by Lee Goldberg
He tentatively opened his eyes and saw Tice sprawled on the ground, blood frothing out of a ragged crater in his head. Chunks of blood-soaked gray-beige brain matter and jagged slivers of bone dripped onto the pavement. Macklin took in a deep breath and looked up and down the street, confused. There was no one in sight.
Then he heard the sound of someone gagging in the alley beside the warehouse across the street. Macklin sprinted to the other side of the street and moved cautiously into the alley.
He stopped short, stunned. Mort leaned over the side of the trash bin, vomiting into the street.
"Mort, you're alive!" Macklin said with astonishment.
"I sure as hell don't feel like it," Mort groaned, holding the gun limply in his right hand. Mort steadied himself with his left hand and lifted a leg over the rim. Macklin wrapped his arms around Mort's waist and helped him out.
"You saved my life, Mort. Thanks."
"No problem. Anytime." Mort heaved for breath, dizzy, the sour taste of vomit in his mouth and nose.
"Take it easy." Macklin put his arm around Mort and held him tightly. He noticed the matted hair and dried blood on the side of Mort's head. "What happened to you?"
Mort swallowed and glanced up. The white oval moon shone down on him and he could see the side of the warehouse he had been atop. The pieces fell together for him.
"That asshole I shot must've sidelined me with a crowbar or something, I dunno." Mort shivered. "I guess he tossed me off the building. That garbage bin must be the only thing that saved me from being a nasty smudge on the pavement. The way my head and stomach feel, I think I would rather have died. Damn concussion."
Mort stiffened. Bile shot up his throat, spurting out and onto the ground in one quick convulsion. "Fuck . . ."
Macklin could hear the sound of police sirens drawing near. "Are you okay? Can you walk?" Mort nodded. "Yeah, let's go."
As Macklin led Mort to his car, he realized his anger would never die. It wasn't the Bounty Hunters gang or Wesley Saputo or Crocker Orlock. They were just germs, part of a bigger disease that was growing and infecting the vital organs of society. He hadn't stopped it when he avenged his father's death. And, Macklin knew, it wouldn't stop if Orlock's operation was crushed, either.
No more of my friends will die. I won't let the disease spread. The voice inside Macklin that cried for retribution was now his own.
Mr. Jury and Brett Macklin were one.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Mister Jury is dead."
Mayor Jed Stocker solemnly faced the two dozen reporters in the press room and reveled in the absolute attention his statement engendered.
Stocker stood crisp and clean in a dark blue pinstriped suit under the city's seal, doing his best to exude leadership and stature. This was the first time he had ever shut the reporters up, and on a slow news day like Saturday, Stocker was sure this press conference would dominate the local media, just as he had planned.
Jessica Mordente's perplexed expression didn't escape Stocker's notice. First of all, as his pick as the best-looking of the LA press corps, he was always looking at her. Second, that was the reaction he had intended to invoke. She was, no surprise to him, the first to break the stunned silence.
"Who is he?" she asked.
Stocker shrugged. "We don't know. He was found with a bullet in his head outside a Culver City warehouse."
"How do you know it's Mr. Jury?" Mordente, Stocker thought, had the look of a shell-shocked soldier.
"A good guess." Stocker grinned. "He was carrying a .357 Magnum that ballistics testing has conclusively tied to the Mr. Jury killings." He leaned forward against the wooden podium. "Police investigation thus far suggests that Mr. Jury was on the trail of a gang of child pornographers who used the warehouse to film motion pictures that featured kidnapped young children."
Stocker cleared his throat. "These children were sexually assaulted and murdered. Mr. Jury killed the gang involved and rescued two children, one of whom was Erica Tandy, the ten-year-old girl who disappeared yesterday while playing at a Van Nuys park."
"What happened to Mr. Jury?" Al Zimmer, a reporter with the Herald Examiner, slurped up the saliva dribbling out the corner of his mouth. Zimmer's chin was always wet with the spittle forced between his lips by the ever-present wad of chewing gum.
"We aren't sure." Stocker sighed. "He was fatally wounded in the head by someone outside. Perhaps one of the gang escaped. We don't know."
