Hostage (2001) (13 page)

Ken Seymore, who had spent the past two hours pretending to be a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, was saying, 'They requested a full crisis response team from the L.A. County Sheriff's Department. The Sheriffs are on the way now, but there's been some kinda problem, so they've been delayed.'

Duane Manelli fired off a question. Manelli spoke in abrupt bursts, the way an M16A2 coughed out three-shot groups.

'How many people is that?'

'In the Sheriff's team?'

'Yeah.'

When Duane Manelli was eighteen years old, a state judge had given him the choice between going into the service or pulling twenty months for armed robbery. Manelli had joined the army, and liked it. He spent twelve years in the service, going airborne, ranger, and finally special forces. He currently ran the best hijack crew in Sonny Benza's operation.

Seymore found his notes.

'Here's what we're looking at: A command team, a negotiating team, a tactical team - the tac team includes a perimeter team, the assault team, snipers, and breachers - and an intelligence team. Some of these guys might double up on what they do, but we're looking at about thirty-five new bodies on the scene.'

Somebody whistled.

'Damn, when those boys roll, they roll.'

LJ Ruiz leaned forward on his elbows, frowning. Ruiz was a quiet man with a thoughtful manner who worked for Howell as an enforcer. He specialized in terrorizing bar owners until they agreed to buy their booze from distributors approved by Benza.

'What's a breacher?'

'If they gotta blow open a door or a window or whatever, the breachers set the charge. They go to a special school for that.'

Howell didn't like that many more policemen coming in, but they had expected it. Seymore had reported that, so far, the federal authorities hadn't been requested, but Howell knew that the odds of this would increase as time passed.

Howell asked when the Sheriffs would arrive.

'Cop I talked to, he said they'll be here in three hours, maybe four tops.'

Howell checked his watch, then nodded at Gayle Devarona, one of the two women at the table. Like Seymore, she had pretended to be a news reporter in order to openly ask questions. If the questions were too blatant to ask, she used her skills as a thief.

'What's up with the local cops?'

'We got sixteen full- and part-time employees, fourteen police officers and two full-time office people. I got their names here, and most of the addresses. I could've gotten the others, but I had to come here.'

Seymore laughed.

'Bitch, bitch, bitch.'

'Fist yourself.'

Howell told them to knock it off. Bullshit took time.

Devarona tore a single sheet from a yellow legal pad and passed it across the table to Howell.

'I got the names from the Bristo police office. The addresses and phones I got from a contact at the phone company.'

Howell scanned a neatly hand-printed list. Talley's name was at the top, along with his address and two phone numbers. Howell guessed that one was the house phone, the other a cell.

'You get any background on these people, see what we have to deal with?'

She went through what she had, which made Bristo sound like a burial ground for retired meter maids and retards. Not that bad, really, but Howell thought that they'd caught a break. He knew of small towns in Idaho where half the population had pulled time on LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division and the other half were retired FBI. Try to fuck around up there, they'd hand you your ass. Howell checked his watch again. By midnight tonight, he could and would have credit checks and military records (if any) of each of these officers, as well as information about their families.

'What about Talley?'

Sonny Benza had specifically told him to zero in on Talley. You cut off the head, the body dies.

She said, 'I got what I could. Single, ex-LAPD. The condo he lives in is provided by the city.'

Seymore interrupted.

'Those cops I talked to out at Smith's place, they said Talley was a hostage negotiator in LA.'

Devarona scowled, like she hated him stepping on her goods.

'His last three years on the job. Before that, he was SWAT. There's a picture of him on the wall in their office, Talley in an assault suit, holding the big gun.'

Howell nodded at these last two bits of information. They were the first interesting things that he'd heard. He wondered how a SWAT-qualified crisis negotiator ended up crossing school kids in Beemerland. Maybe the free condo.

Devarona said, 'He was on LAPD a total of fourteen years, then he resigned. The woman I talked to didn't want to say, but I'd make him for a stress release. Something's hinky about why he hung it up.'

Howell made a note to pass that up to Palm Springs. He knew that Benza had people on the Los Angeles Police Department. If they turned something rotten on Talley, they might be able to use it as leverage. He had one last question about Talley.

'He work as a detective down there?'

'I asked about that. The girl didn't know, but it's still a good notion to follow up.'

When Devarona finished, Howell waited for more, but that was it. Everyone had given what they had. All in all, Howell couldn't kick. Start to finish, they'd had maybe two hours to get it together. Now there was more to do. He considered the sixteen names on Devarona's list. The list of bankers, lawyers, private investigators, and police officers owned by Sonny Benza and his associates was far longer; that list numbered in the hundreds, and all of those names could be brought to bear for the task at hand.

'Okay, get the rest of the addresses, then divide up the names and start digging. Gayle, you're on credit and finances. We get lucky, one of these clowns is gonna be in so deep that he's drowning. Maybe we can toss him a life preserver. Duane, Ruiz, find out where these people play. Some married doof is gonna keep a whore on the side; one of these turds is gonna like chasing the dragon with a fruit. Shovel dirt and find the skeletons. Ken, you're back at the house with the reporters. If anything breaks, I want to know about it before God.'

Seymore leaned back, irritated. Howell always got pissed off when he did that.

'Don't start with the faces, goddamnit. If you've got something to say, say it.'

'We're going to need more people. If this thing drags out a few days, we're gonna need a lot more.'

'I'm on it.'

Now Seymore leaned forward, and lowered his voice still more.

