Last Shot Page 27

  Aaronson had teamed up with Maybeck, breacher for ART and for the Service’s national Special Operations Group, to assess the explosive residue. As Tim suspected, the front window had been blown through with a linear shape charge, its firing assembly consisting of a blasting cap, a shock tube, and an initiator. The lab would need time to determine further specifics, but Tim already knew how the rest had played. To minimize on-site prepping, Walker would have prefabbed the charge, adhering a ring of the taffylike explosive cutting tape to an oval of cardboard. In about two seconds, he could’ve thunked the self-sticking charge onto the window, paid out the shock tube to a good standoff distance, and clicked the detonator. The distraction of the grenade had prevented the guards from redirecting their attention when Walker slapped the charge onto the ballistic pane. Walker had engineered the device with military precision, using exactly the right amount of ECT, the mark of a skilled breacher. The components were relatively common; none would be traceable.

  Precisely how Tim would have made the assault.

  Walker had reconned from a distance, waited for Keating’s return. Then he’d taken him out—strong man first—extracted information, and moved on the main house. He’d been geared up for the raid, but the girth of the safe room’s walls had come as a surprise, requiring a higher net explosive weight than he—or Tim—would’ve thought to lug along given binoc surveillance.

  Picking through the aftermath of a Spec Ops attack launched on a house felt eerie and unsettling. It was something that generally happened in the Third World, not in Bel Air. A taste of Kandahar, right here in L.A.’s backyard.

  The jagged edge of the glass had been caramelized. Tim tested the dark brown flakes with the tip of his finger. Freed paused on his way out the front door, Thomas at his side.

  “He should’ve killed the guards,” Tim said, mostly to himself. “Easier, more secure. It’s not like he’s concerned with his sentence.”

  Freed asked, “So why didn’t he?”

  “He’s only killing those he considers guilty.”

  Thomas said, “Fugitive after your own heart.” He gave Freed a little shove, moving them down the walk before Tim could respond.

  Tannino stormed by, his feathers and dated Italian Afro ruffled from navigating the camera zone. He pressed his cell phone to his side, the barking voice on the other end muffled by one of the love handles that had softened his frame in the past year or so. “I got you your goddamned task force, Rackley. Now find me this fucker.”

  He, too, breezed by, leaving Tim with the hole in the house. Edwin the butler appeared at the front door, holding a cordless phone in two honest-to-God white gloves, regarding Tim in the flower bed with a look of reserved contempt that he must have rehearsed to perfection in butler school. “Mr. Rackley. Telephone.”

  Tim stepped up onto the porch, splitting the stream of criminalists, paramedics, cops, and deputies, and took the phone. “Rackley.”

  “Sorry I stood you up.”

  Tim looked around. The movement continued, every worker bent to a task. Tannino was arguing with Aaronson over by the guesthouse. They were not set up for a tap on Dean Kagan’s phone, and Walker knew it.

  Tim keyed the radio freq of his Nextel, sending Bear a double-chime and a 911 text message. “Come by, let’s talk it over. I’m sure we could work out a way for me to forgive you.”

  Bear came jogging around the corner. Tim pointed to the phone, mouthing Walker’s name. Bear snapped open his phone, got Frisk on the line, then pointed inside. If they could get a verbal from Dean, Frisk would be able to jockey the phone line at its entry point to the house and save the time of shinnying up the pole.

  A chuckle from Walker. “Escape offense. Multiple homicide. Put the coffee on. I’ll be there in five.”

  “In the meantime…” Tim said, moving swiftly up the walk, heading inside. The foyer was full of criminalists who sounded off like birds when Tim passed through the crime scene.

  Frisk met him in the hall and mouthed, “What?”

  “In the meantime?” Walker repeated.

  Tim thought about Walker on the line, a rare opportunity to talk to his fugitive one-on-one. Being on an untapped line presented him a narrow window of opportunity he didn’t want to squander by tracing a throw-away phone that was gonna be ditched within a few minutes anyway.

