Cloudburst

Three A CERTAIN MR. JACKSON

The maroon Ford Taurus sat idle among a sea of cars whose engines were coming to life as FBI agents and employees of the impound yard worked methodically to move the other vehicles surrounding it. There normally would be a steady roar as cars passed the Harbor Tow Company on the 110 freeway as noon approached, but the air was silent except for the noise in the yard itself and the background sounds of police radios. At the request of the Bureau, the California Highway Patrol had closed the old freeway, so aged and dangerously curved that trucks were forbidden to travel it from downtown to Pasadena.

A senior agent of the Bureau’s bomb unit approached Art, who was standing behind the only protective barrier available, just fifty feet from the car.

“Art. How’s it going?” Agent Larry Purnell asked.

“You tell me in about a half an hour,” Art answered.

“Ha.” Purnell laughed. “You think this’11 save your ass?” He patted the cinder block wall.

“Thanks.” Art knew that Purnell’s triple-layered Kevlar and Nomex ‘moon suit’ would do little to protect him if the car was booby-trapped.

Another member of the bomb unit came up. “Nothing obvious.”

“You check the wheel wells?” Purnell inquired, pulling on his Kevlar-covered bubble helmet.

“Yes, sir.”

Larry Purnell smiled wide through the clear Lexan faceplate. “Good. We’ll sweep it again.”

“Right.”

“Larry.” Art put his hand on the man’s padded shoulder. “The manager said they slim-jimmed it when it came in. Still, no heroes. Okay?”

“Me?” His smile hinted of the devious. “C’mon.”

Minutes later the area around the Ford was clear and the preliminary sweeps of the vehicle’s underside for explosive triggers was done. The fact that the vehicle came in on the hook of a tow truck pretty much ruled out any motion sensors to trigger a device, and a door- or domelight-activated switch was not likely since the driver’s door had been opened in the yard. But was there a key switch? Purnell would be the first to know.

First would be the trunk. Every person in the yard cringed or ducked behind cover as the agent inserted and turned the key. There was an immediate click as the trunk lid popped up a few inches. Purnell was careful not to touch anything as he gave the rear of the vehicle a cursory inspection. He next moved counterclockwise around the vehicle, opening each door. The hood was last. He released it from inside, then inspected the engine compartment carefully, taking extra time to look for any additional wires or parts. Once a car he was checking was equipped with two batteries, the second one having four sticks of dynamite inside.

There was no explosion or hint of any booby trap. It wasn’t ‘tricked.’ Art breathed now, not only because of the lack of explosion, but because the key fit. It was the car. Confirmed. He was just damn glad that a young agent had had the gray matter to put two and two together when no one else could see the numbers. After striking out on her first check of one of the many parking garages downtown, a rather clever thought had struck her. The belief was that the shooters had parked nearby in one of the public pay lots and walked to the 818. It made sense. But Special Agent Francine Aguirre had come up with a different idea: What if the shooters just had parked the car on the street? The nearest lot was on the back side of the 818, which would have required them to walk around to the front. Two M-16s and LAW rockets would not have been the easiest things to hide on the downtown street. Aguirre’s theory also made sense, and more of it. If the shooters were on a one-way mission, why garage their car? Just street-parking it would ensure its proper disposal by the parking enforcement unit of the city, whose contracted tow trucks swept the congested downtown streets clear of illegally parked vehicles. Her quick thinking earned a personal commendation from Art, and a bump up on the investigative team. She and her partner were already at the LAX-based rental company whose license plate frame identified the car as one of theirs. Eddie was coordinating this new aspect of the investigation from the Hilton.

Art would wait with the car as the forensic teams poured over it. He doubted they would find much. That was the way this thing was going. Eddie was right. The shooters were damn stupid to leave the car where it could be found, but it protected their backsides. There was a trail that Art could imagine already. It stunk.

The car was a solid lead, though. That was satisfying. Art popped a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth and pulled off his jacket. He leaned back, half sitting on the wall. The sun was beating down as it had for so many days. The weatherman said it would be cooler than the day before. Art wasn’t sure about that. It felt like another hot one coming on.

The president stood alone in the Oval Office, touching the front of his desk lightly as he gazed through the windows to the outside. On the credenza, along with the recently placed pictures of his wife and parents, was the gumball machine that had belonged to the late president. His widow had insisted that it should stay there, with her husband’s successor. And the chair. It was a bright, fire-engine-red rocker that was known as the Santa Claus chair. He never even had the chance to be Santa for his grandkids in the White House. She wanted the chair to stay too. Damn.

An early-autumn storm was falling outside, though it felt more like one of late summer. It was humid and warm, an uncomfortable combination, but one not uncommon in Washington this time of year. Even the rain was warm. The president, however, was not aware of the climate beyond the glass. It was a comfortable sixty-eight degrees where he stood.

