Last Breath (21 page)

“What time did you leave her?”

“Four-fifteen, four-thirty.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Home, I assumed. She’d worked a full shift, or watch—whatever you call it. She’d nearly gotten herself killed. I think she was ready to chill out.”

“What do you mean, nearly got killed?”

“She told me she handled a hostage situation all by herself. Resolved it successfully. I have a feeling she was breaking a few rules—not to mention risking her neck.”

Walsh hadn’t heard about this. “You don’t seem too surprised by her heroics.”

“Why would I be? That’s C.J. I guess that’s why they gave her that nickname.”

“What nickname?”

“You don’t know? Killer. That’s what the other cops call her.”

“Killer? Why? Any special reason?”

“Oh, it’s quite a story.” Walsh heard a note of pride in Nolan’s voice. “Happened when she was new to the street—back when she was a rookie working Harbor Division. One night, on only her third week on the job, she and her training officer get a report of loud music coming from an apartment. Doesn’t seem like anything serious, so the training officer lets C.J. handle it. They go up to the apartment, and there’s rap music blasting from inside. C.J. bangs on the door, yells, ‘Police!’ And guess what happens?”

“Tell me.”

“The guy inside the apartment starts firing through the door. If he’d been using a shotgun, C.J. and her partner would’ve been killed. But it’s a handgun, and the shots miss.”

“Christ,” Walsh said. It was rare for any cop to be fired on, and rarer still for a boot fresh out of the Academy.

“The training officer pulls C.J. to cover and calls for backup, but then they hear somebody screaming for help. C.J. says they’ve got to go in. Her partner doesn’t want to. She goes in anyway—and he follows. She shamed him into it, I guess.

“They kick down the door and enter, and the guy with the gun starts firing from the bedroom, and they’re returning fire. It’s a real shootout. C.J. told me she emptied one clip and put in another. Her partner did the same. That’s, what, thirty rounds?”

“Something like that.”

“Finally the guy stops shooting. They got him. He’s been hit twice in the abdomen, and he’s lost consciousness. C.J. goes past him into the bedroom and finds another guy in there, next to the stereo, which is still booming out the rap music. This guy is tied to a chair. He was being tortured—tortured to death. The music was turned up loud to cover his screams.”

Walsh shook his head. “Why was the victim being tortured?”

“Drug dealer thing. The one guy decided to eliminate his competition.”

“Did the gunman die?”

“No, he pulled through. So C.J.’s not really a killer. But they started calling her by that name anyway. Because she had the killer instinct.”

Walsh took this in. “What’s it like, being married to a woman with a killer instinct?”

“She didn’t display it with me. I think the other cops misinterpreted it anyway. It’s not that she wants to be Dirty Harry. It’s just—well, something happened to her when she was a kid.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, exactly. She never talks about it much. But
something
scared her. I think she became a cop to deal with that fear. I think she went into that apartment for the same reason. She’s lived with fear for a long time, and I think this is her way of dealing with it.” Nolan shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure how helpful any of this is.”

“Let me just clear up a few more little things. You said you left C.J. between four-fifteen and four-thirty this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And went back to your office?”

“Yes.”

“When did you get there?”

“Maybe quarter of five.”

“People saw you return?”

“Sure. The receptionist, Anna. Some of my colleagues. A client ...” His words trailed off. He seemed bewildered by this line of questioning.

Walsh pressed on, aware that his Columbo act was about to run out of steam. “What kind of vehicle do you drive?”

“BMW 325 coupe.”

“Is that it? No other car?” Or a white van, he added wordlessly.

“I’m one person. How many cars do I need?”

“Did you have any further contact with C.J. today?”

“No.”

“Didn’t call her this evening?”

“No. I worked at the office until six, then went home.”

“Home is where?”

“Brentwood.”

“Anyone see you arrive home?”

Nolan stiffened. “What’s this about?”

“I’m just asking—”

“You’re trying to verify my movements—is that it?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nolan,” Walsh said in his best Peter Falk voice. “It’s routine, that’s all.”

