Redzone (3 page)

When Lee wasn't driving an unmarked car, her sole means of transportation was a postplague replica of a Harley Road King Police Edition motorcycle. Lee kept the bike under a tarp and always looked forward to seeing it again. It was a brutish motorcycle, with a huge headlamp, a teardrop-shaped tank, and saddle-style seat. A pair of white panniers completed the look.

Lee pulled the black-helmet-and-visor combination down over her head, turned the key, and listened as the bike came to life. Even though it hadn't been manufactured in a Harley factory, the big hog produced a satisfying rumble nevertheless. Lee kicked the stand up out of the way, toed the bike into gear, and let it roll down the driveway and onto the street.

From there it was a short trip to a tiny restaurant called Maria's. That was where Lee purchased a breakfast burrito every morning, and because she was usually late, took it
with her. That morning was no exception, which meant Lee would have to warm the burrito up once she arrived at work.

From there it was a ten-minute journey through Monday-morning traffic to LAPD headquarters and the ramp that took her down to the point where a steel pipe barred the way. She put the motorcycle in neutral and used her feet to prevent it from rolling downhill as she removed the helmet and shook her hair out. That allowed the officers who were on duty to see her face. “Sorry,” Lee said. “I don't have my ID on me. You can call Deputy Chief Jenkins if you need to.”

“There's no need for that,” one of the patrolmen said. “I
love
the video . . . That shit never gets old. Welcome back.”

And that, as it turned out, was a good indicator of the way most of her fellow cops felt. It was a rare police officer who hadn't had some sort of run-in with the media during the course of their careers—and watching Lee punch a reporter had a cathartic effect. So the trip from the parking garage up to the sixth floor was a celebration of sorts complete with fist bumps, high fives, and raucous greetings.

Lee was already running late, and all of the social interaction made her later, as did the need to microwave her breakfast in the break room. So by the time she arrived at roll call, Jenkins was halfway through the morning agenda and, like McGinty before him, was anything but pleased. “I'm glad you could fit us in, Detective Lee . . . How many times have you been told to eat your breakfast
before
you come to work?”

“I don't remember,” Lee replied blandly as she took her place at the conference table. The other detectives grinned. It was a classic Cassandra Lee moment, and they'd seen all of it before. Jenkins had something new up his sleeve, however.

“Okay,” Jenkins said. “Maybe this will help you remember . . . From now on every time you're late you'll have to deposit ten bucks in the S.I.S. party fund. Cough it up.”

That produced a round of cheers, and Lee made a face as she pulled a wad of nubucks out of a jacket pocket and
threw a badly crumpled ten on the table. Jenkins put the bill in a screw-top jar and picked up where he'd left off. Lee took the opportunity to chow down.

The meeting came to an end fifteen minutes later. And as the other detectives began to leave, Jenkins crooked a finger at Lee. “Come with me.”

Lee followed the deputy chief into what had been McGinty's office, where she sat on a guest chair as Jenkins circled the desk. He opened a drawer and began to remove items one at a time. “Here you go,” he said. “Your Glock, Smith & Wesson, and your badge. Welcome back.”

Lee stood to retrieve her belongings. The pistols went into their respective holsters, and the ID slid into a pocket. She felt whole again. “Thanks, boss . . . I appreciate it.”

“Okay,” Jenkins said, as he sat down. “I have some good news for you.”

“What? They're going to close the cafeteria?”

Jenkins smiled. “No, but almost as good. We're putting you in charge of the Bonebreaker investigation.”

Lee felt a sudden surge of excitement. “Really? But what about the conflict of interest? The Bonebreaker killed my father.”

“We'll be up front about it,” Jenkins replied. “We'll admit that it could be a problem but promise to monitor the situation. Imagine the headline: ‘Detective Lee leads the search for her father's killer.' The press will love it.”

All sorts of thoughts flitted through Lee's mind. The promotion was like a dream come true. She wouldn't need to look for the Bonebreaker in secret anymore—and she would have a team of detectives to help her. What could be better?