The car and driver were perks of his new position. Prior to the meeting, as expected, the president had asked Bud to take the position officially. He had readily accepted it. It would be a challenge. His biggest challenge.

His first dilemma in the position was the one in the past. Or was it? He could have informed the president of the revelations told him by the DCI, but he didn’t. That went against his better judgment, against his core feeling of duty and integrity. For whatever reason, things were different the further one progressed in government. So this is it? Bud wondered if it would happen to him. And the past. Was it really behind them? He would have given anything to be psychic just for a while.

Beltway traffic was picking up as the Secret Service Lincoln joined the throngs of other government workers leaving early. There was a pall over the city, and it had nothing to do with the weather. People were on autopilot, just performing. Only the stonehearted were unaffected by the killing of the nation’s leader.

Tomorrow would be a new day. The beginning of the fledgling president’s administration. Bud would be rested, as the president had insisted. Already he was feeling the lack of restful sleep catch up with him, but lying down in the backseat wouldn’t do. He would be home soon, anyway, which was all the better since his side was really starting to throb again. Fortunately there was a full bottle of Tylenol in the medicine cabinet.

“Bingo!”

Art was pleased, as Eddie could see. “And that’s not all, boss. We’ll have a list of charges on that card in a few hours.”

The photocopy of the charge slip and driver’s license was the next step in the trail. Art was happy, and thankful as hell that Aguirre had had her brainstorm. Otherwise the car would still be buried among hundreds of others and the trail would be dead. He reminded himself that it wasn’t the end. Just a little closer.

“Harry Obed…hmmm. This isn’t the same guy in the picture with the kid.” Art compared the two again. The photocopy was grainy, but it would do.

“Nope. New York is sending a copy of the license info. We’ll have a better photo then.”

Art studied the face. Middle Eastern features. And the name added credibility to his guess. But from where? Egypt? Lebanon? Yemen? This wasn’t looking like an easy one to deal with. Solving it might bring even more problems, considering the way of the world. “I think tonight is going to be busy. How about you?”

“Shoulda brought my jammies,” Eddie joked. He was good for some comic relief when needed. Things were liable to get stressful now that they had a suspect, or a knowing accomplice.

“So, what’s our next move?” Art mused.

“I think we should wait until the American Express records get here. That’ll give us a trail.”

“If they used it.”

Eddie became serious. “They used it once. Why not again?”

“What if they used the other card? Forensics found that blue tint in the melted card. Amex is green.”

“Right.”

“It was dark blue,” Art added. “Visa and Diner’s Club both have blue in them. Maybe they were trying to spread their trail around.”

Eddie got up from the table and walked to the two-pot coffee machine someone had brought from the office. It was saving trips to the 7-Eleven already. “You want some?”

It was placed close to Art’s area, and his fill for the past hour or so had been achieved. “No thanks.”

“You know, boss, it still all comes back to their carelessness.” Two sugars were emptied into the cup. “We’ll have their bio before long, but what about whoever was in the background? How do we find them?”

Art knew that was supposing there was an accomplice, or accomplices. It was becoming more apparent that there was considerable help given. “It’s not going to be a direct link, that’s for sure. We’ve got possible assistance with the car. Maybe it was rented for them in advance.”

“The records don’t show that,” Eddie said.

“Then check back to the reservation, and the credit card. Who’s paying the bills?” That was already in progress, a task made easier by the proliferation of credit and computers. “Someone who dealt with the transaction might remember something.”

Eddie returned to his chair. “Slim, but worth it.” He didn’t really think so. His hunch was that the car end of things would be cold soon.

Art had a thought. He stared away from Eddie as the concept formed. “Ed, these guys were sacrificed. They were willing, at least I’d think they’d have to be, but they were used. Whether they knew or not… I doubt it.”

“What’s your track?”

“Obed. Picture. Name. It’s a good bet he’s middle eastern, and probably his partner. If there’s a connection here with any terrorist groups, then we might want to get with some people who have experience with this sort of terrorism.”

Eddie agreed. “That’s one possibility. Israeli Intelligence.” It wasn’t a question.

“Right. Do you have copies of the license info and picture?”

“Plenty.”

The senior agent scribbled a note onto his legal pad, then tore it off and folded it down. “Here. Give this guy a call. Meir Shari. He was with the embassy in D.C., if I remember right, but he’s back home now. I was at a seminar he spoke at in Frisco. Smart, realistic thinking sort. No politico thought there.”

“Connections?” Eddie asked.

“He was it. Military liaison with a full portfolio.” Art remembered another bit of information. “He’s the guy who cuffed Eichmann.”

“Who?”

He was young, Art realized. “Adolf Eichmann. He was a Nazi war criminal hiding out in Brazil back in the sixties. Mossad sent a team in to bring him home. He had a date with the gallows.”

