Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  Lee killed the radio as she entered Chinatown and went looking for Chet’s Pizzeria. Much to her amazement, it was open, and Keyes was correct. There was such a thing as a breakfast pizza. After waiting for the pizza, Lee reparked her car in a tow-away zone, confident that the local traffic officers wouldn’t have the creeper towed.

  Then it was time to buzz in and make the long climb up to the second floor. The door to Keyes’s apartment was ajar, so Lee went inside, and followed the winding path to the open area up front. Some early-morning light was leaking in through the filthy windows. “That smells wonderful,” Keyes said, as Lee placed the cardboard box on the table in front of him. He was reaching for it when she snatched the pizza back. “Not so fast . . . Tell me about the woman. Then you can abuse your body.”

  “Okay,” Keyes replied, “come over here.”

  Lee circled the table to look over his shoulder. Keyes preferred a keyboard to voice commands, and his blunt fingers seemed to dance across the keyboard. A photo appeared. “Here’s the mystery woman,” he said, as a picture of a young woman with shoulder-length hair popped onto the screen.

  Lee had heard about the photo from Codicil but hadn’t seen it and was struck by the look on the woman’s face. What was that anyway? Not fear . . . No, it was more like anger. Or so it seemed to Lee. “I gave this image to a friend of mine. He has access to an ACURON3000 supercomputer.”

  “Define ‘access.’”

  “He mops the floor in the climate-controlled room where the 3000 is located.”

  “He’s a hacker.”

  “Of course he’s a hacker . . . Why else would a guy with a masters in computer science spend his time mopping floors? But he doesn’t have access to any secret stuff. Nor does he want to. He uses the 3000 to work on a personal project that no one’s been willing to fund. That means everything you’re about to see is out on the net where anyone can access it if they know where to look. But that’s the problem . . . Without the 3000, and the correct software, you could search for years without finding these images. And even then, my friend only got three hits. Here’s the first one. Her name is Janice Olin.”

  Lee watched as the face of a teenaged girl appeared. “That’s what she looked like during her junior year of high school,” Keyes said. “And here’s a photo that was taken five years later.”

  The first image was replaced by another. Rather than one person, there were five. “The man in the middle is Rafael Corbon,” Keyes said. “He’s a Mexican, excuse me, Aztec drug dealer. And the others are or were members of his gang. It’s impossible to know who took the photo, but it wound up on the Internet. Look at the woman in the far right . . . The one with the submachine gun.”

  Lee watched as the woman’s face grew to fill the screen. Olin was wearing sunglasses but still recognizable. “You’re kidding . . . She’s a drug dealer?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Keyes replied. “I think she’s an undercover cop . . . A fed who worked her way into Corbon’s gang.”

  When Keyes said “fed,” Lee knew he meant an agent who worked for Pacifica’s federal government, since the United States government no longer existed. “And what do you base that theory on?” Lee wanted to know.

  “Based on this,” Keyes answered. “I told you there were three images. Which, by the way, is not very many. If you searched my name, you would come up with hundreds of images, and I’m a virtual recluse. That suggests that Olin is trying to maintain a low profile . . . Or someone is hard at work doing it for her. Here’s the money shot.”

  Another picture appeared on the screen. This time Lee found herself looking at two women with a male prisoner sandwiched in between them. Not Corbon but someone else. The caption under the photo read, “CID agents with alleged spy.” According to the date printed at the bottom, the picture had been taken thirteen months earlier. “Olin is on the left,” Lee observed.

  “Bingo,” Keyes replied, as he turned to reach for the pizza box. “And how much you wanna bet she was undercover the night that Kane shot D-Eddy?”

  “Which would explain why she didn’t come forward.”

  “Correct,” Keyes said, as he pulled a triangle of pizza off the pie. “And if she knows about Kane’s predicament, she doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Damn!” Lee exclaimed. “I’ve got to find her.”

  “Right,” Keyes replied through a mouthful of food. “You could call up the CID and ask.”

