“Point it at me,” Walker said.
The pistol trembled in the man’s grip. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
It took him an eternity to fight his hand north, to place Walker in the sights.
“Open your eyes,” Walker said. The man was cringing, sweat beading at the band of forehead beneath his receding hairline. Walker waited until the terrified pupils came into sight. He stared down the barrel of the SIG. “You have no idea how little I have to lose.”
“Probably not. Can I put the gun down now?”
Walker nodded, and the pistol clattered into a drawer. “You’re going to answer all my questions, and you’re going to do so immediately. I will not ask a question twice. Understand?”
The double chin jerked up, then puddled.
“What’s your full name?”
“Wesley Aloysius Dieter.”
“A contract deal came through here on Wednesday, June sixth. Do you know anything about it?”
“Swear to God no.”
“Do you have hidden cameras?”
“Uh-uh. It makes guys nervous. Say the press or a guy’s wife gets ahold of some footage. We had a state assembly rep in here last week, ya know?”
Walker’s eyes ticked toward the video equipment. “But you film them?”
“Sometimes. But it’s just the one tape, shipped to an address they designate.” Wes tapped a contract underlying the counter’s scratch guard. “We don’t keep a master, nothing.” He exaggerated showing Walker his hands before pulling a ChapStick from his pocket and moistening his lips. “I had a closed-circuit in for a while, some lenses in the preserve to keep an eye on the girls, but some of my customers are pretty paranoid. They like their privacy.” He added, with an element of pride, “We get a lot of tough guys, former operators, ya know?”
“You keep a log?”
“Yeah, but it won’t do you any good. Guys use fake names or tags, mostly.” Wes wiped the sweat from his cheeks. His voice was less fearful. He seemed to be enjoying himself, playing a role in a real-life dangerous plot.
Walker put a charge back into him, circling the counter and pressing the point of the Redhawk to his greasy cheek. “Get it.”
Wes recoiled, then dug through some binders behind the desk and produced an appointment sheet—names marked by the start times. Walker glanced through the list—nothing he recognized, though he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.
“Tell me something useful.”
“Okay,” Wes’s voice ratcheted even higher. He snatched up the page, his fingers snapping nervously as he perused the names. “Mostly my regulars here. That was the day Cheetah Runner twisted her ankle. I remember it.” Wes’s eyes darted around the page, and then he made a strangled noise of excitement. “This guy.” He tapped the page excitedly. “Sickle Moon. Rookie mission. He had a silver briefcase. I remember because he had to rent two lockers, one for it, one to fit his clothes and gear. Look right here.” Beside the name was scribbled an abbreviation that Walker took to be the locker-rental code.
“Did he take the briefcase with him when he left?”
“I didn’t see.”
Walker pointed at another handwritten mark: L13ov. “What’s that mean?”
“He kept one locker overnight.”
“And that didn’t make you suspicious? A cash drop?”
“Like I said, this is a meeting ground for all types of guys. A lot leave their gear overnight if they book again for the next day. I’d never think it was for a contract. At most I thought he was buying guns. Guys do that here, now and then, get around the bullshit waiting-period laws.” Wes read Walker’s anger, and his face started to quiver. “It’s just for fun, really. Guys who want to shoot up at the ranges in the hills, ya know? Targets on boards, maybe an out-of-season deer or two. Nothing big. Who’s that hurt?”
“What’d he do when he was here?”
Wes spoke rapidly, placating. “Normal appointment. One-hour hunt. Minimum requirement if you wanna rent a locker.”
In order to locker the cash, Sickle Moon, the bag man for the deal, had to partake of the action.
Walker noted the credit-card swiper beside the computer on the rear desk. “How’d he pay?”
Wes checked the scrawl on the appointment sheet again. “Cash. Most of ’em do.”
“Did he order a video?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Get on your knees.”
Wes blurted out, “I have an address.”
“An address? Why the hell you have an address all of a sudden?”
