“Done,” Emdee replied.
Suddenly, the back door opened and Sammy appeared in the threshold carrying his machine gun. Alexa and I let loose with a barrage, driving him back inside. I caught sight of Roger working his way toward us, hugging the tree line. Then a single shot sounded from a back window. He yelled out and went down.
“How bad?” I shouted. I couldn’t see him where he’d fallen in the foliage.
“Through and through,” he screamed back. “Fucked the bone up!”
“Stay down. We’ll do this.”
The Kalashnikovs started firing from the front of the house. Alexa’s phone was still open in her hand and I heard Perry shouting over the earpiece. “They’re in the door, gonna make a run at me!”
“Right,” Alexa said and started toward the front. I grabbed her arm.
“You stay here,” I told her. “Hold down this position.”
Without waiting for an argument, I took off, heading around to the front of the house. I got there just in time to see Sammy and Iggy Petrovitch, along with the last remaining brigadier, run out of the chalet into the yard. All of them were on fire. Their clothes burned brighter as they ran.
I unloaded the AR-15 at them until the clip was dry. Iggy went down first, then the brigadier behind him. Sammy was the last one standing. He was taking hits from Perry’s M-60. But even as several rounds spun him, the giant stayed upright, lurching forward like the monster in a Japanese horror flick.
Then he veered to his right and started toward me. The back of his shirt was still blazing, blood covered the front of him. The Kalashnikov in his hand kept firing, but he was spastically jerking the shots off. The bullets went wide. I tried to return fire, but I’d forgotten that my weapon was empty. Petrovitch continued toward me, bringing his gun up as he advanced.
He was now only five yards away, too close to miss. His ruptured face and giant teeth were pulled wide in an ugly grimace.
Then, as I watched him start to pull the trigger, two loud reports sounded from behind me. I spun in time to see Alexa in a Weaver stance, her 9 mm extended in a two handed grip. Her first shot was a little wide, but hit Sammy in the shoulder, knocking him sideways. The second was perfect—right between the running lights. His huge block head flew back, then forward. He teetered for a moment before he fell forward, landing with a thud, facedown on the ground directly in front of me.
Is this woman great? I thought, as relief swept over me.
Then everything was quiet.
I looked around and saw bodies sprawled all over the front lawn. Kersey Nix, Iggy, Sammy, and their brigadier.
When we finally got around to checking the Russians, they were all dead. When I reached Kersey Nix I got a surprise.
The traitorous son of a bitch was still breathing.
62
My friends who work in forensic entomology tell me that green bottle flies have many amazing characteristics. They can home in on a dead body from miles away, sometimes arriving in less than ten minutes. They feast on the remains and lay thousands of eggs in the cadaver’s moist cavities and crevices. Those larva soon hatch and become maggots. Thirty-six hours later, these maggots grow into a new generation of ugly green flies that lay more eggs. The process continues, cycle after cycle. By counting generations of fly larva, and measuring outside temperature, which affects the breeding cycle, it’s possible for an entomologist to establish an approximate, long-term time of death estimate.
I don’t want to be overly harsh, but in my opinion, the press shares many of these same characteristics. They arrive without warning from miles away and feast hungrily on the dead. The greater the carnage, the more reporters and stories they breed, reproducing their ugly offspring news cycle after news cycle. With the media, the outside temperature doesn’t seem to affect the process.
The first TV chopper landed less than ten minutes after the last shot was fired. Whether they picked up a broadcast from our chopper, or whether some neighbor on the lake called it in, it didn’t really matter. The blue-and-white Hughes 500 settled down on the grass like a big hungry bottle fly and discharged two maggots carrying video equipment at port arms. One had an HD-24 camera, the other, a digital sound unit and sun gun. They had a variety of spectacular targets to choose from. The house was engulfed in flame; bodies were strewn everywhere.
A few minutes later, two more choppers landed, followed by another after that. All had their call letters and station logos emblazoned proudly on the sides, and of course, there were plenty of catchy slogans:
Channel One Is the One in the Inland Empire.
