Terry and I closed in on the camper. The windows were broken, so if Aggie were conscious, she’d hear me.
“Police,” I yelled. “Come out with your hands in the air.”
It’s the traditional greeting all bad guys and gals are entitled to. I think it may be part of the Bill of Rights, or the Marquis of Queensbury’s rules, and while I personally think it’s kind of dumb to lose the element of surprise by warning the people you’re coming after that you’re coming after them, it’s also kind of un-American not to.
I waited for the response. A hail of bullets. A Jimmy Cagneyesque, “Come and get me, copper.” Or a highly unoriginal, but totally communicative, “Fuck you.” I’ve had them all. I’m happy with anything but the bullets.
Much to my amazement, Aggie hollered back, “Don’t shoot. I’m coming out.”
I was reminded that there’s another reason why I’m honor-bound to yell those warnings. Sometimes, like today, the confrontation ends with a whimper and not with a bang, bang, bang. There’s a lot to be said for low drama.
Aggie climbed nimbly out of the window. She walked toward us with her hands held high. She looked like a throwback to another era. A farm wife. The left side of American Gothic. Her gray hair was in a bun—or at least what was left of a bun after a hard day abducting, exsanguinating, and skidding across the freeway in her home away from home. If I actually knew what gingham was, I’d have guessed that the plaid cotton dress she had on was just that. The light blue flowery apron tied around her waist was splotched with dark brown stains that I knew weren’t gravy.
“Cuff her,” I said to Terry. “I’m going in for Halsey.”
The trailer was lying on its side. I climbed up and lowered myself through a broken window. Déjà vu. Hadn’t I just hauled my ass into a downed Winnebago not too long ago? It was last year in a parking lot in Familyland, and the guy I was trying to rescue was my partner. It worked out well then. I was hoping I could go two for two. I called out Halsey’s name. I got back a faint groan.
There was a metal table lying on its side. I crawled toward it and felt the warm sticky liquid under my hands and knees. Blood. Lots of it.
Halsey was strapped to the table. Naked. A catheter was dangling from his groin. Blood was trickling out. Too risky to try to remove it. I pinched the tube and the blood stopped.
“You’re going to be okay,” I said, not knowing if what I was promising was even remotely close to medical reality. “Help is coming.”
I undid the straps and lowered Halsey to the floor, which was actually the wall of the camper.
“Thanks,” he said in a whisper.
“Don’t talk,” I said.
Like most directors, Halsey doesn’t take direction well. He kept talking.
“Thanks,” he said. “This will make a brilliant scene in the movie.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
We were at the Pomona Valley Medical Center. Victor was listed as stable, which is not exactly the word I would have used for him. The good news was the crazy bastard was expected to live.
Halsey was another story. His tank was on E when he got to the hospital. Even though the docs had managed to get the needle back up to F, their official medical prognosis was “still not out of the woods.”
“Roger Dingle is the guy who’s still not out of the woods,” Terry said, “but if you topped Halsey off with premium, how come he’s not up and humming?”
“Organ failure.” The doc’s nametag said Karan Mahajan. I didn’t try to pronounce it.
“Which organ?” I said.
“What gives me the most concern is his kidneys. His heart is a little erratic as well. The human body is not like a sponge, Detective. If it goes dry, you can’t just plump it up and expect it to be good to go. Blood carries oxygen, and Mr. Bates was oxygen deprived long enough for his organs to start shutting down. His whole system has been shocked.”
“Will he live?” I said.
“He’s in his mid-forties, reasonably good health,” the doc said. “The odds are in his favor.”
“When can we talk to him?” I said.
“Not tonight. But assuming he bounces back, he’ll bounce back fast. Why don’t you call the nurses’ station tomorrow after 9 a.m.”
“And Victor Shea?” I said.
“Not my patient,” Mahajan said. “But they both came into ER together. Young man, gunshot wound to the thigh, no complications from what I heard. Check with the head nurse, but my guess is he can answer questions now.”
“Let’s start with why he’s such an idiot,” Terry said.
“And we thought the cigarettes were going to kill him,” I said.
We thanked the doc and walked down the hall to Victor’s room. He was sitting up in bed watching TV. He hit the mute button.
“They interrupted Wheel of Fortune with a bulletin that Tyler was dead, and one of the two Hollywood Bloodsuckers was caught,” he said. “Of course, they don’t say squat about me, but the night is young. How’s Halsey?”
“Alive, no thanks to you,” I said.
“No thanks to me? I stopped the trailer. I thought you guys were chasing him, but then you slowed down.”
“We needed time to get our backup in place,” Terry said. “It’s called police work.”
“Well, if you waited any longer, he’d have bled to death. As far as I’m concerned I saved his life, which is total dramatic irony,” Victor said. “Halsey kills my boyfriend in a car crash, and I go ahead and save his life in a car crash. It sounds like a Lifetime movie.”
“How are you feeling?” Terry said.
“Pretty good.”
“Good enough to be arrested?”
“For what?”
