Deadeye (9 page)

None of the elevator passengers were willing to meet Lee's eyes or even speak with each other in her presence. The lift took them down to the third subbasement, where they followed a hallway to a pair of double doors and a sign that read:
SECURITY
.

Cindy's card was sufficient to get them in, but a chest-high reception desk barred further progress. The man seated behind it was dressed in a uniform identical to the one the jowly gate guard had been wearing. There was no need for Cindy to introduce Lee because the receptionist knew who she was. “Mr. Harmon is waiting for you.” The words were said in a way that seemed to imply that Lee was late.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Lee replied levelly. A section of the wall-like reception desk swung out of the way to reveal another uniformed guard. Lee turned to thank Cindy, but the woman had disappeared.

“Please follow me,” the guard said, and led Lee through a maze of cubicles to a conference room. A man in a gray business suit stood and extended a hand. He had a beefy look, like a wrestler or professional bouncer. A haze of blue stubble covered a square jaw. “I'm Hal Harmon, Chief of Security for the Purity Center.”

“It's a pleasure,” Lee said, and hoped it would be as a huge paw engulfed her hand.

“This is Edward Tavez,” Harmon said, gesturing to one of two men seated at the table. “And that's Oliver Sims. They were with Miss Amanda the day she was abducted.”

Both men sat with their eyes on the tabletop and only looked up when their names were mentioned. Lee saw that both had cuts, scratches, and bruises. “They feel badly about what happened,” Harmon said lamely.

“I'm sure all of us do,” Lee replied. “And we have a common interest in finding Amanda. With that in mind, I'm going to ask you some questions and record your answers.”

After removing a small device from her pocket, Lee thumbed the
RECORD
button and placed it in the middle of the table. Then she gave the date, time, and names of those present.

With that out of the way, Lee asked the bodyguards to take her through the kidnapping. Had that been the first interview they would have been separated, but that stuff was on tape, and Lee wanted to see how they would interact. And there was Harmon to consider. Had the security chief been leaning on them? Was that why they were so subdued? Or were they genuinely upset?

Lee questioned the bodyguards for more than half an hour and was impressed by the extent to which their answers matched what they'd said before. That was consistent with the sort of recall one would expect from professionals, but it could be the result of practice as well.

But regardless of that, one thing was for sure . . . The bodyguards were lying. “Okay,” Lee said as she eyed the bodyguards. “Here's the problem . . . Although some of what you told detectives Yanty, Prospo, and me is true, some of it is pure, unadulterated bullshit.

“I've seen video from all of the surrounding security cameras. It shows the van pulling up and four men jumping out. Two of the kidnappers grab Amanda and start to drag her away. Two of them attack you. Meanwhile, two additional assailants approach you from behind. All of that matches up. But here's the problem. Once the four kidnappers have Amanda in the van, they pile in. Then, as the vehicle pulls away, the others run. You claim to have chased them for a couple of blocks. The video shows you giving up after a hundred feet.”

Harmon frowned. “What difference does it make?”

Lee shrugged. “What if Mr. Tavez and Mr. Sims didn't
want
to catch the kidnappers? That would explain why they failed to use their guns.”

Harmon turned to look at the men in question. There was a thunderous look on his face.
“Well?”

Tavez looked miserable. “We couldn't fire on the first four . . . Not without running the risk of hitting Miss Amanda. As for the other attackers, there were shoppers beyond them—and they were zigzagging back and forth. So we chased them and gave up. It was as simple as that.”

The answer came across as at least partly true . . . But Lee was going to request that both of them be placed under surveillance. If they had played a part in the kidnapping, there was a good chance that they would contact the rest of the gang before long.

A guide who looked a lot like Cindy was there to escort Lee to her bike and waved as she rode away. Getting out of the Purity Center proved to be just as difficult as getting in had been. Once free, Lee made her way onto the Harbor Freeway headed north.

There hadn't been a lot of time to reflect since the meeting with McGinty the day before. As a result, Lee was still trying to absorb what she had learned about Alma Kimble and the role her father might have played in the young woman's death.

It was natural to feel affection for one's father, but the bond between them had been made even stronger by the absence of Lee's mother. So she had grown up not only loving her father but nearly worshipping him. Now she was starting to wonder how well she knew the man. Was Frank Lee the kind of person who would take a girl away from a friend just because he could? And kill her the way a farmer would dispatch a sick animal? And even if he had, was that wrong? Given the circumstances?

The answer to all three questions should be an emphatic “no.” So why was she considering the possibility that McGinty was right? Was it because she had always sensed a certain remoteness in her father? Always felt that he was playing a part where she was concerned?
That isn't fair,
Lee thought to herself.
He worked his butt off to support you—and to put you through college. If he was a bit stiff, if he was a little cold, so what? Get over it. He did the best he could.

