The Competition

by Marcia Clark

  And it was a tight-knit little community. When torrential rains caused a major mudslide that buried four houses, the government had proposed evacuating the town—possibly for good. The residents had refused to go. They’d dug their way out, helped one another rebuild, and rescued their little city from oblivion. It made perfect sense that everyone in town would know if a stranger was hiding out there.

  Bailey pulled up to a small cottage that had a front walk lined with crushed seashells and a large conch on the front porch. The doorbell was a literal bell that sat on an upside-down barrel near the door, and the hammock suspended from the overhang swung gently in the sea breeze. Something about the decor reminded me of Gilligan’s Island. I picked up the bell and rang it, because…I just couldn’t resist.

  A smallish man with a woolly thatch of dark hair, dressed in a faded Hawaiian shirt and jeans, answered the door. He looked from Bailey to me. “Detectives?”

  Bailey pulled out her badge and introduced us. “Officer Santos?”

  “That’s me. Todd” He held out his hand as he gestured to his clothes. “Sorry for the civvies, but Sunday’s my day off. Come on in.”

  Bailey and I settled on a blue denim sofa that had seen better days sometime before the Korean War. Todd welcomed us and set bottles of water on the electrical cable spool that served as a coffee table. It came as no surprise that he didn’t wear a wedding ring. It was a rare woman who’d embrace Todd’s choice of decor. But Todd himself was charming. Maybe it was his open face and eager smile. Or the way he leaned forward, hands clasped together, with a look that said whatever we needed, he’d be up for it. Plus, he smelled good. His cologne—possibly aftershave—was light, citrusy, and a little like the ocean. The ocean part might’ve just been the air. Whatever it was, I liked him.

  Bailey pulled out her cell and showed Todd the photo of Shane. “This is the man you called about, right?”

  Todd took one look. “Yep, that’s him. Must have just got in last night because I only saw him this morning. Spotted him out on the balcony of Max’s apartment.” He tapped his forehead. “I never forget a face. Especially when it’s attached to a criminal. You think he’s one of your shooters?”

  “Yeah,” Bailey said. “And he’s a gun nut. There’s a good chance he’s armed.”

  Todd looked from me to Bailey. “Want me to back you up?” He nodded at us, indicating what the answer should be.

  “Maybe,” Bailey said. “What do you know about the guy he’s staying with? Is he the jumpy type?”

  “Max? Nah. But I didn’t want to take any chances, so I didn’t say anything to him.”

  “And you’re sure Shane’s still there?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been keeping tabs on him for ya, watching the building to make sure no one leaves. It’s been quiet.” He got up and motioned for us to join him at the window. Todd pointed to a green apartment building across the street with an open carport and units above. “See that old red Mustang? That’s Max’s car. That bike parked behind it has to be Shane’s ride because I’ve never seen it before.”

  “You know which unit Max lives in?” Bailey asked.

  “Didn’t before, but after I sighted Shane, I went and checked. Apartment two B.”

  “What do you know about Max?” I asked.

  “He’s a vet. Did a tour in Afghanistan. Works construction when he can. Nice guy. Not the sharpest knife in the box, but a decent sort.”

  “Which is why he’s harboring a mass murderer?” I asked.

  “I’d bet you he doesn’t know,” Todd said. “He doesn’t have a television. Got drunk last year and kicked in the screen when the Dodgers lost.”

  “Is he going to cause us trouble?” Bailey asked.

  “I doubt it. But I’ll tell you what. How about I go over there and see if I can pull Max out? I’ll keep him quiet, and you guys can move in and take your prisoner.”

  That sounded nice and simple, except that our prisoner was likely to be armed to the teeth. And nothing fights like a rabid animal when it’s cornered. “Maybe we should wait for backup.”

  Bailey shook her head. “We can’t afford to. If he jumps before they get here, we’ll be screwed. How about this, Todd. You try and get inside and see what’s going on, see whether Max is acting weird. Look for any guns lying around. We’ll wait right outside. If it looks cool, give us a sign and we’ll move in.”

