“What about the rest of LA?”
Jenkins scowled. “At least a thousand people are dead—and three times that many were wounded. It looks like the terrorists spent weeks filtering into the city, choosing targets, and getting ready. All of them were passers . . . So that made their job a lot easier.”
“Passers” were mutants who looked normal but were BN positive and could be communicable. This meant that there was a second element to the assault. During the weeks leading up to the attacks, the mutants could have infected hundreds or even thousands of people with B. nosilla. That would scare the hell out of an already terrorized population. “So they’re using germ warfare, too.”
“Yeah,” Jenkins said disgustedly.
“So what’s the deal, Boss? I shot some of the bastards . . . Does that mean I have to sit at my desk?”
“No, you don’t,” a third voice interjected. Lee turned to find that Chief Yessum had entered the room. “Taken together, our people shot twenty-seven terrorists today,” Yessum said. “And I can’t spare that many cops—not to mention the people required to investigate all those incidents. So I asked the police commission to suspend the shooting-review requirement for twenty-four hours. But it will be back in force at midnight. So no time off for you.”
The last was said with a grin, and even though Lee wasn’t sure she could trust Yessum where the Getty case was concerned, she liked his cut-through-the-crap style. “Yes, sir. I’m glad to hear it.”
Yessum turned to look at Jenkins. “Can I borrow the detective for a few minutes?”
Jenkins nodded. “Of course.”
“Thanks,” Yessum said. “Follow me, young lady . . . Let’s get some coffee.”
After getting some coffee from the break room, Yessum led Lee into what had been Corso’s office. She was beginning to worry by then. Did Yessum know she was working to free Kane? If so, she was in deep trouble.
“Have a seat,” Yessum said, as he closed the door behind her. Then, rather than put the desk between them, he sat in one of four guest chairs. “So,” the chief said, as their eyes met. “This morning, before the attacks began, I saw a news story about the Getty investigation. Tell me something . . . Were you the one who leaked it?”
Lee opened her mouth to reply but stopped when Yessum raised a hand. “Hold on. We’re getting acquainted . . . But I know you’re something of a legend around here. A street cop’s street cop. And you have a rep as a straight shooter in more ways than one. So don’t bullshit me, Detective . . . Are you responsible for the leak?”
Lee looked into Yessum’s gun-barrel eyes. “No, sir.”
Yessum nodded. “I believe you . . . And I’m not stupid enough to ask you who did. I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Moss. Tell me about the interview.”
Lee told him, and when she was done, he leaned back in the chair. “So you don’t have much of anything.”
“That isn’t true,” Lee replied. “I, that is we, have the tape, and it shows Moss cutting a deal with the mayor. I assume you’ve seen it. Moss was guilty as hell.”
Yessum eyed her. “Are you aware that the mayor and I are friends?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“So if I tell you to back off, and to help the police department protect the city from Aztec terrorists, you’ll assume I’m doing her a favor.”
The last thing Lee expected was for Yessum to be so direct. There was only one answer she could give. “Yes, sir. I will. And so will my team.”
Yessum took a sip of coffee and made a face. “This stuff tastes like shit.”
“Yes, sir, it does.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do . . . Put your foot on the gas and find out who shot Chief Corso. Maybe that will have a bearing on the Getty investigation, and maybe it won’t. If it’s relevant, follow the evidence wherever it leads, no matter how high that may be . . . But keep the focus on that shooter. I want that bastard. Do you read me?”
“Yes, sir. Five-by-five.”
“Good. Tell your team what I said.”
“I will.”
Yessum smiled. “It’s half past six . . . Go home, Detective Lee. Get some rest and go after it tomorrow.”
Lee knew she’d been dismissed and left. Thanks to the talk with Yessum, she felt as if a heavy load had been lifted off her shoulders—and she planned to follow his orders to the letter. She couldn’t go home, though . . . Not until she paid a visit to a woman named Janice Olin.
So she took Olin’s address off the USB drive, wrote it down, and left the office. Once in the car, Lee read the address to the sedan’s nav system. It thanked her and threw a map onto the screen. The address was in Sherman Oaks, which meant a half-hour drive under good conditions, and the worst part of rush hour was over. Lee took 101 into the general vicinity, got off, and followed the map into a nice, middle-class neighborhood. The house she was looking for was well kept and had clearly been built prior to the plague. Lee got out, locked the car, and crossed the street. It was dark by then, and she could see that the lights were on. A short flight of stairs took her up to a tidy porch with a single chair on it. There was a button next to the entrance, and Lee pushed it. The better part of a minute passed before the door opened a little and a middle-aged woman peered through the gap. Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing glasses. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“My name is Cassandra Lee . . . I’m looking for Janice. Is she in?”
“No, she isn’t.”
“I see . . . And you are?”
The woman blinked rapidly. “I’m her mother. Is there a problem of some sort?”
Lee couldn’t flash her badge since that would make things even worse if the IA people came after her. All she could rely on was charm. “A friend of mine is in jail charged with a crime he didn’t commit,” Lee replied. “And I have reason to believe that your daughter witnessed the incident. If so, her testimony could be very helpful. When will she return?”