  Tim shook his head, waved Frisk off. Frisk shrugged and headed out to his van.

  Tim said quietly, “There’s no reason we can’t share information.”

  “Until you bust my ass.”

  “Until I bust your ass.”

  “Or until I kill someone else.”

  “You’re not gonna kill anyone else.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’ll get you before that.”

  Another chuckle, then: “You were a Ranger.”

  “That’s right.”

  “‘If you are brave and bold, you, too, may wear the black and gold.’”

  “Something like that.” Tim started down the hall. “The safe-room steel caught you off guard. No time to go up through the floor?”

  “I was thinking the roof down to get the drop, but yeah.”

  “Solid entry downstairs. And I bet you got some good information from Percy. But I think you fucked up killing Chase. You could’ve gotten more answers out of him.”

  “Are there more answers to get?”

  “Why else you calling me?”

  “What do you know about my sister? Or was that just bullshit for the news?”

  “You might have to give to get.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because you need me. For your investigation.”

  A long pause. Tim strained to hear anything in the background, but there was just the crackle of the line.

  “She was raped at the kid’s commercial shoot,” Walker said. “Chase Kagan. Percy Keating and Dolan Kagan were witnesses.”

  A scenario came into rapid focus—the rape, the pregnancy, the lawyer, Tess’s execution. Tim halted, his momentum carrying him to the threshold of Dean’s study. Amid a bustle of subordinates, Dean issued directives.

  “Dean had Percy take out a hit on Tess,” Walker said.

  Dean paused, homing in on Tim across the room. Their eyes met. Two men frozen in the midst of disorderly human movement.

  “They were worried she’d press charges,” Walker said. “Or she threatened them with blackmail—Tess was tough if she was anything. Percy ran the cash through Ted Sands, who set the drop at Game.”

  Phone to his ear, Tim withdrew from the doorway and Dean’s stare, moving back toward the foyer.

  “You got a name for this hit man?”

  The line hummed for maybe a second. “Not yet,” Walker said, but his pause was a poker tell. He would’ve pressed the Piper’s tag name out of Percy, and his not giving it up now confirmed Tim’s suspicion that the hit man was high on his list. “Now,” Walker said. “Something you have that I’m missing?”

  Tim hesitated, but not long. “For one, Tess was pregnant.”

  The silence stretched until Tim feared that Walker had hung up. Finally the rough voice came, so low Tim could barely hear it. “Adds up. What else?”

  The evidence wasn’t sitting right with Tim. The facts he and Walker had pieced together formed too neat a tale. Lacking were the rough edges, the chance reversals, and the dead ends that violent cases, once fully reconstructed, inevitably prove to have.

  Walker again, a touch impatiently: “You think there’s more to it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why? It’s a clear picture.”

  “That’s the problem. Plus, if you think Dean Kagan is going to risk going to San Quentin to avoid a he-said/she-said rape prosecution for his son, you’re less intelligent than I’ve been trying to convince everyone you are.” Tim pictured the blank screen on Tess’s computer monitor, the missing hard drive. “Tess must have been coming at them with something different—and more threatening—than a ra
pe and a pregnancy.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You underestimate her.”

  Walker’s anger was palpable during the pause. “I doubt that.”

  “Then you’re a shitty investigator. Because the one guy who really knows what we want has his brains all over the master bedroom.”

  “For good reason. Now, what else can you tell me?”

  Through the hole of the front window, Tim saw the marshal, now pacing in circles, talking into his Nextel, and gesturing apologetically. “A lot. But you’re not as useful to me as I thought you’d be. So you’ll have to work with me.” In the silence on the line, Tim could hear Dray, his perennial voice of reason—What, Timothy, playing loose cannon didn’t land you in deep enough shit last time around? He asked himself if he dared take a gamble this big, though he knew he’d already made up his mind that morning in the warehouse. Given Tess’s rape, he needed the information more than ever. But was he willing to put his ass on the line to get it? And, maybe even more critically, was he willing to let his desire to nail Walker pull him out of bounds again? He strolled back outside.

