Outside the Wire

by Patricia Smiley

  Vaughn rolled the wine around in the glass and then lowered his nose to sniff the bouquet. “Brink knows we’re onto him. Why would he fall for that?”

  “What if he does? It’s worth a try.”

  Vaughn set down the glass without tasting the wine. “We can’t use a civilian as bait.”

  “Why not? We’ve done it before. Besides, Lunds is no normal civilian. He’s a former US Army Ranger. Maybe he can offer to help Brink get out of the country. He might be willing to part with some cash for a deal like that.”

  He glanced at the menu and then motioned for the waiter. “Or he might use it as another opportunity to kill Lunds.”

  “We’ll never let him get that close.”

  Vaughn ordered a tray of mini pizzas, his favorite. Ten minutes later the food arrived, but he seemed to have lost interest in eating. Even his wineglass sat on the table untouched. “You think Brink has already left the country?”

  Davie thought about his question. People disappeared within the United States all the time. Gangster Whitey Bulger lived in plain sight in Santa Monica for years. Brink might do the same. If he planned to leave the country, his options were limited. He could drive across the border to Mexico or Canada, but that posed a high risk of being apprehended. Border agents would be watching. He might go to Hong Kong, where his uncle could help him disappear. Latham had created a new identity for himself. He would likely help his nephew do the same. If that was Brink’s plan, the only way he could get there was by boat or air. A boat would take forever and would likely be intercepted by the US Coast Guard. So, he had to fly, but not on a commercial airline, that would be risky. It would have to be on a private plane.

  Davie thought back to her conversation with Detective Giordano. “The key to Brink’s behavior is hidden in his lies. Let’s go over what we know.“

  “What good does that do? He lied about everything.”

  For the next few minutes they laid out all the evidence against Brink, including what they’d found during the search of the Topanga house. During a pause in the conversation, Vaughn plucked a pizza round from the tray.

  As he raised it toward his mouth, he grimaced. “What kind of cheese is this? It smells like old man Latham’s boxer shorts.”

  Davie winced. She thought about that day in Seattle, the smell, and the dingy Peregrine Aviation T-shirt Latham’s father had been wearing. Then her stomach cramped as she realized what they’d missed. She fumbled for her cell and typed a name on the search line.

  Vaughn leaned over the table to look at her phone. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking a hunch.”

  Peregrine Aviation was a flight school in the San Fernando Valley. Midway through reading the text, a photo of the company’s logo caught her eye. It was an angular winged insignia. It could have been a vintage hood ornament, as she had once thought, but it wasn’t. It looked exactly like the logo on the pen clip Brink had been holding at his office the day she interviewed him.

  Davie dialed the number. After waiting several agonizing moments, the company confirmed that Alden Brink was a licensed pilot who had rented an airplane from the company for at least one business trip.

  The elder Mr. Latham suffered from dementia. In his muddled brain he’d thought his son had given him the T-shirt. Angela had been nervous as she tried to quiet her father because she knew it wasn’t her brother who’d bought that shirt. It was her son, Alden Brink.

  She pressed Dag Lunds’s number into her phone as she bolted from the chair. “We need to move,” she said to Vaughn. “Brink can fly out of here himself. I’ve alerted Peregrine to contact me if he shows up. We need to find out if TidePool used any other charter services. Call Quintero and let him know we’re on our way back to headquarters. We need to contact all the private airports in the area.”

  Vaughn looked perplexed. Davie threw some bills on the table and ran toward the street. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  She and Vaughn were breathing hard from exertion and stress by the time they reached the squad room and found Quintero, Striker, and two other RHD detectives.

  “Jason just got off the phone with TidePool’s CEO,” she said. “A member of his board flew into town yesterday to sort out the mess Brink created. He arrived on a Gulfstream G650 corporate jet that’s parked in a hangar at a private airport in the San Fernando Valley. An hour ago the owner of the facility saw Brink on the property. He wasn’t the pilot, so he got suspicious and called the CEO to make sure he was authorized to be there. Brink is a pilot. I think he’s going to steal the plane and fly it out of here.”