“Routine. Right.” Nolan seethed for a moment, then said reluctantly, “Hell, I don’t know if any of my neighbors saw me get in. Probably not. I didn’t see any of them.”

“And then?”

“Made dinner, turned on the TV—want to know what I watched?” he asked with sarcasm.

“Okay,” Walsh said.

“The news. The local news. Channel Four. Then a movie on HBO.
Field of Dreams
, the baseball thing. Around eight o’clock I got a phone call from Detective Boyle. Now I’m here.” He lifted his arms and let them fall limply in his lap. “That’s it.”

“All right, Mr. Nolan.”

“You through asking questions? Can I talk now?”

“Go ahead.”

“Good. Because I’ve got something to say.” There was no expression on his face, only a deadly stillness. “This is bullshit. You start this interview by telling me you need some background information, and you end up treating me like a goddamned suspect.”

“I’m sorry,” Walsh began, but Nolan wouldn’t let him be Columbo anymore.

“I don’t want to hear it. You drag me in here and waste my time, and what’s more important, you waste
your
time. Are you running this investigation?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here with me? How does this help you to get C.J. back?”

“It’s impossible at this stage of the investigation to say what will be helpful—”

“Cut the crap. You’re here so you can say you followed procedure, so you can make a check-off mark in your notebook. ‘Talked to ex-husband,’ check. And meanwhile somebody’s got C.J., and for all we know she could be dying
right now
.”

“Mr. Nolan—”

“Quit talking to me, and get off your ass and find her, God damn it! Just
find
her ... find ...” Abruptly he slumped forward in his chair, all the anger hissing out of him. “Oh, shit.”

He cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Walsh said.

Nolan just shook his head.

Walsh was almost sure this wasn’t the guy. But he reminded himself that Adam Nolan was a lawyer, and every lawyer he’d ever met had been skilled at deception. He’d better ask for the names of those witnesses who saw Nolan return to work. Then maybe send someone from West LA Division to talk to Nolan’s neighbors—

His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Walsh.”

“Morrie?” It was Donna Cellini, breathless and tense. “We’ve got a suspect.”

He sat up straight. “You serious?”

“No, I’m joking around. Of course I’m serious. Look, I can’t go into it now. We’re setting up a command post in Hacienda Heights. Corner of Hacienda Boulevard and Newton Street.”

He’d expected her to say Reseda, where William Bowden lived. Hacienda Heights was in the opposite direction, an unincorporated district in the southeast corner of LA County. “That’s Sheriff’s jurisdiction,” Walsh said.

“Right. They’re handling it, and we’re along for the ride. Get over here fast.”

“I’m on my way.”

Walsh hung up and glanced at Adam Nolan across the desk. “Sorry, Mr. Nolan. I need to get moving.”

“What is it? Did something happen?”

“I can’t talk about it now.”

“Do you know where C.J. is?”

“I’m not sure what we know. We have your phone number. Go home and wait. When there’s news, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t tell you anything. Look, you said you wanted us to make progress. So don’t stand in our way. Let us do our jobs.”

Nolan hesitated, then stood up. “Just get her back, all right?”

Walsh wanted to say something reassuring, but there was no time. “We’ll do everything we can.”

The interview had gone as well as could have been expected. Even so, Adam was troubled.

He gripped the steering wheel of his BMW and sped east on the San Bernardino Freeway, cruising past the barrio neighborhoods of City Terrace and Monterey Park. He had to remind himself to stay within the speed limit; he couldn’t afford to be pulled over by a highway patrol car. It was difficult to keep his speed under sixty-five when every instinct demanded that he race back to C.J., take care of things, do it, do it
now
.

Damn. He really was rattled, wasn’t he?

It wasn’t Detective Walsh’s line of questioning that had him on edge. He had prepared himself for the predictable inquiries about his relationship with his ex-wife, his feelings toward her, his whereabouts throughout the afternoon and evening. He had gone to considerable pains to ensure that his answers would be satisfactory.

