“What am I going to do with this?” asked Nick, stacking the folders. They made a pile almost eight inches high.
“Who gives a shit, partner?”
Nick slammed his fist on the stack. “If Ortega had a grand jury seated and all this evidence piled up through his own department investigators and someone in Internal Affairs in our department, why didn’t he use it? Obviously there was no indictment. Not even a leak to the press. How can you gather so much evidence that one of your Major Crimes Unit’s top detectives is a rogue killer—murdering his own wife and an assistant district attorney—and then just sit on it? That’s obstruction of justice right there.”
“You’ll have to ask Ortega.”
“I will,” said Nick. “Tomorrow morning. In his office.”
K.T. shook her head. “The mayor’s in Washington with the governor and Senator Grimes. Something about more immigration reform or some such. Advisor Nakamura’s supposed to be meeting them there on Monday for testimony for some subcommittee.”
“I’ll go to Washington,” said Nick. He rubbed his tired eyes. What was he thinking? As always, he was forgetting about his son.
How many years had he put his son down the priority list? Lower than his flashback addiction. Before that, lower than his grieving for Dara. Before that, lower than his fucking job as a detective. Before that, lower than his love of his wife. Before that… had he ever put his son at or near the top of his priorities?
Nick had a rush of absolute certainty, as physical as a wave of nausea, that Val would tell him he, Val Bottom, had never been his father’s top priority.
“No,” said Nick. “I’m going to L.A. To get Val. To find my son and bring him back here. I’ll deal with Ortega later.”
K. T. Lincoln stood. “Whatever you do, whomever you do it to, don’t call me again, Nick. I never dug out those grand jury files. I didn’t meet you here tonight. The only time I’ve seen you in the last three years was at the Denver Diner last Tuesday—too many people saw me there for me to deny that, plus I had to give the diner’s number to Dispatch—but that’s also the last place I’ll ever see you. If anyone asks, I’ll say you wanted some money—I said no—and then we chewed the fat for a few minutes about old times, and I decided that our old times together hadn’t been all that hot. Good-bye, Nick.”
“Good-bye,” Nick said absently. He’d opened the accident investigation dossier and was looking at the diagrams and photos from the fire that had killed all five people, including his wife. “K.T… what kind of undercover hit man volunteers to die horribly in a truck fire of his own making? How does that…”
But K. T. Lincoln was gone and Nick was talking to himself in the dirty, poorly lighted space.
SUNDAY MORNING AND THE gray Sasayaki-tonbo whisper-dragonfly ’copter touched down on the flat roof of Nick’s Cherry Creek Mall Condominiums building. Or, rather, a Sasayaki-tonbo whisper-dragonfly ’copter landed there. This one was larger and fancier than the one Nick had flown in down to Raton Pass.
Hideki Sato jumped out and frisked Nick carefully. The ex-detective was carrying no weapon. Sato went through the small gym bag—no weapons there, either, although there were six extra magazines of 9mm ammo—and then removed the unsealed padded mailing envelope. Nick’s Glock 9 was in there, no clip, no round in the spout, and broken down.
“Just like you specified,” said Nick.
Sato sealed the envelope and said nothing. Taking the gym bag, he gestured for Nick to enter the helicopter. Above, the broad, strangely tufted rotors were idling.
There was an airlock-sized room, evidently a CMRI security screen so necessary in the decades since dedicated jihadis had discovered that they could pack their body cavities full of plastic explosive, and then another door to go through. Nick and Sato stepped into a small luxurious room—luxurious in a spare, shoji- and tatami- and flower-decorated sense—that might have been in Nakamura’s mansion up in Evergreen had it not been for the view out the broad, multilayered windows. Nakamura was sitting in a swiveling leather chair behind a lacquered desk by two of those windows.
