Last Shot

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Course, socio. Kagan’s security man was playing Andy Sipowicz before you got here, so Thomas didn’t let him near the witness.”

  Due to all the foot traffic, the front door had been left unlocked. They passed into a grandiose foyer, and Tim took in the furnishings. A classic Bel Air Norma Desmond, complete with curving banister. California Spanish by way of old-line Boston—an odd, May-December relationship. He and Bear followed Guerrera up to the second floor, through a library and two gauzy curtains to a front-facing balcony that seemed to float among the tree branches. Under Thomas’s watchful gaze, a kid worked his way through a cigarette before adding it to a mound on the coaster precariously balanced on the railing.

  “This is Speedy,” Thomas said flatly.

  In his early twenties, Speedy had dark blue eyes set in well-tanned skin—Caucasian with a flare of something darker. He was ridiculously handsome, no doubt the best-looking kid in the history of whatever high school he’d graduated from before heeding the siren call of Hollywood and running aground on the rocks of L.A.’s bloated service industry.

  Eager to get to Dean Kagan, Tim spoke quickly. “You’re positive that’s the guy.”

  Speedy stared at the photo, dwarfed by Bear’s hand. “Hundred percent.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “Like I told him”—the head jerk indicated that Speedy and Thomas had not embarked on a cozy friendship in the past fifteen minutes—“just him jogging onto the porch and then away. He wore dark clothes, baggy, like army pants or something. T-shirt, too. I also saw him drive off through the patch in the trees there. An SUV, kinda jacked up—”

  “A black Bronco, late eighties?”

  Speedy studied Tim with surprise. “Yeah, fits the description. How…?”

  “There’s one parked a half block that way, along the blind side of the house.” Tim pointed north from the balcony at a stretch of visible street. “We passed it coming here. Thomas, can you run over and check a plate for us?”

  Thomas gladly left the balcony, the curtains drifting around his vanishing form like a magic-trick effect.

  Tim asked, “You work for the catering company?”

  “No, I’m full-time here. I’m usually in charge of the cars, you know? But they have a party, I help out. Pays me good and leaves me free for auditions.”

  Bingo. “You see some other car come from that direction?”

  Speedy lit up another cigarette and discharged a cloud of smoke off the balcony. “Just you guys.”

  “Us guys?”

  “A security truck, you know?”

  “Not sure I do. Bel Air Patrol? LAPD? What?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not so hot on security. I just notice the decals and watch my posture.” A laugh that didn’t get returned. “It was a pickup, like, for one of those shitty family communities out in, say, the West Valley. Shady Hills. Pleasantview. You know the type. I thought it was gonna give pursuit or whatever, but it just kept going all slow.”

  Tim turned to Guerrera. “Contact all local law enforcement and security companies, see if we get a bite.”

  “It was kinda weird. I mean, I saw the truck, but then no cops showed up for, like, another ten minutes.”

  “That’s because it was probably this guy”—Bear brandished Walker’s scowling booking photo again—“after he switched vehicles around the corner.”

  Speedy let out a stoned laugh. “No way. Smart dude.”

  The curtains snapped and disgorged a rounded yet powerful man in his late fifties. Chest hair overflowed the notched collar of an expensive Hawaiian shirt, and a faint sunburn colored his cheeks and the flat end of his nose. An East Asian ideogram was tattooed in faded blue on his forearm. The wind wafted a blend of cinnamon and rum off him, cologne-strong, and pressed his shirt to his distended belly, outlining a pistol handle.

  He offered Tim a firm grip. “Percy Keating, head of security. We’re glad you’re here. If you have a minute, Dean Kagan wanted to thank you in person.”

  They followed him down the sweep of the stairs, up a dim wainscoted corridor decked with dour oils in frames stained to match the molding, and into a study with mallard green walls, a pair of distressed leather club chairs, and knotted slab desk. Percy made introductions from the doorway as if announcing titled nobility at a ball, and no one exchanged salutations beyond slight nods.

  Even under the circumstances, Dean Kagan was impeccably put together, the thirty-two-tooth CEO smile, every hair fixed in place despite the rotor blades overhead. “I wanted to let you know we appreciate your quick response, and I give you my assurance that we’d like to cooperate in every way.”

