Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  Yanty made a face. “It was stolen.”

  “Prints?”

  “Nope. Judging from the powder residue left on the steering wheel, la chica was wearing surgical gloves. But never fear . . . This time we’ll have an edge.”

  “Which is?”

  “TransLabs agreed to put a tracker in the envelope along with the lab report.”

  Lee laughed out loud. “You’re a genius! Nice work.”

  “If I were a genius, I would have thought of it before,” Yanty said disgustedly.

  “Bullshit. There was no apparent need. We thought she’d lead us to a building rather than a boat. So how should we play it? Do we follow her to the face place and crash the party? Or should we follow her to ABCO HQ and come back later?”

  “I like plan two,” Yanty responded. “That way we can scout the building first. Then, once we know what we’re up against, we take ’em down.”

  “Makes sense,” Lee agreed. “That’s what I’ll pitch to Wolfe. Is Prospo on board?”

  “Yup . . . He’s up to speed.”

  “Super. Let’s do this thing.”

  Acting Assistant Chief Briana Wolfe was in charge of roll call—and looked like a police recruiting poster complete with a blond crew cut, high cheekbones, and a perfectly tailored suit. “Listen up, people,” she said. “Those of you who forgot to qualify at the range need to transport your butts over there . . . And get your flu shots. Don’t make Sergeant Thobo hunt you down. You’ll be sorry if you do. Then there’s the matter of performance reviews, which are due on the fifth. I’m looking at you, Detective Lee . . .”

  Once the routine stuff was out of the way, Wolfe went around the room so that each lead detective could give his or her report on their team’s current activities. When it was Lee’s turn, she brought the group up to date on the face case, being careful to credit Yanty and Prospo as she did so. “So,” she said, “we’re going to get a second chance to follow the courier later today. But in order to track her, we’ll need an unmarked boat with a drone on active standby.”

  “What?” Wolfe demanded. “No submarine?”

  That got some laughs, and Lee smiled. “No, ma’am. But thanks for the offer.”

  Wolfe nodded. “See me after roll call . . . I’ll help with the logistics.”

  At that point, Lee was prepared to sit back and let her mind wander. But the report from Detective Sanders piqued her interest. It seemed that Sanders and his team had been working on Operation Roundup. That was the name given to the effort to find Aztec soldiers who had been separated from their units and were hiding in south LA.

  “This guy’s name is Camacho,” Sanders said. “We found him hiding in the attic of an abandoned house. He’d been wounded, an infection had set in, and the poor bastard was dying. It was difficult to get a statement because he kept drifting in and out of consciousness. And when Camacho did speak, he rambled on about underground tunnels, a room filled with bones, and a normale who wasn’t normal. But the so-what of this is that three soldiers were with him. And, since they aren’t in custody, it seems safe to assume that they’re still on the loose. So please ask your people to keep an eye out for them. The patrol divisions have been notified.”

  Lee raised a hand. Wolfe nodded. “Yes?”

  “A question . . . Did this guy survive? And if so, where is he? I’d like to speak with him . . . Or try to.”

  “We sent him off to the hospital,” Sanders said. “And he pulled through. I lost track of him after that. Why?”

  “I was wondering if he was one of the ’tecs we fought down in Hawthorne,” Lee replied.

  It was a lame story but enough to get by with since none of her peers cared. And that was fortunate since Lee didn’t want them to know that she was thinking about the Bonebreaker. The possibility was so tenuous as to be laughable. But later, as soon as she could find the time, Lee planned to find Camacho and hear what he had to say.

  Voices droned, and Lee allowed her thoughts to drift. Two motorcycles and a road that led north. That would make her happy.

  • • •

  Jenkins was seated in Chief Corso’s interim office which, unlike the one at LAPD headquarters, was small and plain. Jenkins had viewed the material on the Getty drive twice since Lee had given it to him. But Chief Corso was viewing the tapes for the first time—and all the deputy chief could do was sit and wait.