“And Shari was in on it? Sheee-it…”

“His connections go back. Way back. He might be able to help us. Hell, he may already be looking into it. The Israelis get nervous when any Arab kills someone in a big, loud way.”

“But how would they know the killer might be an Arab?”

Art smiled. “I’ll give you a book to read. It’s called The Guys. It’s on the restricted list, but we’re cleared. The topic is intelligence appraisal, Mossad style. The way they get some of their stuff is spooky.”

He wasn’t an avid reader — his last book had been The Hunt for Red October—but this one sounded worth the effort. Eddie figured he’d take Art up on it.

“We better keep this quiet.” Art knew that would require a secure line. There were plenty at the office, but secure sometimes meant ‘away from colleagues.’ “The Israeli consulate will have a direct line to Tel Aviv. Head on—”

Their attention shifted to Dan Jacobs. He entered the Hilton’s nearly empty banquet room carrying something wrapped in a white towel. “Dan,” Art said.

“Hell. When are they going to get you a desk.” Jacobs unwrapped the item. It was a two-by-four with fractured pieces of drywall nailed to its shorter edges, one side of which was singed an uneven black. “This might interest you, Art.”

“What do you have?”

“Just a wall member with a story to tell. Look.” He pointed to the top, exposed part of the wood. Eddie and Art came close, leaning over the piece. “They’re faint, but we can print them. We already did.”

“Scuff marks,” Eddie offered.

“Actually from a black sole, we think. This is virgin wood. It was above a doorjamb, so it was clean as a whistle. Not even dust. There was an acoustical hanging ceiling to about here.” Jacobs traced along an obvious line where paint on the drywall had faded from exposure to light.

“Where was this originally?” Art asked.

“Do you have those floor plans — fifth floor?”

Eddie retrieved them from a nearby table.

“Okay,” Jacobs began, “here’s the room where the fire came from. We figure that the charge was about here, in the center of the room. The blast went every which way, but less so to the left and right, or east and west in this orientation. Everything, street side, shooters, walls, and all, was blown out onto Seventh, while the interior south wall blew straight across the back side of the building.”

“We know all this, Dan.” Art was impatient.

“I know. Bear with me. So, we had most of the blast go north and south, plus up and down, more up though. This wall”—his finger pointed to the blue line—“was an interior support structure. You see it runs from the exterior north to almost the interior south. There’s this little indentation here; it kind of makes the room look like a lopsided L.”

“That was the east wall,” Eddie observed.

“Right. This little alcove — it measured about seven by seven — used to be an open area to the room, just like these prints show. But we found this piece of wood strapped to the northwest corner junction of the alcove’s walls. That’s code. It’s for earthquake safety. See, these prints are from the late sixties, but there was a major remodeling done in the late seventies when an art school moved into the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. This room where the shooters did their dirty work was an AV class — audiovisual. The little alcove was walled in a year after the remodeling to create a small room to store equipment in. Recorders, cameras — stuff like that. It had a single door”—Jacobs sketched the location’s most recent appearance—“right here. And it was padlocked. Only the teacher and dean had keys because there was about two hundred grand’s worth of stuff in there. Anyway, this piece was from right here.” The pencil point came down. “Right above the door.”

“I’m not clear on this,” Art said. “What’s the significance?”

“Lifelong cop, right?” Jacobs inquired. Art nodded. “Do you know how I put myself through school? I was a draftsman. Learned it in high school, three years of it. It paid damn good. All my meager knowledge told me that a wall went from floor to ceiling.”

“Right. So?”

“So why, or better, how did the scuff marks get there? I’ll tell you how — the new wall did not go all the way to the true ceiling. It went about three inches above the suspended ceiling. That gave maybe twenty-seven inches of clearance to the true ceiling.” There was still no light of revelation. “Shall I expand?”

“Please.” Art didn’t let on that an image was forming in his mind. It both intrigued and angered him.

“The wall that closed off the alcove was weaker structurally than the rest of the east wall, so it folded back against the north side of the small room when the blast went off. Strapping kept some of it intact, including this part and the doorframe. A lot of debris was blown into this seven-by-seven area, and the stuff in there was buried by it. Layers of debris. The outer layer was stuff from the room — bits of chairs, etcetera. Next were the actual parts of the blown-in wall and door, including the padlock, still closed on the hasp.” He raised an eyebrow. “Then the electronic equipment, all smashed to pieces. Finally, along with little parts of all kinds, were twelve empty soda cans and cookie and candy wrappers. The bottom of the pile.”

Eddie looked at Art. He was staring down at the wood, his jaw muscles flexing. The Joker had never seen his boss this pissed.

“So,” Art said, the air coming from his lungs like steam passing from a pipe, “we suspected they hid out for a day or two.” His body straightened up, hands in pockets, the right one squeezing his key ring for all it was worth. “The tow date on the car was Friday. That means they spent two nights in the Eight One Eight, in a locked room.”