“I always do. Look, this is a high-ticket, high-risk operation. One in five customers invites a girl out. One time in three, she goes. We gotta know who with. Believe what you want, but I know some of these girls years now. I don’t want to see anything happen to one. So we shoot digitals of the clients’ license plates. I got a pal on the force gives us addresses, so if a girl goes out and stays out too long, we know where to start looking. That’s all. I don’t tell anyone—I can’t tell anyone—or that’d be the end of this place. And probably me.”
“Get it.”
Wes dug through a cabinet. With trembling fingers he aligned the combo on a lockbox, then dug through laser-print close-ups of license plates. He pulled one, handed it to Walker.
Walker glanced at the handwritten name above the address on the back: Ted Sands.
He slid the photo in his pocket. “On your knees.”
“Oh, God.” Wes let out a strident moan. “Come on, pal, I helped you as best I could. I don’t know anything.”
“Lace your hands behind your neck.” Walker stood behind him, pressing the barrel to the wispy hair above his collar.
Wes was keening now, voice choked with snot. “I’m just a businessman. I talk a game, that’s all. I talk a game, but I’m not really a player. I just like being around them. Please. Please.”
Walker pulled the trigger, the hammer clicking over an empty chamber. “You’re not worth the bullet.”
He left Wes collapsed on the floor behind the counter, Elektra grooming herself indifferently by his head.
Chapter 31
We’re past the twenty-four-hour mark.” Tannino leaned into the squad room, arms hooked on either side of the door frame so his shoulder pads, worn to supplement his five feet seven inches, jogged up on either side of his face. “What gives?”
“He’s smart,” Tim said.
“And?”
“Well-trained, proficient. Covers his tracks like a professional.”
From across the room, Thomas called out, “Want to take him to a movie, Rack?” Assorted snickers, most of them good-natured.
“You think he’s lying low?” Tannino asked.
“We’ll hear from him again,” Tim said. “Soon. Any chance I could talk you into that task force? We’re juggling enough locations of interest that we could use the manpower.”
“We could always use more manpower.”
“Yeah, but we can’t just pick up Jameson’s trail like with Joe Fugitive. He’s too strategic. He’ll keep us chasing our tails. We need to work out where the trail leads and meet him there. And we need more resources to get there. Quickly.”
Tannino swept a gaze across the deputies working away at their various desks. “He’s one fugitive.”
“No, he’s a former Recon marine on a mission. And he has one big advantage over us: He knows what the mission is.”
Tannino made a disgruntled noise and shoved back from the door, disappearing.
Guerrera said, “‘Twenty-four-hour mark.’ Think the marshal’s watching too much Law & Order?”
Tim turned his attention back to the mess of field files before him, piled higher than his head. He’d just gotten back to the office and was trying to get an eye on the latest memos before calling an Escape Team powwow.
Bear snorted his derision at the report he was reading and tossed it atop the stack, his other hand groping blindly inside the Krispy Kreme carton for the last dou
ghnut, which he’d eaten five minutes ago. Tim, Bear, and Guerrera had shoved their desks together, though whether the limited synergy was worth the cost of Bear’s secretarial skills was doubtful. Guerrera had stepped into Miller’s office, hovering over the fax machine. Tim caught his eye through the blinds and waved him over, but he held up his index finger.
“Okay, guys,” Tim said. “Can I borrow your brains again?” He waited for the other deputies to gather around the union of the desks. “Pierce Jameson knows more than he’s letting on. We want to dig up everything we can on his current activities. He’s a businessman—Freed, we could use your eyes unraveling his finances, properties, tax records, anything that might shed light. Can you take point on that?”
“Sure. How about the mom? We could have one of the nurses put out that she had a stroke or something and needs familial consent for an operation. See if we can bait Jameson to go to the hospital and sign off. Nab him there.”
“He’s too sharp for the ruse.”
Thomas said, “His file did say he was Mensa.”
No one laughed this time. Even Freed, Thomas’s partner, looked uncomfortable. Thomas withdrew from the circle of deputies, heading back to his desk. “This isn’t a military command. Not everyone has to drop everything when the Troubleshooter decides he’s got a hot lead.”