'If things get wet, we're going to need people who can handle that end.'

Wet work was blood work. Howell had already thought of that and had already made the call.

'The right people are on their way. You worry about your job. I got my side covered.'

Howell checked his watch again, then copied Talley's address and phone numbers on the bottom of the sheet. He tore off his copy, then stood.

'I want updates in two hours.'

Howell put Talley's address in his pocket as he walked out to his car. Not just anyone would murder a chief of police with an army of cameras and newspeople around. He needed someone special for a job like that.

Chapter
7

Friday, 7:39 P.M.

Newhall, California

Sundown

His name was Marion Clewes. He was waiting in a donut shop in Newhall, California, twelve miles west of Bristo Camino in an area where all of the signs were in Spanish. Marion was the only person in the shop other than the woman behind the counter who spoke no English and seemed uneasy about his being there. Even at sundown, the unairconditioned shop was hot, leaving her skin filmed with grease. It was a filthy place, with coffee rings on the broken Formica tables and a sticky floor. Marion didn't mind. He could feel the weight of the air, heavy with grease and cinnamon. He took a seat at a table facing the door to wait for Glen Howell.

Marion was used to meeting Howell in places like this. Howell was never comfortable with him, and was probably afraid of him. He suspected that Howell didn't even like him, but that was okay. They paid him well for doing what he enjoyed, and he did these things with a merciless dependability.

Marion stared at the woman. She crossed and recrossed her arms until she disappeared behind the fryer, frantic to escape his gaze. He shifted his stare to the parking lot. A fly droned past his ear. It was a black desert fly, fat with juice and thorny with coarse hair, kicking off green highlights in the cheesy fluorescent lights. It buzzed low over the table in an S-shaped course, swung slowly around, and landed in a sprinkle of sugar. Marion slapped it. He waited, holding his hand in place, feeling for movement. When Marion raised his hand, the fly oozed sideways, legs kicking, trying to walk. Marion watched it. The best it could do was drive itself in a pathetic circle. Marion examined his hand. A smear of fly goo and a single black leg streaked his third finger. He touched his tongue to the smear and tasted sugar. He watched the fly push itself in the circle. Gently, he held it in place with his left index finger, and used his right index fingernail to break away another leg. He ate it. Hmm. One by one, he broke away the fly's legs and ate them. One wing was damaged, but the other beat furiously. He wondered what the fly was thinking.

Headlights flashed across the glass.

Marion glanced up to see Howell's beautiful Mercedes pull to a stop. It was a lovely car. Marion watched Howell get out of the car and come inside. Marion pushed the fly to the side as Howell took a seat opposite him.

'There's a woman in the back. I don't think she speaks English, though.'

'This won't take long.'

Howell spoke softly, getting down to business. He placed a slip of yellow paper on the table in front of Marion.

'Talley lives here. It's a condo. I don't have anything about what the place is like or if there's security or anything like that.'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Here's the drill: We have to own this guy - that's straight from the top - and we don't have a lot of time to mess around. I need you to find something we can use to twist him.'

Marion put the address away. He had done this kind of thing before, and knew what was needed. He would look for weakness. Everyone held their weakness close. He would copy bank account numbers; he would search for pornography and drugs, old love letters and sex toys, prescription medications and computer files. Maybe a lab report from a personal physician describing heart disease or phone records to another man's wife. It could be anything. There was always something.

'Is he there now?'

'Don't you listen to the news?'

Marion shook his head.

'He's not home, but I can't tell you when he will or won't get back there. So be ready for that.'

'What if he walks in on me?'

Howell averted his eyes, reached a decision, then looked back.

'If he's got you, kill him.'

'Okay.'

'Listen, we don't want him dead. We want to control him. We need to use him. But if you're caught, well, fuck it. Cap his ass.'

'What about later? After he's used?'

'That's up to Palm Springs.'

Marion accepted that. Sometimes they were kept alive because they could be used over and over, but most times he was allowed to finish the job. The finishing was his favorite part.

Howell said, 'You have my pager number and my cell?'

'Yes.'

'Okay. Page me when you're done. Whether you find something or not, keep me in the loop.'

'What if there's nothing in his home?'

'Then we'll hit his office. That'll be harder. He's the chief of police.'

Howell got up without another word.

Marion watched the beautiful Mercedes slide away into the deepening twilight, then looked back at the fly. Its legless body lay on its side, still. Marion touched it. The remaining wing fluttered.

Marion said, 'Poor fly.'

Marion carefully pulled out the remaining wing, then left to do his job.

Chapter
8

Friday, 7:40 P.M.

The helicopters over York Estates switched on their lights to become brilliant stars. Talley didn't like losing the sun. The creeping darkness changed the psychology of hostage takers and police officers alike. Subjects felt safer in the dark, hidden and more powerful, the night allowing them fantasies of escape. Perimeter guards knew this, so their stress level would rise as their efficiency decayed. Night laid the foundation for overreaction and death.

Talley stood by his car, sipping Diet Coke as his officers reported. Rooney's employer, who believed that he could identify the unknown subject, had been located and was inbound; Walter Smith's wife had not yet been found; Rooney's parole officer from the Ant Farm had been identified but was in transit to Las Vegas for the weekend and could not be reached; ten large pizzas (half veggie, half meat) had just been delivered from Domino's, but someone had forgotten napkins. Information was coming in so fast that Talley began to lose track, and it would come faster. He cursed that the Sheriffs hadn't yet arrived.