Stay Up to Date with Channel Eight.
Channel Six Gets It Right on Time.
I was trying to set up a police line and hold them back but we were outnumbered, and worse still, out of our jurisdiction, so I was getting a lot of arguments. The press knew this was big.
The NBC affiliate KSBW landed a chopper. The story was about to go national.
While I struggled to keep the news crews at bay, Alexa was on her cell phone to Chief Filosiani in Los Angeles. The LAPD pilot had already radioed the local sheriff and requested a fire team, backup troops and EMTs. Roger was in considerable pain, but Emdee had stemmed the bleeding with his belt. Kersey Nix was unconscious and going into shock.
The fire department arrived with three pumper units and immediately started knocking down flames using water from the lake. The chalet was a loss, so they concentrated on protecting the trees to prevent a wild fire. Once the perimeter was contained they worked to extinguish the burning house.
There were two EMTs with the fire crew and I led them over to Broadway and Nix.
Roger was sluggish from loss of blood, so the paramedics went right to work tying off bleeders and applying pressure compresses. Nix was critical and needed an immediate dust off. Alexa commandeered the chopper from Channel Six. Amid a chorus of complaints, we loaded Nix inside, along with a paramedic, and the news chopper took off for the nearest hospital. After the second EMT finished the field dressing on Roger he took a look at my hand.
“What caused this?” he asked, as he peeled back the temporary bandage Nix had applied in Pismo Beach.
“I got in the way of a homicidal tree trimmer.”
The EMT shot me a puzzled look, but when I didn’t elaborate, told me it had to be treated at a hospital, then he splinted and wrapped it up tight with fresh gauze and tape.
The local sheriffs finally arrived at 4 P.M. and ten deputies in Smokey the Bear hats took control of the crime scene.
Alexa closed her phone and came over and stood with me. “The chief is worried that once the news story breaks, Virtue will rabbit.”
“Yeah.” I pointed to the NBC chopper, which had a satellite dish affixed to the door. “Probably Brian Williams’s lead story already.”
She nodded. “Tony went to the FBI. With Nix off the flowchart, Agent Underwood becomes the temporary SAC in L.A.”
“Good luck,” I said.
“Tony said the guy is actually kicking some big-time ass for us in the Bureau.”
“Jerk had to be good for something eventually,” I grumbled.
“I need to get back to L.A., she said. “The Sonora sheriff is choppering in a local ME right now, to handle the crime scene.”
Just then, a paramedic chopper landed on the lawn to pick up Roger. I found him lying on a blanket Emdee had scrounged from somewhere. Blood was already seeping through the new bandage the medic had put on his leg.
I shook Emdee and Roger’s hands. “Thanks for the rescue. See you guys back in L.A.”
Alexa and I got into the LAPD chopper and left the scene. As we circled the lake on our way back to the city, I turned around and looked down at the smoking house. The fire was now out and there were twenty or thirty dots moving around on the lawn. From this far away, it was impossible to tell which ones were the maggots.
63
We stopped at the Queen of Angels emergency room where the docs did thirty minutes’ wor
th of needlework on the end of my left index finger. When they were finished, my finger was half an inch shorter and my hand was wrapped in a pound of gauze, suitable for ringing a Chinese gong.
It was around 8 P.M. before Alexa and I got back to Parker Center and rode the elevator to six, where we went directly into the chief’s office. Great White Mike occupied the only chair. Armando Cubio and Agent Orange were there, along with half the LAPD command staff and deputy chiefs. Tony Filosiani was pacing the room, fully in charge. As soon as we walked in, the chief told us that R. A. Virtue had disappeared from his home at 6 P.M. His wife didn’t know where he’d gone and neither did his people at Homeland Security.
“Musta seen the early news and figured to get outta sight till he could assess the damage,” he said.
“If Nix survives his wound and talks, Virtue’s in a big jackpot,” I said. “As it is, I think we have enough to get a warrant to arrest him as a material witness.”
“I’m already working on that,” Cubio said.
