Redzone

by William C. Dietz

  It was dinnertime by then and the Bonebreaker was hungry. So he went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. Chicken noodle soup! He was in luck. There wasn’t any Melba toast . . . But some rye crispbread would do in a pinch, and Cora had some on hand.

  The Bonebreaker made dinner, took it into the living room, and sat in what he assumed to be Cora’s chair. The TV was on but it was too late to watch the 5:30 news. So, with soup bowl in hand, the Bonebreaker clicked through the channels until he came to a program about computers. He liked computers and watched the entire program.

  Then the Bonebreaker went down the hall to the master bedroom where he removed the mask and hung his clothing in the closet. It was important to keep the suit looking good. After that it was a simple matter to perform some personal maintenance using items from the kit in the briefcase, wrap himself in the bedspread, and lay down on the king-sized bed. He was nearly asleep when the cat landed on the bed. The tabby was purring as the Bonebreaker drifted off.

  * * *

  The Santa Monica Pier was especially pretty at night. The Ferris wheel was set with jewel-like colored lights and could be seen from a long way off. Below it, and all along the pier’s length, thousands of other lights glowed, blinked, and strobed as the ghostly sound of an old-fashioned calliope floated across the water. And that was where Lee and Kane had agreed to meet.

  The psychologist was there when Lee arrived, standing below the neon sign that had welcomed thousands over the years, and Lee was glad to see him even though the dinner date wasn’t entirely voluntary. True to his word, Jenkins had spoken with Kane, but the psychologist wasn’t willing to sign a release without interviewing Lee first. And, consistent with the location of prior meetings, Kane had suggested that they have dinner at the beach. Specifically, on the pier.

  So Lee went home after work and changed into a seldom-used cocktail dress and a pair of high heels. Was that appropriate attire? she wondered. Or was she trying to turn an exit interview into a date? But if it wasn’t a date then why were they meeting over dinner? On the Santa Monica Pier of all places. What do you want it to be? Lee asked the woman in the mirror. “You need some lipstick,” the other Lee replied evasively. “And some gold hoops.”

  So as Lee went forward to give Kane an air kiss, she wasn’t sure what to expect. “You look wonderful,” Kane said. And, judging from the look in his eyes, he meant it.

  “Thanks,” Lee said lightly. “You look pretty good yourself.”

  “I made a reservation at Captain Mike’s,” Kane told her, as they passed under the neon sign. “Have you eaten there before?”

  “No,” Lee replied, as the crowd closed in around them. “But I like seafood.”

  “Me too,” Kane said. “As long as it’s cooked. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  Lee felt her cares drop away as they passed the line for the Ferris wheel, a carnie-style booth where people could “fish” for prizes, and a sign pointing people to the aquarium.

  Captain Mike’s was just beyond that, on the left side of the pier. The façade featured the name and a wood-relief carving of what might have been a Maine fisherman back before the plague. But Maine was part of a red zone now—so there was no telling what a fisherman might look like.

  The restaurant’s interior was fitted out with all of the predictable maritime kitsch that might be expected of such a place including a huge ship’s wheel behind the receptionist, fishing nets that were slung between the fake rafters, and a beachy paint job. “I know, I know,” Kane said apologetically. “The décor is a joke . . . But the food makes up for it.”

  Once they were seated, and had drinks in front of them, the conversation turned serious. “So,” Kane said, “how were the San Juans?”

  There was enough snark in the way he said it that Lee could tell that Kane was teasing her. “What did Jenkins tell you?”

  Kane shrugged. His expression was serious. “You went into the red zone by yourself, you got into a gunfight, and you made it out.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s true,” Lee admitted. “I’m sorry I lied to you . . . But I wanted to see my mother—and I knew you’d try to stop me if I was honest.”

  “You got that right,” Kane said, as he sipped his drink. “So how did the visit go?”

  “Are you upset with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can I tell?”

  “My right eyelid is twitching.”

  Lee laughed. “Oh my God, it is!”

  “Like I said,” Kane insisted. “How did the visit with your mother go?”

