Next Victim (20 page)

"So whose is it?"

"His.
He
checked in."

"Mobius took this room?"

"That’s correct, Agent McCallum. He signed for it under the name Donald Stevenson, using a credit card he’d recently obtained for that identity. If you’d been in the lobby when the AD briefed me ten minutes ago, you’d know all this. But I suppose you were off applying lip gloss or something."

Tess didn’t wear lip gloss. "When did Mobius check in?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? So he would have a place to do this." Michaelson jerked a thumb at the dead woman on the bed. "Why the hell do you think?"

She wouldn’t be put off that easily. "It doesn’t make sense. If he came here, he was planning to pick up a woman at the hotel bar. Odds are, any woman he met there would be a guest of the hotel. She would have a room of her own."

"Unless she was a hooker."

"This place doesn’t strike me as a hangout for hookers."

"All hotels are hangouts for hookers. And a hooker would use the john’s room. He had to be prepared for that."

"I suppose." It added up, but she wasn’t entirely convinced.

"Anyway," the Nose added, "this lady wasn’t checked in at the hotel."

"Well, she wasn’t a prostitute. Not if she had a suitcase with her. Where’s her ID?"

"Gone. Her purse was here, but the other squad took it."

"Without sharing?"

"I don’t think their mothers taught them to share."

"That doesn’t bother you?"

"Sure, it bothers me. It also bothers me that we’re wasting time talking about it when we have a crime scene to work."

Tess wasn’t interested in the scene. She was interested in Tennant and his DTS squad. "We’re not going to learn anything from this room," she said. "He hasn’t left us any leads. He never does."

"With that kind of attitude"—the Nose was turning his back on her—"it’s no wonder you’ve been spinning your wheels in Denver."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged, not bothering to face her. "After Black Tiger you were on the fast track, sweetheart. Denver should have been a stepping-stone to LA or New York, then to Ninth Street. Instead you got stuck there. Now I know why."

"Do you?"

"You’ve lost your edge. No surprise. Happens to the best."

"You don’t know a damn thing."

"You let RAVENKIL ruin you. Losing Voorhees was a tough break, I admit. But you should’ve handled it. We get paid to handle tough breaks. Some of us earn our pay. Some of us don’t."

She burned with fury. "You asshole."

"Sticks and stones," he said with casual insolence. "Face it, darling. You flunked the test. You got kicked off the island."

"You call me sweetheart or darling again, and I’ll bring you up on charges."

"Sexual harassment law. The last refuge of the token female."

"You are on such thin ice."

"Save it. Just shut up and stay out of my way. I have a case to run."

Tess stood there trembling with anger. After a long moment she forced herself to look away from Michaelson, toward the woman on the bed.

Blood on the sheets. The faux crucifixion, the paschal lamb of Easter weekend. The innocent sacrifice.

The woman had died in a hotel room that was not even her own. She’d had a valise with her, and she’d been sitting at a hotel bar late at night—yet she wasn’t a guest of the hotel.

The pieces didn’t fit.

Unless she’d been unable to check in. No money? A traveler would always have credit cards. But maybe she had been afraid that a credit card transaction would be traced.

The other squad had taken her purse. Tennant’s squad. Counterterrorist operatives.

Of course
.

Tess moved for the door.

"Going someplace?" Michaelson asked.

"I need to get some air."

She thought she heard him chuckle, amused at what he presumed to be her weakness. She didn’t care.

Quickly she descended to the lobby. She found Andrus on the phone in the rear office that had been used as a command post earlier. As she entered, he said, "I’ll be there," and ended the call. He glanced at her. "Any trouble dealing with the crime scene?"

"It’s not the scene I’m having trouble dealing with." She sat down opposite him.

"I’d like to think that insubordinate tone was not meant for me," Andrus said.

"Would you? I’d like to think that if the head of Domestic Terrorism was at a RAVENKIL murder site ahead of me, along with a hazmat team, you would decide to tell me about it. So I guess we’re both wrong, aren’t we, Gerry?"

