Bristo Camino, California
Friday, 2:47 P.M.
It was one of those high-desert days in the suburban communities north of Los Angeles with the air so dry it was like breathing sand; the sun licked their skin with fire. They were eating hamburgers from the In-N-out, riding along in Dennis's truck, a red Nissan pickup that he'd bought for six hundred dollars from a Bolivian he'd met working construction two weeks before he had been arrested; Dennis Rooney driving, twenty-two years old and eleven days out of the Antelope Valley Correctional Facility, what the inmates called the Ant Farm; his younger brother, Kevin, wedged in the middle; and a guy named Mars filling the shotgun seat. Dennis had known Mars for only four days.
Later, in the coming hours when Dennis would frantically reconsider his actions, he would decide that it hadn't been the saw-toothed heat that had put him in the mood to do crime: It was fear. Fear that something special was waiting for him that he would never find, and that this special thing would disappear around some curve in his life, and with it his one shot at being more than nothing.
Dennis decided that they should rob the minimart.
'Hey, I know. Let's rob that fuckin' minimart, the one on the other side of Bristo where the road goes up toward Santa Clarita.'
'I thought we were going to the movie.'
That being Kevin, wearing his chickenshit face: Eyebrows crawling over the top of his head, darting eyeballs, and quivering punkass lips. In the movie of Dennis's life, he saw himself as the brooding outsider all the cheerleaders wanted to fuck; his brother was the geekass cripple holding him back.
'This is a better idea, chickenshit. We'll go to the movie after.'
'You just got back from the Farm, Dennis, Jesus. You want to go back?'
Dennis flicked his cigarette out the window, ignoring the blowback of sparks and ash as he considered himself in the Nissan's sideview. By his own estimation, he had moody deep-set eyes the color of thunderstorms, dramatic cheekbones, and sensuous lips. Looking at himself, which he did, often, he knew that it was only a matter of time before his destiny arrived, before the special thing waiting for him presented itself and he could bag the minimum-wage jobs and life in a shithole apartment with his chickenshit brother.
Dennis adjusted the.32-caliber automatic wedged in his pants, then glanced past Kevin to Mars.
'What do you think, dude?'
Mars was a big guy, heavy across the shoulders and ass. He had a tattoo on the back of his shaved head that said BURN IT. Dennis had met him at the construction site where he and Kevin were pulling day work for a cement contractor. He didn't know Mars's last name. He had not asked.
'Dude? Whattaya think?'
'I think let's go see.'
That was all it took.
The minimart was on Flanders Road, a rural boulevard that linked several expensive housing tracts. Four pump islands framed a bunkerlike market that sold toiletries, soft drinks, booze, and convenience items. Dennis pulled up behind the building so they couldn't be seen from inside, the Nissan bucking as he downshifted. The transmission was a piece of shit.
'Look at this, man. The fuckin' place is dead. It's perfect.'
'C'mon, Dennis, this is stupid. We'll get caught.'
'I'm just gonna see, is all. Don't give yourself a piss enema.'
The parking lot was empty except for a black Beemer at the pumps and two bicycles by the front door. Dennis's heart was pounding, his underarms clammy even in the awful dry heat that sapped his spit. He would never admit it, but he was nervous. Fresh off the Farm, he didn't want to go back, but he didn't see how they could get caught, or what could go wrong. It was like being swept along by a mindless urge. Resistance was futile.
Cold air rolled over him as Dennis pushed inside. Two kids were at the magazine rack by the door. A fat Chinaman was hunkered behind the counter, so low that all Dennis could see was his head poking up like a frog playing submarine in a mud puddle.
The minimart was two aisles and a cold case packed with beer, yogurt, and Cokes. Dennis had a flash of uncertainty, and thought about telling Mars and Kevin that a whole pile of Chinamen were behind the counter so he could get out of having to rob the place, but he didn't. He went to the cold case, then along the rear wall to make sure no one was in the aisles, his heart pounding because he knew he was going to do it. He was going to rob this fucking place. As he was walking back to the truck, the Beemer pulled away. He went to the passenger window. To Mars.
'There's nothing but two kids and a Chinaman in there, the Chinaman behind the counter, a fat guy.'
Kevin said, 'They're Korean.'
'What?'
'The sign says "Kim." Kim is a Korean name.'
That was Kevin, always with something to say like that. Dennis wanted to reach across Mars and grab Kevin by the fucking neck. He pulled up his T-shirt to flash the butt of his pistol.
'Who gives a shit, Kevin? That Chinaman is gonna shit his pants when he sees this. I won't even have to take it out, goddamnit. Thirty seconds, we'll be down the road. He'll have to wipe himself before he calls the cops.'
Kevin squirmed with a case of the chicken-shits, his nerves making his eyes dance around like beans in hot grease.
'Dennis, please. What are we going to get here, a couple of hundred bucks? Jesus, let's go to the movie.'
Dennis told himself that he might have driven away if Kevin wasn't such a whiner, but, no, Kevin had to put on the goddamned pussy face, putting Dennis on the spot.
Mars was watching. Dennis felt himself flush, and wondered if Mars was judging him. Mars was a boulder of a guy; dense and quiet, watchful, with the patience of a rock. Dennis had noticed that about Mars on the job site; Mars considered people. He would watch a conversation, say, like when two of the Mexicans hammered a third to throw in with them on buying some tamales. Mars would watch, not really part of it but above it, as if he could see all the way back to when they were born, see them wetting the bed when they were five or jerking off when they thought they were alone. Then he would make a vacant smile like he knew everything they might do now or in the future, even about the goddamned tamales. It was creepy, sometimes, that expression on his face, but Mars thought that Dennis had good ideas and usually went along. First time they met, four days ago, Dennis felt that his destiny was finally at hand. Here was Mars, charged with some dangerous electrical potential that crackled under his skin, and he did whatever Dennis told him.
'Mars, we're gonna do this. We're robbing this fuckin' store.'
Mars climbed out of the truck, so cool that even heat like this couldn't melt him.
'Let's do it.'
Kevin didn't move. The two kids pedaled away.
'No one's here, Kevin! All you have to do is stand by the door and watch. This fat fuck will cough right up with the cash. They're insured, so they just hand over the cash. They get fired if they don't.'
Dennis grabbed his brother's T-shirt. The Lemonheads, for chrissake. His fucking brother was a lemonhead. Mars was already halfway to the door.
'Get out of the truck, you turd. You're making us look bad.'
Kevin wilted and slid out like a fuckin' baby.
Junior Kim, Jr., knew a cheese dip when he saw one.
Junior, a second-generation Korean-American, had put in sixteen years behind a minimart counter in the Newton area of Los Angeles. Down in Shootin' Newton (as the LAPD called it), Junior had been beaten, mugged, stabbed, shot at, clubbed, and robbed forty-three times. Enough was enough. After sixteen years of that, Junior, his wife, their six children, and all four grandparents had bailed on the multicultural melting pot of greater LA, and moved north to the far less dangerous demographic of bedroom suburbia.
Junior was not naïve. A minimart, by its nature, draws cheese dips like bad meat draws flies. Even here in Bristo Camino, you had your shoplifters (mostly teenagers, but often men in business suits), your paperhangers (mostly women), your hookers passing counterfeit currency (driven up from LA by their pimps), and your drunks (mostly belligerent white men sprouting gin blossoms). Lightweight stuff compared to LA, but Junior believed in being prepared. After sixteen years of hard-won inner-city lessons, Junior kept 'a little something' under the counter for anyone who got out of hand.
When three cheese dips walked in that Friday afternoon, Junior leaned forward so that his chest touched the counter and his hands were hidden.
'May I help you?'
A skinny kid in a Lemonheads T-shirt stayed by the door. An older kid in a faded black wife-beater and a large man with a shaved head walked toward him, the older kid raising his shirt to show the ugly black grip of a pistol. 'Two packs of Marlboros for my friend here and all the cash you got in that box, you gook motherfucker.'
Junior Kim could read a cheese dip a mile away.
His face impassive, Junior fished under the counter for his 9mm Glock. He found it just as the cheese dip launched himself over the counter. Junior lurched to his feet, bringing up the Glock as the black-shirted dip crashed into him. Junior hadn't expected this asshole to jump over the counter, and hadn't been able to thumb off the safety.
The larger man shouted, 'He's got a gun!'
Everything happened so quickly that Junior wasn't sure whose hands were where. The black shirt forgot about his own gun and tried to twist away Junior's. The big guy reached across the counter, also grabbing for the gun. Junior was more scared now than any of the other times he had pulled his weapon. If he couldn't release the safety before this kid pulled his own gun, or wrestled away Junior's, Junior knew that he would be fucked. Junior Kim was in a fight for his life.
Then the safety slipped free, and Junior Kim, Jr., knew that he had won.
He said, 'I gotcha, you dips.'
The Glock went off, a heavy 9mm explosion that made the cheese dip's eyes bulge with a terrible surprise.
Junior smiled, victorious.
'Fuck you.'
Then Junior felt the most incredible pain in his chest. It filled him as if he were having a heart attack. He stumbled back into the Slurpee machine as the blood spilled out of his chest and spread across his shirt. Then he slid to the floor.
The last thing Junior heard was the cheese dip by the door, shouting, 'Dennis! Hurry up! Somebody's outside!'
Outside at the second pump island, Margaret Hammond heard a car backfire as she climbed from her Lexus.
Margaret, who lived across the street in a tile-roofed home that looked exactly like a hundred others in her development, saw three young white males run out of the minimart and get into a red Nissan pickup truck, which lurched away with the jumpy acceleration that tells you the clutch is shot. It headed west toward the freeway.
Margaret locked the pump nozzle to fill her tank, then went into the minimart to buy a Nestle's Crunch chocolate bar, which she intended to eat before she got home.
Less than ten seconds later, by her own estimation, Margaret Hammond ran back into the parking lot. The red Nissan had disappeared. Margaret used her cell phone to call 911, who patched her through to the Bristo Camino Police Department.
Their voices overlapped, Kevin grabbing Dennis's arm, making the truck swerve. Dennis punched him away.
'You killed that guy! You shot him!'
'I don't know if he's dead or what!'
'There was fucking blood everywhere! It's all over you!'
'Stop it, Kevin! He had a fuckin' gun! I didn't know he would have a gun! It just went off!'
Kevin pounded the dash, bouncing between Dennis and Mars like he was going to erupt through the roof.
'We're fucked, Dennis, fucked! What if he's dead?!'
'SHUT UP!'
Dennis licked his lips, tasting copper and salt. He glanced in the rearview. His face was splattered with red dew. Dennis lost it then, certifiably freaked out because he'd eaten human blood. He swiped at his face, wiping the blood on his jeans.
Mars touched him.
'Dude. Take it easy.'
'We've gotta get away!'
'We're getting away. No one saw us. No one caught us. We're fine.'