“Janice doesn’t live here,” Mrs. Olin replied. “And she travels a great deal.”
I’ll bet she does, Lee thought to herself. “Could I have her phone number?” Lee inquired. “I’ll give her a call.”
“I can’t provide that,” Mrs. Olin replied. “Not without my daughter’s permission.”
“I understand,” Lee said as she wrote in a small notebook. “This is my number . . . Please ask Janice to call me.”
“Okay,” Mrs. Olin said doubtfully. “But she’s very busy. I can’t promise.”
“Understood,” Lee said. “But please tell her that the man who tried to protect her on the night that the Aztecs shelled the city has been accused of murder.”
Mrs. Olin’s eyes grew wider. “Murder?”
“Yes. My friend shot a man who was attacking your daughter.”
“Oh, my! That’s terrible. I’ll tell her.”
“Thank you,” Lee said, and went back to the car. After performing a 360, she drove away. When she was a block away, Lee pulled over to the curb to make a phone call.
Codicil answered after three rings. “Hello, this is Marvin Codicil.”
“Cassandra here . . . I need some help.”
“I’m not surprised. You never call to say ‘Hi.’”
“Sorry about that . . . But I have some information regarding the mystery woman.”
“Really? Shoot.”
Lee told Codicil about the research Keyes had performed and their conclusions. “So,” she said, “I went to the address listed on Olin’s license. She doesn’t live there, but I spoke with her mother.”
“I won’t ask how you got that information,” Codicil said.
“Good. Don’t. Anyway, Mrs. Olin refused to supply her daughter’s phone number.”
“Which supports your theory regarding what Janice does for a living.”
“Yes. And, assuming she doesn
’t know about Kane’s situation, she’ll want to help. I left my phone number.”
“And if she does know? And fails to call you?”
“Then she’s a bitch. So, just to cover all the bases, I’m hoping your investigator can watch Mrs. Olin. Maybe she’ll lead us to Janice.”
“Give me the address,” Codicil said. “I’ll take care of it. By the way, I saw the news coverage regarding the Bonebreaker’s hideout. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“A word of caution, though . . .”
“Yes?”
“He’s still out there.”
TWELVE
IT WAS EARLY in the morning. Much earlier than Dr. Mark Holby liked to get up. Unfortunately, he had no choice in the matter because George Ma wanted to see him. And since Holby owed Ma two hundred and fifty thousand nu, and since his wife was unaware of the debt, he had to do Ma’s bidding. And it was important to be on time.
Traffic came to a halt, and Holby hit the horn in frustration. That produced a rude gesture from the driver in front of him. The moment was emblematic of the way things had gone for Holby. Looking back, he could see that his parents were at fault. They were rich, so he’d been rich, and that led to bad habits.
At his mother’s insistence, Holby had applied to dental school, and thanks to a hefty endowment from his father, he made the cut. But it was more fun to chase girls, play golf, and go hunting than it was to study. So his grades suffered. He graduated, but his dental practice was a failure for all of the same reasons that he’d done poorly in school.
Girls, women by then, took up a great deal of Holby’s time and resources. As did his favorite sports. But when he met Melissa at a cocktail party, things clicked. The physical chemistry was there—and she had the ambition that he lacked. As Melissa made her mark in politics, Holby supported her with money and the good-old-boy personality that her supporters loved. His job was to play golf, go hunting, and learn the family business.
Unfortunately, there hadn’t been enough time for the third activity. So when his father died, and Holby took charge of the company, it floundered. And as profits fell, Holby sought to recoup his losses in Ma’s casinos. Looking back, it was clear that his parents should have established a trust fund for him—and hired a professional to run the company.
Could he tell Melissa? Yes, but the look of disappointment in her eyes would be hard to take, and the last thing Holby wanted to do was add something more to her considerable burdens.
Holby put his foot on the gas as the car in front of him pulled away. He wasn’t a complete loser though . . . Unbeknownst to Melissa, he’d been able to slow if not stop the investigation into her relationship with people like Silverman and Ma, the latter being the individual who had ordered Holby to either kill Chief Corso or pay off his gambling debt. And, since Holby didn’t have enough money, the choice was no choice at all.
The lights on top of a cop car stuttered as Holby passed a three-car accident, and traffic began to flow. Holby couldn’t refuse Ma, but he could negotiate his fee, and he’d done a good job of it. In return for shooting Corso, fifty thou had been deducted from his debt. And although Corso was still alive, Ma’s goal had been achieved. Corso wasn’t pushing the investigation anymore. So what did Ma want now? Holby didn’t know. But one thing was for sure . . . It was going to cost the casino owner fifty thousand nu.
• • •
Lee had been at work for an hour when the e-mail from Alvin Soltis arrived. It was ten paragraphs long and loaded with qualifiers. But after wading through all of the CYA bullshit, the document examiner’s conclusions were clear: The Bonebreaker journal was for real. And that was enough to get her going on a task she’d been putting off. It was time to check on Dr. Penn.
