“Once inside, the Bonebreaker could open the trapdoor located nearby and lower his victim into the tunnel below. Maybe he left the vehicle to be towed, or maybe he took it somewhere, that isn’t clear yet. But a handcart was found in an alcove near the entry point and might have been used to move prisoners from the point below the trapdoor to the so-called lab area, where they were tortured and killed.”
Lee fought to suppress the images that the words conjured up and was glad when Prospo’s report came to an end. He made no mention of the journal, which was just as well since Alvin Soltis hadn’t had a chance to look at it yet.
When roll call was over, Lee returned to her desk to get the journal. Then, just as she was about to leave for the appointment with Soltis, her phone rang. “Detective Lee.”
“This is Carla,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Carla Zumin with Channel 7 News.”
Alarm bells went off in Lee’s head. Was Zumin recording the conversation? Possibly, so it was important to choose her words with care. “Good morning, Carla . . . What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about the Getty investigation,” Zumin replied. “I understand that you’re in charge of it. What can you tell me about the nature of the charges?”
The investigation hadn’t been made public. So how did Zumin know? The obvious answer was a leak. But who would do that? The question seemed to answer itself. Deputy Chief Jenkins, that’s who . . . By leaking the news, he was trying to make it more difficult for Getty to quash the investigation—and put additional pressure on the mayor. How much information had Zumin been given? Lee had no way to know but figured that the reporter was attempting to verify what she had and get more if possible. There was a pause as all of that flashed through Lee’s mind. “Are you still there?” Zumin inquired.
“Yes, I’m still here,” Lee responded. “I can neither confirm nor deny that such an investigation is under way.”
“Which, translated into real speak, means it’s true,” Zumin said confidently.
“I suggest that you call Molly in Public Affairs,” Lee said. “If there is an investigation, and if it’s public, she’ll know about it.”
“Sure,” Zumin said sarcastically, “I’ll get right on that. You’ll have to talk eventually, Cassandra, and when you do, remember that you owe me.”
“For what?”
“For watching you leave the MDC last night and keeping it off the air,” Zumin responded. Then she hung up. Lee swore and put the phone down. There had been lots of pressure to begin with. There would be even more now.
Since the Criminalistics Laboratory occupied rented space about a block away from the garage, it made sense to walk there. It was going to be a hot day, but the air was still cool, and Lee enjoyed the opportunity to get outside.
There was no sign on the storefront. Just an address. As Lee opened the door, she found herself in a dingy lobby so small, there was room for only two chairs and a tired plant. After showing her ID to the woman behind the counter, and signing a log, Lee had to wait. Soltis made his appearance a few minutes later.
The specialist was of average height, had carefully tousled hair, and was reasonably good-looking. That didn’t keep him from being a pain in the ass, however. The smile came on as if a switch had been thrown. “Cassandra! You look lovely as always.”
“And you are full of shit as always,” Lee replied.
The receptionist giggled, but Soltis didn’t seem to notice as he ushered Lee through a pair of swinging doors. “I get it,” he said. “No hanky-panky at work. So let’s get together this evening and get something going.”
“You should watch the news more often,” Lee replied, as they walked down a hallway. “If you did, you’d know that I’m dating an accused murderer . . . He’s locked up in the MDC at the moment—but we hope to get him out soon.”
The expression on Soltis’s face was priceless. Lee was pretty sure that she saw elements of surprise, disapproval, and fear in the way he looked at her. It was difficult not to laugh.
Although the lab was clean and well lit, it had a make-do quality about it. Worktables consisted of pieces of plywood that rested on sawhorses, wires dangled snakelike from the ceiling, and the filing cabinets were various hues, including tan, green, and black. On the way back, they passed two white-coated technicians, both of whom were engrossed in whatever they were doing. “Okay,” Soltis said, as they arrived at his workstation. “Let’s see what you have.”
Lee gave him the journal, and Soltis paused to pull gloves on prior to opening the cover. She watched him flip through the book. He paused every once in a while to examine a page under a powerful magnifier. Then he looked up at her. “That’s some interesting stuff.”
