The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Tim moved to 213, down three doors on the far side of the hall. He picked the lock quickly, not concerned about sound since he knew the apartment wasn’t rented. The empty room, like Dumone’s apartment, smelled of stale carpet. An amoeba stain in the far corner, the size of a garbage-can lid, might have been blood.

  Tim walked to the window. The abbreviated fire-escape ladder ended six feet above an alley too narrow to accommodate a car. Ten yards north, another lane between buildings darted west.

  Tim left, keeping the front door unlocked, and took the stairs down. He walked to the corner phone booth, flipping a quarter on the way. It came up heads four times in a row. He slotted it and called Mason Hansen. Tim had worked with him closely on several cases when Hansen had been a security specialist in the subpoena group for Sprint Wireless, and he’d kept in touch ever since Hansen had made the move to Nextel last October.

  “Hello?” Hansen sounded worried, his voice thin and sleep-cracked.

  “Is this line secure?”

  “Jesus, Rack, call me at work tomorrow.”

  “Is this line secure?”

  “Yes. Christ, it’s my home number, I hope so. Are you back on the job already? I thought you took leave after the shooting.” Hansen whispered something to his stirring wife, and then Tim heard him walking into the other room.

  “Are you on a cordless?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Pick up a landline.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Just do it.”

  Various clickings. “All right. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  “If I gave you a phone number, could you go back and pinpoint what localized cell sites it’s been tapping in to the network through?”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Yes, I have a warrant. That’s why I’m calling you at home at three in the morning.”

  “Back off the sarcasm. This seems sketchy.”

  “Not for now. For now you’re just answering questions.”

  “Well, the answer to your question is no. Do you have any idea how much data that would be? We’d have to keep records of the location of every cell phone at every moment in the entire nation.”

  “If you can’t get it done retroactively, then how about in the future? If I gave you a number, could you pinpoint the cell-phone location then?”

  “Not unless you flash me a paper with a judge’s signature and we do the whole deal. Handheld units, mobile teams in the field—you know the routine.”

  “I don’t have access to those kinds of resources. Not on this one.”

  “What are you working?”

  “I can’t talk about it.” Tim allowed himself a deep exhale. “I’ve been trying two numbers all day: 310-505-4233 and -423 4. I just got through to the first, so I know the phone is on, right now, sending locating bursts to ID itself to the network. You’re saying that does us no good?”

  “I’m saying that does us no good unless you deploy a full-force authorized investigation. That’s not a favor I can pull out of a hat, even if I was willing to.”

  Tim tried to dissipate his frustration and had a hard time of it. “Can you identify the cell site an incoming call came in through?”

  “We don’t have the technology in place for that. Incoming calls are free on Nextel, so the system records on them are less precise. But we can put a tracer on outgoing calls, since those are logged by Billing. See what cell sites they’re pinging. We use it sometimes to track fraud charges. But it’s not actively regulated—we don’t have the manpower. Once we start it up, it spits out an update every six hours, and I can’t throw a wrench into that program without express clearance from above.”

  “I can’t keep on top of the guy by myself. Especially on a six-hour delay. That’s why I called him now. Late at night I figure he’s bedded down at his primary location.”

  “Well, starting tomorrow, I can give you his first-and-last.”

  First call in the morning, last call at night. Usually made from the bedroom or close to it. Guys on the run don’t take the time to install landlines.

  “Can you do anything more to-the-minute?”

  “Not unless you give me more. Why didn’t you call me earlier? We could have gotten on the outgoing calls.”

  “I didn’t get how the technology worked. Plus, I wanted to ascertain that at least one of the cell phones was active.”

  “What, before you bothered me?” Hansen laughed. “Call me tomorrow, you bastard. At the office.”

  The walk from the corner seemed longer than a block.

  Tim rode the elevator up and used a pen through the gap beneath the door to push the stop back. Once inside he took a quick spin through the TV channels. KCOM ran a report regarding the ongoing Lane and Debuffier investigations but made no mention of recent developments.

