Last Shot (2006) (17 page)

Tim, a former sniper with the Rangers who'd neutralized targets on three continents, was intimately familiar with the expression, but Bear asked, "Symbolic shots?"

"Through the spine." Marcel's truncated arm stabbed the air. He wore an unrecognizable smile. "Leave the target alive but in a location where rescue ain't gonna happen. Let his cries work on the opposition for an hour or two. Sometimes we'd go for a more immediate effect, like if we spotted an enemy mortar position. We'd snipe the Head Freds in command simultaneously. Three headshots, three towelheads hit the sand, one echo rolls back from the foothills. Get the cronies scared, get 'em running. Flush 'em onto open ground. Then Walkman would take target practice. No tremor in that trigger finger, I can tell you that." His onyx eyes met Tim's. "You wouldn't believe how good Walkman was unless you saw it. You just wouldn't believe it."

His right arm poked around under the sheets and came up with a clicker for the morphine drip. His nub moved over the button and tensed, and then he settled back on his pillows and closed his eyes. Within seconds his breathing took on a rasp.

As Tim and Bear threaded through the web of curtains to the exit, a dopey rendition of the Marines' Hymn followed them out: "From the halls of Montezu-u-ma to the shores of Tripoli..."

Tim listened for irony in Mikey's robust voice but found he'd momentarily lost his perspective.

Chapter
23

Soiled with a fringe of water stain and an excessive smattering of bird shit, the billboard proclaimed SUNNYSLOPE FAMILY HOMES--OVER 30% SOLD! A healthy family--Caucasian, shiny teeth--gathered around a nicely set wooden table in a light-suffused kitchen, eagerly waiting for Mom to portion salad from a transparent bowl.

Walker nosed the car around the circular entry below, paved with beiged cinder blocks, and fitted the cylindrical key into the pad mounted on the abandoned guard booth. The mechanical gate topped with anti-climb serrated spikes opened, then rumbled shut behind the Accord. The permanent fence--mock adobe to match the pavers--extended a mere fifteen feet from the guard booth before terminating abruptly, a few blocks still floating in their mortar grips like offset Legos. Left-behind supplies still overloaded their pallets, though sun exposure had baked the lettering off the bags and crates. Picking up where the wall ended and encircling the rest of the complex was a transportable chain-link fence. Rising crookedly from occasional concrete bases, it was topped with three strips of barbed wire. Walker would feel right at home.

As promised, a security truck was parked in the partial shelter between a stack of lowboy Dumpsters and a toolshed. Walker hid the Honda behind the truck, out of view from the gate, shouldered his duffel bag, and climbed out. The stench of sewage intensified--rich, waterlogged, fetid--seeming to emanate from the ground itself.

The development was tucked into the Santa Monicas at the terminus of a quarter-mile private road that intercepted Sepulveda about midway up its tortuous run from Sunset to Mulholland. The stand-alone units, uppity town homes that had outgrown shared walls, remained in various stages of incompletion. A hammer lay on a garage overhang, a trickle of dried rust staining the brief run of shingles below it. A blind hung crooked from a second-floor window. A fluttering tarp stretched across a roofless first story. A shipment of squat palm trees, their bulbous bottoms still wrapped in burlap, sat clustered in a common patch of dirt, leaning sickly in all directions like an old-timer baseball lineup.

Though generic, the houses stayed well spaced as they climbed the slope, their driveway tributaries connecting to a haphazard loop of dirt-blown thoroughfare. The model stood out easily for its finished touches, which imbued the house with artificial coziness. Brushed-nickel numbers on the mailbox. Painted gutters. A valance puffed into view behind fake plantation shutters. Walker crossed the grounds, stepping over a stalled tumbleweed. The place looked like a ghost town from a cheap apocalypse flick.

Pausing outside the house, he kicked in some of the lattice surrounding the porch, then fell to a sniper position and had a quick look at the crawl space. His nose wrinkled against the smell, more pronounced this close to the dirt.