“Correct,” Dan affirmed. “They went into the building, maybe that evening, and somehow got into that classroom. From there, just move a couple ceiling panels and climb over.”

“The scuff marks,” Eddie said. Jacobs nodded agreement.

“A few snacks and forty hours later they climbed back over and…”

“God damn it!” Art cursed loud and slow, each word distinct and filled with the anger his body was frying to suppress. His hands came to his hips as he turned away, looking up to the ballroom’s patterned ceiling. The lines crisscrossed and twisted, interconnecting each design with the eight to all sides of it. Go easy. Art. Breathe. Breathe. The compressed feeling in his chest abated slightly with the last of the three breaths, and he turned back. “That building was swept by the Secret Service on Saturday, and again on Sunday before it was secured. For Christ’s sake, how did they miss this?”

“It’s just a guess, but the Service was working off of floor plans only as recent as the remodeling.” Jacobs had thought that one out. It pissed him off royally.

“Which didn’t have the new room on it.”

“Right, Eddie.”

Art was shaking his head. Idiots. “That’s a bullshit excuse. There was a door. They had to see it, and they should have checked it. Dammit!” His heart rate rose again. “Why didn’t they just stick the key in the lock? What the hell was so hard with that?”

“No excuses, Art.” Dan wouldn’t try to make any for the Service. “The maintenance super for the building was supposed to meet the Service security detail on Sunday morning for the lockdown of the area. The one Saturday wasn’t real thorough. That was supposed to be the one on Sunday. Anyway, the maintenance guy didn’t show, so they contacted his assistant. Apparently, though, they didn’t wait for him. By the time he got there the detail was already to the sixth floor.”

“How the hell did you get all this?” Art had calmed somewhat. He sat down, his hand massaging one comer of his growing forehead.

“The assistant super was over at the building with some people from the management company that oversees the place.”

“When?” Something clicked in Art. A quick look to Eddie confirmed that he had caught it also.

“This morning. They’re pretty worried about the structure, you know. They want to get some engineers in there as soon as we’ll let them.”

Dan Jacobs was an agent who specialized in the scrutiny of physical, inanimate evidence, not the oddities and nuances of human behavior. That was the street agent’s territory. Art’s and Eddie’s. They had worked the street, knocked on doors, and asked thousands of questions during their years in the Bureau. The potentially important clue Dan had unknowingly brought to their attention might have been discovered later — maybe too late.

“Do you think that’s funny?” Art asked.

“I think it is.” Eddie smiled, his expensive and perfect dental work open for viewing.

Just as the two senior agents had failed to comprehend Dan’s analysis of the physical data without extended explanation, he did not follow what they had deduced. “What’s up?”

Art took a pen in hand. “What’s that assistant’s name, Dan?”

Within twenty minutes Eddie was en route to the Israeli consulate, and Art, with six other agents, was heading for address on La Cienega Boulevard, less than thirty minutes away.

It was a small house on the east side of the street, set on a small lot like those on either side for several blocks. The peeling yellow trim and dirty white clapboard siding were just one of the many signs of decay indicative of the neighborhood, and of many of the urban areas around the downtown area. Of course there were corridors of wealth, the high- and low-rise glass towers that were the main scenery visible from the freeways. Art wondered sometimes if it was planned that way, considering that most visitors to Los Angeles never left the freeway between their touristy destinations.

Art checked his watch. Three fifty-five. “Where the hell is the call?”

Agents Omar Espinosa and Hal Lightman did not answer. The question was to himself. The bulky Latino agent sat in the back, behind the driver, with the Atchisson shotgun resting on his lap. It was an ugly weapon, brand-new in the Bureau’s arsenal, looking like a puffed-up assault rifle less the stock. The twelve 00 buck rounds in the box magazine had only one purpose. Hal was driving, with Art to his right clutching the mike. From where they were parked the house was in view continuously, and the gas station lot afforded some protection from being seen.

“Seven Sam.” The dispatcher’s voice brought the radio to life.

“Seven Sam,” Art acknowledged his call sign.

“Be advised, LAPD units are on standby two blocks north of your location.”

“Ten-four.” Good. The local cops were in position, just in case. He was hoping they wouldn’t be needed and was fairly certain that they wouldn’t be. If he were Marcus Jackson he’d be long gone. Jackson was the maintenance superintendent for the 818, and there were more than a few questions the Bureau wanted to ask him. Thanks to Jacobs’s innocent discovery of Jackson’s absence the day of the assassination — a time when he was expected to be there — and early this day, Art and Eddie were able to find a possible link in the conspiracy. The shooters would have needed inside help, particularly if Jacobs’s theory was correct. Marcus Jackson had worked for the management group that owned the building for just six months, and he would have knowledge of the relatively easy access to the storage room.

