Old Poison (Dangerous Ground 2)

by Josh Lanyon

  Chapter Eight

  Taylor woke early — very early — and was momentarily confused to find himself in Will’s bed — minus Will.

  He dealt briskly with missing Will. A hot shower and hotter coffee helped chase away the remaining fog. He fed Riley, put the dog out in the backyard, to Riley’s evident disappointment.

  He borrowed a pair of Will’s briefs — every single pair pristine and conservative white — and one of his clean shirts and dressed listening to the suburban birds in Will’s well-kept backyard. He was still well ahead of schedule when he went out to try his car and found it dead.

  It had been fine the day before, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The Acura MDX wasn’t new. It wasn’t the battery, though, because he’d replaced that the previous month, and the lights and CD player were operating just fine.

  Taylor thought it over, went inside, and phoned Varga.

  “My car won’t start. You mind picking me up this morning?”

  She did not sound pleased. “In Ventura?”

  “I’m not in Ventura. I’m in Woodland Hills.”

  “What are you doing in Woodland Hills?”

  “We could talk about this on the way,” he pointed out.

  She sighed. “All right. What’s the address?”

  He gave her the address, and she hung up.

  Shortly before eight o’clock, Varga rang his cell to say her ETA was two minutes out — clearly expecting him to be on the sidewalk waiting.

  Taylor rinsed his coffee cup, set it in the sink, locked Will’s front door, and walked out to meet her, surprised to see a battered brown Chevy in the driveway, blocking his own disabled Acura.

  Brown Chevy…

  He registered this, registered that Riley was snarling and throwing himself at the chain-link gate, and instinctively Taylor’s hand went to his shoulder holster, even as he opened his mouth to calm the dog. A woman was getting out of the driver’s side. He didn’t recognize her, but he recognized the nightmare expression on her face — so white she looked like she was painted for Kabuki theater: black holes for eyes, a slash of mouth, and ghost white skin. She had a gun in her hand, and it was pointed at him.

  Too slow this time, MacAllister. His main regret was Will; that this was happening on Will’s home turf. Will was going to think he should have been here, should have stopped it. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

  At the same instant, someone walked up behind him, someone who must have been waiting along the side of the house. Taylor felt the prod of something hard and cylindrical beneath his ribs. His hand froze, fingertips brushing the butt of his pistol.

  “Drop it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taylor said. “Do you know I’m a federal officer?”

  “We know who you are.”

  Okay. If he wasn’t already dead, the odds in his favor were improving. He gingerly drew his weapon and dropped it to the grass.

  “Walk,” a man’s voice ordered. A toneless, empty voice. Accented? Seeing that there was a chance he might survive this, Taylor started taking mental notes.

  The woman was scrambling to throw open the trunk of the Chevy. Brown hair, Caucasian, five-six or -seven, medium build, mid to late forties. He didn’t know her. Did he? “Hurry!” she urged. “For God’s sake, hurry up!”

  A motor gunned from down the street. Varga’s blue sedan roared up behind the Chevy, blocking it in. She must have seen what was happening, because she jumped out, drawing her weapon on the man who held Taylor.

  “Halt. Fed —”

  Before she could finish identifying herself, the woman by the rear bumper of the car opened fire. The bullets hit Varga squarely in her chest, the white silk of her blouse turning red as she dropped to her knees. She discharged her weapon harmlessly into Will’s lawn and sagged forward onto her face.

  Taylor saw it out of the corner of his eye, and it was the last thing he saw; he had whipped around, grabbing for the gun, trying to disarm the man behind him, when there was an explosion in his head.

  Hanabi. A brilliant chrysanthemum burst of purple and red lights. Bloodred stars like chrysanthemum petals drifted, twinkling through the night. The lights went dark.

  * * * * *

  Will was in Orange County talking to Deputy Brown about the recent suspicious movements of the Phu Fighter gang leadership when the call came through.

  Assistant Director Cooper came up as the Incredible Hulk on Will’s phone screen.

