Redzone (26 page)

Once roll call was over Lee went to her desk and tried to do some paperwork. But it was difficult to concentrate and she was thankful when Prospo showed up. It was noon by then. “Come on,” he said with a wink. “Let's get some lunch.”

“I checked the schedule,” Prospo said, on the way down to the parking garage. “None of our people will be there for the next hour or so.”

“We'll keep it quick,” Lee promised. “Thanks, Milo. You're okay in spite of what Yanty says.”

Prospo laughed as they got in his creeper and headed up the ramp. It was midday, and that meant traffic was as light as it would ever be. And, since patrol officers weren't about to stop one of their own for going ten miles an hour over the limit, they made good time. Baxter's apartment was in West LA—a location that put her fairly close to work.

The building was a boxy nondescript affair that styled itself as Las Palmas even though the nearest palm tree was half a block away. There were a couple of stumps out front though—so maybe there had been palms at one time.

There was a row of parking spots and Prospo pulled into the one labeled “106.” “They found her car at the club,” he said.

“Just like Vasquez,” Lee observed. “And, assuming that we're dealing with the same person, he's attractive to both men
and
women. So maybe he swings both ways . . . Or maybe he's a good actor. Do the descriptions match?”

“Mostly,” Prospo said. “But it's hard to be certain. There were a lot of people in the Jambo club that night and the eyewitness accounts are vague.”

“No photos then?” Lee inquired, as they followed a short flight of stairs up to the apartment house.

“Some grainy stuff,” Prospo replied. “But nothing definitive. Follow me . . . I have a key.”

Once inside the apartment Lee put her hands in her pockets rather than run the risk of touching anything. And she was careful to watch where she stepped as well—even though there was no reason to believe that a crime had been committed on the premises. Not yet anyway—but they wouldn't know for sure until the techs finished their work.

Lee's purpose was to learn more about Baxter. What kind of person was she? And, more importantly, what kind of
cop
was she?

The answers to both questions were quite apparent. Unlike Lee's apartment, which was decorated man-style, Baxter's was girly. There were colorful prints on the walls, some droopy flowers on the kitchen table, and all of the furniture matched.

But it was easy to see that a cop lived there as well. A framed target was hanging in the hallway that led to the bedroom. All of the hits were in, or close to, the bull's-eye. A commendation hung next to it. That reminded Lee of the award she'd seen at Rudy Vasquez's apartment. And, judging from a black-and-white photo of Baxter posing in front of her cruiser, she was in good shape. A factor that might help
her survive. “Okay,” she said finally. “I've seen enough. Let's get while the getting is good.”

Lee still couldn't drive a police car so Prospo took her home, promised to let her know about any major developments, and returned to HQ. Lee felt somewhat lost as she made her way up to the apartment. She left a message for Jenkins, letting him know where she was, and checked her e-mail. There was nothing of interest other than an update from Codicil. The IA investigators had yet to file their report but were supposed to do so soon.

The suspension was driving Lee crazy! She wanted to
do
something. So she called Yanty, knowing full well that he would let her know if he had anything to share. Her call went through this time. “Dick Yanty.”

“Hi, Dick. Lee here. Any news?”

“Nothing so far,” Yanty replied. “It turns out that there are a total of 356 pickups in Nuevo and the surrounding area—and I'm going through them as fast as I can. But now that we have the Baxter case to work on as well it's hard to find the time. Lieutenant Wolfe is all in—she's throwing everything we have at the case.”

This is about the Baxter case,
Lee thought to herself. But she knew Yanty was doing all he could. “Good,” she replied. “Sorry to bother you. I promise not to call during the next half hour.”

Yanty laughed. “No problem . . . I understand.”

They said their good-byes and hung up. That left Lee with nothing to do. So rather than mope she forced herself to clean the bathroom. A chore she hated but one that left her with a feeling of satisfaction once she was done.

Then it was time to have lunch, watch the news, and take a nap, the last being a treat she rarely got to enjoy. There was a lot of noise during the day, and there was a lot on her mind, so it took a while to fall asleep. But eventually she did. And she was hunting the Bonebreaker when one of her phones began to ring.

Lee sat up, realized that the call was coming in on her personal phone, and immediately thought of Kane. He'd been at a conference in San Diego. But when she eyed the screen, Lee saw a number she didn't recognize. “Hello, this is Cassandra Lee.”

“And this,” the voice on the end of the line said, is “Crystal Bye.”

Lee was still sleepy and didn't recognize the name at first. Then it came to her . . . The assassin! Was the shadow team listening in? They were supposed to be. “Why weren't you on the pier?” Lee inquired sweetly. “It would be nice to meet you. We could compare guns or something.”