  Lee looked out the window. The night was divided between the dark ocean, and the bright, glittering lights of Santa Monica. Her eyes came back to meet his. “I learned that she’s selfish, irresponsible, and adrift.”

  “And?”

  “And I let go. She is what she is—and it isn’t about me.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Pretty much the same thing.”

  Kane raised his coffee cup by way of a toast. “Good. I pronounce you to be as emotionally intact as a human with your experiences can be.”

  Lee smiled. “And you’ll notify the police department of that?”

  “Yes, of course. And there’s one more thing . . .”

  “Which is?”

  “I hereby resign my position as your therapist.”

  Lee frowned. “Why?”

  “Because it would be unethical to try to seduce a patient.”

  Lee laughed. “And that’s your plan?”

  Kane nodded soberly. “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m armed, you know.”

  “I suspected as much. That’s why I’ll have to be sneaky. Are you ready to go? If so, how ’bout a stroll on the pier?”

  They left the restaurant and returned to the boardwalk. It was even more crowded than it had been earlier. They passed a ring-toss booth before arriving in front of a store called Ye Old Curiosity Shop. Kane led the way inside, where they prowled aisles stocked with fake shrunken heads, plastic skulls, and the inevitable tee shirts. Kane offered to buy Lee an African mask with a MADE IN OREGON tag on the back, and she laughed.

  Farther down the boardwalk, they encountered a so-called living statue. The street performer was wearing a Stetson, Western clothing, and pointing a Colt .45 at a tourist. Both his skin and his costume were a dark bronze color. A second hat lay on the deck in front of him. It contained some bills and a sprinkling of coins.

  A clown stood only a few feet away. He was juggling some brightly colored clubs as a street mime pretended to do likewise. A small crowd had gathered as the couple paused to watch. “I wonder how much money they . . .”

  Kane never got to finish his question as a man stepped in front of them and the cowboy’s .45 went off. The tourist produced a grunt of pain as the slug hit his shoulder and spun him around. He was falling as Lee removed the Glock from her purse.

  Lee heard screams, and sensed movement around her, as the cowboy prepared to fire the single-action revolver again. Lee shot him in the chest and turned. If there was one shooter, there might be more. That was when she saw the clown take a swing at Kane. The psychologist ducked and the club passed over his head.

  Lee yelled, “LAPD! Freeze!” But the clown didn’t freeze. He fired a small-caliber semiautomatic pistol as he turned in her direction. Or tried to, except that Kane’s body blocked him, and the bullet flew wide.

  Lee was about to help out when the mime attacked from behind. The police officer saw a piece of wire pass in front of her eyes—and felt it start to tighten around her neck. She wanted to release the Glock in order to protect her throat but knew that was the wrong thing to do. So she stomped on the attacker’s right foot instead and heard the woman swear as the spike-style heel punctured a canvas shoe. Lee took advantage of the opportunity to bring the Glock across the front of her body and point it back under her left arm. The bullet creased the mime’s side. She stumbled away, recovered, and was trying to flee when a tourist too
k her down. Thus freed, Lee turned back to find that Kane was sitting astride the clown’s chest, pounding the man’s face. “That’s enough,” she told him. “Good job.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance as Lee went to get her purse. The boys and girls in blue were going to arrive soon, and she would need to show some ID. Their date was over.

  * * *

  After hours spent filling out reports, and being interviewed by various members of the LAPD, Lee had to sit through a health screening. None of the attackers had been wearing masks, so there was a chance of infection although the doctor didn’t think it was likely. Still, if Lee experienced any of half a dozen symptoms, she was to call him right away. And when she asked, the doctor assured her that Kane would receive the same counseling, and both would be notified if any of the blood tests were BN positive. Then Lee was allowed to go home. It was about 2:00 A.M. by that time—so she felt entitled to sleep till 8:00, when the alarm jarred her awake.