Lee's thoughts were interrupted as a call came through her headset. “1-William-3.”

“This is Three.”

“Deputy Chief McGinty would like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“Copy.”

Lee sighed. What did McGinty want? An update most likely. So he could feed the food chain. So she would provide it. Then she would go home and get some sleep. At least six hours' worth . . .

After parking the bike, Lee took the elevator up to the sixth floor and arrived at McGinty's office shortly thereafter. The door was open, and he looked up. “Come in and take a load off. You look tired.”

“I
am
tired,” Lee confessed as she sat down. “I just returned from the Purity Center.”

McGinty listened as Lee told him about the bodyguards, the fact that she caught them in what appeared to be a minor lie, and the need to keep them under surveillance for a while. She had just finished her report when someone knocked on the door.

Lee turned to find that a large man was framed in the doorway. The first thing she noticed was the cowboy hat he wore. It was gray, and there were sweat stains around the crown. Not an urban wannabe then . . . The real thing.

Most of the man's face was hidden by a stylized spit mask. The rest of his clothing consisted of a white shirt, a bolo tie with a silver slide, faded Levi jacket, matching jeans, and some beat-up boots. McGinty cleared his throat. “This is Deputy Ras Omo. He's on loan from the Maricopa County Sheriff's Department. Deputy Omo, this is Detective Lee.”

Lee stood. A deputy straight out of the red zone! A mutant then . . . That meant the mask was required by law. But what was wrong with him? He looked normal enough. Omo offered his hand and she shook it. “Welcome to LA,” she said. “What brings you out west?”

McGinty chose to answer for him. “Deputy Omo is here to work on the Screed kidnapping. He's your new partner.”

Lee frowned. “You know what happened to Conti. I don't want a partner.”

McGinty made a face. “The chief and I don't give a shit what you want . . . Go home, get some sleep, and come back by tomorrow morning. Then you're going to go out there and find Amanda Screed. Maybe she's here in LA. But if they took her into the red zone, you're going to need a whole lot of help from Deputy Omo here . . . So be nice to him.”

Lee looked from McGinty to Omo and back again. Then she said, “Yes, sir,” and left the office.

*   *   *

Omo watched her go. Maybe she was okay. Or maybe she was a mutant-hating bigot. That's how it looked. One thing was for sure however . . . Cassandra Lee was interesting. And she had a nice butt. Omo smiled, but no one could see it.

LEE HAD BEEN
too tired
not
to sleep well. So she felt rested as she entered the conference room for morning roll call. That didn't mean she was in a good mood, however. Far from it. She was still pissed off about McGinty's decision to assign her a partner, and a mutant partner at that.

And there, sitting at the long table, was the man in question. Except there was something different about Deputy Omo now. Lee couldn't put her finger on the change at first, but then it came to her. The countenance on the spit-mask face he'd been wearing the day before had been smiling. But the latest version was neutral. Was she looking at his “professional” face then? Yes, she thought so. Nonverbal communication was an important part of any conversation. And, since Omo was limited to a single expression, he was forced to choose one in keeping with the occasion. It would be different in the red zone however . . . A mask wouldn't be necessary there.

Unless there was something wrong with Omo's face. Something he didn't want other people to see . . . That's what was going through her mind as she said, “Good morning,” and sat down next to him. The other detectives were doing their best not to look at Omo, trying to conceal the fear they felt, but it was difficult. Some mutants were carriers. And
B. nosilla
could kill you.

After running through all of the usual nonsense, McGinty went around the room. It seemed that 1-Charles-5 was working on a big drug case, 1-Zebra-7 was searching for the so-called Red Light Bandit, and 1-Tom-12 was on a stakeout. Each team delivered a short report.

Then McGinty turned to Lee. “I have some news for you . . . Edward Tavez committed suicide last night.”

Lee remembered the bodyguard named Tavez and the sadness in his brown eyes. “How did we get the news?”

“Yanty and Prospo had the Tavez residence under surveillance. They heard a noise. Mrs. Tavez emerged from the house screaming moments later.”

“Damn,” Lee said. “That's too bad. So we're sure it was a suicide—not a hit?”

McGinty frowned. “Why would someone want to kill Tavez?”

“I don't know,” Lee admitted. “It was a passing thought, that's all.”

“Did Tavez leave a suicide note?” All of the detectives turned to look at Omo. But there was nothing to see other than the expressionless mask.

“Yes,” McGinty answered grimly. “He did. It was four words long. ‘The mutants have her.' That's what it said.”

“So Tavez knew more than he admitted,” Lee mused. “Sims and he were on the take.”

“And Tavez felt guilty about allowing the kidnappers to take her,” Jenkins agreed. “Which is why he killed himself.”

“Where's Sims?” Lee inquired.

“The bastard is missing,” McGinty said darkly.

