Until Judgment Day (20 page)

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
11, 8:00
A.M.
S
ANTA
R
ITA
S
HERIFF'S
C
ONFERENCE
R
OOM

G
RANZ AND
M
ACKAY
picked up scones, muffins, bear claws, and dark roast at Surf City Java Shop on their way to the briefing, laid them out on the conference room table with napkins and paper cups, then helped themselves while they waited for everyone else to show.

When Miller arrived with Escalante, he went straight for the coffee, pumped two paper cups full, plopped into a chair facing the window, and heaved a deep sigh. Escalante put a scone on her napkin, a muffin and frosting-covered bear claw on his, then sat beside him and started eating.

“Good thing somebody brought food.” Miller's mouth was full of bran muffin.

“You look like crap,” Granz told him. “Been awake all night?”

“Damn straight.”

“Accomplish anything?”

“Escalante and I went to the morgue after you left the crime scene to observe Garcia's autopsy—waste of time, Nelson didn't turn up anything new. Soon as he finished, we grabbed a bite to eat and—”

Granz made a face. “Takes a ghoul to eat after watching him hack up a dead body.”

Miller stuck a hunk of bear claw into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “No different than watching a butcher slice up a—”

Granz held his hands out in a “stop” signal and interrupted again. “Sorry I mentioned it. Go on.”

“After we left the morgue we tried to get Menendez on the horn.”

“Tried?”

“It was Friday night. She had a date, finally answered her cell phone at about one
A
.
M
. as she was drivin' home.”

“From where?”

Miller kept his face pointed toward his boss, but checked Escalante out of the corner of his eye. She frowned. “We didn't ask where she was, what she was doin', who she was doin' it with, or what position they used. We didn't figure it was any of our business.”

“It is when she's on call.”

“But she wasn't, some new kid had the duty. I sweet-talked Menendez into driving down to the lab in the middle of the night on her weekend off, as a favor.”

“Actually,” Escalante corrected, “I promised I'd fix her up with a great-looking guy I know.”

Granz set his coffee cup down harder than necessary, slopped coffee on the table, and tossed a handful of napkins onto the brown puddle. “I don't care why she did it—what'd she come up with?”

Escalante dug a stack of black-and-white glossies out of her handbag and laid them on the table just as James Fields rushed in.

“Sorry I'm late.” He grabbed a blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee and pulled a chair up to the table beside Mackay, across the table from Miller and Escalante.

Fields picked up the photos, studied them, and dropped them on the table. “A match.”

He bit a hunk off the muffin. “I assume one of these slugs was dug out of Garcia's car headrest last night. What's the other?”

Escalante walked to the pot, pumped herself and Miller more coffee, then sat back down. “The slug that killed Father Duvoir.”

Granz rocked his chair back on the rear legs and clasped his hands behind his head. “What else?”

“We drove around The Flats, checked out which buildings west of Second Street have accessible roofs and direct lines of sight to Sacred Virgin's parking lot. Then Fields and I rounded up cops for the search teams,” Miller told him.

“How many teams?”

“Twelve—six roofs, two teams per roof, each with one CSI criminalist, one SO dick, and one DA Inspector.”

“Why two teams per roof?”

Miller pointed at the window. Thick black rain-pregnant clouds hung ominously over the western section of Santa Rita, threatening to dump a deluge any minute. “Check outside.”

“Jesus Christ, just tell me, will you?”

Miller's eyebrows flicked up and his jaws clamped momentarily, rippling his jaw muscles. “Sure. National Weather Service moved their rain forecast up to midmorning. We need those roofs searched before it starts raining.”

“Good.” Granz' eyes shot toward the window, then back. “Excellent.”

“Gonna cost a shitload of overtime.”

Mackay flipped her hand. “Let the bean counters worry about it.”

Everyone was dressed in weekend casuals except Fields, who wore a suit, right sleeve tucked neatly back into itself.

“About an hour before daybreak,” Fields said, “Yamamoto, Miller, Escalante, and I set up teams and had them standing by when the sun came up at seven twenty-six. They're on the roofs as we speak.”

Escalante shook her head. “I won't hold my breath.”

“Me neither,” Miller agreed. “The shooter hasn't made a mistake yet.”

