Sullivan's Law (17 page)

Fairly certain the men in the Corvette had given up and left, Carolyn dived underneath the truck and woke Rebecca. “Stay beside me,” she said once they'd exited the garage and started making their way down the alley. “If I squeeze your hand, drop to the ground and don't move.”

“My ankle,” the girl said, whimpering. “I don't think I can walk, Mom.”

Carolyn was a fairly small woman, but her maternal instincts provided a burst of renewed energy and strength. She hoisted the girl into her arms. When she saw the Toyota Camry parked in the same spot where she'd left it, she realized the hours they'd spent in their cramped hiding place might have been for nothing. The men in the Corvette must have sped past without seeing the car tucked in between the rows of houses.

She placed Rebecca in the front seat. Carolyn caught a glimpse of the girl's swollen left ankle and knew she needed medical treatment. She certainly wasn't going to take the child to Methodist Hospital. Being in proximity to Daniel Metroix or anything related to him had proved far too treacherous. She would take Rebecca to Good Samaritan. Thank goodness, John hadn't been with them.

She circled to the other side of the car and opened the door, finding the Ruger resting on the seat. She wouldn't have been half as terrified if she'd remembered to bring along the gun. Opening the glove box, she pulled out her new shoulder holster, strapping it on her body and inserting the gun into the pocket.

Daniel might have to fight his own battles for the time being, she decided, yet Carolyn was determined to put an end to the terror she and her family had been experiencing. As Rebecca's pain-filled eyes gazed over at her, she removed the Ruger and checked the magazine where the ammo was stored. Before she replaced the gun back in the holster, she released the safety. She knew it was dangerous. She also knew a situation could develop where a moment lost could cost her or her daughter her life. Years before, police officers didn't use seat belts because it reduced the time it took for them to get out of their patrol cars. As soon as they were home, she'd engage the safety again.

“Whatever you do,” she told Rebecca, turning the key in the ignition, “don't touch my gun. If you pull the trigger, the gun will fire. I know you're hurting and tired. What I'm telling you is very important. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the girl said, a somber look on her young face. “What if the same thing happens again? You asked me to get your gun, remember.”

“The next time I ask you to get my gun,” Carolyn told her, “I may want you to use it.”

Rebecca understood what her mother was implying, but she was frightened. “I don't know how to shoot a gun. What if I shoot the wrong person? You've always told us how much you hated guns.”

“I know,” Carolyn said, images of her uncle's blood splattered all over the living room walls surfacing. “When your ankle is better, I'll take you and John to the pistol range. A gun is a terrible thing, honey. I'm sure you realize by now that someone is trying to hurt me. A bad person will sometimes hurt the people you love if they can't hurt you. I'm not going to let that happen.” She sighed, checking the rearview mirror as she backed the Camry onto the street.

“Didn't your uncle kill himself with a gun?” her daughter asked. “You said you wished all the guns in the world would disappear, that a little gun like the one you have had no good purpose except to hurt people.”

“I guess even a terrible thing like a handgun has a purpose,” Carolyn answered. She never imagined she would be making such a statement to her twelve-year-old daughter. Circumstances had a way of changing a person's perspective. “Garbage is garbage. When a person starts shooting or hurting innocent people, Rebecca, they're nothing more than human garbage.”

H
ank Sawyer climbed behind the wheel of his department-issued black Ford at six o'clock Friday morning, heading out to Denny's as he did every morning for breakfast. Once he'd wolfed down two eggs, toast, and guzzled three cups of coffee, he slapped some bills down on the table and spent a few minutes chatting with the waitress, a middle-aged blonde who was several pounds overweight, but had a pretty face and an affable disposition.

“When are you going to let me take you out to dinner, Betty?” Hank asked, grabbing a handful of toothpicks at the counter.

“You know my number, Hank,” the woman said, leaning over the counter. “You always say you're going to call, but you never do. How long has it been now? Two years.”

“You like to dance?”

“Sure,” Betty said. “I used to go dancing all the time. There's a place that has great country music on Saturday nights. They even have dance lessons if you're rusty. They also have some of the best barbecue in town.”

“I'm tied up right now,” the detective told her. “Maybe next week I may be able to break away for the evening. I might step on your toes, though.” He glanced down at his bulging stomach. “That's if you can get close enough to me to dance.”

“Stop eating bacon,” Betty said, laughing. “I'm teasing, sugar. I like a man with a healthy appetite, and not just for food. One of these days, you're going to have to quit talking about it and give me a call.”

“Next Saturday,” Hank called out as he headed to the door. “You got yourself a date, Betty. I'll call you Friday to confirm.”

“Believe it when I see it,” the woman said, rushing off to take care of another customer.

Hank felt his spirits lift. The job had been his life since his wife had left him. Of course, his work had been one of the reasons his marriage had failed. Maybe it was high time for him to break out of his shell.

He called Carolyn at home. When he didn't get an answer, he called her cell phone. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” she mumbled grumpily. “Did they pick up Downly?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at my brother's,” Carolyn whispered. “We didn't get out of the hospital until four this morning. I decided to stay over here rather than go home.”

