“But only in profile,” Hurley reminded him.
“That’s better than nothing,” Jake said, wishing he had a clear frontal picture of the female terrorist.
Farelli asked, “Do you think she was in a big enough hurry to leave some prints in the elevator?”
“My guess is she took the stairs,” Hurley said.
“The timer on that bomb was set for only a few minutes.”
Farelli nodded.
“You’re probably right. The last place you want to be when a bomb goes off is in an elevator.”
Jake made a mental note to have the railing on the stairs checked for prints.
They’d also have to check the doorknob to the stairwell, both on the B level and in the lobby. And the people sitting in the lobby at the time of the explosion would have to be questioned. Maybe they saw a young blonde wearing a blue blazer. Maybe somebody got a good look at her face.
“They’re taking bigger and bigger chances now. And this bombing was the riskiest of all.”
“They don’t think in terms of risk,” Hurley told him.
“All they care about is their target. Everything else is incidental.”
“That’s my point,” Jake said, walking over to the skeleton on the floor. He picked it up and hung it back on its hook.
“These are very clever people. They could have bombed their target a dozen times over by now. Yet they risk everything to blow up a pathology laboratory that’s heavily guarded. Why? Why not just do the target and get the hell out?”
“Like I told you before,” Hurley said, “they are probably waiting for a specific date. And it’s not far off.”
Jake rubbed his chin.
“What’s so important about a date in April? Is there some major event that occurs during April?”
“Easter? Passover?” Farelli guessed.
“What about Tax Day?” Joanna asked.
“Income taxes have to be paid by April fifteenth.”
“No,” Hurley said, his face losing color for a moment.
“The nineteenth. Domestic terror day in America.”
The group stared at one another in silence.
Hurley quickly regained his composure, then continued.
“The first shots of the Revolutionary War were fired at Lexington and Concord on April nineteenth. You remember, the so-called shot heard round the world. Well, our modern-day domestic terrorists consider themselves patriots, and they commit their very worst acts on April nineteenth.”
Jake nodded slowly.
“Like the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City.”
Hurley nodded back.
“And the firefight at the Branch Davidian compound outside Waco.”
“What could they go after in Los Angeles that could compare to those?” Jake asked. After a pause he said, “Nothing could be worse than the Oklahoma City bombing.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Hurley said darkly. Tuesday, April 6, 7:15 a.m.
Joanna twisted and turned in her sleep, trying to escape from a nightmare. She was back in the forensics laboratory, desperately pulling on the locked door. A plastic bomb was on the countertop, a timer next to it clicking off the seconds.
Joanna jerked at the door with all her might. It didn’t even budge. Through the glass pane she saw a policeman talking to a smartly dressed woman. Joanna rapped on the glass and screamed at the top of her lungs—but they ignored her and walked away. Oh, God’. Oh, God! Frantically Joanna grabbed a metal stool and threw it at the window, smashing out the pane. The seconds were ticking off, louder and louder. Five seconds. Four seconds. Joanna dove for the bomb. Oh, God! Oh, God! Two seconds. Now she had the bomb, ready to throw it. One sec–Joanna jerked out of her sleep, the bedside phone clutched tightly in her hand.
It took her a moment to realize she was at home in her bed. She took a deep breath and looked over at the clock on the night table. It was 7:15 a.m. She lay back and tried to collect herself. Jesus, she thought, now feeling the perspiration soaking through her nightgown. Everything had seemed so real, particularly the bomb and its timer and the terrorist wearing the blue blazer.
Joanna glanced over at the ticking clock. That sound had probably set off her subliminal imagination and started the nightmare. She decided to buy a new clock, a digital one that didn’t tick.
The phone rang, startling her. Bad news, she told herself. Early morning calls were always bad news. She picked up the phone on the third ring.
Quickly she cleared the sleep out of her throat and brought the receiver to her ear.
“Yes?” “Joanna?”
“Hi,” she said, recognizing Paul’s voice.
“How are things going?”
“Not very well,” he responded, lighting a cigarette and coughing into the phone.
“The meetings seem to go on and on, and we don’t make any progress. We’ve suspended our talks until next Monday.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Joanna said, propping herself up in bed.
“And to make matters worse, one of our competitors has entered the bidding for the bank we’re trying to acquire. And we may not be able to match their bid.”
“It looks like you’re in a tight spot.”
“And it’s getting tighter,” Paul said.
“Hold on for a moment, will you?”
Joanna heard him barking out orders to someone. In the background was the sound of a door closing loudly.
“Sorry about that.” Paul came back on the line.
“Anyhow, this could take a lot longer than I had anticipated.”
“How long?”
“Weeks.”
“That’ll be the most time we’ve ever been apart.”
“Unless we do something about it.”
Joanna smiled and curled up in her blanket.
“What did you have in mind?”
“You flying into New York for the weekend.”
“Oh, I wish I could,” Joanna said.
“Don’t wish,” Paul said seductively.
