Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  “You have quite a record,” a male voice said, and Lee turned to find that Silverman was standing behind her. It seemed that he could move very quietly. Silverman had a high forehead, wispy blond hair, and a sailor’s ruddy complexion.

  Rather than a business suit, he was dressed in a polo shirt, khaki pants, and rubber-soled deck shoes. He extended a hand. “My friends call me Syd. What do you go by? Cassandra? Or Cassie?”

  Lee could feel the man’s strength as they shook hands. “I go by Detective Lee,” she said. “Thanks for agreeing to see me during your lunch hour.”

  Silverman laughed as he circled the table and sat down. A woman in a gray uniform had appeared and was serving his salad. “A no-nonsense straight-shooting cop. I like it. So Detective Lee, what can I do for you?”

  Lee turned the recorder on. “Please be aware that I am recording our conversation and whatever you say could be used against you in a court of law. I am the lead detective on a team that’s looking into what may be an illegal agreement between Mayor Getty and you.”

  Silverman looked surprised. “Me? You must be joking.”

  “No,” Lee said levelly. “I am not joking. It’s a known fact that you are one of the Constitution Party’s largest contributors. And we have evidence that you made use of your influence to get Mayor Getty elected even though she was running against your party’s candidate.”

  Silverman had yet to touch his salad. His face was flushed, and there was anger in his eyes. “There’s nothing illegal about backing a candidate I believe in regardless of my party affiliation.”

  “True,” Lee agreed. “But if you and your party agreed to put forward a weak candidate in return for a political favor, like support for the Oceana project, that would be illegal.”

  Lee saw what might have been the first signs of concern in Silverman’s eyes. And as Facey materialized at Silverman’s side, Lee knew that the woman had been summoned somehow. “Excuse me,” Facey said. “But as Mr. Silverman’s attorney I would like to take part in this conversation.”

  So Facey was more than Silverman’s assistant. Lee nodded. “Suit yourself.”

  Facey turned to look at Silverman. He shrugged. “Detective Lee claims that my support for Mayor Getty was part of a deal to obtain support for the Oceana project.”

  “I see,” Facey said as she switched her gaze to Lee. “And you have what you consider to be evidence that will support such a charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is that evidence?”

  “I can’t comment on that at this time,” Lee replied.

  “Do you intend to arrest Mr. Silverman?”

  “Not today, no.”

  “Then what is the purpose of your visit?”

  The purpose of her visit was to scare the shit out of Silverman, start what might turn into a rat stampede, and wait to see what would happen. Hopefully, someone would come forward and agree to testify as to the veracity of Maxim’s tapes. But Lee couldn’t say that. “It was my hope that Mr. Silverman would confess,” Lee said expressionlessly.

  Silverman produced an explosive laugh. “You are an idiot! I’ll have you fired.”

  “You can try,” Lee said calmly. “And if you succeed, that will prove the extent of your influence over the mayor.”

  “This has gone far enough,” Facey said sternly. “Turn the recorder off and leave.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lee said as she removed the device from the tabletop. “Have a nice day.”

  And with that, she stood, turned, and left the office. Her heart was racing, her hands were sweaty, and she felt light-headed. The shit was in the air and about to hit the fan.

  • • •

  Keyes was sitting in his apartment, staring at a clip on Flitvid and eating a slice of lukewarm pizza when he saw the woman. He’d been forced to wade through sixty-two videos across three different platforms so far . . . And all of them had been made within minutes of the shooting and within a block of the spot where the incident had taken place. But this was the first upload that had been captured by a sparrow-sized fly cam—and the first that included a shot of the woman.

  The fly cam’s pilot was male and, judging from the voice-over, had been trapped in the same traffic jam Kane was in. “We took the RV because we can live in it if we have to,” the man said. “But it’s hard to maneuver in the city. I told Doris to kill the engine. It’s stupid to waste fuel, especially when it could be difficult to get more.

