Avenged (12 page)

BY THE TIME CARLY
returned to work for her shift that night, there was an APB out for Dean Barton. He still hadn’t been connected to the coffee shop bomb, but the sketch drawn up based on Trey’s description was a perfect representation of his face. That was enough for the law enforcement agencies involved to decide that he needed to be found and questioned.

Dean also had an extensive LA County arrest record from when he lived in Rancho Palos Verdes. ATF was looking up all his known associates, guessing that his partner was someone from his past who was still doing crime in the LA area. But none of the known associates from LA was named Michael Carter.

Carly was glad to hear about all the manpower and resources dedicated to finding the guy, but one bit of disturbing information also came with it: Ginny Masters was nowhere to be found. Had she gotten in over her head with a dangerous man?

Nick had come home around four in the afternoon and was still sleeping soundly when Carly left for work at nine thirty. She took pains not to disturb him because she knew he needed to rest.

She drew a solo car again because even though Kyle was at work, he was assigned to work with a rookie whose training officer was sick.

Radio traffic was sparse and routine when her shift began. She welcomed the quiet because she was tired. And there seemed to be resolution in the air with the wanted poster for Barton. Maybe he was the key to all this. Maybe he and his shadowy partners had a twisted motive for all the mayhem in Las Playas, starting with the shooting of the gang members.

By 2:30 a.m., as the afternoon units logged out of service, Carly was battling drowsiness. She decided to get out and walk around to keep from falling asleep. She picked the Bluestone as the best place for a stroll. Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone—wake up and satisfy her curiosity about what Victor had told Londy about following his brother to the construction site. She knew Harris and Romo had checked the place out after she told them what Victor had said; they had come up empty, but Carly was fairly certain they wouldn’t mind her poking around.

The ten-story hotel sat on the ocean side of Seaside Avenue on a rise between the new marina and the old marina. Rooms on one side of the hotel would look down on the new tourist marina and shops while the rest of the hotel would look out at the old marina and ocean. Off to the left as she drove up, Carly could see the lights of a huge billboard advertising the upcoming grand opening and pedestrian bridge dedication.

The entire property was fenced off and padlocked with a city lock, in case emergency services needed to respond to the site for some reason. Carly had an SM6 key, a master key for any city padlock. She typed in her location as code 6, out for investigation, and sent it to dispatch on the computer. When she stepped out of the car to unlock the gate, her gaze went to a beautiful full moon. It was a gorgeous June night, and the parking lot was bathed in moonlight.

Leaving the gate open behind her, she drove to the front of the hotel and parked. Several floodlights illuminated the area, but the Bluestone itself was dark. The building had been a striking piece of twenties art deco construction, but now only the bones remained. Its first major setback had been a big earthquake in 1933. It had been rebuilt and thrived for about fifty years before becoming little more than a flophouse for drug addicts by the time Carly was hired on the force. Now it was stripped nearly to the frame and wrapped in opaque industrial plastic so no asbestos fibers would escape.

Carly climbed out of the car, her mind going over what Victor had told Londy about the day he had followed Crusher. Victor had admitted to entering the property through a hole
in the fence. Carly was surprised Oceans First hadn’t found it. She made a mental note to stop by in the morning and tell the foreman he needed to secure the lot better.

She shone her flashlight toward the dark building, then started around toward the back, not wanting to search for a hole in the fence in the dark. Victor had said his brother met the three white guys on the back side, near a small building.

Boots crunching on bits of plaster and rocks, Carly skirted the corner of the building, shining her light ahead of her. Above her a slight breeze ruffled the plastic here and there and made a flapping noise. The property was littered with various forms of construction equipment. Three huge aerial work platforms were lined up, blocking her view of the harbor. A large storage container, which probably served as the job office, sat on the other end of the terrace.

She moved closer, only to realize the container was nothing more than a storage unit. Frowning, Carly considered that maybe Victor thought it was a small building. Then something shiny caught her eye.

At the far corner of the container she bent to pick it up. It was a bullet—a 9mm round. Not something needed for a construction site. An interesting find, but not worth much in terms of evidence. An unspent round couldn’t be tied to a gun.