"What do the children say?" A toupee-topped TV reporter cried out from the back of the room.
"They are severely traumatized, as you can well imagine. Erica is under a doctor's supervision and remembers nothing at this time." Stocker shifted his weight uncomfortably. "The other child, a young boy, has a long history as a victim of sexual molestation. Sergeant Clive Barer of our Sexually Exploited Child Unit is handling the investigation."
Mordente frowned, narrowing her eyes. "Who was Mr. Jury?" she asked again, noticeably dissatisfied with what she was hearing.
"We don't know."
"Of course you don't," Mordente mumbled angrily, and folded her arms under her chest.
"We have tried everything—dental charts, fingerprints, the works," Stocker argued. "Still we come up blank. This man lived and died an enigma." Stocker hurriedly shuffled together the papers on the podium. "That's all for now. We'll let you know as soon as more information becomes available."
The mayor walked away, dodging a volley of questions, and slipped out a side door and into a narrow gray corridor. Shaw leaned against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"Did Mordente buy it?" Shaw asked.
Stocker smiled, clapping his hand on Shaw's shoulder. "Our worries are over. The dogs have been thrown off the scent."
# # # # # #
Brett Macklin lay in the bathtub, his knees bent out of the water and his head propped up by an inflated plastic pillow stuck to the tile wall. Steamy water dribbled out of the spigot in a weak and steady stream, keeping the bath water hot and soothing.
He absently stroked the rim of a chilly wineglass, half-filled with Chablis, that rested on the lint-dotted red bath mat and listened to Stevie Nicks crooning gently from the bedroom.
His muscles were relaxed for the first time in days. Tension floated out of him and the world began to seem less black, less ominous, to him. Droplets of perspiration dotted his face.
His watch, on the floor beside the glass, beeped once, letting him know it was noon and his bath would be short-lived.
As if on the cue, the phone, which Macklin had brought into the bathroom and set on the toilet seat, rang shrilly, shattering his calm. Sitting up, he reached out for it and extended his legs in the hot water. The tortured muscles, so brutally stretched by the rack, said ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh to him.
"Hello," Macklin drawled sleepily.
"It's me," Shaw replied briskly. "The press conference went smoothly. Mr. Jury is dead, at least as far as the press is concerned."
"Good," Macklin said. "What about Orlock?"
"We've turned up reels of kiddie porn and hundreds of mailing lists at the warehouse," he replied. "His kiddie-porn operation is over and we're moving in on dozens of his friends. Christ, Mack, some of the names on his mailing list would shock you."
"So you have Orlock behind bars, right?"
A heavy silence fell for a moment between them.
"Ronny, how can he still be a free man?" Macklin barked.
"The ties to Orlock are still tenuous," Shaw replied, "obscured by layers of dummy corporations and other crap. His lawyers are holding us at bay, at least for now, fielding our questions and keeping Orlock out of it."
"I don't like this, Ron, not one damn bit."
"I know. Neither do I," Shaw said, pausing for a few seconds before speaking again. "I've contacted Judge Fitz and he's reviewing all the evidence we've got. He should have a decision by tomorrow morning. And Orlock is scared. I think he will run. Either way, this will break tomorrow."<
br />
"How are you coming on the equipment I asked you for last night?"
"We're getting it together, but it's not easy." Shaw sounded tired. "I'll probably be able to drop it off at your hangar sometime this evening."
"All right." Macklin turned the spigot knobs with his feet, shutting off the water. "Thanks, Ron."
"Don't thank me, Mack, thank the mayor." Shaw hung up, and Macklin put the receiver back on the cradle. The doorbell chimed downstairs.
Macklin groaned. It never rains, it just storms. The doorbell chimed again.
"Coming!" Macklin yelled. He pulled out the stopper with his foot, letting the water drain out, stood up dripping, and reached for his ybathrobe.
"Hold on!" He scampered out of the bathroom and down the stairs to the front door, beads of sweat rolling down his face, his damp body clinging to the robe.