Take his meeting with C.J. this afternoon. He had wanted to be seen with her, seen by her fellow officers in the Newton police station, so that when her disappearance was discovered some of them would be quick to think of him. He had wanted to be called in and interrogated. What better way to establish an alibi during the crucial hours of her absence than to let the police do it for him?

They had dialed his home telephone number and he had answered. Ergo, he must have been at home. It was the simple, natural assumption to make. It was also false—hadn’t these people heard of call forwarding? A readily available, very convenient service, one that more criminals ought to take advantage of.

Criminals. Yes, that was what he was now. Breaking and entering, kidnapping, and soon ... homicide. A hell of a change of pace for a guy whose worst crime prior to tonight had been running the occasional stop sign.

Well, too late for doubts now. He was in this thing, and he had to see it through.

Anyway, Walsh and his pals would never realize that the call had been forwarded to Adam’s cell phone, that he hadn’t been home when he answered. They would never even look in that direction, not when they already had a much more plausible suspect in their sights.

There had been a second purpose behind his visit to the police station. If anyone inquired further, the desk officer at Newton Station and the waitress at the coffee shop would both report that he and C.J. had smiled together, laughed a little, and seemed comfortable with each other. He doubted the investigation would ever get that far, but if it did, he wanted their testimony in the record.

Besides, it had been a kick to play with C.J.’s head.

He wondered what she was thinking right now. He didn’t know—one of the things that had always irked him about their marriage was that he’d never been quite sure what she was thinking. She had a mind of her own, did C.J.

But one thing was certain. Tonight he figured in her thoughts. She might have pushed him out of her mind and out of her life, but he had come back, all right. Back with a vengeance.

“Nobody fucks with me,” he muttered, repeating the words that had become his credo, his mantra. “Nobody makes me their bitch.”

He caught himself pressing down on the accelerator and lifted his foot to reduce his speed. Outside his windows, the city of El Monte flashed past in a blur of lights under a moonless sky.

So, yes, he’d been prepared for that part of the interview. Walsh’s other questions had posed no difficulties either. After leaving C.J. at the coffee shop, he really had driven back to the office, working until six.

After that, however, his narrative had parted company with the truth. He had not driven to Brentwood, had not fixed a meal and watched
Field of Dreams
—although he had been careful to check the TV listings to see what was on.

No one could prove he hadn’t been home. His condo building featured individual enclosed garages; it was impossible for a neighbor to know whether or not a tenant’s car was parked inside. The units were soundproofed, and the rules of the condo board regarding noise were strict. No one ever heard anyone else’s TV or stereo.

Instead of heading to Brentwood, he had driven east, into C.J.’s neighborhood, parking in the alley behind her house—the house they had once shared—shortly after six. In the early January darkness he had changed out of his suit into chinos and a windbreaker, donning gloves and rubber boots that fitted easily over his shoes. The boots were two sizes too large—deliberately so. If he left any shoe prints, he wanted them to be different from his own.

He stowed his provisions in the windbreaker’s copious zippered pockets. A vial of chloroform he’d ordered from a chemical supplies firm, using a phony name and a post office box, and paying with a money order made out to cash. A ski mask, which he slipped over his head before entering the house—he knew that the bedroom was under constant surveillance, and he didn’t want his face to be caught on video. A Walther 9mm, which he had bought at a gun show in San Diego County, a private transaction conducted with the utmost discretion and without the use of any names.

He’d never had any intention of using the gun. Even so, he felt it necessary to carry one. C.J. kept an off-duty firearm in her purse. He couldn’t afford to be at a disadvantage.

Entering the house was simplicity itself. He still owned a spare set of keys, and C.J., trusting soul, had not changed the locks.

Somehow she must have heard him anyway, or maybe she’d seen his flashlight when he entered her backyard. He took cover inside the bedroom, crouching low and hoping he was out of camera range, as she came down the hall. When she checked out the laundry room, he left the bedroom and positioned himself outside the doorway, squatting low, invisible in the dark.