Codicil pressed the intercom button and spoke his name into the grill. The camera mounted above his head whirred, moved fractionally, and stopped. Codicil heard a click and pulled the door open. A narrow flight of stairs led up to the second floor, where another door stood slightly ajar. It was equipped with a waist-high gun port. Codicil pushed the door open and was shocked to see the head-high piles of junk that filled most of the room. It appeared that Keyes was a hoarder, and that didn’t bode well. The lawyer’s spirits fell accordingly. “Mr. Keyes?” he called out. “Can I come in?”
“I’m up front,” a voice replied. “Follow the trail.”
Codicil did as he was told and soon found himself face-to-face with Ebert Keyes. The computer expert had a head of untamed hair, a bushy beard, and was seated in a powered wheelchair. “Please excuse me if I don’t get up,” Keyes said, and as Codicil went forward to shake hands, he sensed that the line had been used thousands of times before. It was an icebreaker of sorts . . . A way for Keyes to acknowledge his missing legs and put strangers at ease.
“Sorry about the mess,” Keyes said, as they shook hands. “My maid took the day off. There’s a chair under that pizza box . . . Take a load off.”
Codicil put the empty box aside and sat down. “It’s a pleasure,” he lied. “Cassandra thinks highly of you.”
“And I think highly of her,” Keyes replied.
Codicil thought he detected a subtle change in Keyes’s expression at that point. A softening, a wistfulness perhaps, and that led to a flash of intuition. Keyes had a crush on Lee! The kind of hopeless love described in romance novels. And that, Codicil decided, is why Keyes agreed to work on this project. For the money, yes, but to please Lee as well. Even if that means giving her to someone else.
“So,” Codicil said, “you have a lead for me? That would be wonderful.”
“Yes,” Keyes replied. “I do. Come over and take a look at this.”
Codicil stood and went over to look at a large computer screen. “As you know, the dead guy’s name is Deon Eddy,” Keyes said. “Or D-Eddy to his homies. And within twenty-four hours of his death, a memorial page appeared on the Todos Nosotros (All of Us) social-media site.”
Codicil watched a photo of a young man appear. The subject was posed with his head back, staring down his nose at the camera, and holding a pistol. Could it be the pistol? The one Eddy had used to fire at Kane? And was subsequently removed from the crime scene? Yes, it could . . . And even if it wasn’t, Codicil could use the picture to prove that D-Eddy was the kind of person who liked guns and might carry one. Did he have a permit? Codicil would check but figured the answer would be no. “This is a very important find,” Codicil said. “Well done.”
“Checking for a memorial page was Cassandra’s idea,” Keyes replied modestly. “But there’s more. Look at the list of people who ‘liked’ the page and/or posted a comment on it. There are twenty-six altogether—and how much you wanna bet that one of them was with D-Eddy on the street that night?”
“But most of the people who posted are using handles,” Codicil objected. “Is there some way to figure out who they are?”
“Been there, done that,” Keyes said proudly. “I ran a search on each handle and that turned up thousands of messages, postings, and mentions. As a result, I collected bits and pieces of information on all but seven of the people on the list.
“Take Tufenuf for example . . . I found a posting in which he mentioned a certain high school. Then I used facial-recognition software to scan that school’s online yearbooks and came up with a photo that was a 92.2 percent match with Tufenuf’s profile picture on Todos Nosotros. Once I had his real name, it was relatively easy to dig up more stuff, including his mother’s address.”
“That’s terrific!” Codicil said enthusiastically. “Well done! How ’bout the missing girl? Have you had any luck there?”
“Not so far,” Keyes admitted. “But I’m working on it.”
“Good,” Codicil said, as he accepted a thumb drive with all of the data on it. “Please stay in touch.”
Keyes nodded. “Tell Cassandra that I said, ‘Hi.’”
“I will,” Codicil promised. “And, Ebert . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You the man.”
