The Kill Clause (28 page)

Tim stared at the pristine strip of wood at the chimney’s edge; he’d painted it with a three-fourths angular liner brush so he wouldn’t stain the bricks.

Mac pounded the nail through the backboard, and the wood panel beneath split. Tim felt his teeth grind so hard his skull vibrated. Dray was sitting backward on the picnic table, feet on the bench, her head lowered into her hands, her face hidden by the drape of her bangs. Beside her, Bear watched the proceedings with the horrified absorption of a rubbernecker at a particularly grisly car wreck.

Another volley of bangs, and then Mac called out, “Is it straight?”

Fowler and Gutierez paused from dribbling on the patio to flash him thumbs-ups. “Good enough.”

The backboard was at a four o’clock tilt.

Tim walked over and stood before Bear and Dray, one foot up on the cooler.

Dray gestured limply to Mac but couldn’t muster words.

“I’m on my way,” Tim said.

“I’m following,” Bear said.

“You can’t leave me stuck here.”

“He’s your guest, Dray,” Tim said.

The other deputies were at the rear fence line, smoking and speaking in lowered voices.

Dray’s face was drawn and weary, and the dark pockets beneath her eyes looked like bruises. Tim remembered when they first met, at a fire-department fund-raiser. She’d been wearing a yellow dress dotted with tiny blue flowers. The straps crossed in the back, showing off a diamond patch of skin just below her nape. She’d walked past him, pursued by a fire chief—older guy, as all her exes were—and she’d sent a breeze of jasmine and lotion his way that had on him the kind of effect usually reserved for shitty romantic comedies and Pepe Le Pew. Later that evening he’d caught her out in the parking lot getting a sweater from her car, and they’d spoken for about forty-five minutes in the intimate space between vehicles. He’d kissed her, and she’d gone home with him, and for months afterward firefighters from Station 41 had fixed Tim with cold, aggressive glares every time their paths crossed, a reprisal he gladly endured.

Only in hindsight had he realized how noteworthy Dray’s feminine getup had been that night; she’d not worn the dress since, nor anything yellow, nor especially anything with little blue flowers. Now she looked tired and world-weary and unspecifically pissed off, like a stoic dust-bowl mother with a child hanging from her neck and three more behind her, around her, waiting to be fed.

“I lied to you, Dray,” Tim said. “I’m not wearing my wedding band because I can’t get it off over my knuckle. I’m still wearing it because I can’t not.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her chest rose beneath her tank top and stopped with a held breath. Her eyes were brilliant green in the sunlight and as large as he’d ever seen them.

Mac’s voice rose, disrupting them. “…so we called the Milpitas guys the Mil-
penis
guys,” he was saying, recounting his week at EOB SWAT training, his fifth time through the program and in all likelihood the fifth time he’d fail. “Good little rivalry. I shot a two sixty-two on the test.”

“In your fucking dreams you shot a two sixty-two,” someone said.

Mac’s finger made the sign of the cross on his barrel chest. “It was pretty funny. They had this bull dyke on their squad—”

Dray was on her feet. “Why’d you use that word?”

Mac stopped, glanced at Gutierez and Fowler for support. “I don’t know. Because she was, I guess.”

“Why? Short haircut, good build? Working hard on the job?” Her arms were crossed, and Tim knew from her expression that she was all
about the fight right now and not the content, and so they’d be at it for hours. “I field that shit all day, and you can bet your ass she does, too.”

Bear signaled Tim with a jerk of his head, and Tim followed him out through the side gate. Bear pointed to his truck, and they both climbed in and sat for a moment. They could still make out Dray’s voice, the fricatives and raised syllables.

“On the warpath, ain’t she?” Bear said.

“It’s a thickheaded way for her to beat up on herself.”

Bear fingered one of the schisms in the heat-cracked dash, then wiped his moist palms on his slacks. He was giving off discomfort like a scent, fiddling with the hockey puck of a watch strapped to his wrist. Tim waited, knowing Bear didn’t like to be pushed when it came to words.