  This felt like a dumb cowboy move to me, but since I was the least experienced in the arrest department, I deferred. I opened my purse and rearranged my makeup, comb, and other junk so my gun was on top.

  Todd looked at my purse, then at me. I could see him wondering how much use I’d be. I wasn’t sure myself.

  Todd stood up. “Okay then. Let’s do this.” Todd went to a side table near the door, picked up a small revolver, and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Then he headed out. We followed at a discreet distance, and I tried to act nonchalant, like I imagined a tourist would look. Except I couldn’t imagine what any tourist would be doing walking the streets of La Conchita.

  Stairs of pebble composite led up from the street to the second floor of the apartment building where our quarry was holed up. Todd, who was wearing desert boots, made a lot more noise than I would’ve liked as he clomped up them. The units were in a U shape, and there was a courtyard in the center below, where a dwarf palm tree and flowers grew around decorative rocks. I imagined one of us being tossed over the flimsy metal railing that lined the walkway and landing headfirst on those rocks.

  Todd turned left at the top of the stairs, then walked around the U until he’d reached the last door. Bailey and I hung back a few feet. He looked back, gave us a smile, and knocked. I heard a voice answer from inside the apartment, which tells you how flimsy those walls were. “Hey, Max. It’s me, Todd. I need a favor.”

  A few seconds later, the door opened, and a sun-bleached, graying head poked out. “Whadda ya need?”

  “I’m painting my bedroom, and I’ve got to move my dresser out. There’re some cold brews in it for ya.”

  Max held the door partly open with one hand and stood there, considering the offer. If he didn’t go for it, then what? Finally, he said, “Okay. Just gimme a sec to put on my jeans.” He closed the door, and Todd glanced at us and gave us a thumbs-up. I rolled my eyes, but he waved me off, “don’t worry.” Yeah, why worry? Just because we were about to try to take down a murderer who had access to an armory? Piffle.

  A few seconds later, Max emerged—a square body with skinny arms in a tank top, torn jeans, and flip-flops. In fifty-degree weather. What was he, a werewolf? Todd moved to the side as though to let Max lead the way, but when Max started to close the door behind him, Todd grabbed it. He put a finger to his lips and pushed Max against the wall. When Max started to protest, Todd pulled out his gun. Max’s eyes got big, and as we walked past him toward the door, they got even bigger. “You stay here,” Todd whispered. Max nodded compliantly. “The brews are still yours, bud.” Max slid away, his back to the wall, like a man who’d stepped out onto the ledge of a skyscraper.

  Bailey and I held our guns down at our sides as we tiptoed single-file toward the apartment. The door was a quarter of the way open. I peered inside but saw only darkness. My heart was thudding in my chest. What a weird place for me to die. In a dingy apartment in La Conchita. I listened for sounds of movement. Music was playing somewhere inside, but it wasn’t coming from the front room. Todd pushed the door farther open and moved inside, and we followed, our guns now straight out in front of us. We walked into a living room, which looked empty. I slowed down to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and tried to scan every inch of the room for places where Shane might be hiding, getting ready to spring.

  On our left was the kitchen and dining area—a tiny square of linoleum. We stopped and looked around. There was no one there, but the music was getting louder. We moved past the kitchen to a small hallway. There was a door on the right. Todd put his ear to the wall near it and lis
tened, then shook his head. He took one side of the door, and Bailey and I took the other. He carefully reached out and turned the doorknob. It turned. My heart was in my throat as he pushed the door open. It was a bathroom. And it was dark. Todd crouched down, gun in both hands, straight out in front of him. It was a half bath, so there was no tub or shower. And no one was in there.

  Todd continued down the hall toward the door at the end. Bailey and I followed. The music was louder now. It sounded like “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, and it was coming from behind that door. This was it. I envisioned Shane standing inside, holding an AK aimed at us. I tried to pull Bailey back. She shook me off and moved in behind Todd.

  Todd listened at the door, nodded to us, then twisted the doorknob. It turned, and as he inched the door open, I held my breath and steadied my gun in both hands. If Todd or Bailey missed their shot, mine would have to be the one to take Shane out. Then, in one swift motion, Todd threw back the door, crouched down, and pointed his gun, shouting, “Police!”

