by Robert Ellis
“Something’s come up,” he said.
“Fontaine?”
Barrera seemed surprised. “No,” he said. “The guy who rented the garage on Barton Avenue. We’ve got his name and address.”
31
What’s his real name?” Lena shouted.
Rhodes brought the Crown Vic up to speed, hit the Christmas lights, and rolled up his window. “Albert Poole. He’s renting an apartment in Hollywood. The building manager says he’s home.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Someone recognized him from that sketch and called it in. Another doctor, I think.”
“So our guy got his training at USC.”
Rhodes shook his head. “The call came from the trauma center in Inglewood, less than a mile from the Cock-a-doodle-do. Poole got back six months ago and showed up looking for a job. He spent four years in Iraq as a combat field surgeon, so it looked like a perfect fit. Only now Poole’s back and he’s got issues. He worked one weekend in Inglewood, then flaked out.”
“What issues?”
“Sounds like a head case, but we’ll see when we get there. The manager’s a vet. He said they talk once in a while. Poole got shipped from Iraq to Germany and ended up at Walter Reed.”
“As a doctor?”
“As an outpatient. From what the manager said, he got lost in the bureaucracy at Walter Reed. They spit him out before he was ready and never said thanks.”
“You talked to him yourself?”
Rhodes nodded, then picked up the file on the seat and handed it to her. Inside, Lena found the composite sketch they had worked up of the man calling himself Nathan Good. Underneath were copies of Poole’s driver’s license and photo ID from the trauma center in Inglewood. The likeness was unmistakable, even in the dim afternoon light. Although his eyes were set wider apart in the photographs, his hair less blond, and he wore a smile instead of a frown, she could see it.
She turned and looked out the window. The cars on the Hollywood Freeway appeared to be standing still. Frozen in time and somehow disconnected. When she glanced over at the speedometer, the dial was pegged at ninety and Rhodes’s eyes were glued to the road.
“Barrera told me what happened,” he said.
Lena didn’t say anything. She wasn’t thinking about the chief anymore.
“What about Tremell?” he said. “Why did he come in?”
She gave him a summary of her day. Rhodes listened without interrupting. At one point he opened the glove compartment and reached for his emergency pack of cigarettes, then rejected the idea and slammed the door shut.
“You think the kid would’ve agreed to a polygraph?” he asked.
“I needed more time,” she said. “I didn’t get the chance to ask, but that’s the direction things were going.”
“What about Fontaine? The chief said hands off. Is what Justin Tremell said enough to open the door?”
Lena thought it over. In a rational world, it was more than enough. In the chief’s world, up was down, left was right, and green lights meant stop. Nothing would be good enough because strings were attached.
Rhodes gave her a look. “Are you okay?”
“The back and forth,” she said. “Something’s gotta give, Stan. And we still need to talk to Fontaine.”
Rhodes exited off the freeway at Beachwood Drive and made a left on Franklin. By the time they reached Poole’s apartment building and found a place to park, the winter sun had already slid behind the hills, the streets bedded down in a dusky blue light.
Lena could feel the fresh charge of nervous energy in her chest and gazed at the building as she crossed the street. The modern design stood out from the rest. It was twelve stories high with balconies on all four corners and a gated parking garage underneath. She guessed that it had been built within the last twenty-five years and that rents were high because the place was clean and well maintained.
They reached the lobby and found the building manager waiting for them at the door. He seemed just as anxious as they were, only he was showing it. He introduced himself as Chess Washington. Dressed in khakis, an oxford shirt, and a light down vest, Washington was a thin man in his late fifties with a dark complexion and bright green eyes.
“Do you live here?” Rhodes asked.
Washington pointed to apartment 101. “Right there,” he said.
“What about Poole’s? What’s the layout like?”
“Same as mine, twelve floors up.”
“Would you mind if we had a look at your place?”
Washington shrugged. “No problem at all.”
