Private Dublin

Chapter 10

Sal turned on the siren, and the lights in the front and rear windows had a miraculous effect on the traffic on the 405. Cars parted, allowing me to cut across the eight-lane highway to the carpool lane, where I could make fast progress north. The engine roared and the suspension rocked and bounced as we raced by lines of almost stationary traffic.

Sal spent the journey on his phone either texting or calling, coordinating with his team and the SWAT response unit that was dispatched to the scene. A police car had been deployed to the Hyland Inn, and a uniformed officer had confirmed with the manager that room 205 was still occupied by a man who fit the shooter’s height and build. The officer had obtained a copy of the Irish passport the man had presented on check-in. Sal flashed his phone screen at me, and I saw a pug-faced man with a broken nose and dark, curly hair.

“Passport in the name of Colm Finlay,” Sal said. He spoke into his phone. “Thanks for the ID, Officer Stotter. Find somewhere quiet to watch the place without alerting the suspect.”

I understood Sal’s game plan. The uniform had been sent to verify the lead, seemingly visiting the motel as part of a routine patrol. The cop would pull back to a place of concealment to make sure the suspect didn’t leave until we and the rapid response SWAT team arrived. It was sound policework, and I was impressed by Sal’s quick thinking and adaptability.

It took another twenty minutes of fast, traffic-weaving, bump, brake and accelerate driving to reach the motel, and we were there before the SWAT unit. Sal cut the lights a block from the place, and I made a point of slowing his Lincoln as we drew close.

My heart was thundering with the adrenalin rush of the drive, but I forced myself to remain calm. I couldn’t give our presence away. The Lincoln had to look like just another vehicle as we took a right off Sepulveda Boulevard, past the blue-and-gray colonial-style motel, and pulled into the parking lot round back. The two-story accommodation block was arranged in a horseshoe around a small garden that was fringed by tall palm trees. I took a spot in the far corner of the lot, parking so the tail of the car was pointed toward the motel rooms. Sal and I could see the door to room 205 by looking in the side mirrors, but the tall head rests would make any casual observer think the Lincoln was empty.

“Where are you?” Sal said into his phone, which was now on speaker.

“Outside of Starbucks on the other side of Sepulveda,” Officer Stotter replied, and I saw his vehicle parked about a hundred yards away in the parking lot across the street.

Sal used his radio to contact the SWAT team. “What’s your ETA, Winston?”

“We’re five minutes out,” a man said. “Sit tight, Sal.”

“I guess we do what the man said,” he told me, but my attention was drawn to a blue Toyota Camry rolling to a halt near the motel accommodation block.

The driver, a heavy-set, bald man in his fifties, got out and went to room 205. He knocked on the door and said something, before returning to his vehicle.

“I think we’ve got a problem,” I remarked.

Sal glanced in his wing mirror as the door to room 205 opened and our suspect filled the frame, a holdall slung over his shoulder and a small suitcase by his side.

“He’s leaving,” I said. “What should we do?”

The man glanced around furtively before walking to the car.

“We let him roll, we risk losing him,” Sal said. “I say we take him here, once he’s in the car. You good with that?”

I nodded.

“Winston,” Sal said into the radio, “we’ve got a situation. Suspect is leaving. We’re going to have to make a move.”

“Dammit, Sal,” Winston replied, but the detective didn’t wait to hear any more and muted the radio so he could focus on his phone.

“Officer Stotter, the suspect is on the move. Blue Toyota Camry. We’re going to have to take him. Get over here and back us up,” Sal said.

“Yes, sir,” Stotter replied.

We watched the suspect climb into the back of the Toyota, and the moment he shut the door, Sal nodded. I hit the start button, flipped the gearshift into reverse and gunned the engine. The tires screeched as the car surged back and I hit the brakes, so we stopped directly ahead of the Toyota. Sal jumped out, drew his pistol and pointed it at the suspect.

“Get out of the car now!” he yelled. “You’re under arrest.”

The terrified driver raised his hands, but a split second later, a bullet burst through his forehead, punching a hole through the windshield and spattering it with blood. The Ecokiller had shot the man through the back of his skull and followed up with a volley of shots aimed at Sal, who dodged behind the rear of the Lincoln.

I ducked down, leaning against the passenger seat as the side windows shattered and showered me with glass. The noise of gunfire was deafening, and I could smell gun smoke in the air. My exit was blocked by the immobile Toyota, so I opened the passenger door, hauled myself across the seat and tumbled out of the car onto the asphalt beside Sal. He was crouched by the rear wheel.

“Shit,” he said, clasping his gun.

I heard Stotter’s siren blaring as he raced across Sepulveda Boulevard toward us, but the sound of his approach must have spurred the shooter because he made a move, opening the rear door of the Toyota and racing from the vehicle back toward his motel room. He barged the door open with his shoulder, fired a couple of wild shots in our direction, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.