Jake took the steps two at a time. Measured, not fast, just like his heartbeat.
At the bottom, he turned and called down the cool, shadowy corridor. “Where are you, buddy? Tell me where you are so I can help you finish this up.”
A shadow drifted on the floor.
“I’m here, motherfucker!”
A weapon cocked.
“Right behind you.”
7
FBI Field Office, LA
The tub of ice cream had melted into cold slop.
Angie had spent the last ten minutes glued to the live news bulletin and hadn’t had a spoonful.
Jake was walking up to the Griffith.
On his own.
The word “idiot” popped from her mouth. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
She already knew the answer. He was trying to save the Spree and had figured the best way to do it was unarmed and on his own. Psychologically it made sense, but not emotionally. Emotionally, his selfless act was breaking her heart.
Chips put a spare chair close to the TV. “If you’re going to worry, you may as well sit down and do it.”
“Thanks.” She eased herself down, her eyes never leaving the screen. Pixie-faced Sofie was jabbering excitedly over the footage, but Angie wasn’t listening. She was studying the body language of the father of her unborn child. Watching him control his nerves. Suppress his fears.
As Jake entered the building, the TV news anchor unnecessarily stressed the drama of the development, then crassly announced a commercial break.
Chips put his hands on Angie’s shoulders and offered words of factual reassurance. “Statistically, Special Agent Mottram has the most successful and injury-free cleanup rate in the Bureau. Case by case, there have been almost twenty percent fewer injuries on those he has worked than any other field agent—”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.” He took his hands away and cleared the tub of melted ice cream from her desk. “You want me to try to refreeze this?”
“No, thanks.” She realized he was being sweet but would only fuss unless she distracted him. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’d be good if you got crime stats on the areas where the old women were attacked. We still have a case of our own to work.”
“Sure.”
“And split them out—violent, nonviolent, burglary, theft and all types of sexual.”
“I’m on it.” He headed to the galley kitchen at the bottom of the corridor to dump the trash and grab some bottled waters.
The commercials finished.
The news restarted with a shot of the middle-aged anchor recapping the day’s events.
Angie shifted in her seat.
The anchor handed back to the live outside broadcast.
She could tell from the look on Pixie’s face that serious shit was going down.
The reporter glanced nervously around; her eyes more off camera than on.
Angie read the signals.
There’d been a death.
She was sure of it.
8
Griffith Park, LA
Jake kept his hands high and turned slowly.
Chandler was five yards away. A Remington pump action shone in the space between them.
The cops had missed it.
Their intel had said that the former soldier had only two registered weapons, both Glocks. There had been no mention of a blast-a-hole-in-your-gut shotgun.
The SKU man stared at the barrel of the 870. It was spirit-level straight and still as a statue. Not a twitch of nerves.
He slid his gaze up to Chandler’s face. It was scarlet. Flushed with blood. He guessed the dude’s heart was beating double quick. The old soldier was out on the edge but still holding his shit together.
Just.
“I’m Jake.” He spoke casually, as nonthreatening as someone his size could manage. “We talked on the phone.” He nodded to the gun. “You have to let me help you.”
Sweat popped on Chandler’s forehead. “An’ what if I don’t want helpin’?”
Jake took a gamble. Sneaked a pace toward him, hands still surrender high and behind his head. “Then one of us is going to die.”
“Don’t take another fucking step!”
The barrel shook now. Wavered like a sapling in a storm. He was only a twitch away from snagging the trigger.
“Corrie—”
“Stay the fuck away from me, man!”
Five yards separated them. A good distance for a knife. Jake looked into Chandler’s eyes. Pupils were blown big. The brows above them were pitched high. His sweat-beaded forehead was corrugated with stress.
Chandler swallowed a lump in his throat. He knew the ball was in his court. “Turn around. Face the other way and kneel down.”
“That’s not going to happen, soldier.” Jake’s eyes were battlefield cold. “You want to shoot me, you look me in the face and do it.” He gently slid his left hand from behind his head and held it out, open-palmed. “It’s time for you to give me your weapon, Corrie.”
The sweat beaded some more and rolled from forehead to cheek.
“Give me the gun, Corrie.” He could see Chandler was stuck in a mental no-man’s-land. He didn’t want to be in this mess. Wished his life hadn’t turned to shit and ended up in a no-win standoff.
“Come on, buddy,” Jake said in as friendly a way as he could, “we’re all done here. It’s over now.”
Down the corridor came a dull thump.
Chandler’s head swiveled.
They both knew what it was.
Cops.
They’d come through a window.
The Spree lumbered out of limbo. There was no way back. The only option was to scatter lead.
Thuff!
Jake’s knife hit Chandler in the face.
Three inches of blade spiked his nose and stuck in skull bone.
Chandler screamed and fired wildly at the ceiling.
Plaster fell like rain as Jake dropped his left shoulder and threw a high kick at Chandler’s Remington.
The shotgun clattered against a wall.
Chandler was spurting blood through clasped hands and groaning in agony.