  “And they would tell me to screw off.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why you’ll have to run her name through the LAPD’s databases. I’ll be surprised if you find Olin, but odds are that you’ll locate members of her family, and you can turn the screws down on them.”

  Lee frowned. “That would be illegal.”

  Keyes nodded. “Gotcha. So let your boyfriend rot.”

  Lee was facing him by then. “You’re a jerk. A talented jerk . . . But a jerk nonetheless.”

  Keyes smiled. “You’ll get my bill. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  • • •

  Keyes watched Lee leave. Even though Kane was rotting in the MDC, Keyes would have given anything to switch places with him. The lucky bastard.

  • • •

  All sorts of things were flitting through Lee’s mind as she drove to work. The fact that Keyes had been able to come up with the mystery woman’s identity was a major victory, so she should feel happy. Unfortunately, Lee was in a trap of her own making. Working on the Kane case was unethical, not to mention a clear violation of departmental policies. And using her powers as a police officer to troll police records would make the situation even worse.

  But what option did she have? The detective in charge of the case was a well-known plodder named Harmon Sloan. Could she talk to Sloan? And work through him somehow? Maybe, if forced to . . . But she barely knew the man. And once Lee approached him, there was a very real possibility that Sloan would turn her into Internal Affairs.

  That’s what Lee was thinking about as she paused to show her ID prior to parking in the lot outside the Street Services Garage. What with the Corso shooting, and the aftermath of Operation Mole Hole, police headquarters was even busier than usual. A number of people, including a patrol sergeant, congratulated Lee on the raid as she made her way down the main corridor. “Thanks,” Lee said. “How’s the chief? Have you heard anything?”

  “He’s out of surgery,” the sergeant told her. “And they say he’s stable.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Lee said, and went from there to Yanty’s desk. He was on the phone and held up a finger. “Okay, that sounds good,” Yanty said. “We’ll see you at eleven.”

  “That was Mary Solby with Criminalistics,” Yanty told Lee as he put the receiver down. “We’re meeting with her folks at eleven in Conference Room B. They’re going to brief us on the early findings from the cemetery and the Corso shooting.”

  “Good. Where’s Prospo?”

  Yanty grinned. “He heard about the chocolate-covered doughnuts in the break room. But when he isn’t eating, he’s working on a rough draft of the Mole Hole report.”

  “Bless his heart,” Lee said sincerely. “I’m way behind, and Jenkins wants us to focus on the Getty case. And that includes the Corso shooting.”

  Yanty nodded. “It’s been a long time since Corso arrested anyone . . . But I’m checking to see if one of the people he busted just got out of prison or something like that. Speaking of which, George Ma was charged with assault and battery six years ago . . . And it’s common knowledge that his organization plays for keeps. So he seems like a good place to start. In the meantime, the tech heads are scanning the chief’s e-mail for leads.”

  “Well done,” Lee said. “I’m supposed to meet with Jenkins now—but I’ll see you at eleven.”

  As Lee entered Jenkins’s office, she saw that he looked tired. Lee s
uspected that he’d been up for more than twenty-four hours by then. “Close the door behind you,” Jenkins instructed.

  Lee did so. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “Yeah, it is. Mayor Getty named Assistant Chief Yessum to serve as acting police chief until Corso recovers. I will announce the appointment at the presser.”

  “So Corso’s going to recover?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “No one knows for sure. But so long as there is a chance, it would be unseemly to replace him.”

  “That means we have some time.”

  “Not really,” Jenkins replied. “Yessum may be the acting chief, but he’s still in charge, and he’s tight with Getty.”

  “How tight?”

  “The mayor is godmother to Yessum’s son.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yup,” Jenkins said wearily. “So, it’s like I told you on the phone, get the shooter. And do it quickly.” The phone rang at that point. Jenkins looked at the readout and made a face. “I’ve got to take this, Cassandra . . . Keep me informed.”

  After leaving Jenkins, Lee returned to her desk, where she waded through some e-mails prior to getting a large coffee and making her way to Conference Room B. The crew from the Criminalistics Lab had arrived and were settling in.