“The marshal designated Jameson a major case,” Bear said. “Or did you go off the payroll?”
“Oh, is that a designation now? ‘Major case’? Where’s that fall in the hierarchy—not Shit Yer Pants but above Damn Serious? Walker Jameson isn’t a Top Fifteen—”
“If we don’t catch him soon,” Tim said, “he will be.”
“—so why’s he highest priority? Because Rack’s working the case?”
“Over-the-walls always take precedence,” Bear said.
“Jowalski, I’d think you’d be tired of carrying Rack’s bags by now.”
Bear crumpled up the doughnut carton and heaved it straight past Thomas and into the trash can beside his desk—not a touch of rim. “Does it ever occur to you, with your aviator sunglasses and your minivan and golden retriever, that more and more we have to go after fugitives who are better equipped than we are? Hell, better equipped than the Israeli army. Are you the one who’s trained to do that?”
Guerrera hustled back out of Miller’s office, handing Tim a warm fax. “Word back on stolen cars near the dump. Two vehicles were taken from the area that night. An Escalade and a Camry.” As Tim glanced at the makes, models, and plate numbers, Guerrera said, “You’re thinking the Escalade?”
“The Camry. Less conspicuous.”
Tim handed the fax to Maybeck, who said, “Not if he’s on the West Side.”
“Would you get this to Dispatch, have them put out a BOLO on both vehicles? Did you get us an address for Walker’s ex?”
Guerrera said, “Zim’s on it.”
Zimmer nodded. “Kaitlin Jameson. Sorry, got tied up with that DEA fugitive out of Georgia. I’ll pull you an address right now.”
“Did you talk to Tess’s boss?”
“Dentist?” Guerrera said. “Nice woman, couldn’t offer much. She said Tess had been on edge, but she chalked it up to her kid. I guess she had a sick son.”
“Tess’s kid?” A one-second lag as Tim cast his mind back to the name in Tess’s letter. “Sammy. Where is he now?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can we find out? And what happened with Tess’s shrink?”
“The usual,” Guerrera said. “I reached a couple of counseling centers in the area, patient confidentiality, blah blah blah. That nut ain’t worth the cracking time, socio.”
“Did you get Tess’s autopsy?”
“He handed the job off to me.” In his best Billy Bob Thornton, Denley added, “Ah like them purty pictures, mm-hm.” He scurried off. “Lemme grab the file.”
The door banged open, and Dray strode in, Tyler koala-hooked to a hip, her other arm pinning down an investigation file.
“You got it?” Tim asked.
“I got more than that.” Dray set Tyler down, slapping fives and exchanging hugs with some of the guys. Ty promptly crawled over and undid Bear’s shoelaces.
Denley watched Tyler with a smile. “How is the little man?”
“Handful.” Dray snatched the autopsy report from Denley. “What’s this?” She started to thumb through it as Tyler sat on Tim’s shoe, affixing himself to his leg.
One of the transfers—a mustached kid out of the Cincinnati office—said, “That contains some pretty gruesome photos, ma’am.”
She looked up from the open file. A few of the deputies chuckled. Denley raised his eyebrows and stepped back from the line of fire.
“During both of my C-sections, I had my bladder in my lap,” Dray said. “Don’t tell me about gruesome.”
Zimmer whispered something to the newcomer, who flushed and got busy on a nearby phone. The deputies dispersed, and Dray rolled a chair over, facing Tim, Bear, and Guerrera and executing a behind-the-back blind snatch of the pencil that Tyler’s teeth were about to clamp down on.
“The good thing is,” she said, “there was an investigation into Tess’s death, however superficial, before the suicide ruling closed the matter. Elliott worked the intro between me and the case detective, and so I got a thorough background. First, about the victim: Tess was single—divorced—no relationship to speak of, not much money. She had a very ill seven-year-old son, some kind of genetic disorder. Bad news. She picked up an accounting degree online after he was diagnosed and went from a waitress gig to running a dentist’s office. If I were prone to drawing conclusions, I might say she was seeking ways to maximize her income to pay for the kid’s medical treatment. And if I were a chauvinist, I might point out that there are some money-generating activities that can lead to pregnancy, but then I’d have to offend myself, so I won’t.”
