Krantz frowned at me. “Let us worry about that.”
Watts answered anyway. “I'd say two groups, one down the drive and the other from the side yard to the north. Again, we want to keep a low profile. If he's not home, it's best if he doesn't know we were here.”
Krantz gave the radio units their assignments, describing Sobek and giving them copies of the file shots the employment office had taken. He told them that if this guy came hauling ass through the yard they should consider him dangerous and act accordingly.
When the uniforms had gone back to their cars, Krantz turned back to the rest of us. “Everybody got their vest?”
Dolan said, “Cole doesn't.”
Krantz shrugged. “Won't matter. He's going to wait here. So are you.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is as far as you go, Dolan. I was fine with letting you tag along, but this is it. This is a Task Force operation, and you're not part of the Task Force.”
Dolan charged up to Krantz so fast that he jumped back, and Williams lurched between them.
“Take it easy, Dolan!”
Dolan shouted, “You can't do this, goddamnit! Cole and I found this guy!”
“I can do anything I want. It's my operation.”
I said, “This is really chickenshit, Krantz. If you felt this way, you should've made the play in front of Bishop.”
Krantz jutted the jaw. “I've inspected the scene and determined it's best for the operation if only Task Force members participate. We're going to look too much like an army back there as it is. If you and Dolan were there, we'd be crawling all over each other and the odds of someone getting hurt would increase.”
I smiled at Watts, but Watts was staring at the ground. “Sure. It's a safety issue.”
Dolan's face grew as tight and hard as a ceramic mask, but her voice softened. “Don't cut me out of this, Harvey. Bishop said I could go.”
“You did. You're here. But this is far enough. When the location is secure, you and your boyfriend can come in.”
He jutted his jaw at me, and I wondered how it'd feel to kick it. The “boyfriend” would like kicking it just fine.
I said, “Why are you doing this, Krantz? Are you scared she's going to get the credit for doing your job?”
Watts said, “You're not helping.”
I spread my hands and stepped back. “You want me out of it, fine, I'm out of it. But Dolan earned a piece of this.”
Krantz considered me, then shook his head. “That's big of you, Cole, volunteering like that, but I don't give a shit what you want or not. I still think your partner killed Dersh, and I still think you had something to do with breaking him out. Bishop might be willing to overlook that, but I'm not.” He glanced back to Dolan. “Here's the way it is: I run this Task Force. If you want any chance, and I mean any, of getting back on Robbery-Homicide, you'll sit your fanny back in that car and do exactly as I say. Are we clear on that?”
Dolan's face went white. “You want me to be a good little girl, Harvey?”
Krantz drew himself up and tugged at his vest. It made him look bulky and misshapen, like a deformed scarecrow. “That's exactly what I want. If you're a good girl, I'll even make sure you get some of the credit.”
Dolan stared at him.
Krantz told the rest of them they'd be going in one car— his—and then the four of them got into it and drove away.
I said, “Jesus, Dolan, what a prick. I'm sorry.”
She looked at me as if I was confused, and then she smiled.
“You can sit here if you want, World's Greatest, but I'm going in through the back.”
I didn't think it was a smart idea, but that didn't do any good. She climbed into the Beemer without waiting for me, and it was either stand there like Krantz's toad or go with her.
Krantz had gone up the front street, so we drove up the back, straight to where the second radio car was waiting. The two uniforms were standing against the fender, smoking while they waited for Krantz's call.
Dolan said, “You guys hear from Krantz yet?”
They hadn't.
“Okay. We're gonna move in. Wait for the call.”
I said, “Dolan, this isn't smart. If we surprise one of these guys, they could blow our heads off.” I was thinking about Williams, looking so hinky he'd pop a cap if someone behind him sneezed.
“I told you to wear a vest.”
Great.
The property behind Sobek's was a single-family bungalow about the size of an ice chest. Nobody was home, except for a yellow dog in a narrow wire pen. I was worried the dog would bark, but all it did was wag its tail and watch us with hopeful eyes. Dolan and I moved up the drive, and into a backyard that was separated from Sobek's by a chain-link fence overgrown by morning glories that were brown and brittle from the heat. His converted garage was close to the fence and easy to see.