“Give me your brother's address,” Hank said. “I'm coming over. I want to see you before I drive to Los Angeles to talk to Charles Harrison.”

Once Carolyn told him where her brother lived, Hank said he could be there in ten minutes.

“We'll have to talk in your car,” she said, carrying the portable phone into the living room. “Neil works at night and sleeps during the day.”

“Sounds like Dracula.”

“He'd like that,” Carolyn said. “Have you been drinking this early in the morning?”

Hank hit the off button on his cell phone, embarrassed that people hadn't forgotten the days when he'd done battle with the bottle. He'd been sober now for five years.

When he pulled into the driveway, Carolyn was waiting with a thermos of coffee and two cups. She was dressed in a paint-stained sweatshirt and a pair of running shorts that reached almost to her knees.

Her brother must have some bucks, Hank thought. The house was located in the foothills, and had a panoramic view of the ocean. He watched as Carolyn tiptoed barefoot down the cobblestone walkway, then opened the door and climbed inside the passenger seat.

“Nice pad,” he said. “What does your brother do for a living? Rob banks?”

“Why are you picking on my brother?” Carolyn asked. She offered the detective some coffee. When he passed, she poured a cup for herself, setting the thermos on the seat beside her.

“I don't drink anymore,” Hank told her, staring out the front window. “Did you think you had to sober me up with coffee?”

“I wouldn't mind a stiff drink myself,” Carolyn said. “There's no reason to get bent out of shape, Hank. As to my brother, he paints. And not houses. Neil's an established artist.”

“What were your babbling about last night?” he said, referring to her late night call from the hospital. “You don't really think Charles Harrison arranged to spring Fast Eddie from the jail to kill Metroix, do you?”

“Honestly, I don't know what to think anymore,” Carolyn said. “The times fit except for the explosion. Maybe Harrison had someone else handle the motel job. They're not the same type of crime.”

Hank didn't want to admit it, but she was right. Pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger was not the same as detonating an explosive device. The motel job required a certain amount of expertise. Any street punk could point a gun out the window of a car and pull the trigger.

“There's also Warden Lackner,” Carolyn reminded him. “Did you have your people search Metroix's room at the Comfort Inn?”

“Of course,” he said. “We didn't find anything but a stack of papers and an old photograph.”

“Has it already been booked into evidence?”

“Nah,” Hank told her, reaching into his pocket for a toothpick. “There wasn't anything related to the case, so I thought I'd drop his things off at the hospital. Metroix will need something to wear when they release him.” He stopped speaking, wondering why she looked so anxious. “He came through the surgery fine, if that's what you're worried about. He's not coherent enough yet for us to question him.”

“You said there was a stack of papers,” she said, turning sideways in the seat. “Was there anything on the papers, like designs or equations?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. “I couldn't make sense of it, though.” He pointed his thumb toward the back of the car. “Stuff's in the trunk if you want to look at it.”

“Get it,” Carolyn said, her eyes blazing with intensity. “All of Daniel's work was supposedly destroyed in the explosion.”

Hank returned with a plastic sack.

She tossed the few items of clothing into the backseat, then pulled out what appeared to be approximately thirty pages of paper and a single snapshot encased in a plastic evidence bag. Rolling down the window, she hoped the brisk morning air would keep her awake as she tried to understand the complex equations. Some of it she'd seen before. This wasn't the original, though, nor was it a copy. Daniel had been desperately trying to reconstruct the work he'd lost in the explosion. Leaning closer to the detective, she held up one of the papers. “This is a design for an exoskeleton.”

“I think I saw something like that in a science fiction movie,” Hank said, uninterested.

Carolyn jerked the paper away in frustration. “I told you,” she said sharply. “The military has been working on perfecting exoskeletons for years. All these other papers are computations for energy sources and other devices you need to make the exoskeleton function properly.”

Hank shifted the toothpick around in his mouth. “How do you know that?”

“Because my parents were educated in science and math,” Carolyn told him. “I got pregnant, Hank, or I might have gone into the same field. My father almost went nuts trying to solve this one problem. He finally gave up and took a job teaching math at the high school. When I was growing up, we ate, slept, and breathed this stuff.”

The detective peered over her shoulder.

“Some of the physics is over my head, but Daniel may have solved an essential problem.” She slapped the papers down in her lap. “We're talking big money here.”

“How big?”

“Millions,” Carolyn told him. “Don't get me wrong. I can't say definitely that Daniel's a genius, or that what I'm holding is worth killing someone over. All I know is, he told me that he'd been working on this for years.” She cleared her throat, then took another sip of her coffee. “I spoke with Arline Shoeffel the other day and she thought it was plausible that the warden might be involved. Daniel said he designed what he called a walking suit for a guard's daughter who'd been paralyzed from the waist down. The suit, an exoskeleton, didn't work that well because he didn't have access to the right materials. The girl did walk in it, though. That was years ago. Since then, he's improved it.”