A blue Ford Thunderbird rolled past the three agents, going north on La Cienega. Art saw the passenger crane his neck, looking down the driveway as the car passed the house.

“Deans and Harriman,” Hal said, identifying the two agents in the T-Bird.

Art figured that they could all hit the house within thirty seconds. He, Omar, and Hal, along with Rob Deans and Andy Harriman, would come from the front. Shelly Murdock and Drew Smith were on the opposite street and would come over the back wall. All they were waiting for was a signed search warrant. Judge Gallanter was assigned to the investigation full-time to provide for quick and easy processing of warrants. He had, however, taken it upon himself to take a late lunch, and had further complicated matters by leaving his pager in the office. He was being “hunted” as everyone waited.

“Seven Sam.”

“Seven Sam.”

“Possible suspect is identified from DMV as male, black, five eight, one sixty, black and brown. DOB of four twelve sixty. Justice shows arrest on five-oh-two; conviction on nine eight eighty-eight. Time served: one month in county. License status: valid. Possible suspect is registered owner of nineteen ninety-one Jeep Cherokee four-door, blue; license of four-Charlie-Frank-Mary-two-eight-one. Registration expires three one ninety-four. Copy?”

“Ten-four, copy,” Art replied. The information was written on the notebook stuck to the windshield on a suction mount. LAPD cars had computer terminals that displayed such data. No such luck in unmarked Bureau cars.

“Seven Sam, stand by.”

They waited. Art checked the time again. It was one minute past four.

“Seven Sam.”

“Seven Sam.”

“Be advised, the warrant is approved and en route. Copy?”

“Ten-four, copy. Dispatch, clear the channel and stand by.” The time was close. Art felt for his gun. Good.

“Channel Charlie is in priority use. Seven Sam is senior. All other units stand by. David and Edward channels are clear. Dispatch by.”

“King One and Two,” Art called.

“King One, by.”

“King Two, by and ready.”

Everyone was ready. Hal started the engine.

“Seven Sam to King One and King Two — move in!” The Chevy lurched forward, its tires screeching only slightly until the rubber grabbed. It wasn’t like the movies, Art had realized long ago. “Dispatch. Notify the LAPD units.”

“Tenfour.” The answer was quick and condensed.

Art was focused on the house. Down the street King Two — the T-Bird — came around in a U-turn and approached the house from the north. Neither Bureau car bothered to activate its small red strobes, but the local cops were coming hell-bent with their racks flashing a block behind King Two.

Seven Sam came across the street diagonally from the gas station and into the house’s driveway. The three doors came open and the agents jumped out. Deans and Harriman pulled up in front, facing traffic on the wrong side of the street.

Art went right up the porch steps, taking a position on the knob side of the door. There was no screen. Hal was hinge side, his back flat against the house. Omar ran to the south side of the house to cut off any escape route there. Deans and Harriman placed themselves on the north side, in the driveway, with Rob moving along the structure toward the rear, keeping well below the high window lines every step of the way.

“Seven Sam, King One in position,” Shelly reported from the back. The house was completely surrounded.

Agent Harriman directed the four LAPD officers to cover the garage and the windows overlooking the driveway. Two of them had shotguns from the patrol car racks. They all moved to the safe side of a stone wall between Jackson’s house and his neighbor’s, three of them working their way back to the single-car garage.

Hal looked to Art and got the nod. “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!” Lightman’s voice boomed. Anyone in the house would have heard it.

They listened for a few seconds. It was quiet. Not just in a lack of response to the entry demand, but hushed. Deserted. Art had thought as much. Jackson was gone. But they had to do it by the book.

“FBI! Open up, NOW!” Hal added decibels to the last word.

There was still no response.

“Hal,” Art said, holding his Smith & Wesson two-handed and pointed low. “Kick it.”

Hal warned the other units by radio that they were moving in. He looked back to the street while putting the radio in his back pocket. Traffic was stopped. He couldn’t see south, toward the freeway, but a hundred feet north there was an LAPD unit blocking the street in both directions. “I’m ready,” he said, getting the go from Art.

The lock was flimsy, as most single locks were, and the door swung violently inward under the force of Hal’s flat- footed kick. There must have been a table with something glass on it near the door as the breaking sound indicated.

Hal went in first, with Art right behind. Harriman followed them. They moved quickly, their guns pointed forward and to one side — Art left and Hal right. Andy also swept the right side, double-checking entryways as the trio passed them. Room after room was checked. The house was empty. For good measure Hal stuck his head through the covered opening to the attic. It was also empty.

Two of the uniformed cops entered as Hal hopped off the kitchen chair. They saw the dark hole to the attic above his head. “Damn brave, mister,” one of them commented. Its meaning was more ‘damn stupid.’