Wiping the sweat out of his eye, Macklin opened the door. Jessica Mordente stood on the porch. He noticed now, in the sunlight, the dark-skinned sensuality and sharp features he hadn't seen a few nights earlier. Her loose-fitting white blouse, trim khaki pants, and matching low-heeled boots accentuated her slender build.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, eyeing Macklin from head to toe. She, too, liked what she saw. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
Macklin shrugged. So Mr. Jury is dead, huh? Somebody forgot to tell her. "What do you want?"
"To apologize," she ventured softly. Macklin raised an eyebrow, relieved but wary. "I was trying to find Mr. Jury. I investigated the whole thing very hard, very seriously. My strident style isn't always the most diplomatic. The police found him today, dead." She shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry if I treated you rudely, Mr. Macklin."
Macklin smiled, not sure whether he believed her. "It's okay. I didn't exactly give you the VIP treatment, either." Her eyes drew him in. Words spilled out of him before he knew it. "Look . . . ah . . . I was just getting dressed. Why don't you come in for a moment, have a cup of coffee, we'll start off fresh."
Her eyes lit up. "I'd like that."
Macklin moved aside. Shit, what am I getting myself into? "Come in, then. Make yourself at home while I get ready." She walked past him and he closed the door.
"Have you ever been up in a helicopter?" he asked.
"No," she replied.
"Tell you what, then." Macklin led Mordente into the living room. "Why don't you go into the kitchen, rummage around, throw some things into the basket above the frig, and we'll go on a helicopter ride around the city."
She laughed. "Sounds great to me."
"Then it's a date." Macklin patted her on the back and dashed up the stairs. She watched him go, and her smile faded. Half of her was excited. The other half was scared shitless.
They flew north over the beaches, following the Pacific Coast Highway, and then veered eastward over the wooded Palisades. The asphalt of Sunset Boulevard wound snakelike through the hills, forming the northern boundary of Brentwood, the upper-middle-class neighborhood flanked on the south by San Vicente Boulevard.
Macklin glanced at Mordente and pointed out the stately houses that lined San Vicente.
"Those are houses that want to grow up and be mansions," he observed. "And look at that median strip. It's better landscaped than most of those homes."
She nodded, grinning. She noticed that a steady stream of joggers, in their designer warm-up suits and slashed sweatshirts and satin shorts, were scurrying up and down the grassy median. The joggers, to Mordente, seemed less interested in losing pounds and staying fit than in picking up bedmates.
"I can't believe how much you can see from up here," Mordente yelled into the mouthpiece of her headset.
Macklin winced, her voice booming in his ears. "You don't have to yell," he said softly, hoping to set an example. "I can hear you just fine."
She grimaced guiltily. "Sorry, it's just that I've never worn a spacesuit like this before."
Macklin nodded. "I know. You get used to the fireproof jumpsuits and all the paraphernalia after a while. Think of this as the Starship Enterprise on a strange new mission, and the getup is easier to bear."
Mordente tossed back her head and laughed. "Actually, with these seat belts and the cozy backseat, I feel like I'm in a flying Buick LeSabre. All this needs is a hood ornament and a rearview mirror with a garter on it or something."
"Sounds like you ride around in some classy cars, lady," Macklin joked, bringing the helicopter down low across the sprawling Veterans Administration graveyard, the tombstones like neat rows of pebbles below them. He pulled the helicopter up again, over the UCLA dormitories, and then down over the track field.
"I spent hours down there." He pointed to the track. "That ground is soaked with my sweat."
"And I bet all the students think the bad smell in the air is from the smog."
Macklin chuckled dryly. "Cute. Anyway, I got into UCLA on a track scholarship. I thought I would be an Olympic athlete or something."
"What happened?"
He steered the helicopter slightly southward to a cluster of short gray buildings just shy of the mazelike structure of the medical center. "I got lost down there amidst the corridors of the engineering schools. Ended up at Hughes Aircraft boring myself to death."
"How did you escape?" she asked. Questions, Macklin thought, come very easy for her.
Macklin tapped the glass in front of him. "This baby. I decided I'd rather fly the aircraft than draw them all day."
He purposely made the turn northward sharp so Mordente was nearly passing over the ground sideways. Straightening the helicopter, Macklin turned to her and half smiled. "Airsick yet?"
