Graveyard Page 9

  It was early in the day, so the space was half-empty. The walls were puke green, the plastic chairs were orange, and the floor consisted of polished concrete. As Lee looked around, she saw that most of the visitors were female. Women like herself who had hooked up with a lying, cheating, son of a bitch and were paying the price for it.

  Really? Lee asked herself. Lawrence doesn’t get to explain? Suddenly he’s a lying, cheating, son of a bitch?

  Okay, Lee agreed. The lie was a lie of omission. And being married isn’t equivalent to cheating. As for his mother, she’s dead, and it wasn’t right to call her a bitch.

  “Visitor eighteen can approach window seven,” a disembodied voice said over the PA system.

  Lee glanced at the slip of paper clutched in her hand, saw the number eighteen, and stood. A short walk took her over to the row of booths that divided the room in half. They were narrow and anything but private since the people to either side would be able to listen in if they chose to. Visitors were separated from the prisoners by a thick wall of Plexiglas—and in order to have a conversation, both parties were required to use a black handset. That meant all conversations could be monitored by the MDC’s staff, and Lee made a note to remember that as she sat on a rickety chair and waited for Kane to appear.

  About a minute passed before he was released from a holding area and allowed to come out. Lee was shocked by what she saw. Kane looked years older, and there were deep circles under his eyes. He managed a smile as he sat down opposite her. The phone made his voice sound hollow. “Hi, hon, I wish you hadn’t come. Codicil told me that it would be a bad idea.”

  Lee shrugged. “I had to,” she said honestly.

  Kane made a face. “I’m in trouble, huh?”

  “Yes, you are. It doesn’t get any worse than murder.”

  “I meant with you,” Kane replied.

  Lee’s eyes met his. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? You’re a psychologist, for God’s sake.”

  Kane looked down. “I’m a psychologist, but I’m human. I planned to tell you. And I started to tell you on two different occasions. But I didn’t want to lose you. And I was afraid that I might.”

  “That was stupid. It isn’t like my life is perfect . . . And you knew that.”

  Kane’s eyes came back up. “I’m sorry.”

  “So tell me now. Tell me about your wife—and the first murder charge.”

  Kane shrugged. “We met in college. There was an explosion of pheromones. Sometimes we had sex three times a day. It seemed as if we were perfect together, and Monica was in a hurry to get married. So I agreed. Everything went well at first. But it wasn’t long before I came to realize that Monica was bipolar. And when she was in the manic mode, we had a tendency to fight. That resulted in loud disturbances that caused the neighbors to complain. So when Monica failed to arrive at work, and was found dead in her car, the police took a close look at me.”

  “I would,” Lee said.

  Kane nodded. “And, since I’d gone camping by myself, I had no alibi. Making a bad situation worse was the fact that the local DA was up for reelection. My case looked like a slam dunk, so he filed charges against me. But the whole thing came apart a couple of days later when a meth freak named Matt Hickey was arrested for speeding. They found Monica’s purse in his car. Subsequent analysis of a gun found in Hickey’s apartment confirmed that it had been used in the murder.”

  “So the charges were dropped.”

  “Yes.”

  They were silent for a moment. “Okay,” Lee said finally. “Tell me about this murder charge. You left the condo . . . Then what?”

  Kane told her about the chaos on the streets, how he’d been caught up in a rolling traffic jam and noticed the girl. She was walking up the street with a knapsack on her back. There was a steady stream of such people. Then Kane saw two men step out of a doorway and block her path. The streetlights were still on at that time, and Kane saw the men grab her.

  At that point, Kane half expected some of the other pedestrians to intervene. They didn’t. The Aztec navy was shelling LA, and it was every man and woman for themselves. So Kane pulled over, got out of his car, and yelled at the men to stop. And when one of them fired a shot, Kane fired back. “It all happened so fast,” Kane said. “I pulled the trigger, felt the recoil, and saw him fall. The fact that I hit him was more luck than skill. A patrol car arrived seconds later. That was when I realized that both the girl and the second man had fled. I told the cops that I’d fired in self-defense, but they couldn’t find the dead guy’s gun. So they placed me under arrest, and here I am.”

