consumed by it.
“Fowles. It felt like … nothing. I lost consciousness. I didn’t feel anything until later.”
He stared at her as if he was still waiting for her answer, and she felt her anger rage. It had been the same with everyone since the day it had happened; friends, strangers, cops, now even this maniac. Starkey had had enough of it.
“What, Fowles? Do you think a window opens so that you see God? It’s a fucking explosion, you moron. It happens so fast you don’t have time even to know it’s happening. It’s about as mystical as you hitting me when I walked through that door.”
Fowles stared without blinking. She wondered if he was in a fugue state.
“Fowles?”
He frowned, irritated.
“That’s because you had nothing but a low-end piece of bullshit, Starkey. Homemade crap thrown together by some ignoramus. Now you’re dealing with Mr. Red. Two kilos of Modex boiling out at twenty-eight K. The pressure wave is going to sweep up your legs in one ten-thousandth of a second, smashing the blood up into your torso just like a steamroller driving right up to your hips. The hydrostatic shock is going to blow out every capillary in your brain in about a thousandth of a second. Instant brain death at just about the same time as your lower legs separate. You’ll be dead, though, so you won’t feel it.”