Hank was impressed. “This guy invented something that made it so crippled people could walk?”

“Not necessarily,” Carolyn said, raising a finger in the air like a pencil. “Whether the exoskeleton he developed works correctly doesn't really matter. Don't get me wrong. It'd be sensational if it did. That's not really the point. Say the warden showed Daniel's work to someone outside the prison, maybe a private research facility, or anyone who recognized its value. The way these things evolve is the following.” She paused, waiting for the detective to absorb what she'd told him before continuing. “Okay, a scientist or inventor develops a prototype. He's either hired by a large company or he sells his invention outright. Then they put their own people to work on it. If Warden Lackner sold Daniel's designs, he can't afford to let anyone else see his work. He could be criminally prosecuted, even if he only had the intent to sell them. And this is straight from the horse's mouth.”

“Judge Shoeffel, right?”

Carolyn nodded.

“Then maybe Lackner is behind this, instead of Chief Harrison.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Carolyn said, screwing off the cap on the thermos and refilling her coffee cup. “Let me finish. The prison may have entered into what's referred to as a joint venture program. If so, then it wouldn't be illegal. Lackner mentioned this kind of program when I talked to him on the phone. I think he might have been trying to throw us off. He's nervous, let me tell you. He even hung up on me the last time I called.”

Hank smirked. “Ever consider the warden is too busy to spend time talking about an ex-con?”

“Maybe,” Carolyn said. “I can usually tell when someone is lying. There's a slight possibility that the prison is working with the military. Like I said, I don't think this is the case.”

“Hold on a minute,” Hank said. “How is a prison warden going to claim he invented this exoskeleton or whatever you're talking about?”

“Under the table deals are done every day,” Carolyn told him, “especially with something this valuable. All Lackner has to do is offer a piece of the pie to a guy who knows something about math and physics. The dupe studies the work and presents it as his own, claiming he can't take it any further because he doesn't have the right equipment or resources. Either that, or the warden convinces them his dead cousin had these papers in a box in his attic.”

“Incredible,” Hank said, shaking his head. “Get some rest. We'll talk later. I need to get to L.A. Chief Harrison's been out on sick leave for the past two weeks. I have his home address. I personally think you're in left field with the prison warden.”

“Can I keep these?” Carolyn asked, gathering up the papers in her hands. “I know someone who may be able to give us an intelligent evaluation.”

“Sure,” the detective said. “How's Rebecca doing?”

“They put a cast on her ankle,” Carolyn told him. “She's more scared than hurt. John spent the night with a friend. Should I let him go to school today?”

“He's probably safer at school than he would be with you,” Hank said, although he hated to be put on the spot. He didn't know Carolyn's children. They had a mighty fine mother, he thought. The woman hadn't had a decent night's sleep in days, and she was still plugging away, doing everything she possibly could to protect her family as well as the community.

“Do you think it's safe for Rebecca and me to go home?”

“I've instructed patrol to drive by as often as possible,” the detective said. “You know we don't have the manpower right now to put a patrol unit in front of your house twenty-four hours a day. I could pull White and his relief officer from the hospital. We've also got a team of officers standing guard over Luisa Cortez until we catch Downly. The mayor's even involved.”

“Don't worry about me,” Carolyn told him, opening the car door. “I can handle myself. I don't want anyone to hurt my children.”

 

Hank swung by the station and picked up a uniformed officer named Mike Russell for backup. He couldn't, however, envision a man like Charles Harrison shooting another cop on his own property. Besides, it wasn't even nine o'clock, and the thought that Harrison himself had been personally committing all the crimes was ludicrous.

The situation with Eddie Downly was a disaster. The story had been plastered on the front page of most California newspapers, and with the Internet, even people in other countries had probably read about it. Hank was relieved that his department had not been involved. He didn't buy Carolyn's notion that Harrison was involved in Downly's release, or that he'd hired the man to assassinate Daniel Metroix. Eddie Downly had committed only two crimes that they knew of—the earlier child molestation and the rape of Luisa Cortez. Back when the criminal justice system, along with the rest of the world, wasn't run by computers, mistakes like this seldom happened.

Nonetheless, anything was possible. Downly had been on the street until Monday. Carolyn didn't know that Hank was aware that she'd stopped seeing Downly prior to the termination of his four-year probation. The detective was meticulous about his work. With a crime this serious, he'd read every word in Downly's file. Why destroy the reputation of an otherwise outstanding officer like Carolyn when he knew how overburdened she'd been?

Hank had made poor decisions himself throughout his career, and not only when he'd been drinking. He pursued the most dangerous criminals, and the cases that had the greatest chance of reaching prosecution. The others got pushed to the back of the file cabinet. That was the reality.

Mike Russell was a large, stoic man, a former marine who didn't waste his breath unless it was important. Hank had Russell drive so he could rest his eyes and decide what approach he should take with Harrison. Even if his hired goons were around, which was unlikely, he knew from experience that they wouldn't pose that great a threat.