Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  Lee had the mike in her fist by that time and was driving left-handed. “This is 1-William-3 . . . I am being pursued by some yo-yo in a garbage truck and I’m eastbound on Santa Monica Boulevard. There are multiple accidents at my location. Officer needs assistance.”

  Then Lee was forced to drop the mike in order to veer back in front of the bus. That was when she glanced at the outside mirror and saw that the garbage truck had pulled out and was chasing her! The Dumpster had been left behind—and the behemoth was headed into westbound traffic! Lee hit the lights and siren in hopes of warning oncoming motorists. There was an intersection up ahead . . . Maybe she could use it to escape.

  • • •

  Holby should have been frightened. He knew that. But chasing the police car was like going after big game, only a hundred times more exciting. His head was clear, his heart was racing, and he was conscious of the sickly-sweet stench of garbage that permeated the cab. If only he’d known! Killing people was so much more stimulating than shooting a grizzly . . . And he was getting paid for it!

  Holby uttered a whoop of joy as the truck’s front left fender nicked an old especiale and sent it careening into a fire hydrant. A geyser of water shot up into the air and came raining down behind him. Plan A was in the shitter . . . But Plan B was ready to go.

  • • •

  Lee knew the dispatcher was talking to her—but didn’t have time to chat. She saw the light turn yellow, braked, and took a left. There was no way in hell that the truck could corner like a car. There was a problem however . . . Black smoke was pouring out from the back of the sedan! A fire? No, Lee decided . . . Not yet. Crushed metal was pressing against one of her tires—and she could feel the drag as she pressed on the accelerator.

  • • •

  The truck was going too fast as Holby entered the turn. He felt the big vehicle tilt and thought it was going to roll, before he was able to regain control. Some practice sessions would have been nice . . . But lacking those, he’d have to learn on the job.

  The enormous steering wheel was sticky with the original driver’s blood, and the brain matter splattered across the lower part of the windshield made it hard to see, but Holby could peer over the mess. Smoke was pouring out of Detective Lee’s car—and Holby could see that the sedan was beginning to slow down. That was good because she had almost certainly called for help by that point, and it would arrive soon.

  • • •

  Lee was unaware of the mistake that she’d made until the sedan crashed through a sawhorse and sent wooden daggers flying in every direction. The street was closed ahead! She could see barriers with the diagonal stripes on them and stood on the brakes. There was a screech of rubber as the creeper slewed sideways, came left again, and slammed into the concrete wall.

  That was when Lee heard two shotgun blasts, or what sounded like shotgun blasts, as the car’s air bags deployed and pinned her in place. She could smell the acrid odor of gunpowder as the bags started to deflate. She couldn’t move though . . . Not yet. And that was when something rammed the car.

  • • •

  Holby was ecstatic! He had the bitch now . . . Machinery whined as he hit the wrong switch, corrected the mistake, and took hold of the control lever. It worked the same way a joystick would. He used it to move the truck’s insectlike arms forward. Once they penetrated the car, Holby pulled back. He could feel the cab dip as the sedan came off the ground, rose into the air, and disappeared over his head. Everything shook as the car fell into the hopper.

  The truck was equipped with a wall-like trash compactor. All Holby had to do was flip a switch to turn it on. He heard a whining noise followed by snapping sounds as the hydraulic ram made contact with the sedan and began the process of converting the car into a cube.

  Sirens sounded in the distance as Holby opened the door, jumped to the ground, and strolled away. He was wearing a spit mask, latex gloves, and was carrying the Contender in a custom-made holster under his coat. It took less than a minute to remove the gloves and leave the area. Then it was time to hail a cab for the trip to his car. After that? Well, there was still plenty of time for nine holes of golf.

  FOURTEEN

  LEE WAS UPSIDE down and struggling to free herself from the car’s seat belt. And when she unlatched, precious seconds were lost as Lee battled to right herself and exit the vehicle. The air bags had released their grip on her by then, but it was difficult to maneuver.

