Redzone Read online

  Meanwhile, other parts of what had been the United States of America were going through a similar sorting process. The result was a patchwork quilt of so-called red zones, where mutants lived, and green zones, which were occupied by norms. Soon the zones and collections of zones gave birth to nations like Pacifica. It consisted of what had originally been the states of Washington, Oregon, and California.

  During that same period, the Republic of Texas annexed Idaho, Utah, and Arizona, which, based on what Codicil had heard, liked to keep government small and taxes low so that citizens could enjoy their full measure of freedom.

  The phone rang. It was sitting on his dresser, and since his office number was set up to forward to Codicil’s cell phone, chances were that a client was calling. A DUI probably . . . Or a pimp. Either of which would be boring. He picked up the phone. “This is Marvin Codicil.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was female. “Mr. Codicil? I don’t know if you remember me . . . This is Detective Lee. I could use some help.”

  Codicil walked over to look at the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall of his bedroom. Channel 7 was playing the head-punch video for what? The billionth time? “Yes,” Codicil said, as Zumin hit the ground again. “You could definitely use some help.”

  “So you’ve seen the footage?”

  “I think it’s safe to say that everyone in LA has,” Codicil replied dryly.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Lee said. Her voice was subdued. “I’m being held at the MDC. Can you get me out of here?”

  “Of course I can,” Codicil answered confidently. “First, I’ll try to get you released on your own recognizance. Failing that, I’ll get you out on bail. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut.”

  “Maybe I should plead guilty.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Codicil said condescendingly. “I plan to get you off.”

  “But how?” Lee wanted to know. “You’ve seen the tape.”

  “Have faith,” Codicil replied. “Punching a reporter in the face was stupid—but the decision to hire me was brilliant. Sit back and relax. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Lee started to say something, but Codicil thumbed the phone off. A boring day wasn’t boring anymore. And for that, the attorney was grateful.

  * * *

  In order to protect her from the people she had arrested in the past, Lee was placed in a jail cell by herself. That was SOP for such situations, and Lee was glad. Otherwise, she might have been locked up with somebody who was drunk, coming down from a meth-induced high, or just plain stupid.

  But with no TV, and nothing to read, time passed slowly. So much so that Lee had begun to lose faith in Codicil when a jailer arrived. “Good news,” the woman said as she unlocked the cell. “You’re out of here. Come with me.”

  Lee’s spirits rose as the jailer led her through a maze of halls to a heavily secured door. There, she had to show her wrist tag and sign a log before being allowed to enter the room where she’d been processed six hours earlier. Marvin Codicil was waiting for her.

  Codicil was bald on top with white hair that was combed back along both sides of his head. His cheeks were hollow, and that made his face appear gaunt. A pair of glasses, a thin mustache, and a neat goatee completed the look. Codicil was dressed in a blue windbreaker and a polo shirt with khaki pants. “There you are!” he said warmly. “I was able to get you out on your own recognizance. No need to thank me now—the bill will arrive later. Come on . . . Let’s get your belongings, and I’ll take you home.”

  It took ten minutes for Lee to retrieve her belt, a lipstick, and a wallet from the man behind the bulletproof glass. Then she had to sign yet another piece of paper before following Codicil out into the cool night air. His especiale was sitting in a clearly marked handicapped parking zone. And as Lee got in, she saw the permit that was dangling from the rearview mirror. “You aren’t handicapped,” she pointed out. “I should give you a ticket.”

  “Yes, you should,” Codicil agreed, as the car pulled away from the curb. “But you can’t. Not until you get your badge back.”

  Lee couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Codicil replied. “Now here’s the plan. You aren’t just any cop . . . You’re the detective who killed nine bank robbers in a single gunfight—and had the ovaries to go after human traffickers in the red zone. And that makes you something of a folk hero. So the mayor and the chief of police will have to hold at least five meetings and consult a PR agency before they can decide what to do. I’ll use that time to work my magic. You will use that time to watch TV and paint your toenails. At no point will you communicate with anyone other than me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. Can I ask what you plan to do?”