“Agent Underwood’s got us dialed into the regional Homeland Security office,” Tony continued. “They’re in full stammer. They can’t believe Virtue and Nix went off the res like that.”
Underwood’s narrow shoulders were pinched together. His bright orange hair bristled angrily under the fluorescent ceiling lights in Tony’s office. He held up two sheets of paper and said, “We’ve got all the airports and border crossings covered. This is a list of asset-seizure planes in the FBI inventory. There’s a twin-engine Challenger corporate jet—tail number Sierra Mike eight-six-eight. It went missing from the federal hangar yesterday.”
“It’s gotta be pretty damn hard to steal a federal jet without stirring up a flock of questions. Where’d it go?” Tony asked.
“Don’t know,” Underwood said. “Virtue has his own pilots. He probably has enough juice to commandeer one of these federal planes without paperwork. But if he tries to fly it anywhere without filing a flight plan, the FAA will have an unauthorized blip going through their airspace. Since nine-eleven, if we don’t know who you are, you land or get shot down.”
“So if he can’t take off, how does he plan to escape?” I asked.
“If it was me, I’d park that Challenger in a secure hangar and change tail numbers,” Underwood suggested, running a freckled hand through his orange bristle. “Then when he’s ready, he files a flight plan under somebody else’s ownership numbers.”
“Okay. From now on, any Challenger jet that requests a flight plan has to be checked, regardless of who owns it,” Tony said.
Underwood nodded. “Big job, but we can do it.”
After the meeting broke up, I found myself in the elevator with Judd Underwood.
“Got pretty tough up there in Central California,” he said. “Heard one of your guys got it.”
“My partner.”
“Farrell?” His brow creased in thought. “You know, I never got to meet him.”
“Too late now.”
Thankfully, the door opened. I didn’t even know what floor we were on, but I didn’t know what to say, and needed to get away from him, so I stepped out.
“Hey, Scully,” he said, stopping me. “What you did? It was good.”
“Thanks.”
“Lord Acton’s Law. ‘Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’” He seemed to want to bury the problem between us. “With guys like you around, maybe we can keep the corruption at bay.”
I nodded, shook his hand, and watched the elevator close. After I turned around, I realized I was on the second floor.
Accounting. It seemed like a good time to stop in and get the paperwork moving on Zack’s survivor death benefits.
When Alexa and I got home, Chooch and Delfina made a big deal over my being safe. Once the excitement was over, they went out to a movie to celebrate. We went out to the backyard with Franco, who gazed sadly at the shallow canals. I think he preferred the ocean view from the balcony at Shutters.
I told Alexa, for about the tenth time, how happy I was to see her choppering in with Rowdy and Snitch to save me.
“Enough,” she finally said, “I can’t take another thank you.”
So I told her I didn’t ever again want to hear a criticism from her about my taking chances. Not after that suicidal run across the lawn toward the woodshed.
“Gotta look after my honey,” she grinned.
I was transfixed by the graceful curve of her neck, the slant of her high cheekbones, all of this exotic beauty lit by soft moonlight.
Then I took her hand, and finally worked into a discussion about Zack’s survivor benefits. The family of a police officer who dies in action is entitled to 75 percent of his final average salary plus a death in service benefit.
Alexa shifted in her chair. “All this stuff with Zack—I’m afraid it’s not quite over yet,” she said softly.
“Whatta you mean, it’s not over? The guy’s dead. He died saving my ass. End of story.”
“After you went missing, everything you told me, your suspicions about Zack being the unsub—I took it all to Tony.”
“But, I told you Zack was not the killer, Sammy was. Before he died, Zack told me the department would try to use this stuff to screw him out of his line-of-duty death benefits, and now that’s exactly what’s going on. I’m not gonna stand by and watch the number crunchers on two steal money that’s rightfully his.”
“We’re not stealing anything,” she said, coming to the defense of the department. “But now that it’s in the system, things have to take their course. I can issue a favorable opinion, which I will do, but it’s not something I can control anymore.”
Sitting in the dark, I realized she was right. With both Sammy and Zack dead, there was no way I could ever really prove which of them was the Fingertip Killer.