  Will made a face and stepped outside to take the call.

  “Where are you?” Cooper bit out.

  Sure he was about to get his ass reamed for taking time off to pursue his own investigation, Will hedged, “On my way back to LA.”

  “There’s been a shooting at your residence.”

  The phone nearly dropped from Will’s nerveless hand. “Who?” a weird, flat voice asked on his behalf.

  “Denise Varga. She was shot to death in the street outside your house a few minutes after eight. Apparently she was on the way to pick up your partner.”

  “MacAllister?” Will managed the force the question from his locked-tight throat.

  “Missing. From a neighbor’s account, it sounds like he may have been abducted.”

  “Abducted?”

  “His disabled vehicle is sitting in your driveway. Any idea what he was doing at your place?”

  “He spent the night.”

  “Something wrong with his house?”

  Frost crackled in Cooper’s voice. And no wonder. One agent dead. Another — Jesus. Let him be okay.

  Will thought rapidly. “I told him to stay at my place while Ventura PD investigated the bomb threat he received. Did my neighbor say if Ta — MacAllister — was injured?”

  “She believed he was knocked unconscious and thrown in the trunk of a brown Chevy. I thought it had been determined that there was no bomb threat, that it was just a practical joke?”

  “I never bought the practical-joke theory. I think this bears me out.”

  “Report back here. Out.”

  * * * * *

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Will demanded. His face was white with fury, his eyes almost black. He looked at Taylor with condemnation, dislike. Never, not once in the four years of their partnership, had Will looked at him like that. Like Taylor was a stranger.

  Not even when they had been strangers to each other.

  “I…tried.”

  “You didn’t try. You never said a word about it. You let me believe that you were different. That you were good. Someone I could care about.”

  “I am. I am those things.”

  Dread welled in Taylor. If Will stopped believing in him, if Will didn’t care about him anymore — it was like losing his compass, having his mooring torn away, like being lost at sea and no star to guide him.

  “You disgust me,” Will said.

  Taylor was shaking his head, childishly insisting this wasn’t true. “You know me, Will. You’re just like me.”

  “I’m not like you,” Will said scornfully. He was glaring at the thing Taylor held in his hand. Taylor looked down. He was holding a percussion pistol. Some of his fear lightened. Will had given him this. A magnificent gift. Smooth black wood grip carved in a snarling dragon head. A large pearl glowed in the dragon’s jaws. The pearl beyond price. No, not a pearl. An eye. A brown eye. It stared at him maliciously — and winked.

  “You’re so fucking lame, MacAllister,” Will exclaimed. “You’re so fucking useless.”

  He snatched the pistol out of Taylor’s hand and held the long, engraved barrel to his temple. “Here’s what you do,” he said and pulled the trigger.

  A blast of dust and exhaust filtered through the cracks in the car trunk, blew in Taylor’s face, waking him. He began to choke.

  Chapter Nine

  Yellow crime-scene tape cordoned Will’s yard and lawn from the rest of the neighborhood and the spectators who had gathered. There was a horrifying red-brown stain at the end of
the drive, where Varga had died.

  The doors of Taylor’s MDX stood open, and LAPD’s crime-scene investigators were collecting and documenting evidence.

  “Our theory is the perps damaged the MDX’s starter coil at some point during the night and then left the scene,” Lt. Wray said.

  She was a tall, lanky redhead in an ill-fitting suit. Other than the suit, she seemed to know what she was doing. Time would tell.

  “Why would they leave the scene?”

  “We don’t think these were professionals. There’s every indication the shooter was panicked into opening fire. Plus, you’ve got a pretty active neighborhood watch here. We’re speculating that the perps didn’t want to draw attention to themselves by parking on the street or loitering near your domicile. We think your partner came out early this morning, earlier than the perps were anticipating. He couldn’t start his vehicle and went back inside to call Agent Varga. Varga showed up, your partner walked outside, and this time they were waiting for him.”