After e-mailing an official request to records clerk Misty Gammon, Lee performed an Internet search on the criminologist, and came up with 76,923 hits. And he was, by all accounts, the real deal. Unlike many academics, Penn had worked in the field, most notably for the preplague F.B.I. Then he’d gone back to school to get his doctorate before accepting a teaching position at the University of Maryland. During the years that followed, Penn served as a consultant on some very-high-profile murder cases and was credited with solving a couple of them. Finally, after a successful career in teaching, Penn retired. That was when he and his wife departed the Northeast for sunny California. And their timing was excellent since the plague was released on the world shortly thereafter, and Maryland fell inside a red zone.
Mentions of Penn began to dwindle subsequent to that, but he had published an updated version of an existing textbook and had told a crime blogger that he was writing a book on the subject of serial killers. All of which was consistent with the letter that came with the journal. The records check came back shortly after Lee completed her online search. There was no way to check with the authorities in Maryland anymore but, with the exception of a minor fender bender in LA, Penn’s record was clean.
That was good enough for Lee, who got the letter out, found Penn’s number, and dialed the phone. Three rings were followed by a cheerful “Hello.”
“Is this Dr. Penn?”
“Yes, it is,” the man answered. “What can I do for you?” The voice had a raspy quality, similar to one Lee had heard in the past, but she couldn’t place it.
“This is Detective Lee with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m calling in regards to the journal that you sent me.”
“Ah yes,” Penn replied. “What did you think of it?”
“It’s very interesting,” Lee replied. “And, according to one of our document examiners, it’s genuine.”
“I thought it was,” Penn replied. “Although there’s the possibility of an imposter. It’s hard to imagine a wannabe with the skills and patience required to create something so realistic, however. And to what end?”
“I agree,” Lee replied. “And I’d like to meet with you. I imagine you have some theories about the Bonebreaker, and I’d like to hear them.”
“I have some opinions,” Penn allowed, “and I’d be happy to discuss them.”
“How does tomorrow look?” Lee inquired. “Say ten o’clock?”
“That would be fine,” Penn replied. “You have my address?”
“I do,” Lee said. “I’ll see you there.”
• • •
There was a click followed by a dial tone. The Bonebreaker put the receiver down. It worked! Lee had taken the bait. Just when he’d been ready to give up. Thank you, God . . . Thank you for answering my prayers.
The first part of his plan was complete, and twenty-four hours would be plenty of time in which to prepare his backup residence and set the trap that would kill Cassandra Lee. The Bonebreaker whistled while he worked.
• • •
Mayor Getty’s office was located in the Los Angeles City Hall. It was a little after eleven in the morning, and she was seated with her back to a wall-sized painting of Los Angeles in which city hall loomed larger than everything else. Her desk, like the rest of the furniture, was made of mahogany and had been donated to the city by a wealthy supporter.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows on her right, and matching cabinets dominated the wall on the left. The shelves were loaded with photos of Getty standing next to VIPs of every possible stripe which, taken together, symbolized how far a lower-middle-class girl could go. And how far she could fall. It was something very much on Getty’s mind as she waited for Chief Yessum to arrive.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, stories had appeared in the press. All based on statements made by an unidentified police official who claimed that she was being investigated. But for what? Things she’d done, or things she hadn’t done? The second was better than the first but a problem nevertheless. Her first instinct had been to chat with the DA. But his response was a chilly, “I have no comment at this time.”
That was enough to confirm that something was going on, however . . . And, according to back-channel sources, Chief Corso was behind whatever it was. Then Corso had been shot. By whom? And for what reason? Not that Getty wasn’t grateful . . . The shooting had the effect of dividing the press corps’ attention and slowing the investigation.
But Getty needed more than that . . . She needed to have the whole thing go away. And now that Yessum was in charge of the police department, that was a real possibility. Getty’s thoughts were interrupted when her secretary appeared in the doorway. “Chief Yessum is here.”
“Send him in,” Getty said. “And could we have some fresh coffee, please?”
“Of course,” Chloe replied, and disappeared.
Getty was up out of her chair by the time Yessum entered—and she went over to accept a hug. “Good morning, Sam. Thanks for coming by. How’s it going? Did you get all of the terrorists?”
Yessum shrugged. “Interrogations are still under way . . . But according to preliminary estimates, we nailed about 90 percent of the bastards. As for the possibility of a second wave? That’s anyone’s guess. The fact that the ’tecs are using passers makes our job that much harder.”
“Of course it does,” Getty said sympathetically. “Please . . . Have a seat.”
An oval-shaped coffee table surrounded by six chairs occupied the center of the room. Chloe entered, carrying a tray just as they sat down. “Thank you, Chloe,” Getty said as she reached for the thermos. “This will fix you up, Sam . . . I know how much you like your coffee.”
“I do like coffee,” Yessum admitted, as the mayor filled his cup. “And, since most of it comes from the Aztec Empire, it’s getting more expensive every day.”
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