Cloudburst (10 page)

“Do you think that’s funny?” Art asked.

“I think it is.” Eddie smiled, his expensive and perfect dental work open for viewing.

Just as the two senior agents had failed to comprehend Dan’s analysis of the physical data without extended explanation, he did not follow what they had deduced. “What’s up?”

Art took a pen in hand. “What’s that assistant’s name, Dan?”

Within twenty minutes Eddie was en route to the Israeli consulate, and Art, with six other agents, was heading for address on La Cienega Boulevard, less than thirty minutes away.

*  *  *

It was a small house on the east side of the street, set on a small lot like those on either side for several blocks. The peeling yellow trim and dirty white clapboard siding were just one of the many signs of decay indicative of the neighborhood, and of many of the urban areas around the downtown area. Of course there were corridors of wealth, the high- and low-rise glass towers that were the main scenery visible from the freeways. Art wondered sometimes if it was planned that way, considering that most visitors to Los Angeles never left the freeway between their touristy destinations.

Art checked his watch. Three fifty-five. “Where the hell is the call?”

Agents Omar Espinosa and Hal Lightman did not answer. The question was to himself. The bulky Latino agent sat in the back, behind the driver, with the Atchisson shotgun resting on his lap. It was an ugly weapon, brand-new in the Bureau’s arsenal, looking like a puffed-up assault rifle less the stock. The twelve 00 buck rounds in the box magazine had only one purpose. Hal was driving, with Art to his right clutching the mike. From where they were parked the house was in view continuously, and the gas station lot afforded some protection from being seen.

“
Seven Sam.
” The dispatcher’s voice brought the radio to life.

“Seven Sam,” Art acknowledged his call sign.

“
Be advised, LAPD units are on standby two blocks north of your location.
”

“Ten-four.”
Good
. The local cops were in position, just in case. He was hoping they wouldn’t be needed and was fairly certain that they wouldn’t be. If
he
were Marcus Jackson he’d be long gone. Jackson was the maintenance superintendent for the 818, and there were more than a few questions the Bureau wanted to ask him. Thanks to Jacobs’s innocent discovery of Jackson’s absence the day of the assassination—a time when he was expected to be there—and early this day, Art and Eddie were able to find a possible link in the conspiracy. The shooters would have needed inside help, particularly if Jacobs’s theory was correct. Marcus Jackson had worked for the management group that owned the building for just six months, and he would have knowledge of the relatively easy access to the storage room.

A blue Ford Thunderbird rolled past the three agents, going north on La Cienega. Art saw the passenger crane his neck, looking down the driveway as the car passed the house.

“Deans and Harriman,” Hal said, identifying the two agents in the T-Bird.

Art figured that they could all hit the house within thirty seconds. He, Omar, and Hal, along with Rob Deans and Andy Harriman, would come from the front. Shelly Murdock and Drew Smith were on the opposite street and would come over the back wall. All they were waiting for was a signed search warrant. Judge Gallanter was assigned to the investigation full-time to provide for quick and easy processing of warrants. He had, however, taken it upon himself to take a late lunch, and had further complicated matters by leaving his pager in the office. He was being “hunted” as everyone waited.

“
Seven Sam.
”

“Seven Sam.”

“
Possible suspect is identified from DMV as male, black, five eight, one sixty, black and brown. DOB of four twelve sixty. Justice shows arrest on five-oh-two; conviction on nine eight eighty-eight. Time served: one month in county. License status: valid. Possible suspect is registered owner of nineteen ninety-one Jeep Cherokee four-door, blue; license of four-Charlie-Frank-Mary-two-eight-one. Registration expires three one ninety-four. Copy?
”

“Ten-four, copy,” Art replied. The information was written on the notebook stuck to the windshield on a suction mount. LAPD cars had computer terminals that displayed such data. No such luck in unmarked Bureau cars.

“
Seven Sam, stand by.
”

They waited. Art checked the time again. It was one minute past four.

“
Seven Sam.
”

“Seven Sam.”

“
Be advised, the warrant is approved and en route. Copy?
”

“Ten-four, copy. Dispatch, clear the channel and stand by.” The time was close. Art felt for his gun. Good.