But there was something about the assignment that didn't feel right. She'd never been popular with the brass, and she was coming off a suspension, so why give her the equivalent of a reward unless . . . Lee eyed Jenkins. His face was professionally blank. That served to confirm her suspicions. “You
rotten bastard! You're going to use me as bait! Putting me in charge of the investigation is like giving the Bonebreaker the finger . . . He'll come for me, and you'll use a shadow team to nail him. Unless he gets past them . . . And then you'll find my head and torso next to the Santa Monica Freeway.”

Jenkins formed a steeple with his fingers. A boyish smile appeared on his face. “So,” he said. “Are you in?”

Lee stared at him for a moment. Then she nodded. “I'm
in.”

EVEN AS A
little girl, Lee had found it difficult to get up in the morning, and nothing had changed. So Lee set
two
alarms and placed both of them well away from her bed. When the first one went off, she managed to muffle the sound by pulling a blanket up over her head. Even so, the second and more shrill alarm was still audible.

Finally, swearing like a sailor, Lee threw off the bedcovers and hurried to silence both machines. That was when the true extent of her accomplishment struck her. She was running on time! And a good thing, too, since she was supposed to attend a very important meeting at 8:00
A.M.
Lee hurried to shower, dress, and leave the apartment.

Calling her police car “unmarked” was something of a misnomer because it had exempt plates and was therefore a target for graffiti. Lots of it. So, with a small GPS and cell-phone detector in hand, she circled the car looking for trackers and concluded that it was clean.

After stopping at Maria's for breakfast, Lee set off for work. Fifteen minutes later, she entered Conference Room
B on the seventh floor of the LAPD headquarters building. There were some familiar faces and a few she didn't know. And that made sense since Chief Corso had stolen resources from a variety of organizations in order to staff Operation Thunderstorm.

Lee chose to sit next to Detective Dick Yanty. He was balding, wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, and was dressed in the usual sports coat. Or maybe he had two jackets that were identical. He raised a doughnut by way of a salute. “Good morning, Cassandra . . . Where's the burrito? Are you on a diet?”

Lee made a face. “No wonder your parents named you Dick . . . They knew how things would turn out.”

Yanty laughed. “What do you think? Are we about to take part in a huge circle jerk? Or is this for real?”

Lee shrugged. “I don't know . . . But I hope it's for real. I want to take this asshole down.”

All of the participants were seated by then, and as Lee looked around, she counted twenty-five people. Jenkins was the only person still on his feet. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to Operation Thunderstorm. Our mission is to find the serial killer known as the Bonebreaker and bring him to justice.

“The fact that you are here, sitting in this room, means you are one of the best and brightest that the department has to offer. Congratulations on making the cut. Your reward will be the same pay you're already receiving, longer hours, and the satisfaction that flows from working on a high-priority case.”

Jenkins's eyes roamed the room. “Okay, enough rah-rah. Let's get down to brass tacks. Operation Thunderstorm is going to be structured in an unusual way. The people in this room will be divided into
two
teams. Detective Cassandra Lee will lead the first team—which will be referred to as the ‘public team.' Their job will be to pursue the existing investigation and do so in a manner calculated to attract the Bonebreaker's attention. According to the psychological profile our shrinks put together, he may perceive the public
team's activity as a personal affront and try to kill Lee or one of her detectives.

“That's where the shadow team comes in. They, which is to say most of you, will report to Lieutenant Brianna Wolfe here . . . You may be familiar with her role in breaking the Troba drug operation. Brianna, please stand up so everyone can see you.”

Lee didn't know Wolfe and hadn't paid any attention to the woman until then but saw that she was quite striking. The first and most jarring aspect of her appearance was the blond crew cut she wore. But rather than make her look masculine, the severe hairstyle served to emphasize her femininity. Wolfe was dressed management-style, in a nicely tailored suit and some tasteful jewelry.

Wolfe looked around the room, nodded to some of the people she knew, and paused as her eyes came to rest on Lee. A spark seemed to jump the gap. Not a sexual spark . . . but something akin to recognition in spite of the fact they didn't know each other. And that was the moment when Lee knew that Wolfe was a potential enemy.