“Look, Tim. This is a tough thing to ask you. It’s about the killings. This vigilante stuff.”

Tim felt an icy band of sweat spring up on his forehead, just at the hairline.

“I know you quit and all, but…we’d like your help apprehending the guy.”

Tim made sure he breathed a few times before he answered. “Why’s the service involved?”

“There’s some talk the guy could be a fugitive—his fuck-all attitude, probably. Like he’s got nothing to lose. Mayor Hahn’s going ballistic on this one. He tapped Robbery-Homicide, Chief Bratton is leaning on us to pull together a fugitive list from their profile, we already have FBI up our asses—Tannino says fuck ’em all, if we’re doing the work anyway, we might as well try to get the collar ourselves, carve us a bigger piece of the pie at budget time.”

“Makes sense.”

Bear’s hand rustled in his jacket. “Just give this a listen for me, would you?”

“I’m not really—”

The microcassette recorder peeked out from Bear’s fist like a trapped canary. He flipped it and punched the side button with a thumb. Tim heard his own barely disguised voice issue forth. “I have a medical emergency at 14132 Lanyard Street. In the basement. Repeat: in the basement. Please send an ambulance immediately.”

Bear clicked it off. He stared at Tim expectantly. Tim got busy studying the front lawn through the window.

“Personally, I don’t buy the fugitive angle.” Bear’s tone was driving, knowing. “I’m thinking the guy’s former military or PD. He’s got the radio formality, repeating key information.”

Tim recalled being impressed with himself at the time of the call for refraining from spelling out the street name using a phonetic alphabet. Somewhere beneath his guilt and fast-hardening shame shone his admiration for the meticulousness it took to be a competent criminal. A single lapse in a high-heat moment—the location repeat—had narrowed the ground Tim was standing on considerably. A helpful tip from a friend and partner, granted from a position of plausible deniability.

“This jackass”—Bear shook the recorder—“is usurping the law, stealing it from the same people who are gonna track him down. That’s liable to piss people off—understandably so, if you ask me. If I was this guy, I’d be pretty concerned. I’d make sure I knew
exactly
what I was into.”

Tim waved his hand, palmed some sweat off his forehead, then looked at his watch. “Shit. I’m late for a…meeting.” In his split-second hesitation yawned another void he’d later fill with worries. Bear’s eyes seemed cold—another of Tim’s concerns, trickling in, seeking the emptiness.

“What meeting? You don’t have a job.”

“Exactly. It’s an interview. Private security gig.” Tim pushed open the door and stepped out onto the curb.

“That’s good.” Bear’s face held a not-so-subtle warning. “A lot of people need looking after these days.”

“WE’RE JUST FINISHING
up the media recap, Mr. Rackley,” Rayner said when Tim entered the conference room. Rayner stood at the head of the table, a thick manila folder laid open before him on the granite surface, press clippings protruding messily.

“If you
ever
pull a move like you pulled this morning on TV without our collective and express approval, I’ll—”

“You’re not in charge here,” Rayner said. “Why should I have to listen to you?”

“Mutual assured destruction. That’s why.” Tim stared at Rayner until Rayner looked away, then slid into his chair. “Your comments were unsubtle and reckless. Don’t do that again, or anything like it. If something shows up in the press, I’ll know if it smells like you. Before we act, we agree on matters here. That’s an inviolable rule.”

The others were present, but without Dumone there seemed an imbalance. Some element of gravitas had been lost. Before, they’d been a commission; now they were just six pissed-off people in a room.

They all kept their picture frames turned in like mirrors; the Stork alone positioned his facing away from him. To Tim’s right, Dumone’s wife peered out from her still-present frame, gazing at the empty black chair before her. Not for the first time, Tim thought about what cheap props the photos were. Facile, like a gimmick for one of Rayner’s chat shows.