Art’s head turned sharply to the lawmen. “Secure the outside, please.” The words were not a request. Having jurisdiction did have advantages. Both of the cops retreated out in silence. Art turned to Hal. “Let them handle perimeter, but I don’t want them in here. This is Bureau territory.”

“Got it, Art,” Hal said. “Gladly.”

Outside, the senior LAPD officer — a sergeant — instructed his men, more of whom had arrived, to secure the scene. That meant stringing a line of yellow perimeter tape all around. It also meant closing the right northbound lane of traffic. The FBI vans belonging to the forensic teams would need the parking space very soon. The downside was obvious; this close to the Santa Monica freeway there was bound to be a hell of a traffic jam on La Cienega, especially at four in the afternoon — the height of rush hour.

“Hal, you’re front,” Art said. The agent moved to block the front door. Only those with a suit and a shield would get past him. Andy opened the back door, letting Shelly and Drew in.

“Shelly, check the back. Drew, you secure it. Watch the back wall. We don’t want any busybodies getting over. Andy, you’re with me — let’s take a look.” Art lifted the hand-held Motorola to his mouth. “Seven Sam to dispatch.”

“Seven Sam.”

“Notify forensics that we’re going to need two teams at this location. Roll six more teams out here, ASAP. Copy?”

“Ten-four, copy.”

The two men first took stock of the front room. An older TV stood on a wobbly looking stand. Stone age, Andy thought. The rest was sparsely furnished. Nothing extravagant. Art led off to the back of the house, to the lone bedroom. Andy detoured back to the kitchen. Their inspection wasn’t detailed, just designed to pick up any obvious clues. Forensics would tear the place apart.

Their first look at the bedroom had been past the barrel of their guns, with hearts pounding and senses tuned to detect threats. They hadn’t seen the obvious. Art saw it now. Maybe people who knew they weren’t returning to a place were predisposed to leaving it disheveled as a defense against their loss. Horseshit. The drawers were open, as was the closet. Art walked to it. It was half empty, he estimated. Mr. Jackson must be doing some traveling.

“Sir.” Shelly stepped in.

“Yeah.” Art was scanning the room, outwardly not acknowledging the agent’s presence.

“There’s a car in the garage. It matches with the suspect’s vehicle — license and everything.”

Art’s eyes were wide when he turned to Shelly. “Well, imagine that. A new-looking car, right?”

“I wouldn’t mind driving it.”

“It looks like our friend is getting guiltier by the minute.” And he wasn’t going to make himself simple to find. “He may be using some other transportation. Oh well. Go ahead and call it in, Shell. I want an APB out on this guy.” Art looked around the room from its center, then down. The bed was made. Didn’t sleep here, did you, Marcus? Something happened here, though. Art could feel it.

The all-points bulletin went out immediately. Mr. Marcus Jackson, whose present whereabouts was unknown, was a wanted man. The official reason was for questioning in relation to the assassination. Unofficially, the reason that often carried the most weight in the legally constrained world of police work, he was a suspect in the conspiracy and a person who had the capacity to kill. Twenty-five minutes after the broadcast went out nearly every law enforcement agency south of Sacramento had at least the verbal information. Most had photos spitting out of their fax machines. The California Highway Patrol field offices were the first to get them, and soon after, their fleet of patrol vehicles had them as well.

The newly arrived teams of agents were pounding on doors in the neighborhood. People saw things — that was a fact of human nature. The presence of the police and serious-looking men in suits made the resident of the house on La Cienega an instant celebrity up and down the block. Soon everyone would remember something about Jackson.

Most of it would be useless, but something helpful was bound to be sifted from the whole.

Art left the house by the back door just as the second forensic team was arriving through the front. They would start on the house. Art’s interest was now on Jackson’s Jeep, which the first forensic team to arrive had already begun working on.

He recognized only one of them. “Bobby. You’re among strangers.”

“I’m the guide,” Agent Bobby Valenzuela explained. “This is the team from Denver.” He went on to introduce the three visitors. “No one thought about getting all these guys around once they were here.”

No one had thought of that, Art now saw. You couldn’t just hand the van keys to out-of-town assistance and expect them to find their way around a city like L.A. “Where are our guys?”

Valenzuela slid the elastic-strapped dust mask over his head, letting it hang at the neck. It was meant to keep the moist breath of the forensic agent off any prints he might be examining on the vehicle. “They’re all tied up with evidence back at the site.”

Even with the incoming help they were still stretched thin. Art motioned to the vehicle. “What do you think?”

“We’ll get prints for sure. I can see some with just my eyes.”

“I want to know if there are any besides Jackson’s. If there are we’re going to need a rush match with any we found on the suspect debris.”

Valenzuela shook his head. “I don’t know about that. Dan said there isn’t much, if anything, that we can use. A couple partial prints at best.”