His face paled, whether in dismay or anger she wasn’t sure and didn’t care. She was past thinking of bureaucratic protocol.

"I saw Tennant," she went on. "And I saw a squad of hazardous materials experts. And I think I know why they were here."

"Do you?" Andrus said.

"That woman upstairs was involved in some sort of terrorist activity. DTS tracked her to this hotel and set up a command post in this room. Then they sent in SWAT to conduct an arrest. They found her dead. For some reason they expected to find a biohazard of some sort—in her suitcase, I assume. But the room was clean, which means either there never was any biohazard, or it’s gone. I’m guessing the latter."

"Are you? Why?"

"The worried look on your face."

Andrus shook his head slowly. "What do you want from me, Tess?"

"I want you to stop holding out. Share the wealth. I shouldn’t have to skulk around in corridors and spy on my own colleagues. And I shouldn’t be forced to make guesses when you and Tennant could tell me—"

"Don’t link me to Tennant," Andrus interrupted. "We’re not a team. Hell, you heard my end of the conversation with him last night."

"It was none of my business last night. Now it is."

"Okay, I concede the point. It is your business. And if you’d just been patient and not gone sneaking off on your own—"

"You would’ve told me? Prove it. Tell me now. Tell me everything."

"I don’t know much more than you’ve already guessed." He held up a hand to ward off her objection. "I don’t, Tess. Scout’s honor. But Tennant has assured me he’ll reveal everything, no more secrets."

"At the briefing?" she said.

"You even know about that? Jesus."

"I know it’s at City Hall East and it starts at eleven o’clock. Sharp. I know you’ll be at it, because you have to be. And I know you’re taking me along."

The AD frowned. "I can pass on whatever I learn."

"I want to be there, Gerry."

"No one from the RAVENKIL task force is invited."

"Why not? That makes no sense. It’s crazy."

"Tennant has his reasons. It’s his show, not mine."

"I don’t give a damn whose show it is. Get me in."

He heard the threat in her voice. "Or…?"

She stood up. "Or I’ll investigate on my own. And whatever I come up with, I’ll share with the local authorities."

"The locals aren’t primary. This is a federal case."

She leaned on the back of her chair and met his eyes. "It’s
my
case."

Andrus held her stare for a moment, then laughed. "Oh, what the hell. I should’ve known better than to work around you. All right, consider yourself invited."

Tess took his hand. "Thanks, Gerry. And I’m sorry if I’m pushing too hard. I don’t mean to make your life difficult."

He laughed again. "Yes, you do."

22

During the long trip into downtown LA, Andrus was silent. He sat with Tess in the backseat of a sedan driven by an agent who was both chauffeur and bodyguard. Andrus had his laptop computer open before him and seemed to be scrolling through a document, but Tess noticed that his gaze often unfocused and became distant.

She had never seen him afraid, and she wasn’t sure if she was seeing it now. But something had him preoccupied, at least. And she was beginning to see the outlines of what it was.

As the freeway traffic blurred past, she broke the silence to ask, "Are we meeting in the mayor’s office?"

"No. ATSAC."

"At-what?"

"The ATSAC command center. Short for Automated Traffic Signal and Control." Andrus still hadn’t looked up from his computer. "All the traffic lights throughout LA are linked together in a network that’s supervised from a central command facility. Computers correct the timing of stoplights at intersections to adjust to changing traffic flow."

"Cool. What does traffic management have to do with Mobius?"

"There’s more than traffic management involved."

He said nothing further.

The driver dropped them off at City Hall East, one of several buildings that made up the sprawling Civic Center that stretched across nine city blocks. Andrus led her to an elevator on the parking level, where a guard stood post.

"Going down," Andrus said.

The guard checked Andrus’s credentials and Tess’s also. Satisfied, he handed Andrus a card key. "Here’s your ticket in, sir. And the downstairs access code is four-seven-two-four."

Andrus swiped the card through an electronic reader. The elevator doors slid open. He and Tess stepped inside, and Andrus pressed the down arrow. Tess felt the start of their descent.

"ATSAC is underground?" she asked.

"Five floors down."