But
why
? The obvious answer was competition. In spite of her aversion to publicity, Lee had a high public profile, and Wolfe didn't. And the other woman was on her way somewhere. To deputy chief? Yes, Lee would have been willing to put money on it. Then the moment was over as Wolfe took her seat, and the briefing continued. “The shadow team will watch over the public team twenty-four hours a day,” Jenkins said. “And that will require a lot of resources—so the public team is going to be small.

“The next few days will be spent putting electronic surveillance gear into place—and working out the details required to keep the operation running. Once we accomplish that, we'll hold a press conference, with Detective Lee standing front and center. Will the Bonebreaker take the bait? Let's hope so. But if he does, and the shadow team fails, then someone on the public team will die.”

There was total silence as Jenkins looked down at a piece of paper. “Okay, last, but not least . . . This is a
secret
operation. Do not, I repeat do not, disclose any aspect of what we are doing to other members of the LAPD, to your family, or to the press.” Jenkins finished with a nod. “That's it . . . Let's do this thing.”

*   *   *

A day had passed since the briefing, and Lee was about to meet with her two-person team. They were gathered in a small conference room on the sixth floor. Detective Dick Yanty was taking the opportunity to eat his lunch. It consisted of the P&J sandwich that his wife prepared for him every morning plus a carton of milk. Milo Prospo was digging into a meal purchased in the cafeteria. Lee wrinkled her nose. “What
is
that?”

Prospo looked up. He had black hair, bushy brows, and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. “It's meat loaf with mashed potatoes. You should try it.”

“Right . . . When I want to go on medical leave, I'll jump on that. Okay, first things first. What's wrong with you two? Jenkins told me that you volunteered! That's crazy.”

Yanty smiled vaguely. “Not my brightest moment, that's for sure. But I've been working on the Bonebreaker case for years . . . And you're going to need someone who is familiar with the evidence. A historian, so to speak. Assuming you plan to work the case, that is.”

Yanty pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and looked Lee in the eye. The challenge was obvious. Was the public team going to investigate? Or sit around and wait for the serial killer to attack one of them? Lee nodded. “I'm glad you raised that issue. Damned right we're going to work the case. And hard, too . . . So your familiarity with the evidence will be a huge help. What about you, Milo? Why did you volunteer?”

Prospo barely contained a belch, and said, “Sorry.” When
he frowned, two bushy brows became one. “McGinty was a friend of mine. So this is personal. I hope the Bonebreaker comes for me because if he does, I'll kill the bastard.”

It was said matter-of-factly—and without a trace of humor. Prospo was serious. Never mind the score, which was the Bonebreaker nine, police zero. Or the fact that the detective was well past fifty and at least twenty pounds overweight. Prospo saw himself as a stone-cold killer. Lee considered some sort of lecture and decided against it. “So,” Yanty said. “When's the press conference?”

“At three,” Lee answered. “The media-relations people figured that would provide the TV stations with plenty of time to get the story on the evening news.”

Prospo used a piece of bread to soak up the last of the gravy. “And then?” he inquired.

“And then I'm going to reinterview Cheyenne Darling. I read the original transcript, and there's no color. It's a straight-on ticktock of what time McGinty went out, when Darling became worried, and so on. I'm hoping for something more.

“Meanwhile, I'd like to see you guys go through the list of people the team talked to in the past and follow up. How many of them were in the slammer when the chief disappeared? How many have some other alibi? And how many are dead? Let's narrow the list.”

“Sounds good,” Yanty said, as he threw his brown lunch bag into a trash can. “Have fun at three.”

“Watch your six,” Lee replied. “The Bonebreaker could come after any one of us.”

“Roger that,” Prospo said, as he carried his plate out of the room. “I'll be waiting for him.”

*   *   *

The LAPD headquarters building had opened for business in 2009, was known for its angular appearance, and cost $437 million old bucks to construct. The façade had been
damaged by a rocket attack five years earlier and was awaiting repair. But so long as the weather was good, the outside plaza was the perfect spot to hold press conferences. And that was where Lee had been told to report.

About fifteen members of the LAPD were present, including Corso, Jenkins, and Wolfe. Lee nearly missed the latter because she was dressed in a full-on blue uniform complete with hat. But, that said, why was Wolfe there since she was in charge of the shadow team? The answer was glaringly obvious, as Wolfe leaned in to say something in Corso's ear, and he laughed. Lee was looking at a grade-A suck-up.