  “Anyway, I launched the fly cam in order to see what’s up ahead, and the answer is more traffic. Pedestrians are moving faster than we are. Uh-oh! This looks like trouble . . . Two yahoos grabbed a girl. Wait a minute . . . Here comes a guy to help. I don’t know if I can get through, but I’ll call the . . .”

  At that point, the video dumped to black. Had the operator flown the cam into the side of the building? Or? There was no way to know.

  But Keyes didn’t care. The pizza was forgotten as he went back to still-frame the girl. Then he opened an editing app, which he used to make the image larger. There was a limit to how far he could go, and once it went fuzzy, Keyes had to back off.

  The result was a photo of a young woman with shoulder-length hair and a frown on her face. That was interesting since most people would look frightened. Keyes caused the virtual camera to zoom out. Elias Jarvis, AKA Tufenuf, was clearly visible and standing immediately behind the woman with an arm around her throat. Codicil would love that . . . And might be able to use it for leverage. And the dead man was there, too, with his profile to the camera.

  All of which was good but not good enough. He had a picture of the woman’s face but no name. How to get one? Keyes leaned back in his chair and reached for the pizza. The slice was cold, but Keyes didn’t notice. He was chewing when the answer occurred to him. What he needed was help from someone with a humungous computer. But could he secure it? Keyes dialed a number.

  • • •

  After meeting with Silverman, Lee returned to work and went to visit Jenkins. He listened to the recording with obvious interest and shook his head when it ended. “Damn, girl, you know how to light a fire! My phone will start to ring soon.”

  Lee nodded. “Buy some fireproof boxers, boss . . . You’re gonna need ’em.”

  After that, Lee turned her attention to something she’d been wanting to do for days—namely to talk with the Aztec soldier named Roberto Camacho. The man who, along with members of his squad, had strayed into some sort of underground complex down in south LA and run into what sounded like a lunatic. After making some calls, Lee learned that Camacho had been released from the hospital and transferred to a holding facility at Camp Pendleton. Two additional calls were necessary to set up an interview for later that afternoon.

  Prospo was available, so Lee invited him to come. Together, they drove south through Fullerton, Anaheim, and Mission Viejo to Oceanside and the entrance to the Marine Corps base. It was about four o’clock by the time they arrived, the cloud cover had broken, and the air was humid. Evidence of the recent missile attacks could be seen in the area along with early efforts to make repairs. Lee saw lots of shell craters, burned-out buildings, and clusters of white crosses marking the spots where civilians had been killed.

  Thanks to the arrangements made earlier, the marines on the gate were expecting the detectives. After examining both sets of ID, a corporal sent them east on Wire Mountain Road with instructions to turn left on Ash Road, and to watch for the POW holding facility on the right.

  As Lee turned onto Ash, a column of combat-ready marines jogged past, headed in the opposite direction. A noncom was running backward next to them, shouting words she couldn’t make out, but could guess at. Quigley came to mind for some reason.

  There were all sorts of neatly kept buildings on the right and left, but they began to thin out after a while. Then, after a mile or so, Lee spotted the camp.
It was on the right behind a tall cyclone fence topped with razor wire. And it wasn’t a building so much as a two-story-tall metal framework with guard towers at each corner.

  Lee was forced to pause and show ID at a gate. “Thank you, ma’am,” a sergeant said as he handed the case back. “Don’t forget to wear masks inside the wire. All of the prisoners are BN positive.”

  Lee thanked him, followed the signs to the visitors’ parking lot, and put a mask on. Prospo did likewise. A lieutenant in crisp camos was waiting for them in front of the inner gate. Her face was invisible behind one of the leering skeleton masks that the marines favored. “Detective Lee? And Detective Prospo? My name is Lieutenant Anders—and I will accompany you during your visit. Are you armed?”

  “Yes,” Lee replied.

  “Right,” Anders said. “Please give your weapons to Private Murphy. He’ll return them when you leave.”

