Adjourned

by Lee Goldberg

  Mort pulled a wrinkled Blue Yonder Airways business card out of his back pocket and handed it to him. Macklin glanced at the card, gave Mort a disapproving look, and turned it over.

  "Here's where I'm meeting Orlock." He scribbled down directions and gave the card back to Mort.

  "It's a date," Mort said, studying the card.

  "Good, then I'll see you tonight." Macklin headed toward the door.

  "Wait a minute, Brett."

  Macklin turned around.

  "If they put a bomb in your car, they must know who you are," Mort said. "They must know you're not a representative of some eastern syndicate."

  "I don't think they ever saw my face," Macklin replied. "My hunch is they saw me tailing Saputo, got my license number, and didn't bother to do any other checking before they decided to play it safe and kill me."

  "And what if you're wrong?" Mort argued. "What if they know you're just a cocky pilot?"

  "I'll have to stay alive long enough for you to rescue me."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Shaw sat on the edge of his couch and leaned close to the portable black-and-white TV, which was sitting on a blue plastic milk crate in the center of the living room.

  Tuxedo-clad superspy Pete Cypher stood in the underground garage of his apartment building watching three sword-swinging ninja warriors kick his blazing red Corvette convertible into a pile of fiberglass dust.

  "As you can see, Mr. Cypher, we mean business." The portly Frenchman in the wheelchair grinned, stroking the chameleon in his lap. "Where is the electrofremeon nodule?"

  Cypher arched his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I thought you knew." He shot a glance at the rubble that had once been his car. "It was in the glove compartment."

  "Oh, Pete Cypher is smooth," Shaw whispered, glancing over his shoulder at his white girlfriend. "C'mon, Sunshine, you gotta see this. Cypher is gonna flatten these guys any second now with his laser ring or his flame-throwing shoe."

  "Uh-huh," she mumbled without looking up from her paperback copy of Loose Change. Curled up in a red vinyl bean bag, Sunshine was braless in her gauze blouse, her long brown hair falling across her chest and clear down to her Indian wraparound skirt.

  Shaw shrugged, decided it was her loss, and stared intently at the screen again.

  "Very amusing, Mr. Cypher," the Frenchman quipped, "but that isn't reason enough to keep you alive. I want it now."

  Cypher grinned. "Then I'll just have to give it to you."

  Shaw laughed. "Here it comes, Sunny. Cypher is gonna do his thing."

  "Uh-huh," Sunshine replied.

  Someone knocked at Shaw's door.

  "Shit. Sunshine, could you get that?" Shaw didn't shift his attention from Pete Cypher.

  Sunshine peered at him over the top of her book. "You've got two legs and two hands."

  "I can't," Shaw whined. "I've invested forty-five minutes in this. You've read that book three times. Okay? Please?"

  Sunshine sighed, pulled herself up, and trudged to the door.

  "Hello, my name is Jessica Mordente. I'm a reporter with the Los Angeles Times," Shaw heard a woman say. "Is Sergeant Shaw in?"

  Shaw groaned. Cypher squinted at the three ninjas and pointed his digital wristwatch at them.

  "Come in, Ms. Mordente," Sunshine said.

  "Thank you," Mordente replied.

  Shaw reluctantly rose from the couch, his eyes on the set, and back-stepped toward the door. What has Cypher got in his watch?

  "Ronny!" Sunshine shouted.

  Shaw whirled around, startled, and flashed an apologetic smile at Sunshine and Mordente.

  "Sergeant Shaw?" Mordente ventured, offering her hand to him.

  "Yes," Shaw replied, a questioning look on his face, and shook Mordente's hand. "What can I do for you, Ms. Mordente?"

  "Please, call me Jessie. Everyone does."

  "Right," Shaw said, leading Mordente to the couch. He stopped to watch a pin-size missile blast out of Cypher's watch and zoom toward the terrified ninjas.

  "Ronny, why don't you turn off the TV so we can talk?" Sunshine urged. Shaw reluctantly switched off the set and sat on the arm of the couch beside Mordente.

  "So, what's your story?" Shaw asked glumly.

  "Mr. Jury." Mordente replied.