She moved the beam of her light and spotted a worn trail in the dirt between rows of ice plants that ran down the embankment.
Where does this go?
She started down the path and ended up at the construction yard for the new marina.

Huh,
Carly thought.
The construction company working on the Bluestone isn’t the same company working on the marina, so they wouldn’t need to go back and forth. Why is there a path here?

The yard itself was well lit in the middle, but shadows along the fence created some completely dark places. Her light bounced up against the fence and she saw the hole.

Down on one knee, Carly could see that the fence had been cut and then pulled together to appear as if it were whole. She stood and took out her radio to ask for backup, explaining that she wanted to investigate a hole in the fence at the construction yard. The dispatcher asked her exact location. As she looked around the area, she realized the quickest way to reach the spot was to follow her footsteps. She’d left the gate open at the Bluestone, so the responding officers wouldn’t have to pause and open a gate.

A couple of units answered, and Carly prepared to wait until someone was with her. The hole was in a good spot, she thought. Especially at night, people could come and go without attracting any attention. But still, marina patrol or private security should have seen this in the daytime. Oceans First could try to occupy the place. Maybe Oceans First protestors had made the hole.
But then why not pour in through the hole? Why try swimming from the ocean side?

She tested the spot, and the fence came open easily in her hand.

Just then a light flashed over the water by the old marina. Carly stepped through the hole and squinted, wondering if
she was imagining things or if something had flashed on one of the live-aboard boats. But the light hadn’t come from the boats; it had come from a boarded-up restaurant in the old marina. Walt’s had closed and would have been demolished, but—in what would be Oceans First’s only victory—they’d gotten an injunction stopping the demolition of the old marina until an environmental study could be completed.

Suddenly the light flashed again. This time she heard a voice in the distance, getting closer. Someone was walking her way. She saw the silhouette of a man hugging the darkness of the fence line, his hand to his ear. She guessed he was talking on a cell phone.

Thinking commercial burglary at worst and trespassing at best, Carly drew her gun and held it down at her side. She raised the beam of her light. “Police. Stand where you are.”

The man stopped, squinting in the light. Dean Barton.

Their eyes locked as Carly raised her gun. “Stop right there.”

“Cops!” Barton yelled into the phone before jamming it into his pocket.

Then he turned and ran. Not the way he came. He ran toward the bulk of the new marina construction and into the light, zigzagging around construction equipment.

“Stop!” Carly spit out in frustration as she started after him.

In the back of her mind, she knew she should wait for backup. But a surge of anger toward the fleeing man pushed her forward, and she disregarded common sense.

Barton disappeared around some equipment.

Gun in one hand, radio in the other, Carly charged after him, telling dispatch in a rush what was happening.

By the time she’d reached where she’d last seen him, Barton’s feet were disappearing around the front of an almost-finished Mexican restaurant. She jammed the radio back into its holder and barreled after him.

Seeing the door to the restaurant closing, she pushed it open and stepped into the dining room as Barton bounded up the stairs to the second level. Carly followed, intent on seeing Barton in handcuffs.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, gun hand pointed ahead of her, arms forming an X, with the flashlight beam cutting through the murky darkness.

It appeared as though this would be the bar area of the restaurant. The room was large and open, and she could see a finished bar ahead of her and stacks of tables and chairs. She’d lost sight of Barton and strained to hear anything that would give his location away.

Off to her left, she saw movement and shone the light that way.

“There’s nowhere to go, Barton. More cops are on the way.” Carly followed the noise of footsteps with caution, knowing her help should be arriving any second.

Along the perimeter of the mezzanine were piles of drywall, cans of paint, an assortment of tools, and stacks of wood. There was no wall behind her, only a partially finished railing so the view of the downstairs would be unobstructed.

“No way I’m going back to jail.” The voice was more to her left, but he wasn’t far ahead of her.

Carly’s anger had been doused by the fear of an ambush. She moved slowly, cautiously. Time was on her side; there was no need to rush.

“We have a lot of questions for you.” She wanted to keep him talking, pinpoint his location. He could see her light coming, so Carly wanted a level playing field.

She stepped around a scaffold in time to see Barton double back to her right. Frustrated at the game of cat and mouse, Carly wanted to call in her backup but hesitated to put down either her gun or flashlight.