Nick hadn’t seen the billionaire since he was interviewed and hired nine days earlier—it seemed much longer ago to him—and Hiroshi Nakamura seemed exactly the same, down to the carefully parted gray hair, the manicured nails, and the black suit and narrow black tie. There were other comfortable-looking chairs and a couch in the small space, but Nakamura didn’t ask Nick to sit. Sato also remained standing, far enough to one side to seem subordinate but close enough to act as a bodyguard if Nick were to lunge toward Nakamura. Sato’s polymorphic smart-cast was thin enough and flexible enough to fit under the right sleeve of his dark suit jacket.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura. “Mr. Sato has explained to me that you have a request. I am traveling to Washington, D.C., today and my private jet is scheduled to leave from Denver International Airport in fifteen minutes. I give you one and a half minutes to make your request.”
“My son’s in serious trouble in Los Angeles,” said Nick. “His life is in danger. I need to get to L.A. and don’t have the money for an airline ticket. No cars are getting through, and the truck convoys aren’t even allowing passengers going west. I don’t have enough money for that either.”
Mr. Nakamura cocked his head ever so slightly to one side. “I have not heard a request yet, Mr. Bottom.”
Nick took a breath. He had less than a minute left.
“Mr. Nakamura, you offered me fifteen thousand dollars—old dollars—if I solved your son’s murder. I’m close to solving it. I think I could name the killer right now, but I need a bit more confirmation. I was going to ask you for the price of an air ticket to L.A.—seven hundred old bucks now—in exchange for that fifteen thousand. But they’ve shut down all commercial, freight, and civil-aviation flights into and out of L.A.”
Nakamura waited. He did not glance at his Rolex, but there was a black-face clock with a second hand right there on the cabin’s bulkhead.
“Nakamura Enterprises have regular flights to Las Vegas,” said Nick. He felt sweat trickle down his ribs. “I checked. From Las Vegas I’d be able to book some sort of transport—private plane, Jeep, whatever—into Los Angeles to look for my son. So get me room on any of your cargo or courier flights, today if possible, and advance me, say, three hundred bucks—old dollars—so I can pay someone for that last leg of the trip, and I swear that I’ll tell you who murdered your son when I get back. You can keep the rest of the fifteen thousand.”
“Very generous of you, Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura with only the slightest hint of a smile. “Why don’t you tell me right now who murdered my son, collect the full fifteen thousand, and thus pay your way to Los Angeles—perhaps in your own private aircraft?”
“I can’t prove it now,” said Nick. “I guarantee that when I show you who killed your son, you’ll demand your proof.”
“But instead of concluding the investigation,” said Nakamura, “you are asking to take time off—how long? A week? Two weeks? In order to aid your son in his flight from justice. I understand he is wanted for murder.”
“No, sir. The LAPD and Homeland Security just have a warrant out for Val as a possible material witness. Look, I’m going to get to L.A. one way or the other to search for my boy, Mr. Nakamura. You’d do the same if your son were still alive and needed your help. If you help me get there today, I’ll be back sooner and able to wrap up the investigation. I know what evidence I need to find, if my hunch about your son’s killer is correct… and I think it is. Help me save my son so I can close the investigation on your son’s murder.”
Nakamura looked at Sato, but the security man’s expression did not change. The billionaire’s wristwatch chimed softly. Nakamura steepled his fingers and looked at Nick.
“Mr. Bottom, do you know where John Wayne Airport is?”
“Yeah, it’s in Santa Ana or Irvine—near there—about forty miles south of L.A.”
“We hav
e no cargo aircraft going there presently,” said Nakamura, “but next Friday, September twenty-fourth, a flight from Tokyo will be refueling there between five-thirty and seven p.m., Pacific Daylight Savings Time. You will be on that flight, with or without your son. Is this understood?”
Nick wasn’t sure he did understand. “You’re giving me a way home to Denver if I find Val? Next Friday?”