“Take your pick,” Terry said. “You broke at least half a dozen laws out there this afternoon. We might be able to overlook going ninety-five in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone, or obstruction of justice, or helping a mass murderer escape, but your little high-speed fender-bender constitutes assault with a deadly weapon. You have the right to remain silent—”
“Are you serious?” Victor said. “You’re really going to arrest me?”
“I think our boss will be a little ticked off if we don’t,” Terry said. He finished giving Victor the Miranda warning.
“This is fantastic,” Victor said. “Thank you.”
“I’ve had trouble tracking your logic all day,” Terry said. “You can get five years for an ADW. Why are you so grateful?”
“My movie script. It’s all playing out,” Victor said. “Sure, I’ll have to do a rewrite, but now the whole thing is practically autobiographical. And my character is the star. He works at the morgue, so he sees the victims, he has a relationship with the killers—and now you’re hauling me off to jail.”
“Actually, you’re going to spend the night here. There’s a cop outside your door with orders to shoot you if you so much as try to sneak outside for a cigarette.”
Victor beamed. “This is cool. Way cool.”
Three people were dead, one was hanging on, and by now the man behind it all was probably in Tijuana chomping on enchiladas and washing them down with cerveza fría. And any minute now, Kilcullen, his boss, and all his boss’s bosses would be screaming, “Bring me the heads of Mike Lomax and Terry Biggs.”
Cool. Way cool.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
It was almost 9 p.m. when I got to Diana’s apartment. Before I could even shut the door, she ran across the room and flung herself into my arms.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I said.
“You came home alive,” she said, kissing me and pressing her face to my neck.
“I come home alive lots of nights,” I said. “I don’t usually get this kind of reception.”
“You don’t usually get shot at.”
“Who told you I got shot at?”
“Marilyn.”
“And did she tell you I had on a bulletproof vest?”
“What good would that do?” Diana said. “
The bullet missed your brain by a few inches.”
“And how does Marilyn know that?”
“Terry told her. They have an agreement,” Diana said. “She can ask anything. He has to tell her the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“He has to tell her the whole truth about me?”
“If she asks.”
“And then she has to call up and tell you? Is that part of the agreement?”
She squeezed me hard and kissed me again. “I can’t believe you almost got killed.”
“I’ve been shot at before. The bullet whizzed by. It’s no big deal.”
She pulled back, and I could see the tears streaming down her face. “What if it didn’t whiz by? What if it whizzed into that big fat stupid brain of yours that keeps trying to convince me that it’s no big deal?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know this is major to you, but this is why most cops don’t tell their wives or girlfriends all the details. How was your day, honey is a loaded question. It’s a dangerous job. I know it. You know it. But the last place I want to talk about it is here. With you.”
She gave me a nod that hinted at acceptance. At least for now. I wiped a tear from her cheek. “So then, I take it you’re happy to see me,” I said.
“You want dinner?” she said.
“I’m starved. Let’s drive down to the In-N-Out Burger.”
“No, I mean dinner here.”
“Is ‘dinner’ a euphemism for sex?”
She shook her head. “No, that would be ‘dessert.’ I mean I’ll make you dinner.”
“Can I start with dessert?”
“Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you an omelet.”
“I’d rather go for a cheeseburger. Or pizza.”
“You have to have eggs,” she said. “They’re a symbol for new life, a new beginning.”
“Who’s having a new beginning?”
“You are,” she said. “You’re the one who almost got shot.”
“Are you going to have some of my eggs?” I said. “Then the two of us could have a new beginning together.”
“You had a near-death experience,” she said. “You’re in shock. Please don’t ask me to marry you.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to marry me.”
“Then what does ‘the two of us could have a new beginning together’ mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t want to eat my omelet by myself. Maybe we should live together.”
She looked around the room. Then she turned back to me. “Mike, we do live together.”
“We room together,” I said. “Sometimes my rented place. Most times your rented place. What if we bought a house? What if we had an our place?”
“A house,” she said. “Just a house? No wedding dress, no bridesmaids, no throwing bouquets? You’re not asking me to marry you?”
“I’m just asking you to break your lease.”
The tears started rolling again. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll buy a house.”
“Wow,” I said. “That was easy.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I put my arms around her and held her. “I love you,” I said.
“I love you too.” She pulled back. “Now let’s go crack some eggs.”
“You’re positive that pizza doesn’t qualify for new beginnings?” I said.
She took my hand and pulled me toward the kitchen. She made me a mushroom, chive, and feta cheese omelet. It was fantastic.
An hour later I had dessert. It was even more fantastic.
But I was really exhausted, so I only had one helping.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
“Thanks for outing me,” I said to Terry when he picked me up the next morning.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you told Marilyn that I almost took a bullet, and she told Diana, who had a major meltdown.”
“I have a deal with Marilyn. I tell her everything. She repeats nothing,” Terry said. “Apparently she’s not holding up her end of the deal. Sorry if she caused you any domestic distress. When I get home tonight she’s going to get a good spanking.”
