Deadeye (7 page)

Lee's vision was limited to the horizontal eye slit. But she could still see quite a bit, however, including the way the air shimmered over the hot concrete and Popeye's emaciated figure as he came toward her. He was holding a long-barreled pistol down along his right leg. That ran counter to the ostensibly friendly manner in which the criminal had approached Mr. and Mrs. Fuentes. It looked as if Popeye had grown more cautious and less inclined to pretend.

Lee's line of reasoning was interrupted by the loud rumble of engines as three customized motorcycles entered the parking lot from different directions and started to converge on her. That, too, was different from Popeye's previous MO and a reason for concern. “Uh-oh,” a male voice said in her ear. “Cherko brought backup.”

Mick Ferris was in charge of the six-person SWAT team that was deployed on the roof of the building behind Lee. Their positions had been carefully chosen and were well camouflaged. Initially, Lee had assumed that the snipers would be largely superfluous. Now she was glad to have them. “So it would seem,” she said, as her heart began to pound. “Wait for me to identify myself—then go with the flow.”

*   *   *

Lee had a reputation as a loner and a bitch. But Ferris had to give the detective credit. He could see her through the telescopic sight on his .308 caliber Remington 700P rifle. And as the motorcycles came to a stop, and the riders got off, Lee stood her ground. Of course, that was what one would expect of a cop who had smoked nine bad guys in a single gun battle. Still, standing there all alone took some major ovaries. He whispered into his mike. “You heard her . . . From the left . . . Tanaka, Hoover, myself, and Ramirez. Oko will cover our six—and Miller has the overlook. Stay sharp.”

*   *   *

Popeye came to a stop. The fact that she was still there came as a surprise. He had expected her to run. Then the other band members would run her down. The breeze ruffled the burqa and the duffel produced a puff of dust as it hit the ground. “You want parts, and I have parts,” Popeye said. His crew were flanking him by then. Skitch and Kat stood to his right, with Zeeb on the left. It was the same lineup they used onstage.

Lee pushed her badge out through a slit in the fabric. “LAPD! Drop your weapons! You are under arrest!”

*   *   *

Light reflected off the stainless-steel Colt as it came up. But the process was still under way when Ferris put a bullet into Popeye's skull. Maybe the bastard was wearing armor and maybe he wasn't. It paid to be careful. There was a sudden spray of blood as the bullet exited through the back of Popeye's skull. His body hit the pavement and lay with arms spread.

The woman to Lee's left was dressed in leathers and sporting a pink crew cut. She was armed with a sawed-off shotgun which discharged into the air as a third eye appeared between the two she already had.

Then it was over as the others dropped their weapons, raised their hands, and were ordered to lie facedown on the ground. Lee kept them covered while members of the SWAT team came to join her. Then it was time to remove the baggie as Ferris appeared at her side. “Two scumbags down and a quarter million left to go,” he said.

“That's a lot.”

Ferris nodded. “There's a lot of Popeyes out there.”

“Yes,” Lee agreed as she looked down at the body. “But this is the only one that Mrs. Fuentes cares about.”

LEE WAS STARING
at a computer screen in a small, nearly featureless room at the
Los Angeles Times
building. It was Sunday, and the newspaper's so-called morgue was closed. But after plying the weekend crew with coffee and doughnuts, Lee had been allowed to use the facility anyway.

Material from the last few years was available online. But the older stuff, meaning stories written immediately after the onset of the plague, could only be accessed via terminals in the morgue. Unfortunately, there wasn't much of it. Many of the reporters were terminally ill as they wrote about besieged hospitals, desperate mobs, and acts of unexpected kindness. As a result, there were days when the paper was only a few pages long and a period of weeks during which nothing was published at all.

Tears streamed down Lee's cheeks as she skimmed page after page. The plague and its effects on LA was an enormous story, so she knew the chances of finding some mention of Alma Kimble were slim, but the photo of the girl standing between the two policemen continued to haunt her. And like any detective, Lee was used to following up on leads no matter how tenuous they might be.

So Lee continued to read, looking for any mention of the mysterious woman. And finally, after an hour and a half of sifting through old editions of the paper, she hit pay dirt. It wasn't as complete as she'd hoped for—but the brief obituary was better than nothing. It appeared in a special edition of the paper called
The People We Lost
and had clearly been written by a relative. “Alma Kimble, age 22. Alma got sick so she shot herself rather than run the risk of becoming a mutant or dying of the plague. May God forgive and keep her.”

Lee was still in the process of absorbing that when her phone rang. She checked the screen and saw the name, “Roscoe McGinty.” One of the two men pictured with Alma shortly before her death. Was that a matter of coincidence? Or a cosmic echo? The phone rang again. Lee thumbed the screen. “Yes, sir.”

“Sorry to bother you on a day off,” McGinty said, “but I need your help—and I'd like to brief you before we meet with the victim's family.”

“Okay,” Lee responded. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I'm in Beverly Hills,” McGinty replied. “At a restaurant called Maximo's.”

