The Kill Clause tr-1 Read online

  Kindell, who couldn’t fix a fuse but could rape and slaughter. Kindell, who would forever own the privilege of seeing Ginny last, of being there when the light blinked out in her eyes. Kindell, the ultimate patsy.

  “Lee me alone. Please lee me alone.”

  Bowrick was out of the car behind Tim now, arms crossed, watching.

  Tim grabbed the rope binding Kindell at the wrists and ankles and hoisted him out. Kindell screamed as his shoulders stretched back in their sockets, then again as he hit ground. He strained to peer back over his shoulder, the clammy skin of his face quivering. His cheek was bruised, and one nostril was clogged with dirt.

  He lay for a moment with his forehead touching the ground, saliva stringing from his lower lip. He was panting and making throat noises like an animal cornered after a grueling chase.

  “Doan you urt me. Doan you dare.”

  Tim pulled the knife from his back pocket and crouched. Kindell let out a shriek and tried to wriggle away, but Tim pinned him with a knee between his shoulder blades.

  He cut him loose and stood back up. Kindell continued to weep into the dirt.

  “Get out of here,” Tim said, though he knew Kindell couldn’t hear him.

  He shoved him with his foot, and Kindell looked up at him, fear finally draining from his face.

  Tim enunciated clearly. “Get. Out. Of. Here.”

  Kindell scrambled to his feet and stood rubbing his wrists, disbelief doing a slow fade from his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you. You aved my life.” He stumbled toward Tim, hands extended in gratitude. “I’m orry I illed your daughter.”

  Tim struck him hard in the face, his knuckles grinding teeth. Kindell yelped and went down. He lay panting, drooling blood, his eyes wide and unfocused. His front tooth hung by a bloody thread from his gums.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Kindell pushed himself to his feet and staggered a bit, staring blankly at Tim.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Tim took a menacing step forward, and Kindell turned and scurried away. Tim watched his loping, irregular run, watched him trip once or twice on his way down the hill. A few moments after Kindell disappeared, he realized he was shivering, so he retrieved his jacket from the ground.

  When he walked back, Bowrick stood watching him, his face impassive. “That guy killed your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  Bowrick bounced his head in a nod. “If you’d have killed him, would it have felt good?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bowrick spread his arms-an ironic suggestion of martyrdom and self-display-then let them fall. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and he and Tim stood squared off, like adversaries or lovers, the dust still settling around them, letting the silence work on their thoughts.

  Now, finally, came the distant scream of approaching sirens, and far down on the freeway Tim could see the glittering approach of blue and red lights, LAPD all the way.

  Bowrick walked over and got into the passenger seat of the Lincoln, where he sat patiently. Tim looked at the spilled bodies on the dirt, the monument.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and spun around in the plateau, throwing dust and pebbles. His headlights flashed past the boulder at the monument’s base. The quotation chiseled into its flat side was now complete:

  AND THE LEAVES OF THE TREE WERE FOR THE HEALING OF NATIONS.

  REVELATION 22:2.

  45

  Tim was grateful the Mastersons had chosen a Lincoln, since there was no way he could have worked a clutch and the gas with one good leg. He coasted onto the freeway well before LAPD closed in on Monument Hill. The faintest edge of gold peeked above the horizon, enhanced by the inland smog.

  Bowrick rested Mitchell’s. 45 in his lap. Tim took it and slid it into his hip holster. Its weight on his hip was comforting. After making the mistake of glancing at his reflection once, he did his best to avoid the rearview mirror.

  Fighting pain and light-headedness, he kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road.

  Finally he eased to the curb and parked. Pulling his remaining money from his pocket-four hundreds-he handed it to Bowrick.

  Bowrick folded the cash into a pocket. “Thanks.”

  “I’m not your guardian angel. I’m not your big brother. I’m not gonna be the godfather to your kid. I don’t care about your problems or your issues. But if you’re ever in trouble-I mean real trouble-you find me. You’re not gonna slip up. Not after all this.”