“So?” Lee inquired. “I know you’ll need time in order to carry out a complete evaluation, but I need a preliminary opinion. Should we take this thing seriously?”
“Hold your horses,” Soltis said, “I’m getting there. Let me do some comparisons. Then I’ll give you my initial impressions.”
Lee had to stand around and wait for the better part of half an hour while Soltis compared journal entries to handwriting samples that the Bonebreaker had “donated” over the years, along with documents gathered from his underground bunker. Finally, the document examiner turned to look at Lee.
“Okay, here’s what I think. The Bonebreaker tried to alter his handwriting on the notes he sent in after some of the murders. But there are still lots of similarities to the handwriting in the journal. And, given the age of the paper, variations in ink, and the inclusion of contemporaneous clippings, I’d say there is a high degree of likelihood that the diary is genuine. Will that impression hold up under an in-depth analysis? We’ll see.”
“Thanks, Alvin,” Lee said. “That’s a huge help. Please let me know as soon as the final report is ready.”
“Will do,” Soltis assured her. “I hope your boyfriend gets out of jail soon.”
“Me, too,” Lee told him. “Who knows? Maybe the three of us could go out for drinks.” She could feel his eyes on her back as she left and felt sure he wouldn’t come on to her again. Victory was hers.
After returning to the office, Lee went looking for Jenkins and discovered that he wasn’t in his office. “He’s with Chief Yessum,” a clerk informed her.
Lee wasn’t surprised. Chances were that Zumin or some other reporter had called the mayor’s office in an attempt to get more information about the investigation, which caused Getty to call Yessum, who called Jenkins.
Lee glanced at her watch and saw that she had only forty-five minutes to reach the shopping center where she was to meet with Carolina Moss. So she grabbed the recorder, slipped the device into her bag, and went out to the parking lot.
Because the Taj Mahal Shopping Complex was located in Hollywood Hills, and traffic was heavy, she barely made it in time. Everyone knew the story of how Carolina Moss and her husband had purchased a small strip mall, acquired the land around it during the depression that followed the plague, and borrowed money to construct the sprawling shopping complex laid out in front of her.
After parking the sedan, Lee hurried across a large parking lot. There were clusters of palm trees to provide a vaguely tropical feel, recirculating pools of water here and there, and festive-looking tents where shoppers could buy food and drink.
But the centerpiece of the complex was the transparent cap that sat atop the Taj Mahal’s considerable dome. Sunlight glinted off glass, and Lee could see tiny figures working up there. To clean it? That seemed likely.
Lee followed a steady flow of foot traffic inside, where she could smell the carefully scented air and hear the soothing music. The mood was one of restrained opulence, and the beautifully dressed shoppers were clearly well-off. Lee spotted a kiosk and went over to speak with a woman dressed in a sarilike garment. Her name was Margo according to the name tag that she
wore. “Hello, how can I help you?”
“I’m here for an appointment with Mrs. Moss.”
“And you are?”
Lee showed her ID, and the woman nodded. “Hold on, hon . . . I’ll let them know you’re here.” At that point, Margo picked up a phone and made a call. “This is Margo down by the north entrance. Detective Lee is here to see Mrs. Moss.”
Margo nodded, said “Thanks,” and hung up. “Ken is coming down to get you. There are some chairs over there . . . Please have a seat.”
Lee preferred to stand, and her eyes were drawn inevitably upward. There were at least twenty circular galleries, each smaller than the last, with the glass dome at the very top. Rays of golden sunshine streamed down through the glass, and Lee got the impression that God might speak at any moment.
“Detective Lee?” The voice came from behind her, and Lee turned to find that a young man was standing there. He was something of a dandy, judging from the artfully combed hair, the pink bow tie, and the blue shirt. His suit was tight, as if to emphasize a slim figure, and Lee could smell the cloud of cologne that surrounded him. “My name is Ken,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mrs. Moss asked me to accompany you to the eighteenth floor.”