“Yes,” said the billionaire. “There is a Nakamura Enterprises cargo flight leaving Denver International Airport freight terminal at eleven a.m. today bound for Las Vegas, Nevada. I shall make a call. They will find room for you on the flight. It will not be comfortable but it will be a quick flight. This will give you until the Friday fueling stop at John Wayne Airport to find your son. If you find him earlier, or must… ah… leave the Los Angeles area, go to the freight terminal at John Wayne Airport at any time before Friday and you will receive food and shelter there until the Friday-evening flight. At that time—Friday—you must return and tell me what you know about my son’s death. Or even what you think you know.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Nick. He was trying not to weep but the effort made his throat and chest hurt. “About the money, Mr. Nakamura… the bribe money I’ll need to…”
“Mr. Sato has the contract ready, Mr. Bottom. Only your thumbprint and signature are necessary. We will advance you five hundred dollars today, old American dollars, in exchange for your waiving the fifteen-thousand-dollar payment if you solve my son’s murder. The five hundred dollars is not a gift. If you do not solve my son’s murder within the next two weeks, there will be… penalties.”
“Yes, sir,” said Nick, not giving a fig for any penalties.
Sato held out an AllPad with the contract on the screen. Nick ignored the words, thumbprinted it, and used the pad stylus to sign. Sato gestured. Nick fumbled out his NICC, which the security chief ran through the same AllPad.
When Nick got the card back, he saw that he had a new balance of $750,000 new bucks—$500 in old, real dollars.
“This has taken longer than you promised,” snapped Nakamura. “You may ride with us to Denver International Airport, Mr. Bottom. If you are ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Not in here, Mr. Bottom. You may ride up front with the pilots. Mr. Sato will show you the way and hand you your luggage.”
The door—hatch was more like it—was only just large enough to allow Sato to squeeze through. The Sasayaki-tonbo dragonfly was airborne before Nick got strapped into his jump seat behind the pilots.
NICK FOUND A PILOT willing to fly him into L.A. within an hour of his landing in Las Vegas. Actually, the flight would be to the untowered civil-aviation field at Flabob in Rubidoux, out near Riverside just south of the Pomona Freeway east of the I-15.
That was close enough for Nick. He’d find his own way into the city, to Leonard’s apartment near Echo Park. He’d have a little more than $300,000 in new bucks left—plus his Glock 9.
But the pilot wouldn’t fly until after dark—actually, until almost midnight—since all flights into the city were illegal, so Nick had too many hours to kill in Las Vegas. The delay drove him crazy, but all the bootleg pilots flew only after dark, so he had no choice but to wait.
After dinner, toward sunset, Nick made his way to the high wall that surrounded modern Las Vegas. He decided to walk the six miles around the south end of the city along the top of the wall, then the other mile back to the airport. It would help him get rid of some of his nervous energy.
Just after sunset, Nick paused to look out at the hundreds, possibly thousands, of trucks and the tent city that had grown up in the desert beyond the southern edge of the city. He could hear motorcycles roar, gunshots, and shouts. Countless vehicle lights illuminated the hardpan out there and torches and bonfires roared in the tent cities that catered to the hard-assed independent truckers.
Nick knew that convoys headed west to L.A. had been shut down, but some convoys were still coming east from the city. Looking out at the lights and listening to the distant roars, he realized that if Leonard and Val had somehow bought their way onto one of those final convoys, they could be out there in the desert right now, part of that light and noise, less than a mile away.
Is Professor Leonard Fox savvy enough—connected enough—to get Val and himself out of town that way? thought Nick. And even if Leonard were that smart and connected, Nick would have no idea where to look for them.
No, getting into the battlefield hellhole that was Los Angeles was Nick’s best shot. Nick had no idea what the odds were of him getting out of L.A. alive—much less of actually finding Val and getting them both out, Leonard too if he wanted to leave—but he’d worry about that later.
Nick tore himself away from the sight of the torches and bonfires and truck lights. His loaded Glock holstered on his hip and his small duffel bag in hand, he continued walking east along the southern wall around Las Vegas, planning to get back to McCarran International Airport with at least two hours to kill before his pilot tried to get him and the little Cessna into Battlefield Los Angeles.