“Still, let’s do it,” Art persisted. “Do your best.”

The mask came up, covering the agent’s mouth, and he turned to do his magic on the Jeep. Art stood silently at the open side door to the garage. The big double doors that opened to the driveway were still closed to the dismay of the crowd gathering across the street.

Art didn’t see Jerry Donovan come up from behind. A tap on his shoulder alerted him. “Jerry. How the hell did you get here? I mean, in town?”

Donovan had been on a backpack fishing trip in the Maroon Bells area of Aspen, Colorado. “Let me tell you, it’s a damn shame when an Army chopper plucks you out of a spot that God Himself made for the fisherman. What’ve we got going here?”

It took five minutes to update his boss. “He’s got some relatives, according to some lady two doors down. But that’ll take some time to confirm.”

Donovan took it all in. He had obviously come straight from a quick change of clothes and a shave. His balding head of black hair was longer than he usually wore it. “A smart one, it seems.”

“Maybe.” Art wasn’t sure about that. Fortunate, possibly, and well directed more likely. He felt it in his gut that there was a further player in this, someone behind Jackson.

The second agent felt his top collar button pop. “Damn fast dressing!” He left it undone. “Hey. What say you and me head on back to the barn.” The barn was the office, and Art hadn’t been there since the morning of the shooting. Donovan bent forward and down, examining Art’s chin. “If that’s the worst you ever get…”

“I know. I’m lucky.”

“Who’s senior here?”

“Hal Lightman.” Art looked to the front.

“Good. Ready?”

The drive to the FBI office was slow in the lingering Los Angeles rush-hour traffic, taking nearly forty-five minutes.

“I went a little out of channels, Jerry,” Art admitted as the car exited the freeway. Donovan’s silence meant ‘go on.’ “Eddie’s over at the Israeli consulate. I wanted to contact someone I knew from their embassy — a terrorism expert.”

“I don’t know, Art.” Donovan could see how that might backfire. “Picture the media if they get a hold of it. ‘FBI and Israelis investigate the middle eastern connection in the assassination.’” His gaze emphasized the words. “You get my drift? Especially if this Jackson connection pans out. The press would read that as a homegrown job, even if it’s not.”

Art wanted to tell his superior that his line of thought was bullshit, but wisely toned down his tongue. “I understand, but one of the shooters is—”

“Alleged shooter, Art.” Again, Donovan spoke louder with his eyes. “Remember that.”

“Are you telling me to back off on that?” Art asked, with no love of the idea in his voice.

Donovan paused. “No. It’s your call.”

There hadn’t been any doubt in Art’s mind. His boss was just doing his job, and in a small way, he was right. But then he thought in political terms, not those of a cop. He had come up through the ranks from the financial investigations section, a path that was safe and deskbound from beginning to end. That, Art believed, made him a candidate for something, somewhere, someday. Fortunately, though, he didn’t impose his own skittishness on those he supervised. And there was that small bit of truth in Donovan’s words. The whole thing could be taken wrong, and that could lead to even more problems. International incident? Maybe. But the detrimental effect it could have on the investigation was what worried Art the most. The Israelis certainly wouldn’t be happy to share any information if their role were disclosed and twisted. He had to make sure it was kept quiet, and he had to get a good, solid link. Evidence that Obed was one of the shooters, and that there was something substantive in any relation he or the other assassin had to any terrorist backing.

From the underground parking garage at FBI headquarters Art went up six floors, directly to his office. The guard sitting at the reception area near the elevators paid little attention to the senior agent.

Art opened the door to the outer office. Carol, his secretary — administrative aide, he corrected himself — was gone. He checked his watch. It was almost six. Shit… Eddie. He picked up the phone.

Eddie answered on the first ring as it echoed in the Hilton’s banquet room. “Toronassi.”

“Ed. How’d it go?”

“I hear you’ve been kickin’ doors, boss.”

“It keeps me young. What happened at the consulate?”

“It went good. They were helpful, to say the least. Damn nice people. I guess they’ve had enough experience with this crap too. Anyway, I spoke with Meir. He said he would personally work this through and call back as soon as he has anything.”

“Ed. I want you to take the call. No one else.”

“Okay.” Eddie wondered what the problem was. “Something up?”

There was no need to burden Eddie, or anyone else, with the trivial crap that had trickled down. “No. I just want to keep this under wraps.”

“No problem.” Someone was laying something on the boss. Eddie figured that had to be it. The boss didn’t let little things show, but he couldn’t hide those things very well that really bothered him.

“Great. Thanks for handling all that.” Art pulled off his tie with a tug and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then the jacket came off and landed on the couch. “Jackson was clean gone. No suitcases or anything like that left in the house, and lots of his clothes were gone, so I think we can safely say he wanted to get out of town before the—“ Art’s phone buzzed. “Hold on, Ed.” He pushed the intercom button. “Jefferson… Okay.” Art pressed another line. “Hal, what’s up?”