  Finally, after watching the final segment, Corso clicked PAUSE and leaned back in his chair. “That,” he said, “is fucking unbelievable. No, wait . . . I take that back. Actually, it’s quite believable in that it explains some of the mayor’s most surprising victories. Take the transit deal for example . . . That was slick.”

  Jenkins nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So what should we do about it?”

  Corso’s eyes narrowed. “We have to take action. No doubt about it . . . Imagine what the press would say if they found out that we had this stuff and had been sitting on it.”

  Jenkins wasn’t surprised. Launching an investigation was not only the right thing to do, it was the smart thing to do, especially if Corso wanted to run for mayor himself. And everyone knew he did. “Okay,” Jenkins replied. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll take it to the DA,” Corso promised, “but he’ll want corroborating testimony from at least some of the people on those tapes.”

  “They won’t want to provide it,” Jenkins predicted.

  “Of course they won’t,” Corso agreed, “but maybe Lee can find some people who’d be willing to sacrifice Getty in order to save themselves.”

  “Lee? Why Lee?”

  “Lee’s already in the loop, and she has an enormous set of balls,” Corso replied.

  Jenkins was pretty sure that Corso’s comment was in violation of the department’s HR guidelines but wasn’t about to tell the chief that. “Yes, sir . . . I’ll let her know.”

  • • •

  The rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the air inside the creeper was humid. True to her word, Wolfe helped Lee arrange for the necessary logistics. So the tech heads were ready to provide real-time tracking support, a remotely piloted drone from the Air Services Division was sitting on the runway, and an unmarked boat provided by the Harbor Patrol was waiting at Marina Del Rey. And by pulling Prospo off the Bonebreaker case for the day, Lee could field two chase cars instead of one.

  So when two o’clock rolled around, and the TransLab messenger dropped the test results off at Joe Pody’s storefront, they were ready. Lee and Yanty were positioned on the opposite side of the street as they had been before—and Prospo was half a block away in a supermarket parking lot. There were still reasons for worry, however. What if the ABCO courier changed her MO? What if she made, or appeared to make, a handoff, forcing Lee to stay on the first suspect or divide her forces between two targets? There were all sorts of possibilities. But all Lee could do was hope for the best as time passed, and she continued to sweat.

  Lee was busy worrying and watching when Yanty’s phone rang. “Yanty.”

  Lee looked at the other detective and saw him nod. “A white male with a shaved head. Got it. Thanks.”

  Lee raised the binoculars in time to see the suspect emerge from the store and enter an old pickup truck. The front plate was visible so she called it in. “This is 1-William-3 looking for wants or warrants on California plate Boy-Boy-Mary-two-nine-one.”

  Yanty started the engine as Lee made use of a handheld radio to alert Prospo. “The suspect entered a gray pickup with California plates Boy-Boy-Mary-two-nine-one. He pulled out of the lot and is turning onto Culver Boulevard westbound. We’re on his six, two cars back. Be ready to pull up and take over.”

  “Got it,” Prospo replied. “I’m coming up behind you.”

  There was a squawk of static as the police dispatcher spoke. “That is a stolen vehicle 1-William-3.” />
  “Thanks,” Lee replied, and dropped the mike into her lap. Although the courier was new, ABCO was using the same routine. Lee hurried to update Air Services and the Harbor Patrol before turning her attention back to the chase.

  The new guy was either a more aggressive driver than his predecessor had been, or was a lot more skittish and determined to lose a tail if there was one. He had a tendency to switch lanes without signaling and put the hammer down in order to slide through yellow lights.

  That forced Yanty to close the gap—and gave Lee reason to contact Prospo. “The suspect is kind of jittery,” she said. “Let’s switch off.” Prospo clicked his mike by way of an acknowledgment and passed the first car a few seconds later.

  Lee had a decision to make. The suspect was headed toward the coast, so maybe he was going to dump the truck and jump on a boat the way the previous messenger had. If so, it would be necessary to get the drone up early enough to take station over Marina Del Rey. But if Lee was wrong, and sent the RPV up too early, it could run low on fuel later on. All she could do was guess. The confirmation came back right away. “Roger that, 1-William-3. Your sky eye is taking off and will be on station sixteen from now. Over.”