  Shaw felt the anxiety flare in his chest and shrugged, as if her remark meant nothing to him. "Well, I could have saved you a trip," he casually remarked. "It's an ongoing investigation, and I can't release any information."

  Sunshine shot a curious look at Shaw as she picked a discarded pair of her wooden platform shoes off the living room floor.

  "I think Mr. Jury is the man who foiled that bank robbery this afternoon," Mordente said.

  So do I, Shaw thought. "You may be right. Then again, you may not. It's speculation at this point, and I'm in no position right now to discuss the case." Shaw narrowed his eyes and wondered what she was after. "Really, why don't you contact our press relations office in the morning? It's been a long day and—"

  "Do you have any evidence in the Mr. Jury case?" she interrupted. "Any fingerprints, witnesses, suspects?"

  "Look, I already told you. I can't discuss the case." A stroke of anger colored his voice. "We have leads we are actively pursuing."

  "That's the same speech Stocker used to give me back when he was chief of police," she commented dryly. "C'mon, Sergeant, hasn't anything changed since then?"

  Shaw didn't like the way this conversation was going. He felt as though his words were footsteps in a mine field. "That's all I can tell you. I don't want to risk jeopardizing the investigation. You already know what I'm authorized to tell you. The only description we have is from a cashier in a Quick Stop market. He says Mr. Jury is a short Asian with a weight problem."

  "Sergeant, you once arrested Brett Macklin because you thought he was Mr. Jury," she said evenly. "Isn't that true?"

  Sunshine came beside Shaw and wrapped her arm around his waist.

  "Not exactly," Shaw said, wishing he had Cypher's watch right now. "But we did bring him in for questioning." Shaw's heart pounded. She couldn't know the truth, could she? "Just what are you getti—"

  "Why did you arrest him?" she interjected pointedly, her words coming in a rush. "What evidence did you have linking him to the murders? Was it simply his revenge motive or something more that led you to arrest him? Is he still a suspect?"

  Shaw stood up, strode silently to the front door, and held it open. "Ms. Mordente, that's enough for tonight. You want to interview me, you call the press information office in the morning and we'll go from there."

  Mordente scratched her cheek and smiled. "What are you afraid of, Sergeant?"

  "I'm afraid you're not going to leave and the whole evening will be shot to hell."

  She stood up and shifted her gaze between Sunshine and Shaw. "You have been friends with Brett Macklin for a long time. I think if he was Mr. Jury, you might be tempted to cover up for him."

  "Stop playing games with us," Sunshine shot back. "You're saying Mack is Mr. Jury and you're accusing Ronny of covering for him."

  "Mack and I are close friends, Ms. Mordente," Shaw said. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't painful having to question him about the Mr. Jury killings. But you're right. He had motive." Shaw leaned against the wall. "The fact is, Brett Macklin is a man who has had to endure a lot of personal tragedy lately. Someone out there got mad about that and decided to do something about it."

  "How do you know that someone isn't your friend? It's the logical assumption, Sergeant."

  "Ms. Mordente, I'd like to watch a little TV, make some popcorn, spend a quiet evening at home, okay?" Shaw tilted his head toward the door. "Let's call it a night."

  Mordente acquiesced. "All right." She pulled a card out of her skirt pocket and gave it to Shaw. "Here's my card if you want to reach me." Mordente glanced at Sunshine. "Thank you both for your time."

  Shaw closed the door behind Mordente and tore up the card into scraps. It's finally happen
ing, he thought, what I knew would happen all along. He felt a chill ride over him, raising goose bumps on his flesh and making him shiver.

  He walked into the living room and stood beside the fire, the heat warming his back. The heat against his back only made the iciness over the rest of his body more acute. Someone is picking apart our flimsy cover-up, he warned himself. It's only a matter of time now before the whole thing comes crumbling down and crushes us all. He recognized his chills for what they were—the same chills he felt as a child whenever the doctor wanted to give him a blood test or throat culture. The chills of unadulterated fear.

  Sunshine crossed her legs and sat down in front of him. "I hate to admit it, Ronny, but she has a point."

  Shaw tossed the bits of paper into the fire and sat down on the couch behind her. He willed the fear out of his voice. "Sure she does. That doesn't make it the truth."

  "But it is the truth, isn't it?" she asked softly, staring into the fire.