  Lee’s fingers scrabbled at the door latch, felt it give, and pushed. The door collided with something solid. The inside surface of the truck’s hopper? Yes, and the gap was no more than a foot wide! But she had to get through, and do so quickly, because she could tell that the compactor was on and pushing the front of the car in on her.

  As Lee forced her body through the narrow opening, there were creaking sounds, the siren continued to yelp, and the dispatcher demanded to know what was going on. “I’m trying to escape from the fucking car!” Lee yelled. But the mike wasn’t on—so the dispatcher couldn’t hear her.

  Lee felt a moment of pain as something clawed at her arm followed by a sudden sense of freedom when she cleared the car. Then it was time to scramble upward as the steadily advancing wall of steel crushed the front of the car, and the siren produced a final burp of sound. Once on the roof, Lee was able to step over onto the edge of the hopper. A patrol officer was below and staring up at her. Lee flashed her badge.

  “Are you all right?” the officer wanted to know.

  Lee took a quick inventory and decided that she was although her hands were shaking, and her stomach felt queasy. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Can I give you a hand?”

  “No. I can get down by myself . . . But what you can do is turn the compactor off and help me locate my bag. I left it on the front seat of the car.”

  The police officer stared up at her. “Seriously,” Lee said. “Get in the cab and turn that thing off.”

  Lee jumped to the ground as the patrol officer went forward to do her bidding. Lee’s legs felt shaky, and it took a moment to recover. Someone had attempted to kill her. The reality of that was still sinking in. How many reports would she have to fill out anyway? Too many . . . The truck smelled like rotting garbage, and Lee did, too. But she was alive. And that felt good.

  • • •

  The sanitarium was a sprawling affair that occupied more than five acres of land near the city of Walnut. Prior to the plague, the site had been home to a junior college. Then, as thousands fell ill, the school was fenced off and converted into a medical treatment center for those who had been infected but were expected to recover.

  Two years later, the government closed the facility. At that point, some of the locals urged authorities to restore the land to its original purpose. But even though the complex was classified as BN-free, many people wouldn’t go near it. Nor were they willing to send their children to the campus.

  As a result, some two dozen buildings baked under the hot California sun, weeds grew up through cracks in the pavement, and the central fountain filled with sand. Teenagers climbed over the fence occasionally, as did homeless people, so the once-pristine brick walls were covered with graffiti. But no one stayed inside the brooding buildings for very long. No one except the Bonebreaker, that is, who had established a backup hideout there and was now forced to use it.

  What the Bonebreaker thought of as the Bolt Hole was located in a remote corner of the administration building’s basement in a former storage room. When he found it, the steel door was equipped with a special box that was supposed to protect a heavy-duty padlock, an arrangement which, judging from the tool marks, had been enough to prevent other people from gaining entry. But after two days of hard work, the Bonebreaker had been able to access the lock and cut it off. Then he replaced it with one of his own plus the means to lock the door from within.

  Now the room was equipped with a
cot, lights he could recharge from a solar panel up on the roof, and a wall-to-wall storage system loaded with supplies. Water was a problem however, since the Bonebreaker had to haul it in during the hours of darkness. It was a labor-intensive process that he didn’t enjoy.

  But the storage room was primarily used for sleeping. During daylight hours, the Bonebreaker spent most of his time up in the clock tower, where he could look out over the campus and listen to a battery-powered radio. It was a comfortable perch and one that allowed the Bonebreaker to enjoy the occasional breeze and think. And there was plenty to think about. His privacy had been violated, his home had been ravaged, and his trophies had been stolen. Then, in spite of all the work he’d done, Cassandra Lee had been able to escape his trap. That should have been impossible—but the woman was like a cat with nine lives.

  So what to do? That question was very much on the Bonebreaker’s mind as he watched a hawk ride a thermal. The original plan was to kill the police who’d been involved in murdering his parents, and to eliminate their children, starting with Cassandra Lee. But the Bonebreaker had come to realize that wasn’t possible anymore. The police were closing in. Which was to say that Lee was closing in, because she, more than all the rest, was responsible for the situation he was in. The Bonebreaker watched the hawk spot something, stoop, dive, and hit its prey. A pigeon most likely—which the larger bird carried away.