  He got out and limped through Fletcher Bowron Square Mall, drawing strange looks from a few early-morning suits. Blood and sweat had left his shirt warm and sodden. Bowrick trudged silently a few steps back, one leg dragging behind, head lowered, hands shoved into his pockets. After a moment he sped up, his posture straightening, to walk by Tim’s side.

  Passing under the tile mural, they entered the Federal Building. The security guard at the entrance lowered his cup of coffee, his face blank with disbelief. “Deputy Rackley, are you…?”

  They walked past him. Thomas and Freed were bullshitting in the lobby, Freed thumbnailing a stain out of his Italian tie. Their faces pivoted wide-eyed at Tim’s approach. Tim grabbed Bowrick’s arm, presenting him. “This is Terrill Bowrick. I blew his cover. You help him.”

  He left them in stunned silence.

  Blood had worked its way down Tim’s leg into his shoe; it squished when he walked. He left bloody footprints on the tile of the second floor, all rights, a neat line of paisley.

  A secretary flattened herself against the wall, clutching a stack of papers to her chest.

  Tim pulled the. 45 from his holster and dropped the magazine. It bounced on the floor. He shucked the slide, letting the round spin and rattle to a stop on the tile. Holding the unloaded gun limply by the barrel, he carried it away from his body, upside down, pointed innocuously into his hand. He’d left his jacket in the elevator so he could show his empty holster.

  When he pushed through the doors into the offices, the deputies’ heads snapped up. From the smell of coffee and sweat, they were pulling a double shift. Maybeck’s face went pale; Denley froze in a half crouch above his desk; Miller peered at him above a cubicle wall.

  Tim walked into Bear’s office, a small white box that recalled an unfurnished college dorm room more than anything else. Bear was poring over a stack of crime-scene photos from Rhythm’s house, a head-wound close-up on top. When he looked up, his shiny cheeks took a moment to still from the movement.

  Tim set the. 45 on Bear’s desk and sat down.

  Bear nodded, as if in response to something, then removed a fat brick of a tape recorder from a drawer, set it on his desk, and turned it on. He hit a button on his phone and spoke into the speaker. “Yeah, Janice, can you send him over? Please tell him I have ex-Deputy Rackley in custody.”

  He and Tim stared at each other.

  Finally Bear said, “I got the dog. He pissed on my carpet.”

  “The way you keep your place, I don’t blame him.”

  Bear nodded at Tim’s leg. “You need medical attention?”

  “Yes, but not immediately.”

  They stared at each other some more. Bear rubbed his eyes, the skin moving with his fingers. The wait was excruciating.

  Minutes later Marshal Tannino appeared, cutting off a few deputies pretending not to gawk at the open doorway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and locked it.

  Bear indicated Tim’s leg. “He might need medical attention.”

  “Fuck medical attention.”

  “I’m fine, Marshal.”

  Tannino leaned against the file cabinet and crossed his arms, the glossy fabric of his suit jacket bunching at his shoulders. His eyes picked over Tim’s badly scabbed face, his soggy shirt, the blood-stiffened leg of his jeans. “What surprise do you have for us now? I’m guessing it has to do with a phone call I just got from Chief Bratton about two bodies found up on Monument Hill.”

  Tim started to speak, but Tannino’s
hand flashed up angrily, his gold ring glittering. “Wait. Just wait. I heard a full account of your dinner with Bear on the twenty-eighth of February, which I still refuse to believe…” He paused, regaining his composure. “So maybe you’d better take this one from the top, because I’m gonna have to hear with my own two ears how my best deputy managed to land himself and this office in a pool of shit so deep it makes the Rampart scandal look like a small-claims dispute.”

  Tim started from the beginning, reiterating what he’d told Bear at Yamashiro. He told how the Commission had plotted the initial executions and how the Mastersons had gone on the warpath. He told how he’d discovered their role in Ginny’s death, how he’d tracked them, and how they’d died, ending up with his freeing Kindell and driving down here to turn himself in.

  A remarkably awkward silence punctuated the end of his story. Bear rearranged the photos on his desk. Tannino ran a hand through his dense hair and studied his knockoff loafers.