  Mary Solby was in charge of the group, and Lee had done business with her before. Solby was thirtysomething, and her perfectly cut bangs ended at her eyebrows. She had big brown eyes, pink lipstick, and lots of tattoos. She smiled. “Good morning, Cassandra . . . You’re a busy lady these days. Have you met Mark and June? No? Well, Mark is with the field-investigation unit—and June is here on behalf of the firearms-analyis team. Mark, June, meet Detective Lee.”

  There were handshakes all around, and June Summers’s hand felt so fragile that Lee feared she might break it. “I know all about the weapons you carry,” the firearms expert said intently. “May I ask why you chose a Smith & Wesson 627 as a backup?”

  Lee thought Summers was putting her on at first. But the look in the other woman’s eyes said otherwise. “Revolvers don’t jam,” Lee answered. “And the 627 holds eight rounds. That’s two more than a regular .38. Oh, and it’s made of stainless steel, so I can take a bath with it.”

  Summers’s eyes were huge. “You do that?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  Solby laughed. “June is something of a workaholic—not to mention a fan girl.” Lee looked at Summers, who blushed.

  “Then there’s Mark,” Solby continued. “He’d rather be at the beach.”

  Rogers had bleached blond hair and a deep tan. He looked up from his phone. “Huh?”

  Yanty and Prospo entered the room at that point and, after some more introductions, the meeting got under way. Rogers delivered his report first, and in spite of his surfer-dude affect, clearly knew what he was talking about. He was careful to point out that only hours had passed since the raid, and investigators were still at the site, so the final reports weren’t ready.

  “But,” Rogers said, “I can offer you some early impressions. First, based on the trophies we found, it’s safe to say that the Bonebreaker lived there. We identified items belonging to all nine victims, including your father.”

  At that point, Rogers slid a printout across the table and Lee found herself looking at a photo of her father’s badge. A lump formed in her throat, but she managed to swallow it. “Good. Can we say as much to the press without fear of having to take it back later?”

  Rogers nodded. “Yes.”

  “Excellent. So what, if anything, did you find that would help us make an arrest?”

  Rogers made a face. “Nothing so far. And believe me, we’re on it. What we can tell you is that the Bonebreaker had a room full of carefully organized disguises, so it seems safe to assume that he’s wearing one.”

  “And we found a .22 caliber cleaning kit,” Summers put in. “Along with five boxes of ammo. But no weapon. Based on that we figure he’s carrying a .22. It could be a rifle, but a pistol seems more likely.”

  “There was a scrapbook, too,” Solby added, “filled with articles about you. So be careful.”

  “I will,” Lee promised. “Thank you for the readout. Please keep Detective Prospo informed regarding any new developments. My team continues to have responsibility for the Bonebreaker case—but we’ve been told to work the Corso shooting, too. What, if anything, do you have on that?”

  “It’s very early in the process,” Solby reminded them, “but by looking at the security footage, we were able to get a license-plate number off the car. It was stolen one day prior to the shooting. So it’s safe to say that the crime was premeditated.

  “Based on the hotel’s video, it appears that the suspect is either male, or a large woman. And the cowboy clothing appears to be new. That suggests a disguise and would seem to confirm premeditation. It’s also possible that the cowboy persona constitutes an attempt to manipulate the media. If so, it’s working because some reporters are referring to the perp as ‘the cowboy killer.’ And that’s in spite of the fact that the chief is alive. June has something to report as well.”

  Summers was so skinny, she reminded Lee of a bird. A jerky nod served to reinforce that impression. “The shooter’s weapon was a single-shot Contender pistol. If you aren’t familiar with them, Contenders can be fitted with a wide variety of barrels, including a .45 caliber tube. And that’s consistent with the slug that flattened itself against the chief’s vest.”

  “That’s weird,” Yanty put in. “You’re saying that the perp had to reload?”