  That’s what I need to do, the Bonebreaker mused. I need to watch and wait for the perfect opportunity. Then, when Lee least expects it, I will swoop in and kill her. After that, I will leave Los Angeles for good. I’d go to San Diego, except that’s too close to the Aztecs. Some little town up north would be better. I’ll find a place to live and go fishing every day. Surely, God will grant me that after all my years of service.

  The sun had been hidden behind a cloud until then. Suddenly it was revealed, and the entire campus was bathed in a golden glow. The Bonebreaker had his answer.

  • • •

  By the time Lee was able to leave the location where the garbage-truck attack had taken place, and catch a ride to the Street Services Garage, it was almost eleven o’clock. Word had spread by then and the heckling began as she entered the building. “Hey, Lee,” a detective said, “what’s the name of that perfume you’re wearing? Eau du gar-bage?”

  “A garbageman tried to kill you?” another inquired. “What did you do? Leave your can too far from the curb?”

  “You parked your creeper inside a garbage truck?” a narc inquired. “Send me a copy of the report . . . I want to see how you write that up.”

  Lee gave him the finger and arrived at her desk sixty seconds later. Fortunately, the patrol officer had managed to extricate her bag from the car, and, after putting it away, Lee went looking for her team. She ran into Prospo as he was headed out to lunch.

  Prospo opened his mouth to speak, and Lee raised a hand. “Careful, Milo . . . If you were about to try a garbage-truck joke, I wouldn’t advise it.”

  Prospo grinned. “Who, me? Never!”

  “Good. So you’re working on Stryker . . . And he’s the president of the Sanitation Workers Union. Could there be a connection between that and the attempt to cube me?”

  Prospo was about to reply when Yanty arrived. “Good morning, boss . . . It’s good to see that you’re all in one piece. Come on . . . Let’s find an empty conference room. I have some news to share.”

  They had to check a couple of rooms before locating one that was empty. The chairs sat every which way, empty coffee cups littered the table, and a diagram took up most of the whiteboard. Yanty closed the door. “Someone leaked the Maxim tape to the mayor,” he reminded them, “so it’s best to be careful.”

  “I agree,” Lee said. “What’s up?”

  “I think I know who tried to kill you,” Yanty said.

  “Someone who works for Stryker?” Lee inquired.

  “Nope,” Yanty replied. “I put some pressure on Anna Kolak, AKA Lora Millich, and she came through. Senora Avilar paid a visit to George Ma yesterday. That’s the same Senora Avilar he met with near the border—and the same Senora Avilar who works for the Aztecs. But this time Kolak managed to listen in on their conversation. And guess what? Ma is working for the Aztecs . . . And when Avilar told Ma to have you killed, he went along with it.”

  “Why would Avilar want to kill Lee?” Prospo inquired.

  “To punish her for what she did to the terrorists in the Taj Mahal Shopping Complex,” Yanty replied. “The Aztecs want to make an example of her. If you’re a police officer, and you kill an Aztec terrorist, you’re going to die. That’s the message they hope to send.”

  “So Ma paid a sanitation worker to assassinate me?” Lee inquired.

  “No,” Yanty said. “That’s what’s so surprising . . . After getting his marching orders from Avilar, Ma ordered Mark Holby to do it for him.”

  “Holby?” Lee asked. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “Dr. Mark Holby is Mayor Getty’s husband,” Yanty reminded her, “and it turns out that he owes Ma money. A quarter mil according to Kolak. So it looks like Holby shot the driver, stole the garbage truck, and tried to kill you with it.”

  “Holy shit!” Prospo said. “The mayor’s husband? Do you think she knows?”

  “There’s no telling,” Yanty answered. “But my guess is no. I have a feeling she doesn’t know about his debts or the type of work he’s doing for Ma.