“Just do it.”
“It’s not possible,” she told him.
“The bomb case I’m working on is getting worse by the minute. You wouldn’t believe what we’re up against.”
“I’m talking about you flying out Friday and returning Sunday,” he said, his voice firmer now.
“Are you telling me they can’t spare you for two days?”
“We’re working day and night on this case,” she said.
“Nobody is sleeping very much because we know it’s just a matter of time before ” She caught herself before she gave out information she didn’t want to.
“Before what?”
“I can’t talk about it.” Paul puffed on his cigarette.
“Why not fly Saturday and return the next day?
You’ll only be away a day.”
“That’s a day I can’t afford.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
There was a long, awkward pause.
Joanna could hear Paul lighting another cigarette.
“I need you right now,” he said finally.
She hesitated, wanting to fly to New York but knowing she couldn’t. Not with April nineteenth so close.
“Why don’t you fly out to Los Angeles? You don’t have any meetings until Monday.”
“Oh, I have meetings all right,” Paul said quickly.
“We’ll be planning our strategy all weekend. So why don’t you get your beautiful body on that plane and fly to New York?”
“I just can’t.”
“So when I really need you, you just can’t make it. Right?”
Joanna took a deep breath, trying to control her temper.
“At this point in time, it’s a matter of priorities.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Look,” Joanna said, raising her voice, “when you told me you had to cancel a dinner date with your daughter to fly to New York for an urgent meeting, I understood.
That was a major priority for you. It didn’t mean that you loved your daughter less. It meant that at that moment your meeting had priority over a dinner with your daughter. I’d like you to understand that I have priorities too.”
“You’re comparing apples and oranges,” Paul countered.
“No, I’m not. I’m telling you that my priorities are as important to me as yours are to you.”
There was a clicking sound on the phone.
“I’ve got a call on another line,” Paul said hurriedly.
“Hold on.”
Joanna sat up, hating the position she was being put in. It was as if Paul was asking her to choose between him and her career. And she detected a dictatorial tone in his voice, something she hadn’t heard before. He seemed to be demanding that she put him and his plans ahead of her career. He expected his priorities to take precedence.
Paul came back on.
“Well, have you changed your mind?”
“I can’t, I just can’t fly out. Not now.”
Paul took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.
“We’re going to have to sort out this priority business.”
“I think we already have.” There was another awkward silence, longer this time.
“I think we should stay apart for a while,” Paul said.
“A long while,” Joanna said and hung up.
She lay back in bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she would ever get things right. Or would she always have to make the choice between career and relationships and even marriage? Damn! Damn! A picture of Paul came into her mind. He was rubbing her neck and telling her how important she was to him.
Joanna pulled the covers up over her head just as the tears started.
Tuesday, April 6, 1:15 p.m.
Jake hurried up the steps to the John Edgar Wales Institute for Rehabilitation.
Lou Farelli stood at the entranceway, waiting for him.
“How many have you got?” Jake asked.
“Three videos of amputees with red tattoos above their elbows,” Farelli said.
“With writing beneath?”
“Two for sure. One maybe.”
They went through the black glass doors that opened automatically and entered a beautifully appointed reception area. The floor was made of polished granite, the dome-shaped ceiling painted with murals of doctors and nurses helping patients. In the center of the deserted room was a raised information desk made of mahogany. It reminded Jake of a judge’s bench.
“They didn’t spare any expense, did they?” he asked.
Farelli shrugged.
“The federal government never does. It ain’t their money.”
Jake glanced up at the murals.
“I feel like I’m in a damn museum.”
“It’ll look better once they get all the fixtures and furniture set up.”
“When will that be?”
“In a few weeks,” Farelli said and punched the elevator button.
“That’s when they’re having their grand opening.”
They took the elevator to the second floor and walked down a broad, empty corridor. The walls were covered with lime-colored grass cloth, the floor with a deep brown linoleum. An overhead air-conditioning
system switched on, and the air began to stir. “This place gives the guys the creeps,” Farelli said.
“Particularly at night, when it’s like a dungeon up here.”
“How many teams do you have working the videos?” Jake asked.
“Three,” Farelli told him.
“They rotate every eight hours around the clock.”
Jake did rapid calculations in his mind.
“They still couldn’t have gotten through all those videos.”
“They’re further along than you think.” Farelli explained how Dan Hurley had helped narrow the list down. Anyone over the age of fifty or under the age of fifteen was excluded. Those age ranges didn’t fit the terrorist profile, nor did they match the descriptions given by Stonehauser’s widow.
“That left us with eight hundred possibilities. Thus far, our guys have viewed just over six hundred. So we’ve only two hundred to go.”
“With our luck the perp will be number eight hundred,” Jake said.
“Tell me about it.”
They quietly entered a darkened room. The camera was on and projecting images onto four separate screens. Jake leaned against the wall and watched the film. A double amputee was trying to walk on artificial legs with the help of canes.