Dolan made a hissing sound to get my attention, then motioned for us to go over the fence.
When we were on Sobek's side, we separated and circled the building. I listened close at the windows, and tried to see inside, but couldn't because they'd been covered by what looked like plastic garbage bags. The bags meant he was hiding something, and I didn't like that.
Dolan and I met near Sobek's front door, then moved to the side.
I whispered, “I couldn't see anything in there. Did you?”
“Every damned window is like this. I couldn't see anything and didn't hear anything. If he ain't our guy, he's a goddamned vampire. Let's try the door.”
Stan Watts and Harvey Krantz came down the drive, and froze when they saw us. Krantz made an angry wave for us to come over to him, but Dolan gave him the finger.
“You're cutting your own throat with that guy, Dolan.”
“He's fucked me long enough. You got your gun?”
“Yeah.”
“Let's try the door.”
Dolan went to the front door and knocked, just the way you'd knock if you wanted to ask your neighbor for a small favor. I stood three feet to her left, gun out, and ready to get on Sobek if he answered.
Stan Watts drew his gun and hurried over beside me. Krantz stayed out by the duplex. I could hear Williams and Bruly in the next yard.
Watts said, “Goddamnit, Samantha.” But it was only loud enough for me.
Dolan knocked a second time, harder, and said, “Gas company. We got a problem we've traced to your house.”
No answer.
She said it louder. “We've got a gas company problem out here.”
Still no one answered. Watts stood, and Krantz hurried over from the duplex. His face was red, and he looked like he wanted to bite someone in the neck.
“Goddamnit, Dolan, I'm going to have your ass for this.” He was whispering, but it was harsh and loud, and if anyone was inside they would've heard. “This is my collar.”
I said, “He's not here, Dolan. Pull back and let's figure out what to do.”
Krantz put away his gun and jabbed me with his finger. “I'm going to have your ass for this, too. You, and her. Stan, you're a witness.”
The three of us were still off to the side when Dolan touched the knob. “Hey, I think it's open.”
I said, “Dolan. Don't.”
Samantha Dolan eased open the door just far enough to peek inside, but she probably couldn't see anything.
Dolan relaxed.
“We're clear, Krantz. Looks like I've done your job again.”
Then she pushed the door open and something kicked her backward with a sound like a thunderclap.
Stan Watts yelled, “Gun!” and hit the ground, but I didn't hear him.
I pushed low through the door, firing at a smoking double-barrel shotgun even before I knew what it was. I think I was screaming.
I fired all six rounds before the hammer clicked on nothing, and then I was running back into the yard, where Watts was trying to stop the bleeding, but it was already too late.
The point-blank double load fr
om the shotgun had blown through her vest like it wasn't there.
Samantha Dolan's beautiful hazel eyes stared sightlessly toward heaven.
She was dead.
36
• • •
As Detective Samantha Dolan's blood seeps into Los Angeles' dry earth, Laurence Sobek parks his red Cherokee in the next victim's drive. He no longer carries the little .22 with his homemade Clorox suppressors; he carries a full-blown .357 magnum loaded with light, fast hollow points. When he shoots his victims now, they will blow apart like overripe avocados, with no chance for survival.
Sobek has the gun in his waist, his hand tight on its grip as he goes to the door. He knocks, but no one answers, and, after knocking again, walks around to the back, where he tries the sliding glass doors. He considers forcing the doors, but sees a Westec alarm light blinking from its control panel.
Sobek is ready to kill. He is ready to do murder, and wants to with such a ferocity that his palm is slick on the pistol's wood grip.
He goes back to the Jeep, and drives up the hill until he finds a parking place with an unobstructed view of the house. He waits for the child.
* * *
Krantz said, “Oh, holy Jesus. Oh, Christ.”