  Like the first courier, the second one turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway and headed north. But, rather than exit onto Mindanao, this suspect took the next left and followed Bali Way out toward the water. Lee figured he was committed at that point and hurried to let the Harbor Patrol know.

  Sergeant Hal Dexter was ready and acknowledged her request right away. “Bali Way . . . Got it. We’re headed for the marina now. We’ll tie up to the guest dock. Our boat is blue over white with a Bimini top and two outboards. Don’t forget your sunscreen.”

  Lee couldn’t help but smile. “Roger that.”

  “The suspect pulled into the marina’s parking lot,” Prospo announced. “Now he’s getting out. He’s holding a folder in his hand and he’s headed for the basin on the north side of Bali.”

  “Tail him,” Lee instructed. “And give us a description of the boat he gets into. We’ll go straight to the visitor’s dock. After we leave, secure the pickup truck and have it dusted for prints.” Prospo clicked his mike twice.

  Lee and Yanty got out of the sedan, locked it, and made for the water. It was a short walk, and Lee resisted the temptation to hurry. She could see Prospo up ahead and the suspect in the distance. It looked as though all of them were headed for the visitor’s dock. Well, there was nothing wrong with that since boats were coming and going.

  As the suspect walked down a metal ramp, Lee spotted the same launch ABCO’s courier had used before. It was tied to the floating dock, and she could hear the burbling sound that its engines made. Meanwhile, off to the right, the unmarked police boat was visible. A man wearing a ball cap, tee shirt, and board shorts was busy fiddling with a mooring line. An act that put him on the dock where he could cast off quickly.

  A young woman was standing in the boat’s stern. She had black hair, a trim body, and was dressed in a modest two-piece bathing suit. Lee, on the other hand, was wearing a tee, jacket, and jeans. None of which were a fit with the situation. She waved and the woman waved back.

  As Lee stepped onto the dock, she felt it heave as the wake from a cabin cruiser hit it. The man straightened and turned to greet them. He had blue eyes, even features, and a deep tan. There were crinkle lines around his eyes. “Cassandra! Dick! It’s good to see you! Are you ready for a spin?”

  Lee said that she was and allowed herself to be shown aboard the speedboat. “This is officer Carrie Soko,” Dexter said. “She’s ex–coast guard and a sharp cookie. Soko, meet Detectives Lee and Yanty.”

  Soko had Eurasian features and a no-nonsense demeanor. “It’s a pleasure,” she said. “Can both of you swim?”

  Both detectives indicated that they could. “Good,” Soko said. “The life jackets are located in the bins on both sides of the boat. The seat that runs across the stern is an arms locker. Should the shit hit the fan, lift the lid in order to access four assault rifles and two shotguns. All of them are loaded and ready for use. Do you have any questions?”

  The detectives shook their heads. Dexter grinned. “Welcome aboard.”

  Lee’s radio crackled. “You saw the launch?”

  “I did.”

  “Excellent. It’s pulling away. Good hunting.”

  “You heard the man,” Lee said. “Let’s follow them . . . But hang back. Do you have video from the drone?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Soko said, as she took her place behind the wheel and pointed to a screen.

  “Good,” Lee replied. “Get Air Services on the horn, tell them which boat to follow, and let the bird lead the way.”

  Dexter had freed the boat by then and had just stepped aboard when Soko applied power and put the wheel over. Lee felt the bow come up a few seconds later and saw waves roll away from the hull as the boat cut through the water. Now, with Soko handling communications, Lee had time to appreciate the view.

  The water was blue and sparkled with reflected sunlight. Boats of every possible description were crisscrossing the harbor. Some, like the police boat, were pounding through the waves. Not the sailboats though . . . They seemed to glide through the water as if speed was unimportant and the process was paramount.

  Beyond the boats, high-rise towers stood by themselves or in clusters. Most were intact, but some had been damaged during the shelling. Lee was reminded of the building that she lived in, and of Kane, who would enjoy being on the water. Dexter forced her thoughts back to the problem at hand. “It looks like we’re headed out to sea,” he observed.