• • •
The raid was scheduled to begin at 4:00 A.M. But the participants were supposed to attend a briefing at 3:00 A.M. And, since it would take Lee forty-five minutes to get there, she had to get up at 1:15! A horrible prospect—and a personal challenge.
But having been late to work the day before, Lee was determined to arrive on time. Especially since another police department was involved. So she set two alarms. One located next to her bed and another on the far side of the room. They conspired to create a cacophony of noise, and it was necessary to roll out of bed to silence the clock on top of Kane’s dresser. With that accomplished she shuffled off to the bathroom.
Forty-five minutes later, Lee had her body armor on and was dressed for what would almost certainly be a cold boat ride. Three magazines for the Glock and two speed loaders for the Smith & Wesson went into her pockets, along with a tube of chapstick and a candy bar.
Then, with a fresh mug of coffee in hand, Lee made her way downstairs to where the creeper was parked. After performing a 360 on the car, she got in and checked her watch. She couldn’t go to Maria’s since that would be out of her way. But she could stop at a fast-food place before getting on 110 southbound. Intermittent flashes of light were visible off to the south. Was that lightning? Or a barrage of missiles aimed at Camp Pendleton? It was impossible to tell. It seemed that what Yanty referred to as “a three-way pissing match” was at a stalemate for the moment. Negotiations were ongoing, but so-called incidents were taking a steady toll of lives.
There wasn’t much traffic, and Lee made such good time that she arrived fifteen minutes early. A personal best. The LBPD’s Harbor Patrol unit was housed in a nondescript one-story building adjacent to the terminal’s southwest basin. Lee followed the signs into a small lot and parked the sedan in a slot marked VISITORS. Then, with her ID hanging around her neck, she went inside.
A reception counter sat opposite the door, and Lee could see two desks beyond it. Yanty was sitting in the tiny lobby and rose to greet her. He was dressed for the cold, and it was the first time she’d seen him in something other than a plaid sports coat. “Good morning,” he said. “How was the drive?”
“It was fine,” Lee replied. “The traffic was light.”
Yanty nodded, and Lee could tell that something was bothering him. But what? Before Lee could figure out a way to have a private conversation with him, a man with sandy-colored hair entered the room. He had a round face, the freshly scrubbed look of a scoutmaster, and his tac vest was one size too large. “Right on time!” he said cheerfully. “I like that . . . I’m Lieutenant Iffy. Come on back. We’ll brief this thing, run out to the island, and wrap it up.”
The officer behind the reception desk lifted a section of counter up and out of the way so that Lee and Yanty could enter the office beyond. From there they followed Iffy into a small meeting room. Four LBPD officers, all dressed in tac gear, were seated around a table. “This is Detective Lee,” Iffy told them, “and Detective Yanty. They’re going to accompany us as observers.
“Detective Lee, Detective Yanty, please allow me to introduce my team.” Iffy pointed a stubby finger at each person as he named them. “That’s Toomey, that’s Beck, that’s Garcia, and that’s Perkins.”
Lee plastered a smile on her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you guys!” Then, to Iffy, “Is this the entire team?”
“Of course it is,” Iffy replied confidently. “How many people will we need to arrest some doctors and nurses? This isn’t Los Angeles, you know . . . We don’t turn every bust into a movie. Besides,” he continued, “we’ve had the island under surveillanc
e, and the place is practically deserted.”
By then Lee knew why Yanty looked concerned. Maybe the raid would be as easy as Iffy said it would be. But what if it wasn’t? His little team would be in deep shit, that’s what. Lee scanned their faces in an attempt to pick up on what the LBPD officers were thinking. But they had their game faces on and she couldn’t tell if they agreed with Iffy or not.
Lee and Yanty were invited to sit down and watch the briefing. It included aerial shots of the island and a look at the way the structures had been laid out before the pumps stopped. The plan was simple: Land and clear what Iffy considered to be the tertiary and secondary structures before tackling the administrative buildings. “That’s where the surgical suite will be located,” Iffy predicted, “and that’s where we’ll find most of the evidence.