“
Channel Charlie is in priority use. Seven Sam is senior. All other units stand by. David and Edward channels are clear. Dispatch by.
”

“King One and Two,” Art called.

“
King One, by.
”

“
King Two, by and ready.
”

Everyone was ready. Hal started the engine.

“Seven Sam to King One and King Two—move in!” The Chevy lurched forward, its tires screeching only slightly until the rubber grabbed. It wasn’t like the movies, Art had realized long ago. “Dispatch. Notify the LAPD units.”

“
Tenfour.
” The answer was quick and condensed.

Art was focused on the house. Down the street King Two—the T-Bird—came around in a U-turn and approached the house from the north. Neither Bureau car bothered to activate its small red strobes, but the local cops were coming hell-bent with their racks flashing a block behind King Two.

Seven Sam came across the street diagonally from the gas station and into the house’s driveway. The three doors came open and the agents jumped out. Deans and Harriman pulled up in front, facing traffic on the wrong side of the street.

Art went right up the porch steps, taking a position on the knob side of the door. There was no screen. Hal was hinge side, his back flat against the house. Omar ran to the south side of the house to cut off any escape route there. Deans and Harriman placed themselves on the north side, in the driveway, with Rob moving along the structure toward the rear, keeping well below the high window lines every step of the way.

“
Seven Sam, King One in position
,” Shelly reported from the back. The house was completely surrounded.

Agent Harriman directed the four LAPD officers to cover the garage and the windows overlooking the driveway. Two of them had shotguns from the patrol car racks. They all moved to the safe side of a stone wall between Jackson’s house and his neighbor’s, three of them working their way back to the single-car garage.

Hal looked to Art and got the nod. “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!” Lightman’s voice boomed. Anyone in the house would have heard it.

They listened for a few seconds. It was quiet. Not just in a lack of response to the entry demand, but hushed. Deserted. Art had thought as much. Jackson was gone. But they had to do it by the book.

“FBI! Open up, NOW!” Hal added decibels to the last word.

There was still no response.

“Hal,” Art said, holding his Smith & Wesson two-handed and pointed low. “Kick it.”

Hal warned the other units by radio that they were moving in. He looked back to the street while putting the radio in his back pocket. Traffic was stopped. He couldn’t see south, toward the freeway, but a hundred feet north there was an LAPD unit blocking the street in both directions. “I’m ready,” he said, getting the go from Art.

The lock was flimsy, as most single locks were, and the door swung violently inward under the force of Hal’s flat- footed kick. There must have been a table with something glass on it near the door as the breaking sound indicated.

Hal went in first, with Art right behind. Harriman followed them. They moved quickly, their guns pointed forward and to one side—Art left and Hal right. Andy also swept the right side, double-checking entryways as the trio passed them. Room after room was checked. The house was empty. For good measure Hal stuck his head through the covered opening to the attic. It was also empty.

Two of the uniformed cops entered as Hal hopped off the kitchen chair. They saw the dark hole to the attic above his head. “Damn brave, mister,” one of them commented. Its meaning was more ‘damn stupid.’

Art’s head turned sharply to the lawmen. “Secure the outside, please.” The words were not a request. Having jurisdiction did have advantages. Both of the cops retreated out in silence. Art turned to Hal. “Let them handle perimeter, but I don’t want them in here. This is Bureau territory.”

“Got it, Art,” Hal said. “Gladly.”

Outside, the senior LAPD officer—a sergeant—instructed his men, more of whom had arrived, to secure the scene. That meant stringing a line of yellow perimeter tape all around. It also meant closing the right northbound lane of traffic. The FBI vans belonging to the forensic teams would need the parking space very soon. The downside was obvious; this close to the Santa Monica freeway there was bound to be a hell of a traffic jam on La Cienega, especially at four in the afternoon—the height of rush hour.

“Hal, you’re front,” Art said. The agent moved to block the front door. Only those with a suit and a shield would get past him. Andy opened the back door, letting Shelly and Drew in.