  "No," he told her quietly, one last lie in the whole string of lies that he felt, with aching certainty, would soon become his noose.

  # # # # # #

  Luck didn't seem to be on Mort Suderson's side Friday night. His windbreaker wouldn't zip up, and there was no dry place to squat on the roof of the building across from Orlock's warehouse.

  Sitting on the roof was like wading in a stagnant pond. A vast puddle of rainwater stretched across the roof, reaching into all the corners that afforded the best view of the street below. There was no way around it. Mort had to get wet. His socks were soaked sponges inside his wet tennis shoes and made his feet feel like solid blocks of ice.

  Mort sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He cursed himself for not bringing his heavy Levi's jacket. He squatted in the far left-hand corner of the warehouse roofline, two stories above the street, Orlock's warehouse in front of him, an alley to his left. The last, dimming rays of the sun gave the greenish haze above the city a sickly glow. It reminded Mort that the poison air didn't disappear at night—it simply hid in the darkness.

  He glanced at his watch. It was 6:30 p.m. Perfect, he thought. He wanted to settle in early.

  The gun felt snug against him in his LAPD-issue shoulder holster, and the Canon AE-1 hung around his neck. With nothing else to do, he decided to play with the camera. He sighted Orlock's warehouse through the viewfinder, adjusting the zoom lens. If he wanted to, he knew he could snap clear pictures of the bolts on the steel warehouse door.

  This is going to be easy, Mort thought.

  He aimed the camera at the moon, playfully thinking he'd take a few pictures of craters.

  Mort heard something splash in the water behind him. He lowered the camera and jerked his head around. His eyes caught the flash of steel an instant too late. The wrench slammed into the side of his head, and a blinding burst of intense pain consumed him. In the fraction of a second before darkness swallowed his thoughts, Mort realized he should have guessed there would be others who wanted to settle in early.

  Tice wiped the blood off the wrench with a white handkerchief and slipped them both into the pocket of his overcoat. He examined his black-gloved hands to see if any blood had splattered them. They were clean. His thin lips stretched into a self-satisfied grin as he casually glanced down at Mort, who lay at his feet wide-eyed but unseeing, tiny rivulets of blood crawling down his cheek.

  Tice lifted Mort by the armpits and dragged him through the water to the building's edge. Then, with the heel of his black shoe, he pushed Mort over the edge with a sharp kick.

  Mort's body fell silently, landing in the trash bin in the alley below with a dull thud.

  # # # # # #

  Brett Macklin parked the Impala across from Orlock's warehouse thirty minutes later and immediately noticed the thin, long-legged man in the black overcoat standing out front.

  Macklin switched off the ignition and stared at the man. The guy gave Macklin a bad feeling in his gut. Macklin thought the man could make a good living playing Gestapo agents in low-budget World War II movies. That thought didn't do much to quell Macklin's uneasiness.

  Thank God there's someone with a gun watching out for me, Macklin thought. He opened the car door and walked casually toward Orlock's warehouse. As Macklin neared, he could see a tight grin on the man's face.

  "Mr. Smith?" the man hissed, approaching Macklin.

  Macklin recognized the voice. It was Tice, the man who had answered Orlock's phone.

  "Yeah," Macklin said.

  Tice suddenly drove his fist hard into Macklin's stomach, catching Macklin completely by surprise. Macklin choked forward, gagging, the air forced out of his lungs. Tice stepped close to Macklin, who was hunched over and gasping for air, and grabbed a handful of Macklin's hair. Steadying Macklin's head, Tice rammed his knee into Macklin's neck and released him.

  Macklin tumbled backward and lay inert on the pavement, wheezing and skirting the boundaries of consciousness. He was completely paralyzed with pain, sapped of the air necessary to move. Yet he was aware of Tice bending over, opening his flight jacket, and removing his .357 Magnum.

  A long white Lincoln limousine snaked around the warehouse and slid to a stop in front of them. Tice grabbed Macklin by the collar and lifted him up, slamming him back against the warehouse wall. Macklin blinked open his eyes and saw the tinted rear window of the limousine slide down.

  A man with heavy purple lips sneered at him from inside the car. The skin on the man's face was pale, stretched tight over his skull and hugging the sunken contours of his cheeks and the broad ridge of his brow.

