Last Shot (2006)

by Gregg - Rackley 04 Hurwitz

  "I could have killed you," Walker continued. "Tonight."

  "So why didn't you?"

  "You're more useful alive. For now. Remember that. You live because of me."

  Tim kept the phone against his face until the dial tone turned to a hiccup.

  "Two phone calls, one day," Tannino said. "This guy might come after you."

  "Rack's not a target." Bear pocketed the DVD. "He's his idol."

  "Or vice versa," the marshal said wryly. "But I'm not complaining. That's the one goddamned thing we have going for us."

  Chapter 56

  ESTEBAN MARTINEZ, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Tim, Bear, and Dray sat on the couch back, their feet on the cushions, regarding the verboten file box centered on the throw rug before them.

  Frisk and his ESU team had doggedly backtracked the records from the disposable cell phone company. They'd managed to source Walker's incoming call, only to learn that Walker had anticipated them and left a customized taunt, routing the connection--again--through the Vector switchboard. The trail before that was impossible to trace.

  The early-morning light at the windows was sufficient that they didn't need the lamps in the living room. Dray shifted her weight impatiently.

  "Confidentiality is still attached," she said. "You crack that box, you lose those files as evidence."

  "We don't have them as evidence to lose," Tim said.

  "Maybe the box spills," Bear said. "Maybe the files fall out and they're not clearly marked."

  Dray eyeballed the fluorescent orange labels. CONFIDENTIAL: LAWYER-CLIENT MATERIALS. "That's bullshit."

  "Yeah," Bear said. "Sure is."

  "The AUSA'll have your ass," Dray said, "but it might be worth it. Then again, if the box contains the only solid evidence you get, since Walker is nicely killing the roster of prosecution witnesses, you could blow any possible case against the Kagans and Vector." She added quickly, "Not that you're pursuing one."

  A few minutes passed, their focus intensifying. Finally Bear lumbered off the couch, popped the lid from the box. He chuckled and raised a sheet of paper with a handwritten note: Thought you could make better use of this than I could.

  Bear set aside the paper and started rooting inside. Tim joined him. Dray mumbled to herself a few moments before sliding down and circling the box, peering in at first, then finally settling between them. There wasn't much inside on Tess's case--the only paperwork detailed Esteban's hiring and firing and the dates and times of the two visits. Esteban had been her attorney for four days, not long enough to get past preliminary discussions or generate much paperwork. Tess met with and retained him May 28. But why had she discharged him the same week? No clear answers. After all they'd staked on the confidential files, they hadn't yielded much.

  Bear ran a thumb across a rectangular indentation in the manila folder that housed Tess's thin sheaf of documents. Something had been stored there that had fallen out or been taken. Bear dug around the bottom of the box, past the other clients' files, and came up with a microcassette. He held it up, matching it to the indentation. "I suppose this explains the answering machine at the safe house. Walker must've been getting ready to use it when we stormed his ass."

  Dray went to search for the microcassette recorder she used to take statements in her deputy days; once she set it on the coffee table, they huddled around like kids listening to a game on a transistor radio.

  Rustling. Background voices. The clink of silverware. After a few moments, Bear grew impatient and fast-forwarded a few bursts.

  Dean Kagan's voice: "Hello, Ms. Jameson. Thank you for agreeing to meet me." The sound of a chair pulling in and then, "Pellegrino, please. No ice."

  Tess said something inaudible, the recorder--buried in her purse?--rubbing against fabric.

  Dean said, "You threatened my son yesterday. I think this is going in the wrong direction."

  "It seems like a lot of things are."

  "He should have known not to try to handle this himself. He's not a bad businessman, but he's a poor negotiator."

  "I'm not much of a negotiator, either. Good thing there's nothing to negotiate."

  "I suspected I was dealing with a smart woman. A lot smarter than my son, surely." A thoughtful pause. "Here's the part where I offer you money and you say it's not about money, right?"

  "Right."

  "Of course it's not." The jangle of ice cubes against glass. "No ice, please, as I said." Pause. "All of these issues are resolvable without any disruption of your life, ours, or Vector's important work on behalf of those afflicted with AAT. As much as we matter, I'm sure you agree, they matter more. So let me be plain--"

  "Please."