Lee was about to ask “What victim?” when the line went dead. So all she could do was thank the Sunday editor, return to the ground floor, and go out to where her motorcycle was parked. It was a replica of a 2002 Harley Davidson Road King—Police Edition. Though not the real deal, it had all of the original bike's distinctive features, including the huge headlamp, the teardrop-shaped gas tank, and the simple saddle-type seat. A pair of metal panniers completed the look. There was no windscreen; nor did Lee want one. The bubble-shaped visor attached to her helmet was enough protection.

The bike started up at the touch of a button, produced the throaty roar that Lee loved so much, and pulled away from the curb. Traffic was heavy, but based on the stories her father liked to tell, it was nothing compared to the old days. Back before half the population died.

The Hollywood Freeway took Lee to the Silver Lake Boulevard off-ramp, and it wasn't long before that morphed into Beverly Boulevard. Maximo's was half a mile to the west.

Lee spotted the restaurant's sign, slowed, and turned into a pristine driveway that led past the white stucco building to the lot in back. A valet came out to greet her. He was dressed in a red bolero-style jacket and black trousers. Lee braked, toed the bike into neutral, and removed the helmet. “I'll park it myself. Where should I put it?”

The valet had been expecting to see a man, and his expression changed subtly. “Yes, ma'am. Slot five is available.”

Lee nodded, put the Harley in gear, and rode it over to a slot that was sandwiched between a low-slung red sports car and a black limo. She'd never been to Maximo's, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that the restaurant was popular with the city's movers and shakers.

She left the helmet sitting on top of the gas tank and crossed the lot to a door sheltered by a red awning. Once she was inside, a woman in a black cocktail dress came forward to greet her. There was a frown on her face. “Yes? Are you looking for work? The manager will be in tomorrow.”

That was when Lee remembered the way she was dressed. The outfit consisted of a waist-length leather jacket, a tee shirt, ripped jeans, and her combat boots. Not the sort of ensemble the staff and customers were used to seeing. “No,” Lee replied. “I'm employed. Has Deputy Chief McGinty arrived? He asked me to meet him here.”

The frown was magically transformed into a smile. “Of course! You're Detective Lee . . . Please follow me.”

Lee followed the hostess into a large dining room. The tables were covered with white linen and set with gleaming silverware. An elaborate buffet occupied most of one wall, and it appeared that Sunday brunch was well under way.

As Lee followed the hostess between two rows of tables, she got the impression that the restaurant's well-dressed clientele had come for more than the food. They were there to see and to be seen. Heads swiveled, and there was a sudden buzz of conversation as Lee approached the table where McGinty was seated.

*   *   *

McGinty saw heads turn as Lee entered the room. Part of that had to do with the way she was dressed. She looked like a biker babe—but a babe with a difference. Lee's hard-edged charisma had very little to do with her looks. It came from somewhere deep inside. So why did he dislike her? No, it wasn't dislike so much as a feeling of discomfort that stemmed from the fact that she was Frank's daughter. That wasn't fair, of course, but what was.

*   *   *

Lee saw that McGinty was looking at her. He was dressed in a blue blazer, an open-collared dress shirt, and khaki slacks. Somehow, Lee got the feeling that her boss was no stranger to the restaurant or to the people who frequented the place. That was something of a revelation since the possibility that McGinty had an existence separate from the LAPD hadn't occurred to her. McGinty stood. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

All of Lee's internal alarms went off. McGinty was being nice.
Why?

“Let's order something to eat,” McGinty suggested. “Then we can talk.”

Lee eyed the menu, saw the prices, and hoped McGinty was going to pick up the tab. She took a pass on the fifty-dollar brunch and ordered an open-faced crab melt for thirty bucks. Crab and cheese on a toasted muffin . . . What could go wrong?

All of the waiters were dressed head to toe in gray hazmat suits and spit masks. Not because they were contagious. Far from it. But as a way to assure customers that every possible measure had been taken to protect their safety. McGinty ignored the buffet in favor of orange-scented red beet risotto, with blackberries, mascarpone, and juniper balsamic vinegar. “Okay,” he said, once the waiter had left. “Are you familiar with the Church of Human Purity?”

Lee frowned. “I've seen the commercials . . . But that's it.”

“Well, as the name might suggest, the church is focused on the concept of purity, both spiritual and physical.”

Lee eyed him across the table. “So mutants need not apply?”

McGinty made a face. “Exactly. According to the church's founder, a man named Bishop Screed, the plague was sent by God to cleanse the planet of evil.”

“So the good people lived?” Lee inquired cynically. “And the bad people died? Including millions of children?”

“I am not a member of the church,” McGinty said, “but yes. That's my understanding.”

“So Bishop Screed would see a scumbag like Popeye as a
good
person?”

“Cherko wasn't around at the time of what Screed calls the cleansing. But it's my understanding that the bishop sees the plague as a fresh start. That doesn't mean people will choose good over evil.”