“Shelly, check the back. Drew, you secure it. Watch the back wall. We don’t want any busybodies getting over. Andy, you’re with me—let’s take a look.” Art lifted the hand-held Motorola to his mouth. “Seven Sam to dispatch.”

“
Seven Sam.
”

“Notify forensics that we’re going to need two teams at this location. Roll six more teams out here, ASAP. Copy?”

“
Ten-four, copy.
”

The two men first took stock of the front room. An older TV stood on a wobbly looking stand. Stone age, Andy thought. The rest was sparsely furnished. Nothing extravagant. Art led off to the back of the house, to the lone bedroom. Andy detoured back to the kitchen. Their inspection wasn’t detailed, just designed to pick up any obvious clues. Forensics would tear the place apart.

Their first look at the bedroom had been past the barrel of their guns, with hearts pounding and senses tuned to detect threats. They hadn’t seen the obvious. Art saw it now. Maybe people who knew they weren’t returning to a place were predisposed to leaving it disheveled as a defense against their loss.
Horseshit
. The drawers were open, as was the closet. Art walked to it. It was half empty, he estimated. Mr. Jackson must be doing some traveling.

“Sir.” Shelly stepped in.

“Yeah.” Art was scanning the room, outwardly not acknowledging the agent’s presence.

“There’s a car in the garage. It matches with the suspect’s vehicle—license and everything.”

Art’s eyes were wide when he turned to Shelly. “Well, imagine that. A new-looking car, right?”

“I wouldn’t mind driving it.”

“It looks like our friend is getting guiltier by the minute.” And he wasn’t going to make himself simple to find. “He may be using some other transportation. Oh well. Go ahead and call it in, Shell. I want an APB out on this guy.” Art looked around the room from its center, then down. The bed was made.
Didn’t sleep here, did you, Marcus?
Something happened here, though. Art could feel it.

The all-points bulletin went out immediately. Mr. Marcus Jackson, whose present whereabouts was unknown, was a wanted man. The official reason was for questioning in relation to the assassination. Unofficially, the reason that often carried the most weight in the legally constrained world of police work, he was a suspect in the conspiracy and a person who had the capacity to kill. Twenty-five minutes after the broadcast went out nearly every law enforcement agency south of Sacramento had at least the verbal information. Most had photos spitting out of their fax machines. The California Highway Patrol field offices were the first to get them, and soon after, their fleet of patrol vehicles had them as well.

The newly arrived teams of agents were pounding on doors in the neighborhood. People saw things—that was a fact of human nature. The presence of the police and serious-looking men in suits made the resident of the house on La Cienega an instant celebrity up and down the block. Soon everyone would remember something about Jackson.

Most of it would be useless, but something helpful was bound to be sifted from the whole.

Art left the house by the back door just as the second forensic team was arriving through the front. They would start on the house. Art’s interest was now on Jackson’s Jeep, which the first forensic team to arrive had already begun working on.

He recognized only one of them. “Bobby. You’re among strangers.”

“I’m the guide,” Agent Bobby Valenzuela explained. “This is the team from Denver.” He went on to introduce the three visitors. “No one thought about getting all these guys around once they were here.”

No one
had
thought of that, Art now saw. You couldn’t just hand the van keys to out-of-town assistance and expect them to find their way around a city like L.A. “Where are our guys?”

Valenzuela slid the elastic-strapped dust mask over his head, letting it hang at the neck. It was meant to keep the moist breath of the forensic agent off any prints he might be examining on the vehicle. “They’re all tied up with evidence back at the site.”

Even with the incoming help they were still stretched thin. Art motioned to the vehicle. “What do you think?”

“We’ll get prints for sure. I can see some with just my eyes.”

“I want to know if there are any besides Jackson’s. If there are we’re going to need a rush match with any we found on the suspect debris.”

Valenzuela shook his head. “I don’t know about that. Dan said there isn’t much, if anything, that we can use. A couple partial prints at best.”

“Still, let’s do it,” Art persisted. “Do your best.”

The mask came up, covering the agent’s mouth, and he turned to do his magic on the Jeep. Art stood silently at the open side door to the garage. The big double doors that opened to the driveway were still closed to the dismay of the crowd gathering across the street.