  “Any idea where he’d go?” Quintero said.

  “The Gulfstream has a range of seven thousand nautical miles. TidePool works with clients all over the world. Brink could have developed contacts in a lot of places, people who would be willing to help him.”

  “Let’s roll,” Quintero said.

  Davie ran to the garage, along with her partner and two other RHD detectives. Striker motioned her into the backseat of the black-and-white he was driving. Vaughn scrambled into the front. She hadn’t even closed the car door when Striker pulled out of the garage and sped toward the freeway, again requesting Code 3.

  With sirens blasting and lights flashing, Striker pushed the car to its limits as they sped toward the Valley. Davie’s heart raced. Adrenalin made the siren sound too loud, the menthol gel in Vaughn’s pocket smell too pungent, and the leather on the seats feel too cold. Striker’s hands gripped the wheel, but she still couldn’t read the tattoo on his inner arm.

  The drive seemed to take forever, but she knew they were close to the destination when Striker turned off the siren but didn’t douse the lights or slow down. A few minutes later, he pulled onto a side road with a view of several helicopters parked on a slab near the runway. He braked, sending Davie slamming against the door. She felt nothing. That’s when she realized the adrenaline had blocked the pain from her old injuries.

  There were at least a dozen patrol cars already at the scene. Quintero and Lieutenant Repetto leaned against an unmarked city ride. Striker stopped next to them and all three piled out of the car.

  “Brink drove up about fifteen minutes ago,” Quintero told them. “He opened the hangar door so we assume he’s planning to fly the plane. He’s not going to get far. We’ve blocked his access to the runway. SWAT is on the way.”

  Davie scanned the area. It was dark outside but in the distance she saw what looked like a terminal or administration building and the control tower. A series of overhead lamps illuminated four rows of long buildings. Each had five enormous sliding doors, twenty hangars in all. The interior lights in the TidePool hangar weren’t turned on, but ambient light spilled through the open door revealing a large jet. Barely visible in the shadows was a dark-colored BMW.

  Davie turned to Quintero. “Did you see the car?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We ran the plates. It’s registered to a rental agency in Vegas.”

  A million questions cycled through Davie’s mind. Where had he stored the car during the past ten days? Were there more weapons inside the trunk? Why did it have a Washington license plate? There was no time for answers now. She would find out eventually.

  Striker put on his raid jacket and strapped his shoulder holster over it. “Does Brink know we’re out here?”

  Quintero trained his binoculars on the hangar. “We haven’t tried to initiate dialogue, but I’m guessing he knows. We’re pretty hard to miss.”

  Davie saw movement in the cockpit of the plane and then heard the sound of an engine roaring to life.

  “They waited too long,” Vaughn said. “We should have arrested him when he got out of the car.”

  Quintero grabbed a bullhorn and flipped a switch. “This is the Los Angeles Police Department. You’re surrounded. Step out of the airplane and put your hands behind your head.”

 
; The jet crept forward until it cleared the hangar and turned toward the runway. A line of patrol cars with their spotlights blazing blocked the jet’s path. Brink had two choices—give up or shoot it out. Either way, he wouldn’t get away this time.

  Quintero repeated the orders twice more. The plane stopped but the angle left most of the hangar in shadows. Davie focused on the cockpit but she could no longer see any movement through the window.

  “Get out of the plane! Put your hands behind your head.” Quintero’s voice had become shrill.

  Something seemed wrong. Brink was a killer who’d been willing to sacrifice Fern in order to escape. He was desperate and likely capable of much worse. He had to know the jet wasn’t going anywhere. That’s when she realized his only hope of escape was in the car. A moment later, the BMW streaked out of the hangar, headlights off, and raced for the runway. Davie bolted for the black-and-white. Striker got to the driver’s seat first.