He dry-heaved, and turned to lean against an avocado tree. Williams and Bruly came around the corner, guns out and eyes wild, the four uniforms following with their shotguns. Someone shouted from one of the surrounding houses. The yellow dog howled.
Bruly yelled, “Is she dead? Jesus, is she dead?”
Watts's hands were red with Samantha Dolan's blood. “Krantz, clear the house. Williams, clear the house, goddamnit.”
No one was paying any attention to the house. If Sobek had been in there, he could've shot the rest of us.
I said, “It's clear.”
Watts was still shouting. “Williams, secure the evidence. Wake up, goddamnit, and be careful in there. Do not contaminate the evidence.”
Williams crept to the door, gun out and ready. Watts went over to a garden spigot, washed his hands, then took out his radio and made a call.
I draped my jacket over Dolan's face, not knowing what else to do. My eyes filled with tears, but I shook my head and turned away. Williams had stopped outside the door and was staring at her. He was crying, too.
I felt her wrist, but it was silent. I rested the flat of my hand on her belly. She was warm. I blinked hard at the tears, then put Samantha Dolan and everything I was feeling out of my head to concentrate on Joe.
I went to Sobek's garage.
Krantz saw me from the tree and said, “Stay out of there. It's a crime scene. Williams, stop him, goddamnit.”
“Fuck you, Krantz. He could be out there killing someone else right now.”
Williams went back to staring at Dolan. “She's really dead.”
“She's dead.”
He cried harder.
Watts called, “Cole, be careful. He could have the whole fucking thing booby-trapped.”
I went inside without stopping, and Krantz came in behind me. Bruly came to the door, but stopped there.
The air was layered with drifting gun smoke. It was intensely hot and dark, with the only light coming through the open door. I turned on the lights with my knuckle.
Sobek didn't have furniture; he had weights. A weight lifter's bench sat squat and ugly in the center of the room, black weight disks stacked on the floor around it like iron toadstools. No one walked in front of the shotgun even though smoke still drifted from both barrels. Residual fear. Articles from the Times about the killings and Dersh and Pike were pinned to the wall, along with a Marine Corps recruiting poster and another poster depicting LAPD SWAT snipers.
Bruly said, “Jesus, look at this shit. You think he's coming back?”
I didn't look at him; I was looking for trip wires and pressure plates, and trying to smell gasoline, because I was scared that Sobek had rigged the garage to explode. “You don't rig a booby trap the way he's rigged this place and expect to come back. He's abandoned it.”
Krantz said, “We don't know that, Cole. If we can get Dolan cleaned up fast enough, we can secure the area and wait for him.”
Even Bruly shook his head.
I said, “You're really something, Krantz.”
Bruly took a small book from a cardboard box, then a couple more. “He's got the Marine Corps Sniper Manual in here. Check it out: The Force Recon Training Syllabus, Hand-to-Hand Combat. Man, this turd is the ultimate wannabe.”
Krantz opened the fridge and took out a glass vial. “It's filled with drugs. Steroid products. The guy's a juicer.”
It wasn't much of an apartment, just one large room divided by a counter from a kitchenette, with a bath and closet. All I cared about and wanted was to find a slip with Dersh's address, or the clothes that Sobek used to dress as Pike—anything at all that would tie Sobek to Dersh and clear Joe.
“Over here, Lieutenant.”
Bruly found seven empty Clorox bottles in the closet, along with three .22 pistols and some ammunition. Two of the Clorox bottles had been reinforced with duct tape.
Krantz slammed Bruly on the back. “We got the sonofabitch!”
I said, “Dolan got him. You just came along for the ride.”
Krantz started to say something, then thought better of it, and went to the door. He spoke to Stan Watts. Outside, a siren approached.
Leonard DeVille's original case file was spread across the kitchen counter, along with yellowed clippings about Wozniak's death, the lead detective's witness complainant list, and notes and addresses on all six victims. Karen Garcia's address was there. Her habit of running at Lake Hollywood, and notes on her route were there, as were similar notes on Semple, Lorenzo, and the others. It was creepy; like getting a glimpse inside a cold and evil mind that was planning murder. He had watched some of these people and charted their lives for months.
