Redzone (21 page)

The place turned out to be a nearby conference room, which, judging from the mostly eaten cake, had been used for somebody's birthday celebration earlier in the day.

Seko had vaguely Asian features, almond-shaped eyes, and a freshly scrubbed appearance. If she was nervous Lee couldn't see any sign of it. “So,” she began. “Let me start by saying how sorry we are about your partner's death.”

Seko produced a short, jerky nod. And her lower lip quivered for a second. That was when Lee realized that Seko was battling to keep the lid on her emotions. “Thank you,” Seko said simply. “I miss him.”

“I know this is hard,” Prospo said sympathetically. “But partners have a special relationship with each other. Chances are that you know things about Rudy that his family isn't aware of.”

Seko shrugged. “Probably . . . What would you like to know?”

“Did Rudy have enemies?” Lee inquired. “People on or off the force who might want to harm him?”

Seko shook her head. “No, not that I know of. People liked Rudy.”

“How 'bout his private life?” Prospo inquired. “Did Rudy have a girlfriend? A boyfriend?”

“He had a boyfriend,” Seko replied. “But they broke up three months ago.”

“Was the breakup amicable?” Lee wanted to know.

“Yes,” Seko said. “I know Marty . . . And he would never do anything to harm Rudy. Not physically anyway.”

“So, was Rudy out and about?” Prospo wanted to know.

“We worked a lot of overtime,” Seko answered. “But when Rudy could, he liked to hang out at the Hi-Jinx Club. That's where Rudy met Marty—and he hoped that lightning would strike twice.”

“But no current lovers?” Lee inquired.

“Not that I know of.”

The interview continued for another ten minutes and ended with a request that Seko call them should something relevant come to mind. Once she was gone, Prospo looked at Lee. “Don't tell me . . . Let me guess. We're going to visit the Hi-Jinx Club.”

“You
can
read minds!” Lee said. “I'm impressed. Here's hoping we find some sort of lead there . . . Because at this point, all we have so far is a whole lot of nothing.”

*   *   *

Lee spent the rest of the afternoon working her way through administrative tasks and was about to catch up when Prospo appeared. “Are you ready?” he inquired. “The Hi-Jinx is open, and the manager is expecting us.”

“Yeah,” Lee said, as she logged out. “Do you want to meet me there? Or would you like a ride?”

“I'll meet you at the club,” Prospo replied. “I'll go home from there.”

Lee nodded, and they rode the elevator down to the garage together. Once in her car, and on the way, Lee checked her six. There was no sign of a tail, so she allowed her thoughts to wander. She had lied to Kane. So how would he react when Jenkins told him the truth? Lee figured that
Dr.
Kane would receive the news with equanimity. But what about the
man
? Would he be angry? Perhaps. Or maybe he wouldn't give a shit. Maybe he viewed her as another whack job. A wayward patient in need of a steadying hand. That would be horrible.

The Hi-Jinx Club fronted on the tree-lined Santa Monica Boulevard. The parking was out back, and it was early, so there were plenty of parking places to choose from. As Lee slid into one of them, Prospo pulled in next to her.

On the way into the club they passed the restrooms,
huge
fish tanks on both walls, and the door to the kitchen. The lighting was so subdued that it was hard to see across the room.
Round tables and chromed chairs were arranged around a dance floor and the table where a DJ would sit later on. There were some customers but not many. The bar, which was supported by a beautifully lit fish tank, took up most of the right-hand wall. Prospo went over to speak with the bartender. “We're looking for Andre . . . He's expecting us.”

The bartender responded with a nod. “Sure, I'll tell him.” Then he turned toward a door labeled
OFFICE
.

Lee was still looking around when a man emerged from the office and came out to meet them. “Hi, I'm Andre . . . Welcome to Hi-Jinx.”

“I'm Detective Lee—and this is Detective Prospo.”

“Right,” Andre said, as he shook hands with Prospo. “We spoke on the phone.”

“So you know why we're here,” Lee said as she shook hands with the bar owner. “We're trying to find the person or persons who murdered Officer Rudy Vasquez. His partner says he came here on a frequent basis.”

