by Lee Goldberg
Macklin nodded somberly. His home could never be a sanctuary, not now. Every facet of his life had been irrevocably touched by the disease that took his father first, then Cheshire. Slowly but surely, he knew, it was infecting him as well.
They left the restaurant and were struck by a strong gust of wind that whipped up their hair as they made their way to the escalator. They didn't talk as they rode it down to the second floor of the parking garage.
Macklin breathed through his mouth. The garage was thick with car exhaust fumes trapped inside the structure by the raging winds. Their footsteps echoed through the dark garage as they walked silently between aisles of parked cars to Fitz's metallic blue two-door '79 Buick Regal. Fitz unlocked the passenger door, motioned Macklin inside, and then walked around and got in as well.
"There, now we have some privacy." Fitz put his key in the ignition, twisted it to the alternator setting, and then turned on the stereo. Classical music played softly over the speakers. "First, I need to know a little more about you. How did you become a vigilante?"
Macklin told his story, beginning with his father's death and ending with his surveillance of Wesley Saputo, glossing over Cheshire's murder without knowing why. He kept the encounter with Mordente to himself, as he had with Shaw. He thought it was pointless to scare either of them.
"I see," Fitz said quietly. "What kind of material evidence have you collected?"
Macklin handed Fitz the envelope. "These memos and a strip of film that shows Orlock with a child the police later found raped and strangled."
Fitz lifted the flap and thumbed through the items in the envelope, his face hardening.
When the judge got to the film strip and held it up to the interior light, Macklin spoke up. "Shaw tells me he can make out Crocker Orlock in the background. He says that isn't enough to prove Orlock's complicity."
Fitz grunted. "He's right, I'm afraid. I need more evidence that ties Orlock directly to the films and thereby the murders." He returned the envelope to Macklin. "The problem is all the evidence against Orlock will be circumstantial. To make up for that, I need a preponderance of evidence to feel comfortable finding guilt."
"You want more evidence." Macklin opened the car door. "I'll get it. What about Saputo?"
"He should never have been released from jail," Fitz responded, staring out the windshield at the rows of parked cars. "Your evidence, coupled with what Sergeant Shaw told me, leaves no doubt in my mind that Saputo is back in business. In time, it might be possible to gather evidence that can be used in a courtroom, but even then I don't know if a conviction could be secured or if he'd even remain behind bars."
Fitz started the engine and then glanced at Macklin. "So shut the bastard down."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Richard Nixon and Darth Vader held Uzis and stood in the bed of the pickup truck E.T. had just driven through the bank's plate-glass window.
"Everyone facedown on the floor," Nixon yelled over the shrill alarm. "If I see anyone's face, I'll blow it off."
The nine lunch-hour customers and the dozen bank employees didn't argue with the three men in the rubber masks. Everyone in the convex, window-walled bank lobby dropped to their knees and flattened themselves on the glass-strewn floor.
E.T. left the truck's engine running and bolted from the cab. He vaulted over the bank counter and moved quickly to each teller's window, stuffing handfuls of money into a large gunnysack.
Darth Vader, standing in the truck's bed with Nixon, caught a movement on the floor. An old lady was raising her head. "Get down!" he barked.
"I can't," she whined, looking up. "There's a sharp piece of glass tha—"
Vader squeezed the trigger of his Uzi. Her body stuttered back along the floor as bullets bit into her head and spit out blood. Fearful screams from the panicked employees and customers joined the frenzied wail of the alarm.
"Goddamn it, why did you do that?" Nixon shouted. "C'mon, we've got enough cash, let's get out of here!"
"I don't believe I saw you boys sign a withdrawal slip." A voice behind the three robbers stopped them cold. They turned and saw Brett Macklin standing in the doorway, the .357 Magnum at his side.
Macklin caught a jerk in E.T.'s gun arm, crouched, and spun on his heels, firing twice. The slugs punched into E.T.'s stomach, lifting him up and tossing him back into a row of desks.
