by Robert Ellis
He took another deep breath and exhaled. If he was doing what he had to do, why was he sweating?
He holstered his pistol, walked through the living room, and switched on the outdoor lights. Then, fighting off the shakes, he walked outside to his car and backed out of the carport. As he started up the block, he could see the six cops sprinting around the house to their patrol units. After a few minutes, he checked the rearview mirror and saw that all five cars were in line and openly following him.
It took half an hour to reach Burton’s place on Mulholland Drive. Matt pulled through the gate, ignoring his entourage and arming his car alarm. Then he climbed the steps two at a time and found Burton waiting for him by the open front door. They nodded at each other while Burton locked the door behind them. When they entered his study, Val was already here, sitting in a chair by the desk. Matt noted the TV mounted on the wall as he crossed the room—the picture was on with the sound off. It looked as if the news had been reduced to a single story tonight. City councilwoman Dee Colon had managed to get Detective Matt Jones thrown off a homicide case and ended up savagely murdered.
Like Hudson said, connect the dots. One plus one equals twenty to life, or better yet, the needle.
Burton pointed to the chair beside Val, and Matt sat down.
“Don’t say anything to me, Matt. Not one word, okay? I’m a prosecutor. An officer of the court. Anything you say to me could be used against you, and you know it. They’d force me to testify, and I’d have to do it.”
Matt wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead as he glanced at Val, then back at Burton. He was trapped, and he knew it. He was nervous.
Burton leaned against the window. “Your arrest is imminent. It’s one thirty. I expect they’ll be ready by seven. It’s time to call an attorney. It’s time to call Paladino.”
Matt shook his head back and forth, deep inside himself. “It’s no good,” he said. “Not now. Not yet.”
Burton sat down on the corner of his desk and appeared more than concerned. “Listen to me, Matt. Listen to me. It’s time to make arrangements with the police for your surrender.”
“Not yet,” Matt said. “Not tonight. Not until I can explain all this.”
Burton glanced at his wife—worried—then turned back. “Do you want me to turn up the sound on the TV? Do you want to hear what they’re saying about you? Dee Colon was on the city council, Matt. They’re not calling it a murder. They’re calling it an assassination. Do you understand the danger you’re in? Any cop on the street could shoot you.”
Matt didn’t say anything. He just wanted to get out of there and bolt. He could remember being ambushed and shot at in Afghanistan—completely outnumbered by the Taliban. He could remember his unit running away from the firefight and not knowing what was safe and what wasn’t until they got there.
Where was the there? Where was it tonight?
Burton leaned closer. “I can call Paladino myself. He’ll make the calls on your behalf. He’ll make sure that your surrender is done safely and bring you in himself.”
Matt stood up. “I’ve gotta go.”
Val shook her head. “Please, Matthew. Don’t do this.”
“I’ve gotta go,” he repeated.
His body had gone numb. He’d lost his focus. His ability to think. He needed to get out of here and run until he was there. Until he was safe.
FIFTY-THREE
The entourage was back in place as Matt left Burton’s house, leading the way east on Mulholland Drive. As they ambled up the street through the twists and turns in the hills high above the city, Matt had a chance to settle down.
He knew that he was missing something. That the key was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it.
It occurred to him that in a murder case, the way things look are often more important than the way they really are. Most people, including cops, don’t pay attention and become victimized by their first impressions. If they start believing something, and they’re given enough time to believe it, what was real and true can slip away with the chance of never being recovered.
And that was the problem. Like so many innocent people who were found guilty and sent to prison, it could take ten years or even a lifetime before anyone decided there was a problem and sorted this case out.
Matt let the idea fade. The nightmare.
What mattered was that Colon and her bodyguard were dead and done and now irrevocably linked to the murders of Moe Rey and Sophia Ramirez. Raines and Hudson had said it themselves. The two double murders were identical. The problem was that neither detective saw or understood the significance of their own words. Instead, they assumed Matt had a reason for killing Colon and was using the first double murder to cover the second.