  "I've dealt with mobsters and health ministers and other extortionists in more countries than you've heard of, young lady, and I'm certainly not going to be blackmailed by you and whatever attorney you can afford. I could purchase your whole block tomorrow and have it bulldozed. We can do this the wrong way, my playing the asshole CEO, you playing white trash--"

  "Don't count out trash."

  "--but I suggest you will do much more for your son by continuing your relationship with Vector than by trying to bring out big guns. Our guns are bigger. And our leverage better."

  Beside Tim, Dray stiffened.

  "I understand, of course, that you want to prosecute Chaisson," Dean continued. "As I'd guess even your own attorneys would caution you, this is in the line of 'acquaintance rape,' as they put it now, I think. You got into the car willingly, knowing his interest in you. Of course, your attorneys have told you all of this. What they may not have is that Vector, the biomedical firm of which the accused is chairman, cannot expose itself to the liability of actually treating, particularly in the clinical trial of a drug involving risks, a patient who is the accuser's son. If something should go wrong, it would be impossible for Vector to defend itself against the allegation that this was willful malpractice, in some kind of sick revenge."

  Tess released a rush of air. "Trials start in a few months. I already have a signed agreement for Sammy."

  "Of course you do. Your consent to his involvement. No obligation by Vector is provided, however. That's why I suggest we do nothing to jeopardize our relationship. You love your son. As unlovable as they may be, I love my sons. Let's start over. On the right track. We're having a celebration tomorrow night at The Ivy to commemorate Xedral's patent approval. It won't be complete if you're not a part of it."

  Tess sounded calm, but her voice quavered, ever so slightly. "My dating history with your execs hasn't promoted a lot of trust in your corporate culture."

  Anger edged Dean's voice for the first time, though not directed at Tess. "Believe me, you won't have any problems."

  "That's good. I'd hate to tear another good dress."

  "I like you, Ms. Jameson. Under other circumstances we could do some good work together."

  "We still might. For all those AAT-afflicted you lose sleep over."

  "I'm not sure I catch your drift." Dean's voice held genuine puzzlement; she'd caught him off guard.

  "I mean," Tess said carefully, "it's nice to have our aims aligned once again."

  "Agreed. I'm afraid I have a meeting that got moved up. But, please, order whatever you'd like. The waiter's already got us on my house account."

  The sound of a chair scooting out, and then footsteps tapping away.

  Tess's breathing was audible for a moment, and then she made a soft sigh between relief and frustration. There was a rustling, and then the recording abruptly ended.

  "Sharp," Dray said. "And given that prick, you gotta give her credit."

  "He is smooth," Bear concurred. "He made no illegal threats. Didn't have to--he held all the cards. Tess wasn't gonna let her son get dropped over a rape case. She was boxed in before she got started."

  "So the day after this lunch, Tess goes in and plays Esteban the tape," Tim said. "They confer. He concedes that Dean argues a good case. Tess reconsiders her priorities. She leaves the tape in her
lawyer's hands--makes sense--then drops the rape case to protect Sam. Even shows up at The Ivy to show she's playing nice. So why'd Vector kick him off the trial list anyway?"

  "Whatever she got off Chase's BlackBerry that night..." Dray said.

  "Of course," Tim said. "The rape was her wedge. Dean offered her a better in with Vector to smooth things over. She used it to dig for whatever she was looking for. Something so Vector couldn't get her over a barrel and drop Sam later."

  "You can bet she was rooting through unattended briefcases, poking around the lab on her visits, questioning the scientists," Bear said. "Now, we only met Chase twice, and we know that BlackBerry is his lifeline. She saw a chance at it, and she grabbed it. If anything, she was well researched about the Vector information pipeline--either she knew something was due to come downstream or she ran a search-find on his e-mails and hit the jackpot. She wanted more insurance. What she got was too much insurance."

  Dray was nodding. "She picked up--as Dean said--'better leverage,' and the old man had to play hardball after all. She sure as hell signaled her extracurricular interest in Vector at the end of their chat here. I bet Dean watched her pretty tight after that."

  Bear pulled himself up, grabbed the microcassette, and checked his watch. "We need to make copies now. And we'll need an enhancement of that security footage from The Ivy. But we can't do it at the office."