“Once the island has been secured,” he continued, “I’ll call for the Scientific Investigation Division to come out and process the place. The press conference is scheduled for 3:00 P.M. in front of the admin building. That will give the TV crews plenty of time to make the five o’clock news.”
“TV crews?” Yanty inquired. “Isn’t that a bit premature? What if we come up empty?”
“Don’t be silly,” Iffy responded. “We know the bad guys are there because Detective Lee says they are.” The comment was delivered with a shit-eating grin.
So there you have it, Lee told herself. If the raid is a success, the LBPD looks brilliant . . . And if it fails, the LAPD looks stupid. Lovely.
“I thought you weren’t into movies,” she said out loud.
Iffy’s face clouded over. He wasn’t used to negative feedback, and it showed. “Just do what you’re told, Detective Lee . . . And everything will be fine.”
“Good luck with that,” Yanty said under his breath, but Iffy didn’t hear him. He was busy lecturing the LBPD team on the importance of good communications.
After a quick break the team left the building through a back entrance. The air was cold, damp, and heavy with sea scent. The airborne moisture created halos around the streetlights as Iffy split the team in two and sent them into the RIB boats that were waiting at the dock.
Lee followed Toomey down a steep ramp to the floating platform, where she was ordered to board the first inflatable and don a life jacket. That plus three layers of clothes and her body armor made it difficult to move. Yanty waved as he stepped into boat two.
Given how large the boats were, the entire team could have ridden in one of them. But it made sense to take two so that one boat could assist the other if that was necessary.
Once the passengers were seated, an order was given, lines were cast off, and the officer positioned behind the RIB boat’s stand-up control station applied power. The twin outboards roared enthusiastically, and it wasn’t long before both inflatables were flying over the surface of the water, throwing sheets of spray to port and starboard. Once they left the basin for the rougher waters of the bay, the hulls began to bounce as they hit a steady succession of incoming waves.
Much to Lee’s surprise, she discovered that she was having a good time. The combination of speed, adrenaline, and the cold air made for a heady mix as the two boats raced through the early-morning darkness. Off to the port, she could see the glittering lights of Long Beach. They looked like multicolored jewels scattered across black velvet. Thousands of people were still asleep and unaware of the drama about to unfold nearby.
Just the slightest hint of dawn could be seen off to the east as the island’s low-lying bulk appeared up ahead. A flashing light marked the top of the highest tank on the island, and as the boat drew closer, Lee could make out what might have been some illuminated windows.
But there were no signs of activity, and it looked as though the bad guys were still in bed. Assuming there were some. What if she was wrong? What if the island was deserted? No, Lee told herself, you watched the courier go there with your own eyes. Don’t be silly.
Both boats slowed as they neared land and wallowed as waves slapped their sides from the west. Lieutenant Iffy stood with his rifle at the ready as Lee’s boat crept in next to a floating dock. There weren’t any sentries.
Lee had been told to wait until the team was ashore before leaving the boat. So once they were gone, she stepped up and onto the dock where Yanty stood waiting for her. They took off after the team, which had already cleared the boathouse and was following an access road toward the center of the island.
Gravel crunched under Lee’s boots, and she could hear the sound of Yanty’s labored breathing as the team entered a pool of light. That was when the crack of a rifle shot was heard. Another followed, and two officers fell.
Lee swore as she ran faster. A sniper! Or two snipers . . . And as two members of the team fired blindly, the others were trying to tow the casualties out of the killing zone.
Lee heard another shot but ignored it as she and Yanty arrived to help with the evacuation. “Over there!” Lee shouted, as she pointed to a small building. “Behind the shed!”
After securing a grip on a victim’s tac vest, and with assistance from Perkins, Lee dragged a casualty in behind the shack. Then she dropped to one knee, ready to apply first aid. That was when she saw who the officer was. A large chunk of Iffy’s skull was missing, and he was dead.
Lee said, “Shit, shit, shit,” as she took Iffy’s radio and keyed the mike. “This is Detective Lee with Team White. We have two, repeat two officers down, and are taking fire from an unknown number of suspects. Officer requires assistance. Get some reinforcements out here as quickly as you can.”
