Mortal Faults (18 page)

28

Reynolds awoke in darkness, which resolved itself into the office at his home. Vaguely he was surprised to find himself there. Then he remembered the time he’d spent with Rebecca, and how he’d left her curled on the floor and shaking, her midsection and thighs and upper arms purple with bruises. Having released his frustration, he’d felt calm, almost sleepy, as he drove home. He hadn’t bothered going upstairs. He had retreated into his office for another Scotch, consumed it in the dark, and nodded off behind his desk.

The luminous clock at his desk read 3:13 a.m. And a phone was ringing.

His cell. He’d flung it into a corner after hearing from Shanker.

Maybe Shanker was calling back. Maybe he’d found a way to get the job done, after all.

He left his chair and searched the darkness until he retrieved the phone, then pressed TALK.

“Yeah?” he said, hearing both anger and desperate optimism in his voice.

“How’s it hanging, Jack?”

It wasn’t Shanker. It was Abby Sinclair.

He blinked. “Do you know what time it is?” The question was absurd—of course she knew—but it was the only thing he could think of to say.

“It’s coming up on three fifteen. Gee, I really hope I didn’t wake you.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“To do you a favor. Well, not so much a favor as an act of reciprocal generosity. The old mutual back scratching, first popularized by our primate ancestors.”

There was something funny about her voice. She was speaking too fast, her words racing, her voice jumpy. Like she was on drugs or something. Or rattled, maybe.

Yes. He thought that was it.

Sinclair was scared.

“You’re not making much sense,” he said quietly, allowing all emotion to drain from his voice, setting his composure as a contrast to her panic.

“Sorry. Sometimes I start communicating in my own private language, you know. Like James Joyce, only without the artistry. Or the accent.”

“What are you driving at?”

“What I’m driving, Jack, is a bargain. A hard bargain, but one that will be beneficial to us both.”

“Go on.”

“Not over the phone. Some things need to be discussed face to face. I want a meeting. Tomorrow. You can fit me into your schedule, I’m sure. Get Moneypenny to arrange it. You know, your standoffish secretary.”

“She’s not my secretary. She’s my constituent services coordinator.”

“Well, I’m not a constituent, but I can do you a service—in exchange for certain considerations.”

“There’s nothing you can do for me.”

“Wrong-o, Jacko. I can do plenty. Are you going to meet with me or not?”

“We can meet privately in the morning—”

“Privacy isn’t what I had in mind. No offense, Congressman, but I trust you about as much as—well, as any other politician. Especially after that stunt you pulled a few hours ago. You know, the jackbooted thugs goose-stepping through Andrea’s bungalow like it was Poland circa 1936.”

“1939,” Reynolds corrected automatically.

“Point is, I know what you’re capable of.”

He doubted that. He really did.

Of course he wasn’t surprised that she’d heard about the attack on Andrea’s house. It had been a top news story. And she wouldn’t have needed much imagination to peg him as the one responsible.

But something more than that must have happened. Something that was testing the limits of her self-control.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Sinclair?” he asked.

“No. I’m not all right. I am, in the words of a recent acquaintance of mine, screwed, blued, and tattooed. I’m in a jam. It’s only going to get worse. But you’re going to help me out of it.”

“What kind of jam?”

“The kind I could go to jail for. Which is all you’re going to hear about it, because it’s irrelevant. What’s relevant is that I can solve your problems along with my own.”

“And how can we do that?”

“Are we going to meet or not? I want people around. I want a crowd.”

“I’m hosting a barbecue at my house for some of my more well-heeled constituents. It starts at noon. There should be at least two hundred guests. Is that enough of a crowd for you?”

“It’ll do.”

“Good. I’ll have my campaign manager, Mr. Stenzel, put you on the guest list.”

“Not under my real name. Any media going to be there?”

“One or two stringers, maybe.”

“Have him put me on the media list under the name Wanda Klein. I’m with, uh,
Gold Coast Magazine
.”

“You’ll need a press pass to get by security.”

“That’s not problem.”

“You still haven’t told me how you can help me.”

“Haven’t I?” He heard her draw a deep, frightened breath. “Okay, then, Jack. How’s this? I can give you Andrea Lowry. I can deliver her right into your hands.”