“How can that be?” Lee demanded. “He was under surveillance.”

Jenkins shrugged. “Our team was out front. He slipped out through the back door, climbed a fence, and ran.”

“Someone told him about Tavez,” Omo suggested. “And he knew we would come looking for him.”

“That's the way it looks,” McGinty agreed. “We issued a BOLO (be on the lookout) for him. Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“It looks like Bishop Screed was right,” Lee said. “A gang put the grab on Amanda, and they're going to take her east.”

“Or already have,” Jenkins said glumly.

“And that's why we asked for assistance from the Maricopa County Sheriff's Department,” McGinty reminded her. “In case the trail led into the red zone.”

And to cover your ass,
Lee thought to herself.
So you could tell Screed you were taking the case seriously.
But regardless of the reason, McGinty had sent for help, and that was a good thing. Or would be if Omo was competent. “All right,” Lee said. “Is that all? If so, we'll hit the street.”

They were in the elevator down to the parking garage when Omo said, “Let's take my rig.”

Lee didn't want to surrender control if that could be avoided. She frowned. “Why?”

“Because I've seen your unmarked cars,” Omo replied. “And most of them have the letters TIACC woven into the graffiti that covers them.”

“TIACC?”

“This is a cop car,” Omo answered, and Lee felt a sudden sense of embarrassment. Was Omo correct? Probably. And she hadn't noticed. The graffiti that covered most of the police department's vehicles was so ubiquitous, she didn't see it anymore.

She followed Omo out of the elevator onto the top level of the underground parking facility. And there, in a slot marked
VISITOR
, was a vehicle unlike any cop car she'd ever seen. The SUV-style especiale was surrounded by roll-cage-type tubing that protected the vehicle's grill, sides, and tail end. A set of four humungous off-road tires kept the truck up off the ground.

Something else made the especiale look different as well . . . And that was the magnetic sign attached to the driver's side door. It consisted of the letter M for “Mutant,” which was red on a field of white. The signs were issued to any mutant who entered Pacifica. And they, like the masks they were forced to wear, made them that much more visible.

Omo thumbed a remote. Lights flashed, the engine started, and the doors popped open. “For fast getaways,” Omo explained, thereby raising more questions than he answered.

Lee went around to the far side of the truck, pulled the door open, and discovered that she had to climb in order to get in. Once inside, Lee found herself sitting in one of two bucket seats that were screened off from the back. A lever-action shotgun was racked above the windshield. Lee recognized it as either a retro Winchester 1887 12-gauge or a good reproduction thereof. It was held in place by two quick-release clamps. Omo followed her gaze. “It belonged to my daddy, and to
his
daddy before that. I call it The Equalizer.”

“Copy that,” Lee said, as they drove up the ramp and stopped next to the security kiosk. A uniformed officer asked to see Omo's ID and stared at it. That was when Lee realized the officer was looking at a picture of a man wearing a mask. She leaned over to show her ID.

“He's for real,” she said. “You can check with Deputy Chief McGinty if you need to.” That did the trick, and the officer waved them through.

A four-armed hula girl was fastened to the center of the dash. She swayed seductively as the truck entered traffic. Was Omo making fun of mutants? Or was the hula girl an unapologetic statement of who he was? There was no way to be certain. “This is your turf,” Omo said. “Where do we start?”

“In Beaumont,” Lee answered. “Do you know how to get on I-10 eastbound?”

“I do,” he said. “So we're going to drop in on the freaks.”

Lee looked at him. That was when she realized the extent to which the mask covered the side of his face. She could see the flesh-colored elastic cords that held it in place.

Why had Omo chosen to use such a pejorative name. In an effort to shock her? To show how tough he was? Or to put her at ease? All of the possible explanations seemed equally believable. “Yeah,” she said. “We're going to visit the TA. Assuming a gang of mutants snatched Amanda, they might be hiding there waiting for a chance to enter the red zone. Or, if they passed through, the locals might be aware of it.”

“You mean one of the freaks.”

Lee sighed. Beaumont was only an hour and a half away, but it was going to be a long trip. “Look, Cowboy, you're a mutant, and there are a lot of norms who hate mutants. I'm sorry . . . But let's get something straight. I'm not one of those people.”

Omo glanced at her. “I believe that you believe that. As for the truth? Who knows? We'll see. Tell me something . . . Have you been to the TA before?”

Lee shook her head. “No.”

“Okay, then . . . Here are some things to keep in mind. There's no such thing as normal where mutants are concerned. Everyone looks different, and nobody looks the way God intended them to. So beauty's in the eye of the beholder.”

Lee started to speak, but Omo raised a hand. “Hear me out . . . There's more. You're pretty. A mask will hide that to some extent, but not entirely. And when mutant women compare themselves to you, they will come up short and hate you for it. And the men? The men will want you for all sorts of reasons, many of which aren't very pretty. So keep your guard up. You'll be sorry if you don't.”