Mars sat quietly in the shotgun seat. Kevin and Dennis were wild, but Mars was as calm as if he had just awakened from a trance. He was holding the Chinaman's gun.
'Fuck! Throw it out, dude! We might get stopped.'
Mars pushed the gun into his waistband, then left his hand there, holding it the way some men hold their crotch.
'We might need it.'
Dennis upshifted hard, ignoring the clash of gears as he threw the Nissan toward the freeway two miles ahead. At least four people had seen the truck. Even these dumb Bristo cops would be able to put two and two together if they had witnesses who could tie them to the truck.
'Listen, we gotta think. We gotta figure out what to do.'
Kevin's eyes were like dinner plates.
'Jesus, Dennis, we gotta turn ourselves in.'
Dennis felt so much pressure in his head that he thought his eyes were swelling.
'No one's turning themselves in! We can get outta this! We just gotta figure out what to do!'
Mars touched him again.
'Listen.'
Mars was smiling at nothing. Not even looking at them.
'We're just three guys in a red truck. There's a million red trucks.'
Dennis desperately wanted to believe that.
'You think?'
'They've got to find witnesses. If they find those two kids or the woman, then those people have to describe us. Maybe they can, but maybe they can't. When the cops get all that sorted out, then they have to start looking for three white guys in a red truck. You know how many red trucks there are?'
'A million.'
'That's right. And how long does all that take? The rest of the day? Tomorrow? We can be across the border in four hours. Let's go down to Mexico.'
The vacant smile was absolutely sure of itself. Mars was so calm that Dennis found himself convinced; it was as if Mars had run this path before and knew the turns.
'That's a fucking plan, Mars. That's a plan. We can kick back for a few days, then come back when everything blows over. It always blows over.'
'That's right.'
Dennis pushed harder on the accelerator, felt the transmission lag, and then a loud BANG came from under the truck. The transmission let go. Six hundred dollars. Cash. What did he expect?
'MotherFUCKing piece of SHIT!'
The truck lost power, bucking as Dennis guided it off the road. Even before it lurched to a stop, Dennis shoved open the door, desperate to run. Kevin caught his arm, holding him back.
'There's nothing we can do, Dennis. We're only making it worse.'
'Shut up!'
Dennis shook off his brother's hand and slid out of the truck. He searched up and down the road, half expecting to see a highway patrol car, but the cars were few and far between and those were mostly soccer moms. Flanders Road from here to the freeway cut through an area of affluent housing developments. Some of the communities were gated, but most weren't, though most were hidden from the road by hedges that masked heavy stone walls. Dennis looked at the hedges, and the walls that they hid. He wondered if escape lay beyond them.
It was like Mars read his mind.
'Let's steal a car.'
Dennis looked at the wall again. On the other side of it would be a housing development filled with cars. They could crash into a house, tie up the soccer mom to buy some time, and drive.
Dennis didn't think about it any more than that.
'Let's go.'
'Dennis, please.'
Dennis pulled his brother out of the truck.
They crashed into the hedges and went up the wall.
Officer Mike Welch, thirty-two years old, married, one child, was rolling code seven to the Krispy Kreme donut shop on the west side of Bristo Camino when he got the call.
'Unit four, base.'
'Four.'
'Armed robbery, Kim's Minimart on Flanders Road, shots fired.'
Welch thought that was absurd.
'Say again, shots fired. Are you kidding me?'
'Three white males, approximately twenty years, jeans and T-shirts, driving a red Nissan pickup last seen west on Flanders Road. Get over there and see about Junior.'
Mike Welch was rolling westbound on Flanders Road. Junior's service station was straight ahead, less than two miles. Welch went code three, hitting the lights and siren. He had never before in his three years as a police officer rolled code three other than when he pulled over a speeder.
'I'm on Flanders now. Is Junior shot?'
'That's affirm. Ambulance is inbound.'
Welch floored it. He was so intent on beating the paramedics to Kim's that he was past the red truck parked on the opposite side of the road before he realized that it matched the description of the getaway vehicle.
Welch shut his siren and pulled off onto the shoulder. He twisted around to stare back up the street. He couldn't see anyone in or around the truck, but there it was, a red Nissan pickup. Welch waited for a gap in traffic, then swung around and drove back, pulling off behind the Nissan. He keyed his shoulder mike.
'Base, four. I'm a mile and a half east of Kim's on Flanders. Got a red Nissan pickup, license Three-Kilo-Lima-Mike-Four-Two-Nine. It appears abandoned. Can you send someone else to Kim's?'
'Ah, we can.'
'I'm gonna check it out.'
'Three-Kilo-Lima-Mike-Four-Two-Nine. Rog.'
Welch climbed out of his car and rested his right hand on the butt of his Browning Hi-Power. He didn't draw his weapon, but he wanted to be ready. He walked up along the passenger side of the truck, glanced underneath, then walked around the front. The engine was still ticking, and the hood was warm. Mike Welch thought, sonofabitch, this was it, this was the getaway vehicle.
'Base, four. Area's clear. Vehicle is abandoned.'
'Rog.'
Welch continued around to the driver's-side door and looked inside. He couldn't be sure that this was the getaway vehicle, but his heart was hammering with excitement. Mike Welch had come to the Bristo police department after seven years as a roofing contractor. He had thought that police work would be more than writing traffic tickets and breaking up domestic disturbances, but it hadn't worked out that way; now, for the first time in his career, he might come face-to-face with an actual felon. He looked either way up and down the road, wondering why they had abandoned the truck and where they had gone. He suddenly felt frightened. Welch stared at the hedges. He squatted again, trying to see under the low branches, but saw nothing except a wall. Welch drew his gun, then approached the hedges, looking more closely. Several branches were broken. He glanced back at the truck, thinking it through, imagining three suspects pushing through the hedges. Three kids on the run, shitting their pants, going over the wall. On the other side of the wall was a development of expensive homes called York Estates. Welch knew from his patrol route that there were only two streets out unless they went over the wall again. They would be hiding in someone's garage or running like hell out the back side of the development, trying to get away.
Welch listened to the Nissan's ticking engine, and decided that he was no more than a few minutes behind them. His heart rate increased. He made his decision. Welch burned rubber as he swung out onto the road, intent on cutting them off before they escaped the development, intent on making the arrest.
Dennis dropped from the wall into a different world, hidden behind lush ferns and plants with leathery green leaves and orange trees. His impulse was to keep running, haul ass across the yard, jump the next wall, and keep going, but the siren was right on top of them. And then the siren stopped.
Kevin said, 'Dennis, please, the police are gonna see the truck. They're gonna know who we are.'
'Shut up, Kevin. I know. Lemme think!'
They were in a dense garden surrounding a tennis court at the rear of a palatial home. A swimming pool was directly in front of them with the main house beyond the pool, a big-ass two-story house with lots of windows and doors, and one of the doors was open. Just like that. Open. If people were home, there would be a car. A Sony boom box beside the pool was playing music. There wouldn't be music if no one was home.
Dennis glanced at Mars, and, without even looking back at him, almost as if he had read Dennis's mind again, Mars nodded.
Sixty feet away through the open door, Jennifer Smith was thoroughly pissed off about the state of her life. Her father was behind closed doors at the front of the house, working. He was an accountant, and often worked at home. Her mother was in Florida visiting their Aunt Kate. With her mom in Florida and her dad working, Jen was forced 24/7 to ride herd on her ten-year-old brother, Thomas. If her friends wanted to go to the Multiplex, Thomas had to go. If she lied about going to Palmdale so she could sneak down to LA, Thomas would tell. Jennifer Smith was sixteen years old. Having a turd like Thomas grafted to her butt 24/7 was wrecking her summer.
Jen had been laying out by the pool, but she had come in to make tuna fish sandwiches. She would have let the turd starve, but she didn't mind making lunch for her father.
'Thomas?'
He hated it if you called him Tommy. He didn't even like Tom. It had to be Thomas.
'Thomas, go tell Daddy that lunch is ready.'
'Eat me.'
Thomas was playing Nintendo in the family room.
'Go tell Daddy.'
'Just yell. He'll hear you.'
'Go get him or I'll spit in your food.'
'Spit twice. It turns me on.'
'You are so gross.'
Thomas paused the Nintendo game and looked around at her. 'I'll get him if you ask Elyse and Tris to come lay out.'
Elyse and Tris were her two best friends. They had stopped coming over because Thomas totally creeped them out. He would wait in the house until everyone was lying by the pool, then he would appear and offer to rub oil on them. Even though everyone said ooo, yuck, go away, he would sit there and stare at their bodies.
'They won't lay out with you here. They know you watch.'
'They like it.'
'You are so gross.'
When the three young men stepped inside, Jen's first thought was that they were gardeners, but all the gardeners she knew were short, dark men from Central America. Her second thought was that maybe they were older kids from school, but that didn't feel right either.
Jennifer said, 'May I help you?'
The first one pointed at Thomas.
'Mars, get the troll.'
The biggest one ran at Thomas, as the first one charged into the kitchen.
Jennifer screamed just as the first boy covered her mouth so tightly that she thought her face would break. Thomas tried to shout, but the bigger boy mashed his face into the carpet.
The third one was younger. He hung back near the door, crying, talking in a loud stage whisper, trying to keep his voice down.
'Dennis, let's go! This is crazy!'
'Shut up, Kevin! We're here. Deal with it.'
The one holding her, the one she now knew as Dennis, bent her backwards over the counter, mashing the sandwiches. His hips ground against hers, pinning her. His breath smelled of hamburgers and cigarettes.
'Stop kicking! I'm not going to hurt you!'
She tried to bite his hand. He pushed her head farther back until her neck felt like it would snap.
'I said stop it. Relax, and I'll let you go.'
Jennifer fought harder until she saw the gun. The bigger boy was holding a black pistol to Thomas's head.
Jennifer stopped fighting.
'I'm going to take my hand away, but you better not yell. You understand that?'
Jennifer couldn't stop watching the gun.
'Close the door, Kevin.'
She heard the door close.
Dennis took away his hand, but kept it close, ready to clamp her mouth again. His voice was a whisper.
'Who else is here?'
'My father.'
'Is there anyone else?'
'No.'
'Where is he?'
'In his office.'
'Is there a car?'
Her voice failed. All she could do was nod.
'Don't yell. If you yell, I'll kill you. Do you understand that?'
She nodded.
'Where's his office?'
She pointed toward the entry.
Dennis laced his fingers through her hair and pushed her toward the hall. He followed so closely that his body brushed hers, reminding her that she was wearing only shorts and a bikini top. She felt naked and exposed.
Her father's office was off the entry hall behind wide double doors. They didn't bother to knock or say anything. Dennis pulled open the door, and the big one, Mars, carried in Thomas, the gun still at his head. Dennis pushed her onto the floor, then ran straight across the room, pointing his gun at her father.