Jake grabbed him by the throat. “It’s okay, soldier. Go easy.” He hooked a heel behind the wounded man’s legs and guided him to the floor.
The first SWAT figure appeared. He was in full combat gear, face masked, assault rifle sweeping left and right.
Jake knelt on Chandler’s chest, pulled the knife out and stepped away. He wiped blood from the blade and glared at the armed cop.
It was Pryce.
He’d gloried up and come in front of queue.
The FBI man shook his head. “You fucking idiot.”
The cop looked confused. More black figures materialized.
“I had him under control; this could have ended easy.” Jake decided to go before he really lost his temper. “Fix Chandler’s bleeds and get him out of here.” He punched a finger on Pryce’s visor glass. “And you’d best stay the fuck away from me until I’ve found the gift of forgiveness.”
9
FBI Field Office, LA
The TV in Angie’s office showed footage from a news copter filming with a long lens. It wasn’t billed as “live” but she could see it was only minutes old.
Black figures with SWAT emblazoned on their backs roped their way down onto the center of the observation terrace where she’d once walked. No sooner had their feet found the deck than they split in opposite directions and took up positions by windows.
There was the muffled bang of a shotgun being fired.
Angie found she’d put her hand to her mouth in shock.
The TV pictures cut to a bland, high shot of the Observatory and surrounding gardens.
Angie guessed the copter pilot had suddenly been ordered out of restricted airspace.
A single shot.
Jake had been unarmed.
That meant he must be the target.
SWAT
breached the building.
She was aware of Chips moving closer. Getting ready to console her.
The aerial was followed by cutaways of cops and agents at command trucks.
“He’ll be okay.” Chips squeezed her shoulders from behind.
Angie said nothing.
Sofie the Pixie came back in vision, looking startled. She jabbed a finger in her ear and listened to her studio director as she spoke. “I am being told that the images you just saw effectively signaled the end for spree killer Corrie Chandler. A few moments ago, SWAT leader Connor Pryce got his man. But not without bloodshed.”
Angie felt a stab in her heart.
“LAPD SWAT entered the building just as Chandler discharged a weapon at FBI agent Jake Mottram.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Angie felt her legs shake.
New footage hit the screen. Shaky exteriors shot high and wide from the copter.
The reporter strung her voice under the unfolding action. “What you are seeing here is Agent Mottram, one of the heroes of the hour, returning to the operations cordon.”
Angie almost collapsed from the release of tension.
“While he escaped uninjured, former soldier Corrie Chandler clearly did not. He is now being brought out of the Observatory on a medic’s trolley. This is Sofie Sandholt, live—thank goodness—from Griffith Park.”
“I told you not to worry,” said Chips triumphantly.
Angie grabbed her cellphone. She speed-dialed Jake’s number.
It was engaged.
She hung up and hoped.
It rang in her hand. Caller display said it was him. She almost hit the wrong button answering it. “H’lo—are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He sounded relaxed. Like his car might have blown a tire and he was waiting for the repair crew. “Not a scratch. Cops made it a bit gnarlier than it should have been, but everything’s cool now.”
“Cool? What you did was mad, Jake. I get the reason why, but it was crazy.”
“The whole job’s crazy, honey. That’s why I do it. I just didn’t want to see another screwed-up army guy coming out in a police body bag.” He knew how to curtail her lecture. “Hey, you feel like going somewhere special—really special—tonight?”
She knew he was unwinding in his own way. Coming down from all the immense tension and fear in his highly controlled and emotionally tight manner. “Why wouldn’t I? Really special is always worth looking forward to.”
Chips was eavesdropping and gave her an approving glance.
“I need to go out,” Jake added. “Celebrate the good luck of being alive and in one happy, healthy piece. I’ve been taking things like that too much for granted.”
Angie thought about giving him a psychological explanation for why being close to death had made him feel more alive, but skipped it. “We are both lucky. Much luckier than we often realize.”
“I’m gonna wrap things up here; then I’ll come back and change. What time d’you think you’ll be free?”
She looked at the stack of case papers and decided she’d have to take some home with her. “Seven-thirty, eight.”
“You got it.”
Angie stared at the dead phone. She’d wanted to add “I love you” but hadn’t. Like a lot of things, it had gone unsaid.
She put the receiver down and for the first time noticed the slogan on Chips’s T-shirt. It said SPEAK NOW, OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE.
10
Santa Monica
Jake booked a late table at Veros.
It had two Michelin stars and was the kind of joint they’d never normally visit on their paychecks.
It was quintessentially French, with wainscoted walls, starched white cloths and gleaming silver. A single rose held center stage on every candlelit table, and classical music played at just the right level to fill dead air but not intrude unless you wanted to listen.
They were shown to a place at the window. One with a view of the bay and a sunset that made the sky look like it was lit by pink and purple neons.
Thierry, the maître d’, let them settle. He gave them the cards and a warm smile. “The patron, Monsieur Veros, recognized you and asked me to send his regards.” He turned sideward to reveal a dark-suited, dapper man in his midsixties sitting at a single table in the corner. He nodded in their direction.