Macklin then threw himself sideways as Nixon raked the doorway with retaliatory gunfire. The bullets chased Macklin, shattering the glass above his head as he scrambled behind the bank counter. The customers quivered on the floor, the staccato beat of gunfire echoing in their ears.
Vader climbed into the driver's seat of the truck, shifted it into drive, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The truck shot forward, knocking Nixon off balance. Macklin popped up behind the counter and fired.
The bullets slapped Nixon off the moving truck and sent him toppling backward into a potted palm. Macklin strode from behind the counter just as the truck smashed through the plate-glass window on the opposite end of the bank. Raising his gun arm, Macklin looked down the length of his barrel at the truck screeching madly south on Century Park East. And then he squeezed the trigger.
The truck burst apart in a red-orange thunderclap of flame, gnarled metal and glass shards streaking through the air. Macklin shoved the gun under his waistband, pulled his leather jacket over it, and rushed out of the bank just as it erupted into chaos, the frightened people on the floor clambering to their feet.
He dashed onto the sidewalk and trotted up the street against the current of Century City businessmen charging to the bank. His heart was racing and his body was drenched in sweat.
It had all happened so fast. He was driving out of the parking garage across the street when he spotted the robbery taking place. He screeched to a stop a few yards from the bank, grabbed his Magnum, and ran inside.
His only regret now was that he had arrived too late to save the elderly woman. Macklin got into his car, which he had left double-parked and still running, and sped away from the bank, glancing in his rearview mirror at the blazing truck and the growing crowd of people in his wake.
Macklin steered the Impala into the left-turn lane onto the westbound stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard. At the same moment three police cars, sirens blaring, skidded behind him onto Century Park East and raced to the bank. Breathing deeply with relief, Macklin pulled the gun out of his waistband, tossed it into the glove box, and slammed it shut.
# # # # # #
Jessica Mordente swung her legs over the yellow tape marked "DO NOT ENTER" that surrounded the bank and stepped carefully through the shattered window.
Broken glass crunched under her heels as she strolled across the lobby, listening to the rumble of voices that filled the bank. Flashbulbs on LAPD cameras spit light into various corners of the glass-walled lobby. Uniformed officers and detectives were scattered about in huddles, interviewing the bank employees and customers. To Mordente's left, beyond the teller's counter, she saw men in white lift a black body bag onto a stretcher.
She carefully stepped around the blood-specked chalk outline of a body drawn on the floor and headed toward a familiar face. FBI Special Agent Chet Navarro stood at the other end of the room, half-turned toward the street, where firefighters hosed down the streaming, blackened remains of the pickup truck.
Mordente admired Navarro's lean physique, well displayed in a tailored gray suit. Her eyes lingered on his firm, strong legs and followed them up to his tight, round buttocks, nicely hugged by pleated slacks. She remembered how soft that fine ass felt squeezed in her hands.
She pressed her hand against the small of his back. "How's my favorite Fed?"
Navarro turned, surprised. "Jessie, how did you get in here?"
She smiled. "Does it matter?" Glancing past him, she could see the bank camera mounted high on a pillar.
"No," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder and steering her outside. "I haven't seen you for quite a w
hile."
"Can you believe this place?" she asked. They walked through the broken window onto the sidewalk. "It looks like a small war took place here."
"A small war did," Navarro replied, unbuttoning his collar and loosening his tie with his free hand. They followed the black skid marks left by the truck to the street. "Some Good Samaritan blew the fuck out of the rubber-mask gang. So now you can take your life savings out of your mattress and put it in the bank again."
"Anyone see this Good Samaritan?" she asked.
"No, everyone was lying facedown on the floor."
She stopped and stared into his amber eyes. "What about the bank camera?"
"What about it? You know, I've missed you, Jessie." He put his hands in his pockets and looked around self-consciously. "You're impossible to reach."
She stepped closer so that he could feel her breath on him. "I've missed you too, Chet. Maybe we could get together. Tell me, do you think you got a picture of the mystery man?"
"I don't know."
"I'd like to see it," she said softly.
"Jessie." He started walking toward the street again, stopping at the barrier of yellow tape. "You know I can't let you print the photo unless the Bureau clears it first."