  “And Codicil hasn’t been able to find the girl?”

  “Not that I know of,” Kane answered.

  There was another moment of silence. “So,” Lee said. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  Kane shook his head. “You’re staying at the condo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Keep your eye peeled for bills. If you’ll pay them, I’ll pay you back.”

  “Sure,” Lee replied.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you get over it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thirty seconds,” a third voice said over the phone.

  “Thank you,” Kane said. “Be careful out there.”

  “I will,” Lee promised. “And you be careful in here.” The visit was over.

  Lee got up, turned, and crossed the room. Her thoughts were churning as she left the building and walked into a media ambush. As a police officer, she knew that some reporters had paid informants inside the MDC. And when Channel 7’s Carla Zumin rushed over to shove a mike in her face Lee knew that she’d been sold out. “Detective Lee,” Zumin said breathlessly. “Your boyfriend has been charged with murder . . . Are you working his case?”

  “No,” Lee said flatly as she continued to walk. “That would be unethical.”

  “Do you think Dr. Kane is innocent?” Zumin asked, hurrying to keep up.

  Lee was interested to hear the certainty in her own voice. “Yes, I believe he’s innocent. And I have nothing else to say at this time.” Lee figured the interview would make the twelve o’ clock news. Codicil would be pissed.

  Lee forced herself to put Kane and his situation on a back burner as she made her way to a nearby parking lot and the creeper that was parked there. After checking the vehicle for trackers, she got in, started the engine, and drove to the Street Services Garage. She was thinking about the face case as she cleared security and went to her desk.

  But before Lee could talk to Yanty, she needed to check her voice mail. And that was when she heard Quigley’s message. “Hi, Cassandra . . . This is Peter. What did you think of the stuff on Maxim’s thumb drive? Please call me when you have time.”

  Lee felt a pang of guilt. The truth was that the memory stick hadn’t even crossed her mind. So she opened her bag and looked inside. And there, in among some loose bullets, stray breath mints, and pennies was Maxim’s thumb drive.

  With other desks all around, there was no such thing as privacy in the new bull pen. So Lee inserted a pair of earbuds, slipped the drive into a port on her computer, and clicked PLAY. There was a moment of black followed by some low-quality video. The camera was static and, judging from the angle, located fairly high. In Maxim’s apartment? That seemed like a reasonable guess.

  There were two people in the shot. One of them was Mayor Getty, and the other was a man who looked familiar but Lee couldn’t place at first. Then a crawl appeared at the bottom of the frame. The date and time of day was followed by a title: “Mayor Melissa Getty meets with Mr. Sydney Silverman.” Lee knew that Silverman was the controversial real-estate magnate who’d been buying up large chunks of postplague LA on the theory that land prices would rise.

  At first, the conversation was focused on golf. But it wasn
’t long before the discussion turned serious. Silverman had a full head of white, shaggy hair, and craggy good looks. There was passion in his voice. “People are so focused on the present,” he said, “that they can’t see past it. Yes, it will take years to rebuild LA. But is that what we want? The old Los Angeles? Including all of the problems it’s known for? I don’t think so. We need to think big. The population is growing, Melissa . . . My experts project that 90 percent of the empty houses in LA will be occupied in ten years. And it won’t end there. So where will people live? In the suburbs? Sure, some will. But what if we could provide them with an alternative? A floating city just offshore? Here . . . Take a look at this.”

  Silverman handed a binder to Getty at that point, and even though the camera couldn’t see what was in it, Silverman’s comments were sufficient to give Lee a pretty good idea of what the real-estate magnate had in mind. “We call it Oceana,” he said. “It would be eight hundred feet wide, five thousand feet long, and twenty-five stories tall. In addition to housing fifty thousand people, Oceana would employ three thousand workers. That’s a significant number of jobs, Melissa . . . And a lot of voters.