“It worked out for the best. Diana suddenly decided that I was worth keeping around long term. We’re going to buy a house together. So actually, you can give Marilyn a big thank-you.”
“I’ll do better than that,” Terry said. “When I get home tonight she’s going to get a good spanking.”
It was only 6:45 when we got in, but Wendy was already at her desk. “Roger Dingle was caught on surveillance at the Brea Mall an hour after he took off. He helped himself to a 1994 Chevy Camaro.”
“Which he probably drove across the border to Mexico,” I said.
“And sold for twice the book value,” Terry said.
“Not quite,” Wendy said. “The car turned up on the U.S. side in San Ysidro. Odds are he walked across the border.”
“And his poor wife is here with us,” Terry said. “Don’t they know that separate vacations weaken the matrimonial bond?”
We cranked out paperwork until Aggie’s court-appointed attorney showed up at 8:30. Ed Kaufman was a solid lawyer, easier to work with than most, and well past retirement age. So were most of his jokes. When we sat down in the interview room, he led off with one of his old standbys.
“Do you believe this case the judge assigned me? As Mary Jo Buttafuco said, ‘I need this like I need another hole in the head.’”
Aggie Dingle just stared at him.
“Your client doesn’t think you’re that funny,” Terry said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kaufman said. “This is my one and only appearance. Mrs. Dingle has asked the judge for a different attorney.”
“They’re charging me with killing men,” Aggie said, “so I think I’ll do better with a woman. And not Jewish. Gerber was Jewish.”
“That’s her strategy for success,” Kaufman said. “A non-Jewish female lawyer. I suggested Sandra Day O’Connor.”
“Since we have evidence up the yin-yang that your client murdered Diego Garza, Barry Gerber, Damian Hedge, and Tyler Baker-Broome,” I said, “can we get to something of consequence? Like, where’s her husband?”
“I ain’t admitting I killed them,” Aggie said, “but even if I did, I would be guilty because of insanity. Either of you got kids? Somebody murdered one of them, what would you do?”
“Mrs. Dingle,” I said, “we’re sorry for the loss of your daughter, but we’re not the judge and jury. We’re cops, and since you’re married to a cop, you know why we’re here. Where’s your husband now?”
“Who knows?” she said.
“You do,” I said. “This was all carefully orchestrated. You had to have contingency plans. Was there a specific time and place you were supposed to meet if you got split up?”
“Not a specific time,” she said. “Just the place.”
“Where is that?”
“The pearly gates,” she said.
“Heaven?” I said. “You murder four people and you actually think you and your husband are going to meet up in heaven?”
She stared at me, a sly smile on her face. “I thought you just told me you wasn’t the judge and jury.”
“Detective Lomax,” Kaufman said, “where my client winds up after she dies is of no value to this interview. Do you have any real questions?”
“Your husband is in Mexico,” I said. “Is he coming back?”
“Quién sabe?” she said.
“Who’s next on his hit list?”
No answer.
“Counselor,” I said, “please tell your client that the DA is willing to cut a deal if she cooperates, but if she stonewalls us she and her husband are going to wind up celebrating their final wedding anniversary on death row.”
“You think you can scare me, Detective?” Aggie said. “A year ago, Roger and me had all kinds of retirement plans. But then our little girl got murdered. The lies those men told Joy, the things they made her do, that all led up to he
r death. The state of California don’t have no justice for that. Only choice we had was Mom-and-Pop justice.”
Her eyes grew watery and began to spill over. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I got no regrets,” she said. “None whatsoever. It ain’t the golden years that we planned for, but without my daughter, them golden years is all tarnished anyways. Roger’s not coming back, Detective. Me and him, we said our good-byes. We gave up everything to do what we had to do. And I don’t think no jury is gonna put me on death row for doing it.”
I looked at Terry. He shook his head slowly. He had no questions. Aggie Dingle might be a murderer, but she was the most sympathetic murderer we’d ever run across.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dingle,” I said. “Counselor, the interview is over.”
Ed Kaufman’s chin was resting on his hands, and he was staring at the woman who was about to become his former client. “Mrs. Dingle,” he said. “I apologize for the jokes, and I’m truly sorry for the loss of your daughter. If you ever change your mind about a female attorney, I’d be honored to defend you.”
I was willing to bet that a lot of defense lawyers would be equally honored. Not just because it was a high-profile case, but because even with the evidence stacked up in our favor, the DA would have a tough time convincing a jury that this teary-eyed symbol of American motherhood should spend the rest of her life rotting in jail.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
“I called the hospital,” Terry said. “Halsey is sitting up, taking nourishment, and ready for visitors.”
“Does that mean his adoring fans?” I said. “Or can he be debriefed by LAPD Homicide?”
“That’s the beauty of us,” Terry said. “We’re both.”
We got to the Pomona Valley Medical Center at noon. Halsey was getting the full celebrity treatment. To keep the gawkers at bay, they had put him on the top floor in a private suite. It wasn’t private enough. There, sitting in a leather armchair, drinking out of a Starbuck’s cup, was my father.
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