The third key on the ring fit the khaki front door, and Walker stepped inside. A film of sawdust moved as a piece against the draft. He hit the light switch, but nothing happened. A scattering of flyers on the floor broke down unit numbers and prices. North of a mil for a petite house in a gulch filled with emissions. Walker slid his hand along the curve of decorative railing, then stepped down into the sunken family room. Built-in shelves housed what proved to be fake book spines and empty CD cases. The house felt barren, though it was embellished with on-the-nose furnishings--a sectional with a loose-fit twill slipcover, an oversize marble planter housing a dying fern, even a TV in the entertainment built-in that occupied the east wall. Walker dumped his duffel by the stone hearth.

A stingy hall led to the master bedroom decorated preciously in a samurai-sushi-bar motif. A framed photograph of a robe was mounted on the wall. A two-fold shoji screened a teak-stained bureau. Memoirs of a Geisha sat on a bamboo nightstand. The silk duvet cover flipped back to reveal a bare mattress and a raised bed frame on wheels. Save those seven items, the room was empty. Walker worked the north-facing window open. A half mile of chaparral rolled upslope before hitting the shoddy fence line. Near the chain link, fumes curled the air above an offset sewer grate, left bare in the ground beside a few protruding pipes. He turned to the bamboo nightstand, picked up Memoirs. The book slid out from the too-big dust jacket to reveal The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. With a smirk he returned it to its place.

The upstairs featured a den cramped by two rooms for imaginary kids, one done up with pink curtains and a vanity, the other with a race-car bed mismatched with a spaceship comforter. The ceiling hatch in the hall tugged down to disgorge a spring-loaded ladder. Walker took a climb up and crouched in the sweltering heat. Ankle deep in pink insulation, he noted the locations of the various vents. Hundreds of flies speckled the wooden beams; he didn't realize they were dead until he shuffled to lean on a four-by-four, brushing a few dryly from their perches.

He returned to the family room and sat on the couch, which slid back a few inches on the hardwood floor. Just another guy coming home from a long day's work.

He removed Tess's weekly planner from the duffel. A strip of photo-booth pictures fluttered out. Tess and Sam. The first had caught them unaware, still facing each other, probably plotting their poses. The others featured the obligatory faces--tongues out, cheeks puffed, crossed eyes. Sam's mouth was stained blue from some candy and his hair stuck up on one side like he hadn't brushed it since waking. He'd set his glasses crooked in the last, and Tess was laughing so hard she looked unattractive, which was a helluva feat. Studying the first pic, Walker flashed on another photo strip, from another decade. He and Tess used to ride the same wavelength that way, consulting on everything. What flavor ice cream to buy. What to name the puppy. How to mug for the camera.

Walker stared at the browning fiddleheads on the fern, then rooted around in the kitchen until he found a coffee mug in the bare cupboard. He filled it at the sink, watered the fern, and sat back down. Opening Tess's planner, he located her final entry. June 1. Seven P.M. Vector Party, The Ivy--Bev Hills.

Walker worked a 7-Eleven bag from the duffel and upended it on the cushion next to him. Five prepaid disposable cell phones fell out. He called information, waited to be connected after hearing the number for Vector in 310, and asked for Human Resources.

"Yeah, hi. I'm calling to check on my job application. My name's Jess Jameson." He waited while the disaffected HR assistant flipped through some files.

"We have nothing under that name, sir."

"Sometimes it accidentally gets keyed in as Tess Jameson," Walker said.

"We have no applications on file from any Jameson."

He hung up and stared at the cheap plastic phone. "What did you get yourself into Tess?" He dialed again, his fingers tracing the familiar pattern across the keypad.

To the boy's high-pitched inquiry, Walker said, "This is Larry Fedder." He waited, listening to receding footsteps and the tinkling of the piano. When Pierce picked up, Walker asked, "What's The Ivy?"

"Some fancy restaurant. Actors and directors, Jap businessmen. Broads buying lunch for their decorator."

"Why would Tess go there?"

"She wouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"They wouldn't let someone like her past the front door at a place like that." A background shout from one of the trendily named children momentarily distracted Pierce. Then he said, "Don't call me here."