Ken led Lee over to an escalator that spiraled upward. It would be an uncomfortable ride for anyone who was afraid of heights. As Lee looked down, she could see the central pool, the lush greenery that surrounded it, and places for tired shoppers to sit. “Here we are,” Ken said, as they got off on eighteen.
Lee followed Ken along a walkway. There were expensive stores on the left and a vast, open space on the right. Then the path curved away from the center of the building to make way for a large restaurant. There were lots of linen-covered tables, gleaming silverware, and well-watered plants. They served to separate the booths and provide diners with an illusion of privacy. “Mrs. Moss eats here every day,” Ken explained. “It’s just one of the things she does to stay in touch with the Taj Mahal’s customers and employees.”
Lee couldn’t see how eating lunch there would keep Moss in touch with anyone other than her waiter, but Ken seemed to believe it, and that was fine. Ken waved to a receptionist as they breezed past—and led Lee to a large booth protected by vegetation on three sides. The dome’s transparent cap was only fifty feet above the restaurant. So when Lee looked up, she could see a couple of workmen and the sky beyond.
A woman who Lee assumed to be Carolina Moss was already seated on a curved banquette. She was flanked by two nearly identical Pomeranians—both of which had fancy collars and shiny eyes. Moss looked up from a pink data pad as Ken cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Moss, but Detective Lee is here.”
Moss had shoulder-length black hair that was heavily streaked with gray. She was wearing glasses with oval lenses and gold-leaf earrings. Lee figured that the gray-and-black animal-print top that Moss was wearing would cost her a month’s salary. Moss smiled. “It’s a pleasure, Detective Lee . . . Or I hope it will be, anyway. Please forgive me for remaining seated. I sprained an ankle a few days ago, and it still hurts. Have a seat.”
Lee sat down on the banquette with a dog on her left. It growled deep in its throat. “Don’t worry about Mr. Bigels,” Moss said. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Lee replied as she placed the recorder on the table. “As you know, I’m here to talk about your relationship with Mayor Getty. If you have no objection, I’m going to record the conversation.”
“I suppose my attorney would object,” Moss said. “But screw him . . . He objects to everything. And I have nothing to hide. What’s this about anyway? I like Melissa. She’s a nice person and a good mayor.”
“I’m in charge of a team looking into allegations that Mayor Getty traded favors in return for support from people such as yourself.”
“Like what?” Moss demanded.
“It’s my understanding that you are in the process of expanding this shopping center—and in order to do that, you need more land. But, until the mayor threw her weight behind your push for the necessary zoning changes, the plan was dead in the water. So her support was worth a great deal to you.”
“So? Melissa made the right choice on behalf of the city. This mall employs more than a thousand people, produces millions in tax revenue, and supports the local community in a variety of ways. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing on the face of it,” Lee replied. “But we have evidence that you offered to make an extremely large donation to the Fortuna Foundation in return for the mayor’s support. That would be illegal.”
Moss threw back her head and laughed. The dogs looked alarmed. “That’s a hoot, it really is,” Moss said. “Prior to my husband’s death, we donated money to the Fortuna Foundation on a regular basis, and I continue to do so, as does Melissa. Hell, we serve on the board of advisors together . . . So, as the saying goes, there’s no there-there.”
At that point Lee realized why Moss’s attorney wasn’t present. The two of them had discussed the situation and agreed on a story. A story that would seem more genuine if Moss pitched it alone. What they didn’t realize was that the DA had a videotape in which Moss could be seen cutting the deal with Getty.
But Lee didn’t want Moss to realize that . . . Not yet. And what she did want to do was put some pressure on. Maybe Moss would turn on Getty, and maybe she wouldn’t, but it was worth a try. “Okay,” Lee said. “But just to be clear, were the DA to prove the existence of a quid pro quo, the arrangement would still be illegal regardless of donations made in the past.”
Moss frowned and opened her mouth to say something. But the words were never said. A charge went off, the dome shattered, and shards of glass rained down on the unsuspecting shoppers below. Lee could hear screams as she jumped up and rushed to peer over the wall. There was pandemonium as some people fled, and others stayed to help the injured.
