by Lee Goldberg
"No way, Macklin. You're not getting me alone," she said. "Meet me downtown at the Los Angeles Times office. We can talk in the newsroom. Then I'm calling the cops." She hung up.
Macklin rapped the receiver against the wall like a hammer. There was nothing he could do. It was over. He felt none of the sadness he had felt before, only anger. He would be behind bars, and his family shamed, all for nothing. The phony Mr. Jury's murders would be attributed to him and eclipse any arguments he might make to justify his vigilante work. Worst of all, Damon's psychopath would still be free.
Taking a deep breath, Macklin called Los Angeles mayor Jed Stocker on his private line at his office. Stocker was always in the office by three a.m., thumbing through the morning papers and watching Good Morning America.
"I thought I should warn you," Macklin said, "a reporter is going to—"
"Forget it, Macklin," Stocker interrupted. "Mordente won't write her story."
Macklin was stunned. "What?"
"I put a couple voice-activated bugs in your house a few months ago," Stocker said. "Unfortunately, I didn't get around to listening to the tapes from Friday until last night."
"You rotten son of a bitch," Macklin hissed. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"You can shove your fucking indignation up your goddamn ass, Macklin. I'm saving us all," Stocker shot back. "My people are on their way to take care of Mordente right now."
A chill of fear brought goose bumps to Macklin's skin. "You're going to have her killed," Macklin stated.
"Yeah, that's right, Macklin," Stocker said cockily. "That's the way it has to be."
"My God, Stocker, are you crazy? You can't just go out and kill someone!" Macklin shouted into the phone.
Stocker chuckled derisively. "What the hell do you think you've been doing, Macklin? You don't think what you do is killing?"
"That's different, Stocker. Those people were murderers," Macklin barked. "Mordente committed no crime. She's the public we're supposed to be protecting!"
"Damn it, wake up, Macklin! Mordente will ruin us all. The scandal she'll create will plunge this city into anarchy." Stocker said. "She must be sacrificed for the greater good of this city."
"No," Macklin insisted. "You've got to stop it."
"It's too late," Stocker said. The line went dead.
# # # # # #
9:15 a.m.
"Could I please see your license and registration?" asked the police officer. The traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway surging eastward was a blur behind him.
Jessica Mordente frowned, stretched across the car to her glove compartment, and saw that another police officer was standing on the passenger side. The fuckers. Of all the goddamn mornings to get on my case . . . She rummaged around the cassette tapes, maps, and notebooks for her registration papers and snuck a glance up at the cop. He looked like a clone of the guy on the driver's side. Both hid their eyes behind reflective sunglasses and wore crisp, pressed blue uniforms.
Fascist assholes, Mordente thought. If I don't hurry, Macklin is going to get to the Times before I do.
Mordente sat up in her seat and handed her registration to the cop on the driver's side and then pulled her tattered driver's license from her purse and gave that to him, too. He gave both papers a cursory glance.
"Please step out of the car, Ms. Mordente."
Mordente narrowed her eyes, perplexed. "Why? What have I done wrong?"
"Just step out, please."
Mordente heard the officer on the passenger side unclip the strap over his gun. Her heart fluttered. What is going on here? She opened the door and stepped out. She felt the officer's strong hand grasp her arm and guide her towards his black-and-white four-door Plymouth. As he led her to the rear of the police car, she read the emblem on the door: "TO PROTECT AND TO SERVE."
"Hey, you guys aren't the highway patrol," Mordente said. "You're LAPD."
He reached around her and opened the backseat door. "Get in, Ms Mordente."
"You haven't told me what I've done wrong," she protested. "Am I under arrest or what?" She looked at his name tag. It read "VICTOR DEESE." "You had better start doing some talking, Officer Deese."
Deese shared a glance across the roof of the police car with his Partner. Without warning, he twisted Mordente's arm painfully behind her back and rammed her face-forward against the open door. Before she had a chance to struggle, she felt the cold steel of a handcuff close tightly around her wrist. Deese yanked back her other arm and cuffed it.