“I was busy elsewhere,” Bye replied. “But I'm here today . . . Look out your front window.”

Lee grabbed the .45 on her way to the living room. The curtains were closed. As were the blinds beyond them. What would happen if she opened them? Would a sniper put a bullet in her head?

Lee stood to one side of the window and lifted a slat. That was when she saw the white van. The sign on the side read,
AL'S PEST CONTROL
. Was that Bye's idea of a joke? Or just a coincidence?

The vehicle was parked on the far side of the street in front of a deserted home. And there, standing in front of it, was a slender woman dressed in black with shoulder-length white hair. “Stay there,” Lee said. “I'll be right down.”

Bye laughed. “Stalling won't work, bitch . . . Your story is over. Bye-bye.”

Suddenly a man carrying a pipe stepped out from behind the van. No,
not
a pipe . . . A rocket launcher! He brought the weapon up to his right shoulder and peered into a sight.

Lee turned and ran. She was halfway to the front door when the rocket struck. There was a loud explosion. A hole large enough to drive a car through appeared in the wall, flying shrapnel ripped into the walls, and the apartment erupted in flames.

*   *   *

Crystal Bye smiled enigmatically and nodded to the man with the rocket launcher. Mission accomplished. Then they got into the van and drove away. A police car with its siren bleating passed them going in the other direction. A fire truck followed. It was just another day in LA.

THE FORCE OF
the explosion threw Lee forward. She hit the floor hard. The phone flew out of her hand, but she was able to retain the .45, and that was good since Bye could be waiting outside. Lee did a push-up and stood. She could hear the fierce crackle of flames and feel the heat pressing against her back as her fingers fumbled with the door locks. All three of them were there to protect her. But now, as she was forced to take some of the thick black smoke deep into her lungs, there was a very real possibility that the locks were going to kill her.

Finally, as the last bolt was retracted into the door, Lee pushed it open. The .45 was up and ready to fire, but there weren't any targets. Lee gave thanks as she jammed the weapon into the small of her back and took a sharp turn to the right. Five other people lived in the four plex. That included the Dewey sisters, both of whom should be at work, and Mr. Henry. He had the apartment next to Lee's and was carrying a metal file box as he stumbled through the drifting
smoke. She grabbed his arm and guided the old man down the stairs to the ground.

A fireman appeared out of the smoke. “Apartment 101!” Lee shouted. “Mrs. Reed is eighty-six years old and very slow.”

“Got it,” the man said. “Get away from the building.” Then he vanished into the smoke.

Confident that Mr. Henry would be okay, Lee hurried off to make sure that the Dewey sisters really were at work and not home on vacation. The flames were confined to the second floor at that point—and the fire department was putting water on the blaze as Lee banged on the door marked 102. There was no response.

That was when Lee remembered the Road King and went to roll the bike down onto the street. The ignition key, her wallet, and everything else she owned was in the apartment.
Used to own,
Lee corrected herself, as she looked back.

A column of thick black smoke was rising from the scene, and in spite of the fire department's fast response, the dingbat's top floor had been destroyed. That was when Carla Zumin arrived, recognized Lee immediately, and ordered her camera operator to roll. “What happened?” the reporter inquired, as she shoved a mike into Lee's face.

“Somebody fired a rocket into my apartment,” Lee answered.

“Why?”
Zumin demanded.

Lee turned to look into the camera and smiled. Half her face was covered with soot. “It's just a guess, mind you,” she said. “But maybe they don't like me.”

At that moment Lieutenant Wolfe and two members of the shadow team arrived and shooed Zumin away. But the reporter didn't care. She had what she needed . . . And it would hit the airwaves soon.

*   *   *

Dr. Michael Valentine was a busy man. That was because he was very good with horses, there were a lot of the animals in and around Nuevo, and all of them needed regular care.
Care that included biannual vaccinations, worming, and occasional surgery.

There were other vets of course—but “Dr. Mike,” as his clients called him, was the most personable of the bunch. He was also the easiest to look at. And that was helpful with most of his female clientele and some of the men too.

He was no fool though. Dr. Mike knew better than to attract attention to Nuevo by committing crimes there—and had always been careful to victimize people who lived elsewhere. To achieve sexual gratification Dr. Mike had to inflict pain. A predilection that had begun back in his college days with BDSM role-playing that evolved into a series of date rapes. During the years that followed, there had been some of what he categorized as “real” rapes and two related murders.