  There stood Shane Dolan, hair dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his stomach. He froze, then threw his hands up. His towel dropped to the floor. Standing there naked as a jaybird, he screamed, “Don’t shoot!”

  56

  For several long seconds, no one moved. Bailey recovered first. “Uh, Todd, you can stand down. I believe we can safely say he’s unarmed.” She looked at Shane. “No offense. Feel free to get your towel.”

  Shane nodded but kept his eyes trained on Todd as he bent down to get the towel and draped it around his waist.

  “Where are your clothes?” Todd asked. Shane pointed to a chair. Todd gave the T-shirt and jeans a thorough going-over, then tossed them to Shane one at a time. Bailey and I checked his wallet and license to confirm his identity, then ripped through the room. We found a thirty-eight Smith and Wesson under his pillow, a nine millimeter Glock in the top drawer of the dresser, and an SBR AR fifteen in the closet. They were all fully loaded. Bailey read him his rights. He waived them in a shaky voice.

  We took him into the living room, handcuffed him, and tied him to a kitchen chair with some electrical cord Todd found under the sink. Bailey and Todd hovered over him, guns at their sides. Shane didn’t look so good now, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, all pale and trembling. But looking past that, I could see that his photo hadn’t done him justice. The wavy brown hair curling over his forehead, hazel eyes, and full, sensual lips that had a rebellious curl made for an undeniably sexy package. I’d always been wary of the type, myself.

  Since I was the only one not visibly armed, I was unofficially elected to play good cop. “Where’s Logan Jarvis?”

  His eyes narrowed with fury. “That lunatic asshole. I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”

  This was not the answer, or the attitude, I’d been expecting. “You two just shot up that theater, said adios, and went your separate ways?”

  Shane’s mouth dropped open. “Theater? Shooting? What the hell are you talking about?” He looked a little green around the gills. Some guys can do a pretty good job of feigning shock, but nausea—that’s a toughie.

  “Shane, now is not the time to play dumb. We might be able to save you from death row if you help us. But you can’t waste our time with this ‘who me?’ bullshit.”

  “Lady, I’m not kidding. I don’t know about any theater shooting. And the last time I saw Logan was a few weeks before the school shooting.”

  I folded my arms and gave him my best, “give me a fucking break” look. “So you had nothing to do with the shooting at Fairmont High.”

  He teared up. His lips trembled, and for a few seconds it looked as though he was going to break down. But he closed his eyes, swallowed, and held it back. When he spoke, his voice was ragged. “Why in the hell would I want to shoot up a bunch of kids?” Shane looked at me, his expression tortured. “If I’d known that’s what that fucking freak was getting the guns for, I’d have called the cops. I sure as hell wouldn’t have sold him any.” He dropped his head, and I saw tears fall into his lap. “I had no idea that’s why he bought them until I saw the news that day.”

  “But we didn’t release his name for a couple of days.”

  “Yeah, but I knew what school he went to, and I knew what I’d sold him. The reports all said what kind of weapons they used.” He was right about that. “Plus, Logan talked some really weird shit just before…it all happened. He sent me this off-the-wall email the day before about seeing me ‘on the other side.’ At the time I just thought he was being his usual strange, geeky self. But then, when I saw the news about the shooting at Fairmont, I put it all together.”

  “And ran.”

  Shane gave me a hard look. “Bet your ass I ran.”

  Because he was, at the very least, on the hook for selling guns to a minor, for selling guns without registration, probably for buying stolen guns, possibly for burning off the registration numbers. The list went on and on.

  “Where were you at the time of the Fairmont shooting?”

  “At the VA hospital in Westwood, getting my meds. Check it out; they keep records.”

  “Don’t worry, we will.” Or rather, we’d been trying. The VA records were a mess. When Bailey got the tip about Shane being in La Conchita, she’d told the unis to drop everything else and focus on any records dated on or near the day of the shooting. With a little luck, we’d have our answer soon. “What were you getting meds for?”