  Lee frowned. “Out to sea? That’s strange.”

  “Maybe the launch is going to meet up with a larger boat,” Dexter suggested.

  But that didn’t happen. Instead, the launch made a gradual turn to the south. And as the trip wore on, they passed El Segundo on the left, followed by a string of beach towns, and the Palos Verdes Peninsula. Consistent with her orders, Soko was staying well back—and using the drone to maintain visual contact with ABCO’s launch. Could the suspects see the RPV? Maybe . . . But that was unlikely since it was only three feet long and would look like a dot from below.

  Lee was sitting on top of the arms locker when Dexter came back to join her. “We’re entering the Long Beach Police Department’s turf now . . . I need to let them know that we’re in the hood.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “But don’t provide any more information than you have to. A leak could blow the whole operation.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Dexter promised. “But we’ve got to cover our butts. If we don’t, and the LBPD’s chief places a call to Corso, the shit will begin to flow. And you know who lives at the bottom of the hill.”

  Lee laughed. “Roger that . . . Do what you gotta do.”

  Yanty had been on his cell phone. “This just in,” he said. “Prospo talked the folks in the Latent Prints Unit into giving him a preliminary on the pickup. There aren’t any prints on the handles, the wheel, and the dash.”

  “It figures,” Lee replied. “These people are consistent if nothing else.”

  They were passing Terminal Island as Dexter came back to the stern. “The LBPD gave us the green light—and I think I know where the launch is headed.”

  “Where?”

  “The THUMS islands. They’re straight ahead.”

  “THUMS islands? I’ve never heard of them.”

  “They’re artificial islands that were constructed back in 1965,” Dexter explained. “The name stems from a group of oil companies that came together to exploit the East Wilmington Oil Field. The consortium consisted of Texaco, Humble Oil, Union Oil, Mobile Oil, and Shell Oil. That’s where the THUMS name came from. But pumping operations were suspended when the wells ceased to be profitable.”

  “So the islands are deserted?”
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br />   “Yes, and no,” Dexter replied. “A millionaire converted one into a private retreat, a research facility is located on the second, a caretaker lives on the third, and there are lots of seagulls on the fourth.”

  Lee felt a rising sense of excitement. An island, especially one so close to the mainland, would offer ABCO plenty of privacy plus access to organizations like TransLabs. And there was another factor as well. A fast boat could leave the Costa de Playas south of San Diego and arrive off Long Beach in what? Two hours? Something like that.

  Yes, the launch would have to evade the coast guard, but drug dealers did it . . . So others could as well. And if authorities stopped the boat, what would they find? No illicit cargo . . . Just a crew of mutants who claimed to be lost. That gave ABCO a good way to get patients in and out of the country.

  But why dump a body behind St. Patrick’s Church when they could drop it into the bay with a cinder block wired to its ankles? Because the doctor was Catholic, that’s why . . . And wanted the body to be buried in the sacred ground of a Catholic cemetery.

  That suggested an organization that was something more than a purely criminal enterprise. Or a criminal enterprise which, due to one or more of the personalities who ran it, was a bit quirky. “I think you’re onto something,” Lee said, as the boat broke through a roller and sent spray flying sideways. “We’ll know shortly.”

  Lee’s words proved to be prophetic. Soko delivered the news ten minutes later. She had to shout to be heard. “They’re headed straight for the dock on White Island!”

  Lee went forward to look at the screen. The drone was high, so the launch looked small but recognizable nevertheless. Yanty joined her as the boat slowed and came alongside the dock. Some nondescript buildings and a cluster of old storage tanks could be seen, along with a scattering of mature palm trees. In order to see more details, the drone would have to lose altitude, which would make the RPV easier to spot.

  “Okay,” Lee said. “Mission accomplished. We’ll work with the LBPD to set up a raid. In the meantime, tell Air Services that they can have their bird back—and to preserve the video for use in court.”