“Everybody makes mistakes, Lieutenant,” Granz reprimanded, “you just haven't spotted his yet. You're paid to be Chief of Detectives—start detecting.”

Granz dropped his chair back on all fours and drained his coffee. “I'm going to the restroom.”

“I need to use the ladies' room,” Mackay said and followed him out.

Miller started to draw his third cup of coffee. The stainless steel insulated pump pot was almost empty, and he was tilting it to drain the last few drops when the conference room phone rang.

He pulled his eyebrows together. “I thought we told the search team leaders to call my cell phone.”

“We did,” Fields confirmed.

“Lieutenant Miller,” he said, punching the phone's Speaker button.

“I have a message for Sheriff Granz and District Attorney Mackay.”

The caller spoke in a slow, high-pitched, electronically altered monotone female voice.

Escalante pointed and whispered, “Tape it.”

Miller depressed the Record button. “Who's this?”

“You're wasting time. My message is for Granz and Mackay.”

“They stepped out.”

Miller flipped a thumb toward the door.

Escalante and Fields jumped up and ran out the door.

The line was silent for a second.

“Tell Mackay and Granz if they don't stop me, there'll be more—a lot more.”

The line clicked and the phone went dead.

M
ACKAY WAS STANDING
outside the men's room door, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her right foot.

“Get the Sheriff and come back to the conference room, quick!” Fields shouted.

Granz slammed the door open. “What's the damn commotion about?”

She hooked her arm through his and tugged him toward the conference room. “C'mon, we've got to get back.”

“Jesus Christ, can't Miller handle things for five minutes while I take a leak?”

“Take it easy, Dave. Jazzbo's one of the good guys—he's on our side. Don't be so hard on him.”

“You're right—sorry.”

“Don't apologize to
me.”

When they got back to the conference room, Miller was staring at the phone and listening to the dial tone. “Damn!” Granz punched the Speaker button. “I walk away for one minute—”

Miller switched on the phone's speaker, then pressed the Play button. “Let's see if the recorder got it.”

The county's central phone system controller hissed, clicked, hummed, rewound the tape, paused, and played back the message.

Mackay immediately recognized the machine-changed voice. She told them about the call she and Emma had taken at home on Christmas Eve. “I told Dave,” she said.

“First I heard about it,” Miller commented, watching Escalante for a reaction.

He didn't get one. “Me too,” she confirmed.

“The caller didn't mention a killing,” Granz said. “I figured it meant nothing.”

“Benedetti got shot that night, boss.” Miller was shaking his head. “You shoulda told us about the call.”

“I know.” Granz cleared his throat and gave his detective a feeble smile. “I'm sorry.”

“Forget it, prob'ly wouldn't've mattered,” Miller lied, his face flushing. The tension was broken by the chirp of his cell phone.

“Miller,” he answered.

He listened and said “uh-huh” several times. “Okay, send everyone home, roust Menendez, and get it to the lab. Tell her we need results yesterday.”

He listened, stroked his beard, and said into the phone, “I
know
Menendez isn't on call, Charlie. Tell her Escalante threatened to renege on her promise if she doesn't come down personally. She'll know what you mean.”

He folded the StarTac. “Shooter cleared a spot, propped his rifle up against a rainwater scupper on the old Pacific Seafood Cannery roof. Yamamoto found an empty Advil bottle. He bagged it and is taking it to DOJ.”

Granz slid his chair back from the table and crossed one leg over the other. “That's something. Maybe Menendez can lift a usable print off it.”

“Prob'ly not—Yamamoto says the pill bottle had a powder residue on it like they put on the inside of disposable gloves.”

“Figures. We better figure out how to catch the son of a bitch—he's a mad dog.” Granz leaned back in his chair. “To do that, we've got to think outside the box. Any ideas?”

“We're attacking from the wrong end,” Escalante suggested. “We can't catch him
after
a murder, so let's catch him
before.”

“How?” Mackay asked.

“Figure out how he picks a target, then get there before he does.”

“He's after priests,” Miller observed, “but there are dozens in Santa Rita County. Why'd he zero in on these five?”

“I think I've figured it out,” Escalante answered.

Granz uncrossed his legs. “I'm listening.”