  Striker rammed the accelerator to the floor before Davie landed on the seat. He pulled out his seatbelt and Davie clipped it into the slot so he could keep his hands on the wheel. Then she fastened her own. The patrol car barreled forward until it was within a foot of Brink’s BMW. Behind her, the flashing lights of a dozen patrol cards reflected in the windshield. Striker stomped on the gas pedal, propelling the patrol into the BMW’s bumper.

  The collision threw her forward. Striker braked. Before her brain registered pain from the seatbelt cutting into her chest, her forward movement stopped and then reversed, sending her head banging against the headrest. Brink fought for control of the car, swerving wildly. Davie heard tires screech and metal grind against metal as the BMW came to an abrupt stop. Through plumes of smoke she saw the front of Brink’s car caved in and the tangled remains of one of the helicopters that she’d seen parked at the edge of the runway.

  Even before Striker put the car in park, Davie threw off her belt and tumbled out of the passenger door with her weapon drawn. She ran toward the wreck. Striker’s shoes pounded the pavement behind her. When she got to the BMW, Brink was stunned but conscious. A trickle of blood rolled down his face from a cut near his eye and gray powder from the airbag explosion covered his clothes. He struggled as they pulled him out of the car and shoved him to the ground. Striker planted a knee in his back and pulled a Glock from Brink’s waistband.

  Davie grabbed the handcuffs from a pocket in the back of her gun belt, knelt on the ground, and slipped the restraints around Brink’s wrists.

  “Get off me!” he shouted. “You have no right! I know people. You’ll pay for this.”

  “You tried to make me pay by the river,” she said. “You failed.”

  Brink struggled to free his hands. His tone had grown raw and hysterical. “You have no authority over me. None! You’re the cancer that corrupts this country. This fight is just beginning.”

  “You’re right about that,” she said. “Alden Brink, you’re under arrest for the murder of Zeke Woodrow. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court … ”

  It felt good to say those words. Davie thought of all the people Brink had destroyed, not only the men he’d killed but also the families whose lives would never be the same.

  Striker extended his hand toward her after she’d rattled off the Miranda warning. “You okay?”

  She nodded and let him pull her to her feet.

  Later that evening, Striker and Quintero flew to Seattle to have another chat with Angela Latham, this time in a SPD interview room. Davie and Vaughn stayed in L.A. and interrogated Alden Brink throughout the night. He blew off the Miranda warning to rage against the Army for scapegoating his uncle and ruining his whole family.

  He told her Zeke had given him a copy of the letter he wrote to the Army, not knowing his relationship to John Latham. Once Brink saw that Zeke planned to expose his uncle, he had to act. First, he persuaded Zeke to hold off sending the letter. Instead, they would return to Hong Kong together and present the case to the local authorities with Guardian’s help, in hopes of saving the business relationship. Davie could only assume Zeke agreed out of loyalty to TidePool. With Zeke silenced, at least for the moment, Brink lured Juno to Nevada with a fake job assignment and staged his suicide. After Zeke was dead, he went after Harlan Cormack. Brink told her his greatest regret was failing to kill Dag Lunds. He swore to remedy that as soon as he was released. Davie assured him that wasn’t going to be any time soon.

  Brink had assumed the original letter to the Army was on Zeke’s computer. He had to destroy it. When he didn’t find a laptop in Zeke’s travel bag at the airport or in the Topanga house, he found it at the Santa Barbara cottage. It was clear to Davie that Brink confessed not because he felt remorse, but because he felt justified.

  It was mid-morning the following day when Davie finally arrived home. Hootch was waiting for her by the front door. While he ate his breakfast, she told him Zeke’s killer was in custody. She thought she saw him smile.

  41

  After catching some sleep, Davie drove to Pacific station later that day, planning to jog to the beach. She was about a half mile from the station when her cell phone rang. It was Detective Striker calling from the LAX substation. He and his partner had just returned from Seattle, where they’d questioned Angela Latham. Davie was eager to learn how the interview had gone so she offered to pick him up.

  She was out of breath by the time she’d raced back to the station and fumbled in Giordano’s desk drawer for the key to a detective car. She bolted from the squad room without bothering to speak to anyone or to change out of her sweaty running gear.