Lena realized that Rhodes was anticipating trouble. He wouldn’t have made the request otherwise. Poole was obviously lethal—someone living on the edge who hadn’t just murdered Jennifer McBride, but cut her up. Mapping the layout of his place before they got there was the smart move. They entered Washington’s apartment and stepped into a small foyer. To the left was the living room, to the right, a long hallway to what looked like a den. Rhodes held the door open, blocking the view down the hall and turned to Lena.
“The door hinges on the right and opens in,” he said.
Lena got it. Doorways were called vertical coffins for good reason. That’s where you were most vulnerable. That’s were the highest risk was. Passing through them.
“He’ll be in the den,” she said. “Behind the front door.”
Rhodes met her eyes and nodded. When he turned to Washington, his voice was calm and easy and didn’t betray his emotions.
“You said you talk to Poole once in a while. You were in Vietnam, right? You trade stories.”
“Not very often, but once in a while, yes.”
“Do you know if he owns a gun?”
“As a matter of fact, he’s got several. So do I. But I think you guys got it wrong. Albert’s a war hero. And he’s the quiet type. Doesn’t bother people and keeps to himself.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Lena said. “What kind of guns does he keep, and how many are there?”
“He’s only shown me three or four, ma’am.”
“What kind?”
“He’s got a Spencer Repeating Carbine and a flintlock pistol, but both of them are mounted on the wall and behind glass.”
Lena met the man’s eyes. “What else?”
“A Mossberg shotgun and a Glock .40 pistol with a fifteen-round magazine. The shotgun’s an autoloader. I think he keeps it underneath his bed. The Glock’s in a drawer by the front door.”
“That’s it?” Rhodes asked.
“He collects knives. Mostly from the Civil War. He’s got a lot of them.”
Lena and Rhodes traded looks, then made a sweep through the rest of Washington’s apartment. The hall to the right led to a den, then turned left. They passed two bedrooms on their right before the hall made another left, feeding them into the dining area and kitchen, then returning to the living room, foyer and front door. The floor plan was essentially a loop. The only other way in or out was the slider leading to the balcony off the living room.
“How’s his furniture set?” Lena asked.
“Same as mine and everybody else’s,” Washington said. “The place is built so it only really fits one way.”
Lena glanced at the couch and chairs, noting the walking lanes. Then Rhodes ran out to the car and brought back two vests.
They followed Washington into the elevator. When they reached the twelfth floor, the building manager pointed at apartment 1201 and stepped back around the corner. Lena and Rhodes approached and took each side of the door. They drew their guns and looked at each other. She could see the fire in his eyes. The life in his face. Through the door she could hear Poole talking with the TV going in the background. It sounded like he was on the phone. His voice was high-pitched, his cadence awkward and crazy. As she readied herself, she felt the rush of adrenaline swell through her body and bit her lip.
On Rhodes signal, she knocked on the door.
Poole immediately stopped
talking. She could hear the patter of bare feet moving toward the door. She kept her eyes on the light feeding through the peephole, then looked back at Rhodes after it went dark.
“Who is it?” Poole shouted. “Show yourself. Why are you hiding out there?”
He sounded frightened and pounded on the door.
“Police,” Lena said. “We’d like to speak with you, Albert.”
He didn’t set the phone down. He dropped it on the floor. Then Lena heard him pull open a drawer, followed by the unmistakable sound of the man jacking the slide on his Glock.
“About what?” he screamed. “Why me? Why are you fucking with me?”
It wasn’t going well. Lena watched Rhodes turn back to the building manager peeking around the corner.
“Something’s wrong with him,” Washington said. “That’s not the way he usually sounds.”
Rhodes grimaced. “Toss over the keys. Then go downstairs and call nine-one-one. Don’t come back.”
Washington dug a key ring out of his pocket, removed two and slid them across the floor. When they heard the elevator doors shut, Rhodes spoke up.
“Come on, Poole. Calm down. All we want to do is talk.”