She caught up with him. "Who said anything about printing it? I just want to see it."
Navarro frowned, swung his legs over the yellow tape, and held out his hand to help Mordente over. "I don't think so. I could get in a lot of trouble, Jessie."
She took his hand and climbed over the tape. "I don't want you to get in any trouble," she said, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "But I would like to see the photo. And I'd like to see you, too. It's been a long time, hasn't it, Chet?"
"How about dinner?" he asked tentatively.
"Sure, we can have dinner at my place." She patted him gently on the side and walked away. "I'll give you a call to see how your investigation is going."
As she walked to her Mazda RX-7, she felt Navarro's eyes on her. It made her feel attractive. And powerful. She knew she'd get that photo somehow, and she had a strong hunch about the face she'd see staring back at her from it.
# # # # # #
"Orlock residence, who's calling please?" The voice sounded to Brett Macklin like an eerie cross between Jack Palance and Charles Bronson.
"John Smith," Macklin replied sarcastically. "Give me Orlock."
"I'm sorry, he's busy right now," the man said politely, then, more sternly, "I'll take a message."
It was a command, not a considerate offer.
"Take this down, buddy. Tell Orlock to get on the phone or his kid-porn operation will be on the front page of tomorrow's Times."
"It's all right, Tice," another voice intruded on the line. "I'll deal with the gentleman." Macklin heard a click as Tice hung up his extension. "All right, Mr. . . . ah . . . Smith, what can I do for you?"
"Listen, that's what. You and I are about to become partners in the candy business."
"I'm not in the candy business, Mr. Smith."
"Don't screw around with me, Orlock. I'd just as soon step on you as deal with you, but the eastern interests I represent don't share my opinion of you."
Orlock laughed. "C'mon, Mr. Smith, this is ridiculous. I'm a very busy man, with no time for poor James Cagney impersonations. Just who are you and what are you talking about?"
"Let's meet and discuss that."
Orlock sighed. "Good-bye, Mr. Smi—"
"I'm looking at this photograph of you," Macklin interrupted. "It's quite amusing. Maybe you know the one. You're standing behind a little girl."
Macklin paused to let his words sink in. "A little girl who a short time later was found facedown in a canal, bloated, her neck broken. I'm sure the district attorney and the Times would love copies of the picture. What do you think, Orlock?"
"Perhaps I can juggle a few appointments and chat with you," Orlock said. "Where and when would you like to get together?"
"Your warehouse in Culver City. I want to see your operation."
"I have no operation, as you call it, Mr. Smith. I rent the warehouse to various—"
"Seven o'clock tonight." Macklin slammed the phone down. The clap echoed through the empty hangar. He plucked the black suction mike, purchased for just a buck or two at Radio Shack, from the telephone receiver and clicked off the cassette recorder it was attached to. There was nothing incriminating on the tape, but it was nice to have.
Macklin leaned back in his torn vinyl office chair, rested his feet on his paper-cluttered desk, and gazed through the doorway at his JetRanger helicopter and his Cessna in the hangar. I'm a pilot, not a cop, he told himself. What the hell am I doing?
But he knew that as exciting and beautiful and relaxing as flying was for him, there was something essential missing that prevented him from feeling content with his life, something he once had when he was on the UCLA track team. It was a sense of utterly consuming physical challenge, of pushing his limitations to the point of agony. The pain always ebbed, though, and left an afterglow of exhilaration that charged him until the next challenge, when he would give just a little bit more.
In the Quick Stop market. In the bank today. He had felt that charge, that sweet addictive charge, again. Admit it, Macky boy. It's never felt better . . .
Macklin swung his feet off the table, knocking stacks of paper to the floor.
"Shit." He bent over and spent a moment attempting to assemble the papers before giving up and kicking them. Paper scattered around the room, settling on the floor and chairs and boxes and cabinets like giant, mutated snowflakes.
He punched the door and walked into the hangar.
It's no life, no matter how good it might feel, Macklin lectured to himself. A man can't live that way.