Why were they forgetting about Robert Gambini? Why couldn’t they see that he was reducing the number of players and killing off the field in order to take everything for himself? And if Gambini really wanted it all, why did he take off? Where was he hiding out?
Matt wanted a look at the oxycodone Sonny Daniels and his remaining partner were moving in those fifty-five-gallon drums. He wanted to open one up and see for himself.
He checked his rearview mirror and stared at the cops following him in the night. He needed to lose these guys but thought his best chance would be on the other side of the Hollywood Reservoir. The roads were narrow there, with sharp bends that snaked through the entire canyon on both sides of the mountain. The cops would probably assume that Matt was looking for a way out of the hills. Beachwood Drive would make the most sense to them because of its proximity to three freeway entrances. But what if he lost them just long enough to cut back and head for the Valley? What if he could get them to chase his ghost into Hollywood while he slipped through Burbank and headed back to the DMG facility in Elysian Park?
He tossed it over. At least on the surface, it seemed doable.
The downside, of course, was that Matt knew he wouldn’t just look guilty anymore. He’d be making a run for it. He’d be underlining their belief that he really was guilty.
He passed over the Hollywood Freeway and started up the hill toward the reservoir, still mulling it over.
It was doable, he told himself. It might be grim, but it was doable.
We watched the road straighten out before him. Passing a string of homes, he glided around the bend and down a short incline to the reservoir. As he followed the road around the water and then up another ridge, he increased his speed slightly and started looking for the right moment, the right place. Another string of homes whizzed by. Then the bends sharpened as he entered Hollywood Hills and began his steep descent into Beachwood Canyon.
Matt gave the rearview mirror another look as he pushed air in and out of his lungs and wiped the sweat off his hands. The patrol units weren’t close enough to keep him in view as the road began to zigzag. For ten, maybe twenty seconds, he was in the clear. Invisible.
He saw the next bend, hit the gas, and then he hit it harder.
When he spotted Ledgewood Drive, he made a hard right, pulled into the first driveway, and killed the headlights.
He turned, eyeballing the street and waiting with his teeth clenched. After several seconds, the five patrol units sped by with their lights flashing. Matt knew that he only had a short time before they realized what he had done and doubled back. Jamming the car into reverse, he pulled onto the road and gunned the engine until he was back on top of the ridge.
There was another road there. A smaller road that looked like it led up the mountain and toward the Valley. Matt made a hard right, his tires screeching, and barreled forward. The road curved to the left and then to the right. Gazing into the sky, he didn’t see a chopper but guessed they would have been called in by now and were probably less than fifteen minutes away. It seemed like he might have a chance if he didn’t run out of time. But then he hit a straight patch in the road, looked over his shoulder, and saw the flashing lights. Two of the five cruisers were behind him, closing fas
t.
Matt floored it around another bend and realized that he’d reached Mount Lee Drive. The road ran all the way up the mountain to the Hollywood Sign but was a dead end. Out of options, he accelerated up the mountain until he heard a loud bang and felt the car lurch forward. Checking his mirrors, he realized that the first patrol unit had slammed into his bumper, the cop signaling him to pull over.
Matt grit his teeth, the fear washed away by rage. Rocketing forward, he saw the Hollywood Sign getting bigger, and still bigger.
And then he caught a glimpse of it. A possible exit. A possible way out.
With his headlights switched off, he couldn’t tell if it was a hiking trail or a fire road carved out of the dirt. In the end, he decided that it didn’t really matter. He spun the car to the right and gunned the engine. The way was narrow, the edge horrifically steep. He could hear the tires digging up sand and stones—the debris beating against the underside of the car and leaving a thick cloud of dust in his wake.
He felt another hard hit and swerved to stay on the dirt path. Looking over his shoulder, the first patrol unit had smashed into his car again. He couldn’t believe that the cop—the stupid goddamn cop—was intentionally trying to bulldoze him off the cliff.