Lee was thinking about that when Omo glanced at the driver's side rearview mirror. “Uh, oh . . . Man with a gun! Duck!”

Lee ducked and had her hand on the Glock when she heard the roar of a motorcycle and a series of thumps. White goo covered most of the driver's side window. A motorcyclist flipped them the bird as he raced away. “What happened?” Lee inquired as she sat up.

“We took some hits from a paintball gun,” Omo replied calmly. “That's what happens when you ride around with a huge M on the side of your truck.”

“Yeah,” Lee said soberly. “That would explain it. I'm sorry.”

It took awhile for the adrenaline to fade away. But once it did, Lee managed to sit back and relax. It was a sunny day, and there was plenty to see. Some if it was pretty, like the well-watered circles of green cropland and the tidy farmhouses that sat adjacent to them.

But there were vast glittering tracts of solar panels, too . . . They weren't very pleasant to look at but were an important source of power for the city of Los Angeles.

Other areas hadn't fared so well. Lee could see them from the freeway, ghost towns really, where rank after rank of nearly identical homes had succumbed to a combined assault by the forces of sun, wind, and rain.

It was just before noon when they arrived in Beaumont. The city had been home to more than 125,000 people back before the plague but was a third that size now. Due to the fact that the community sat astride a main east–west highway, it had been chosen as the location for a so-called Transit Area or TA. Meaning a place where legal transients could pause as they traveled to and from the red zone. Had Omo stayed there on his way to LA? Probably. And that's why he felt qualified to lecture her on what the facility was like.

The TA was confined to the area south of the freeway that had once been known as the Sun Lakes Country Club. A spot chosen during the early days of the plague because the golf course could be fenced off for use as an internment camp.

But “improvements” had been made since then. And as Omo turned off I-10, and onto Highland Springs Avenue, Lee could see the guard towers in the distance. There were four of them, all connected by a twelve-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire. As the truck drew closer, Lee decided that the TA looked more like a prison than a rest stop.

As Omo turned left onto an access road, the wall was straight ahead. The only way in or out was a massive gate flanked by gun emplacements. “They lock that thing at 6:00
P.M.
,” Omo told her. “So we'll need to exit by then or stay the night.”

The truck came to a stop behind a line of other vehicles. All were of uncertain lineage and all bore a telltale “M.” As they were cleared, Omo was able to creep forward until he was level with the security shack. The security personnel wore army uniforms and carried automatic weapons. A corporal stepped forward as the truck came to a halt. She had a snub nose, freckles, and a cleft chin. “ID please.”

Both officers surrendered their badge cases. The corporal scanned them and made eye contact with Lee. “No offense, ma'am. But it's dangerous in there.”

“So I hear,” Lee said. “But that's where I need to go.”

“Yes, ma'am. If you say so. The gate will be locked at 1800 hours—and no one will be allowed to leave until 0600. Any questions? No? Here are your passes. Park in the lot.”

Omo handed one of the passes to Lee. “Fun place, huh?”

The parking lot was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence and half-filled with a wild assortment of cars and trucks. The heat fell on Lee like a hammer as she left the air-conditioned truck. It would have felt good to remove the cotton jacket, but she couldn't do that without revealing her weapons.

She was busy placing a formfitting, self-adhesive mask over her face as Omo rounded the front of the truck. He was wearing his cowboy hat, Levi's, and boots. He nodded. “Remember . . . You're going to stick out like a sore thumb. And we're cops . . . They can tell, and word of that will spread fast. Okay . . . Let's do this thing.”

As they followed a couple dressed in black robes through the gate, Lee heard a keening noise that might have been music, followed by the distant chatter of a power tool and grunting sounds from the animal pens located on the left.

Now the reality of the situation struck her. She had entered Freak Town. And mutants were all around her, some of whom were carriers. Yes, she was wearing a mask. But
B. nosilla
was in the air. And
B. nosilla
could kill her. She struggled to control her fear.

“There are two classes of people here,” Omo said, as they passed an open-air bar. “Transients and the people who live here full-time. They make their livings by providing services to travelers.”

The throat-clogging stench of animal feces hung heavy in the air as they passed a pen filled with goats and entered a maze of passageways. The buildings, if they could be dignified as such, were ancient “high-cube” shipping containers. They stood a little over nine feet tall, were forty-eight feet long, and came in a wild selection of sun-faded colors. Light red, blue, and green were the most common. With few exceptions, one end of each container was left open so that hardworking fans could push at least some of the hot air outside.

A complex network of crisscrossed ropes ran back and forth above the passageways and supported a wild assortment of laundry along with overlapping sheets, faded curtains, and plastic tarps. All of which combined forces to provide the warren of passageways with a modicum of shade.