We'll see . . . , a voice inside chided him.
"Hey, Brett, what the hell happened to your house?"
Macklin turned and at first glance didn't recognize the man coming in the hangar wearing reflecting sunglasses, a pink satin scalloped shirt, and designer jeans.
"Mort?" Macklin asked incredulously.
"Of course it's me." As Mort came closer, Macklin noticed his friend's uncharacteristically dark tan and the cloud of Pierre Cardin aftershave that surrounded him. "But not for long. I'm nearly Mortimer Neville."
"You're nearly out of you mind. What is all this shit?"
Mort patted himself on the rear. "One pair of Sassoon jeans." He tapped the rim of his glasses. "Porsche shades." He ran his hand down the scallop cut of his shirt. "One genuine Morey Geyer scalloped shirt from Palm Springs, and, to top it all off"—Mort unbuttoned his collar to expose his hairless chest—"a summer tan from Al Bonzer's Sunset Strip tanning boutique."
Macklin groaned. "Jesus, Mort, you look ridiculous."
"Listen, Brett, your opinion doesn't count. You have no taste." Mort took off his sunglasses, folded them, and slipped them into his breast pocket. "Cheshire does. I went by the place to model my threads for her first and get a real opinion, but I couldn't find her. What happened to the place anyway? It's scorched."
Macklin suddenly realized Mort didn't know, that his friend had been back in Los Angeles for only a few hours.
"Hey, Brett, what's wrong?" Mort said, the glow disappearing from his face. "You look like you're about to puke."
Macklin didn't know how to begin. There was no right way. "Mort, she's dead."
"Huh?"
"Cheshire, she's been murdered." Macklin grasped Mort's shoulder. "Someone put a bomb in my car and she was blown up."
Mort squinted his eyes quizzically and tilted his head toward Macklin. "What?"
"Cheshire is dead," Macklin said carefully.
Mort swatted Macklin's arm away. "It's you, isn't it?"
"What?" Macklin snapped.
"Mr. Jury. The killing. It isn't over, is it?" Mort glared at Macklin. "Is it!?" he yelled.
Macklin frowned and exhaled slowly. "No, it isn't, Mort. I'm not sure it ever will be."
W
ithout warning, Mort smashed his fist into Macklin's stomach and, before Macklin could recover, followed through with an uppercut that sent Macklin sprawling onto the floor.
"Fuck you, Brett, just fuck you."
Turning his back to Macklin, Mort walked toward the hangar door.
"Mort," Macklin rasped, propping himself up on his elbows. "Wait, I need your help!"
Mort kept walking.
"Damn it, Mort, I loved her, too!"
Mort stopped, his shoulders sagging.
Macklin stood up shakily. "We can make them pay, Mort. Together."
Mort looked over his shoulder. "Who are they?"
"A bunch of psychos who kidnap kids, force them to have sex in porno movies, and then kill them." Macklin held out his hand to him. "Will you help me?"
Mort turned around slowly and sighed. Macklin waited, his hand out.
"Please?" Macklin prodded.
Mort nodded, reached out, and shook Macklin's hand. "I'm sorry I hit you. I was pissed. I know it isn't your fault."
"It's all right, I don't blame you. I thought it was over, too."
Macklin told Mort about his meeting with Stocker and Shaw, the surveillance of Saputo, his meeting earlier that day with Harlan Fitz, and the phone call he had just made to Orlock.
"What do you want me to do?" Mort asked.
"I want you on the roof of the building across from the warehouse, taking pictures and covering me," Macklin said. "If I get into trouble, call Shaw."
"All right."
"You have a gun, don't you?"
Mort hedged with silence. He hadn't used a gun since his alcoholic days on the LAPD chopper patrol.
"Yes or no, Mort? Do you have a gun?" Macklin knew Mort had been a crack shot once and thought he probably wasn't too bad now.
"Yes," Mort said. "But, Mack, I haven't fired a gun since—"
"No arguments," Macklin interrupted. "It will protect both of us."
Macklin yanked a pen out of his breast pocket. "Gimme a piece of paper, Mort."