  Tim called his own old Nokia number and accessed his messages. Dray, worried. Two hang-ups—probably Bear or Marshal Tannino.

  He reached Dray at home. She sounded tense and a bit breathless. “You’re all right?” Her voice cracked, just slightly, but he heard it.

  “Yes,” he said. “Robert and Mitchell know now. You have to be careful. Keep an eye out for trouble.”

  “I always do.”

  “I don’t think they’d come after you—it’s not their MO—but you shouldn’t take any chances.”

  “Agreed. You on the trail tomorrow?”

  “First thing.”

  “Check in and watch your ass.”

  “I will.”

  They hung up.

  Tim sat and considered how to attack the case in the morning. The Stork was the weakest link—he was the one most likely to sell out to save his own ass, if Tim could find him and apply pressure. Tim thought of the receipt he’d noticed crumpled into the cup holder of the van the Stork had rented. Daniel Dunn. VanMan Rental Agency.

  A solid lead, unless the Stork had planted the slip of paper there for Tim to find. Purposeful misdirection seemed unlikely, as Tim had found the receipt just prior to the Debuffier hit, when the Commission was less openly contentious.

  He’d get on it first thing in the morning.

  Exhaustion hit him all at once, as if it had been saving itself for an ambush. He hadn’t slept in nearly forty-five hours, and the brief alcohol-clouded slumber he’d gotten then, curled on Ginny’s bed, had been less than refreshing.

  He lay on his mattress, examining the cottage-cheese ceiling. It reminded him of fresh-burned flesh. His thoughts pulled him back to Ginny on the coroner’s table, to the sight he’d beheld when he’d drawn back the hospital-blue sheet, to the sound the sheet had made being peeled.

  There were more pleasant images he could have fallen asleep to, but then, he didn’t have a choice.

  37

  HE WAS UP at first light, an old Rangers habit that reemerged in high-stress times. On the KCOM morning news, a less attractive and less ethnic reporter than Yueh carried the story of a double homicide in Hancock Park. William Rayner, of course, was mentioned by name, Ananberg described as a “young female teaching assistant.” Authorities were, predictably, “baffled”—Tanninospeak for get-your-cameras-out-of-my-boys’-faces-and-let-them-do-their-jobs.

  After showering, Tim flipped through the phone book and found the sole listing for VanMan Rental Agency. It was over in El Segundo, a few miles from the airport.

  He located it in an industrial stretch, held tight in the corner of a moderately busy intersection. The parking lot extended over a half acre, the office itself standing at the front near the sidewalk, small and functional, like a bait shack. Through the high chain-link fence, Tim saw row after row of vans of all types.

  Sitting in the car, he lost the hip holster, double-wrapping rubber bands around the grip of his .357 and slipping it in his waistband. Then he retrieved a jacket from the backseat. He pulled a few flex-cuffs from his war bag and coiled them in his pocket.

  When he slid open the glass door and stepped up into the o
ffice, he felt the floorboards give slightly under his weight. A portly man in a yellow oxford shirt sat examining his schedule, one chubby finger tracing over the free Bank of America calendar pinned up on the cheap paneling behind the high front counter. He turned at the sound of the sliding door, his cheeks rosy, his bare scalp thinly veiled by a comb-over that had probably lost its conviction about the same time as the Carter administration.

  “Stan the Van Man at your service.” He rose and offered Tim a soft and slightly sweaty hand.

  “Big shop you have here,” Tim said. “You’ve got, what, fifty vans?”

  “Sixty-three up and running, four in the shop.” He beamed with pride.

  Probably the owner, probably not the full-time front counterman. Good.

  Tim searched the small office interior. A sun-faded Disney tourist poster curling out from its tacks on the wall showed a small girl astride Mickey’s shoulders in front of Sleeping Beauty’s castle, just as Bear had carried Ginny last July through the very same stretch of park. Several wood-framed photos on the rear desk showed off a cheerful, pudgy family; even the dachshund could have stood to pay Jenny Craig a visit. One shot showed the Van Man family gathered before a decorated Christmas tree wearing green-and-red sweaters. Everyone looked excessively pleasant.