Andre had very little hair and what remained had been cut short. He had well-groomed eyebrows, high cheekbones, and the body of a runner. He nodded. “Yes, Rudy was a regular. I liked him. Everybody did.”

“So, how 'bout it?” Prospo inquired. “Was Rudy here on the night of the sixth?”

“I don't know,” Andre replied. “Hundreds of people come and go every night. I can't keep track of them; nor do I try.”

“How about those cameras?” Lee inquired as she pointed them out. “Do they work? And do you keep the footage?”

“They work,” Andre assured her. “And we keep everything for a rolling thirty days.”

“Can we look at the images from the sixth?” Prospo wanted to know. “Or will we need to get a warrant?”

“There's no need for that,” Andre replied. “You can watch it in my office. Follow me.”

In order to enter the office it was necessary to walk behind the bar and pass through the door located at the far
end of it. The room was about the size of a large walk-in closet and furnished with an ancient safe, a built-in computer station, and a couple of mismatched chairs. The walls were lined with DIY shelves that were laden with binders, piles of marketing materials, and a collection of bowling trophies. “Sorry about the mess,” Andre said. “Have a seat at the desk. I'll show you how to access the video files.”

Prospo plopped down in front of the screen, followed the directions that Andre gave, and caught on rather quickly. “Good,” Andre said, as Prospo shuttled back and forth. “I need to excuse myself if it's okay with you. Happy hour is about to begin, and that's when things start to get crazy.”

“No problem,” Lee said. “Thanks for the help.”

As Andre left Lee took up a position directly behind Prospo, where she could look over the other detective's shoulder. Video started and stopped as he worked his way through the fifth and moved into the sixth. Vasquez had been working shift two that day—and it ran from 7:00
A.M.
to 3:30
P.M.
So Prospo chose 4:00
P.M.
as a starting point.

There were multiple cameras and all four shots appeared on the screen at once. So that, plus the poor lighting, made viewing difficult. One camera was pointed straight down at the cash register, however—so they could ignore that.

The next twenty minutes were spent starting, stopping, and rewinding. Every now and then, Prospo would tap one of the boxes, causing the image to pop full screen.

But it wasn't until the rolling time stamp read 05:36:27
P.M.
that they hit pay dirt. That was the moment when Vasquez strolled into the club and paused to speak with the bartender. The patrol officer was wearing an open-necked sports shirt that hung out over his jeans. To hide his off-duty weapon? Probably . . . And that was something Lee had long wondered about. How had it been possible for the Bonebreaker to subdue not one, but
nine
armed cops? It was a mystery within a mystery.

At that point they had Vasquez on the day he disappeared
in what could have been the place where he was abducted. Lee felt a rising sense of excitement as the footage continued to roll. Prospo had three speeds to choose from: normal, kind of fast, and a blur. “Kind of fast” was the best for their needs.

They watched as Vasquez left one camera shot and entered a second one. He did some table-hopping before settling down at a spot near the front entrance. And that's where he was when a man joined him fifteen minutes later. They talked for a while, danced, and consumed two rounds of drinks. The time stamp read 07:22:19
P.M.
when they got up and left. “Bingo!” Prospo said. “They went out through the back door.”

“Yeah,” Lee said grimly. “Vasquez's car was found in the lot, so I figure Mr. Goodbar drove. Back up . . . I want another look at him.”

Prospo backed the video up, hit
PLAY
, and clicked the box labeled
CAMERA 3
. The image was large but the angle was far from ideal. Still, Lee could see the man sitting across from Vasquez. He was a good-looking guy, with a head of dark hair, a straight nose, and a nice mouth. Still another good-looking gay guy . . . What a waste.

Once they stood, Lee was able to see that the two men were roughly the same height, and since Vasquez was five feet eight inches tall, that meant Mr. Goodbar was too. “I'll get Andre,” Lee said. “Maybe we'll get lucky . . . Maybe he knows who the pickup artist is.”

Lee went out into the bar, waited for Andre to complete a conversation with a customer, and asked him to return to the office. Once there Andre watched the video three times. “I'm sorry,” he said finally, “I don't know him.”

“Damn,” Lee said. “Please keep your eyes peeled, and if he shows up, let us know right away. Here's my card.”

