Adjourned (3 page)

Macklin bolted out of the car and splashed through puddles on the sidewalk into the roofless structure beside the market. Crouching, Macklin searched the muddy concrete floor for a suitable weapon. He was about to settle for a damp two-by-four when he spotted a steel level lying amidst wood shavings and scattered nails. Picking it up, he swung it. The level was heavy in his hand.
Yes.
He smiled.
This will do.

He slipped out the back of the structure into an alley and approached the market's back door. Cautiously, Macklin turned the doorknob with his left hand and slowly pushed the door open with his shoulder.

The door opened into a closet-size storeroom lined with cardboard boxes. Macklin closed the door carefully behind him and could hear voices from just outside the door across from him.

"L-look, I-I don't have the combination to the safe, r-really," Macklin heard a young man plead in a voice made shrill with fear.

"Bullshit!" the punker rasped. "Open the fucking safe, or I'll blow your head off!" The punker sounded angry and impatient. Macklin thought it was only a matter of seconds before the punker lost his cool and the cashier would be splattered all over the room.

"Open it!" the punker shouted.

Macklin eased open the storeroom door and entered the market unseen. The market was bathed in fluorescent white, three aisles running across the floor to the cashier, who was boxed in by counters cluttered with magazine displays and jars of candy. The punker, wearing snakeskin pants and a vest made of chains, shifted his weight in front of the counter, holding the shotgun six inches from the pimple-faced cashier's neck.

The cashier dumped a handful of change and curled bills onto the countertop in front of the punker.

"Here, that's all we have in the register," the boy stammered. "I don't know the combination to the safe, you have to believe me."

"You got two seconds to learn it, maggot," the punker barked.

Macklin stepped into the aisle behind the punker and crept forward, raising the level over his head. The cashier caught the movement behind the punker and, for an instant, stared right at Macklin.

Macklin frantically waved his hand, motioning the cashier to look away.

"Time's up, asshole, open it!" The punker jabbed the shotgun into the cashier's stomach. Macklin was two feet away.

"You're unbalanced, buddy," Macklin hissed.

The punker whirled around. Macklin swung the level at the punker's head like a baseball bat and felt the dull smack of steel against flesh. The punker fell, reflexively squeezing the trigger. The shotgun jerked, spitting fire. Macklin threw himself sideways into the candy rack, and the cashier screamed, leaping back against the Slurpee machine.

Macklin felt the shotgun pellets scorch past his right ear and heard them chew into the ceiling. Bits of plaster rained down like snowflakes.

Bracing himself against a shelf of Baby Ruth bars, Macklin rose carefully, deafened by the ringing echoes of the shotgun blast. Brushing plaster off his shoulders, he looked down at the twitching punker. Blood seeped out in frothy rivers from the left side of the punker's head, which now had the unnatural curve of a peanut shell.

Macklin shifted his gaze from the punker to the cashier, who cowered in shocked silence against the Slurpee machine. Cherry-colored ice fell out of the machine in huge globs.

"Are you okay?" Macklin asked, stepping up to the counter.

The boy nodded as if in a trance.

Macklin rested the level against his right shoulder and smiled reassuringly at the boy. "Why don't you stop leaning on the machine and come here for a second?"

The boy stared quizzically at Macklin for a moment and then suddenly realized his back was against the Slurpee lever. The boy jumped forward as if electrocuted, his back coated with red ice. A smile that shifted rapidly between embarrassment and relief filled his pimple-scarred face.

"Thanks. You . . . ah . . . saved my life."

"No problem," Macklin said. "Would you do me a favor?"

"Of course!" the cashier eagerly responded.

"When the police ask you what I look like, tell 'em I'm about five foot four, three hundred fifty pounds, and Asian. Get my drift?"

The cashier looked confused. "S-sure. Anything." Macklin smiled. "Thanks." He stepped toward the door and then stopped, returning to the counter.

"Listen, could I have a large coffee?"

"Yeah, sure, a large coffee." The cashier spun around, grabbed for the coffeepot, and poured Macklin a cup. The coffee spilled out in a rush and flowed over the rim of the disposable cup. The cashier didn't notice. He set the pot down and, forcing a broad smile, shakily handed Macklin the cup of coffee.