Jake and Angie nodded back.
Thierry continued. “It would be the delight of the house if you would be so kind as to dine at our expense tonight.” He floated a hand across the menus he’d just placed on the table. “Whatever you like. Please do not spare any extravagance. There will be no check for you.”
He drifted away before they could argue.
Jake grabbed the menu, like a kid finding a gift on a day that wasn’t a birthday or Christmas. “How kind is that?”
Angie coolly flipped open the card. The generosity was a distraction from the big news she’d planned to break. She examined the nine-course menu découverte and couldn’t help but splutter when she saw the price. “Six hundred dollars! My God, did you know these prices before you booked?”
He laughed at her. “No. I was planning not to look until after we’d eaten.” He opened the wine list and sighed. “Do you think he really meant we can order anything?”
“That’s what the man said.” Her smile slipped as she realized he was going to order wine and she wouldn’t be able to drink it; then he’d ask why she was abstaining and she’d be stuck for words.
Jake’s head stayed buried in the list. “Man, there’s champagne on here for ten thousand bucks a bottle. Jeez, the house fizz is two hundred bucks.” He dropped the card on the table and seemed to have been exhausted by the prices. “We’ll have that. I’m sure it’s amazing.” He looked across the immaculate linen and saw something was troubling her. Years together had taught him that a look like that usually meant he had screwed up somewhere.
The penny dropped.
He hadn’t asked about her day. Her case. Her work.
Everything had been about him. Given the kind of freaks she chased, her afternoon had probably been almost as bad as his.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” The look on his face backed him up. “Sprees get me hyped up and very self-focused. I should have asked earlier. What was your day like, what have you been working on?” Then he remembered what she’d said when they’d parted that morning and he felt a cold jolt of worry. “Hell, you had a physical today—are you all right?”
The sommelier arrived before she could answer.
“Have you decided on the wine, sir? Or can I be of assistance?”
Jake turned his head to a smart young man in black dinner suit and bow tie. “Just the house champagne and some still water, please.”
“Thank you, sir.” He took the list back and slid elegantly away.
Jake waited until he was out of sight and leaned across the table. “Is there something wrong, Ang?”
The moment had gone.
She couldn’t tell him.
Not here. Not now.
She’d hoped they’d have a lovely meal and then right at the end she’d find the perfect moment to tell him. “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. I passed the physical, no problem.” She carried on talking just in case the secret came out. “Suzie Janner said I was as fit as a teenager. She told me I…”
Her silence worried him. “What?”
“She told me I was fine.” Angie smiled away the stumble. “Let’s choose the food. We can talk when we’ve decided what we’re going to eat.”
He knew he was being scammed but couldn’t figure out why. “Sure, let’s do that.”
She tried to lose herself in the menu. If the food lived up to the descriptions, then it was going to be astonishing. After an agony of indecision she settled on Terrine de betteraves, burrata, sorbet au raifort—a terrine of baby beets, burrata and horseradish sorbet—followed by Filet de saumon, pomme et jus de verveine—salmon with apple and lemon verbena. “What are you gonna have, Jake?”
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The lack of any response made her look up.
He was staring at her.
Oddly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She checked the top of her sleeveless black dress to see if she’d popped a button. “What is it, what are you looking at?”
“You. You and how beautiful you are.”
She felt relieved. And pleased. Jake didn’t often say things like that. He was a locked-up guy. Awkward when it came to talking about his feelings or trying to pay a compliment. Which made it all the sweeter when he managed the odd romantic line or two.
“As I walked up those steps at the Griffith, all I could think of was you.” He felt far away. Back in the park, treading the path with the flocks of pecking birds scattering from his feet and the sun sinking behind the blackening clouds. “I almost turned around, Angie, and went back to the holding cordon…” He dried up midsentence.
She waited but the rest didn’t come. “Why?” She tried not to sound like a therapist.
He shrugged his big shoulders. “I guess I felt selfish.” He knew she needed some more explanation. “I just couldn’t bear the thought that I might never see you again.”
She huffed out a laugh. “That’s not you being selfish—you know what that is.” Her eyes teased him. Prompted him to come right out and say it.
But he couldn’t.
Not face-to-face.
Over the phone was okay—more than okay. But not in person. He’d never said such a thing to anyone else in his life and couldn’t yet say it in person.
Jake reached across the table and took her hands.
Angie looked up and caught his eye. “It’s okay to say it, Jake. You won’t fall apart if you do.”
He felt as though he might. He looked away. Down at the tablecloth.
She waited until his head rose. His eyes were shiny. The tough guy the world knew looked ridiculously soft and vulnerable.
She waited.
And waited.
Finally, the words came out. Warm and uncertain, like they’d just been born. “I love you, Angie Holmes.”
He watched her tear up and something inside him broke. Something that had been there since his days in the orphanage. Since he’d worked out that if you didn’t allow anyone close, you didn’t hurt when they weren’t around anymore.
Spree Page 3