  Murphy was stationed at a small kiosk just inside the gate. His eyes widened as Lee gave him two pistols. “She usually carries three,” Prospo told the soldier, as he surrendered his Glock. “But she’s traveling light today.” Murphy nodded as if that made perfect sense.

  Anders led them up a flight of stairs. And that was when Lee got a look at how the temporary prison had been thrown together. It consisted of a muddy pit where hundreds of mutants were standing around, sitting at concrete tables, or trying to sleep in tiers of tarp-draped bunks. Judging from the huge inlet pipes, the pit could be flooded if necessary, thereby forcing the prisoners to swim. It would be very difficult to riot and swim at the same time. And if some of the ’tecs didn’t know how to swim? Too bad.

  Twenty feet above the basin, a latticework of catwalks allowed the guards to patrol back and forth while looking down at the POWs twenty-four hours a day. Metal clanked as Anders led the detectives out to a platform at the center of the matrix. Lee heard wolf whistles from below and realized that the prisoners could see Anders and her for that matter. There were lots of obscene requests—but Lee had heard all of it before.

  Once they arrived on the center platform, Lee saw that a light-duty crane was located above an open hole so that a cable could be dropped into the pit below. “Once we call a prisoner’s name over the PA system,” Anders explained, “they come over to the lift on the double. Then we pull them up.”

  Lee’s eyebrows rose. “And if they refuse to obey?”

  “Then we activate the bracelet that each prisoner wears,” Anders replied matter-of-factly. “The pain is quite intense, and most of them change their minds in a hurry.”

  Lee was still thinking about that as a motor whirred, and Roberto Camacho was hoisted up from below. He was wearing a mask that had a big smile printed on it and was sitting on what looked like a swing seat. His clothes appeared to be damp, and there was mud on his boots. A guard pulled the mutant over away from the hole, and when Camacho stood, Lee could tell that most of his weight was on his left leg. After a pat down, one of the marines gave Camacho an unnecessary shove. The mutant stumbled, found his balance, and stood at something like attention. “I’ll take it from here,” Lee said to the guard. Then she turned to the prisoner. “Hablas Ingles?”

  There was a nictitating membrane over Camacho’s eyes. It opened and closed. “No.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “Hablaremos Español.” (We’ll speak Spanish.) “My name is Detective Lee—and this is Detective Prospo. Let me begin by saying that I’m going to record this conversation. You aren’t in trouble, and nothing you say will be held against you. We are looking for a murderer, a normale, and based on what you told police earlier, there’s a possibility that you can help us. Do you understand?”

  Camacho nodded. “Si.”

  Lee gestured to a plastic chair. “Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

  After Camacho sat down, he stuck the injured leg straight out in front of him. “A soft drink . . . A cold soft drink. Por favor.”

  Lee turned to Anders and switched to English. “Could you send for a cold soft drink, please?” Anders said she could and turned away.

  “The drink is coming,” Lee told Camacho. “While we’re waiting, please tell Detective Prospo and me about the invasion. How did you arrive? By boat?”

  No, Camacho told them. He and the rest of his squad were members of the elite Battalon de Aguilas (Battalion of Eagles), which had been brought in on transport planes shortly after the naval attack. He and his companeros had jumped when they were ordered to do so. Unfortunately, half the squad landed in a cemetery. At that point, Sergeant Alvarez attempted to lead them out. But they hadn’t gone far when the ground gave way under Ruiz’s weight and dumped him into a tunnel. The paratroopers assumed they had stumbled into a hidden military installation—and Sergeant Alvarez ordered them to explore it.

  Camacho paused to accept an ice-cold can of 7-UP—and drank at least half of it in a series of gulps. The narrative continued after a prodigious belch.

  Once inside the tunnel complex, it quickly became apparent that it was home to a maniac rather than soldiers. After Ruiz and Lopez were killed, Camacho ran back to the cave-in and managed to climb out. He looked down at his boots at that point and his voice dropped an octave. “Dejé el sargento detrás y me arrepiento de eso.” (I left the sergeant behind and I regret that.)