Bear said, “Not married, knocked up, broke, desperate, sick kid—it adds up to a convincing suicide.”
“Convincing?” Guerrera said. “I don’t believe a woman who was pregnant would commit suicide.” His accent got stronger with the machismo.
“How many times you been pregnant?” Dray asked. “Not as much fun as it looks. Now, the good news is the pregnancy bought us a more thorough investigation, as we see here.” She tapped the autopsy file with her short-trimmed nails. “The detective dotted his i’s, wanting to keep anyone from crying Laci. It was an early-term, seven weeks, so Tess likely knew about it, though from interviews on file, no one else did. Obviously, if we could find the—and I use the term in its strict zoological sense—‘father,’ we’d be in good shape, but the detective got nowhere on that either, so for now I’ll put it on my wish list next to ‘Footage of Suicide.’”
One of Zimmer’s prostitute informants hustled past them toward his desk.
“Lady haff short dress,” Tyler observed.
Bear craned his neck. “She sure does.”
Dray said, “You know what else he likes? Bourbon and unfiltered Luckies.” Bear shrugged apologetically, and she continued, “Blood-flow pattern shows she was alive at the time of the shooting, so it’s either what it looks like or someone knew what they were doing. She did have gunshot residue on her left hand. As Bear pointed out, there’s a good case to be made for a suicide. But here’s what I don’t like. One: no suicide note. As we all know, women—especially women with kids—leave notes. If only to register their final complaints.”
Tyler held out his arms, and when Tim hoisted him into his lap, he rested his soft, warm head in the hollow of Tim’s neck and curled a tiny fist around Tim’s thumb. Tim tipped his nose to the downy white hair, caught the scent of no-tears shampoo.
Dray continued, “Problem two: She seemed to have a very close relationship with her son, but she left her body for him to find. She made some arrangements for the night of—he was at a sleepover up the street—so why let him walk home and see the aftermath?”
“Maybe it was a fuck-yo
u to the kid,” Denley called out from his desk. “His condition’s wearing her down or something.”
“Like that metalhead in Calabasas,” Bear added. “Shot himself in front of the Christmas tree.”
“That’s right—more male,” Dray said. “Females tend more passive-aggressive and considerate. They prefer the rented motel room, the laid-down shower curtain, even, so no one has to clean up after them.”
Tyler started fussing, straddling Tim’s thigh and sliding around like a boneless chicken. Tim set him down. “Was the gun she used registered to her?”
“I’m not done counting yet,” Dray said. “Three: slightly odd angle for the shot. Judging from the spatter and the drainage, her head had to have been turned so her chin was parallel to her shoulder. Not impossible certainly, but why?” Tyler squirmed on the floor, babbling something, and she replied, “I know, baby, I’m hungry, too. We’ll have some Goldfishies in a minute. Four: The detective found a red smudge at the curb outside her house above a sewer grate. Bright red.” She moved some stacks to the floor, clearing space on the workstation, and then set down the investigation file and produced a few crime-scene photos. A splotch of vivid red stood out against the white concrete. Perspective shots located the mark at the curbside edge of the neighbor’s house, in front of a stand of juniper. A good lurking site.
“Looks like model paint, almost,” Tim said.
“They took it to the lab on the off chance it proved to be blood. The results were weird. It contained, among other things, food ingredients”—biting her lip, she flipped through some pages, using her leg to shield Tyler from crawling under her chair—“sweetener and gelatin. It was still wet the night of. The detective thought whatever it was, it might have come from the shooter’s vehicle. The neighbor remembered a car parked there, but nothing more. She just saw shadows and a big hood ornament.”
“A Rolls?” Tim offered. “Jag, maybe? What?”
“Dunno. She said bigger than normal ornaments, like the size of a bowling ball. But she’s about a hundred and eighteen years old, so I’m not too excited about her account.”
“Where’s the evidence?”
Last Shot Page 16