Ananberg observed Tim silently from the seat beside him. She looked spent, strung out on an adrenaline hangover. They were all beaten up—Robert in particular. He still hadn’t raised his head. It had been a hellacious twenty-four hours, between the Debuffier execution and Dumone’s stroke. Only the Stork and Rayner, shielded by their inherent yet opposite superficialities, remained imperviously alert.

Rayner took a sip of water. “I’d like to finish the media recap now.” A shuffling of papers. “On CNBC last night—”

“The instant we became aware that Debuffier had a live victim in hand, the sole objective should have been rescuing her and saving her life.” Tim spoke with Dumone’s resolve and authority, and, as when Dumone spoke, the others were silent. “The only valid reason to kill Debuffier would have been as a necessary tactic to extract the victim,
which it was not.
I had injured him nonfatally—”

Robert spoke slowly and vehemently. “I shot Debuffier because it was the quickest way to get to the victim.” He finally pulled his head up, revealing his face.

“No. You shot him because you wanted to play hero.”

“We voted he should be executed,” Mitchell said. “He was executed.”

“
There was no longer a need to execute him.
He was committing a crime that could have put him away. We could have secured him and turned matters over to the proper authorities.”

“Then we would have had to stay with him and gotten caught,” Robert said.

“We do not kill people to avoid getting caught,” Tim said. “If covering your own ass is your primary objective, you don’t belong here.”

“Come on,” Mitchell said. “The guy had a torture victim captive in his basement, for Christ’s sake. What are the odds that we’ll stumble into a situation like that again?”

“These are not predictable situations. We never know what we’re going to stumble into.”

“Then you should be grateful
I
thought to come prepared, since you sure as hell weren’t. You were busy riding my ass for bringing my det bag. Without it we wouldn’t have gotten through that door.”

A laugh escaped Tim. “You hold that to be a well-planned, well-executed mission? You think you can take control operationally? With
that?
” He turned to Rayner—who wore a worried, atypically passive expression—and Ananberg, looking for support.

“We met our mission objective,” Mitchell said.

“The outcome isn’t the only thing that matters,” Ananberg said.

“No? Isn’t that our argument? The ends justify the means?”

Robert was gazing at the table, fingers drumming the granite; Mitchell had become the mouthpiece.

“The means
are
the ends,” Tim said. “Justice, order, law, strategy, control. If we lose sight of that when we operate, the whole thing comes unwound. Results do not override rules.”

“Look, what happened, happened—there’s no need to go pulling pins on a sweat grenade now. Robbie got a little fired up and jumped the gun on our basement entry—”

“He was unpredictable, dangerous, and off his game.” Despite the heat the argument was generating, Tim had yet to raise his voice, a restraint Dray abhorred in him.

“People fuck up sometimes.” Robert seemed unsettled and highly agitated. “No matter what happens, an operation can spin out of control. We’ve all had that happen.”

“Calm down, Robert,” Mitchell said sharply—the first severe note Tim had heard either twin use with the other.

“The guy was poking holes in her.” Robert’s voice, unusually high, shook from the memory.

“We can’t act emotionally during a live operation,” Tim said. “An untimed entry like that gets us killed five times out of ten. We lose our angle, our element of surprise, tactics, strategy—everything.”

Mitchell leaned forward, his jacket bunching tight at the biceps. “I understand.”

Tim turned his stare to Robert. “He doesn’t.”

Robert rose to a half crouch above his chair. “What’s your fucking problem, Rackley? We killed the prick. Instead of riding my ass for going in two seconds early, why don’t you think about what we did accomplish? Think of the puke off the streets, put down, never again eyeing a sister, a mother, a girl at a bus stop.”

Even across the table, Tim picked up a hint of alcohol on his breath. “The point of this, of us, is not merely to kill. Do you understand
that?” Tim waited impatiently, glaring back at Robert. “If not, get out.”