'Don't say a goddamned word! Don't fucking move!'
Her father was working at his computer with a sloppy stack of printouts all around. He was a slender man with a receding hairline and glasses. He blinked over the tops of the glasses as if he didn't quite understand what he was seeing. He probably thought they were friends of hers, playing a joke. But then she saw that he knew it was real.
'What are you doing?'
Dennis aimed his gun with both hands, shouting louder.
'Don't you fucking move, goddamnit! Keep your ass in that chair! Let me see your hands!'
What her father said then made no sense to her.
He said, 'Who sent you?'
Dennis shoved Kevin with his free hand.
'Kevin, close the windows! Stop being a turd!'
Kevin went to the windows and closed the shutters. He was crying worse than Thomas.
Dennis waved his gun at Mars.
'Keep him covered, dude. Watch the girl.'
Mars pushed Thomas onto the floor with Jennifer, then aimed at her father. Dennis put his own gun in the waistband of his pants, then snatched a lamp from the corner of her father's desk. He jerked the plug from the wall, then the electrical cord from the lamp.
'Don't go psycho and everything will be fine. Do you hear that? I'm gonna take your car. I'm gonna tie you up so you can't call the cops, and I'm gonna take your car. I don't want to hurt you, I just want the car. Gimme the keys.'
Her father looked confused.
'What are you talking about? Why did you come here?'
'I want the fucking car, you asshole! I'm stealing your car! Now, where are the keys!'
That's what you want, the car?'
'Am I talking fucking Russian here or what? DO YOU HAVE A CAR?'
Her father raised his hands, placating.
'In the garage. Take it and leave. The keys are on the wall by the garage door. By the kitchen. Take it.'
'Kevin, go get the keys, then come help tie these bastards up so we can get outta here.'
Kevin, still by the windows, said, 'There's a cop coming.'
Jennifer saw the police car through the gaps in the shutters. A policeman got out. He looked around as if he was taking his bearings, then came toward their house.
Dennis grabbed her hair again.
'Don't fucking say a word. Not one fucking word.'
'Please don't hurt my children.'
'Shut up. Mars, you be ready! Mars!'
Jennifer watched the policeman come up the walk. He disappeared past the edge of the window, then their doorbell rang.
Kevin scuttled to his older brother, gripping his arm.
'He knows we're here, Dennis! He must've seen me closing the shutters!
'Shut up!'
The doorbell rang again.
Jennifer felt Dennis's sweat drip onto her shoulder and wanted to scream. Her father stared at her, his eyes locked onto hers, slowly shaking his head. She didn't know if he was telling her not to scream, or not to move, or even if he realized that he was doing it.
The policeman walked past the windows toward the side of the house.
'He knows we're here, Dennis! He's looking for a way in!'
'He doesn't know shit! He's just looking.'
Kevin was frantic, and now Jennifer could hear the fear in Dennis's voice, too.
'He saw me at the window! He knows someone's here! Let's give up.'
'Shut up!'
Dennis went to the window. He peered through the shutters, then suddenly rushed back to Jennifer and grabbed her by the hair again.
'Get up.'
Officer Mike Welch didn't know that everyone in the house was currently clustered less than twenty feet away, watching him through the gaps in the shutters. He had not seen Kevin Rooney or anyone else when he'd pulled up. He'd been too busy parking the car.
As near as Welch could figure, the people from the red Nissan had jumped the wall into these people's backyard. He suspected that the three suspects were blocks away by now, but he hoped that someone in this house or the other houses on this cul-de-sac had seen them and could provide a direction of flight.
When no one answered the door, Welch went to the side gate and called out. When no one responded, he returned to the front door and rang the bell for the third and final time. He was turning away to try the neighbor when the heavy front door opened and a pretty teenage girl looked out. She was pale. Her eyes were rimmed red.
Welch gave his best professional smile.
'Miss, I'm Officer Mike Welch. Did you happen to see three young men running through the area?'
'No.'
Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her. Welch noted that she appeared upset, and wondered about that.
'It would've been five or ten minutes ago. Something like that. I have reason to believe that they jumped the wall into your backyard.'
'No.'
The red-rimmed eyes filled. Welch watched her eyes blur, watched twin tears roll in slow motion down her cheeks, and knew that they were in the house with her. They were probably standing right on the other side of the door. Mike Welch's heart began to pound. His fingers tingled.
'Okay, miss, like I said, I was just checking. You have a good day.'
He quietly unsnapped the release on his holster and rested his hand on his gun. He shifted his eyes pointedly to the door, then mouthed a silent question, asking if anyone was there. She did not have time to respond.
Inside, someone that Mike Welch could not see shouted, 'He's going for his gun!'
Loud explosions blew through the door and window. Something hit Mike Welch in the chest, knocking him backward. His Kevlar vest stopped the first bullet, but another punched into his belly below the vest, and a third slipped over the top of his vest to lodge high in his chest. He tried to keep his feet under him, but they fell away. The girl screamed, and someone else inside the house screamed, too.
Mike Welch found himself flat on his back in the front yard. He sat up, then realized that he'd been shot and fell over again. He heard more shots, but he couldn't get up or duck or run for cover. He pulled his gun and fired toward the house without thinking who he might be hitting. His only thought was to survive.
He heard more shots, and screaming, but then he could no longer hold his gun. It was all he could do to key his shoulder mike.
'Officer down. Officer down. Jesus, I've been shot.'
'Say again? Mike? Mike, what's going on?'
Mike Welch stared at the sky, but could not answer.
Friday, 3:24 P.M.
Two-point-one miles from York Estates, Jeff Talley was parked in an avocado orchard, talking to his daughter on his cell phone, his command radio tuned to a whisper. He often left his office in the afternoon and came to this orchard, which he had discovered not long after he had taken the job as the chief of Bristo Camino's fourteen-member police department. Rows of trees, each tree the same as the last, each a measured distance from the next, standing without motion in the clean desert air like a chorus of silent witnesses. He found peace in the sameness of it.
His daughter, Amanda, now fourteen, broke that peace.
'Why can't I bring Derek with me? At least I would have someone to hang with.'
Her voice reeked of coldness. He had called Amanda because today was Friday, she would be coming up for the weekend.
'I thought we would go to a movie together.'
'We go to a movie every time I come up there. We can still go to the movies. We'll just bring Derek.'
'Maybe another time.'
'When?'
'Maybe next time. I don't know.'
She made an exaggerated sigh that left him feeling defensive.
'Mandy? It's okay if you bring friends. But I enjoy our alone time, too. I want us to talk about things.'
'Mom wants to talk to you.'
'I love you.'
She didn't answer.
'I love you, Amanda.'
'You always say you want to talk, but then we go sit in a movie so we can't talk. Here's Mom.'
Jane Talley came on the line. They had separated five months after he resigned from the Los Angeles Police Department, took up residence on their couch, and stared at the television for twenty hours a day until neither of them could take it anymore and he had moved out. That was two years ago.
'Hey, Chief. She's not in the greatest mood.'
'I know.'
'How you doing?'
Talley thought about it.
'She's not liking me very much.'
'It's hard for her right now. She's fourteen.'
'I know.'
'She's still trying to understand. Sometimes she's fine with it, but other times everything sweeps over her.'
'I try to talk to her.'
He could hear the frustration in Jane's voice, and his own.
'Jeffrey, you've been trying to talk for two years, but nothing comes out. Just like that, you left and started a new life and we weren't a part of it. Now you have this new life up there and she's making a new life down here. You understand that, don't you?'
Talley didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say. Every day since he moved to Bristo Camino he told himself that he would ask them to join him but he hadn't been able to do it. He knew that Jane had spent the past two years waiting for him. He thought that if he asked right now she would come to him, but all he managed to do was stare at the silent, immobile trees.
Finally, Jane had had enough of the silence.
'I don't want to go on like this anymore, just being separated. You and Mandy aren't the only ones who need to make a life.'
'I know. I understand.'
'I'm not asking you to understand. I don't care if you understand.'
Her voice came out sharp and hurt, then both of them were silent. Talley thought of her on the day they were married; against the white country wedding gown, her skin had been golden.
Jane finally broke the silence, her voice resigned. She would learn no more today than yesterday; her husband would offer nothing new. Talley felt embarrassed and guilty.
'Do you want me to drop her at your house or at the office?'
'The house would be fine.'
'Six o'clock?'
'Six. We can have dinner, maybe.'
'I won't be staying.'
When the phone went dead, Talley put it aside, and thought of the dream. The dream was always the same, a small clapboard house surrounded by a full SWAT tactical team, helicopters overhead, media beyond the cordon. Talley was the primary negotiator, but the nightmare reality of the dream left him standing in the open without cover or protection while Jane and Amanda watched him from the cordon. Talley was in a life-or-death negotiation with an unknown male subject who had barricaded himself in the house and was threatening suicide. Over and over, the man screamed, 'I'm going to do it! I'm going to do it!' Talley talked him back from the brink each time, but, each time, knew that the man had stepped closer to the edge. It was only a matter of time. No one had seen this man. No neighbors or family had been found to provide an ID. The subject would not reveal his name. He was a voice behind walls to everyone except Talley, who knew with a numbing dread that the man in the house was himself. He had become the subject in the house, locked in time and frozen in place, negotiating with himself to spare his own life.
In those first weeks, Brendan Malik's eyes watched him from every shadow. He saw the light in them die over and over, dimming like a television with its plug pulled, the spark that had been Brendan Malik growing smaller, falling away until it was gone. After a while, Talley felt nothing, watching the dying eyes the same way he would watch Wheel of Fortune: Because it was there.
Talley resigned from the LAPD, then sat on his couch for almost a year, first in his home and later in the cheap apartment he had rented in Silver Lake after Jane threw him out. Talley told himself that he had left his job and his family because he couldn't stand having them witness his own self-destruction, but after a while he grew to believe that his reasons were simpler, and less noble: He believed that his former life was killing him, and he was scared. The incorporated township of Bristo Camino was looking for a chief of police for their fourteen-member police force, and they were glad to have him. They liked it that he was SWAT, even though the job was no more demanding than writing traffic citations and speaking at local schools. He told himself that it was a good place to heal. Jane had been willing to wait for the healing, but the healing never quite seemed to happen. Talley believed that it never would.
Talley started the car and eased off the hard-packed soil of the orchard onto a gravel road, following it down to the state highway that ran the length of the Santa Clarita Valley. When he reached the highway, he turned up his radio and heard Sarah Weinman, the BCPD dispatch officer, shouting frantically over the link.
'… Welch is down. We have a man down in York Estates…'
Other voices were crackling back at her, Officers Larry Anders and Kenn Jorgenson talking over each other in a mad rush.
Talley punched the command freq button that linked him to dispatch on a dedicated frequency.
'Sarah, one. What do you mean, Mike's down?'
'Chief?'
'What about Mike?'