Matt screamed out loud and hit the gas, still eyeballing the patrol unit. The cop had just slammed into the side of the mountain, skidded forward, and bounced onto the dirt path behind him.
Matt turned back and spotted a fork on the trail, the lights from the Griffith Observatory at the bottom on the mountain. While he couldn’t be certain, it looked like bearing right might lead down to the parking lot.
A moment passed as the grade steepened and the earth seemed to tilt downward. Giving the rearview mirror a nervous check, he noticed that both patrol units had pulled to a stop and were backing up. It didn’t make sense until he felt the car pitch forward. He looked ahead and saw that he was on a dirt fire road that had been heavily eroded by the last rainstorm. The surface was deeply cratered with long crevices running along the edge.
He tightened his grip on the wheel and tried to slow down. The car was hurdling forward, the steering column vibrating between his knees. He could feel the tires skipping up and off the ground. There was a loud banging sound, and then he crashed through the branches of a fallen tree.
For several seconds he thought he might be airborne. Everything went black, and his stomach vaulted into his throat. When the windshield cleared, he watched the car hop the curb and slammed his foot on the brake pedal.
The car skidded fifty feet across the observatory’s empty parking lot. Matt lowered his head and closed his eyes. He was hyperventilating, and the world seemed to be spinning round and round. When everything finally began to slow down, he climbed out of the car on shaky legs and gazed up into the hills. He could see the flashing lights just to the right of the Hollywood Sign at the very top of the mountain. All five patrol units were up there.
His body shivered in the cold night air, and he turned away.
Somehow, he’d made it.
He walked around the car, quickly checking the tires and eyeballing the scratches and dents and the thick layer of dust coating the roof and fenders. His cell phone let out a pulse, but he never bothered to dig it out of his pocket. Instead, he climbed back into the car, switched on the headlights, and sped out of the parking lot. It took twenty minutes to reach Elysian Park using surface streets—a ride that included passing Dodger Stadium and, ironically, the Police Academy. All the same, he made it to the picnic area at the top of the hill and was still breathing. Still in one piece.
He got out of the car, glancing at Sophia’s grave site under the pine trees as he crossed the lawn and checked his watch. It was 2:33 a.m. He couldn’t help noticing how quiet it was up there. How peaceful it could be at this time of night.
He climbed the grassy bank and gazed down the hill at the factory. He gave the place a long look.
The bay doors were open, and all the lights were on. Sonny Daniels and his partner, Ryan Moore, had shown up for work early. They had their sleeves rolled up and were loading a pallet’s worth of fifty-five-gallon drums onto a truck with the help of the three goons they’d hired. It seemed like they were in a hurry. But what struck Matt most was what he didn’t see.
No one handling the drums was wearing a hazmat suit.
Matt winced as he pulled out his .45 and rocked back the slide. Cantering through the woods, he hit the road and started down the hill. He didn’t much care if Sonny Daniels was in a hurry. He wanted a good look at that oxycodone, and it didn’t matter if it took all night.
FIFTY-FOUR
Matt raised his .45, then stepped through the open bay door and moved down an aisle of wooden pallets stacked ten feet high. When he reached the main floor, all five men turned. Matt’s eyes flicked to the three rough-looking thugs with pistols strapped to their shoulders and stayed there.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Matt said as he approached them. “There’s three of us and only one of him. The trouble with that idea is timing. This is a forty-five, and it’s already out. By the time you reach yours, all three of you guys are gonna be dead. That’s why it’s a bad idea, especially on a night like this one when I’m so pissed off. The truth is, killing something would make me feel better right now. Killing anything would set me free and make my night.”
Their faces changed, and the three guards raised their hands. The older one in the middle, a man whom Matt guessed was in his early forties, took a step forward with great care. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly low key.