  He started cautiously. “Here’s a sample: Your sister met with a lawyer the week before she was killed. She dropped him four days later—maybe she was threatened. Between a rape and a pregnancy inconvenient for at least one party, we can both use our imaginations as to what that was about. But the lawyer refuses to break confidentiality. If we want to know what else they may have covered in their meetings…”

  “We do.”

  Tim pressed his lips together, a last-minute deliberation before the point of no return. “The files are in boxes at Richco Long-Term Storage in Van Nuys, under Esteban Martinez. Just sitting there. The problem is, there’s nothing I can do about it. They’re beyond subpoena.”

  “This is a problem.” Walker clicked his tongue. “Only problem I have is I show up, maybe someone’s waiting.”

  “You were with First Force Recon. I’m assuming you’re not gonna stroll up and knock on the door. Besides, it would be a criminal conspiracy for me to suggest that you do anything like what you seem to be inferring. Blow my whole case.”

  “While I’m mulling that over, maybe you should check out the valet-drop security footage from The Ivy in Beverly Hills,” Walker said. “Night of June first. It’s archived off site, so call over and have them pull it.”

  Tim sat on a bench by the koi pond. “What is it?”

  “Take a look. You’ll recognize a couple people. The perpetrator refers to the rape in that conversation. Maybe we get a read on their body language. She makes a blackmail threat, he gets angry. Whatever. Maybe Chase’s brother and father make a guest appearance.”

  “Okay, I’ll call now. If you’re playing straight, I’ll nail these guys.”

  “Sure, rape prosecution with a deceased victim—and attacker—should be a breeze. Maybe you could get that broad from the Kobe Bryant trial to fly out, cinch things up.”

  “We don’t need the rape. The murder case is reopened.”

  “Took what? A prison break to get that done? No one gave a shit to look into it until someone rich got killed. Tell me that ain’t the truth.” Walker snickered, an ugly, one-note laugh. “Don’t fault me for not trusting the Establishment to handle it. Guys like this, you’ll never hang ’em on the murder.”

  “Then I’ll hang them on something else.”

  “Campaign promise. And besides, pardner, I’m gonna do it for you first.”

  “Listen—”

  “Now’s when you tell me I can’t take the law into my own hands, right, Troubleshooter?” Walker chuckled.

  A click, and the line disconnected.

  Chapter 52

  Tim turned off the phone, sat on the garden bench, and watched the fat, mottled fish wobble through the algaed water. Next he got The Ivy and put in a request for the footage, combating a snotty manager to get the information passed on to the security company. He gave his name and the comm center’s callback number so his ID could be confirmed.

  Guerrera came around the bend and whistled Bear over. Setting a boot on the bench, Bear leaned across one knee as Tim brought them up to speed, keeping his voice low so the deputies gathered behind the garden’s stone wall wouldn’t overhear.

  “Something doesn’t add up on motive,” Bear said. “As far as we know, there’s no rape kit anywhere. No hard evidence. A broke divorcée against a rich golden boy—she didn’t stand a chance. With the Kagans’ money, they could’ve hired O.J.’s dream team twice over.”

  “She was pregnant,” Guerrera said. “A DNA test could’ve put Chase on the hook.”

  “So why wouldn’t they just pay her off?”

  “Rich people are assholes?” Guerrera offered.

  “The prosecution rests.”

  “Didn’t Freed mention that Chase was engaged?”

  “Yeah, but still. You’d think you’d rather get caught with your dick wet than face a murder one.”

  “So maybe there was evidence. Maybe that’s what they stole her hard drive for. Scanned photos or something.”

  Bear looked skeptical. He used his thumb to flick dirt from under a fingernail.