'He's been shot. The paramedics from Sierra Rock Fire are on the way. Jorgy and Larry are rolling from the east.'
In the nine months that Talley had been in Bristo, there had been only three felonies, two for nonviolent burglaries and once when a woman had tried to run down her husband with the family car.
'Are you saying that he was intentionally shot?'
'Junior Kim's been shot, too! Three white males driving a red Nissan pickup. Mike called in the truck, then called a forty-one fourteen at one-eight Castle Way in York Estates, and the next thing I know he said he'd been shot. I haven't been able to raise him since then.'
Forty-one fourteen. Welch had intended to approach the residence.
Talley punched the button that turned on his lights and siren. York Estates was six minutes away.
'What's the status of Mr. Kim?'
'Unknown at this time.'
'Do we have an ID on the suspects?'
'Not at this time.'
'I'm six out and rolling. Fill me in on the way.'
Talley had spent the last year believing that the day he became a crisis negotiator for the Los Angeles Police Department had forever changed his life for the worse.
His life was about to change again.
Jennifer had never heard anything as loud as their guns, not the cherry bombs that Thomas popped in their backyard or the crowd at the Forum when the Lakers slammed home a game-winning dunkenstein. The gunfire in movies didn't come close. When Mars and Dennis started shooting, the sound rocked through her head and deafened her.
Jennifer screamed. Dennis slammed the front door, pulled her backwards to the office, then pushed her down. She grabbed Thomas and held tight. Her father wrapped them in his arms. Layers of gun smoke hung in shafts of light that burned through the shutters; the smell of it stung her nose.
When the shooting was done, Dennis sucked air like a bellows, stalking back and forth between the entry and office, his face white.
'We're fucked! That cop is down!'
Mars went to the entry. He didn't hurry or seem scared; he strolled.
'Let's get the car before more of them get here.'
Kevin was on the floor beside her father's desk, shaking. His face was milky.
'You shot a cop. You shot a cop, Dennis!'
Dennis grabbed his brother by the shirt.
'Didn't you hear Mars? He was going for his gun!'
Jennifer heard a siren approaching behind the shouting. Then Dennis heard it, too, and ran back to the windows.
'Oh, man, they're coming!'
Jennifer's father pulled her closer, almost as if he was trying to squeeze her into himself.
'Take the keys and go. The keys are on the wall by the garage. It's a Jaguar. Take it while you still can.'
Dennis stared through the open shutters like prison bars, watching the street with fearful expectation. Jennifer wanted them to run, to go, to get out of her life, but Dennis stood frozen at the windows as if he was waiting for something. Mars spoke from the entry, his voice as calm as still water.
'Let's take the man's car, Dennis. We have to go.' Then the siren suddenly seemed to be in the house, and it was too late. Tires screeched outside. Dennis ran to the front door. The shooting started again.
York Estates was a walled development that had been named for the legendary walled city of York in England, a village that was protected from the world by a great stone wall. The developers built twenty-eight homes on one-to three-acre sites in a pattern of winding streets and cul-de-sacs with names like Lancelot Lane, Queen Anne Way, and King John Place, then surrounded it by a stone wall that was more decorative than protective. Talley cut his siren as he entered from the north, but kept the lights flashing. Jorgenson and Anders were shouting that they were under fire. Talley heard the pop of a gunshot over the radio.
When he turned into Castle Way, Talley saw Jorgenson and Anders crouched behind their car with their weapons out. Two women were in the open door of the house behind them and a teenaged boy was standing near the cul-de-sac's mouth. Talley hit the public address key on his mike as he sped up the street.
'You people take cover. Get inside your homes!'
Jorgenson and Anders turned to watch him approach. The two women looked confused and the boy stood without moving. Talley burped his siren, and shouted at them again.
'Get inside now! You people move!'
Talley hit the brakes hard, stopping behind Jorgenson's unit. Two shots pinged from the house, one snapping past overhead, the other thumping dully into Talley's windshield. He rolled out the door and pulled himself into a tight ball behind the front wheel, using the hub as cover. Mike Welch lay crumpled on the front lawn of a large Tudor home less than forty feet away.
Anders shouted, 'Welch is down! They shot him!'
'Are all three subjects inside?'
'I don't know! We haven't seen anyone!'
'Are civilians in the house?'
'I don't know!'
More sirens were coming from the east. Talley knew that would be Dreyer and Mikkelson in unit six with the ambulance. The shooting had stopped, but he could hear shouts and screaming inside the house. He flattened on the street and called to Welch from under the car.
'Mike! Can you hear me?'
Welch didn't respond.
Anders shouted, his voice frantic.
'I think he's dead!'
'Calm down, Larry. I can hear you.'
Talley had to take in the scene and make decisions without knowing who or what he was dealing with. Welch was in the middle of the front lawn, unmoving and unprotected. Talley had to act.
'Does this house back up on Flanders Road?'
'Yes, sir. The truck is right on the other side of the wall that runs behind the house, that red Nissan! It's the suspects who hit Kim's.'
The sirens were closer. Talley had to assume that innocents were inside. He had to assume that Mike Welch was alive. He keyed his transceiver mike.
'Six, one. Who's on?'
Dreyer's voice came back.
'It's Dreyer, Chief. We're one minute out.'
'Where's the ambulance?'
'Right behind us.'
'Okay. You guys set up on Flanders by the truck in case these guys go back over the wall. Send the ambulance in, but tell them to wait at Castle and Tower. I'll bring Welch to them.'
Talley broke the connection, then pushed himself up to a crouch.
'Larry, did you guys fire on the house?'
'No, sir.'
'Don't.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Stay down. Don't fire at the house.'
Talley climbed back into his car, keeping his head low and the driver's door open. He backed up, then powered into the yard, maneuvering to a stop between Welch and the house to use the car as a shield. Another shot popped the passenger-side window. He rolled out of the car almost on top of Welch. Talley opened the rear door, then dragged Welch to the car. It was like lifting two hundred pounds of deadweight, but Welch moaned. He was alive. Talley propped him upright in the open door, then lifted for all he was worth to fold Welch onto the backseat. He slammed the door, then saw Welch's gun on the grass. He went back for it. He returned to the car and floored the accelerator, fishtailing across the slick grass as he cut across the yard and into the street. He sped back along the cul-de-sac to the corner where the ambulance was waiting. Two paramedics pulled Welch from the rear and pushed a compress onto his chest. Talley didn't ask if Welch would make it. He knew from experience that they wouldn't know.
Talley stared down the length of the cul-de-sac and felt himself tremble. The first flush of panic was passing, and now he had time to think. Now he had time to acknowledge that what was happening here was what had cost him so much in Los Angeles. A hostage situation was developing. His mouth went dry and something sour flushed in his throat that threatened to make him retch.
He keyed the mike again to call his dispatcher. He had exactly four units on duty and another five officers off. He would need them all.
'Chief, I pulled Dreyer and Mikkelson off the minimart. We've got no one on the scene now. It's totally unsecured.'
'Call the CHP and the Sheriffs. Tell them what's going on and request a full crisis team. Tell them we've got two men down and we have a possible hostage situation.'
Talley's eyes filled when he realized that he had used that word. Hostage.
He remembered Welch's gun. He sniffed the muzzle, then checked the magazine. Welch had returned fire, which meant that he might have wounded someone in the house. Maybe even an innocent.
He shut his eyes hard and keyed the mike again.
'Tell them to hurry.'
Jennifer whispered, 'Daddy.'
Her father held her head, whispered back.
'Shh.'
They snuggled closer. Jennifer thought her father might be trying to pull them through the floor, that if he could just make the three of them small enough they would disappear. She watched Mars peering through the shutters, his wide back hunched like an enormous swollen toad. When Mars glanced back at them, he looked high.
Kevin threw a TV Guide at him.
'What's wrong with you? Why'd you start shooting?'
'To keep them away.'
'We could've gotten out the back!'
Dennis jerked Kevin toward the entry.
'Get it together, Kev. They found the truck. They're already behind us.'
'This is bullshit, Dennis! We should give up!'
Jennifer wanted them to run. She wanted them to get away, if that's what it took; she wanted them out.
The words boiled out of her before she could stop them.
'We don't want you here!'
Her father squeezed her, his voice soft.
'Be quiet.'
Jennifer couldn't stop.
'You have no right to be here! No one invited you!'
Her father pulled her closer.
Dennis jabbed a finger at her.
'Shut up, bitch!'
He turned and shoved his brother into the wall so hard that Jennifer flinched.
'Stop it, Kevin! Go through the house and lock all the windows. Lock the doors, then watch the backyard. They're gonna come over that wall just like we did.'
Kevin seemed confused.
'Why don't we just give up, Dennis? We're caught.'
'It's going to be dark in a few hours. Things will change when it gets dark. Go do it, Kev. We're going to get out of this. We will.'
Jennifer felt her father sigh before he spoke. He slowly pushed to his knees.
'None of you are going to get out of this.'
Dennis said, 'Shut the fuck up. Go on, Kevin. Watch the back.'
Kevin disappeared toward the rear through the entry.
Her father stood. Both Dennis and Mars aimed their guns at him.
Jennifer pulled at his legs.
'Daddy! Don't!'
Her father raised his hands.
'It's okay, sweetie. I'm not going to do anything. I just want to go to my desk.'
Dennis extended his gun.
'Are you fuckin' nuts?! You're not going anywhere!'
'Just take it easy, son.'
'Daddy, don't!'
Her father seemed to be moving in a dream. She wanted to stop him, but she couldn't. She wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He walked stiffly, as if he was prepared to take a punch. It was as if this man in the dream wasn't her father, but someone she had never before seen.
He went behind his desk, carefully placing two computer disks in a black leather disk case as he spoke. Dennis followed along beside him, shouting for him to stop, shouting that he shouldn't take another step, and pointing the gun at his head. Dennis looked as scared as she felt.
'I'm warning you, goddamnit!'
'I'm going to open my desk.'
'I'll fuckin' kill you!'
'Daddy, please!!!'
Jennifer's father held up a single finger as if to show them that one tiny finger could do them no harm, then used it to slide open the drawer. He nodded toward the drawer, as if to show Dennis that nothing would hurt him. Her father took out a thick booklet.
'This is a list of every criminal lawyer in California. If you give up right now, I'll help you get the best lawyer in the state.'
Dennis slapped the book aside.
'Fuck you! We just killed a cop! We killed that Chinaman! We'll get the fuckin' death penalty!'
'I'm telling you that you won't, not if you let me help you. But if you stay in this house, I can promise you this: You'll die.'
'Shut up!'
Dennis swung his gun hard and hit her father in the temple with a wet thud. He fell sideways like a sack that had been dropped to the floor.
'No!'
Jennifer lunged forward. She pushed Dennis before she realized what she was doing.
'Leave him alone!'