Lee paused as the dispatcher acknowledged the call. She looked at Toomey, who was crouched a few feet away. “How’s the other casualty?”
“Beck got hit in the leg,” Toomey replied. “But he’ll make it.”
“Stop the bleeding, and take charge of communications,” Lee ordered. “Yanty, take Perkins. Garcia, you’re with me.”
One or more of the LBPD officers could have objected to her instructions but none did. Garcia stared at her. “What are we going to do?”
“We’ll circle right,” Lee replied, “and flank the shooter. Yanty, open fire on that son of a bitch . . . Keep him busy.”
Yanty had taken possession of Beck’s shotgun by then and stepped out from behind the shed to fire a blast in the general direction of where the rifle fire had originated. The twelve-gauge was the wrong weapon for the purpose, but that didn’t matter. The goal was to engage the sniper, and it worked. Yanty barely had time to reach cover before a quick flurry of shots smacked into the east side of the shack.
Confident that Yanty and Perkins would do their part, Lee took off running. Thanks to the maze of oil tanks, pumping stations, and clusters of pipe, there were plenty of places to take cover. Garcia stayed on her six while Lee pursued a zigzag course to the point where the sniper should be. And that was a huge oil tank.
More light was available by then, and Lee could see that the tank was crowned with a circular walkway. And sure enough . . . As Yanty and Perkins drew fire, Lee spotted a muzzle flash high above her. “I’ve got it,” Garcia said. “Give me a moment to set the shot.”
That was when Lee noticed that the LBPD officer was carrying a bolt-action sniper’s rifle—and realized that he was probably the best shot on the team. “Go for it,” Lee said. “I’ll provide security.”
And that was a necessity. There were bound to be more perps who, thanks to the sniper, had been given time to respond. And as Lee examined her surroundings, she spotted movement off to the right! It looked as if two or three men were trying to work their way over to the shed.
Lee had Iffy’s scope-mounted assault rifle and brought it up. If her calculations were correct, the men would have to pass through the open area between the point where a thick pipe disappeared into the ground. If so, she’d be ready. Seconds ticked by, a figure stepped into the gap, and her fin
ger tightened. The rifle butt kicked her shoulder three times, and the perp went down.
The next rifle shot was like an afterthought, and Lee heard Garcia say, “Got him.”
“Good work,” Lee responded, as she spoke into Iffy’s radio. “Hey, Perkins . . . Alvarez nailed the sniper—but keep your head on a swivel. Some bozos are trying to flank you. I shot one of them, but more could be headed your way.”
Perkins said, “Roger that. We’ll work our way forward.”
“What now?” Garcia wanted to know. Having smoked the sniper, he was raring to go.
“Do you have any flash bangs?”
“Affirmative. Two.”
“Okay. Give me one of them. On the count of three we’ll throw, close our eyes, and go after the guys on the right.”
Alvarez gave her a grenade and prepped one of his own. Meanwhile, over to the left, a firefight was under way. A sure sign that Yanty and Perkins were duking it out with someone.
Lee said, “One, two, three,” and both flash bangs flew through the air. They landed, bounced, and went off with what sounded like a single bang. The successive flashes were so bright that Lee could see light through her eyelids. Then the team was off and running full speed for the spot where the body was. But when they arrived, there was no one to shoot at. And the man who’d been shot was not only alive but crawling away.
Garcia went forward to secure him, and administer some crude first aid, as a helicopter swept in over the island. There was plenty of light by then, and Lee watched as the LBPD SWAT team slid down a rope like beads on a string. The cavalry had arrived—and they were just west of the administration building. Lee figured that more law-enforcement people would show up shortly because everyone with a badge comes a-running when they hear the words “shots fired” or “officer down” on their radio.
Lee brought Iffy’s radio up to her lips. “This is LAPD Detective Lee . . . Can anyone on the LBPD SWAT team read me? Over.”
Graveyard Page 13