Poole slammed another fist into the door. “How many of you are out there? Why are you whispering? How will I know who you are? Show me your ID.”
“I’m gonna do it, Poole. I’m gonna do it right now. Are you looking through the peephole?”
“Show me your ID.”
Rhodes stayed to the side of the door and didn’t move. “Here I go.”
Lena zeroed in on that peephole, saw the light come back, and heard the sound of the Glock firing. Three rounds burst through the wood, ripping through the wall into the elevator shaft behind them. She could hear Poole screaming at them and running away.
She grabbed the keys and hit the locks. Still on his knees, Rhodes inched the door open with his gun. Then three more shots rang out, drilling through the wood at chest level into the living room wall. Rhodes gave her a look and took a deep breath, then scurried into the foyer on his knees. When Lena followed, she slammed the door behind her and caught a glimpse of Poole rushing out of the den toward the bedrooms. It was more of blur than anything else. And the man was still screaming, still out of his skin.
They raised their guns and started down the hall, pausing at the corner. The two bedrooms were on the right. He could be in either one, or he could have run around the loop, hoping to hit them from behind. Lena slipped into the den, spotted Poole in the second doorway, and fired two rounds into the near wall, knowing that her .45 would punch out the other side at head level. The sound of her .45 was louder than the Glock. More menacing and primitive. She met Rhodes’s eyes and waited a beat. If Poole hadn’t moved before she fired, he was dead.
“You there?” Rhodes called out. “You still with us, Poole?”
Poole lunged out of the bedroom doorway, his pistol flashing as he zigzagged down the hall and around the corner. He was laughing now. Cackling. Lena bolted down the hallway, ducking into the bedroom. As she looked around and turned back to the door, Rhodes slid into the bathroom across the hall. She heard Poole slam another mag into his gun as her eyes flicked around the bedroom. She had seen something when she first entered, but it hadn’t registered. She found it on the bed. A bag from a pharmacy. She opened it and dumped out the contents, revealing too many meds to count.
She turned back, eased into the hallway and peeked around the corner. She didn’t see Poole, and figured that he might be hiding in the kitchen. But when she looked behind Rhodes toward the den, she saw the light change on the wall and ran back down the hall. He was coming in from behind, ready with a full load. Lena started firing before she even turned the corner. Punching out the plaster in the wall, rounding the bend, holding up.
She could see Poole backing out onto the balcony. She caught the grim smile on his face, his zombie eyes. He lowered his gun, grabbed hold of the railing, and jumped up onto the wall. As he turned to fire, their eyes met and he started laughing again. Then he lost his balance and began to teeter. His grin vanished, his face flushed with fear. Lena saw his gun drop onto the floor and then Poole disappeared.
She heard a woman scream. Heard glass shattering followed by a heavy thump. Sirens approaching in the distance.
Running out onto the balcony, she looked over the edge with Rhodes. By all appearances, Albert Poole, aka Nathan Good, wouldn’t be shedding any light on the case. He wouldn’t be answering many questions, or telling them who had hired him. What was left of his body was lying on the grass twelve stories down. And the ride hadn’t been very easy. It looked like he had hit the glass ceiling in the lobby and bounced off the steel beams into the front yard.
They rushed downstairs, Lena feeling the heat now. They raced through the lobby and onto the lawn. Washington was already outside, standing over Poole’s body and shaking his head.
“He was a war hero,” the vet was whispering. “A fucking war hero, for Christ’s sake. One of the guys who made it back and got treated like shit. It’s a disgrace. You hear me? It’s a fucking disgrace.”
Lena moved in and gazed at the body. The ground was soft from all the rain over the past month and Poole had sunk a good six inches into the soil. But as she studied his face—examined it from less than a foot away—she was overcome with a horrible feeling. She looked at Rhodes, who didn’t seem to understand. Cops were running up the sidewalk. People crowding in to gawk.
Lena flashed her badge at the cops. “You need to get these people out of here.” She glanced at Washington, then turned back. “Him, too.”