“Yeah,” Prospo said, “and here's mine. One of our techs will come by to copy that video. In the meantime please don't erase any part of that video file—and don't let anyone else have access to it.”

“No problem.” Andre said. “I'll keep the office locked.”

“Good,” Lee said as she took one last look at the man who, based on what they knew so far, had to be the Bonebreaker. There was a problem though . . . A significant problem. The face on the screen was too damned young to be the Bonebreaker's. No one knew how old the Bonebreaker was exactly—but he'd been killing cops for a long time, and Lee figured that Mr. Goodbar was thirty or so. So what the hell did that mean? It could mean that a copycat killer was responsible for the Vasquez murder. But how to prove
it?

DESPITE THE FACT
that Lee didn't like having cameras in her apartment, they did provide her with an additional sense of security, and she slept well as a result. So she woke up feeling rested and was only ten minutes late when she arrived at work. And that was the same thing as being on time in her book.

After sitting through roll call, Lee went to her cubicle, where she was scrolling through her e-mail, when Yanty plopped down on her guest chair. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “I have bad news, good news, and bad news. In that order.”

“That sounds like a shit sandwich,” Lee replied sourly. “Okay, what's the first piece of bad news?”

“We were hoping to recover video of the Bonebreaker dumping the garbage bags next to the freeway,” Yanty said. “Unfortunately, the nearest camera was dead. Somebody put a high-velocity rifle slug into it.”

Lee frowned. “The Bonebreaker?”

Yanty shook his head. “We don't think so. I'm told that
gang members and vandals use cameras for target practice on a regular basis. So odds are that the Bonebreaker had nothing to do with it.”

The occasional report of gunfire was part of LA's eternal sound track along with the wail of sirens. And Lee could imagine gang members shooting at the cameras for fun and to reduce the extent to which authorities could keep an eye on them. “Okay, that sucks. So what's the good news?”

Yanty smiled. “We got lucky. A passing motorist
saw
the bags being dumped and is willing to tell us all about it.”

“Uh-oh,” Lee said. “Something about the way you said that tells me that I'm about to receive the second piece of bad news.”

“Yup,” Yanty confirmed. “Unfortunately, the aforementioned motorist is none other than a four-time loser named Mr. William Rawlings . . . A man better known to his friends, neighbors, and cellmates as Slick Willy. At the moment he's over at the Metro Detention Center waiting to be arraigned for grand theft auto.”

Lee eyed the other detective. “Don't tell me, let me guess . . . On top of the fact that he's an ex-con, Slick Willy was driving a stolen car when he witnessed the bags being dumped. A fact that would make his testimony less credible.”

Yanty's grin grew wider. “You're smarter than you look.”

“And he wants to cut a deal.”

“Exactamundo. That's why they call him Slick Willy. He refuses to say what he saw unless the DA cuts him some slack.”

“And will he? Cut Willy some slack?”

Yanty nodded. “Given the nature of what we're working on, he's willing to drop the charge from grand theft auto to theft. Even though Rawlings was driving a car worth 40 thou.”

Lee knew that the lesser charge was likely to result in a shorter sentence, and nodded. “Good work . . . So let's stroll over to the MDC and see what Mr. Rawlings has to say.”

The jail was a short walk from the headquarters building. Once inside Lee and Yanty had to show ID to get past the
reception desk. Then they had to show it again once they arrived at a checkpoint, where they were asked to surrender their weapons.

After logging in the officers were herded through a metal detector and a health screening before being escorted to one of the interview rooms. The walls were lime green, ceiling-mounted cameras were ready to capture the interview from two different angles, and the table was bolted to the floor. Brightly colored plastic chairs completed the décor.

The detectives sat down, and Lee continued to work on her e-mail via her phone until the door opened, and Slick Willy was shown in. He had longish brown hair that was parted on the right, a high forehead, and slightly protuberant eyes. A neatly trimmed mustache and Custer-style goatee completed the look. “Cuffs on? Or cuffs off?” the uniformed guard wanted to know.

“Cuffs off,” Lee replied. “Thank you.”

“Dial five when you're finished,” the jailer said, as he pointed to a wall-mounted phone.

“Got it,” Yanty replied. “Thanks.”

“Have a seat,” Lee said, as the guard left. “So you're the famous Slick Willy.”