  Shane tightened his lips for a moment and looked away. Finally, he answered. “PTSD. I’m not saying I was a model citizen before the war, but when I got back…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t deal. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight. The only thing that made me feel better was getting high. It was the only way I could block out the memories. I couldn’t hold down a job, and after getting fired a couple of times, I was totally hosed.” Shane looked up at me. “But I’m guessing Luke already told you about that.”

  “Some, yeah.”

  Shane nodded. “After Luke moved out, things really went to shit. I fell apart. They denied my disability claims, I lost my job at the garage, so I couldn’t pay the rent. The landlord gave me a three-day notice. I was pretty much homeless. That’s when I met up with a guy at a gun range out in Agoura Hills.”

  I figured out where this was heading. “And that’s the guy who got you into gun sales.”

  “Yeah. It was a natural move for me. I was raised in Montana. Learned to shoot before I learned to read. So I knew guns. And the money was great. I got myself out of debt and out of L.A. and got myself a job at the tree service. And I’m practically off the meds. Doing good now.” Shane looked at the three of us surrounding him. “Well, I was.”

  “Good? You call illegal gunrunning good?”

  He leaned back and glared at me. “What the fuck do I care? The U.S. government screwed me over. Hard. Used me up and spit me out. The VA takes a year to process my claims. They were worthless when I needed help finding work. So the government wants to regulate gun sales? Fuck ’em. It’s my constitutional right to bear arms.”

  “And to sell them to kids?” Shane looked away. “Where have you been for the past two days?” I deliberately didn’t give him the date of the theater shooting. I wanted to see how much of his time he could account for.

  “Up north, near Red Bluff.”

  “When did you get down here?”

  “This morning. I dumped the car—”

  “The Jetta?”

  “Yeah. Figured you guys might be onto that. Picked up the bike—”

  “You mean stole—”

  Shane glared at me. “Bought—just outside Sacramento.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  If that was true, there was no way he could’ve done the theater shooting. “Who’d you buy it from?”

  “Look in my wallet. There’s a receipt. Seller was a guy named Trinidad…something. Got his phone number on there and everything. You’ll see.”

  Bailey l
eaned over and whispered to Todd and he nodded. “Be right back,” she said. “You keep going.” I knew she was going to check Shane’s alibis.

  “Assuming your alibis check out and you’re not one of the shooters, you’re still on the hook for selling the guns to them—”

  “Them? I didn’t sell anything to ‘them.’ The only person I sold to was Logan. I never saw anyone else.” His voice was firm. “I kept my customer list tight. Never spread my net too wide.”

  “You didn’t deal with any friends of Logan’s?”

  “Never. Our deals were always one-on-one.”

  “Didn’t it strike you as odd that one kid would buy that many weapons? All those AKs and at least four handguns?”

  “No, it didn’t strike me as ‘odd.’” He tilted his head to indicate air quotes. “I had more guns than that by my thirteenth birthday.”

  “Your dad gave you an AK for your thirteenth birthday?”

  Shane looked away.

  “How’d you get your hands on a fully automatic AK?”

  “I didn’t. I converted it myself. It’s not that hard.”

  “How many guns did you sell to Logan?”

  “Two assault rifles and four handguns.”

  I had an idea, but before I could pursue it, Bailey came back and pulled me aside. “The VA story checks out,” she whispered “He was there at eighty thirty a.m. the day of the Fairmont shooting and he was in the pharmacy getting his script filled at ten forty-five. No way he could’ve been at the school.”

  “And Cinemark?”

  “We’re waiting to hear back about him buying the bike the day of that shooting, but the receipt was in his wallet and the voice on the answering machine gave the name Trinidad. It’s probably going to check out.”

  And in any case, he had an airtight alibi for the school shooting. If Shane hadn’t been involved in the Fairmont shooting, then he probably hadn’t done the theater shooting either. Which only begged the question: who the hell was the second shooter? I’d never been wild about the theory that a grown man like Shane would be Logan’s sidekick. But clearing Shane meant we had no one on the hook.