  "No one treats me like a common thug, Mr. Smith," Orlock said. "You're a stupid man. A dead man."

  C'mon, Mort, Macklin thought, come save me from this. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Macklin coughed out between labored breaths. He was a rag doll in Tice's hands. "Kill me, and your picture goes to the DA and the press."

  Orlock shrugged carelessly. "I'll take that chance." Macklin hadn't counted on that at all.

  "Good night." Orlock waved at him and then leaned back in his seat, disappearing from view. The window hummed closed and the limousine moved away slowly. The warehouse door opened. Tice yanked Macklin forward, twisted his right arm painfully behind his back, and led him toward the doorway.

  Macklin glanced at the warehouse across the street. Mort, where the fuck are you?

  "Your friend has taken the night off." Tice grinned as if he had read Macklin's thoughts. Tice's words struck Macklin like a blow.

  Ahead, Macklin saw Wesley Saputo standing in the doorway. Macklin could see Orlock's van parked beside Saputo and the plywood, plank-supported back sides of movie sets in the center of the warehouse.

  "Mr. Smith," Saputo said, "you are going to be a movie star."

  "I am?" Macklin sputtered. "A romance? A light comedy, perhaps?"

  Saputo stepped back and let Tice and Macklin edge past him. "No," Saputo laughed. "A snuff film."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Macklin stumbled over a confusing latticework of electrical cables that crisscrossed the expanse of the huge warehouse as Tice urged him forward toward the sets. Large, standing movie lights bathed the center of the warehouse hot white.

  His eyes followed the cables from the lights to a battered junction box, held together with electrical tape, on the floor to his left. Beyond it, in the far corner of the warehouse, Macklin could see stacks of film canisters, bottles of thinner, and gallons of paint.

  "Move, Mr. Smith," Tice growled, and wrenched up Macklin's arm. Macklin winced at the sharp pain, his tendons threatening to snap like taut rubber bands.

  Macklin stumbled clumsily alongside Tice. Saputo and two of the gorillas Macklin had seen when he had staked out the warehouse fell into step beside them.

  They weaved through several standing movie sets—a kitchen, a doctor's office, and a classroom—to a dining room. A birthday cake sat on the table amidst party favors and balloons. Two of Saputo's crewmen stood on ladders adjusting lights whil
e Lyle Franken put a canister of film into the movie camera.

  Macklin saw a little girl wearing a pink-and-white-checked gingham dress sitting at the end of the table, her tear-streaked face drooping with sadness, a red-striped cone-shaped party hat askew on her head. A cardboard cake covered with unlit candles sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by gifts and party favors. A blond-haired boy, who Macklin guessed was perhaps ten years old, was wearing black bikini briefs and playing with a half dozen Hot Wheels toy cars in one corner of the set.

  "Hey, who is this? What's going on?" whined a heavyset man with a thick mustache. Standing beside him was a gangly woman in gray leather pants and a pink Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt, a cigarette stub dangling out from under her upper lip.

  Saputo smiled. "Mr. Smith here is the star of our next picture."

  "Can you fit our son Jimmy into it?" the woman asked, her cigarette bobbing. Macklin saw the boy raise his head at the mention of his name.

  "I don't think so." Saputo grinned at Macklin, as if the two were sharing in a friendly, secret joke.

  "We could use the extra money," the father said. "The kid has been a pain in the ass for ten years."

  "Ten years and nine months," the mother added with a grimace.

  Macklin narrowed his eyes at the boy's parents. "How can you do this to your son?"

  "I didn't make society sick, okay?" The woman waved her finger reproachfully at Macklin. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but I'll tell you this—if the pervs get off looking at my kid's picture, I'd rather they do that than go and rape someone, you know?"

  "You're doing it for the money. You don't care about anything else," Macklin replied.

  "Hey, the kid knows what he's doing. I asked him if he wanted to be in the movies and he said he did." The father cocked his head toward the set and yelled to his son out of the corner of his mouth. "Right, Jimmy?"

  "Sure, Dad," the boy mumbled, absorbed in his toy cars again.

  "So the kid helps Mom and Dad bring home the bacon." Saputo grinned. "I call that wholesome family unity."

  "You're scum," Macklin hissed.