  “Quiet, Riley,” Will threw back at the dog, who had been barking ever since his arrival. To the cop, he said, “You have a partial on the Chevy’s license plate?”

  “Yes. We’re running it now. So far we’re not coming up with any matches. They may have switched plates with another car.” Wray hesitated. “If you’re right about this being the same car that nearly hit Special Agent MacAllister on Saturday, they’ve been tracking him for some time.”

  Why the hell hadn’t Taylor listened to him? Why the hell did he always have to be such a damn bullhead? Except…Taylor had listened to Will last night. He’d stayed at Will’s place like Will wanted. Will was the one who failed. If he’d been here…

  He shoved it aside, questioned, “ID on the perps?”

  “Two. Male and female. The witness didn’t get a clear look at the male. She thought he might have been Asian. Midtwenties. Possible gang tattoos. A little shorter than your partner and a little heavier. She thought he hit MacAllister with some kind of karate chop or martial arts move.”

  “And the woman?”

  “The woman is described as older, maybe even early fifties. Tall, athletic, Caucasian, brown hair. Our witness got a good look at her; she’s going through mug shots now.”

  Will nodded. If Taylor’s attackers were not professional criminals, how useful were mug shots going to be?

  “Any chance this is tied to a case he’s working?” Wray asked.

  “Doubtful. MacAllister was on sick leave for eight weeks and then desk duty for another month. He was only cleared for active duty this week, and it’s a routine protection detail.”

  “Then it’s something personal.”

  Reluctantly, Will said, “It looks that way.”

  “Did your partner have any recent run-ins with anyone?”

  Will filled Wray in on the altercation at the Red Dragon restaurant.

  She heard him out but seemed unconvinced. “Doesn’t really sound like the MO of any Latino gang I ever heard of.”

  “I agree. And for what it’s worth, that was MacAllister’s take too.” Will knew he was going to have to tell her about the snake wine, the threatening note, and the dud bomb. He disliked cracking open the shell of Taylor’s close-guarded privacy, but privacy meant little compared to getting Taylor back alive and in one piece.

  When he’d filled Lt. Wray in on everything he could remember, she said thoughtfully, “Did he have a theory about who was harassing him?”

  “If he did, he didn’t share it.” Will admitted, “He was resistant to the idea.”

  “Maybe so, but on the surface it sounds like someone was stalking him, all right.”

  Old poison, thought Will. “He was stationed in Japan about eight years ago.”

  “You believe there’s a tie-in?”

  “Maybe. Not necessarily, though. He’s always been interested in Japan. He’s studied martial arts. He’s got a collection of Japanese weapons.” Will thought about the pistol he’d bought for Taylor’s birthday. It was a nice piece, an antique, but three thousand dollars wasn’t incentive for abduction or murder. Besides, if someone wanted that pistol, or any of Taylor’s collection, they’d have had the perfect opportunity to break into his house while he was staying at Will’s. No, this was about Taylor himself.

  He added, as they walked toward Taylor’s MDX, “He could have pissed someone off at his dojo or when he was hanging around Little Tokyo. He can be…abrasive.”

  “How abrasive?”

  “I like him,” Will said evenly.

  “Plus you have an alibi.” He must have looked unamused. Wray said, “Any chance he was snatched as a means of leverage in a case you’re working?”

  “We’re not working the same case right now. We’ve been temporarily reassigned.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Will stopped walking. “What are you asking?”

  Her eyes were hazel and direct. “I was partnered with a guy for six years. I understand the bond. Is it possible your partner was taken in an attempt to put pressure on you?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the full extent of your relationship with Special Agent MacAllister?”

  Funny thing being on this side of a criminal investigation. Will found he didn’t like it at all. “We’re partners, and we’re best friends.”

  “You’re both gay.”

  Well, he had to give LAPD credit; they had done one hell of a lot of background work in less than four hours.

  “That’s right.” He looked past her to the crime-scene investigator and asked if there were wrappings from the wine shipping box in the MDX.