  Tim was already dialing. He got the beep of a pager tone and punched in his and Dray's home number. He'd barely hung up when the phone rang--it seemed impossible that the page could have gone through so quickly. Tim answered.

  "What now, Rackley?" Pete Krindon sounded rushed, as always. An off-the-books technical security specialist, Pete freelanced for all order of agencies and individuals on both sides of the law. Tim and Bear used him to boldly go where no warrant could take them and to cover technological angles that hadn't yet filtered through FLETC and Quantico classrooms.

  "I got some digitally formatted security footage I need you to bring up the resolution on. We gotta make a high-quality copy tonight."

  "Tonight? So you have dubious ownership over said footage."

  "Precisely. It's taking a brief pit stop here on its way back to its rightful owner. We want it crisp, so I'd like your equipment on it."

  "I can make the copy, but there's no way I have time to do an enhancement for you tonight. When you need it by?"

  "Aarrhghdfhah!"

  "What?"

  "Ty!" Tim shouted. "Get off the phone!"

  Dray jogged back to corral their son from his late-night expedition.

  "Sorry," Tim said. "The sooner the better. Can you do it?"

  "What else? Dry cleaning? Baby formula?"

  "He's on solids now."

  "This wouldn't have to do with that over-the-wall at TI you've been working?"

  "How'd ya guess?"

  "That boy is relentless," Pete said with admiration, his distinctive half smile detectable in his voice. "Reminds me of you."

  A sticky thumb pried Tim's eyelid north, revealing Tyler's face offset by ninety degrees. Already he'd donned the Evel Knievel helmet. "Kaiyer eat beckfest."

  It was 6:38 by the alarm clock on Tim's nightstand. He'd dozed off less than an hour ago; the quality of light in the bedroom had yet to change. "Splendid," he said.

  He dragged himself from bed, Dray muttering something about sock puppets from a dream stupor. By the time he got Ty dressed, Dray was ready to take over, so Tim ducked into a cool shower to wake himself up. He retrieved his .357 from the gun safe and headed down the hall.

  Tyler sat in his booster, Snowball's cage at his elbow. When served oatmeal, he demanded that his hamster eat with him, a rigid adherence to some arcane decree of child logic.

  Dray smiled at Tim. "Good morning, sweetie. I'm just cooking you some eggs and bacon."

  "Really?"

  "No. Are you high?" Dray tossed him a granola bar, then held his face in both hands and planted one on him.

  He glanced past her again. Tyler stood, face sneery with exertion, his legs spread as if to muster strength. The engorged bubble of Snowball's head peeked from his fist.

  Tim ran over and pried Snowball free. If hamsters could look relieved, Snowball did. Last week Dray had caught Tyler preparing to swing him by his tail. No wonder the little guy ate and slept every chance he got.

  "You can't do that, bub. We talked about this."

  "Fowball eyes budge."

  "Yeah, his eyes bulge. But you'll hurt him. We're gonna have to put him somewhere safe now." Tim inserted Snowball back into his cage and lifted it to the refrigerator top, already crowded with other Typhoon contraband.

  Tyler was bawling, again with the huge tears--the horror, the horror of the confiscated hamster. His chubby legs were doing their Wild Things dance, high knees, downward stomps.

  "If you're gonna scream, you're gonna have to scream in your room," Tim said. "Your animals may want to hear that, but your mother doesn't. Get going."

  Tyler rearranged his features in a cartoon pout and thumped out of the kitchen. Tim wondered which sitter had reinforced that expression, because he was sure Tyler wouldn't get mileage out of Dray on it.

  Tim walked over and gave Dray a quick embrace. He'd just turned for the door when a crash from the kitchen startled him. Bathed in the yellow glow of the open refrigerator, Tyler lay on his back amid a head of lettuce, four flaking onions, and several still-rolling oranges. The preceding scene pieced together immediately; Ty had pried open the fridge door and tried to use the interior shelves as ladder rungs to get to Snowball. It took Tim a moment to realize that his son had only feigned a retreat to his bedroom, really circling the living room couch and sneaking back into the kitchen while his parents had been occupied hugging. Confronted with the blunt nature of Tyler's deviousness, Tim found himself encountering as much admiration as anger. Though he rarely admitted it, he used to feel the same watching his father work one of his elaborate deceptions. Determination and cunning--the essential qualities of a good con man. Or a deputy U.S. marshal.