Click, and the call was over.

Reynolds stared into the darkness. Then slowly he began to laugh.

29

Abby lay in bed, awake but unwilling to rise and face the daylight beyond her bedroom window. She wasn’t sure how much sleep she’d gotten—three or four hours, maybe. Not good sleep, either, but the restless, troubled kind. Last night she’d been too exhausted even to shed her clothes, spotted with blood from Dylan’s broken nose. She was still wearing them now. They felt pasted on, a second layer of skin.

Finally she swung out of bed. She was thinking about running the shower and making it hot, very hot, when her cell phone rang.

“Hell,” she muttered, not in a conversational mood. She picked up her purse and found her cell. “Abby Sinclair.”

“We need to talk.” It was Tess.

Abby managed a smile. “Miss me already?”

Tess didn’t acknowledge the remark. Apparently she wasn’t in the mood for banter, either. “There’s a park on the bluffs in Santa Monica. You know the one I mean?”

“Palisades Park.”

“Meet me there at Ocean Avenue and Wilshire Boulevard. Half hour.”

“I’m not sure I can—”

Tess had already hung up.

“—make it that soon,” Abby finished, speaking only to herself. She checked the clock: eight forty-five. Early for a phone call. Her friend at the FBI was pretty revved up about something. Three guesses what it was.

She got out a clean outfit, not bothering with the shower. She stripped, then studied herself in the mirror. The bruises from her dustup with Leon Trotman were still visible, along with a couple of new contusions, courtesy of Dylan. No cuts, no scrapes. None of the blood on her clothes was hers.

That’s how you know if you’ve had a good night, Abby thought. If none of the blood is yours.

It was what she’d always told herself. Now she knew it was a lie. Last night had not been good. Not good at all.

***

Tess drove to Palisades Park in her Bureau car, wondering how she was supposed to feel.

Scared, she decided. Scared of what she might be about to learn.

She wasn’t quite sure why the prospect frightened her. Abby had never been a friend in a true sense. More like a sometime ally, whose deepest motives were hidden, whose agenda was purely her own.

But while Tess hadn’t ever fully trusted Abby, she had thought she could count on her. No, that didn’t make sense. Or maybe it did. She could count on Abby to do the right thing by her own standards, and though Abby’s standards were more lax than her own, they were real and predictable. There were limits to what she would do. There were boundaries. Or so Tess had thought.

She might have been wrong.

The phone in her hotel room had started clamoring at five thirty. It was Hauser, calling to summon her to an emergency squad meeting at six a.m. She asked what had happened, but Hauser said only, “Get over here.”

Even while she threw on clothes and retrieved her government-issue sedan from the hotel parking lot, she was fighting off an ugly suspicion at the back of her mind. But she didn’t begin to believe it until she was seated in the conference room with twenty other agents, Crandall among them, while Hauser handed out crime scene photos taken by the Santa Ana P.D.

“The victim’s name was Dylan Garrick,” Hauser said. “At about one a.m. he was shot twice in the face at close range. Apparently the weapon was his own gun—a Glock nine, wrapped in a pillow to muffle the report. Even so, someone heard the shot and called it in. Police responded and found the door open—no indication of forced entry—and Garrick dead in the living room. Garrick was known to local authorities as a member of a biker club called the Scorpions. He had the gang logo tattooed on his neck, as you can see.”

The insect design was clearly visible in several of the photos. A distinguishing mark if ever there was one.

“Assumption is that somebody offed him on gang-related business—someone he knew, since the door wasn’t forced. In Santa Ana this is all pretty routine. But when they searched the place, they turned up a gun in the bedroom, H and K MK-23, with a military clip holding forty-five caliber plus-P hollowpoints.”

Tess flipped to photos of the gun in a bureau drawer.

“As you know, the crew who broke into Andrea Lowry’s house were shooting forty-five plus-P JHPs. Our Santa Ana office was notified. We matched the gun to one of the weapons that left bullets in Andrea Lowry’s drywall. Dylan Garrick was one of the shooters.”

“They popped him because he screwed up the hit,” someone offered. “Penalty for failure.”

“That’s what we’re thinking.”