Rawlings liked that description of himself, and his expression brightened as he sat down. “Yeah . . . That's what they call me.”

“I'm Detective Lee—and this is Detective Yanty. We hear that you have some information regarding the Vasquez murder. We're all ears.”

Rawlings frowned. “Not so fast . . . What's in it for me?”

“That depends,” Yanty responded. “What sort of information do you have? If you can ID the killer, we'll carry you out of here on our shoulders.”

“I don't know who killed Officer Vasquez,” Rawlings said cautiously. “But I saw the Bonebreaker guy dump the bags. You know . . . the ones filled with body parts. I saw a report on TV.”

Lee pretended to yawn. “Whoopee. We have video of that taken from the other side of the freeway. This is a waste of time.”

“Not so fast,” Yanty said. “Rawlings had a different angle on what took place . . . Maybe he noticed something important.”

“Whatever,” Lee said dismissively. “I'll tell you what, Mr. Rawlings . . . You tell us your story, and we'll ask the DA to reduce the charge from grand theft to theft. You've been through the grinder before—so you know that's a righteous deal.”

Rawlings appeared to think about it. Then he nodded. “Okay . . . I'm in.”

“Excellent,” Yanty said. “So, give . . . Tell us what you saw.”

“It was about 4:30
A.M.
,” Rawlings began, “and I was headed north on the Hollywood Freeway.”

“In someone else's car,” Lee reminded him.

“Maybe,” Rawlings said with a quick glance at one of the cameras. “There wasn't much traffic, but I had a big pickup in front of me. It had a canopy on the back. Suddenly, the flashers came on and the truck swerved over onto the shoulder of the road. I figured the guy had a flat tire, but that was when the tailgate fell, and the first garbage bag tumbled out.”

Lee remembered the scene—and the way the bags were spaced out. “Okay . . . Then what?”

“Then a second bag fell out—quickly followed by a third,” Rawlings said. “That was when the flashers went off and the truck veered onto the freeway. I figured the bags were filled with trash until I saw the news reports later that morning.”

Lee's mind was racing.
Two
people. It would take two people to dump the bags. One to drive the truck and one to kick the containers out over the tailgate. And the Bonebreaker was a loner. Never, not once, had there been any evidence of an accomplice. Not until now. That suggested
that a minimum of two people took part in the Vasquez murder. And that was a big deal.

Three hours had passed since the interview with Slick Willy. Lee, Jenkins, and Wolfe were seated in Chief of Police Corso's private conference room. They were about to take part in the kind of meeting that Lee hated the most, which was to say a meeting that Corso was involved in. The walls were decorated with artistic black-and-white photos of the “new” LA; there were a lot of green plants, and the redwood conference table was large enough to seat twenty people.

A good fifteen minutes passed before Corso entered the room. The thousand-megawatt smile was on, and he was dressed in a beautifully cut blue suit. Corso was careful to acknowledge each person in the room before getting down to business. “I understand you have a new theory regarding the Vasquez murder,” Corso said. “Please proceed.”

“There have been a couple of developments,” Jenkins said carefully, “neither of which is definitive. But taken together they raise the possibility that the Bonebreaker
didn't
kill Vasquez.”

Corso was visibly surprised. “Really? What makes you think so?”

Jenkins turned to Lee. “Cassandra? You did the legwork—tell the chief what you discovered.”

It was an attempt to give Lee credit for what she'd accomplished. She knew that. But the effect was to grant her full ownership of the theory. And she was fully aware that such ownership could cut both ways.

With all eyes upon her Lee told Corso about the video of the last person to be seen with Vasquez, the way the bags had been spaced out on the freeway, and what Slick Willy Rawlings had seen. “So,” she concluded, “it's possible that we're dealing with a copycat killer. Or killers, since it would require two people to dump the bags out of a moving pickup.”

Corso had been a street cop once, and as Lee watched his face, she could see him processing what she'd said. But
Corso wasn't a street cop anymore. He was a cop/politician. And one who wanted to become mayor. So his analysis was bound to be more complicated than hers. And that was reflected in the noncommittal response. “That's interesting . . . Very interesting. I'm scheduled to meet with the mayor this afternoon. I'll share your theory with her. In the meantime let's keep the lid on this . . . An announcement, if any, will require some planning. Is there anything else? No? Okay . . . Thanks, and keep up the good work.”