It took only a minute for Hal Lightman to explain the development.

“All right. Okay, get that out as a supplemental. Good work.” He returned to Ed. “Good news.”

“Jackson?”

“One of his neighbors got home from work a while ago and had some very interesting info for us. It seems our friend pulled into his driveway early Saturday in a brand-spanking-new Cadillac DeVille, white with that gaudy gold trim — her words. She said it looked like a pimp’s car. He threw a few suitcases in the trunk and took off. She didn’t remember any plates on the car, just a dealer frame. She couldn’t remember where from.”

“It looks like he came into some money,” Eddie said.

“But from where? Or who?” Art fumbled with his sleeve buttons before rolling them up. He dropped his body into the high-back leather chair. “God, this feels good. Ed,” he said, leaning forward on the desk, “get everything you can on Jackson. Personnel records and everything. One of the neighbors mentioned something about him having relatives back East, but not much more than that. There might be something in his records somewhere. Check that against his five-oh-two arrest. Maybe his mother or brother or someone bailed him out then.”

“Okay. We’ve already got his file from the building manager, but they don’t keep very good records. There’s nothing there about family.”

That was a little strange. “Was there a place for it?”

“Yeah. It was just blank.”

Oh, well, Art thought. Nothing was going to be direct or easy in any of this. “Who was his last employer?”

“RTD. He drove buses for them starting about ten years back. We should have that file in an hour.”

Art nodded, looking at the coffeepot. It was off and empty. Carol usually had a pot waiting for him, but then he usually walked into the office at six A.M. “Okay. Let me know if the Israelis call, and call me if you get anything on Jackson. Jerry said the director wants an update in the morning, so I’ll be here for a while. It’s longhand tonight.”

Eddie chuckled. “Carol’s gonna love you tomorrow. Good luck.”

Art hung up and pulled his top drawer out. He set the legal pad there, then got up to make a much needed pot of coffee. Again the guard paid Art no mind as he filled the glass pot at the water cooler. Back in the office he put a prepacked filter in the drip drawer and switched on the machine. Three minutes later the first smell of fresh coffee reached him behind the desk.

Two cups and four pages into the report he felt the uneasiness again. First he found himself focusing on his hand gripping the pen. It wouldn’t move. Damn! Two weeks had passed since his last… She’s gone. You blew it.

The pen slid out of his hand. Art stretched the fingers from both hands out, examining the palms and his quivering fingers. They steadied after a few breaths.

Art rose from his seat and went to the couch, sitting at the end uncluttered by his shed clothing. He wondered if anyone in the office knew how many nights he had slept here. The apartment just wasn’t the right place. It didn’t feel like a home. Home was the house in Monrovia, and Lois had gotten that as part of the divorce settlement. You drove her away. Hell, she deserved the house, and a lot more. Art was sure of that. It had been a good fifteen years, or so he thought, that had ended less than a year ago. Now she was in the house alone…or was she? He decided he was beating himself up enough without throwing in the ‘new lover’ factor.

He took the jacket from his left and balled it into a pillow, adding that to the cushioned arm of the couch, then lay down, his eyes looking straight up. The doctor said these relaxation exercises were important as part of his overall program to better his health — and save his life. Overall program! Quit smoking and do visualization exercises. It was supposed to do good. He would do them as promised.

First, he found a point on the dim ceiling as he closed his eyes…

As morning passed to afternoon, and afternoon to evening across the nation, people dealt with the shock of the previous day’s events in whatever way they could. Some were indifferent. Some were in disbelief. Some were openly grieving.

Bud DiContino was quiet in his contemplation of his feelings. President Bitteredge had been a man of integrity and high morals. He only wished he had been given the opportunity to know him better and work more closely with him. Deputies did not have the privilege of easy access to the president.

But what about the new president? Would he be as rock steady in his beliefs as his predecessor? Could he handle the job? Bud didn’t know. No one did. He had done well so far. But the adrenaline rush of the day and the motivation to get the job done would wear off of everyone, including the president. What then? Bud decided that waiting was the best cure for his questioning.

It had been a long day and his side hurt like hell as he lay on the bed in his jogging shorts. With these ribs he wouldn’t do any running for a while. Next time, he thought, to hell with the Tylenol. Pure codeine, as the E.R. doctor had suggested. The shower had felt good, standing under the hot stream for twenty straight minutes. Bud glanced at his watch and let both arms rise in the air and fall to the bed above his head. His eyes were closed. The two Secret Service agents assigned to him had been asked to wake him at five A.M., just in case he found his way to the snooze button. They would pass it on to the twelve-to-eight detail shortly.

Sleep came easily. He could feel it enveloping him as his mind drifted off to a place where yesterday never happened.