She shoved Dennis back, then dropped to her knees beside her father. The gun had cut an ugly gouge behind his right eye at the hairline. The gouge pulsed blood, and was already swelling.
'Daddy? Daddy, wake up!'
He didn't respond.
'Daddy, please!'
Her father's eyes danced insanely beneath the lids as his body trembled.
'Daddy!'
Tears blurred her eyes as unseen hands lifted her away.
The nightmare had begun.
Friday, 3:51 P.M.
Talley wanted to stay with Welch, but he didn't have the time. He had to stabilize the scene and find out what was going on inside the house. He requested a second ambulance to stand by in case there were more casualties, then climbed back into his car and once more drove into the cul-de-sac. He brought his unit so close to Anders's vehicle that the bumpers crunched. He slipped out and hunkered behind the wheel again, calling over to Anders and Jorgenson.
'Larry, Jorgy, listen up.'
They were young guys. Men who would work as carpenters or salesmen if they weren't working as suburban policemen. They had never seen anything like what was now developing on Castle Way, and neither had any of Talley's other men. They had never pulled their guns. They had never made a felony arrest.
'We've got to evacuate these houses and seal the neighborhood. I want all the streets coming in here blocked.'
Anders nodded vigorously, excited and scared.
'Just the cul-de-sac?'
'All the streets coming into the neighborhood. Use Welch's unit to get back to the corner, then go from house to house here on the cul-de-sac through the backyards. Climb the walls if you have to, and move everyone out the same way. Don't expose yourself or anyone else to this house.'
'What if they won't leave?'
'They'll do what you say. But don't let anyone come out the front of their homes. Start with the house directly behind us. Someone could be wounded in there.'
'Right, Chief.'
'Find out who lives here. We need to know.'
'Okay.'
'One more thing. We might have one or more perps still on the loose. Have the other guys start a house-to-house. Warn everyone in the neighborhood to be on the lookout.'
Anders duckwalked to Welch's unit, the first car in the line, then swung it around in a tight turn and accelerated out of the cul-de-sac.
The first few minutes of any crisis situation were always the worst. In the beginning, you rarely knew what you were dealing with, and the unknown could kill you. Talley needed to find out who he was dealing with, and who was at risk in the house. Maybe all three perpetrators were in the house, but he had no way of knowing. They might have split up. They might have already murdered everyone inside. They might have killed the occupants, shot up the street, then committed suicide. Jeff Talley might be staring at a lifeless house.
Talley keyed his mike to talk to his other cars.
'This is Talley. Clear the freq and listen. Jorgenson and I are currently in front of the house at one-eight Castle Way in York Estates. Anders is evacuating the residents of the surrounding houses. Dreyer and Mikkelson are at the rear of the property on Flanders Road near a red Nissan pickup. We believe that one or more of the people who shot Junior Kim and Mike Welch are in the house. They are armed. We need an ID. Did Welch run the plates on that truck?'
Mikkelson came back.
'Chief, two.'
'Go, two.'
'The truck is registered to Dennis James Rooney, white male, age twenty-two. He has an Agua Dulce address.'
Talley pulled out his pad and scratched down Rooney's name. In another life he would dispatch a unit to Rooney's address, but he didn't have the manpower for that now.
His radio popped again.
'Chief, Anders.'
'Go, Larry.'
'I'm with one of the neighbors. She says the people in the house are named Smith, Walter and Pamela Smith. They've got two kids. A girl and a boy. Hang on. Okay, it's Jennifer and Thomas. She says the girl is about fifteen and the boy is younger.'
'Does she know if they're in the house?'
Talley could hear Anders talking with the neighbor. Anders was so anxious that he was keying his mike before he was ready. Talley told him to slow down.
'She says the wife is in Florida visiting a sister, but she believes that the rest of the family is at home. She says the husband works there in the house.'
Talley cursed under his breath. He had a possible three hostages inside. Three killers, three hostages. He had to find out what was happening inside the house and cool out the shooters. It was called 'stabilizing the situation.' That's all he had to do. He told himself that over and over like a mantra: That's all you have to do.
Talley took a deep breath to gather himself, then another. He keyed his public address system so that he could speak to the house. In the next moment he would engage the subjects. In that instant, the negotiation would begin. Talley had sworn that he would never again be in this place. He had turned his life inside out to avoid it, yet here he was.
'My name is Jeff Talley. Is anyone in the house hurt?'
His voice echoed through the neighborhood. He heard a police car pull up at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, but he did not turn to look; he kept his eyes fixed on the house.
'Everyone in the house relax. We're not in a hurry here. If you've got wounded, let's get them tended to. We can work this out.'
No one answered. Talley knew that the subjects in the house were now under incredible stress. They had been involved in two shootings, and now they were trapped. They would be scared, and the danger level to the civilians would be great. Talley's job was to reduce their stress. If you gave the subjects time to calm down and think about their situation, sometimes they realized that their only way out was to surrender. Then all you had to do was give them an excuse to give up. That was the way it worked. Talley had been taught these things at the FBI's Crisis Management School, and it had worked that way every time until George Malik had shot his own son in the neck.
Talley keyed the mike again. He tried to make his voice reasonable and assuring.
'We're going to start talking sooner or later. It might as well be now. Is everyone in there okay, or does someone need a doctor?'
A voice in the house finally answered.
'Fuck you.'
Her father's eyes flickered as if he were dreaming, back and forth, up and down. He made a soft whimpering sound, but his eyes didn't open. Thomas hunched beside her, whispering.
'What's wrong?'
'He's not waking up. He should be awake, shouldn't he?'
This wasn't supposed to be happening; not in her house, not in Bristo Camino, not on this perfect summer day.
'Daddy, please!'
Mars knelt beside her to feel her father's neck. He was large and gross. She could smell him. Sweat and vegetables.
'Looks like brain damage.'
Jennifer felt a rush of fear and nausea, then realized that he was toying with her.
'Fuck you.'
Mars blinked uncomfortably, as if she had surprised and embarrassed him.
'I don't do things like that. They're bad.'
Mars walked away.
Her father's wound pulsed steadily, but the bleeding had almost stopped, the clotted blood and injured flesh swelling into an ugly purple volcano. Jennifer stood, and faced Dennis.
'I want to get some ice.'
'Shut up and sit your ass down.'
'I'm getting some ice. He's hurt.'
Dennis glared at her, his face red and angry. He glanced at Mars, then at her father. Finally, he turned back to the shutters.
'Mars, take her into the kitchen. Make sure Kevin isn't fucking off back there.'
Jennifer left without waiting for Mars, and went to the kitchen. She saw Kevin hiding behind the couch in the family room so that he could see the French doors. She wanted the backyard to be crowded with police officers and vicious police dogs, but it was empty. The pool was clean and pure, the raft that she had been enjoying less than thirty minutes earlier motionless on the water, the water so clear that the raft might have been floating on air. Her radio sat on the deck beside the pool, but she couldn't hear it. It had all happened so fast.
Jennifer opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Mars kicked it shut.
'What are you doing?'
He towered over her, his groin only inches from her face. She slowly stood to her full height. He was still a foot taller, and so close that it hurt to look up. Jennifer smelled the sour vegetables again. It took all of her strength not to run.
'I'm getting a washcloth. Then I'm going to open the freezer for the ice. Is that all right with you?'
Mars edged closer. His chest brushed the tips of her breasts. She did not let herself look away or step back, but her voice was hoarse.
'Get away from me.'
Mars stared down at her, his eyes unfocused, almost as if he couldn't see her. A vacant smile played at his lips. He swayed, his chest massaging gently against her breasts.
She still would not let herself step back. She summoned her strength again, and spoke clearly.
'Get away from me.'
The vacant smile flickered, then his eyes focused as if he could once more see her.
She opened the cabinet again without waiting for him to answer, found a cloth, then went to the freezer for ice. It was a huge black Sub-Zero, the kind with a freezer drawer on the bottom. She pulled it open, then scooped ice into the washcloth. Most of it spilled onto the floor.
'I need a bowl.'
'So get one.'
Mars walked away as she got the bowl. He went into the family room, and asked if Kevin had seen anything. She couldn't hear Kevin's answer.
Jennifer chose a green plastic Tupperware bowl, then saw the paring knife on the counter, left from when she diced a slice of onion for the tuna. She glanced at Mars, but Mars was still with Kevin. She was terrified that if she reached for the knife they would see her, and then she thought that even if she had the knife what would she do with it? They were older and stronger. She glanced up again. Mars was staring at her. She averted her eyes, but saw from the corner of her eye that he stayed with Kevin. Her shorts didn't have pockets and her suit top didn't have enough material to cover the knife. Even if she took it, what would she do with it? Attack them? Puh-lease. Mars came back to the kitchen. Without thinking about it, she pushed the knife behind the Cuisinart mixer her mom kept on the counter.
Mars said, 'What's taking so long?'
'I'm ready.'
'Hang on.'
Mars went to the refrigerator and pulled it open. He took out a beer, twisted off the cap, and drank. He took a second bottle and tipped it toward her.
'You want one?'
'I don't drink beer.'
'Mommy won't know. You can do anything you want right now, and Mommy won't know.'
'I want to go back to my father.'
She followed him back to the office, where Mars gave the second beer to Dennis at the shutters. Jennifer joined Thomas at their father beside the desk. She scooped ice from the bowl into the washcloth, then made an ice pack and pressed it to her father's wound. She cringed when he moaned.
Thomas edged closer and spoke so softly that she could barely hear him.
'What's going to happen?'
Mars's voice cut across the room.
'Shut up!'
Mars was staring at her. Slowly, his gaze moved down along the lines of her body. She flushed again, forcing herself to concentrate on her father. She knew he was playing with her, just as he had before.
The phone rang.
Everyone in the room looked at the phone, but no one moved. The ringing grew louder and more insistent.
Dennis said, 'Jesus Christ!'
He stalked to the desk and scooped up the phone, but the ringing continued.
'What the fuck is this? Why won't it stop?'
Thomas said, 'It has more than one line. Press the blinking light.'
Dennis stabbed the blinking light, then slammed down the phone. The ringing stopped.
Dennis went back to the shutters, grumbling about rich people having more than one line.
The phone rang again.
'Fuck!'
The public address voice from the street echoed through the house.
'Answer the phone, Dennis Rooney. It's the police.'
Hunkered behind the front wheel of his radio car, Talley listened to the ringing in his ear as a helicopter appeared. It spiraled down for a closer look until Talley could see that it was from one of the Los Angeles television stations. They would have heard about Kim and Welch by monitoring police frequencies. If the helicopters were here, the vans and reporters would be close behind. Talley covered the phone and twisted around to see Jorgenson.
'Where are the Sheriffs?'
'Inbound, Chief.'
'Get back on the horn and request air cover. Tell them we have news choppers coming in.'
The phone inside the house was still ringing. Talley thought, Answer the phone, you sonofabitch.