  “No.”

  Lee looked at him. “Is that because you don’t know what you’re going to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Lee smiled. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

  “Never fear,” Codicil said, as the car pulled into her driveway. “I promised to get you off, and I will. All you need to do is sit tight.”

  Lee thanked him, got out, and made her way up the drive to the kind of four plex that critics referred to as a “dingbat.” Meaning one of the formulaic 1950s-era apartment buildings that were still common throughout California. Frank Lee had lived there until his death. Lee had moved in a month later, hoping to find a clue among her father’s effects. An overlooked something that would lead her to the Bonebreaker. She was still working on it.

  But, as Lee climbed the stairs to the second floor, she came to a horrible realization. Were she to lose her badge, it would be difficult if not impossible to find her father’s killer. And that prospect frightened her. Lee felt that she owed it to the man who had raised her all by himself even if she didn’t like him as much as she wanted to.

  But there was another reason as well. Something she was conscious of but didn’t want to fully confront. Somewhere along the line, finding the Bonebreaker had become central to her life. The hunt was her mission, her purpose, and her reason for existing. Healthy? Hell, no. But there it was.

  The door opened, and the lights came on as Lee’s fingers flipped the familiar switch. “Man-cave modern.” That’s how one friend described the apartment. And for good reason. The kitchen, which was off to her right, was a tiny space hemmed in by dark wood cabinets. And the appliances were black. Bought on sale probably—by the dingbat’s penny-pinching owner.

  The kitchen opened into a small eating area, and the living room beyond, where closely drawn floor-to-ceiling curtains made everything seem smaller than was necessary. Brown paint added to the gloomy feel. She could change those things, of course . . . But that would require her to make a commitment to the place.

  The bath was to the left, with the bedrooms beyond. It felt good to shed the black pantsuit and get into some sweats. Since it was too late for a predinner jog, Lee went straight to the kitchen and opened the freezer. It was half-full of three-hundred-calorie prepackaged chicken and veggie dinners. Lee popped one of them into the microwave and took a moment to check her mail. There were forty-six voice mails waiting, along with a couple hundred e-mails, all from various media outlets.

  The microwave beeped. So Lee pulled the entree out, plopped the steaming tray onto a dinner plate, and took it into the living room. That was where she usually ate, which explained why the salt and pepper shakers were on the coffee table. A quick check served to confirm her worst fears. “The punch” was still getting a lot of play on the local twenty-four-hour news channel. Lee sighed, switched to a documentary about how B. nosilla was causing animals to mutate, and ate her dinner. She’d seen how the virus could change dogs, and it was scary.

  Then, after throwing the empty tray into the garbage and brushing her teeth, Lee went looking for a gun. She never slept without one, not since the Bonebreaker had threatened her in Tucson, and wasn’t about to start.

  The solution was the venerab
le Colt .45 double-action semiauto that her father had liked to carry off duty. It was a reliable weapon although Lee would have preferred a larger magazine. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, so she placed the pistol next to her bed. It had been a long and stressful day. But sleep came easily, as did the dreams, and all the things Lee wanted to hide from.

  * * *

  Lee was negotiating a maze, looking for a way out, when her alarm went off. She opened her eyes, saw the horizontal bars of sunlight on the far wall, and knew she’d overslept. On second thought, she couldn’t oversleep. Not while she was on administrative leave. That meant the sound was emanating from her phone rather than her clock. A member of the media then? Some dickhead who had been able to get a hold of her unlisted number? Probably. Lee let the call go to voice mail. Then it started again.

  Lee swore, rolled out of bed, and made her way over to the dresser. The phone continued to ring as she picked it up. She was about to turn the instrument off when she saw that the incoming call was from Marvin Codicil. She thumbed the green bar. “This is Cassandra.”

  “Finally,” Codicil said. “It’s nine thirty for God’s sake . . . I have good news for you.”

  Lee felt a sudden surge of hope. “Really?”