“Their pictures were in the newspaper just before they were murdered.”

“I didn't see 'em in the paper,” Miller told her, then added, “but I usually just skim the front section of the
Centennial
to see what kinda bad press they're givin' us that day.”

“Me too, but I logged in to the archives of all the local papers, including the weekly tabloids. Thompson's fund-raising raffle appeared just once, and only in the
City Post
and—”

“Nobody but left-wing radicals read their crap,” Miller interrupted.

“Exactly,” Escalante agreed. “That's why none of
us
saw it. Benedetti's Afghanistan trip with his basketball players was announced in the
Centennial
's Teen Beat Section; Duvoir's guest rose-care column was in the pull-out gardening section of the Española paper—a throwaway for most people. I'll bet you don't even scan either of them.”

“Never.”

Granz glanced at Miller and Escalante, then looked at Mackay. “I rarely read anything from South County—how about you?”

“No.” Mackay shook her head. “I don't look at Teen Beat, either. From now on maybe I should make time to scan every newspaper.”

“That makes two of us,” Escalante said, then continued. “Ryan's picture was published on the front page of the
Centennial
with his hot rod the morning after the Mid-Winter Fifties Jubilee wrapped up. That's probably the only one we all saw.”

Everyone fell silent, thinking. Finally, Granz asked, “How about Garcia?”

“He's the exception,” Escalante admitted. “I haven't made the connection to him yet.”

“Television,” Mackay said. “Thursday night, channel seven news covered Davidson's release from county jail. While Garcia was waiting outside the jail to give him a ride home, a reporter hassled Garcia into a sound bite.”

“What'd he say?”

“He refused to talk about the Bishop, all he told the reporter was he would be late getting to Community Hospital. He offers communion there every weekday at five
P
.
M
.”

Granz thought it over. “Father Garcia's live on TV one night, dead the next afternoon.”

“Killed unlocking his car at about the time he'd be leaving for the hospital,” Mackay added. “Where's the Coroner's inventory?”

Escalante slid a paper across the table.

Mackay read it quickly, passed it to Granz, and said, “He was carrying communion wafers.”

“I say we set up a sting,” Miller proposed.

“Lay one out,” Granz directed.

“Simple—you and the DA make up a phony story and plant it with the media—make sure it's got a picture of our decoy standing out in front of the church.”

“What church?”

“The church where we're gonna take the sumbitch down.”

“A church he hasn't hit before,” Escalante added, “and one he sees an easy way into and out of—the closer to the freeway, the better.”

Granz nodded thoughtfully. “Might work.”

“I know the one,” Mackay told them. “But we can't risk an innocent bystander getting hurt. I'll contact Bishop Davidson, ask him to evacuate the church on the q.t. for a day. If we're right, and the pattern holds, that's all it'll take.”

“I agree,” Granz told her. “Park a few cars in the parking lot, make it look as normal as possible.”

“I'll take care of that,” Miller volunteered. “Get 'em from the impound yard.”

“One thing,” Granz added. “The decoy stays inside at all times or he'll get wasted from a distance with a rifle. The shooter's got to get close to the undercover officer or it won't work. Next question—who's the decoy?”

Fields looked around and made eye contact with the other four. “Me.”

“Why you?” Granz asked.

“Less likely to be recognized—I've been off the street for the past few years as Chief of Inspectors.”

Granz contemplated. “Our shooter's smart, efficient, and vicious. You get sloppy, you get dead.”

Fields unconsciously ran a finger over his tucked-in coat sleeve. “I looked death in the face once and didn't like it—I won't get sloppy.”

Granz looked around the table. “This is our best chance. Everyone go along?”

No one dissented.

“We need today and Sunday to set up everything.”

“That works,” Escalante agreed. “Masses are scheduled throughout Saturdays and Sundays, but Monday's a quiet day.”

“Soon as everything's in place, I'll hole up inside the church,” Fields confirmed.

“Good, let's get to work. Fields?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember—the nut we're looking for wasted five men—don't be number six. No one's going to second-guess you, so when he shows up, take him out.”

“Count on it.”

Granz stood. “I promised Emma I'd buy her a new dress for Monday morning.”

“Special occasion?” Miller asked.

“You might say that.”