Having just finished reading dozens of accounts, Lee knew that millions of good people had died during the plague, and she spoke without thinking. “What about Alma Kimble? Was she evil?”

McGinty's head jerked as if he'd been slapped. “Alma? What do you know about her?”

Lee was sorry she had spoken by that time but couldn't see a way out. “I have a picture of her standing between you and my father; I know she's buried at the Evergreen Cemetery; and I know she committed suicide.”

McGinty stared at her. “Suicide? What makes you think so?”

Lee was telling him about the obituary when the food arrived. McGinty leaned forward once they were alone. Lee could see the anger in his eyes. His voice was low and intense. “You're a good detective, Cassandra. That's why you're here. But you are obsessed as well. No, don't try to bullshit me. I know that most of your spare time is spent looking for the person or persons who killed your father. But once you start searching for the truth, there's no telling where that journey will lead. Alma was a wonderful girl. I was deeply in love with her. And your father? Well, he wanted her . . . But only as a plaything—and because Alma was important to me.”

Lee started to speak, but McGinty shook his head. “No. You wanted the truth, and you're going to have it. Now, where was I? Your father wanted Alma, too. And, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, she wanted him.

“Then the plague struck, and she became ill. Very ill. The symptoms were consistent with
B. nosilla
. Millions died, but some people caught the plague and made a full recovery. Others weren't so lucky. They became ill, survived, and became mutants. That possibility terrified Alma. I told her it didn't matter. I told her I would love and care for her no matter what happened.

“But when I returned to my apartment one night, I found an envelope taped to the door. The letter was from Alma. ‘Dear Ross,' it said. ‘I can't face what could happen, so I'm going to a place where the plague doesn't exist. Thank you for everything. Love, Alma.'”

Lee could see the pain in McGinty's eyes. “I was a cop . . . So I knew where to go. And they let me inside. Because I told them it was part of a criminal investigation I was allowed to see the body. There were so many dead people waiting to be buried that they were stacked inside a supermarket freezer. It took fifteen minutes to dig Alma out. And once they did I saw the bullet hole. It was dead center in the back of her head.”

At that point, he just looked at Lee—waiting for her to process the information. Lee frowned. She knew that a self-inflicted wound would have to be at an angle. “Dead center?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“So someone else shot her?”

“Yes. Your father shot her.”

Lee was shocked. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” McGinty replied grimly. “I went to him . . . I asked, ‘Did you shoot Alma?' And he said, ‘Yes.' He said that she asked him to. So I hit him . . . That led to a fight, and I lost. I requested a different partner, got one, and that was the end of it. So, Cassandra, that's the
real
story about who Alma Kimble was . . . And, I'm sorry to say, it's the real story about who your father was as well. A cold-blooded son of a bitch who didn't care about anyone other than himself.”

Lee didn't want to believe that. But even if it was true, that didn't mean her father was a monster. It sounded as if Alma
wanted
to die—and knew McGinty would refuse to help. So perhaps her father
was
in love with Alma. Maybe he loved her so much that he'd been willing to kill her. Or was that a bunch of self-serving crap? There had been something remote about him . . . A coldness that Lee rarely allowed herself to consider because to do so would be disloyal. “I'm sorry,” she said, and discovered that she meant it.

McGinty looked away and swallowed as if to control his emotions. There was a crooked smile on his lips as his eyes came back into contact with hers. “Me too,” he said. “Enough of that. Let's eat.”

The cheese on Lee's crab meat had congealed by then, but the meal was good anyway. McGinty ate half of his food before pushing the plate to one side. “Let's get back to the case at hand,” he said. “A crime was committed, and it doesn't matter what Screed and his followers believe. Our duty is to solve it.”

Lee paused with a fork halfway to her mouth. “And the crime is?”

“Kidnapping,” McGinty said grimly. “Bishop Screed's daughter Amanda was abducted in broad daylight on Rodeo Drive. We're searching for her but no luck thus far. And, because Screed's followers have a tendency to vote as a block, the mayor is involved. She called Chief Corso and asked for you. ‘I want the cop that killed the bank robbers.' That's what she said.”

Lee's eyebrows rose. “And Corso went along?”

“Of course he did,” McGinty replied matter-of-factly. “Corso wants to keep his job and, more than that, he might want to run for office later on. If he does, a good relationship with the present mayor could come in handy.”

Lee knew that people at McGinty's level and above had to play politics to survive and didn't envy them. “Were there any witnesses?”

“Yes,” McGinty replied. “But before you talk to them, you should speak with Screed . . . To shut him up if nothing else. And why not? You would talk to him anyway.”

That was true, but Lee would have preferred to speak with people who might help solve the case first. “Has Screed received a ransom demand?”

“No, not that I know of. The bishop should be home from church by now. So let's drop in.”

Lee was thrilled to see her boss pick up the check. Their eyes met as he put his wallet away. “The stuff about Alma . . . That's between the two of us, right?”

Lee frowned. “Alma who?”

McGinty chuckled. “You're a pain in the ass—but I like your style.”