  “Yes. You can go back to work as of 1:00 P.M. this afternoon if you do exactly what I say.”

  Lee felt the hope start to fade a bit. “Which is?”

  “Which is to participate in a twelve-minute sit-down interview with Carla Zumin at noon today. If you agree, she’ll refuse to press charges. That will force the DA to drop the case, and you’ll be in the clear.”

  Lee could imagine it, sitting there under the lights, being grilled for twelve long minutes. It was her idea of hell and would constitute the first such interview she had ever granted. Codicil cleared his throat. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” Lee said, as she sat on the bed. “There’s no other way?”

  “We can go to trial, the DA will play the tape, and we’ll lose. Then I’ll ask for a suspended sentence. If we’re lucky, he or she will agree but order you to get counseling.”

  “So, I would lose my job.”

  “Yes, you would.”

  Lee considered that. To lose her badge was to lose the Bonebreaker, and she wasn’t ready to live without him. “Okay,” she said finally, “I’ll do it. But I’ll have to get a clearance first.”

  “No need,” Codicil said cheerfully. “I proposed the arrangement to Deputy Chief Jenkins an hour ago—and Chief Corso agreed. And why not? If Zumin drops the charges, that’s good for the department.”

  Lee frowned. “Did you say Deputy Chief Jenkins?”

  “Yes I did. Jenkins has been promoted into McGinty’s slot.”

  “He deserves it,” Lee said.

  “If you say so,” Codicil said. “Now get dressed and be ready in half an hour. I’ll pick you up. And, Cassandra . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Work on an apology. Something sincere.” And with that, the phone went dead.

  Lee rushed to shower, put on some makeup, and get dressed. She chose to wear a dress rather than a suit. Hopefully, that, plus some low-key jewelry, would help soften the rogue-cop persona that the media had assigned to her.

  Three news teams were parked out front, all hoping for the sort of scoop that Zumin was about to get, so Lee waited for Codicil to pull up before running the gauntlet. Reporters yelled questions at her. “Detective Lee! What was it like in jail?” “Channel 5 here . . . Has a trial date been set?” “Detective Lee . . . Is it true that Carla Zumin stole your boyfriend in high school?”

  Lee managed to get through without shoving anyone, jumped into the car, and pulled the door closed. Codicil nodded. “Don’t worry, we’ll drop the press release immediately after the interview. By this time tomorrow, they’ll be focused on something else.”

  Both remained silent until the car pulled into the lot next to Channel 7. “Are you ready?” Codicil inquired.

  “No.”

  “Well, do your best. Remember, your badge is at stake.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “And don’t hit anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. Break a leg.”

  * * *

  It was Jenkins’s first day as deputy chief and he was already knee deep in crap. Prior to the boss’s death, he’d been good cop to McGinty’s bad cop—and served as a buffer between the no-nonsense head of the S.I.S. and the team’s most controversial member.

  But now, as he entered Chief Corso’s office, Jenkins had a far better appreciation of why McGinty had been pissed off at Lee so much of the time. And the fact that her latest screwup had taken place at McGinty’s funeral was ironic to say the least.

  As befitted his station in life, Corso had an enormous office, a large desk, and a wall covered with photos of himself. They included Corso with the president, Corso with the governor, and Corso with the mayor. And in keeping with his political ambitions, the chief had movie-star good looks. His carefully combed hair was just so, his features were boyishly young, and his teeth were unnaturally white. He looked up from his computer terminal as Jenkins entered the office. “So what do you think, Sean? Will she implode?”

  “I hope not,” Jenkins said grimly. “Codicil promised me that everything would go smoothly.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Corso said as he aimed a remote at the wall-mounted flat-screen TV. “The mayor wants this story to go away, and so do I.”

  It was almost noon, and they had to watch a commercial before the Channel 7 news logo came spinning onto the screen. Jenkins took a seat as the technical director faded up onto a wide shot. And there, seated behind a curving Plexiglas desk, were the noon hour’s anchors. The eternally perky Dolly Day was screen left, while square-jawed Tom Cole sat in the middle, with weather nerd Art McGee standing on the right.