  Tim said, “That hard drive housed something with more bite. Remember, Sam’s participation in that drug study got Tess a full-frontal of Vector.”

  “Yeah,” Bear said, “she had to have something that would make their shareholders pucker.” He gestured at the mansion behind them. “Dean ain’t risking all this to avoid a rape trial for his boy.”

  Guerrera took in the span of the massive house. “You think Walker’ll strike here again?”

  Tim said, “Not with the security Dean’ll have in place here come tonight. He’ll wait them out. They won’t hide in their compound forever.”

  “Funeral?”

  “‘The Kagans aren’t big on personal ceremonies,’” Tim quoted dutifully, “‘nor public displays of private emotion.’”

  “So where?”

  They stood eyeing the ripples in the pond, and then Guerrera spit in the flowers, said, “Catch you at the post,” and headed to his car.

  Tim and Bear moved single file to cut through the workers still dissecting the crime scene. Dean was in his study where Tim had left him, but now he sat alone, the inevitable banker’s lamp lending a nauseous tint to the dimness. Behind the desk a framed poster showed the miracle cure in a vial, floating through space. XEDRAL. THE FUTURE HAS ARRIVED. THIRTY DAYS AT A TIME. For once Dean had no paperwork, no phone calls, no assistants. Just a tired man sitting in the dark.

  Tim said, “We’d like to assign some men to stay. For your protection.”

  “We can handle our own security.”

  “I understand that, sir, but we’ve spent a lot of time guarding judges and—”

  “And I’ve spent fifty-plus years running businesses. To say I trust private sector over public servants would be an understatement.”

  Bear said, “I’m sure Keating would be flattered.”

  Dean took in Bear with an irritated sweep of the eyes before returning his focus to Tim. “Why do you think he’s coming after me?”

  Tim said, “We suspect you know why already. If you’d tell us, we could do a better job of apprehending him.”

  “You seemed awfully cozy when you spoke to him on my phone. You sure he didn’t mention something?”

  “Quite,” Tim said. “I think you should stay holed up here for a while. With Dolan.”

  “I can’t. We have our pre-IPO presentation in two days. Chase would’ve wanted us to see it through.”

  “That’s where Jameson is most likely to make his next attempt. It’s certainly where I would.”

  “Would you close down your whole operation in fear of some…terrorist, Deputy?” Dean waved his hand in a terse dismissal.

  Tim debated asking where Dolan was but didn’t want to put the old man on alert. Instead he nodded at Bear, and they left the study with the assertion Tim had gone there to get—the d
og and pony show for investors would go on, hell or high water. Finally a point of reentry for Walker they could count on.

  In one of the dark halls, they bumped into Speedy, the worker they’d interviewed after Walker’s first assault on the house. Tapping down a pack of Marlboros, he told them how to get to Chase’s and Dolan’s former rooms on the second floor of the south wing. The directions involved more turns and half flights of stairs than seemed possible for a residence.

  After twice getting lost and having to be redirected by various workers, available at every turn, they entered the immense game room. Bear leaned back on his heels, whistling as he regarded the high ceiling. The doors to both bedroom suites were ajar. Tim called out Dolan’s name but, hearing no response, entered the room to the left. King bed, satin sheets, a walk-in closet deeper than some trailer homes Tim had kick-entried. A shaky penned dedication split a framed photo of the Greatest himself—To Chaisson, Sting like a bee. On a drawerless desk rested a laptop, a roaming James Bond Walther barrel as the screen saver. Cables snaked off to various peripherals. A line of glass cubes formed the mantel over the vast fireplace. Centered on it was an urn, Mary Chaisson etched in scrolled letters. Tim stepped up onto the hearth and raised the burnished silver lid. Cocktail napkins and glossy matchbooks filled the inside. Tim pulled out the top matchbook and flipped it open. Jenni. 451–1215. Peering in, he saw where ink had bled through the napkins—more telephone numbers rendered on the paper between beer-company logos and condensation rings.