At one o’clock in the morning, Alexa and I were lying in bed, but were still both awake, tossing and tangling our sheets, too keyed up to sleep.
The phone rang.
Alexa snatched up the receiver. “Yes?” She paused. “Where?”
She hung up, rolled out of bed, and started putting her clothes on.
“Gotta go.”
“Somebody filed a flight plan?” I said, swinging my feet to the floor.
“Stay in bed.”
I got up and started dressing.
“You’re not going, Shane. It’s an order.”
“An order’s not gonna be enough. You’re gonna have to shoot me.”
Ten minutes later we were speeding down the 405 toward the Van Nuys Airport. Alexa was driving. I was slouched in the passenger seat watching the lights from the freeway streaking across her face.
At 1:35 A.M., we pulled into the parking lot of Peterson Executive Jet Terminal in Van Nuys. Tony Filosiani, Lieutenant Cubio, and Judd Underwood were already there, along with a dozen cops and FBI agents. A heated procedural argument was in progress.
“It doesn’t matter to me if it belongs to John Travolta or John the Baptist,” Tony was saying. “It ain’t takin’ off. We gotta make a move.” Then he turned to face us. “An hour ago, Travolta’s Gulfstream filed a flight plan for Berlin.”
“I thought we were looking for an asset-seizure Challenger with altered tail numbers,” Alexa said.
“We are. Were,” Underwood said. “This was filed as an emergency flight plan. According to the paperwork, Travolta’s supposed to be aboard heading back to Germany where he’s shooting a movie. When the printout came in it seemed fishy to me because I remembered reading somewhere that he has a big new seven-thirty-seven that he uses for long-distance flights. According to his production office in Berlin, Travolta’s still in Germany. He doesn’t know anything about his Gulfstream leaving from here. The flight plan has the plane taking off in five minutes. It’s taxiing now.”
“That’s enough talk! We’re gonna shut this down,” Tony said angrily.
The tower was alerted that we wanted to halt the takeoff and board the Gulfstream.
The message was relayed to the pilot, but the plane kept rolling.
“He’s not responding,” the FBI agent who was on the phone to the tower reported.
In less than a minute we were in our cars and out on the tarmac. Four cars streaked down the taxiway. Tony took the lead, driving his Crown Vic at high speed, his Kojack light flashing red. Judd Underwood was in the front seat with him.
I was in Alexa’s slick-back while she drove. We were doing close to seventy, following Tony’s Crown Vic so closely, our headlights only lit the car’s trunk. I could barely make out the shiny white shape of the jet turning at the end of the runway, positioning itself for takeoff.
Then the Gulfstream began to accelerate.
“Cut across the grass,” I yelled. “We’ll never block him if we stay on the taxiway!”
Alexa swung the wheel and we shot across the infield. Tony and the other vehicles must have had the same idea because suddenly we were all on the main runway.
The Gulfstream thundered toward us, engines at full throttle, while four police cars closed the distance, speeding straight at it on a deadly collision course. When we were halfway down the tarmac, Tony spun the wheel, skidding sideways. The other cars followed suit, blocking the runway four across. There didn’t appear to be enough space for the big jet to get airborne, but it kept coming, powering toward us.
“Get out!” I screamed.
Alexa and I dove out of the car and ran for our lives. The other cops and feds all did the same.
At the last minute, the Gulfstream swerved to miss the blockade of cars and left the runway heading out onto the grass. It tore up the turf as it tried to brake to a stop. With both engines now screaming in retrograde, the big jet finally began to lose speed. As it did, the undercarriage started to sink into the grass, followed a minute later by a loud, tortured bang, as the wheels set themselves in soft turf and the landing gear snapped. The heavy jet nosed down and shuddered to a stop.
Everyone surrounded the plane with guns drawn. A few tense moments passed before the hatch attempted to open. Because of the nose-down attitude, the hydraulic door stuck halfway open. After a moment, Robert Allen Virtue appeared in the threshold and peered through the jammed hatch.
Cold Hit Page 30