"Sounds more like NORAD than a traffic operations center."

"It’s a little of both. Remember Y2K? The city wanted a command center in case the millennium really did start with a bang. The mayor at the time, Riordan, decided to upgrade the existing ATSAC facility. Basically he created a high-tech bunker."

"How so?"

"It’s earthquake resistant and supposedly can withstand a nuclear blast. It’s got multiply redundant communications systems—including copper-wire and fiber-optic links to the command stations of the Sheriff’s Department and LAFD. It’s fully self-contained and self-sufficient. There’s a dormitory, a kitchen, emergency food supplies to serve fifty people for two years. Backup diesel generators to take up the load in case of a power interruption."

"Impressive, in a
Dr. Strangelove
sort of way."

The elevator stopped. Tess exited with Andrus into a windowless corridor ending in a heavy metal door that reminded Tess of the door to a bank vault.

"Other cities did the same," Andrus said. "Even though Y2K was a nonevent, the command center has remained operational. You never know when it might be needed for the next earthquake, riot…"

"Or terrorist attack."

"Precisely. In New York, the city’s counterterrorist command center was above ground—in the World Trade Center, to be exact. We saw how well that worked out."

Andrus inserted the card key in another reader, and the bank-vault door slid open.

"Just like
Star Trek
," Andrus said.

"Or
Get Smart
."

They walked through, and the door closed behind them. There was a second door just ahead. The space between the two of them, Tess realized, was an air-lock corridor—what biohazard experts called a gray zone. The two doors would never be open simultaneously. The gray zone allowed for decontamination before passing from the outside world into the secure interior of the bunker.

"It’s sealed off from outside contamination," she said. "But the ventilation system must bring in air from above ground."

"Sure—but the air passes through multiple filters to screen out biological and chemical toxins. Whatever’s outside can’t get in."

"So basically this is the safest place in town."

"That’s the idea, Tess."

Andrus punched the access code into a numeric keypad mounted near the second door, which opened with a beep. Together they entered the main space of the ATSAC facility, a large circular room arrayed with computer workstations, each with its own red-upholstered swivel chair. The workstations were modular desks fitted together to form two concentric semicircles, facing a video wall that served as a luminous, multicolored moving background for half the room.

Tess estimated that there were forty flat-panel display screens mounted on the curving wall, each showing a mixture of live video, scrolling data, and computer-generated traffic grids and maps. Some screens were quartered into four images; others showed only a single scene. The views were of major surface-street traffic junctures, including the intersection of Wilshire Boulevard and Veteran Avenue, where the Federal Building, home of the FBI’s LA office, was located. Tess had heard that it was the busiest intersection in the city.

She looked around. The facility extended beyond this central room into glass-walled offices to her left and right, and corridors branching into darkness. This was a sizable complex. And it was buried five stories under City Hall, accessible only by a secret elevator. She wondered how many Angelenos even knew it existed. The government, she imagined, had not been eager to spread the word.

The soft hum of equipment mingled with the burr of recirculated air. She had never been inside a NASA facility, but she imagined that it would be like this. The noise and grit of the city seemed far away.

Thirty or forty people were already assembled inside, a few seated among the rows of swivel chairs, but most standing and conferring in small, restless groups. Andrus went through the meet-and-greet routine with many of them, while Tess hung back. She knew nobody here. But of course she was an outsider—a stranger to this city, and an uninvited presence in this room.

At eleven o’clock precisely, everyone took a seat. Tess saw that a few people, Tennant among them, had special chairs facing the workstations.

Andrus sat beside Tess in the row of chairs farthest from the video wall. She was surprised he wasn’t up front, and said as much in a whisper.

Andrus just smiled. "This isn’t my show," he said.

A woman seated at the front of the room stood up and spoke into a microphone, introducing herself as Sylvia Florez, manager of the Los Angeles Office of Emergency Management. Her voice ticked like a metronome, rapid and precise, as she reviewed the major players present for the briefing—the mayor, members of the city council, the chief of police, the county sheriff. Then there was a quick rundown of the other participants seated at the workstations.