Suddenly Barton jumped from behind a stack of drywall.

Carly stepped back, startled. She hit the half-finished railing and felt it give way. Dropping the flashlight, she tried to grab something, but there was only air.

The last thing she saw before she hit the ground was Barton’s grinning face.

CARLY CAME TO SLOWLY,
hearing sounds but not processing what she heard. She started to move, and pain snapped through her body in a spiderweb of unpleasant sensations.

“Whoa, take it easy. Stay still until medics get here.”

Carly’s eyes focused on Kyle Corley’s face looking down at her. It was harder to focus her mind. She could hear the cackle of a police radio and the sounds of voices and people walking around. The area was bright with artificial light.

“What happened? Where—?”

It came back in a rush—Dean Barton, the fall. She tried to sit up, but Kyle’s hand stopped her before the pain did.

“Dean Barton. Where is he?”

“Stay still. He’s been taken care of. You fell quite a distance
and were out cold when I got here. Don’t move; you might hurt something.”

“I—” Carly’s gaze traveled up to the gaping hole in the railing above her. It seemed a mile away. She realized she must be in the restaurant’s entryway. “I fell that far?”

Kyle nodded. “Looks like you hit flat on your back, then your head. Vest probably saved you, but you still hit hard enough to get knocked out. Though I don’t see any blood.”

He looked away as new sounds entered the area. Carly could tell the paramedics had arrived. Her mind felt full of cotton.

She did her best to relax as the medics replaced Kyle and went to work assessing her. They removed her gun belt, and Kyle said he’d hang on to it for her. They began to do what she’d seen them do to countless accident victims—check her for injuries, apply a neck brace, and then roll her carefully onto a backboard—while they asked questions to assess her level of consciousness.

“What’s your name?”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“How many fingers do you see?”

Carly did her best with the questions and could move her arms and legs, but her head hurt and she had been unconscious, so they would take precautions until a doctor saw her.

“Kyle?” she asked as the medics raised the gurney from the floor.

“Yeah?”

“You call Nick?”

“You bet. He’ll be waiting at the hospital.”

•••

Carly closed her eyes for the ride to the hospital. She struggled to remember what had happened.
Did Barton lead me into a trap? But how could he have known I was going to be there? And where was he coming from?

She had trouble thinking clearly and thought about how dazed boxers looked as they tried to get up off the canvas after a hard blow. Carly figured she must look like that because she certainly felt like she’d been dealt a knockout blow. The only consolation was that the arrest of Dean Barton was bound to clear things up.

As promised, the first face she saw when she was taken out of the ambulance was Nick’s.

“What happened, babe?” he asked, worry crinkling his brow as he took her hand in his.

Carly felt tears threaten at the thought of causing him so much worry. “Guess I wasn’t looking where I was going” was all she managed.

The medics began to wheel her into the emergency room.

Nick walked alongside, holding her hand. “How bad does it hurt?”

“I’ve got a killer headache, but other than that, I think I’m okay. Can’t wait to hear what Barton was doing in the construction yard.”

Nick stayed close while Carly was examined. As soon as it was determined that nothing was broken, the neck brace and spine precautions were removed. But Carly’s head pounded,
and the doctor pronounced that she had a concussion. He repeated a lot of the questions the paramedics had asked, and Carly admitted to feeling a little fuzzy. He checked her grip, asking her to squeeze his fingers, and made no pronouncement but seemed satisfied. He wanted to do a CAT scan and keep her under observation for several hours.

Carly found she didn’t have the strength to argue. Besides, the doctor said Nick could sit with her, and that made the stay bearable.

Sergeant Barrett came in as Carly sipped water and tried to remember all that had happened at the construction yard.

“I told them your head was too hard to be hurt by that little fall,” Barrett teased. “It was only about fifteen feet.”

“Fifteen feet?” Nick stared at her.

“Nothing broken,” Carly said, squeezing his hand. “Did Barton say why he was there?” she asked Barrett, wanting to change the subject.

Barrett frowned. “Barton doesn’t have much to say. Didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

He hitched up his gun belt. “Carly, Barton’s dead. Bullet wound to the head. We’ll have to wait for the coroner, but we assume it was your bullet. Homicide wants me to bag your hands for a GSR.”