Mordente spun around, enraged, her arms restrained behind her back. "What kind of bullshit is this? If you two think you can get away with this harassment, you're wrong."
"Get in that car before I push you in," Deese said between clenched teeth.
He meant it. Mordente reluctantly ducked into the backseat. Deese slammed the door closed and then slipped in behind the steering wheel. His partner sat down beside him. They were separated from Mordente by steel grillwork. Deese eased the car into the flow of traffic. The cop on the passenger side leaned against the door and looked at her. His name was Ron Laird.
"This isn't an arrest, is it?" Mordente asked coolly.
Laird grinned and shook his head from side to side.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A murder," Laird replied.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, May 21, 9:22 a.m.
This time he wore a white cotton jumpsuit that read "MARINA DEL REY TOWERS" in curly script over his breast pocket. A pair of dark black sunglasses shrouded his eyes and accentuated the paleness of his face. He stood in the center of the yellow-painted, black-scuffed service elevator as it groaned upwards towards Aaron Tate's penthouse. No wood grain and muzak for the hired help, no sirree.
In his left hand, he held a stack of neatly folded clothes chest high in front of him to hide the silenced .357 Magnum. He imagined it was still hot from the slugs it spit into the nigger laundry man in the basement. He'd made him strip so the jumpsuit wouldn't get dirty and then shot off his balls.
The elevator jolted to a stop, the doors squealing rustily as they slid open, revealing a floor covered in white wood planks to resemble the patio of a country home.
He stepped out. The doors closed behind him and he noticed a second elevator to the right of the service one. He faced forward again. The double doors to Tate's penthouse looked like the front door to a home, complete with ornate brass doorknocker, lighted doorbell, and patio doormat. Potted plants flanked either side of the door, and a planter box filled with bright flowers rested below the draped, bay window to the left of the door.
The nigger drug peddler had certainly made some money. He wasn't impressed. He had seen a lot of expensive extravagance in his life. He pressed his finger against the doorbell. He heard a muted chime from somewhere beyond the door. A dark form passed behind the drapes and he heard heavy footsteps approach the door.
The door swung open and a tall, bald, cold-eyed black man, wearing black satin sweats and a white tank top that was about to tear against the strain of his chest, filled his vision.
"I've got something for vou."
"I'll take it," the black man said tonelessly.
The magnum popped once and the black man stumbled back, his eyes wide, as if he had just swallowed something down his windpipe. Red burst across his white tank top. He dropped into a sitting position on the white shag carpet, wavered for a moment, then toppled flat on his back with a thud.
He dropped the laundry and closed the door behind him softly. Behind the black's body was a white Steinway piano in front of a picture window that offered a breathtaking view of the frothy Pacific swells. All of Tate's furniture was white. All the pictures were framed in white.
White as the coke Tate sells, he thought. White as the man whose gonna kill him.
He moved towards the hallway to his left.
"Hey," someone said behind him.
He whirled, squeezing off two shots into the bathrobe-clad woman who emerged from
the kitchen. The first bullet slammed into her shoulder and spun her around. The second burst through her chest and splattered the wall with her heart.
He turned back to the hallway. Ahead of him was the door leading to the helipad stairwell. To his right was Tate's office door. He pushed it open. A long, uncluttered mahogany desk and another picture window faced him, and the walls were lined with bookcases.
Tate was to his left, riding his white Exercycle, his eyes staring out the window at imaginary bike trails. He was trying to work off the ten-pound roll around his middle that poked out underneath his white satin jogging jacket and hung over the waist of his matching pants. His jacket was unzipped to his midsection, exposing a damp, rounded chest decorated with about seven gold chains.
"Who the fuck are you?" Tate huffed, trying to hide his surprise with anger.
"Mr. Jury."
Tate noticed the silenced Magnum for the first time and froze on his Exercycle. "What have you come to take, huh? Money? Drugs? What?"
He grinned. "Your life, nigger."
# # # # # #
9:30 a.m.