  “Thanks, that’ll help,” Tim said. “Can I get your contact information?” The three Kagans produced business cards in short order. “If you wouldn’t mind writing your home and cell numbers on the back?”

  As Tim collected the cards, Bear asked, “Do any of you know this man?” He handed off Walker’s photo to Dolan, who stiffened and passed it to Chase, who finally glanced up from his BlackBerry.

  Of the two brothers, Chaisson was more at home, leaning back in his club chair. “This is the guy who—”

  Dean’s smile firmed.

  Chase glanced over the top of the picture next to Percy, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “This guy broke into our lab offices today.”

  Tim knew better than to be surprised. “What happened?”

  Chase filled them in. Dolan offered a few embellishments to the story but largely deferred to his brother’s version.

  “Do you have security footage?”

  “In the lobby, yes,” Dean said. “But not within the lab. A damn fine idea, though.” He nodded at Percy to look into it. So the guy wasn’t just house detective after all.

  Dolan tipped the photograph to the light. “Who is this guy?”

  “Walker Jameson,” Tim said. “He broke out of prison last night.”

  “I read about that,” Chase said.

  “Do you know Tess Jameson?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You might go through your records.” Tim pulled an ivory business card from his pocket. “She had your business card in her bedroom.”

  “I give away hundreds of business cards a week.”

  Tim flipped it over. “With your home number written on the back?” He fanned out from behind it the matching card Chase had just jotted on. “In your handwriting?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Kagan the Elder’s gaze intensify.

  Chase’s lips seemed stuck to his smile, but then his hand raised and clapped to a knee. “What can I say? I meet a lot of people, and I don’t always remember names.”

  “How about you, Dolan? Ring a bell?”

  “She’s the mother of a kid we were going to use in our trial.”

  Chase snapped his fingers. “That’s right. She had a different last name than the kid.”

  “Had?” Bear asked. “Not has?”

  “Killed herself,” Dolan said.

  “Hold on,” Bear said, “you don’t remember this woman, but you remember that she killed herself?”

  “Walker’s her husband?” Dean Kagan broke in.

  “Brother.”

  Dolan was flushed, but the other Kagans’ milder reactions of surprise seemed feigned.

  “You mentioned her son,” Tim said. “Sam Hardy. You used him in your commercials, a KCOM news segment. Why did his name leave the trial list?”

  “Ours is the only trial in the world this year for children suffering from AAT deficiency,” Dean said. “Every AAT parent wanted in. We had over eight thousand applicants. Sadly, we could only accept a small percentage of the kids.”

  “But the Vector poster boy?” Tim asked.

  Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The selection of trial participants is scientific, Deputy.” He paused. “I wish public relations were as well, but it’s not.”

  Tim pressed forward. “Do you know Ted Sands?”

  Dean’s eyebrows quivered co
ntemplatively, and he looked at Percy.

  “He was a former Beacon-Kagan security worker,” Percy said. “I hired him myself. He left about a year ago to pursue freelance options.”

  Dean asked, “Is he the mess in my front yard?” At Bear’s nod he said to Percy, “Get to the bottom of this. And quickly. These officers will need all the specifics of his employment with Beacon-Kagan and anything else on him you can assemble.”

  Already on the job, Percy moved to the door, earnestly but awkwardly poking a handheld.

  “A fugitive and a former security guard?” Chase said. “Why’s this ending up here?”

  Bear said, “We were hoping to defer to your greater knowledge.”

  “I haven’t the damnedest,” Dean said. “I run an international conglomerate. That’s a lot of employees, and each one of them steps on some toes for the bottom line now and again. I’ve had threats originating from every state in the union, and quite a few not of this union. Percy can acquaint you with our file of disgruntleds, if you’d like.”

  “We’d like,” Tim said. “And we’d also like the guest list for the party.”

  “We need to proceed with discretion. To protect the company—and my guests. We’re about to launch a product that’s a major breakthrough for tens of thousands of kids. It’s lifesaving. I don’t want us to do anything to threaten it.”

