Redzone (19 page)

“I'm looking for a breakfast burrito,” Lee replied, as she placed the keycard on the counter. “And I'm checking out.”

“I would suggest the Mariachi,” the clerk replied. “It's two blocks south of here. You were in 108. Hold on, hon . . . I have an envelope for you. Someone dropped it by last night.”

Lee figured it was a mistake. She didn't know anyone in Las Vegas. But when the clerk handed her the envelope Lee saw that her name was written on it! That was scary. “What did this person look like?” Lee wanted to know.

“I wasn't on duty,” the clerk replied, “so I don't know.”

Lee thanked the woman and took the envelope outside, where she tore it open. There was a piece of paper within. The words were written in block letters. “PAYBACK IS A BITCH, BITCH. YOURS IS COMING.” The note was signed, Crystal Bye.
Crystal Bye?
Who the hell was
she
? A mercenary, that's who. Lee sighed. There was nothing she could do except be careful. Perhaps a disguise would help. But breakfast was the first priority. She was starving.

So Lee walked the two blocks, entered the restaurant, and chose a booth that would allow her to monitor the front door. Now, after reading the note,
everyone
looked suspicious. Fortunately, none of the employees or customers tried to shoot her, and the burrito was excellent.

After paying the bill Lee made her way out into bright sunlight and began the walk to the bus station. She stopped every once in a while to check her six but saw no signs of a tail. And that made her feel better. About halfway to her destination Lee passed a secondhand store, paused, and went back. The place was packed with all sorts of things, including a rack of multicolored burqas. The perfect garment to hide in.

So she bought one, traded the pack for a small roll-around suitcase, and emerged from the store with a very different profile. It was hot by then and even hotter in the burqa. Fortunately the station was only three blocks away, and,
when Lee arrived, she was delighted to find that the interior was air-conditioned.

Lee bought a ticket to Primm and took a seat in a corner. There were all sorts of people around her, but they were generally working-class types, many of whom were surrounded by all manner of packages.

The wait was only forty-five minutes long, but it seemed to take forever. Eventually the bus arrived, passengers got in line, and were forced to stand there for ten minutes until they were invited to board. Lee wound up sitting next to a woman who had a wicker cage resting on her lap. There was a rooster inside and it crowed from time to time. Luckily, the trip to Primm would take less than an hour.

Lee put her earbuds in and listened to music until the bus pulled into the town of Jean, where half the passengers got off. She knew it would be more difficult to get at her on the bus, so she remained on board, and felt a sense of relief when it departed ten minutes later. At that point she was only twelve miles away from the border and Pacifica. She was going
home.

LEE WOKE UP
in Los Angeles. She was on a bus, curled up on the backseat, where she had fallen asleep an hour earlier. As Lee sat up she realized that the bus was empty. Somehow, she'd managed to sleep through both the driver's announcements and the commotion the passengers made as they departed. None of them had bothered to wake her. Why?

Because you're in
the city, that's why,
Lee told herself.
And for all they know you're a meth addict, a wino, or a head case. Welcome home.

It had been a long, difficult trip. After arriving at the border and showing her ID, Lee had been arrested for impersonating a police officer and thrown in jail. More than twelve hours passed before the military police got around to contacting the LAPD. And when they did, one of the clerks in HR told them that the
real
Cassandra Lee was vacationing in the San Juan islands. Insofar as the army was concerned that raised the possibility that the woman who claimed to be Cassandra Lee had murdered the police officer
and taken the woman's ID. Never mind the fact that the person in custody looked exactly like the cop in question.

So
another
eight hours passed while Lee pleaded with them to call Deputy Chief Jenkins. Once they did so she was released. That was good except it meant Jenkins was going to be pissed. She had lied to him after all—and that was a definite no-no.

Such were Lee's thoughts as she grabbed the suitcase, stood up, and exited the bus. It was 10:36
A.M.
, and the bright sunlight caused Lee to squint as she stepped down onto the ground.

From there it was a short walk through a mostly empty terminal and out onto the street, where two cabs were waiting. Both were decorated with murals, lots of chrome, and plenty of unnecessary accessories. Lee entered the first one and gave her address to the driver.

As the
especiale
pulled away from the curb Lee thought about how good it was to be back in the green zone—and wondered how her mother was doing. Did she know that James was dead? And that his killers worked for her husband? Maybe Heevy had told Alala so as to punish her for giving birth to James. Or maybe he was keeping the entire episode to himself. Not that it mattered. There weren't many secrets in the Heevy mansion, and if Myra knew, then Alala knew. But Lee was determined to let the whole thing go. The Heevy family had created the mess—and they would have to sort it out. Her mother included.

“That'll be ten nu,” the driver said as he brought the car to a stop in front of the apartment house. Lee was forced to pay with some badly crumpled ones and a handful of coins. She didn't have enough money to give him a tip—and the driver muttered something as she got out.