Tim found himself thinking about what angle he’d take on a jab if Robert came across the table at him. Mitchell rested a hand on Robert’s shoulder and pulled him gently back down into his chair. The Stork’s head was bent; he rubbed his thumbnail with the pad of his forefinger, an annoying, repetitive gesture that called to mind autism.

Robert’s voice was so low it was barely audible. “Of course I get it.”

Tim fixed him with a stare. “Why the face?”

“What?”

“You shot him in the face. That’s a highly personal kill shot.”

“Your blowing up Lane’s head I would hardly label dispassionate,” Rayner said.

“Lane’s head shot was strategic to ensure the safety of those around him. This was specifically not. You’re supposed to aim at critical mass. If the gun kicks high, you still get the neck. A chest shot has more stopping power, too, especially with a big guy.”

Rayner’s eyebrows were raised, frozen in an expression of distaste or respect.

“So I shot Motherfucker in the face. What are you saying?” Robert was flushed, the muscles of his neck pulled taut.

“You’re not starting to enjoy this, are you?”

Robert stood up again, but Mitchell yanked him back down. He stayed in his chair, eyeing Tim, but Tim turned to face Mitchell. “And what’s this about a rare explosive wire linking the explosives?”

“It’s media horseshit. I use standard wires. There’s no way they could link them.”

“Well, someone in forensics knows the two executions are linked and leaked that fact, with a slight skew, to the media. How do they know? And so quickly? It had to be the explosive.”

Mitchell grew finicky under Tim’s glare.

“That wasn’t a commercial blasting cap, was it, Mitchell?”

“I don’t use anything commercial, not for a key component. Don’t trust it. I make all my own stuff.”

“Great. So could forensic analysis determine that the initiation portion of your homemade blasting cap was similar to the earpiece device? This is LAPD bomb squad we’re talking about, not some Detroit Scooby-Doo with a magnifying glass.”

“Maybe.” Mitchell looked away. “Probably.”

“Who gives a shit anyway?” Robert said. “It doesn’t affect anything.”

“I give a shit, because if it happens and
we
didn’t plan it, that’s bad news. There’s a reason we voted against a communiqué”—an angry eye toward Rayner—“not that we’d want to claim this mess anyway. The bomb squad matching the two explosives is going to bring the heat, and we don’t have room for missteps.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, weathering the Mastersons’ aggressive stares. “Let me make something else clear, since you two seem so eager to run and gun: You don’t have what it takes to lead this kind of operation.”

Robert and Mitchell coughed out identical snickers. “Mitch blasted the door,” Robert said. “I was the number-one man through.”

“And I was the one who jumped in and saved your ass when you missed three shots, tripped down the stairs, and got tossed like a Nerf ball by Debuffier.”

The muscles of Robert’s face had tightened, compressing his cheeks into sinewy ovals.

“I run the show operationally,” Tim said. “My rules. Those were the conditions. And since it’s clear none of you have given any thought to defining our operational rules, how’s this: You have none. I’m the sole operator on a kill mission. You will not be on-site when a hit goes down. That’s just how it is.”

“Let’s talk about this,” Rayner said. “You’re not solely in charge here.”

“I’m not negotiating these terms. They stand, or I walk.”

Rayner’s lips tightened, his nostrils flaring with indignation—the spoiled prince used to getting his way. “If you walk, you’ll never get to review Kindell’s case. You’ll never know what happened to Virginia.”

Ananberg looked over at him, shocked. “For Christ’s sake, William.”

Tim felt his face grow hot. “If you think for a minute that I’d stay here and participate in a venture of this severity to get my hands on a file—even a file that could help solve my daughter’s death—then you’ve underestimated me. I will
not
be blackmailed.”

But Rayner was already backpedaling into his polished-gentleman persona. He hadn’t dropped his guard before, but the picture beneath it was as nasty as Tim had imagined. “I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort, Mr. Rackley, and I apologize for my phrasing. What I mean is, we all have aims we’re seeking to forward here, and let’s keep our eyes on the ball.” He cast a wary glance at the Mastersons. “Now, how
would
you like to handle matters operationally so you’re comfortable?”