"Nope." She grinned.
Macklin shook his head in mock disbelief. "Damn. That's the turn that gets them every time."
The trees that shrouded the elegant Bel-Air homes of the stars and millionaires from the tour buses and casual passersby offered no protection from curious eyes in the sky. The homes were revealed in all their resplendent excess to Macklin and Mordente.
She whistled long. "If people only knew . . ."
"There would be an armed revolt," Macklin said, "starting with the poverty-stricken masses of Watts and sweeping through the rent-gouged apartment dwellers of the west side and Hollywood. The folks down there would have to dig moats around their castles."
"Castles is right," Mordente murmured, her face pressed to the glass, staring down in wonder at the vast acreage, the glimmering blue swimming pools, and the massive homes reminiscent of the seventeenth-century estates that dot the England countryside.
"There are some modern wonders, too." Macklin nodded toward a stark white structure with jutting lines and tall panes of glass.
"And I always thought Space Mountain was at Disneyland," she remarked sarcastically, sipping from the beer she had kept between her knees. Mordente tipped the beer toward a home coming up on their right. "Whose place is that?"
Macklin glanced over and felt his heartbeat pick up its pace. "That's Crocker Orlock's estate. You can tell by the heart-shaped swimming pool."
Mordente looked down at it as Macklin circled the estate. Three limousines were parked on the circular driveway, which surrounded a stone fountain. Pillars of white water shot high into the air.
"That's quite a spread." Mordente nodded in appreciation at Orlock's large Georgian home with its Greek-style columns in the front. "It looks like an Athens tract home, you know what I mean?"
Macklin smiled.
"Have you ever seen his boat?" she asked.
"Nope. What's it like?"
"The Queen Mary."
They laughed, Macklin making a southward pass over the famed "HOLLYWOOD" sign and heading westward above the office buildings and condominium towers of the Wilshire Corridor.
"Ready to head back?"
Mordente shrugged. "Whatever you say, Captain."
"I say let's pick up two steaks and let me make us some dinner. How does that sound to the crew?"
She chuckled. "The crew will pos
tpone the mutiny. For now."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"I didn't know men knew how to cook," she said, her eyes half closed, the gentle effect of the wine. Sitting close to Macklin on his couch, she wasn't sure if the warmth she felt was from the wine, the crackling fire, or him. Perhaps it was an enticing combination.
"They don't." He grinned. "The steak was real—everything else was Stouffer's." He felt childishly nervous, his heart fluttering like that of a teenage boy who was afraid his newfound deep voice would crack and reveal his uneasiness.
She looked into his eyes and laughed, the sound tickling him. It made him happy, and it made him guilty. Only three days had passed since Cheshire's death, and already he wanted another woman.
He held the gaze despite himself and she slipped her arm around him, sliding snugly against his side.
"I can't," he whispered, starting to rise. She grasped him tightly, holding him down.
"You can't what?" she replied softly. "All I did was put my arm around you."
Macklin chuckled self-consciously.
She grinned back at him and removed her arm from his shoulder. "Look, that was a stupid thing for me to say. I know you're feeling confused right now. So am I."
They stared into each other's eyes silently. Macklin needed to feel close to someone now. He needed someone to accept him as a loving human being and not as Mr. Jury. Her eyes offered a sanctuary from the world of violence he lived in.
She tentatively brushed his cheek with her fingers and leaned toward him uncertainly. Macklin tensed, repulsed and drawn to her at the same time. Her lips touched his with such tenderness that he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his arm around her and drawing her close.
His arm felt strong and assured to her, though the pounding heart she felt against her side hinted at his trepidation.
Macklin's kisses were light and uneasy, barely touching her lips. His conflicting emotions and the strength of his desire were dizzying. He was frightened. She understood, parting her lips slowly. But Macklin could sense the hunger in her breaths, in her gentle shivers. The sensuality of her response stoked his desire into an uncontrollable firestorm. His hand dropped to her breast, stroking it through her shirt. She made a luscious, soft sound and caressed his thigh, letting her hand drift tantalizingly close to his stiffening penis. He raised his hand slightly and undid the buttons of her shirt.