It wasn’t what Tess was thinking. She shifted in her chair.

Hauser noticed her restlessness. “Question, Agent McCallum?”

Actually, there
was
something she wanted to ask. “You said the gunshot was called in. Who made the call?”

“Anonymous female,” Hauser said.

“Didn’t they trace the call?”

“They did. To a pay phone down the street. Which suggests that our caller really did not want to be identified. Assuming the caller is a neighbor, she left the building to make the call. Muffled her voice, too—like she was talking through her hand.”

“Why take all those precautions?”

Hauser shrugged. “The neighborhood’s not one where there’s a very good rapport between the police and the local citizenry. People don’t want to get involved.”

“Then why call it in at all?”

“Hell if I know. You have any ideas?”

None that she wanted to share.

Hauser finished his review of the facts by saying that Santa Ana police had already rounded up a number of Scorpions, including the pair who ran with Garrick. “And they picked up a guy who runs a cycle repair shop, name of Ronald Shanker, who runs the club. It’s a good bet either Shanker zipped Garrick personally or he knows who did. So far nobody’s talking.”

“There any connection between the Scorpions and Reynolds?” asked a voice at the back of the room.

“I don’t know the answer to that. It’ll be up to you fine people to find out.”

Tess wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. But of course she had to know. She had to know everything.

And the first thing she needed to learn was Abby’s whereabouts last night.

She arrived at Palisades Park and slipped the sedan into a space at the curb, then waited on the lawn, flicking glances at her wristwatch. Abby was late. If she failed to show up, it would be as good as an admission of guilt.

“You’re looking a little squirrelly, Tess.” The voice made her jump. Abby, behind her. The woman had some kind of knack for sneaking up on people.

“You’re late,” Tess said.

“Got here ASAP. I’m surprised you even know about this place.”

Tess led her farther from the street, away from passersby. “I came here during the Mobius case to get away from people and think things through. I’d been working a crime scene across the street at the MiraMist.”

“Oh, right. Mobius killed somebody in that hotel.”

“Yes. And I ended up staying there the next time I was in town. In fact, I’m staying there now.”

“Then I guess it’s true. There really is no such thing as bad publicity.” They had reached the walkway at the edge of the bluff, overlooking the coast highway and the beach. “I assume there’s an urgent reason for calling me here at this ungodly hour?”

Tess wasn’t quite ready to get into that. “Did I wake you? I thought you’d be the type to get up early.”

“Usually I am. But I guess the shootout at the OK Corral left me a little keyed up. I was up half the night. Hey, that reminds me of a joke. You hear about the agnostic, dyslexic insomniac? He lies awake at night wondering if there’s a dog.”

She paused for a laugh. Tess didn’t oblige.

“Tough room,” Abby said.

“So is that the only reason you’re tired?” Tess asked.

“Do I need another one?”

“Where were you last night, Abby?”

“With you, at the Boiler Room. Remember?”

“I mean where did you go after you left the diner?”

“Home.”

“Really?”

“Really. Where else would I go?”

That was the question, Tess thought. “I’m wondering if you didn’t try to hunt down the shooters.”

“Hey, didn’t we already have this conversation? And didn’t I tell you I’d love to find the bastards, but I don’t know where to look?”

“Yes. You said all that.”

“So what is this,
Groundhog Day
?”

Tess frowned. “What?”

“Bill Murray, Andie Macdowell, Punxatawney Phil, same day over and over ...”

Tess shook her head, uncomprehending.

Abby shrugged. “I forgot. You’re not a movie fan.”

“I don’t have time for movies.”

“Everybody has time for movies. Movies are what life is all about.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now I—”

“By the way, did it ever occur to you that Bill Murray’s two most famous movies both feature rodents? Gopher in
Caddieshack
, groundhog in
Groundhog Day
.”

“That’s very interesting, but—”

“If I were his agent, I would insist that he never do another movie without a rodent in it.”

“Abby—”

“He could do a remake of
Fantasia
, maybe. That one had Mickey Mouse.”

“So I recall. Now—”

“Or
The Green Mile
. Or
Of Mice and Men
. That’s a classic. Speaking of classics, last time we worked together you told me you’d never seen
The Godfather
. That still true?”