'Tell Sarah to call the phone company. Get a list of all the lines to the house and have them blocked except through my cell number. I don't want these guys talking with anyone on the outside except for us.'
'Okay.'
Talley was still giving orders when the phone stopped ringing and a male voice answered.
'Hello?'
Talley waved Jorgenson quiet, then took a breath to center himself. He did not want his voice to reveal his fear.
'Is this Dennis Rooney?'
'Who are you!'
'My name is Jeff Talley. I'm with the Bristo Police Department, out here behind the car in front of you. Is this Dennis Rooney?'
Talley specifically did not identify himself as the chief of police. He wanted to appear to have a certain degree of power, but he also did not want to be seen as the final authority. The negotiator was always the man in the middle. If Rooney made demands, Talley wanted to be able to stall by telling him that he had to check with his boss. That way Talley remained the good guy. He could build a bond with Rooney through their mutual adversity.
'That cop was going for his gun. That Chinaman pulled a gun, too. No one wanted to shoot him. It was an accident.'
'Is this Dennis Rooney? I want to know with whom I'm speaking.'
'Yeah. I'm Rooney.'
Talley felt himself relaxing. Rooney wasn't a raving lunatic; he didn't start off by screaming that he was going to murder everyone in the house.
Talley made his voice firm, but relaxed.
'Well, Dennis, I need to know whether or not anyone in there needs a doctor. There was an awful lot of shooting.'
'We're cool.'
'We can send in a doctor, if you need it.'
'I said we're cool. Aren't you listening?'
Rooney's voice was strained and emotional. Talley expected that.
'Everyone out here is concerned about who's in there with you, Dennis, and how they're doing. Do you have some people in there with you?'
Rooney didn't answer. Talley could hear breathing, then a muffled sound as if Rooney had covered the phone. He would be thinking it through. Talley knew that thinking things through logically would be hard for Rooney during these next few minutes. Rooney would be pumping on adrenaline, frantic, and scared. Finally, he came back on the line.
'I got this family. That isn't kidnapping, is it? I mean, they were already here. We didn't grab'm and take'm someplace.'
Rooney's answer was a good sign; by showing concern for the future, he revealed that he did not want to die and feared the consequences of his actions.
'Can you identify them for me, Dennis?'
'You don't need to know that. I've told you enough.'
Talley let that slide. The Sheriff's negotiator could press for their names later.
'Okay, you're not going to tell me their names right now. I hear that. Will you at least tell me how they're doing?'
'They're fine.'
'How about your two friends? You don't have a man dying on you, do you?'
'They're fine.'
Talley had gotten Rooney to admit that all three gunmen were in the house. He muted the phone and turned to Jorgenson.
'All three subjects are in the house. Tell Larry to call off the house-to-house.'
'Rog.'
Jorgenson radioed his call as Talley returned to Rooney.
Overhead, a second helicopter joined the first and positioned itself in a hover. Another news crew.
Talley said, 'Okay, Dennis, I want to explain your situation.'
Rooney interupted him.
'You been asking me questions, now I've got a question. I didn't shoot that Chinaman. He pulled a gun and we were wrestling and his own gun went off. That Chinaman shot himself.'
'I understand, Dennis. There'll probably be a security camera. We'll be able to see what happened.'
'The gun just went off, is what I'm saying. It went off and we ran and that's what happened.'
'Okay.'
'So what I want to know is, that Chinaman, is he okay?'
'Mr. Kim didn't make it, Dennis. He died.'
Rooney didn't respond, but Talley knew that images of shooting his way out and possibly even of suicide would be kaleidoscoping through his head. Talley had to give him a vent for the pressure.
'I won't lie to you, Dennis; you guys are in trouble. But if what you said about the struggle is true, that could be a mitigating circumstance. Don't make things worse than they already are. We can still work our way out of this.'
Kim having pulled a gun would mitigate nothing. Under California law, any death occurring during the commission of a felony was murder, but Talley needed to give Rooney some measure of hope. It did.
Rooney said, 'What about the police officer? He went for his gun, too.'
'He's still alive. You caught a break there, Dennis.'
'Don't you forget I've got these people in here. Don't you guys try to rush the house.'
Some of the edge had gone from Rooney's voice.
'Dennis, I'm going to ask you right now to let those people go.'
'No way.'
'You're ahead of the game as long as they're not hurt. The police officer is alive. You said Mr. Kim pulled a gun on you. Just let those people walk out.'
'Fuck that. They're the only thing keeping you from blowing us away. You'll kill us for shooting that cop.'
'I know you're feeling that way right now, Dennis, but I'm going to give you my word about something. We're not going to storm the house. We're not coming in there by force, okay?'
'You'd better not.'
'We're not. But I want you to know what you're facing out here. I'm not telling you to threaten you. I'm telling you to be straight up. We have officers surrounding the house, and this neighborhood is locked down. You can't escape, Dennis; that just isn't going to happen. The reason I'm out here talking to you is that I want to get out of this thing without you or the people in that house getting hurt. That's my goal here. Do you understand that?'
'I understand.'
'The best thing you can do to help yourself is to let those people go, Dennis. Let them go, then surrender, everything nice and peaceful and orderly. If you're cooperative now, it will look better for the judge later. Do you see that?'
Rooney didn't respond, which Talley took as a positive sign. Rooney wasn't arguing. He was thinking. Talley decided to terminate the contact and let Rooney consider his options.
'I don't know about you, Dennis, but I could use a break. You think about what I said. I'll call back in twenty minutes. If you want to talk before that, just shout, and I'll phone you again.'
Talley closed the phone. His hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it. He took another deep breath and then another, but they didn't help to steady him.
Jorgenson said, 'Chief? You okay?'
Talley waved that he was fine.
The helicopters were still up there, They had set up on fixed points in a hover. That meant they were using their cameras.
Talley put the phone in his pocket, told Jorgenson to call if anything changed, then backed his car out of the cul-de-sac. One conversation with a scared twenty-two-year-old kid, and Talley wanted to vomit. Larry Anders was waiting at the intersection along with two more of his officers: Scott Campbell and Leigh Metzger. Campbell was a retired Bakersfield security officer who signed on with Bristo to supplement his pension. Metzger was a single mother who had spent eight years on the San Bernardino Police Department as an instructional officer. She had almost no street time. Seeing them gave Talley no confidence.
'Jesus, Larry, are the goddamned Sheriffs coming here on foot? Where are they?'
'Sarah's been on the phone with them, Chief. She says you should call.'
Talley felt his stomach clench.
'What's wrong?'
'I don't know. She also says that the newspeople want to know what's happening. They've got reporters at the minimart, and they're on their way here.'
Talley rubbed his face, then checked his watch. It had been fifty-three minutes since Junior Kim was shot. Fifty-three minutes, and his world had collapsed to the size of a subdivision.
'When the newspeople get here, let them into the development, but don't let them come here to the cul-de-sac.'
'Ah, there's an empty lot by King and Lady, something like that. Can I put them over there?'
'Perfect. And don't let them wander around. I'll get over there in a few minutes and make a statement.'
Talley went to his car, telling himself that everything was fine. He had established contact, found out that all three subjects were in the house, and no one was shooting. He opened his car and felt the heat roll out as if from an oven. He was so drained that he didn't care. He radioed his office.
'Give me some good news, Sarah. I need it.'
'The Highway Patrol is sending six patrol units from Santa Clarita and Palmdale. They should be about ten minutes out, and inbound now.'
Patrol units.
'What about a tactical squad and the negotiation team? We need to get those people deployed.'
Talley sounded strident, but he didn't care.
'I'm sorry, Chief. Their response team is hung up in Pico Rivera. They said they'll get here as soon as possible.'
That's just fucking great! What are we supposed to do until then?'
'They said you'll have to handle it yourself.'
Talley held the mike in his lap without the strength to lift it.
'Chief? You still there?'
Talley pulled the door shut, started the engine, and turned on the air conditioner. Anders and Campbell looked over when they heard the engine start, then seemed confused when he didn't pull away. He turned the vents so they blew the cold air into his face. Talley shook so badly that he pushed his hands under his legs, feeling frightened and ashamed. He dug his fingers into his thighs and told himself that this wasn't Los Angeles, that he was no longer a negotiator, that the lives of the people in the house did not rest with him. He only had to hang on until the Sheriffs took over, and then he could go back to his orchard and the perfect peace of its stillness. It was only a matter of minutes. Of seconds. He told himself that anyone could hang on for seconds. He told himself that, but he didn't believe it.
Friday, 4:22, P.M.
Dennis slapped down the phone, livid with an anger he could barely contain, shouting, 'Fuck you!'
Talley thought he was an idiot, all that shit about wanting a peaceful resolution and promising not to storm the house. Dennis knew the score when it came to cops: A cop was down, so somebody had to pay. The bastards would probably assassinate him the first chance they got without ever giving him a chance to stand trial. That bastard Talley probably wanted to pull the goddamned trigger himself. Dennis was so pissed off that he felt sick to his stomach.
Mars said, 'What did they want?'
'What do you think they want, Mars? Jesus, they want us to give up.'
Mars shrugged, his expression simple.
'I'm not giving up.'
Dennis glared at the two kids huddled around their old man, then stalked out of the office. He needed to figure a way out of this fucking house, and away from the police. He needed a plan. Walking made it easier to think, like he could get away from the fear of being trapped; a big-ass house like this, and it felt as if the weight of it was crushing his breath away. If he threw up, he didn't want to do it in front of Mars.
Dennis crossed through the kitchen, searching for the garage. He found the keys on a Peg-Board in the pantry just like the man had said, and shoved open the door to the garage. A gleaming Jaguar sedan and Range Rover were waiting, neither more than a couple of years old. Dennis checked the gas in the Jaguar, and found the tank full. If his truck had broken down only five minutes sooner, if they had found this house only five minutes sooner, if they had driven away in this sweet Jaguar only five minutes sooner, they wouldn't be sweating out a murder count. They wouldn't be trapped.
Dennis smashed his fist into the steering wheel, shouting, 'SHIT!'
He closed his eyes.
Chill, dude.
Don't lose it.
There has to be a way out.
'Dennis?'
Dennis opened his eyes and saw Kevin in the door, squirming like he had to pee.
'You're supposed to be watching for the cops.'
'I need to talk to you. Where's Mars?'
'He's watching the front like you're supposed to be watching the back. Get out of here.'
Dennis shut his eyes tight. The cops were watching the front and back of the house, but it was a big house; there had to be a window or door that the cops couldn't see. The house was surrounded by trees and bushes and walls, all of which blended and merged with the heavy cover of the surrounding houses. When night came, the shadows between the houses would fall like heavy black coats. If he created a diversion -say, he dressed up the hostages to look like Mars, Kevin, and himself, tied them into the Jaguar, then used the remote control to raise the garage door- all the cops would be watching the garage as he slipped out the other side of the house and away through the shadows.