Walker listened to the dial tone for a moment, studying the photos of Tess and Sam. Then he threw them aside.

His step was charged. The door slammed behind him.

Chapter
24

Tim flipped through the visitor log as he and Bear followed the head nurse down the scrubbed tile corridor.

Bear cupped a photo of Walker in his palm. "Seen him?" She shook her head, and he extended the picture to her, and his card. "Would you mind showing this to the staff and patients?"

"Not at all." The picture disappeared into a white pocket at her waist. She signaled them to wait, knocked once at a door, and cracked it. "You have some visitors." She nodded at the muffled reply, then stepped back, letting them enter.

Bev Jameson's frail body left a well-delineated imprint in the thin sheets. Concave cheeks, ash-colored skin, and recessed eyes made clear death had her in its sights. Her gown was open at the throat. The wrinkles clustered and quickened, forming a sagging web before disappearing beneath the collar.

As Bear introduced them, Tim took note of the drawings taped to her walls. "Your grandson?"

Her stiff hair rasped against the pillow as she nodded.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Which one?" Cigarettes had taken the veneer off her voice.

"Your daughter. And I suppose your son."

"My daughter is dead. So unless you're here to tell me my boy is, too...?" A cocked eyebrow. Tim shook his head. She exhaled through her nose, a short burst of disdain. "I know people like you--proper people--might just as soon have a son dead as in prison, but don't you dare offer me your condolences."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"You're not fit to lick my boy's boots."

Bear, stuck for once in the good-cop position, said gently, "We're sorry to barge in on you. We'd like to ask you a few questions, and then we'll be on our way."

"Dottie? Stop pestering me, Dot." Bev glanced at the empty bedside chair, her lips quivering.

Bear and Tim exchanged a puzzled glance.

"Are you aware that your son broke out of prison?" Tim asked.

"Not my boy. My boy's in the marines." She hollered into the imaginary other room. "Isn't that right, Dot?"

Tim did his best, but questioning Bev was like eating a soup sandwich. Bear spent the first few minutes writing down the names of Bev's imaginary friends but soon gave up. He seemed relieved when his cell rang. He glanced up from the caller ID screen and mouthed "CSI" to Tim before stepping out into the hall.

Tim again found himself trying to win Bev's attention back from Dot when Bear reentered, his face serious. "That was Aaronson. He wants us at the lab."

Bev didn't register Tim's farewell. He and Bear jogged to the Ram. They were pulling out of the parking lot when another nurse ran out, flagging them down. The brakes squealed their displeasure, and Tim rolled down his window.

The nurse held Walker's photo. "I saw this man. Beverly's son? He was here this morning."

Tim's voice came louder than intended. "This morning? What time?"

"Right around the start of my shift. I'd say seven-thirty, maybe."

"Did you see him arrive? What was he wearing?"

She looked slightly flustered. "I don't really remember. I just came in the room and he was there, and I came back and he was gone. Why don't you ask Beverly?"

"She's a bit out to lunch, no?"

A furrow drew her eyebrows together. "What are you talking about?"

"Senile dementia? Alzheimer's, maybe?"

The nurse's arms wove themselves together across her chest. "Beverly Jameson is perfectly lucid."

Bear lowered his forehead to the steering wheel and let out a guffaw. Dotty indeed. Tim got out, leaving Bear to question the nurse.

A smile pulled at Bev's mouth when Tim entered.

"Nice selective-incompetence routine. Use it myself sometimes."

"I bet you're more convincing, too," she said with sudden clarity.

Tim couldn't stop his smile. "Maybe so." He and Bear had to regroup and rethink. Walker had been out only one night and half a day, but he was moving quickly, hitting his marks, while they'd spent the morning chasing the wrong leads. They had to anticipate, not chase. Tim hoped whatever Aaronson had waiting for them would give them a jump.

He withdrew, feeling Bev's keen stare on his back. At the door he heard the flat, gravelly voice behind him. "I'm never going to see my son again."