“We don’t want any trouble, mister. This is just a job for all three of us. A temp job that goes away at the end of the week. It’s not worth dying over. It’s not worth making trouble for you or us.”
Sonny Daniels slammed his fist down on top of a drum in protest. “What do you idiots think I’m paying you for?”
The man turned. “You’re paying us to keep an eye on whatever rotten slop is in these barrels. And I know who this guy is. He’s a cop.”
Sonny Daniels mouthed the word loser, flashed a wicked sneer, and took two steps toward the guard as if reaching for the man’s gun. Matt gave the trigger on his .45 three quick pulls, blowing out the entire glass wall in the office above their heads. The sound of the gunshots echoing off the high walls and ceiling was deafening. Daniels stopped dead in his tracks, watching the glass rain down onto the floor, then stepped away from the guard.
Matt pointed the gun directly at his head. “The next one’s all yours, Sonny.”
No one said anything. Matt took a quick look around, spotting a box of heavy-duty cable ties on the supply shelf beside bins of disposable gloves and rags.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do right now. Sonny, you and your little friend are gonna sit down on the floor and lean back on your hands. You three guys are moving over to these drums. I’m sure you know the drill. Hands on the top, then step back until you’re at a forty-five-degree angle.”
Everyone, including Sonny Daniels, did as they were told without a word. Once the three guards were leaning forward, Matt stepped behind each one, removed their pistols from their holsters, and patted them down. Dumping the cable ties on the floor, Matt tossed all three pistols into the empty box and gave it a kick.
Everyone seemed to have their eyes on that box as it slid across the broken glass. When it finally came to a stop on the other side of the floor, Matt turned to the oldest of the three guards.
“Grab a couple of cable ties,” he said. “I want you to cuff your friends’ wrists, then both of them can sit down.”
The guard followed Matt’s instructions, threading the tie through the head and pulling it tight. When the two men sat down on the floor, Matt turned to Ryan Moore.
“Get over here, Moore.”
Moore gave him a look and shook his head. It was the sullen look of a spoiled fifteen-year-old man-boy with no manners and no respect. Matt walked over and slammed the barrel of the gu
n over his head. Moore cringed in pain and let out a yelp. Blood splashed onto his shirt from the gash in his scalp.
“This isn’t a game, Moore. Get over here and tie off the third guard or you’re gonna meet your maker.”
“What kind of cop are you?”
“The kind you see in your nightmares, Moore. Now do it.”
Matt prodded him with his piece. After a brief stare down, Moore got to his feet and cuffed the guard’s wrists. Once the man sat down, Moore returned to Sonny Daniels’s side, the gash in his head still bleeding.
Matt walked over to the first fifty-five-gallon drum beside the forklift and turned to Daniels.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Sonny. Now you and Moore are gonna open this up.”
Sonny’s eyes got big. “Are you out of your mind? That stuff’s lethal. Can’t you smell it?”
Matt noted the concern growing on the three guards’ faces.
“Open it, Sonny.”
“But I can’t,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. You were here that day. You saw what happened. We could all get sick.”
Matt acknowledged the three guards as he stepped over to Daniels and knelt down. Pointing the .45 at his head, he leaned closer and whispered in Daniels’s ear.
“I’ll bet that’s what you tell everybody who works here, Sonny. It’s hazardous waste. It’s poison. A possible death sentence ten years down the line. I’ll bet you and your buddy here spray that stench on the drums after everyone goes home at night. When they come back in the morning, they don’t know the difference. It keeps them on their toes. It keeps them from looking inside. I’ve gotta admit, the hazmat suits were a nice touch. Now cut the bullshit and open the drum, or I’ll blow your head off.”
Sonny Daniels grit his teeth, shaking in anger.
Matt took a step back and glanced at the guards, who now looked terrified.
“Relax, fellas. Believe me. The sky’s not falling in tonight.”
Sonny Daniels stood up with Moore. “They should be scared. Especially if any of this crap splashes out onto the floor.”