The torrent of cars on the Santa Monica Freeway below Macklin's helicopter flowed towards the cluster of skyscrapers mired in the greenish haze to the east. To him, the downtown buildings looked like a tangle of tall weeds in a muddy landscape.
"Mordente has already left her place," Shaw's voice crackled from the headset speakers. "She must be on the road."
Ahead, Macklin could see the cars slowing and blurring into a solid black line of stalled traffic beginning at the distant Crenshaw exit. Traffic inched eastward at a crawl.
"Were you able to find out what squad car Stocker's monkeys are driving?" Macklin's heard his own amplified voice echoing in his ears.
"Yeah," Shaw replied. "Deese and Laird are in car fifty-four."
"All right, where are you now?"
"I'm making the transition from the southbound 405 to the eastbound Santa Monica Freeway."
"Ten-four, over and out." Macklin heard the whisper of static signaling the end of the transmission.
After discovering Stocker's plans, Macklin called Shaw, gave him a quick explanation, and sent him to the reporter's house. Then, wearing only his jogging shorts and sneakers, Macklin hurried to the Santa Monica Airport, slipped a Kevlar vest over his naked torso, grabbed an Ingram and a handful of clips, and took to the skies to search for Mordente.
The helicopter rumbled across the sky. Macklin peered down at the freeway, searching for the white top with the black number 54 painted on it. On the shoulder he saw a parked sports car. He brought the helicopter down and made a low pass over it.
He saw a red Mazda RX-7. Grimacing, Macklin circled above Mordente's car. "Ronny, I've found her car. It's been abandoned about a mile west of the Robertson Boulevard exit. I'm going to continue east, searching the freeway."
"Roger," Shaw responded. "I can see you ahead."
Macklin made one final pass over Mordente's car and saw Shaw's beige Ford sedan roaring down the shoulder, a red light flashing on its roof. He turned the helicopter away and veered into a parallel course following the freeway. From his vantage point, the city looked like a collection of cardboard buildings and toy cars laid out on a child's dirty bedroom floor.
"I'm coming up behind the car now," Shaw said. "It looks empty."
Scanning the freeway ahead of him, Macklin spotted a black-and-white patrol car shooting free of the congested traffic and gliding down the La Cienega Boulevard exit.
The helicopter bore down in a tight, right arc and streaked southward over the patrol car. Macklin smiled with grim satisfaction. He'd found car 54.
"Forget her car," Macklin shouted into the mike. "They're heading south on La Cienega Boulevard."
"Take it easy, Mack," Shaw advised, "don't spook them. I'll take the Roberson exit and haul my ass to La Cienega."
The long boulevard began as a steep slide off the glittering Sunset Strip into the homosexual colony bisected by Santa Monica Boulevard. Then La Cienega seeped into the city like an infection, decaying the area around as it ate its way through to LAX. It turned the flesh of the city absolutely rancid at the rise to Baldwin Hills.
Macklin watched the patrol car pick up speed as La Cienega widened and became a six-lane quasi-freeway to scale the dreary, sunbaked hills that looked like a lunar landscape covered with dead dune grass. Hundreds of rusty oil pumps bobbed on the foothills and sucked the land dry for Chevron and Getty. Cyclone fences ringed with barbed wire chopped the hundreds of acres into jagged, puzzle-piece chunks of gangrenous land licked by the asphalt tongue of La Cienega Boulevard.
The patrol car turned right onto Stocker Street and into the secluded wasteland. A swirling cloud of dirt billowed out behind the car as it veered off the road and into the vast oil fields.
# # # # # #
The sour odor, a rotten smell reminiscent of natural gas and hot tar, blew through the open windows in the front seat and into Jessica Mordente's face. The police car sped over the gravel in a winding, upwards trail between rusted oil pumps, piles of trash, and corroded piping.
Her head throbbed from the heat, the smell, and the fear. Deese and Laird had been silent since the freeway, though Laird kept looking back at her with a sickly smile on his face. That left her to her thoughts, none of which were very uplifting. She had always thought the police and Macklin were tied together somehow. She never thought they'd do his killing for him.