Her thoughts were interrupted as one of the department's media-relations specialists appeared in front of her. The PR rep had a mop of dark hair, wide-set eyes, and a pointy chin. “Detective Lee? My name is Molly. The chief will speak first, followed by Deputy Chief Jenkins, and you. There will be some Q & A, so be careful . . . If a reporter asks a question about traffic lights, find a way to steer the conversation back to the Bonebreaker. Okay?”

“No problem,” Lee said, but that was far from the truth. Speaking to the press wasn't one of her strong points. Maybe that explained why her palms were sweaty.

Corso stepped up to a portable podium a few seconds later and flashed one of his thousand-megawatt smiles. Then, as the TV cameras zoomed in, the police chief delivered a carefully crafted thirty-second sound pop intended to remind the public of who the Bonebreaker was and why they should care.

Next it was Jenkins's turn to address the crowd. His job was to say all the things Lee couldn't say about herself. After a mention of the now-famous bank shoot-out, and the recent trip into the red zone, he went for the punch line. “And that,” Jenkins said, “is why Detective Lee has been named to lead a new investigation into the Bonebreaker murders. And not only is Detective Lee supremely qualified to do the job, she's the daughter of LAPD Sergeant Frank Lee, who is one
of the Bonebreaker's nine victims. So who better to track this despicable killer down and put him behind bars? Detective Lee?”

Lee knew that was her cue and felt slightly light-headed as she stepped up to the podium. Then, as the well-rehearsed words began to come out of her mouth, she felt slightly disassociated. As if out of her body and watching herself speak.

Fortunately, that sensation began to fade once the thirty-second statement was over, and the Q & A began. Carla Zumin was there, her eye only slightly discolored, and she cut right to the chase. “The Los Angeles Police Department has been investigating the Bonebreaker murders since 2053 without any significant success. Why should we believe that
this
effort will be any more successful?”

Lee was ready. “That's a good question, Carla . . . For one thing, we plan to devote an unprecedented amount of resources to the case. I can't get more specific without compromising security, but I can assure you that what I say is true.

“Additionally, we're going to put some custom-designed software to work analyzing all of the existing data and looking for significant patterns, and we're going to take advantage of some breakthrough profiling techniques to help us focus on the killer.”

Both of those initiatives were entirely fictitious . . . But the Bonebreaker didn't know that—and maybe the prospect would spook him. “Okay,” a second reporter put in. “But what about the issue of objectivity? How can
you
, the daughter of a murder victim, bring the necessary objectivity to the situation?”

“That's where Deputy Chief Jenkins comes in,” Lee said with a smile. “He'll be looking over my shoulder. And remember . . . While I may not be entirely objective, I care about this investigation in a way that only a murder victim's daughter can.”

That was the perfect exit line, and Molly knew it. So she
stepped in to bring the press conference to a close. The trap was set, the bait was in place, and the waiting had begun.

*   *   *

The light was dim inside the underground ossuary. That was a matter of preference as well as necessity since power was precious. The Bonebreaker's electricity was drawn from an illegal tap and piped into the crypt through a carefully camouflaged cable. Not an easy thing for most people to do, but the Bonebreaker wasn't most people and had plenty of time to work with.

So, except for the pool of light provided by a single overhead fixture and the glow that emanated from a flat-screen TV set, the main room was unlit. That was why the Bonebreaker always wore a headlamp as he moved through the tunnels that radiated out from the ossuary like the spokes of a wheel. It was perpetually chilly belowground—but three layers of clothing were sufficient to combat the cold.

Plus, the Bonebreaker was busy.
Very
busy since each time God called on him, there was a lot of work to do. First he had to plan the abduction. A task that could require weeks if not months of observation. Then he had to create a disguise, wait for the right moment, and strike.

Of course, that was only the beginning. Then came the moment of dismemberment, a rather messy process, and the flensing. Or what the Bonebreaker thought of as the holy trinity.

At the moment, he was still in the process of preparing one of Deputy Chief McGinty's bones prior to inscribing it with the police officer's name, date of birth, and a short message. The blade made a scritching sound as he scraped the last bits of tissue off a femur.