Macklin, the level in one hand and the coffee in the other, turned his back on the cashier, stepped over the punker, and strode to the door. "See you later. Thanks for the coffee."

"W-wait," the boy yelled as Macklin pushed open the front door with his shoulder. "Who are you?"

Macklin, his back to the cashier, smiled to himself. "The jury."

# # # # # #

It was 9:45 when Macklin flung open Mayor Stocker's office door and sauntered in.

"I said nine o'clock, Macklin," Stocker barked, rising from behind his desk. Shaw, sitting on the vinyl couch against the wall to Stocker's right, groaned inside. The meeting was getting off to a great start.

Macklin shrugged. "I got held up."

"Well, I don't give a shit." Stocker jerked a finger toward the two chairs fronting his desk. "Sit down, Macklin."

Macklin stayed where he was, in the center of the room, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his Levi's 501s.

"Make it quick, Mayor." Macklin's words came out with measured evenness. It gave Shaw an unsettling chill.

Shaw glanced at Stocker, expecting an angry retort at Macklin's impudence, but none came. Stocker slid past the state flag and sat on the edge of his desk.

"Sergeant, tell Macklin our problem."

Macklin glanced at Shaw.

No, it's your problem, Stocker,
Shaw thought.
I can take care of this within the law. I don't want Macklin involved.

"Three little girls have been raped and strangled in the last month." Shaw looked at Stocker as he spoke, avoiding Macklin. Shaw felt if he directed his words to Macklin, he was somehow condoning the actions Macklin was going to be asked to take.

"Go on, Sergeant," Stocker prodded impatiently.

Shaw sighed, straightening up. "We know who's doing it," he continued reluctantly. "A psychopathic pedophile named Wesley Saputo. Five years ago, Saputo was in the kiddie-porn film business. Backed by Crocker Orlock, a wealthy magazine distributor, Saputo made hundreds of low-low-budget films and then released them worldwide through a complex underground pedophile network."

Shaw paused, glancing at Macklin to gauge his reaction. There was no change in the pilot's hard expression. "We were able to arrest Saputo and a couple of his cronies when his cameraman, a greasy character named Lyle Franken, was caught in an LAPD sting operation trying to sell kid-porn photos. One of the photos was a blowup from a Saputo film. It was a picture of a twelve-year-old girl who had recently been found raped and strangled."

Macklin turned to his left, his back to Shaw and Stocker, and stared out the window at the city's skyline. The buildings poked out through a thin layer of smog. Sunlight fought in vain to break through the noxious haze.

"Franken became a nonstop talker under pressure and we were able to send Saputo away on kiddie-porn charges. We couldn't pin a thing on Orlock," Shaw said. "He managed to keep himself at arm's length from the operation. But he was behind it, no doubt about that."

Shaw paused, his feelings of frustration regarding the Saputo case stoked again by the retelling. He found himself getting caught up in the sort of anger that drove Macklin. The tension wrapped itself, boa-like, around his neck, and squeezed. He fought against it, striving for cool detachment.

Shaw didn't want to feel like a part of what was going to take place in this office. "Saputo was labeled by the state shrinks as a mentally disordered sex offender, spent some time at Patton State Hospital, and then at Soledad. He was released on parole in September. The murders began in November."

"That's a fascinating story, gentlemen," Macklin said, his eyes scanning the city's steel peaks and asphalt valleys. "What does it have to do with me?"

"Kid porn has been nearly dead in this city for five years," Stocker replied. "Orlock had the money, but his talent was behind bars. Saputo is out now, and Orlock isn't about to let his star filmmaker get caught again. Orlock's cadre of high-powered Century City attorneys jumped on us and wrangled a court order that forbids us from harassing Saputo. We get within ten miles of him, and his lawyers drag us into court.

"Saputo has to be stopped before he kills again, Macklin," Stocker said evenly.

Macklin turned slowly to face Stocker. An amused smile played on Macklin's lips. "What you want me to do is kill him."

Shaw felt his stomach muscles tense up. He wanted to get up and walk out now, before he got in any deeper, but his body wouldn't move.

"No, we want you to stop him." Stocker's words came out as crisp and smooth as the stride of a man carrying a live bomb.

You mean kill,
Shaw thought,
you rotten son of a bitch.
And Mack will.