Mordente knew her chances of escape were slim, but she resolved to give them a fight. Killing her wouldn't be easy.
The car stopped beside a lone oil pump on a tall slope. It's rhythmic, screeching grind was eerily reminiscent of a heartbeat, as if the land were alive. A torn and soiled mattress, it's stuffing spilling out, was crumpled against the pump in a patch of dead weeds littered with crinkled beer cans, Burger King bags, and an empty package of Trojan condoms. Mordente peered out the window at the surrounding area. The slope they were on was sheltered by a circle of foothills covered with nodding oil pumps.
They were utterly alone.
Deese wearily pushed open his door and stepped out. "Yeah, this will do just fine."
He yanked open the back door, grabbed Mordente around the neck with his left hand, and pulled her towards the door. "Get out, you damn cunt."
Mordente stood up from inside the car, met Deese's eyes, and then rammed her knee into his groin with every ounce of strength she could muster.
Deese grunted and doubled over. Mordente pushed past him and ped over the edge of the slope, tumbling head over heels onto the loose rocks and dirt. She rolled uncontrollably down the steep face, her hands cuffed behind her back, her eyes closed tight.
Mordente could feel the gravel tearing at her skin and could hear the explosive crack of gunfire above her. Finally, when it seemed like her tumbling would never end, she crashed through a tangle of barbed brush. She lay there dazed on her back for a moment, the world spinning. When the sense of motion subsided, she rolled over on her left and saw Deese and Laird standing on the crest, firing their guns at her. Slugs chewed into the loose dirt around the brush.
Then Deese held his gun up in the air and, half sliding and half running, charged sideways down the hill towards her. Mordente looked to her right and saw only the rise of another foothill. The face of the slope was steep and afforded no cover. If she tried to scale it, they could pick her off with ease.
A current of gravel, kicked out from under Deese's feet, spilled against Mordente. She whipped her head around and saw that he was only twenty yards away, a victorious grin on his face. She heard a chopping sound echoing between the hills and saw Deese's smile wane.
Suddenly a helicopter burst over the crest behind Deese. Laird whirled around. The landing skid smashed through his face and sent his body toppling towards them. Deese forgot about Mordente and scrambled towards the brush. The helicopter streaked down the hillside and closed in on him like a hawk.
He ped into the brush, roll
ed, and came up in a crouch, firing two shots at the helicopter, which roared over him, banked, and climbed the face of the hill to Mordente's right. It stopped, hovering high in the air, its rotors thwacking, and turned around in place to face Deese.
"Drop your gun and raise your hands," a voice boomed from the helicopter.
Mordente stared at the helicopter incredulously through the tangle of dry foliage. Macklin? Her confusion now was as strong as her fear.
Mordente sensed a motion to her left and turned just as Laird's headless, blood-splattered body crashed into her. Stark terror grabbed her and she let out a piercing scream that momentarily distracted Deese. He suddenly remembered his prey and pivoted towards her, aiming his gun at her.
She saw Deese shudder, a splash of red blossoming on his chest. His gun arm faltered. He raised it again and his body jerked, a tuft of hair flying off his head like a golfer's pot. Deese, his face blank, slumped forward as if in prayer.
Shifting her gaze from Deese's crumpled body to the helicopter, she saw the muzzle of a silenced Ingram poking out the window. Macklin retracted the Ingram and brought the helicopter down, chopping up the air and whipping up the loose dirt in a giant brown cloud. Mordente pushed Laird's body away and crawled out of the brush.
She felt a two strong hands grab her by the shoulders and pull her up. When she looked up, she saw the concerned expression on Sergeant Ronald Shaw's familiar face.
"Everything's all right now, Ms. Mordente," he said, turning her around and unlocking her handcuff's with Deese's keys. He jerked his head towards the clearing between the two foothills. "Let's get in the copter."
Mordente, not knowing what else to do, ran in a crouch alongside Shaw to the helicopter. Shaw opened the back door, and she climbed in. Macklin lifted the helicopter into the air as soon as Shaw was inside. Shaw and Mordente slipped their headsets on simultaneously.