'Dennis?'
'We're looking at murder charges, Kevin. Let me think.'
'It's about Mars. We've got to talk about what happened.'
Kevin wore the pussy face again, the mewly lurching eyebrows and don't-kick-me expression that made Dennis want to punch him. Dennis hated his younger brother and always had; hated the suffocating weight of having to carry him through life. He didn't need the prison shrink to tell him why: Kevin was their past; he was their weak ineffectual mother who abandoned them, their brutal meth-head father who beat them, their pathetic and embarrassing place in life. Kevin was the shadow of their future failure, and Dennis hated him for it.
Dennis got out of the Jaguar and slammed the door.
'We've got to find a way out of here, Kevin, that's what we've got to do. It's that simple. We look for a way out of this goddamned house because I am not going back to jail.'
Dennis pushed past his brother, unable even to look at him. Kevin followed along behind. They went through a kitchen, then along a wide hall past a formal dining room to a den with lush leather couches and a beautiful copper bar. Dennis imagined himself serving drinks to beautiful guests who had stepped out of television commercials and porno tapes. He would be a player if he lived in a house like this. He would have become the man of his destiny.
They reached the master bedroom at the rear of the house. It was a huge room with sliding glass doors that looked out at the pool, this one room bigger than the apartment Dennis and Kevin shared. Dennis wondered if there was a bathroom window or some other way to sneak out.
Kevin plucked at his arm.
'Dennis, listen.'
'Look for a way out.'
'Mars lied about that cop who came to the door. That cop never pulled his gun. You didn't have to shoot him.'
Dennis grabbed Kevin's shirt.
'Stop it! We didn't have any choice!'
'I was standing right there. I was watching him, Dennis. He put his hand on his gun, but he didn't pull it. I'm telling you that cop never drew.'
Dennis let go of Kevin's shirt and stepped back, not knowing what to say.
'You just didn't see, is all.'
'I was there. Mars lied.'
'Why would he do that?'
'Something's wrong with that guy, Dennis. He wanted to shoot that cop.'
Dennis's throat felt tight. He was pissed off, thinking this was just like his fuckup brother, dishing out another helping of shit onto a plate that was already overflowing.
'You don't know what you're talking about. We're surrounded by cops and we're looking at a homicide charge. We've got to find a way out of this, so just stop.'
Three doors opened off the bedroom. Dennis thought they might lead to closets or bathrooms with maybe a window on the side of the house, but that isn't what he found.
Clothes hung on racks with shoes filling shoe stands beneath the clothes like any other large closet, but this room had something more: A bank of small black-and-white televisions filled the near wall; Mars and the two kids could be seen on one of the screens; another showed the cop car sitting out front in the cul-de-sac; the Jaguar and the Range Rover were revealed in the garage, every room, bathroom, and hall inside the house was visible, as well as views of the outside of the house, the pool, poolhouse, and even the area behind the poolhouse. Every inch of the property seemed to be watched.
'Kevin?'
Kevin came up behind him, and made a hissing sound.
'What is this?'
'It's a security system. Jesus, look at this stuff.'
Dennis studied the view of the master bedroom. The camera appeared to be looking from the upper left ceiling corner above the door through which he had just entered. Dennis went out and looked up into the corner. He saw nothing.
Still inside the room, Kevin said, 'Hey, I can see you.'
Dennis rejoined his brother. The monitors were above a long keyboard set with button pads, LED windows, and red and green lights. Right now, all of the lights glowed green. Rows of buttons were lined along the right side of the keyboard, the buttons labeled MOTION SENSORS, INFRARED, UPSTAIRS LOCKS, DOWNSTAIRS LOCKS, and ALARMS. Dennis felt creeped out. He turned back to the door and slowly pushed it. The door swung easily, but with a feeling of weight and density. A heavy throwbolt was set into the door so that it could be locked tight from the inside. Dennis rapped on the door with his knuckles. Steel.
He turned back to his brother.
'What the fuck is going on here? They've got this place stitched up like a bank.'
Kevin was on his knees at the back of the closet, partially buried by a wall of hanging clothes. He slowly rocked back on his heels, then turned around holding a white cardboard box about the size of a shoe box. Dennis saw that the wall behind the clothes was like a small metal garage door that could be raised or lowered. It was raised, and more white boxes were stacked behind it.
Kevin held out the box.
'Look.'
The box was filled with hundred-dollar bills. Kevin pulled out a second box, then a third. They bulged with money. Dennis opened a fourth box. Money.
Dennis and Kevin looked at each other.
'Lets get Mars.'
Jennifer was worried. Her father's breathing was raspy. His eyes jerked spastically beneath their lids like eyes do when someone is having bad dreams. She placed a pillow from the couch beneath his head, and sat beside him, holding the ice to his head. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound was red and inflamed, and an ugly bruise was spreading across his face.
Thomas nudged her knee, and whispered.
'Why won't he wake up?'
She glanced at Mars before she answered. Mars had pulled her father's desk chair across the room and was sitting so that he could watch the police.
'I don't know.'
'Is he going to die?'
Jennifer was worried about that, too, though she didn't want to say. She thought that her father might have a concussion, though the only thing she knew about concussions for real was that the catcher on her high school baseball team had gotten a concussion during a game when he had blocked home plate and a bigger player had bowled him over. Tim had to go to the hospital that night and missed two days of school. Jennifer was scared that her father needed a doctor, too, and might get worse without medical attention.
'Jen?'
Thomas nudged her again, his voice an insistent whisper.
'Jen?'
She finally answered, and tried to look upbeat.
'I think he has a concussion. That's all it is.'
The phone on her father's desk rang. Mars glanced over, but made no move to answer it. The phone stopped ringing just as Dennis and Kevin reappeared from the rear of the house. Dennis walked over and stared down at her father, then her. The expression on his face creeped her out. Kevin was staring, too.
Dennis squatted beside her.
'Your old man, what's he do for a living?'
'He's an accountant.'
'He does taxes for other rich people, he handle their money, what?'
'Duh. That's what accountants do.'
Jennifer knew she was taunting him, and she was ready for his anger, but Dennis seemed to consider her. Then he glanced at Thomas before smiling.
'What's your name?'
'Jennifer.'
'What's your last name?'
'Smith.'
'Okay, Jennifer Smith. And your old man?'
'Walter Smith.'
Dennis looked at Thomas.
'How about you, fat boy?'
'Eat me.'
Dennis grabbed Thomas's ear.
Thomas blurted out his name.
'Thomas!'
'Fat boy Thomas, you give me shit, I'm gonna beat your ass. Are we clear on that?'
'Yes, sir.'
Dennis let go of Thomas's ear.
'That's a good fat boy.'
Jennifer wished that he would just leave them alone, but he didn't. He smiled at her and lowered his voice.
'We're going to be here a while, Jennifer. Where's your bedroom?'
Jennifer blushed furiously, and Dennis smiled wider.
'Now don't think nasty thoughts on me, Jennifer. I didn't mean it like that. You look cold, wearing just the bikini top. I'll bring you a shirt. Cover up that fine body.'
She averted her eyes and blushed harder.
'It's upstairs.'
'Okay. I'll bring you something.'
Dennis told Mars to come with him, and then the two of them left. Kevin went to the window.
The phone rang again, but Kevin ignored it. The ringing went on forever.
Thomas nudged her knee again.
When she looked at him, his face was deathly white with pink blotches at the comers of his mouth. That was the face he got when he was angry. She knew he didn't like being called a fat boy.
He nudged her again, wanting to say something. She made sure that Kevin wasn't watching them, then mouthed the word more than spoke it.
'What?'
Thomas leaned close and lowered his voice even more. The pink spots at his mouth burned brightly.
'I know where Daddy has a gun.'
Friday, 5:10 P.M.
Glen Howell closed his cell phone after fifteen rings. He didn't like that. He was expected, and he knew that this person always answered his phone, and was irritated that now, him running late like this, the sonofabitch would pick now not to answer. In Glen Howell's world, lateness was not tolerated and excuses were less than useless. Punishment could be severe.
Howell didn't know why the streets leading into York Estates were blocked, but the traffic was at a standstill. He figured it had to be a broken gas line or something like that for them to close the entire neighborhood, backing up traffic and wasting everyone's time. Rich people didn't like to be inconvenienced.
The window on his big S-class Mercedes slid down without a sound. Glen craned out his head, trying to see the reason for the delay. A lone cop was working the intersection, waving some cars away. He let a television news van through. Glen raised the window again, the heavy tint cutting the glare. He took the.40-caliber Smith amp; Wesson from his pocket and put it in the glove box. He had a valid California Concealed Weapon Permit, but thought it best not to draw attention to himself if he had to get out of the car.
Glen checked his watch again for the fourth time in five minutes. He was already ten minutes late. At this rate, he would be still later. Three of the cars ahead of him turned away, one car was let through, and then it was his turn. The cop was a young guy, tall and rectangular with a protruding Adam's apple.
Glen lowered the window. The heat ballooned in, making him wish he was back in Palm Springs, instead of being an errand boy. He tried to look professional and superior, working the class distinctions, rich successful business dude, lowly uneducated public servant.
'What's going on, Officer? Why the roadblock?'
'Do you live here in the neighborhood, sir?'
Glen knew that if he lied, the cop might ask to see his driver's license for the address. Glen didn't want to get caught in a lie.
'I have a business appointment. My associate is expecting me.'
'We've got a problem in the neighborhood, so we've had to close the area. We're only admitting residents.'
'What kind of problem?'
The cop looked uncertain.
'Do you have family in the development, sir?'
'Just my friends, like I said. You're making me worried about them, Officer.'
The cop frowned, and glanced back along the row of cars behind Glen.
'Well, what it is, we've got robbery suspects in one of the houses. We've had to evacuate several of the homes, and close off the development until we can secure the area. It could take a while.'
Glen nodded, trying to look reasonable. Ten seconds, he already knew that he couldn't flash a hundred at this guy to buy his way in. He would never go for it.
'Listen, my client is expecting me, Officer. It won't take long. Really. I just need a few minutes, then I'm gone.'
'Can't let you in, sir, I'm sorry. Maybe you could phone your party and have them come meet you, if they're still inside. We've had people going door to door, telling people to stay indoors or offering to escort them out. I can't let you in.'
Glen worked on staying calm. He smiled, and stared past the patrol car like he was thinking. His first impulse in any confrontation was to use his gun, put two hot ones square in the other guy's forehead, but he had a handle on that. Years of therapy had taught him that, even though he had an anger-based personality, he could control it. He controlled it now.
'Okay. That might work. Can I park over here to call?'
'Sure.'