  “By the way . . . What I’m about to say is pure conjecture . . . But I hear that Holby is an avid hunter. What if he has a Contender? That would raise the possibility that he shot Corso.”

  “For Ma?” Prospo inquired.

  “Possibly,” Yanty said cautiously. “But he might have done it for himself. As a means to protect his wife’s career. So I’m running a check to see what kind of weapons he owns.”

  “Good work, Dick,” Lee said. “We need to get Kolak off the street and into protective custody pronto. If Ma finds out what she’s been up to, he’ll kill her.”

  “I’m on it,” Yanty assured her. “Based on the same info I gave you, the DA agreed to put her in protective custody. By now, Kolak is in a safe house watching daytime TV with some deputies.”

  “That’s outstanding,” Lee said. “So where’s Ma? Let’s bring him in.”

  “He dropped out of sight right about the time we took Kolak off the street,” Yanty replied. “Maybe that was enough to spook him—or maybe he’s on a low-key business trip. Jenkins agreed to put out an APB so there’s a good chance that a patrol unit will spot him.”

  “That’s perfect,” Lee responded. “And Holby? What about him?”

  “Same thing,” Yanty answered. “The men and women in blue are looking for him as well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Lee replied. “The sooner we put him on ice, the sooner I can feel comfortable around garbage trucks again.”

  Both detectives chuckled. “I have some news, too,” Prospo said. “It isn’t as sexy as what Dick dragged in—but I think you’ll like it. Stryker’s attorney is busy cutting a deal with the DA. Stryker claims that there’s more to his relationship with Getty than what we saw on the tape. He says that Getty promised to hire him when he retires next year in return for the union’s support.”

  Yanty produced a low whistle. “Wow . . . That’s like icing on the cake.”

  “Way to go Milo,” Lee put in. “Good job. Feel free to leave at three thirty.”

  Prospo frowned. “That’s when my shift ends anyway.”

  Lee smiled. “I know . . . The Bonebreaker is still out there. We need to find him.”

  • • •

  Getty was sitting at her desk reading the results of a snap poll conducted by her campaign organization. Her numbers were down, and how could it be otherwise given the Maxim tape, and all the negative publicity? According to the
summary of results 52 percent of the city’s registered voters disapproved of her performance as mayor, 44 percent approved, and 4 percent were undecided. That was bad . . . But not as bad as Getty had feared. Not “it’s the end of the road” bad. With months to go before the next election, there was still time to turn the situation around. That’s what Getty was thinking when her secretary stepped into the office. “Chief Yessum is here, Mayor.”

  “Send him in,” Getty said. “And you know how he likes his coffee.”

  “I’m on it,” Chloe said cheerfully, and disappeared. Like most of the members of Getty’s staff, Chloe was doing the best she could to keep a stiff upper lip even though her job was on the line, too . . . Which is all the more reason to battle on, Getty thought to herself.

  Getty was up and circling her desk by the time Yessum entered the room. “Good afternoon, Chief . . . How’s it going?”

  Yessum gave her the usual hug before he answered. His expression was glum. “Things are going poorly I’m afraid.”

  Getty felt her spirits plummet. “Have a seat, Sam. What’s wrong?”

  Yessum was sitting across from her. “You know that the DA is putting the squeeze on your friends.”

  Getty noted that Yessum had chosen to use the word “friends” rather than “coconspirators.” It was another reason why she liked him. “Yes, I believe that’s SOP in a situation like mine.”

  “Yes, it is,” Yessum agreed. “And I’m sorry to say that Mr. Stryker’s attorney is in the process of cutting a deal with the DA.”

  Getty felt the walls closing in on her. “What kind of deal?”

  “He’s going to testify that you agreed to give him a job in exchange for support from the Sanitation Workers Union.”

  Getty looked away. Moss was dead, Silverman was her rock, and the Jones case was extremely weak. That left Ma and Stryker. She’d been hoping that they would hang tough. But now, based on the news regarding Stryker, things had just gone from bad to worse. She forced herself to make eye contact. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. Is that all of the bad news? I sure as hell hope so.”