  “You did what you had to,” Lee lied. “What happened next?”

  After climbing up onto solid ground, Camacho went south, hoping to connect with other Aztec soldiers. But, while passing through a backyard, someone shot him from a window. The bullet hit his leg, and he collapsed. Though still under fire, Camacho dragged himself out into an alley, applied compresses to both wounds, and struggled to his feet. Then he went looking for a place to hide. The gringos found him two days later.

  Once the narrative was complete, Lee and Prospo took turns asking follow-up questions. How many people lived in the tunnels? Did he see the maniac? Had he been exaggerating about a room with bones in it? Unfortunately, when the interview was over, Lee didn’t know much more than she had to begin with. And that was that some sort of weirdo was living under a graveyard in Compton.

  Still, that was important, and what if? What if the weirdo was the Bonebreaker? That would be a big deal. There were no guarantees, of course . . . But Lee was more hopeful than she had been in years. She thanked Camacho and told him that according to what she’d heard, prisoner exchanges were going to take place soon. With any luck, he’d be going home soon.

  Anders led the detectives back to the gate, where Murphy returned their weapons. Then it was back to the car and the trip home. “Well?” Prospo said, as Lee pulled onto the freeway. “What do you think?”

  “I think we’re onto something,” Lee replied. “And it’s about time.”

  NINE

  IT WAS EARLY Saturday morning, and the air was still cold, which meant that very few golfers were on the course. The Riviera Country Club dated back to 1927—and had always been a favorite among LA’s elite. That included the foursome made up of real-estate mogul Syd Silverman, his attorney Veronica Facey, Mayor Melissa Getty, and her husband, Dr. Mark Holby. They had just finished playing the first hole, and were about to tackle the second. The notoriously difficult par four was subject to sudden breezes. And players were required to make a straight tee shot to a fairway that was flanked by trees and a driving range.

  Although such things were of great importance to Getty’s husband, the mayor didn’t care. She was there to talk with Silverman. Something that would be dangerous to do on the phone—and was sure to be noticed if they met downtown. In order to facilitate communication, Getty was riding with Silverman and Holby with Facey. “All right, Syd,” Getty said, as the cart came to a stop. “Why am I wasting a perfectly good morning playing golf?”

  “The fresh air will do you good,” Silverman replied. “And golf is never a waste of time! But yes, there is something we need to disc
uss. A detective named Cassandra Lee came to see me yesterday.”

  Even though Getty didn’t like to play golf, she knew how, and took an iron out of the two-thousand-nu golf bag that Holby had given her for Christmas. “Lee came to see you? Whatever for?”

  “So you know her,” Silverman said, as they walked toward the green.

  “Of course I know her,” Getty replied. “Her name is probably more recognizable to the public than mine is . . . She’s a loose cannon—but good at what she does.”

  What Getty didn’t say was that she owed her life to Lee—and the policemen who had gone into Hawthorne to rescue her. Fortunately, the press had been so busy reporting on the Aztec invasion that the rescue mission had gone largely unnoticed. And no mention had been made of Maxim, thank God. “So Lee’s competent,” Silverman said as he placed his ball on a tee. “I’m sorry to hear that since she’s trying to send us to jail.”

  Getty frowned. “Jail? What are you talking about?”

  “Lee claims that I used my influence with the Constitution party to put a weak candidate forward,” Silverman replied. “A man you could beat without breaking a sweat. Then, according to Lee, you repaid the favor by supporting the Oceana project.”

  Getty was momentarily speechless. Both of them knew the allegation was true. But how did Lee know? And who was behind the investigation? Lee couldn’t launch such an effort by herself. Corso! It had to be Corso. The bastard had something . . . Evidence of some sort. Either that, or he was trolling for evidence. And he was planning to run!

  All of that flashed through Getty’s mind in an instant. Her heart was beating faster, and she felt slightly light-headed. But she’d learned any number of things from Senator Dealy, and one of his favorite sayings came to mind: “Never let them see you sweat.”