  “As presently conceived, the complex would have its own heliport, hospital, and schools. An underwater high-speed train would carry people back and forth to town. Water, power, and government services would be supplied from shore. And that’s where you come in . . . We need your help to share the vision, obtain the necessary permits, and coordinate the governmental aspects of the project.”

  “I don’t know,” Getty said doubtfully. “It’s a bold idea. I’ll give you that. But it would be a hard sell where most of my constituents are concerned. How much would a home in Oceana cost?”

  Silverman shrugged. “About five million or so.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “I understand your caution,” Silverman assured her. “I really do. But consider this . . . You have an election coming up in less than a year. My party, which is to say the Constitutional Party, can field a very strong candidate. You know who I’m talking about. But, if conditions were right, we could put forward a weaker candidate. Someone you could easily defeat. Think about it.”

  Based on Getty’s expression, Lee knew she was thinking about it. “That’s a very interesting idea, Sydney . . . Very interesting indeed. But it’s the sort of proposal that will require some thought. How ’bout I get back to you in a week or so?”

  Silverman agreed. And a new crawl appeared: “Three weeks later, in a joint press conference with Sydney Silverman, Mayor Getty endorsed the floating-city concept. Subsequent to that, a private/government study group was announced and is currently working to complete a Silverman-funded feasibility study.”

  Lee clicked pause. Now she could see why Quigley was concerned. Although Getty hadn’t agreed to the scheme on tape—the combination of the offer and the subsequent endorsement spoke volumes. And might cost Getty the next election if it were known. Could the video put her in jail? Maybe . . . Only the DA could say for sure.

  But why? What motivated Maxim to set up the camera and make the recording? Lee figured that the tape was an insurance policy of sorts. A way for Getty’s lover to force a financial settlement should that become necessary.

  However, in the final moments of his life, it looked as though Maxim decided to give the thumb drive to Getty as, what he called, “a going-away present.” It was an empty gesture perhaps, since he knew he wouldn’t need the leverage, but it could have been more than that. Maybe Max felt something for Getty . . . Maybe he was in love with her.

  The next hour was spent viewing the rest of the videos. Five in all. Included was a plot to green-light a zoning change in return for a donation to Getty’s favorite charity, an agreement to tolerate a garbage strike if the Sanitation Workers Union would support the higher transit fares that Getty was seeking, and a deal with the Church of Human Purity to let LA’s stringent antimutant ordinances stand in exchange for an energetic “Vote Getty” campaign. All of which led Lee to believe that she should take the matter up the chain of command.

  She sent an e-mail to Quigley. “The material you gave me is very interesting. I’m going to pass it on to Deputy Chief Jenkins to see what he thinks. I suggest we keep the contents of the tapes to ourselves for the moment. More when I have it. Cassandra.”

  Lee reached for the thumb drive, and was just about to remove it from the computer when she thought better of it. The next minute was spent copying the contents to a password-protected “box” in the cloud. Why? Just in case, that’s why. Then she took the memory stick out and placed it in a pocket.

  A short walk through a busy corridor took her to Jenkins’s office. He was talking to a member of the vice squad. So Lee had to wait until the other detective left. He was dressed like a pimp and winked at her on his way out. Jenkins waved Lee in. There was a frown on his face. “Have a seat,” he instructed. “There’s something I want you to hear.”

  Lee sat on a guest chair as Jenkins turned the speakerphone on and entered a code. When the voice mail came on, Lee recognized Chief Corso’s voice right away. “Lee’s been at it again, Sean . . . It seems she went to the MDC for a visit with Doctor what’s-his-name, and Channel 7 nailed her on the way out. I guess she’s got every right to visit her boyfriend in jail, but not while she’s on duty, which I believe she was.” Click.