  Striker was waiting for her at the curb. His blue suit and white shirt were both wrinkled from travel. His dark hair spiked at odd angles. He looked fatigued. She guessed he hadn’t slept since leaving L.A. the previous night. He must have noticed her scrutiny because he ran his hand over his scalp until the hairs were mostly traveling in the same direction.

  He threw his small duffle bag and a raincoat into the back and settled in next to her. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

  She told him that techs had searched the BMW’s navigation system and found programmed routes to Harlan Cormack’s trailer and a motel in Nevada, not far from where Juno Karst’s body was discovered. They also pulled Zeke’s stolen computer from the trunk of the car, which she’d booked into evidence at SID.

  He gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Good work, Detective.”

  His praise felt good. “So, what did you get out of Angela Latham?”

  “It’s a long story that requires coffee. You know someplace close?”

  She did.

  During the drive to Marina del Rey, Davie filled him in on Brink’s confession and he told her about his conversation with Angela Latham. Striker’s impression was that Brink had always been a piece of work and his mother was an enabler. He was smart enough to con his way through college and law school but was arrogant and compulsive, which got him in trouble everywhere he went. He was on the verge of getting fired from the real estate law firm where he worked when he found out TidePool was recruiting. They needed his expertise, so they hired him.

  Ten minutes later, they sat in a small café in Fisherman’s Village, gazing out the window at a cloudless blue sky. Boats cruised the main channel, back-dropped by high-rise apartment buildings that pierced the skyline. Davie heard the whoosh of milk frothing and the distant sound of a jet taking off from LAX. Striker had brought his duffle bag into the café and parked it on the floor by his feet.

  She wrapped her hands around the cappuccino cup, inhaling the fragrance of cinnamon sprinkled on the foam. “Did Brink always know his uncle was alive?”

  “He knew Latham was MIA. When he was about ten, Angela figured he was old enough to keep the family secret, so she started indoctrinating him with conspiracy theories. She told him his uncle was in hiding because the Army had man
ufactured bogus charges against him.”

  “That fits with what Brink told me. He thinks his uncle is a patriot who was betrayed by his country.”

  “Angela taught him to hate the military,” Striker said, “and encouraged his obsession with guns. She said as a kid he fantasized about saving his uncle in some sort of commando raid. By the time he met Latham in person, he saw his uncle as a hero. Latham had no kids of his own, so he encouraged the relationship.”

  She noticed Striker’s gaze sweeping over her body. Her hand flew to her head when she realized her hair had escaped the bun and hung in moist strings around her face and neck. She felt awkward knowing her form-fitting white top and black Spandex tights revealed every curve and straight line of her body. More than that, the getup was still damp from sweat and the synthetic fibers suddenly felt itchy against her skin. Striker didn’t comment on her appearance—unlike Jason Vaughn, who would have had plenty to say.

  She rethreaded the strands of hair into the stretchy band. “If Latham thought of his nephew as a son, it explains why he used Guardian to save Brink’s job.”

  Striker looked down as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips. Sunlight spilled through the window, highlighting the stubble on his face. “When Latham recognized Zeke in Hong Kong he called to warn Brink about the possible fallout. Once Brink found out Zeke was the bogyman who’d destroyed his uncle’s life, he turned his childhood commando fantasy into a reality.”

  “It’s hard to believe Latham didn’t know Zeke and Juno were part of the TidePool contingent.”

  Striker returned the cup to its saucer and lowered his voice. “Even if Latham had seen a list of TidePool employees, he wouldn’t have made the connection—he didn’t know Zeke’s name. Remember, the massacre happened in the so-called fog of war. Everything was fluid before he disappeared. Latham goes to ground not knowing if any of the men survived the war. He figured he was safe.”

  She thought about that for a moment as she studied the sleeves of Striker’s shirt, hoping to get a peek at the tattoo on his arm. But the cuffs were buttoned, blocking her view.