  “Yes,” Summers replied. “And that makes the Contender a strange weapon to use for a hit. But I have a theory about that.”

  “Okay,” Lee acknowledged. “Give.”

  “Well,” Summers replied eagerly, “even though it’s easier to hunt game with a rifle, there are people who prefer to use pistols. They pride themselves on getting in close and scoring a kill with one bullet. Many of them own Contenders. Maybe the suspect is trying to mess with our heads or, and this is my theory, he’s the real deal. Meaning a hunter who owns a Contender and feels comfortable with it.”

  “That’s interesting,” Lee responded. “Especially since your theory runs counter to the possibility of a professional hit man.”

  “We should keep the double tap in mind however,” Solby put in. “One in the head and one in the chest. That’s the sign of a pro.”

  There was more, about half an hour’s worth, all of which served to provide the detectives with a base of information to work from. After the specialists departed, Lee held a follow-up meeting with Yanty and Prospo.

  She told the detectives about Yessum, his connection with Getty, and what that could mean for the investigation. “We’ve got to move quickly,” she said. “I think it safe to say that Silverman has spoken with Getty by now—and the others may be in the know as well.

  “So unless we get a lead on someone with a grudge, or a whacko with a Contender, we’re going to focus on Getty and her coconspirators. Let’s use the Corso attack to scare the crap out of them. Be sure to ask questions like why would someone shoot Corso? That kind of stuff. Maybe one of them will point a finger. We have four people to interview,” Lee continued. “If you have a preference, speak up.”

  “I want Ma,” Yanty said.

  “I’ll take Stryker,” Prospo put in.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to Moss,” Lee said. “We’ll worry about Jones later. Let’s get to work.”

  It was well past noon by that time, and Lee had a lot of administrative work to do, so she ate a sandwich at her desk. Time passed quickly, and suddenly it was time to attend the prepress-conference scrum.

  As Lee entered the conference room where the presser was scheduled to be held, she saw that Jenkins and Yessum were present, along with Molly from Public Affairs. She had a mop of brown hair, wide-set eyes, and a pointy chi
n. “Here you go,” Molly said as she gave Lee an outline. “Let me know if you have questions.”

  Jenkins turned to greet her. “Cassandra, have you been introduced to Chief Yessum? No? Well it’s about time. Chief, this is Detective Lee.”

  Even though Lee hadn’t met the man before, she certainly knew who he was. Up to that point, Yessum had been in charge of Operations—which was to say about ten thousand people across twenty-one police stations. That made him a heavy hitter and a natural for the top slot. So much so that the department’s critics would be hard-pressed to question the mayor’s choice.

  Yessum was shorter than Jenkins, built like a fireplug, and bald except for a halo of very short hair. Caterpillar-like eyebrows were perched over eyes separated by a fist-flattened nose. The latter was an important part of Yessum’s street-cop mystique. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Yessum said as he shook Lee’s hand. “Congratulations on finding the hole that bastard was living in. Here’s hoping we nail his ass soon.”

  Yessum could be charming, no doubt about that, and Lee found herself struggling to stay neutral as she allowed herself to smile. “Yes, sir . . . Nothing would please me more.”

  “Okay,” Jenkins said as he scanned the piece of paper in his hand. “Let’s go over the outline. I will update the press on Corso’s condition and take a few questions.”

  Jenkins looked up at Yessum. “Then I will announce the fact that you’re going to serve as chief until Corso recovers. Are you willing to answer questions?”

  Yessum shrugged. “Sure . . . Why not?”

  “Good,” Jenkins said. “Toss it to me when you want to break it off. I’ll make the announcement regarding Operation Mole Hole, and Lee will take a couple of questions. Once that’s over, Molly will shut the session down. Are both of you good with that?”

  Both of them were, and the subsequent press conference went smoothly for the most part, the only glitch being the moment when Lee’s TV nemesis Carla Zumin chose to ask a question. “Detective Lee,” Zumin began. “What do you have to say about your boyfriend’s upcoming murder trial? Will he get off?”