  Lee winced. “Sorry, Chief . . . That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” Jenkins said. “I have enough problems without having Corso in my face. So, what’s up?”

  Lee stood and went over to close the door before returning to her seat. “Uh-oh,” Jenkins said, “I don’t like the looks of that.”

  Lee placed the thumb drive on the surface of his desk. Jenkins eyed the device but made no attempt to reach out and touch it. “What’s on it?” he inquired warily.

  “Videos of Mayor Getty cutting all sorts of political deals in return for various types of compensation,” Lee said.

  Jenkins’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope,” Lee said, “I’m serious.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Lee told him about Maxim, about his dying request, and about Quigley. “After looking at the videos, he decided that the Special Investigative Section should review them,” she said. “So he gave the drive to me. And, having viewed the clips, I think you should eyeball them, too.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Jenkins responded sourly. “I hope this is much ado about nothing. Our city has enough problems.”

  “But you’ll take a look.”

  “Yes, I’ll take a look. And Cassandra . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep this to yourself for now.”

  “I will . . . And I told Quigley to do so as well.”

  “Good. Is there anything else? No? Then go out there and solve some crimes.”

  Lee left the office, took a right, and went looking for Yanty. He was eating lunch at his desk. It consisted of a P&J sandwich and a carton of milk—and that was as predictable as the sun’s rising in the morning. “So, Dick,” Lee began, as she plopped down next to him. “How’s it going?”

  Yanty wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “My back hurts, my car broke down, and the Dodgers lost.”

  Lee smiled. “And the face case?”

  “Try reading your e-mails.”

  “I’m a shithead.”

  “That’s for sure,” Yanty agreed expressionlessly.

  “So?”

  “So we’re making progress. TransLab received a request from ABCO Medical Technologies yesterday morning. At 2:00 this afternoon, they’re going to deliver the results to Joe Pody’s storefront. And we’ll be there to see who comes to pick it up.”

  “And we’ll follow them.”

  “If you can fit it in.”

  Lee made a face. “I hate you.”
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  “But you need me.”

  “True.”

  “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Yanty said.

  Lee spent the next forty-five minutes plowing through e-mails and paperwork. Lunch consisted of a turkey sandwich and coffee purchased off the food truck out in the parking lot. Lee ate while Yanty drove. Thirty minutes later, they passed the strip mall where Pody’s business was located.

  His storefront was sandwiched between a beauty shop and a pizza joint near the intersection of Culver and Inglewood—a location that would be convenient to those who lived in or around the Vista Gardens Housing projects. The front window was hung with a variety of neon signs that read, OPEN 24 HOURS, PAYDAY LOANS, and PRIVATE MAILBOXES, all in bright primary colors. By parking in a lot on the other side of Culver, the detectives could watch the front of Pody’s establishment without being noticed. But what about the back?

  Lee had finished lunch by then and volunteered to take a look. She crossed the street at the nearest light, walked past the end of the strip mall, and entered the alley that ran behind it. Judging from appearances, that was where most of the local businesses got their deliveries. Pody’s was the exception—and for good reason. Any place that offered payday loans would be a target for stickup artists, so Pody’s back door was protected by a wrought-iron security gate, and there was a sign instructing customers to use the front entrance. This was a piece of good luck because it meant the detectives wouldn’t have to monitor both entrances.

  After completing her mission, Lee circled back to the car and Yanty. A vehicle wearing a TransLab logo arrived fifteen minutes later. “That’s nice,” Lee commented, as she peered through her binoculars. “Thanks to the logo, we know the delivery is being made.”

  “I requested that,” Yanty said smugly. “And you’re welcome.”

  Lee laughed. “Okay, but what about the ABCO courier? Chances are they won’t arrive in a branded vehicle.”

  “Joe Pody’s going to call me when they make the pickup,” Yanty said confidently.

  “Why would he do that? I thought we were going to leave him out of it.”