There were no tattoos on his arms.
“That’s sure as hell not him,” a voice in the darkness spoke out.
The camera was switched off and the lights came on. The air had a gray haze and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Four detectives were seated around a table that was littered with empty pizza cartons and overflowing ashtrays.
“That’s number sixteen on your scorecard,” said Del Harriman, a twenty-year veteran in the Homicide Division. He knew more about films and cameras than most of the so-called experts and had been doing double shifts in the viewing room.
“When this shit is over, I’m going to need a week to recover.”
“You got it,” Jake said, liking the hawk-faced detective who would soon retire to open a camera shop somewhere in Arizona.
“Tell me, how good is their video setup?”
“The best in the world,” Harriman said.
“It’s a Sorry that does everything except go to the bathroom for you.”
“Let’s look at tattoos.”
Harriman began pushing buttons on a handheld remote control. The room
went dark, and a new video appeared on the screen. All eyes moved to a young Mexican walking on an artificial leg with an obvious limp. His jaw appeared tightly clenched, because of either the effort he was making or some pain he was experiencing. On his right upper arm was a tattoo with an indistinct red design.
Harriman stopped the film, then pushed more buttons on the remote control. The frozen frame on the screen suddenly enlarged and came into focus. The tattoo was a flower but not a rose. If anything, it was an orange-colored sunflower. There was a long stem with a looped pattern beneath the tattoo, but no writing.
“That’s not our boy,” Jake said, looking at the screen to his right, which showed a profile view.
“Let’s move on.”
Harriman punched in new numbers. The screen went blank for a moment, then zigzag lines appeared, then another video came up. Again the subject was Mexican, but he seemed older than the first. Mid-or late forties, Jake guessed, seeing the loose skin at the base of the man’s neck.
The second patient seemed much more comfortable with his prosthesis and walked with a barely noticeable limp. A profile view showed a tattoo of red roses on his right upper arm. There was writing beneath it.
“Freeze it!” Jake said quickly.
The film stopped, and the still frame was slowly magnified. Jake thought he could make out the first letter. An M. Gradually the whole word came into focus.
MACHO.
“Shit,” Jake grumbled.
“Go to the next guy.”
The third patient appeared younger than the others. He was in his mid-to late twenties, with a carefully trimmed mustache and slick black hair. Jake studied the man’s hair, now remembering the piece of scalp found at the West Hollywood bomb site. It was laden with some type of hair lotion.
Jake’s gaze went to the man’s arm and the red rose tattoo on it. Beneath the tattoo was writing, but it blurred as the man stumbled and righted himself. His arms were still moving when the profile faded.
“Can you back it up?” Jake asked at once.
Harriman pushed a button on the remote control, and the frames flashed by in reverse. He stopped the film at the place just before the patient began to stumble. Everything was in very slow motion now,
going frame by frame. The tattoo came into view, but the patient’s arm was rotated, and only the last part of the writi
ng under the tattoo was visible. The letters Y could be clearly seen.
“Could be the last letters of Monterrey,” Farelli suggested.
“It could be a lot of things,” Jake said. Turning to Harriman he asked, “Can we get a better look at the first part of the writing?”
“Not with the equipment we have here,” Harriman said.
“We only got a couple of frames of it, and he was twisting his arm away from the camera at the time.”
“Can the individual frames be broken down and reconstructed to bring out the lettering?”
“It might be possible,” Harriman said dubiously.
“Let me check with my friends over at the FBI.” He slowly stretched his back and neck, listening to his vertebrae crack.
“Lord! I hope this guy is our perp. If I look at much more film, I’m going to go blind.”
“I want every one of the remaining two hundred videos screened and examined,” Jake said firmly.
“No exceptions.”
The detectives sitting at the table groaned loudly. One lit a cigarette and started coughing.
Harriman asked, “But what if this guy’s tattoo reads “Monterrey’?”
“Then maybe we’ll have our man. But keep in mind, there’s no law that says the same tattoo can’t be present on more than one guy.” Jake thought about the quality of the tattoo on the dismembered arm. It was mediocre, probably done by a south-of-the-border tattooist who could churn out a dozen a day.
“Do you have any information on this guy?”
Harriman pressed a button on the remote control. The screen went blank, then a black-and-white insert appeared that read
RAMON GONZALEZ CASE:8422 DOB: 5/4/70 DIAGNOSIS: OSTEOGENIC SARCOMA
Jake took out his notepad and carefully wrote the information down.
Farelli asked, “What the hell is osteogenic sarcoma?”
“I don’t know,” Jake said, closing his notepad.
“But it sounds like something you don’t want to have.” They left the viewing room and took the elevator down. Outside the day was gray and muggy, the air still and very warm. Farelli put his finger inside his collar and pulled at it as he glanced at the flashing neon sign atop the Bank of America building. It said the time was 2:40 p.m.” the temperature eighty-two degrees.
Lethal Measures Page 17