  “So that’s a…?”

  Dean smiled. “A gentle no. I don’t know about this killer, but our guests are not connected to him. There were some important people here this evening.”

  Tim and Bear looked at each other. Tim nodded. Bear cleared his throat and said, “In addition to being a deputy marshal, I’ve been admitted to the bar. So let me explain, since your own legal staff are not in attendance, the legalities of where we’re at: Your house, while a private and sumptuous residence, is also a crime scene that figures in a federal investigation. You, your family, and your companies are going to cooperate with that investigation. Your choice—the Marshal can make a phone call, and a federal judge can explain why, in writing. Your attorneys can call their contacts at the office of the attorney general, and we’re off to the cock fights. Or we can just get to work. Together. It’s timing, really—a matter of wising up before someone else gets turned into folk art on your porch.”

  “You make a convincing case, Counselor. Change that to a reluctant yes.” Dean’s unflappable grin remained. “It’s a red herring, but you’ll get the list. Now, it’s been a long night, and this is clearly a topic requiring our alert attention. Why don’t you come by the office tomorrow. Noon. I’ll have the boys there. The list. And whatever you’ll need from Percy’s files.” He gestured to the door, a man used to directing human traffic. “Anything else?”

  “Just that guest list.” Tim handed a Service card to Dolan, since he was closest, and said, “Call if anything else goes bump in the night.”

  An actual butler, who’d been waiting fussily in the wings helplessly regarding the legion of trespassers, saw them out. He closed the door behind them without a farewell, seemingly glad to be sealed back within his domain. Tim and Bear paused at the edge of the porch, surveying the scene. Most of the deputies had cleared out, and the media crowd at the cordon had thinned considerably, leaving the diehards and the paparazzi.

  It took four criminalists to lift Ted Sands into the CSI van. Though they’d made some headway with the chisels, Ted still remained in the block, a frozen tobogganer.

  The blotch on the flagstones looked like an oil stain.

  “Helluva statement,” Bear said.

  “This isn’t a statement,” Tim said. “It’s an introduction.”

  They threaded through the remaining cops at the cordon and climbed into Tim’s Explorer.

  “Of course the old man’s gonna be cooperative,” Tim said once both doors had shut. “And every button on every phone in that house is lit up right now.”

  Bear hummed two notes of agreement. “Dispatching flunkies to purge the files at Vector.”

  “By noon tomorrow they’ll have already cleaned house. We can’t wait.”

  “Right. So call Tannino. Get him to wake up some judge.”

  “I’m driving, you call him.”

  Bear, looking righteous but increasingly uneasy, got Tannino on the phone and asked for clearance for the subpoena request.

  From the driver’s seat, Tim could hear the Marshal’s voice. “Listen, is the High Plains Drifter with you, or is this your own two A.M. brainstorm?”

  “Yeah, Rackley’s here.”

  “You got hands-free?” Bear snapped his Nextel into the speaker cradle as Tannino continued without a pause. “If not, just repeat this as I go. The judiciary do not construe their role as making our job easier. Sorry—less difficult. The bench sees its duty, vis-à-vis us, thanks to the attorney general and his buddy Chertoff, as defending the rights of citizens. The rights of certain citizens have always been particularly fiercely defended. The people you guys just left are not merely rich. They don’t just put people in office. They decide who stays in office. And how far forward on the gravy train the officeholders ride. I’ve already had three calls at this hour—one from Sacramento, two from our nation’s capital: Houston, Texas—regarding the little speechifying you did in Kagan’s study, improvised from your law degree taken at Camarillo Veterinary College. The people calling me are shocked—shocked—that we appear to be taking the victims of such a heinous crime into a back room of their own modestly decorated middle-class home and beating them with a rubber hose. The callers assume they can make our lives unpleasant. So the fuck what? Our lives are unpleasant. But they can make it nigh on impossible for us to do our jobs.”

  Bear said, “So that’s a no, then?”