  She rolled out of bed and padded into the living room. The first thing Lee saw when she turned the TV on was a reporter standing on a mostly empty Santa Monica Pier. The background consisted of a cloudy sky and the gray ocean. “This is the spot where the street performers attacked and tried to kill controversial LAPD Detective Cassandra Lee,” the reporter said. “She killed one of her assailants and wounded another. Both were later discovered to be mutants. Lee’s companion, Dr. Lawrence Kane, is credited with subduing a third suspect. The LAPD will hold a press conference at 10:00 A.M., and our cameras will . . .”

  Lee thumbed the remote, and the TV went to black. “I won’t forget.” That was what the note from Crystal Bye said. And, judging from the attack, she hadn’t.

  Lee knew that a camera was on her and kept her face intentionally blank as she left for the bathroom. That’s where she made use of her phone to check voice mail. The first message was from Kane. “Hi, Cassandra . . . Just checking in. I hope you’re okay. I enjoyed the date . . . Call me when you can.”

  Lee sent him an e-mail: “Thanks for a wonderful dinner—and for kicking the clown’s ass. It was a date I won’t forget.”

  Once she was ready, Lee left the apartment and drove downtown. After parking in the LAPD’s underground garage, Lee took the elevator up to the third floor, where she took the usual route through the bullpen. “Hey, Lee,” someone shouted. “I hear you capped a cowboy! Yippee ki yay!”

  “And a mime!” another voice added.

  “What’s next?” a third cop inquired. “Little old ladies?”

  But Lee refused to take the bait and went straight to Jenkins’s office, where he waved her in. “Good morning,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  “How should I feel?” Lee inquired as she sat down.

  “Well,” Jenkins said, “you were placed on administrative leave pending the findings of a shooting review board. But you’ve been there and done that.”

  “Yeah,” Lee said. “I have.”

  “And I see no reason for concern,” Jenkins said. “It was a good shoot. Everyone says so. There were lots of witnesses, all of whom agree that the cowboy tried to kill you. So it was a clear case of self-defense and we should get a speedy turnaround.”

  Lee took a sip of lukewarm coffee. “Good.”

  Jenkins nodded. “What isn’t so good is the suspension.”

  Lee frowned. “Suspension? What suspension?”

  “The surviving perps are mutants,” Jenkins said. “And they claim that you were raising hell in the red zone during the time when you were supposed to be on vacation in the San Juans. And that wouldn’t be kosher, since you were not only on administrative leave but theoretically on call. So Internal Affairs plans to take a look at that . . . In the meantime you are suspended.”

  “So I was placed on administrative leave and suspended?”

  “I’m afraid so. And that’s a first insofar as I know.”

  Lee understood the spot Jenkins was in. Even though he knew about her visit to the red zone, he had chosen to ignore it. So his job was in jeopardy as well. That made her feel even worse. But maybe she could fix it. Lee chose her words with great care. “I’m sorry, boss . . . I should have told you. The stuff on the Bonebreaker video hit me hard. Then, when my dying mother asked me to come and see her, I felt I couldn’t say no. That’s how I got mixed up in some Heevy family politics. And, when Heevy sent assassins to kill my half brother, I tried to protect him. Now it looks like they’re after me.”

  Jenkins’s expression changed subtly. He was already familiar with most of what she’d said. But now he knew how Lee planned to pitch her story to Internal Affairs. She was going to claim that she’d gone AWOL after suffering a job-related episode of PTSD.

  It wasn’t an ironclad defense, but in the hands of a lawyer like Marvin Codicil, it could provide Lee with a chance of survival. And protect him as well. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I wish you had been more forthcoming. But I understand the strain you were under—and appreciate the fact that you’re coming clean.”

  “So I have to go home?”

  “I’m afraid so. And leave your badge here. That goes for the arsenal, too.”

  “Even though people are gunning for me?”

  “Yeah, although the shadow team is still monitoring your home. So that helps. There were more assassins, you know . . . We think three of them were waiting by the gate in case you turned the other way. They took off when the blue suits arrived.”

  “That’s really special . . . Thanks for letting me know.”

  “You’re welcome. The doctor did a nice job by the way . . . Who knew the guy could throw a punch?”

  “Yeah,” Lee said, as she placed her ID case on his desk. “Who knew?”