Krantz said, “I've got to hand it to you, Cole. You and Dolan made a right call. That was good work.”
“See if there's anything about Dersh.”
Krantz's jaw jutted, but he didn't say anything. Maybe, just then, he thought it was possible.
We were still shuffling through Sobek's planning notes when we came to my listing in the yellow pages, and a DMV printout showing my home address and phone numbers. Dolan's home address was listed, also.
Bruly whistled. “He has you, dude. I don't know how, but he knew you and Dolan were on him.”
Krantz fingered through the papers. “He was all over Parker Center every day. He could've heard anything. He could've asked damn near anyone anything, and no one would've thought anything of it.”
The way Krantz said it made me think that he and Sobek had had more than one conversation.
Bruly spread more loose pages, exposing a snapshot that was so wrong to this place and moment that I almost didn't recognize it. A snapshot of three boys talking to a teenaged girl holding a tennis racket. The girl's back was to the camera, but I could see the boys. The boy on the right was Ben Chenier. Two other snapshots of Ben were mixed with the papers, all three taken from a distance at his tennis camp in Verdugo. Lucy's apartment address was scratched on a corner of the DMV printout.
Krantz saw the pictures, or maybe he saw the expression on my face. “Who's this boy?”
“My girlfriend's son. He's away at this tennis camp. Krantz, this address is my girlfriend's apartment, this one's my home. That's the television station where Lucy works.”
Krantz cut me off to yell outside for Watts. Somewhere out on the street, the siren died, but more were coming.
“Stan, we've got a problem here. It looks like Sobek was going to shut down Cole. He might be on the girlfriend, or the girlfriend's son, or on Cole's home.”
Something sharp and sour blossomed in the center of me, and spread through my arms and legs and across my skin. I felt myself shaking.
Watts looked through the papers and photographs as Krantz spoke, and turned away with his cell
phone before Krantz finished. Watts read out the addresses into the phone, requesting patrol officers be dispatched code three. Code three meant fast. Sirens and lights. Watts cupped the phone to glance back at me. “We got the camp's name?”
I told him. I was shaking when I borrowed Bruly's phone to call Lucy.
When Lucy came on, she was hesitant and contained, but I cut through that, telling her where I was, and that officers were on their way to her, and why.
Krantz said, “Cole, do you need me to speak with her?”
When I told her that Laurence Sobek had snapped Ben's picture, her voice came back higher and strained.
“This man was watching Ben?”
“Yes. He took photographs. The police are on their way to the camp now. They've dispatched the Highway Patrol.”
Krantz said, “Tell her we have officers on the way to her, too, Cole. She'll be safe.”
Lucy said, “I'm going to Ben. I'm going to get him right now.”
“I know. I'll come get you.”
“There's no way I could wait. I'm leaving now.”
“Luce, I'll meet you there.”
“He's got to be safe, Elvis.”
“We'll keep him safe. Stan Watts is talking to the camp, now.”
When I said it, Watts looked over and gave me a thumbs-up.
I said, “Ben's okay, Luce. The camp people have him. He's with them right now, and we're on the way.”
She hung up without another word.
I tossed the phone back to Bruly on my way out the door, trying to ignore the tinge of accusation I'd heard in her voice.
The Verdugo Tennis Camp was a good hour east of L.A. in the rural foothills of the Verdugo Mountains. Krantz used a bubble flasher, and knocked a hundred most of the way. He left Watts to coordinate the surveillance of my home and Lucy's apartment, and spent much of the drive on his cell phone talking to Bishop. Sobek's landlady provided a license number, and both the LAPD Traffic Division and the Highway Patrol were alerted. The make and model of Sobek's Jeep were identical to those of Pike's.
Williams sat ahead of me in the front seat, crying and muttering. “A fuckin' shotgun. He about cut her in half with that goddamned thing. Motherfucker. I'm gonna cap that sonofabitch. I swear to Christ I'm gonna cap his ass.”