Lee was still struggling to understand what had taken place when the answer dropped from above. The man was dressed in black, armed with a submachine gun, and dangling at the end of a rope. Lee was in the process of drawing the Glock when he opened fire. Lamps shattered, and there were more screams as bullets sprayed the inside of the restaurant.
That forced Lee to duck. And by the time she stuck her head up, the first terrorist had dropped down past the eighteenth floor. Lee was about to fire at him when more killers dropped from above. And that was when Lee remembered the people she’d seen earlier. Not working, as it turned out—but preparing to attack the shopping center!
Lee began to track one of the perps. He was still in motion, which made for a tricky shot. Lead him, Lee thought to herself as she allowed her talent to kick in. The Glock seemed to fire itself. The first shot missed but the rest didn’t. The man jerked and went limp.
Then someone cut the rope high above and the body plummeted to the floor below. When it hit there was a flash of light and a BOOM that sounded even louder inside the dome. Bombs! The bastards had bombs strapped to their bodies—explosives that could be detonated on command by someone up above.
More people were being lowered into the shopping center by that time, but Lee chose to ignore them as she squinted her eyes. It was difficult to see through the swirling smoke, but she saw a shadowy figure standing near the edge of the shattered dome. Was that their leader? The person who could detonate their explosive vests? Maybe.
Lee took careful aim and fired six shots. She thought she’d missed until her target toppled forward. What had been a blob turned into a body as it fell past her. Lee looked down to see it splash into the pool.
But the battle wasn’t over. Far from it. Two terrorists were dangling inside the dome, each at a different level. Lee dropped a magazine onto the floor and shoved a fresh one into the Glock as she leaned out to look. One of the shooters was firing a machine pistol, and the recoil was causing him to spin. Empty brass arced away from him
to fall into the abyss as glass shattered and people on the thirteenth floor screamed.
Lee took aim and was about to shoot the bastard when a bullet whizzed by her ear. She looked up to see a figure in black pointing a pistol at her. Lee ducked, heard two shots, and came up firing. That was when she saw a flash of light followed by a clap of thunder.
The force of the blast threw Lee back onto the floor. She hit hard, lay there for a second, and struggled to her feet. A chorus of sirens could be heard from outside. For the first time since the attack began, Lee had time to check on Carolina Moss. The businesswoman was facedown on the table, and the formerly pristine tablecloth was stained with blood. Mr. Bigels was whining and licking Moss’s arm. The other dog was nowhere to be seen.
Lee went over to check for a pulse and was unable to find one. The recorder was where she’d left it. Lee picked the device up, turned it off, and put it in her bag. The interview was over. But a long, exhausting afternoon had just begun.
After doing what she could to help patrol officers organize the response to the shopping center attack and checking to make sure that all of the injured were being treated, Lee drove back to the office. As Lee listened to her police radio and civilian news coverage, a picture began to emerge. Aztec terrorists had carried out eight highly coordinated attacks on the city in addition to the one at the Taj Mahal shopping center. The other targets included the airport, the metro, and a freeway interchange that had been destroyed by a massive truck bomb.
Up until then, Lee had been too busy to pay much attention to the war but, according to the newscasters, the attack on LA was just the latest in a string of such incidents in other cities. They included Phoenix, Arizona, McAllen, Texas, and Corpus Christi. Lee thought about her friend, Deputy Ras Omo, and hoped he was okay.
The first thing Lee noticed as she approached the Street Services Garage was that security had been doubled. She had to show ID three times before being allowed to enter the parking lot.
Once in the building, Lee went looking for Jenkins and found him in a makeshift war room. Phones were ringing, a Channel 4 newsperson could be seen on the wall screen, and the whiteboard was covered with lists of things that needed to be accomplished. “There you are,” Jenkins said, as Lee entered. “According to what we heard, you capped two or three of the bastards at the Taj Mahal! Well done. Based on preliminary estimates, sixty-eight people were killed there—and about a hundred and fifty were wounded. Some of them are listed as critical, so the death toll is likely to rise.”
Graveyard Page 21