  Cole wasted no time teasing Carla Zumin’s big get. “Good afternoon. By now I think most of our viewers have seen the footage in which Los Angeles Police Detective Cassandra Lee punched one of our reporters in the face. But just in case you missed it—here’s what took place when Carla Zumin approached Lee to ask a question.”

  As the anchorman spoke, the three-shot was replaced by the now-notorious clip. So Jenkins, Corso, and thousands of viewers could enjoy the footage in delicious slow motion as Lee’s fist came around to impact the side of Zumin’s head. Spittle flew out of Zumin’s mouth, and the reporter’s eyes rolled back in her head as she collapsed.

  “Ouch!” Day said, as the director came back to her. “That had to hurt! But now, in a Channel 7 exclusive, the two women are face-to-face in Studio B. Carla?”

  The picture dissolved to a different set, where two women were seated across from each other at an oval table. “Oh my God,” Corso exclaimed. “Look at that! Lee is wearing a dress.”

  Jenkins saw that it was true and felt a new sense of respect for Codicil’s powers of persuasion. The director was on a tight shot of Zumin by then. Amazingly enough, the reporter still looked pretty in spite of the black eye. As far as Jenkins could tell, no attempt had been made to conceal the damage with makeup, and, for all he knew, the people at Channel 7 wanted to emphasize it. “Good afternoon,” Zumin said. “My name is Carla Zumin—and I’m here with LAPD Detective Cassandra Lee. As Dolly indicated I was covering Deputy Chief McGinty’s funeral, when I saw an opportunity to approach Detective Lee and ask her how she felt. That was when Detective Lee hit me.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Jenkins growled. “I was there. The bitch ambushed us.”

  Corso nodded as the director went to an over-the-shoulder shot of Lee. A halo of black hair framed her face. Her skin was brown, she had big eyes and full lips. Jenkins would never admit it to anyone else, couldn’t admit such a thing, but he thought she was beautiful. Lee spoke as the camera zoomed in. “I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for that,” she said. “Counting my father, and Deputy Chief McGinty, the Bonebreaker is believed t
o be responsible for murdering nine members of the LAPD over a period of sixteen years. That makes me angry every time I think about it. Still, there’s no excuse for what I did, and I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “Well done!” Corso said admiringly. “I didn’t know she had it in her.”

  “Apology accepted,” Zumin said, as the director cut to her. Then the reporter took the opportunity to ask Lee about the status of the Bonebreaker investigation, the now-famous bank shootout, and the well-publicized Screed case. All of which were subjects Lee hadn’t discussed publicly before. A scoop to be sure.

  “So,” Corso said, when the interview came to an end. “She performed well. Once the DA drops the charge, you can take her off administrative leave. I would suggest a desk job somewhere. Not in media relations, though.”

  Going one-on-one with the chief was a new experience for Jenkins. And Corso made him nervous. But he was determined to overcome that and took the opportunity to assert himself. “I understand where you’re coming from, sir . . . But I would like to suggest an alternative.”

  Corso listened, skeptically at first, but it wasn’t long before a smile appeared. “I can see that I promoted the right man! You are one tricky son of a bitch, Sean . . . Make it happen.”

  * * *

  Although the overall plan worked as advertised—Codicil was wrong in one respect. Rather than being allowed to return to work the day of the television interview—three days passed before the DA’s Office got around to dropping the assault charge. But that was okay, all things considered, so Lee was in a good mood as she locked the front door and made her way down to the first-floor garage.

  When Lee wasn’t driving an unmarked car, her sole means of transportation was a postplague replica of a Harley Road King Police Edition motorcycle. Lee kept the bike under a tarp and always looked forward to seeing it again. It was a brutish motorcycle, with a huge headlamp, a teardrop-shaped tank, and saddle-style seat. A pair of white panniers completed the look.