"I won't be your executioner, Stocker. Then I'm as bad as the people you want me to"—Macklin paused, a grin growing on his face—"the people you want me to stop."

Macklin paced in front of Stocker. "I think we need some due process here."

"What?" Stocker's eyebrows arched in angry disbelief.

"Saputo
could
be innocent." Macklin glanced at Shaw and was pleased to see the beginning of a smile.

Some of the iciness Shaw felt toward Macklin was melting.
Maybe this madness could end,
Shaw thought.
Maybe Mack is seeing that his way is wrong. Maybe . . .

"Funny," Stocker said, walking toward Macklin, "you weren't exactly Mr. Due Process when you were avenging your father, were you? Saputo
is
guilty. We both know that. What's your problem? What more evidence do you need?"

"I'll gather the evidence I need while you and Shaw find someone, a judge or something, who can be our judicial review," Macklin said. "This third party can pass sentence. I want the judgment on whether to stop someone to come from him after a careful review of the evidence I gather. I want the decision called by someone besides you or me. I don't trust either one of us, Stocker."

Stocker laughed uproariously. "Macklin, you are out of your fucking mind. The answer is no. Period. You do as you're told."

Macklin smiled. "You don't give me orders. Suggestions, perhaps, but not orders."

Stocker stepped within a foot of Macklin. "Are you forgetting I can have you arrested for multiple murders right this fucking second? You are in no position to tell me a damn thing!"

Macklin could smell the spearmint mouthwash on Stocker's breath. "You may be able to put me behind bars, but I can destroy you, the LAPD, and the whole city government," Macklin replied softly, undaunted by Stocker's rage.

"You're dreaming, Macklin."

Macklin pulled a cassette tape out of his pocket and tossed it to Shaw. "Play it," he demanded sharply, staring Stocker in the eye.

Okay, let's see what your game is, Mack,
Shaw thought, sauntering casually across the room to Stocker's stereo system, popping in the cassette, and hitting the "play" button.

Static hummed over the speakers. Shaw heard a faint voice and turned the volume up.

" . . . so you've got problems in Chinatown."
Macklin's voice was clearly recognizable over the speakers.
"Big fucking deal. I still don't understand why you had Ron drag me down here."

"I told you about the problem in Chinatown because I want Mr. Jury to take care of it . . ."

Stocker paled at the sound of his voice on the tape. Macklin's gaze remained fixed on Stocker's scowl-drawn face.

"Every conversation we had about the gang warfare I ended in Chinatown is on tape." Macklin said, obviously pleased with himself. "I walked in here wired."

" . . . these guys are no different than the men who killed your father. Go after them the same way. I'll make sure you get no heat from the police . . ."

"Turn it off, Shaw," Stocker yelled.

Shaw didn't move. He wanted to see Stocker roast for a minute. Maybe if Stocker heard himself he'd see the lunacy. Maybe he'd understand. Maybe this crazy vigilante bullshit would end.

". . . You're mine, Macklin. For better or worse, I own you."

"You never did, Stocker. And you never will." Macklin calmly walked over to the stereo and ejected the tape. "This is my version of mutual assured deterrence. You screw me and I'll screw you."

Macklin handed the tape to Stocker. "Keep this one as a souvenir."

The mayor grabbed the cassette and yanked out the tape, tearing it. He tossed the ruined cassette into the garbage can.

"Okay, you've both played your trump cards, now what?" Shaw spoke up, drawing their attention.
It's time,
Shaw thought,
to inject some reality into this.
"How do we find someone who can play God, decide who lives or dies? What you're talking about is still murder."

Shaw let out a sigh of futility. "But you two have forgotten that, haven't you? All right, let's deal with this on a less philosophical plane. How do we find someone you and the mayor can both live with?"

Shaw walked in a broad circle around Stocker and Macklin. "What do we do, gentlemen? Approach someone and just say, 'Hello, we've got an assassin working for us. Would you mind playing referee?' Suppose we approach the wrong man and he goes to the
Los Angeles Times
?"

"You'll just have to find the right man, Ronny," Macklin said.

"I will?" Shaw half smiled. "Guess again."

Shaw was the one person under Stocker's influence whom Macklin could trust, the only person Macklin knew would look out for his interests as well as the LAPD's. "Ronny, revenge won't work as justification anymore."