But as time passed Dr. Mike discovered that it took increasing amounts of violence to provide him with the level of gratification he sought. And that was how he came to play the part of the Bonebreaker. Because by using the predator's name he could have his fun and point the police in a direction they were inclined to go anyway.

Such was the logic behind both the Vasquez abduction and his most recent acquisition, a policewoman who was like a present waiting to be opened. But, he'd been too busy to enjoy her. This would change soon however. Those were Dr. Mike's thoughts as he pulled into the parking lot that fronted a one-story building. If one looked closely it was still possible to see the faded name that had been painted on the front of the building prior to the plague—
OLSON & SONS MEAT PACKING, INC.

Below that a
new
sign had been hung:
VALENTINE ANIMAL BOARDING
. His primary business office was five miles away. But the old building was the perfect location for a secondary office and a place to house large animals on a temporary basis. Meaning a horse hotel where clients could leave their animals while they went on vacation. It was a
profitable sideline as well as a place to live out his darkest fantasies.

Dr. Mike parked his truck in a slot marked
RESERVED
and made his way up to the front door. A keypad was mounted next to the entrance and, when he entered the four-digit pin code, a click was heard. Valentine turned the knob and went inside.

His assistant was a vet tech who went by Fred rather than Fredericka. She looked up from her computer as Dr. Mike entered the office. Her face was somewhat plain, but her eyes were an icy blue, and had a hypnotic quality to them. They had worked together for years, had rough sex on and off, but weren't entirely compatible since both were sadists. “Good morning, Mike . . . I was just going over the reservation list. We have a horse and a donkey coming in today.”

“A donkey? Oh yes, that would be Eeyore . . . Be sure to carry out a complete check on both animals. We wouldn't want our customers to claim that they were harmed while in our care.”

Fred had heard the instructions hundreds of times before. She nodded dutifully. “Will do.”

“So,” Dr. Mike said, “how is our
human
guest?”

“She's pretty tough,” Fred replied. “The bitch tried to deck me when I went in to put water in her bowl. I had to tase her.”

Dr. Mike chuckled. “Well, that's how we like 'em, right Fred? The stronger they are, the longer they last. I'm going to head back and have a chat with her.”

“Take the taser,” Fred suggested, as she took it out of a drawer.

“Thanks,” Dr. Mike said, as he accepted the weapon and left. The interior of the building had been gutted and divided into twenty-four stalls, about half of which were empty at the moment. The thick smell of animal feces hung in the air as Dr. Mike made his way back to the storage room, but the vet didn't notice. The odor had been a natural part of his
working environment for years. All of the stalls were clean thanks to Fred's unending efforts and it was clear that the “guests” had been fed. Dr. Mike saw a horse blanket hanging on a rail and took it as he walked past.

The storage room was labeled as such and secured with a sturdy padlock. There were two keys—one for Fred and one for Dr. Mike. He used his to open the lock and remove it from the hasp. Then, taser at the ready, he pushed the door open.

Hearing his arrival Baxter was on her feet, back to the wall, ready for anything. Most women would have attempted to cover their private parts, but not Baxter. Her fists were up and ready to throw punches. “You aren't very pretty,” Dr. Mike observed, “but you have a great body. I plan to enjoy it thoroughly. Here, I brought you a present.”

Baxter's eyes remained on Dr. Mike, and she made no attempt to catch the blanket as it fell to the floor. “The least you could do is say ‘thank you,'” Dr. Mike said irritably.

“Why?”
Baxter said. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Why does a pet dog kill the neighbor's chicken?” the vet responded rhetorically. “Not for food . . . He has that. No, he kills the chicken for the fun of it. Because deep down, underneath the collar, he's a predator. In this case I'm the predator, and you're the prey. Learn to accept that. You'll feel better if you do.” And with that, he withdrew and slammed the door.

*   *   *

Baxter listened to the rattle of the padlock as it mated with the hasp, followed by the sound of departing footsteps. Then she bent over to retrieve the blanket, which she wrapped around her shoulders. It was scratchy, and smelled like the animal it belonged to, but it was better than nothing. Perhaps the additional warmth would enable her to sleep for a while.

With that in mind Baxter lay on the floor with her back to the outside wall. And it was then, with the help of the
light from the window above, that she saw the name. It had been scratched into the concrete floor with something like a nail. “VASQUEZ.” She began to cry.

*   *   *

A couple of hours had passed since the rocket attack—and Lee was on the third floor of police headquarters in Jenkins's office. According to a patrol officer on the scene, everything she owned with the exception of the motorcycle was gone, and that was true for Mr. Henry as well. Lee planned to follow up and see how the retired bus driver was doing. He had his file box, and she hoped there was a paid-up insurance policy inside.