Corso left at that point, and Lee felt a sense of disappointment. Shouldn't they start looking for Mr. Goodbar and his accomplice? Why wait? But Jenkins was more philosophical. “Don't let it bother you,” he said, as they got onto the elevator. “Ignore the bullshit. Things will come right in the end.”

*   *   *

The decision had been made the previous evening. That was when one of Channel 7's reporters announced that an individual who identified himself as the Bonebreaker had called the LAPD to take credit for the Vasquez murder! And that constituted an outrage insofar as the
real
Bonebreaker was concerned. First because he was innocent, and second because the name Bonebreaker belonged to
him
, and him alone. It was
his
brand . . . And woe be to the asshole who was trying to hijack it. The solution was obvious. Find the impersonator and kill him.

So when the Bonebreaker rolled out of bed the next morning he had a long list of things to accomplish. The first of which was to find out where the Vasquez family lived. And that wasn't easy because phone books were a thing of the past, and the media were part of a police-led conspiracy to keep the information private.

But the date and time for the memorial service had been announced along with the name of the cemetery where Vasquez's body parts were to be buried. The
same
graveyard to which most of the Bonebreaker's victims had been sent.

It was a simple matter to call the cemetery's business office, schmooze the female secretary, and claim to be an undertaker who wanted to confirm the exact location of the Vasquez gravesite. “Hundreds of people will be there,” he said. “Imagine the hullaballoo if I pull up at the wrong site.”

The secretary
could
imagine it because that very thing had occurred before. Not for a policeman, but for a state senator, and there had been a lot of bad press. She gave him precise directions to the site, and was happy to provide the Bonebreaker additional information as well, including the Vasquez family's phone number. He thanked her and promised to drop by the office some time.

With that accomplished the Bonebreaker went to work on the next task, something he'd done before, and that was to create a fake identity for himself. The materials required for that purpose were kept in what he called the costume room.

It was a fully enclosed space that had been painstakingly sealed off from the rats and was located just off one of the halls that connected his many rooms together. By necessity the costume room was better lit than most of the Bonebreaker's underground kingdom. And it was equipped with a dehumidifier, a beat-up makeup table, and a full-length mirror.

A variety of carefully maintained clothes hung along one wall, with floor-to-ceiling shelves on the other. That's where more than two dozen latex masks sat waiting, each on its own styrofoam head. Below them were the belts, shoes, and other accessories required to successfully build a character. In this case the Bonebreaker had chosen to become a police detective, both because that would help him achieve his goal, and to make the LAPD look stupid.

So the rest of the day was spent assembling all of the elements required for his disguise and prepping himself for a return to society. And that was more difficult than it sounded because after staying in the ossuary for long periods of time he found it increasingly difficult to carry out
what most people considered normal interactions. That's why he spent a couple of hours chatting with the AI on an interactive computer program intended for ESL students.

By the time darkness fell on the outside world, the Bonebreaker was ready to leave his spiritual retreat, and enter the world of God's apocalypse. He was wearing the full head mask that the manufacturer called “The Doctor.” The Bonebreaker had chosen that particular countenance because of its bland, middle-aged quality.

His clothes consisted of a white shirt, a nondescript tie, and a gray suit. All of which were a good fit and were consistent with what Detective Lou Harmon would have worn had he been alive. Fortunately, for the betterment of humanity, Harmon had suffered through the last few seconds of his life in the ossuary twelve years earlier.

Finally, with briefcase in hand, the Bonebreaker was ready to go. That involved a careful exit via one of many escape routes lest he inadvertently leave some sign of what existed belowground. Once outside the Bonebreaker paused to adjust. The area that belonged to him was like an island of darkness in an ocean of lights. The air was cool and tasted different.

Having oriented himself, the Bonebreaker set forth on his mission. A three-minute walk took him to a cyclone fence. One section of mesh was connected to a metal post with hooks that the Bonebreaker had fabricated and installed years earlier. By pulling the fence off the hooks, he could pass through the resulting gap, and close the opening behind him.