3.03
I-25 and Denver: Friday, Sept. 24—Saturday, Sept. 25
PROFESSOR EMERITUS GEORGE Leonard Fox was seventy-four years old and knew that he might not see many more years of life, if any. If this adventure he and Val were on didn’t kill him soon, there were the cough and pain in his chest that his doctor had been worried about. The X-rays had been inconclusive, so the doctor had ordered a CT scan and an MRI to determine if it was cancer and, of course, with the National Health Service Initiative, neither test would cost Leonard a cent. But since the waiting time for both of those NHSI-covered procedures now ran to nineteen months and longer, Leonard suspected that he’d be dead from whatever was causing the pain and cough before he got the test. This was the way it had been for seniors without private wealth for many years now.
It was no one’s fault—Leonard had been an enthusiastic supporter of the original health reform bill that had guaranteed eventual government control of all health decisions—but sometimes the irony of it all, and the reminder of what his college mentor, Dr. Bert Stern, had called the Iron Law of Unintended Consequences, made Leonard smile a bit ruefully.
But however long he had to live, Leonard knew that he would never forget this last night of the truck convoy through Colorado.
Leonard had paid little attention to the Rocky Mountains during the years he’d lived and taught in Boulder, so this long night of crossing the mountainous part of Colorado held surprises for him.
He wished, of course, that Val weren’t riding separately all that day and night, first with the solo trucker Gauge Devereaux and then with Henry Big Horse Begay. Leonard was extremely anxious about what his grandson might do when they were reunited with Nick Bottom the next day in Denver and hoped he could allay the boy’s suspicions. And Leonard also needed to talk to Val about the password for the encrypted part of the text on his late daughter Dara’s phone. What Leonard wanted was to try the password he felt might be the correct one and read the encrypted file by himself—just in case it did contain something damning that would make his grandson even more intent on attacking Nick Bottom—but Val kept the battered old phone with him wherever he went.
After hours of this fruitless anxiety, Leonard tried to relax and talk to the driver, Julio Romano. Julio’s wife, Perdita, was asleep in the lower-rear sleeping compartment and her high-decibel but not unfeminine snoring came through the curtains as they moved closer to the Continental Divide.
Julio had wanted to talk politics and recent history and—after ascertaining that the driver seemed to be one of those rare fellows who could discuss such topics without losing their temper, even with amusement—Leonard had complied.
“Good,” said Julio earlier that night. “It’s not often that I get a tame professor of literature and classics in my cab. Do you prefer to be called Doctor or Professor?”
“Leonard, actually.”
“Well, g
ood, Lenny. That’ll make things easier. But I won’t forget that you’re a professor emeritus.”
Normally, Leonard would have been irritated at anyone calling him Lenny—no one ever had—but coming from Julio, after Leonard had ascertained that the middle-aged driver wasn’t using the name as an insult, it sounded all right.
As the climb over Loveland Pass approached, Julio was leading a discussion on the decline of nations. Leonard was continually surprised at how well informed and literate the truck driver was.
“But I don’t think the United Kingdom chose decline,” Leonard was saying, trying hard not to slip into his lecturing-prof tone of voice. “After World War Two, it was just an inevitable outcome of Britain having bankrupted itself fighting the war… that and the people’s innate refusal to return to the prewar class system after five years of sharing hardships and scarcity.”
“So they fired Winston Churchill without so much as a thank-you-sir and chose socialism,” said Julio, shifting down several gears as the huge truck followed the convoy off I-70 before the blocked Eisenhower Tunnel and up the narrower, twisting Highway 6 rising toward the night sky.
“Well, yes,” said Leonard. He was a little anxious at the prospect of a discussion of “socialism” with a working man. All those working fellows he’d known, the few he’d known, found the word and concept toxic, sometimes reacting to it in violent ways.
“But the British Empire would have been finished no matter who they’d kept as prime minister or what system they’d adopted,” said Leonard, raising his voice slightly so he would be heard over the rising roar of the truck’s engine. “The scarcities would have been as real after the war, socialism or not.”
“Maybe,” said Julio Romano with a smile. “But remember what Churchill said.”
“What’s that?” asked Leonard. The first sharp turns were approaching and he grasped the padded armrest to his right more firmly.