  Finally Tim said, “Marshal, sir, my leg’s going numb.”

  Tannino looked up at Bear, ignoring Tim. “Call the paramedics. Have him brought to County. Book him there.” He walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  His face drawn and weary, Bear picked up the phone and called for an ambulance.

  46

  A three-day stint at the USC Medical Center Jail Ward got Tim’s leg back in working order. The bullet had missed all major vessels, which Tim had already surmised from the fact that he hadn’t bled out on Monument Hill. His right seventh and eighth ribs were bruised but not broken.

  Since Robert’s and Mitchell’s deaths had taken place on Monument Hill, they charged him with crime committed on federal property to keep the case, murders and all, in their backyard rather than turning it over to the state courts. Plus, Tim’s confrontation with Bear at Yamashiro was filed as assaulting a federal employee, another federal hook. The appointed PD pled him not guilty at the postindictment arraignment; Tim watched the proceedings glumly from a wheelchair.

  In the news Dumone’s name was mentioned only tangentially; evidently the “Vigilante Four” didn’t have the same ring. The nature of Tim’s involvement was kept under tight wraps, though that only seemed to whet the appetites of reporters and journalists.

  Tim’s new temporary residence, the Metropolitan Detention Center, was an adjunct to the Roybal Building, part of the cluster of buildings where he used to report to work. A high-rise with slit windows like squinting eyes, the detention area was cold and harshly lit, the lowest loop of Tim’s inferno. Since he was a former law-enforcement officer, they celled him separately on Eight North, not leaving him to fend for himself in the general population. His ward in the Special Housing Unit, consecrated by the likes of Buford Furrow, who’d shot up the North Valley Jewish Community Center, and Topo, Mexican mafia godfather, was bare and clean. A single bed and an unlidded stainless-steel toilet. No hot water. The ceiling was low, so he soon acquired a stoop.

  He wore a blue jumpsuit, a green windbreaker, and cheap plastic sandals that creaked. At 11:00 A.M. he had an hour for exercise, during which he could throw some weights around in the tiny pen or play basketball. Solitary H-O-R-S-E was less than invigorating; he usually just lifted and rehabbed his injured leg.

  The federal guideline for first-degree murder was life to death. Federal guidelines, as that drunken public defender had pointed out to Tim, were notoriously inflexible. By his own count, Tim was up on at least three counts of murder one and implicated in three other deaths, not to mention the laundry list of additional felonies he’d picked up along the way, including obstruction of justice, conspiracy to commit murder, assault of a federal agent-to wit, a United States deputy marshal-illegal possession of firearms, and illegal possession of explosives. Tim figured he’d better get used to his current lifestyle. Frozen 7-Eleven burritos twice a day for the rest of his life.

  A trial date had been set, he was told, for May 2, which gave him seventy-eight days.

  The second week the congenial corrections officer politely took Tim from his cell and led him to the visitor area. Dray was seated when he entered the room, regarding him through the shatterproof glass.

  She picked up the phone, and Tim followed suit.

  “The photos,” she said. “Those awful photos. Of Kindell. With Ginny. I turned them over to Delaney.”

  Tim chewed the inside of his cheek. “They won’t be admissible. I obtained them illegally.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m the peace officer, and I obtained them legally. From a civilian. You.”

  Tim’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  “The case is reopened. The arraignment was this morning. Prelim’s in five months-the PD’s scared, so he’s taking his time this go-around. Aging the case.”

  Tim felt a tear swell at the brink of his eye. It fell, trailing down his cheek, dangling from the line of his jaw until he swiped it off with his shoulder.

  They stared at each other for a moment through glass and embedded chicken wire.

  “I forgive you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her eyes were starting to water, too. She nodded, pressed a hand to the glass, and walked out.

  •The COs offered him books and magazines, but Tim passed his days lying on his bed, reflecting quietly. They let him stretch his workout time in the exercise room to a few hours a day, which helped cut through some of his despondency. He ate poorly and slept well. He spent a lot of time thinking about his murdered daughter.