Tim took a moment, letting the pins and needles leave his face. He met Mitchell’s eyes. “I still may need you. And you.” He nodded at the
Stork, as if the Stork gave a damn. “For surveillance, logistics, backup. But I handle target neutralization alone.”

Mitchell’s hands flared wide and settled in his lap. “Fine.”

Ananberg’s eyes tracked over one chair. “Robert?”

Robert ran a knuckle across his nose, studying the table. Finally he nodded, glaring at Tim. “Affirmative,
sir
.”

“Excellent.” Rayner clapped his hands and held them together, like a delighted Dickensian orphan at Christmas. “Now, let’s get back to the media recap.”

“Fuck the media recap,” Robert growled.

The Stork clasped his hands and raised them. “Here, here.”

Rayner looked like the teacher’s yes boy who’d just had his test tubes stomped by the class bully. “But the sociological impact is certainly relevant to—”

“Bill,” Ananberg said. “Get the next case binder.”

Rayner huffily pulled his son’s crestfallen image off the wall and punched buttons on the safe, issuing a steady stream of words under his breath.

“Wait,” Mitchell said. “Are we voting without Franklin?”

“Of course,” Rayner said. “The binders don’t leave this room.”

Robert said, “Then conference him in.”

“He could be overheard talking in his room,” Ananberg said. “And we don’t know if those phone lines are secure.”

“He gets exhausted pretty quickly,” Rayner said. “I’m not sure if he has the focus or stamina right now to pay these deliberations the meticulous attention they demand.”

“I say we wait for him to recover,” Tim said.

Rayner faced them, his hands trembling slightly. “I spoke to his doctor at length today. His prognosis…. I’m not sure that waiting for hisrecovery is the wisest idea.”

Robert blanched. “Oh.”

Mitchell got busy scratching his forehead.

Shock turned to sadness before Tim could get a handle on it. It took him a moment to regain his composure, then he nodded at Rayner to move ahead.

Rayner grabbed a binder and tossed it on the table. “Terrill Bowrick of the Warren Shooters.”

On October 30, 2002, three seniors at Earl Warren High had gotten into a sixth-period altercation with the starting lineup of the school basketball team. They’d retreated to their vehicles and returned with ordnance. While Terrill Bowrick stood guard at the door, his two coperpetrators had entered the school gymnasium, where they’d fired
ninety-seven rounds in less than two minutes, killing eleven students and wounding eight.

The coach’s five-year-old daughter, Lizzy Bowman, who’d been watching practice from the bleachers, had caught a stray bullet through her left eye. Greeting Angelenos on their doorsteps Halloween morning was a front-page photo of her father on both knees, clutching her limp body—a reverse
Pietà
for the new millennium. Tim remembered vividly how the coach’s jersey had borne a blood imprint of his daughter’s face, a crimson half mask. Tim had set down the paper, dropped Ginny off at school, then sat in his car in the parking lot for five minutes before walking to his daughter’s classroom so he could see her again through the window before leaving her.

The two gunmen, lean stepbrothers bound by a perverse codependence, had claimed there had been no premeditation. Their father was a pawnbroker—they’d been transporting the weapons between two of his stores, just happened to have dueling SKSs and four mags in the trunk when they’d lost their cool. Second-degree murder at worst, their defense lawyer claimed, maybe even a push for temporary insanity. A foolish argument, but good enough to get past your average foolish jury.

The prosecutor, unable to play the brothers off against each other and faced with wrathful media and a community hell-bent on vengeance, had realized he could roll Bowrick with a grant of immunity. Bowrick, a second-time senior who’d just stumbled across the threshold of his eighteenth birthday and thus was sweating heavy, could testify that they’d planned the shooting in the preceding weeks, thus establishing premed and giving the prosecution an express train to murder in the first. The stepbrothers, also not Oppenheimers in the classroom, were legal adults as well.