  “So you two were on a date?”

  “No comment,” Lee said as she placed her weapons on the desk. “You can have these, but I have a .45 at home.”

  “You can’t carry it.”

  “Oh, yes I can . . . I’ve had a concealed weapons permit since I was in college. Dad said every girl should have one.”

  Jenkins looked at her. “Stay out of trouble, Cassandra.”

  Lee stood. “Yes, sir.” Then she did an about-face and left.

  It was a short walk to Yanty’s cube, and he was there. “Well,” the detective said, “a double suspension. You’re lucky it wasn’t a triple.”

  “They would if they could,” Lee said sourly as she sat down.

  “So you’re out of here?”

  “Yeah . . . I’m afraid so.”

  “Take this,” Yanty said, and handed her a cell phone. It was one of the disposables that he kept for undercover use. Their eyes met. Nothing was said, but Lee understood. The shadow team was monitoring her phone—and it was possible that the assassins were, too.

  “Thanks,” Lee said as she slipped it into a pocket. “Say hi to Prospo for me.” And with that, she left.

  TWELVE

  THE BONEBREAKER HAD to step over Cora’s corpse in order to exit the house. Her eyes were open, and she was staring up at him. Both bodies had begun to stink—so it was a good time to leave. The Bonebreaker pulled the door closed and checked to ensure that it was locked.

  The unassuming four-door sedan was parked in the driveway, and the Bonebreaker had a set of car keys taken from Cora’s purse. Once outside he thumbed the remote and saw the parking lights flash on and off. How long would it be before a relative or an employer tried to reach the couple and, having failed to do so, would come to investigate? At least eight hours. And during that time the Bonebreaker figured he could drive the vehicle without worrying about the police pulling him over.

  He opened the driver’s side door, got in, and discovered that there was no need to push the seat back. A sure sign that Cora’s husband had been the last person to drive the car. Not that it mattered. From the house in Northeast Los Angeles, it was a short drive to Glendale, where the Vasquez family lived. The Bonebreaker had called ten minutes earlier to request what he told Mrs. Vasquez was “a follo
w-up interview.” To which she had responded by telling him that the family was grateful for Detective Lee’s efforts to find the killer.

  That served to confirm the Bonebreaker’s impression that Lee was personally involved in the case—and gave him the opportunity to claim that he worked for her. A ploy calculated to piss Lee off once she learned of it.

  It was a short drive to Glendale and the Vasquez residence. The Bonebreaker parked out front and made his way up the driveway with briefcase in hand. He was wearing the latex mask and skintight transparent finger cots that covered his fingertips. Though difficult to see, they weren’t invisible. Still, odds were that if Mrs. Vasquez noticed them she would answer his questions nevertheless, and that was all he cared about.

  The Bonebreaker rang the bell, and Mrs. Vasquez opened the door half a minute later. She led him into the living room where a young man was seated. That was a surprise and one the Bonebreaker would be forced to cope with. “My husband is at work,” Mrs. Vasquez explained. “But Marty dropped by. He is . . . he was Rudy’s best friend.”

  There was something about the way she said it, and the look on Marty’s face, that claimed the Bonebreaker’s attention. A good buddy would be interesting—and a lover even more so. He went over to shake hands. “I’m Detective Harmon . . . It’s a pleasure to meet you. Did Detective Lee speak with you?”

  Marty wore his hair short, was nicely dressed, and seemed to be more than a little uncomfortable. “No, sir,” he replied.

  “Well,” the Bonebreaker said smoothly, “after Mrs. Vasquez and I finish our conversation, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Would that be okay?”

  Marty shrugged. “Sure . . . I have to be at work by ten thirty, though. The restaurant opens at eleven.”

  “No problem,” the Bonebreaker assured him. “Thank you.”

  Then, having turned his attention back to Mrs. Vasquez, the Bonebreaker produced a piece of paper with some scribbling on it. “Please allow me to apologize in advance,” he said. “Some of my questions may be similar to those that Detective Lee already asked you. But that’s how the process works. You’d be surprised at how many people remember additional details during their second interview.”