Glen pulled his car to the side, then called the number again. This time, he let it ring fifteen times, but still didn't get an answer. Glen didn't like this. With all the cops around, his guy might have developed a case of the quivering shits and was laying low, or maybe he'd been forced from his home. He might even have a bunch of cops in his home, using it as a command post or something. Glen laughed out loud at that one. No fucking way. Glen figured the guy must've been evacuated, in which case he would probably call Palm Springs to arrange another meet location, and Palm Springs would phone Glen. The cop would probably know which families had been evacked, or could find out, but Glen didn't want to draw attention to his man by asking.
Glen wheeled around in a slow U and headed back up the street, still thinking about it, when he saw that another television news van had joined the line. Glen decided to take a flyer, and lowered his window when he reached the van. The driver was a balding guy with a rim of hair behind his ears and loose skin. A trim Asian woman with pouty lips perched in the passenger seat. Glen guessed her for the on-air talent, and wondered if the puffy lips were natural or man-made. Women who injected shit into their lips creeped him out. He decided that she was probably a spitter.
Glen said, 'Excuse me. They wouldn't tell me what's going on, just that some people in the neighborhood are being evacuated. Do you guys know anything about this?'
The woman twisted in her seat and leaned forward to see past the driver.
'We don't have anything confirmed, but it looks like three men were fleeing the scene of a robbery and took a family hostage.'
'No shit. That's terrible.'
Glen couldn't give less of a shit except that it was ruining his day. He wondered if he could talk the reporter into letting him come along.
'Do you live in the neighborhood?'
Glen knew that she was angling for something, and began to relax. If she thought he had something that she wanted, she might be willing to get him inside.
'I don't live here, but I have friends in there. Why?'
The line of cars had moved forward, but the news van stayed where it was. The reporter flipped through a yellow pad.
'We've got unconfirmed reports that there are children involved, but we can't get anyone to tell us anything about the family. It's a family named Smith.'
The big Mercedes sensed the heat. The air conditioner blew harder. Glen didn't feel it.
'What was the name again?'
'Mr. and Mrs. Walter Smith. We've heard they have two children, a boy and a girl.'
'They're being held hostage? These three guys have the Smiths?'
'That's right. Do you know them? We're trying to find out about the kids.'
'I don't know them. Sorry.'
Glen rolled up the window and pulled away. He drove slowly so as not to attract attention. He had the strange sensation of being removed from his body, as if the world had receded and he was no longer a part of it. The a.c. was roaring. Walter Smith. Three assholes had crashed into Walter Smith's home, and now the place was surrounded by cops and cameras, and their whole fucking neighborhood was sealed.
Three blocks later, Glen pulled into a parking lot. He took his gun from the glove box and put it back in his pocket. He felt safer that way. He opened his phone again, and dialed another number. This time, his call was answered on the first ring.
Glen spoke four words.
'We have a problem.'
Palm Springs, California
5:26 P.M.
Oxygen was the key. Sonny took a deep breath, trying to feed his heart. He was forty-seven years old, had high blood pressure, and lived in fear of the stroke which had claimed his father at fifty-five.
Benza stood in the games room of his mansion perched on a ridge above Palm Springs. Outside, his two kids, Chris and Gina, home from school, were splashing in the pool. Inside, Phil Tuzee and Charles 'Sally' Salvetti pulled an extra television next to the big screen, sweating like pigs, 36 inches, a Sony. They were rushed and frantic, anxious to get the set on. Between the big-screen projection TV with the picture-in-picture function and the Sony, they could watch all three major Los Angeles television stations. Two showed aerial views of Walter Smith's house, the third some pretty-boy talking head outside a gas station.
Sonny Benza still refused to believe it.
'What do we know? Not this TV bullshit. What do we know for sure? Maybe it's a different Walter Smith.'
Salvetti wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking pale under the Palm Springs tan.
'Glen Howell called it in. He's at the house, Sonny. It's our Walter Smith.'
Tuzee made a patting motion with his hands, trying to play the cooler.
'Let's everybody take it easy. Let's relax and walk through this a step at a time. The Feds aren't knocking on the door.'
'Not yet.'
Phil Tuzee was close to pissing himself. Sonny put his arm across Tuzee's shoulders, giving the squeeze, being the one in control.
'We got, what, ten or fifteen minutes before that happens, right, Phil?'
Tuzee laughed. Just like that, they were calmer. Still worried, still knowing they had a major cluster fuck of a problem, but the first bubble of panic had burst. Now, they would deal with it.
Benza said, 'Okay. What exactly are we dealing with here? What does Smith have in the house?'
'It's tax time, Sonny. We have to file the corporate quarterlies. He has our records.'
The bristly hairs on the back of Benza's head stood.
'You're sure? Glen hadn't made the pickup?'
'He was on his way to do that when this shit went down. He gets there and finds the neighborhood blocked off. He says Smith doesn't answer his phone, which you know he would do if he could, and then he gets the story from some reporters. Three assholes broke into Smith's house to hide from the cops, and now they're holding Smith and his family hostage. It's our Walter Smith.'
'And all our tax stuff is still in that house.'
'Everything.'
Benza stared at the televisions. Stared at the house on the screens. Stared at the police officers crouched behind bushes and cars, surrounding that house.
Sonny Benza's legitimate business holdings included sixteen bars, eight restaurants, a studio catering company, and thirty-two thousand acres of vineyards in central California. These businesses were profitable in their own right, but they were also used to launder the ninety million dollars generated every year by drug trafficking, hijackings, and shipping stolen automobiles and construction equipment out of the country. Walter Smith's job was to create false but reasonable profit records for Sonny's legitimate holdings which Benza would present to his 'real' accountants. Those accountants would then file the appropriate tax returns, never knowing that the records from which they were working had been falsified. Benza would pay the appropriate taxes (taking every deduction legally allowable), then be able to openly bank, spend, or invest the after-tax cash. To do this, Walter Smith held the income records of all Benza businesses, both legal and illegal.
These records were in his computer.
In his house.
Surrounded by cops.
Sonny went over to the big glass wall that gave him a breathtaking view of Palm Springs on the desert floor below. It was a beautiful view.
Phil Tuzee followed him, trying to be upbeat.
'Hey, look, it's just three kids, Sonny. They're gonna get tired and come out. Smith knows what to do. He'll hide the stuff. These kids will walk out and the cops will arrest them, and that's that. There won't be any reason for the cops to search the house.'
Sonny wasn't listening. He was thinking about his father. Frank Sinatra used to live down the street. It was the house that Sinatra had remodeled to entertain JFK, spent a couple of hundred thousand to buff out the place so he and The Man could enjoy a little poolside poon as they discussed world affairs, sunk all that money into his nest only to have, after the checks were signed and the work was done, JFK blow him off and refuse to visit. Story goes that Sinatra went fucking nuts, shooting through the walls, throwing furniture into the pool, screaming that he was gonna take out a hit on the motherfucking President of the United States. Like what did he expect, Kennedy to be butt-buddies with a mobbed-up guinea singer? Sonny Benza's home was higher up the ridge than Frank's old place, and larger, but his father had been impressed as hell with Sinatra's place. First time his father had come out to visit, he'd walked down to Sinatra's place and stood in the street, staring at Sinatra's house like it held the ghost of the Roman Empire. His father had said, 'Best move I ever made, Sonny, turning over the wheel to you. Look how good you've done, living in the same neighborhood as Francis Albert.' The Persians who lived there now had gotten so freaked out by Sonny's dad, they had called the police.
'Sonny?'
Benza looked at his friend. Tuzee had always been the closest to him. They'd been the tightest when they were kids.
'The records don't just show our business, Phil. They show where we get the money, how we launder it, and our split with the families back east. If the cops get those records, we won't be the only ones who fall. The East Coast will take a hit, too.'
The breath flowed out of Phil Tuzee as if he were collapsing.
Sonny turned back to the others. They were watching him. Waiting for orders.
'Okay. Three kids like this, the cops will give'm time to chill, they'll see they're caught and that the only way out is to give up. Two hours tops, they'll walk out, hands up, then everybody goes to the station to make their statements. That's it.'
Hearing it like that made sense.
'But that's a best-case scenario. Worst case, it's a bloodbath. When it's over, the detectives go in for forensic evidence and come out with Smith's computer. If that happens, we go to jail for the rest of our lives.'
He looked at each man.
'If we live long enough to stand trial.'
Salvetti and Tuzee traded a look, but neither of them added anything because they knew it was true. The East Coast families would kill them.
Tuzee said, 'Maybe we should warn them. Call old man Castellano back there to let'm know. That might take off some of the edge.'
Salvetti raised his hands.
'Jesus, no fuckin' way. They'll go apeshit and be all over us out here.'
Sonny agreed.
'Sally's right. This problem with Smith, we've got to get a handle on it fast, solve the problem before those bastards back in Manhattan find out.'
Sonny looked back at the televisions and thought it through. Control and containment.
'Who's the controlling authority? LAPD?'
Salvetti grunted. Salvetti, like Phil Tuzee, was a graduate of USC Law who'd worked his way through school stealing cars and selling cocaine. He knew criminal law.
'Bristo is an incorporated township up by Canyon Country. They have their own police force, something like ten, fifteen guys. We're talking a pimple on LA's ass.'
Tuzee shook his head.
'That doesn't help us. If the locals can't handle this, they'll call in the Sheriffs or maybe even the Feds. That's all we need, the Feebs rolling in. Either way, there'll be more than a few hick cops to deal with.'
'That's true, Phil, but it will all be processed back through the Bristo PD office because it's their jurisdiction. They've got a chief of police up there. It's his crime scene even if he turns over control.'
Sonny turned back to the televisions. A street -level camera was showing the front of the house. Sonny thought he saw someone move past a window, but couldn't be sure.
'This chief, what's his name?'
Salvetti glanced at his notes.
'Talley. I saw him being interviewed.'
The television shifted its shot to show three cops hunkered behind a patrol car. One of them was pointing to the side of the house like he was giving orders. Sonny wondered if that was Talley.
'Put our people on the scene. When the Feds and Sheriffs come in, I want to know who's running their act, and whether they've ever worked OC.'
If they had experience working Organized Crime, he would have to be careful who he deployed to the area.
'It's already happening, Sonny. I've got people on the way, clean guys, not anyone they would recognize.'
Benza nodded.
'I want to know everything that comes out of that house. I want to know about the three turds who started this mess. That bastard Smith might start talking just to cut a break for himself or his family. He might let them in on everything.'
'He knows better than that.'
'I want to know it, Phil.'
'I'm on it. We'll know.'
Sonny Benza watched the three cops hunkered behind the patrol car, the one he believed to be the chief of police talking on a cell phone. He had never murdered a police officer because killing cops was bad for business, but he would not hesitate to do so now. He would do whatever it took to survive. Even if it meant killing a cop.
'I want to know about this guy Talley. Find out everything there is to know about him, and every way we can hurt him. By the end of the day, I want to own him.'
'We'll own him, Sonny.'
'We better.'