After losing the truck, which Lee had come to appreciate, she'd been worried about the motorcycle. But the big Road King was right where it was supposed to be, hiding under its gray cover. Lee made a mental note to thank her downstairs
neighbors for keeping an eye on the bike as she climbed the stairs to her apartment.

The door was intact, something most people would take for granted but something Lee had reason to worry about. The interior was a bit dusty, mostly dark because the curtains were pulled, and it felt like her father was still living there.
It's time to move,
Lee told herself.
It's time to get a place of my own.

It was also time to dump the contents of the suitcase onto the bed and shed the dirty clothes. A few minutes later she was in the shower where she let the deliciously hot water pummel her skin before washing her hair. She was standing on the bath mat, using a towel, when the cell phone rang. It was outside the bathroom on the hallway table. “This is Cassandra Lee.”

“And this is your boss,” Jenkins replied. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Lee said contritely. “We do. Thanks for bailing me out.”

“Be in my office at two,” Jenkins said. Lee winced as the line went dead.

After starting a load of laundry and getting dressed for work, Lee went down to the garage. The hog started right away, and Lee rode it downtown. The cops in the parking garage said, “Hi,” and welcomed her back as she passed through security.

Then began what could be a fateful trip upstairs. She was officially on administrative leave rather than vacation—and that meant she was supposed to be available to her superiors. So Jenkins could fire her if he chose to. Then what would she do? The thought caused her stomach to churn.

As Lee crossed the bull pen on the third floor there were some greetings but none of the friendly insults that she could normally expect. And there was something else as well . . . It seemed as though a pervasive feeling of gloom was hanging over the area. But why? Lee couldn't stop to ask without being late. So she made a note to find out what the problem was as she continued on her way.

But when she arrived outside Jenkins's office it was to discover that the chief had a visitor. So Lee was forced to sit and worry until the woman left, and Jenkins waved her in. The guest chair was still warm when she sat on it. There was a serious expression on the chief's face. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Lee replied truthfully. “Very good. Listen, I want to apologize for . . .”

“Never mind that,” Jenkins said brusquely. “You didn't watch the news this morning, did you?”

“No,” Lee confessed. “I didn't.”

Jenkins nodded. “Yeah . . . Well, the Bonebreaker struck again. The victim was a patrolman named Rudy Vasquez. A kid really, only a year out of the academy. A road crew came across his body this morning.”

Now Lee understood the black cloud that hung over the bull pen.
Another
cop had been murdered. “Was the body found on the Hollywood Freeway?”

“Yes. Which means that traffic has been backed up all day, and the mayor is pissed.” Jenkins scowled. “I wonder which she cares about most . . . Vasquez or the traffic. No, strike that, she has a city to run.”

Lee nodded. She understood how Jenkins felt. How
all
cops felt. “Had the body been dismembered?”

Jenkins made a face. “Yes.”

Lee remembered the video of her father's death. “Shit.”

“Yeah. So Lieutenant Wolfe is working the case along with your guys. And she wants you back on the team if you're up for it.”

Lee frowned. “Why? Because she could use another detective? Or because my involvement will make the Bonebreaker even crazier?”

“For both reasons,” Jenkins answered. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. I would do anything to bring that sick son of a bitch in. So I'm back on duty?”

“Yes.”

“And Dr. Kane agrees?”

“He will.”

Lee smiled. “Good.” She was looking forward to seeing Kane again.

“So,” Jenkins said. “How did it go with your mother?”

The question came as a shock. Jenkins knew! But
how
? Lee frowned. “You left cameras in my apartment?”

Jenkins nodded. “Yes. For your own good. And we may have to install more.”

“And you read the letter my mother sent me?”

“A copy . . . Yes.”

Lee stared at him. “So you knew where I was going and why.”

“No,” Jenkins said. “I
didn't
know. Not for sure. Had I known, I would have had to take disciplinary action against you.”

Lee couldn't help but smile. “You are a grade-A son of a bitch.”

“And you are an insubordinate pain in the ass.” Both of them laughed.

Jenkins stood. “Come on . . . The right-hand lane of the Hollywood Freeway is still closed—and I promised the mayor that our people would pull out before rush hour. I want to see the scene firsthand—and I imagine you would as well.”

Lee felt mixed emotions as she followed Jenkins out of the office, through the bull pen, and toward the elevators. It was good to be back. But another policeman had been murdered. And by returning to active duty she was about to remind the killer that she was still alive. Would that stir him up? Definitely. The reality of that frightened her.

Most of the department's “unmarked” cars had been tagged by members of LA's graffiti underground who, having done so, liked to post photos of their “kills” on the Internet. And the sedan that had been assigned to Jenkins was no exception. In fact the letters TIACC, (This is a cop car,) had been scrawled across the trunk in bright pink paint.