  "I got this," Dray said. "Go stamp out crime."

  As Dray descended on Tyler, still sheepishly awash in incriminating produce, Tim slipped out and trudged down the walk toward his Explorer, which he'd left at the curb. For once Tad Hartley wasn't up already, mowing his lawn in the FBI windbreaker he'd worn unfailingly since retirement. An anorexic girl wheezed by on the sidewalk, a skittish Chihuahua in a knit sweater fluttering after her. The annoyances of L.A. hipness had recently started to migrate to Moorpark. Attitude poured in with the rising housing market, which Tim figured for a fair trade. Home to the state's largest concentration of law enforcement residents, Moorpark would not have been mistaken for Chihuahua-friendly a mere few years ago.

  As Tim chirped the car alarm, a guy in a USC baseball cap stepped around the Explorer, whistling and tossing a football to himself. The football took flight at Tim's chest, and his hands pulled up, instinctively, to catch it.

  He felt a tug at his waist as his revolver was lifted from his holster, and then the guy's head tilted back and Walker Jameson stared out from beneath the brim.

  Chapter 57

  Walker flicked Tim's gun to indicate the front seat, sliding into the back as Tim got behind the wheel. The doors closed, and they were locked behind tinted windows.

  "Drop your phone and portable radio over your back. Now cuff yourself to the steering wheel. Attaboy." Walker waited, then emptied Tim's bullets from the cylinder and let the revolver fall over the headrest onto the passenger seat. He settled back, hands out of view in his lap but positioned so Tim knew he was holding a gun. His right T-shirt sleeve was hiked up, revealing what looked like half of a yin-and-yang tattoo.

  He studied Tim's reflection in the rearview. "You're softer than I thought you'd be. Married, right?"

  "That's right."

  "Kids?" Walker returned Tim's nod. "Explains it." He looked out the window at the house.

  The venetians wer
e mostly closed, but Tim could make out Dray's figure at the table, serving Tyler breakfast.

  "You got the microcassette before I had a chance to listen to it. I want it back."

  "You're in luck. I always carry irreplaceable, crucial evidence in my pocket." Tim rolled his right hand over, nudging it against his left, trying to get a stray finger beneath the watch to the handcuff key taped there.

  "You do when it's illegal for you to have it."

  "You got a point there." Out of view, Tim's finger worked against the edge of the hidden key. He sensed anxiety pounding beneath his heartbeat and realized it was due to the proximity of Dray and Tyler. He'd vowed never to let the violence of his work touch his family again. Less than thirty yards away, Dray wiped something off Ty's face.

  "My wife's gonna notice the car still sitting here and come check it out. She's a sheriff's deputy." It was all bluff; the tinted windows hid them nicely, and it wasn't unusual for Tim to sit out in the Explorer before starting the commute, reviewing files out of Tyler's earsplitting range.

  Walker said, "Retired, isn't she?"

  "You want to take that up with her Beretta?" Tim drew the key out from its hiding place and buried it in his fist. "We'd better move before she gets suspicious."

  Walker's grip closed like a mechanical claw on the back of Tim's neck, his thumb digging into the pressure point just behind the ear. His voice came right beside Tim's head. "Open your hand."

  Tim complied, and Walker reached past him to grab the key. When Walker's fingertips brushed Tim's hand, Tim jerked his head free and snapped it back into Walker's face. A satisfying crunch of bone, and Walker fell away to the cushioned seat. Tim leaned on the horn with his full weight, but it made no sound, and then he heard the gruff tick of Walker's laugh and felt the gun barrel pressed to his neck.

  A trickle of blood darkened Walker's upper lip, but it didn't seem he was going to retaliate. Not yet. Tim opened his fist. Empty. Walker had somehow managed to hold on to the handcuff key.

  "And let me save us another round." Walker pointed to the dashboard radio. The cord on the push-to-talk mike had been cut. Tim noted the hatched scars on the underside of Walker's forearm--nicks from combat knife kills. Cutting throats from behind took a surge of adrenaline and a well-honed blade. If the knife penetrated too deep into enemy flesh, it wound up slicing your own arm, the one used to brace the head.