Tess had lost control of the conversation, as she always did with Abby. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Big mistake. Suppose you get killed in the line of duty. Your last thought will be, ‘Darn it, I never saw
The Godfather
.’”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“It’s the things we never did that we regret most.”

Tess tried to regain the initiative. “How about you, Abby? What are
your
regrets?”

“Well, I never learned to tap dance. Or was it lap dance? I always get those two confused.”

“Nothing more ... immediate?”

“Is this the part where I confess my sins and you prescribe forty Hail Marys?”

“It’s the part where I ask you again about your whereabouts last night.”

Abby released a theatrical sigh. “I was home alone. Like Macauley Culkin, which is another movie reference you’re not going to get.”

“Alone. So no one can back you up on that?”

“I share my condo with a collection of stuffed animals, but they’re not talking. Why do I need an alibi?”

“Last night one of the shooters from Andrea’s house was killed.”

Tess watched Abby’s reaction. She saw what might have been surprise, or only a very good simulation of it.

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, I hope,” Abby said.

“This isn’t something to joke about.”

“No, it’s something to celebrate. Where did it happen?”

“At the victim’s apartment in Santa Ana.”

“He was no victim.”

Tess gave her a sharp look. “He was, in this case.”

“How do you know he was one of the hit men?”

“The Bureau has an R.A. in Santa Ana. A resident agency. Satellite office.”

“I know the lingo.”

“Since Reynolds’ home base is Orange County, and we assumed he was connected to the home invasion, we told the Santa Ana office to be alert for any activity that could be tied to the case. They heard about the killing from the local PD.”

“Don’t tell me. PD stands for police department.”

“The Santa Ana office had the victim’s gun tested against some rounds dug out of Andrea’s walls. They made a ballistics match.”

“So this is good news. Just link this guy to Reynolds, and case closed.”

“We don’t think it’ll be that easy. The shooter was probably working through an intermediary. He belonged to a biker gang called the Scorpions. Ever hear of them?”

“Nope.”

“They’re centered in Santa Ana.”

“Reynolds’ brownshirts?”

“Could be—although there’s no known connection.”

“He may have just been discreet.” Abby smiled. “Well, I appreciate the heads-up.”

“It’s more than a heads-up, Abby.”

“You don’t seriously think I squashed this Scorpion?”

“So you didn’t fire the shot that killed him?”

“Yes, I did. I mean no. No, I didn’t. Oh God, you’ve gotten me so confused—”

Tess ground her teeth. “Very funny.”

“Look, I understand your concern. This guy came perilously close to nailing my ass. That burns me. I don’t like spending my Friday nights dead. It’s bad enough there’s never anything good on TV.”

“Can we stick to the subject?” Tess interrupted.

“The subject is me and my absence of guilt. Yes, I had motive. But I didn’t have opportunity.”

“If you’d had the opportunity, would you have shot him?”

“I make it a practice never to answer hypotheticals.”

“Answer this one.”

Abby took a moment to think about it. In a low voice she said, “Maybe.”

“You would kill an unarmed man in cold blood?”

“Blood’s warm, not cold. I’ve never understood that expression.”

“You’d be willing to kill,” Tess pressed, “rather than turn him in to the police? To get street justice instead of the real thing?”

“Sometimes street justice
is
the real thing.”

“I’m sorry you said that.”

“I’m sorry you asked.”

Tess turned away. “I’m heading down to the crime scene. I intend to investigate further.”

Abby simulated a shiver. “Watch out, bad guys. Inspector McCallum is on the job.”

“If there’s anything you need to tell me, now is the time.”

Abby gave her a bland stare. “I’m afraid I don’t have any true confessions for you.”

“So if I were to examine your hand, I wouldn’t find GSR?”

“Is that a trick question? Of course you would. I fired Andrea’s gun during the shootout. I’ve showered since then, but there are probably still some traces of unburned particulate.”

It was a good answer. Tess had to accept it. “All right. Well, I have to get to Santa Ana.”

“Ever been there?”

“No.”

“One recent survey rated it the most economically and socially challenged metropolitan area in the United States. Take that, Flint, Michigan.”