It took less than five minutes to merge onto U.S. 101 northbound—a road also known as the Hollywood Freeway. The right lane and the shoulder next to it had been coned off and closed to regular motorists. That slowed traffic to a crawl but allowed the police car to make good time. It wasn't long before flashing lights appeared ahead, and Jenkins had to pull over.

As they made their way along the line of cruisers and “creepers,” Lee knew that the passing motorists were staring at her and the cops processing the crime scene. It wasn't the first time since she'd been a street cop and worked lots of accidents. The army of looky loos, gawkers, and bloodthirsty ghouls were part of the job. And that was one aspect of what the Bonebreaker wanted . . . lots and lots of attention.

There were five lanes and a narrow shoulder on the right. It was hot, and Lee enjoyed a brief respite from the sun as they passed under a bridge. She turned to look back over her shoulder as they emerged and saw that at least four TV cameras had been set up on the overpass. All of which had a perfect view of the crime scene up ahead. Was Carla Zumin looking down at her? Probably. Although panels of blue fabric had been set up to protect the crime scene from prying eyes.

With the exception of some patrol officers and the CHP personnel, Lee and Jenkins knew all of the people who were working the scene. So there was no need for introductions. Lieutenant Wolfe was standing next to one of the department's Incident Command Post units. The vehicle was roughly the size of a bus—and equipped to provide a variety of support services. Wolfe wiped the sweat off her forehead. She had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the roar of traffic. “Chief, Detective Lee, welcome to the frying pan . . . We're almost finished. We'll pull out by five thirty.”

“That won't be good enough for the mayor,” Jenkins predicted gloomily. “But nothing is. Can you give us a walk-through? Lee's going to rejoin your unit and, given her media
profile, will have to share the shitstorm with us. Which reminds me . . . Molly has a press conference scheduled for six thirty, and all three of us are supposed to be there.”

Wolfe made a face. “Oh, goody. Yeah, let's take a stroll. There were three black garbage bags,” she said, as they walked north. “They were removed a couple of hours ago but cones mark where they were found.”

Lee could see that technicians were still on the scene, still taking measurements, and still snapping photos. She stopped next to the first marker and eyed the others. It looked as though the cones were roughly thirty feet apart. “The bags were spread out?” she inquired. “They weren't in a single pile?”

“Correct,” Wolfe replied. “And I know what you're thinking. Prior to this murder, the Bonebreaker always left the bags in a pile. So this represents a deviation from his past MO.”

Lee nodded. “There's something else as well . . . If I remember correctly, the Bonebreaker used to dump bodies next to the
southbound
lanes of the freeway.”

“That's right,” Wolfe said. “Plus, he dumped the bags under the bridge where the traffic cameras couldn't see him. So, thanks to the switch, we can look at the footage from the nearest cameras and who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky.”

Jenkins frowned. “You're sure it's him?”

“Hell no,” Wolfe answered. “We're not sure of anything at this point. But the odds are pretty good. After all, if it
is
him, this wouldn't be the first time he made changes to his MO. Sometimes he contacts us—and sometimes he doesn't. And he sent a drone after Lee . . . But the general location is consistent with his MO—as is the fact that the body was dismembered.”

“It will be interesting to read the autopsy report,” Lee said, as they arrived at the third cone. “He used a chain saw on my father. We know that for a fact. So we'll find out if he's still using that methodology.”

Lee was surprised by the cool, emotion-free way in which she was able to talk about it. And, judging from their
expressions, the others were as well. “Right,” Wolfe said. “Assuming the chief agrees, I'd like you and your team to work on Vasquez. Who was he really? What, if anything, did he have in common with previous victims? And what was he doing the night he disappeared?”

Lee nodded. “Got it. We'll get to work.”

“One more thing,” Wolfe said. “The fact that you are working on the case could provoke another attack. So I'm going to reactivate the shadow team. Your bathroom will be safe—but don't parade around the apartment naked.”

After looking at the crime scene, Lee and Jenkins returned to LAPD headquarters, where they met with the department's public-affairs rep and Wolfe prior to reporting to the plaza for the press conference. It was late afternoon by that time, and the light was starting to fade as Jenkins stepped up to a portable podium, and read a prepared statement.

“At approximately 5:30
A.M.
, a state highway crew found what appeared to be three bags of human remains next to northbound SR 101. Patrol cars were dispatched to secure the scene and worked with units from the California Highway Patrol and the highway department to shut down the right lane of the Hollywood Freeway.

“Shortly thereafter, members of the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division arrived on scene and began their investigation. Later it was determined that the remains were those of LAPD Patrol Officer Rudy Vasquez, who had been reported missing three days earlier. Officer Vasquez's family was notified early this afternoon and requests that the media respect their privacy during this difficult time. A memorial service will be held on a date to be announced later in the week.”