  A bribe would probably not go over well.

  A messy Rolodex sat at the counter’s edge, the category cards sticking up in white plastic. AIRPORT.BUSINESS-TO-BUSINESS.INDUSTRIAL. TOUR GROUPS.TRAVEL AGENTS.

  “I’m a travel agent—Tom Altman,” Tim said. “We’ve spoken a few times…?”

  “Oh, you probably spoke to my guy, Angelo. I’m only here Saturdays, holding down the fort.”

  “That’s right, Angelo rings a bell. Well, listen, I booked a van for a family to head down to Disneyland—”

  “Disneyland. Our most common destination. Nothing like seeing a family get off the plane from North Dakota or Ohio, load up in one of my babies, and head on down to Mousetown.” His grin, genuine and untroubled, made Tim envious.

  “Must be gratifying.”

  “Mine drag me down there at least twice a year. You have kids yourself?” His smile lost a few watts at Tim’s expression.

  Tim’s throat clicked on a dry swallow. “No.” He forced a grin. “The old lady’s been pushing lately, if you know what I mean.”

  “Believe me, friend, I know that tune.” He winked and elbow-pointed at the framed pictures behind him. “I know it five times over.”

  Tim joined Stan’s hearty laugh as best he could.

  “So, Tom Altman, what can I help you with?”

  “Well, I was driving by, saw your sign, and remembered I had a client I hooked up with your racket here who never ended up paying me my booking fee. It’s not a huge amount of money, but it’s been happening to me more and more lately. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me the total amount of the rental so I could send him a bill?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Stan slid an immense book that looked like a jail ledger over in front of him. “Name and date?”

  Tim couldn’t remember if the Stork had also driven the van to the Commission meeting the night before the Debuffier execution. “Daniel Dunn. February 21.”

  “Let’s see….” Stan’s tongue poked out of his mouth slightly as hescanned down the enormous page. “Don’t see it.”

  “Try the twenty-second.”

  “Here we are. He rented out one of my Econoline E-350s. He had it back before eight. That’s $62.41 for the day.” He smiled, again with pride. “Here at VanMan, we log every cent, every inch.”

  “You charge mileage? We take a slightly higher booking fee for charges over a hundred bucks.”

  “No mileage charge unless they exceed seventy miles a day. And let’s see. Odometer was at 45,213 when Dunn picked it up….” Histongue emerged again, along with a calculator he pulled from an over-stuffed breast pocket. He poked at the keys with the end of a well-chewed pencil. “Fifty-seven miles. Sorry, friend.”

  “I remember he rented another van first, but he brought it back because it gave off a rattle.”

  “It sometimes happens,” Stan said, a bit defensively. “Rattles are tough.”

  “Well, maybe he put on more mileage with that van, pushed the total over a hundred.”

  “I doubt it if he traded it in.”

  “Would you mind checking for me?”

  Stan’s stare took on a bit of suspicion.

  “I’m sorry, things are just kind of tough right now in the travel-agency business, what with the Internet and everything. I can use every cent I can pick up right now.” Tim figured a guy who kept his records in a jail ledger probably hated computers.

  Stan gave a little nod. His puffy finger scanned down the page, then back up. “Here it is. Six miles.” He gave an exaggerated frown. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You helped me clear up some paperwork anyway.”

  They shook hands again. “Thanks for the business,” Stan said.

  “Sure thing.”

  Tim sat in his car for a moment, figuring. The Stork had arrived with the van at Debuffier’s the morning of the hit. The Stork had probably picked up the van, then returned home to load up his black bag of tech gear. He probably hadn’t taken the bag with him to pick up the van; it was conspicuous as hell, particularly since the Stork could barely lift it himself. He would have parked his own car far away from the rental office so no one could ID it later, and Tim couldn’t imagine him leaving his beloved and priceless trinkets unattended in his trunk in this part of town while filling out bullshit paperwork.

  I even took back the first van they rented me because it gave off a distinctive rattle.