Jenkins and Lee turned to look as Wolfe entered the room. “The folks in HR are going to arrange for a temporary driver's license—and an emergency clothing allowance. It won't be much, but tee shirts and jeans aren't that expensive.”

Lee gave Wolfe the finger, and they laughed.

“We'll arrange for a hotel as well,” Wolfe added. “And a security detail.”

“Thank you,” Lee said gratefully. “But forget the security. This Bye bitch is capable of
anything
. So it would take an army to protect me, and I don't want to suck resources away from the Baxter case. Our first priority is to find her.”

Lee looked from Jenkins to Wolfe and back again. Neither one of them said anything. “Good,” Lee said. “That's settled. Now . . . How about my badge? When can I have it back?”

Jenkins opened a desk drawer, removed an ID case, and pushed it across the surface of his desk. The pistols followed. “There you go.”

Lee was surprised. “So the dynamic duo cleared me?”

“Hell no,” Jenkins replied. “They wanted the department to fire your ass.”

“Then why am I back on the job?”

“Because Chief Corso overruled them,” Wolfe replied gravely.

“Corso? You've got to be kidding.”

“Nope,” Jenkins said. “When the IA people asked why, the chief said that you were badly traumatized prior to entering the red zone, and there's no way to know if you were fully aware of the rules. Then he went on to say, and this is a quote, that ‘keeping Detective Lee on the force is in the best interests of the department.'

“Here's my guess as to why,” Jenkins continued. “You're something of a folk hero at this point. And the chief is afraid there will be all sorts of blowback if the department dumps you.”

Wolfe nodded. “I agree. But I think there's something more to it as well. Corso is a cop deep down. And even though you're a huge pain in the ass, he knows that you deliver the goods. And, in the wake of the rocket attack, no one is likely to question his judgment.”

“Thanks,” Lee said. “I think. So, given that I'm a pain in the ass, what I'm about to ask for won't surprise you.”

Jenkins sighed. “What now?”

“I want Yanty and Prospo back . . . And I want permission to look for a Bonebreaker imposter.”

Wolfe opened her mouth to speak—but Lee raised a hand. “The rest of the team can continue to search for the real deal—and I hope they find him . . . But let's put money on
both
possibilities.”

Wolfe looked at Jenkins and he frowned. “The chief wouldn't like it . . . Two serial cop killers would scare the shit out of everyone, our people included.”

“So don't tell them,” Lee said.

“Don't overplay your hand,” Jenkins cautioned. “There's a limit to how much of your bullshit I'm willing to put up with.”

Lee tried to look penitent. “Yes, sir. I hear you.”

Wolfe rolled her eyes but Jenkins didn't notice. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “Take your best shot but don't talk about
the imposter theory. Just do what you need to do. And keep us in the loop.”

“I will,” Lee lied, as she checked to make sure that the Glock was loaded. “So I can go to work?”

“Yes,” Jenkins replied. “You can go to work.”

Lee smiled sweetly, and said, “Thanks.” Then she was gone.

*   *   *

Jenkins looked at Wolfe. “So, what do you think? Did the chief make the right call?”

She nodded. “Lee is like a hand grenade. You throw it at the bad guys, and who knows what will happen? So Corso figured, ‘What the hell? I
have
a grenade . . . I'll use it.'”

Jenkins laughed. “Let's hope none of us gets caught in the blast.”

*   *   *

The Bonebreaker was doing fifty miles an hour when the sedan pulled out in front of him. That forced him to stand on the brakes and caused the dead mailman to slide forward. There was a thump as his shoes struck the engine compartment positioned between the front seats.

The Bonebreaker swore and slammed a fist down on the horn. The man in the car flipped him off and sped away. The Bonebreaker was sorely tempted to follow the driver and shoot him. But he was on a mission and couldn't allow himself to be distracted.

The whole thing seemed so simple at first. While he didn't have the technical resources that Lee could muster—the Bonebreaker figured there was a decent chance that he could find the truck on his own. He hadn't mentioned it to Lee, but the “DMV” bumper sticker could indicate that the truck's owner was a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine, and there were only five of them in the Nuevo area.

Plus there was the matter of the vise to consider. While reading about vets the Bonebreaker discovered that routine
hoof care was typically provided by specialists called farriers. And, judging from pictures he'd seen online, most of them had specially equipped vehicles. Trucks that often had a vise mounted somewhere. For working with horseshoes? Probably.