  Lying on the cracked vinyl pad of the bench press one day, he finally had it-a single pure memory of Ginny, not of the loss of her, just her, untainted by rage or hurt or pain, laughing openmouthed. She’d gotten into a pomegranate; her chin was stained, and her happiness, even recollected, was contagious.

  •The day before his pretrial motion, the corrections officer tapped gently on his door. “Rack, wake up, buddy. Your new lawyer needs to see you.”

  Tim’s attorney, a weary man with droopy features, had gone on a fishing trip to Alaska and elected never to return. Another PD burnout to add to the ash heap.

  “I don’t want to meet my lawyer.”

  “You have to. Come on now, you’ll get me in trouble.”

  Tim rose and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He splashed cold water over his face, smoothed down his hair, and brushed his teeth with a rubber-handled toothbrush. Pausing at the door, he regarded his blue jumpsuit. “How do I look, Bobby?”

  The CO smiled. “I keep saying. It’s a good color for you.”

  Tim was led down a hall into a dark conference room with no windows save a tiny square of shatterproof glass in the door. Bobby nodded reassuringly and opened the door for him.

  Tannino was sitting at the head of the table, hands laced. In a neat row to his left sat Joel Post, the U.S. Attorney for the central district, Chance Andrews, the presiding federal district judge, and Dennis Reed, the Internal Affairs inspector who’d stuck up for Tim on his shooting review board. Bear stood shouldered up against the wall, one foot crossing his shin and pointing down into the concrete. Opposite them all sat Richard, the public defender Tim had protected from the bouncer that night in the club off Traction.

  The door swung shut behind Tim. He made no move to the table.

  “I hope one of you brought a cake with a file in it.”

  Tannino unfolded his hands, then refolded them, his face maintaining its unamused cast.

  “The thing is…” Bear shuffled a bit against the wall, not quite making eye contact. “The thing is, I forgot to read you your Miranda rights.”

  Post leaned back in his chair, emitting a barely audible sigh.

  Tim let out a short bark of a laugh. “I can give you my statement again.”

  “As your new court-appointed defense attorney, I would strenuously advise against that,” Richard said.

  “You’re my…?”

  Richard nodded.
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  “This is ridiculous.” He raised his voice to talk over Richard’s objections. “I wasn’t even in official custody yet in Bear’s office-he didn’t have to read me my rights.”

  Richard was standing, his face red and impassioned. “You were clearly in custody. There was a warrant out for you. You turned yourself in. You were not free to leave. They tape-recorded Deputy Jowalski’s intercom call to Marshal Tannino’s office claiming you were in custody, and when the marshal came over to take your account, he closed and locked the door. You were then held for questioning, even denied medical attention.”

  Tannino regarded Richard as he might the remains of a cockroach smeared in the tread of his loafers.

  “How about my conversation with Bear at Yamashiro?” Tim said. “That’s certainly fair game.”

  “That conversation is covered under attorney-client privilege,” Richard said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “George Jowalski became a member of the bar in good standing on November 15 last year. In fact, Your Honor”-Richard nodded at Chance Andrews-“I believe you swore him in that day yourself.”

  Andrews, an old-school justice with a leathery, venerable face, tugged uncomfortably at his cuffs. It occurred to Tim he’d never seen Andrews out of his robes.

  Richard didn’t dare smile, but his face showed he was enjoying himself tremendously. “Mr. Jowalski confirmed for me in an interview that on the fifteenth of February he agreed to represent you if your shooting review board led to a criminal trial. All future dialogue that you had with Mr. Jowalski regarding criminal matters would be covered under attorney-client privilege, and therefore he cannot testify regarding your consultation in a court of law. Your discussion can’t be admitted. Anyone else’s knowledge of it from Mr. Jowalski is hearsay. Then, because of Mr. Jowalski’s status as a deputy marshal, we have fruit of a poisonous tree-”

  “Attorney-client privilege,” Tannino muttered. “I don’t know how they dig up this stuff. Like pigs rooting for truffles.”