  Negative from the crime-scene personnel.

  Will questioned, “What about a note? Japanese writing on plain white paper?”

  Another negative.

  Wray observed this interchange silently. When Will had finished, she said calmly, “Like I said, I understand the bond between partners, Special Agent Brandt, but this is an LAPD investigation — at least until the Feds yank it away from us. I’ll keep you up-to-date on any developments, but I expect your full cooperation.”

  Will nodded tightly.

  “And I’m going to have to insist that you leave the investigating to us.”

  If Will’s nod had been any tighter, his neck would have snapped.

  Untroubled, Wray moved forward, pointing to the tire tracks across Will’s lawn. “Agent Varga had them boxed in. You can see where they pulled forward and drove across your front yard and out your other neighbor’s driveway…”

  * * * * *

  It was hard to breathe. There was more dust than air permeating the hood seal of the trunk, and the combination of exhaust fumes and burned pollen was making him sick. Or maybe that was the taiko drum banging in his skull.

  Boom, boom, boom, with every labored beat of his heart.

  Something had happened…

  He tried to piece together the picture of the last thing he remembered. Had Will been with him? He didn’t think so. It was confused…

  The car hit another pothole or a dip in the dirt road and slammed down. Nausea rose in Taylor’s throat, and he fought it back.

  “Will?” he asked the stuffy darkness. But there wasn’t enough room for both Will and him in this crowded compartment. There wasn’t enough room for him on his own. Woozily, he began to feel around for something he could use as a weapon. But there was nothing. No tire iron, no jack, no handy crowbar or two-by-four.

  The car banged down on another dip in the road, and this time the struggle to control his stomach failed. Sickness swept over him in a humiliating tide, wrenching his muscles. His head pounded more fiercely with each gasped retch.

  * * * * *

  “This is a goddamned, unbelievable screwup of near-mythic proportions,” Assistant Director Cooper snarled.

  It was the most pleasant thing Cooper had said so far, and it indicated he was finally cooling down.

  Will nodded curtly. That had been the extent of his
participation for most of his meeting with Cooper.

  “If MacAllister believed himself to be in some kind of danger —”

  “He didn’t.”

  At Cooper’s look of irritable inquiry, Will said, “He’d have told me, yes, but more to the point, Taylor wouldn’t ever believe there was a threat he couldn’t handle.”

  Cooper snorted, but he couldn’t argue with that.

  “Well, he obviously perceived there was some threat, because he sent off a sheet of Japanese writing and a cardboard box with wrapping paper to the FBI lab.”

  Will swallowed and managed to say unemotionally, “Did they come up with anything?”

  “It wasn’t a high-priority request at the time.” Cooper sighed. “We should know something soon.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see MacAllister’s file as it relates to his posting in Japan?”

  Cooper was scowling again. “Certainly not. Anyway, LAPD is taking point on this for now.”

  “Until the G-men take it over?”

  “Don’t remind me.” Cooper scrutinized Will. “You think this ties back to MacAllister’s first posting?”

  “I think it’s possible. There’s certainly a Japanese theme to these threats.”

  “That was, what? Ten years ago?”

  “Eight, I think.” Will apologized silently to his missing partner. “He doesn’t talk about it, but I can’t think of any other connection. He likes Japanese food, but I doubt if that’s the key.”

  “I can’t grant you access to your partner’s personnel file, Brandt.”

  Will nodded.

  “I’ll look at the file myself. If I find anything…” Cooper let it trail. “Meantime, I’m instructing you to give your full cooperation to LAPD. And I mean that, Brandt. Full cooperation.”

  * * * * *

  “Wake up.”

  Bright pain beneath his ribs. His right side. He needed to be careful of his right side —

  Taylor bit off a groan. A firework display seemed to be going on inside his head. His brain pounded sickeningly with each pulse of flashing bright light. He pried his eyes open. An indistinct figure stood over him. Was the light bad or was it his vision? Or both?

  “Wake up.”