  “We wouldn’t even get to hear a judge say no. The AUSA would run circles around us with probable cause. And because the old man’s playing it all smiley, Your Honor’ll say, ‘If he quits cooperating…’” Tannino muttered something to his stirring wife, then said, “Don’t pick fights you can’t win. Until you can win them.”

  Dial tone.

  Bear disconnected the call, looked at Tim. “Thanks. Set up by my partner. Explains why animals always react to you with instinctive hostility.”

  They passed a few blocks in silence, and then Bear said, “I knew I should’ve driven.”

  Chapter 36

  Ortiz got off a solid blow, and Kenny Shamrock’s nose exploded in red mist. Chase whooped and raised the volume on the plasma as the Ultimate Fighting Championship surged into the fifth round. He sat in the embrace of a soft leather couch in the sunken TV pit, picking absentmindedly at his Gibson—natural finish, spruce top, mahogany sides, rosewood fingerboard, nickel frets, and abalone inlays. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue pinned down a magazine on the coffee table on which he propped his feet. His eyes and nostrils had gone pink around the rims, pronounced flares of color against his fair skin.

  Dolan paced frenetically behind him in the game room proper, circling the pool table and knocking balls off one another. The spacious area, a converted drawing room on the second floor of the south wing, had been redone in the style of an architectural loft. Composed of a bar, a panel kitchen, a game area, and the conversation pit–cum–lounge, the sleek room joined the brothers’ childhood bedroom suites.

  Dean had waited until late in life to have children, and Dolan had been the recipient of four years of undivided domestic attention before Dean’s long-suffering wife, Mary, had died giving birth to a second son. In a rare touch of sentimentality, Dean gave the baby her maiden name, Chaisson.

  With relief Dean had recognized his second son’s intensity and charisma and sought to cultivate them further. Chase was strong-willed, daring, at ease in his own body. Slamming doors. Skin lifted at the knuckles. Girls climbing through his window. Over the years Dean managed to keep Chase on course without reining him in. Riding the momentum of a strategically timed Kagan-endowed Business Department chair, Chase had entered USC. In the fall
semester of his sophomore year, he’d switched his major from sociology to finance. Dean had overseen the transition, supplying a team of tutors, including a former adviser to the state treasury. Within months, Chase had hit his stride, as Dean always claimed he would. There’d been no slowing him since.

  Though tonight was a hell of a shock for them all. After the grenade on the front walk had designated Ted Sands as proxy target, Dean had insisted—with little resistance—that Chase and Dolan move back behind the gates. Concentrating resources had been a mantra of the old man’s since back when Beacon was still in the picture.

  A plexi-coated bulletproof window (all the better to ease Dean’s paranoia) looked out over the back pool. Dolan had undone its various locks and cracked it a few inches, hoping the breeze would evaporate his panic sweat. Honeysuckle had worked its way up the lattice outside, framing the window, the bobbing white flowers scenting the cool inrush of air.

  “Did you know Ted Sands?” Dolan asked.

  Chase strummed the first four notes of the Fifth with bored irony. “I remember him, sure. Nice guy. Good head on his shoulders.” Chase finally turned around. “Oh, come on, that was funny.” He whipped a coaster at Dolan, narrowly missing. “Have a drink or something. Christ. It’s not good to stress this late at night, D. Especially after dinner. All you’re doing is stewing in unused fatty acids.”

  “Not my predominant concern at the moment.”

  “Right. Your health pales as a priority next to the boogeyman.” Chase feinted a few jabs, leaning with the defending champ though he’d watched the recorded fight at least ten times and knew that Ortiz would finish him with an armlock in the next round. “Listen. The Dean’s having Perce beef up security. Jameson does it again, he’ll get his nuts shot off.” Abruptly, Chase turned off the TV and rose.

  “Where you going?”

  Chase brushed past him, sliding the window open farther and swinging a leg over the sill. “Girl.” He waited for the patrolling guard to disappear around the corner below.

  “Percy said—”

  “Yeah, but Percy doesn’t put out.” Chase got a toehold in the sturdy lattice, then looked up and grinned. “Old times, huh?” His flexed arm pulled out of view, leaving Dolan to watch the honeysuckle buds shaking with his brother’s continued momentum.