Rhodes nudged her. “What is it?” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“You said a doctor made the ID and called it in. Did you talk to him?”
Rhodes shook his head.
“Who brought this to you? Barrera or the sixth floor?”
“Chief Logan’s office,” he said. “Klinger came down while you were in the room with Tremell. He briefed us and gave me those photographs.”
She shook her head and felt the burn. The terror. Then she dug into Poole’s pocket and fished out the dead man’s keys.
“Come on,” she said. “Hurry.”
She led the way down to the garage, ripped the door open and peered through the darkness. There were too many cars. Too many SUVs. Too much gloom to fight through. She hit the clicker, disabling the car’s alarm, and turned when she heard the chirp. As her eyes locked in on Poole’s car, she knew that she was staring into the abyss again. Tasting its rotten fruit. It wasn’t a red Hummer. Instead, it was a ten-year-old Toyota Camry parked in the far corner.
Now a war hero was dead.
32
It was just before midnight. The marine layer had rolled in, low and thick and burying the City of Angels in the clouds. Rhodes was wheeling the Crown Vic back to Parker Center so that Lena could pick up her car. Forty-five miles an hour on the Hollywood Freeway. It felt like they were alone on the road. Just those occasional beams of light zipping by like UFOs, the sound dampened by the heavy steam.
“It’s my fault,” Lena whispered. “You were away. You didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault or my fault. It’s Klinger’s.”
“I should’ve paid more attention,” she said. “I lost my focus.”
“Klinger did this, Lena. And he should pay for it.”
Lena slipped her hand into her pocket and wrapped it around the pack of cigarettes she bought Sunday night. She wouldn’t light one. She’d save that for later. It was enough just to know that they were there.
She turned and looked at Rhodes. “Klinger won’t pay for this, Stan. The chief won’t, either. That’s not the way it’ll work.”
“Then how the hell is it gonna work?”
She paused for a moment. She had spent the last three hours grappling with it. Seeing what happened for what it was and what it would be. They had searched Poole’s apartment and found things—medals, honors, remembra
nces. But it was the letters they recovered from his desk that told the real story and defined the man. Letters written by soldiers whom Poole had risked his own life to save. Letters from their wives and parents, their husbands and children. A diary that he’d started after a roadside bomb wounded more than a hundred civilians and Poole was the only one at the scene with medical experience. Poole had been a combat surgeon with enormous talent, but also a medic in the field. He was someone who gave it his all, but then buckled under the strain. Someone who had given, then given even more until he reached the point where he needed something back. But no one answered the call. No one lent him a helping hand. All they did was write scripts and feed him more pills.
Lena let the thought go, staring into the wall of fog but not seeing it.
“One of two things are going to happen,” she whispered from a place deep inside herself.
“What things?”
“They’re going to say that we cleared the case tonight. That we got our man. That Albert Poole was Nathan Good and everything ends with him. Poole will take the fall so there won’t be any reason to pursue Fontaine, or Justin Tremell, or whoever’s put the fix in with the chief and the DA. They’re gonna close the case, Stan. It’s either that or they’re gonna say that I’m the one who totally fucked things up. That I killed a war hero tonight without justification. A man who helped others and didn’t deserve to die. It’ll be one or the other or some combination of both. Either way, the chief can do whatever he wants to me now.”
Her voice faded into the muted sound of the Crown Vic cruising through the clouds. Floating in the dark mist. After a long moment, Rhodes broke the silence, his voice barely audible.
“Poole may have been a war hero, Lena. But we didn’t start shooting. He did. And Klinger probably knew enough about the guy to guess that he would.”
Lena didn’t say anything, even though she agreed that Klinger and Chief Logan had done their homework. The setup had been perfect. Barrera had warned her on the first call. She had known that something was coming all week. And when it finally did, she missed it. Now an innocent man, however troubled, was dead.
“What’s important,” she said, “is that you need to distance yourself from me.”