  An obsessive perfectionist like the Stork would have turned the van around at the first sound. Why had it taken him three miles to hear the rattle?

  Because he was going somewhere else, completing a shorter round-trip. Like driving home to pick up his black bag.

  Then he’d returned to VanMan and switched rentals before heading to Debuffier’s.

  Six miles.

  Three miles each way to the Stork’s house.

  Three miles from VanMan Rental Agency.

  Tim started driving in a widening spiral, looking for everything and nothing, recalling what he knew about the Stork. A pharmacy Rx sign in a strip mall caught his eye, and he pulled into the lot, passing the usual suspects—Blockbuster, Starbucks, Baja Fresh.

  He pictured the Stork’s round face, his sunburned scalp and flat nose. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s called Stickler’s syndrome.

  The Stork took plenty of prescription meds, but, in Tim’s experience, patient-confidentiality issues, DEA security, and his own lack of contacts in the field made tracing drug records next to impossible. Plus, the Stork was wise enough to be exceedingly careful about how he acquired his drugs. It was doubtful he’d be so foolish as to use a nearby pharmacy, if he used a pharmacy at all.

  Tim closed his eyes.

  The Stork’s house was likely within a three-mile radius of where Tim sat.

  A connective-tissue disorder that affects the tissue surrounding the bones, heart, eyes, and ears.

  Somewhere an optometrist had to have a file containing the Stork’s lens prescription, but again the Stork would know not to leave telling records anywhere near his house. Plus, his glasses looked as if they hadn’t been updated since the sixties.

  Tim reversed his thoughts, considering the banal, the seemingly harmless. What are activities people do near their home? Which of these leave records?

  Grocery shopping. Post office. Library.

  Weak. Difficult. Maybe.

  Tim opened his eyes again, gripping the wheel in frustration. Across the lot the yellow-and-blue sign caught his eye. He felt a quick surge as something in his mind crossed over, connected.

  Now and then I’ll rent black-and-white movies when I can’t sleep.

  He got out, his step quickening as he appr
oached Blockbuster. The stenciling on the door said they were open until midnight, but the classic-movie section was anemic at best. Even Tim, hater of old movies, had seen most of the twenty or so black-and-white videos leaning on the shelves.

  The acne-crusted kid at the counter was wearing his visor backward and sucking a Blow Pop.

  “What’s the best place to rent old black-and-white movies around here?”

  “I don’t know, man. What do you want to watch those for? We just got the new Lord of the Rings.” The Blow Pop had stained the kid’s mouth green.

  “Is there a manager here?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m it.”

  “Would you mind suggesting another video-rental store around here?”

  The kid shrugged. A passing customer with an abundance of facial piercings leaned on the counter, chewing her lip. “You an old-movie nut? Go check out Cinsational Videos. With a ‘cin’ like in ‘cinema,’ get it?”

  The manager removed his Blow Pop and brayed laughter. “Sounds like a porn shop.”

  “It’s the only place around here for that stuff. They don’t got it, you gotta head up to the West Side, like to Cinefile or Vidiots or somewhere.”

  Tim thanked her and asked for directions, which she explained with dramatic gestures and clanking jewelry.

  Six blocks over, two down, on the left. Tim parked up the street. A quiet area, mostly apartments. The store, a stand-alone square building, was set back from the street behind four slanted parking spaces and a streetlamp. Glass front door, windows cluttered with posters—a lot of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. The hanging sign was flipped to OPEN. Someone had Magic Marker–ed in the times; on Mondays through Saturdays, the store didn’t close until 1:00 A.M. The late hours matched the Stork’s inadvertent description and would likely necessitate a security camera inside.

  The front door knocked hanging chimes when Tim entered. A kid with movie-star looks sat on a stool, engrossed in a video playing on a nineteen-inch TV on the counter in front of him. No customers.

  Tim glanced above the counter and found the security camera—cheap Sony model from the eighties, run on VHS tapes. It hung from a ceiling bracket, angled across the counter at the front door. Glass front door. And visible through it were the two center parking spaces, most likely where someone would park late at night.