The Competition

64

It had been a lot of hard-and-fast running in the last forty-eight hours, and by the time we left the jail, Bailey and I were both beat. Plus, I was starving. “I don’t know about you, Keller, but I’m about ready to eat my own hand.”

“Yeah, me too. So let’s make it someplace close. And quiet.”

“Checkers?” The restaurant on the ground level of the downtown Hilton had a peaceful, comfy dining room and great service.

“Sold.”

We pulled up in front of the restaurant in less than ten minutes and scored a table next to the glassed-in patio. I looked out at the skyline. The night was clear, but the ambient light from all the office buildings shrouded the stars from view.

I picked up the menu. “Think we can risk a glass of wine? I could sure use one.”

“No, but I’m getting one anyway.”

We both ordered the sea scallops with baby bok choy and a glass of white, which we decided felt less alcoholic than red.

I held up my glass. “Here’s to Jax getting a phone call from psycho boy.” We clinked and sipped.

“Pisses me off about the suicide,” Bailey said.

“Yeah, there’s no satisfaction in it. We can’t get our pound of flesh and we can’t get any answers.” Which was why shrinks usually had to rely on what these shooters left behind. Like the Columbine basement tapes or letters or journals. “We should let Michael and Jenny know.”

“Won’t be any surprise to them.”

True. They’d pegged Logan as suicidal right off the bat.

Bailey continued. “Tomorrow we dig into Evan’s background. His parents have been calling the chief about ten times a day-”

“Can’t say I blame them.”

“Me either. But we’re doing all we can. And I got Nick to do a computer search on Evan’s background since the family bounced around so much.”

“Do we know where he lived before they moved to the Valley a year ago?”

“Yeah, Texas.”

Our dinner arrived, and the delicious aroma brought all conversation to a halt. We didn’t speak again until we had forked up the last of the scallops.

Bailey patted her mouth with the napkin and sighed. “What do you make of that car Jax described?”

An old Chevy junker. “My first guess was Rent-A-Wreck. But even they require a credit card, don’t they?”

“Probably. But we can’t do much without a license plate. Or at least a better description.” Bailey’s cell rang and she looked at the number. “Van Nuys Division.” That was in the San Fernando Valley, but not the West Valley, i.e., Woodland Hills. With a puzzled look, she answered the call. “Keller.”

I took out my cell phone and found seven messages, all from the same number, marked urgent. Vanderhorn. I didn’t need to listen to know what they said. Vanderhorn had heard the press release about Logan Jarvis’s death and was on the warpath. I’d have to call in and face the music tomorrow. Bailey sat up in her chair.

“What? When?” she said.

My chest tightened as I watched her make notes on her small pad. I motioned to the waiter that we needed the check. Whatever Bailey was hearing, it wasn’t good.

When she ended the call, I said, “The check’s coming. Do I want to know?”

“No-”

“Tell me it’s not another-”

“Shooting. At the Target on Ventura near De Soto. Three wounded, one dead. So far.”

“Do they have him?”

“No. By the time they called the cops, he was out of there.”

“Any descriptions of the guy? His car?”

“Don’t know yet.”

We could only hope. I paid the check, and we were on the road in less than two minutes.

Bailey flew down the freeway with grim determination, weaving through the last of the evening’s commuters. For both our sakes, I decided not to distract her. And I didn’t have a thought worth sharing anyway. All I could think about was the fact that we were always playing defense, always too late to do anything more than witness the carnage.

When we got to the scene, I saw that this Target was a freestanding building fronted by a huge parking lot. Right now, at least half of the lot seemed to be filled with squad cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. Bailey parked as close as she could, and we jumped out and hurried toward the store. Then it occurred to me that this location should have been considered West Valley. “How come Van Nuys Division called you?”

“Everyone and his brother responded. I’d guess they put Gina on this and she told someone to call me.”

Bailey was right. After she’d badged us past the line of patrol officers holding back the crowd-the curious and the reporters-we found Gina talking to a man in a sport shirt and tie just outside the store. She waved us over. “This is the manager, Enrique Sosa.” Gina pointed to a double row of registers near the front of the store. “Enrique was walking toward the cashiers when it happened.” He was still breathless and sweating in spite of the cold night air.

“Is that where it happened? Near the cashiers?” Bailey asked.

“No, it was in front, just inside the entrance.” He pointed to the three sets of double doors. The area was guarded by another set of officers. Behind them I saw paramedics huddled around a body on the floor. Torn, bloody pants that’d been ripped off the body lay a few feet away. Next to them was a purse, its contents strewn across the floor. “He walked in and just started shooting.”

“Could you see his face?” I asked.

“No, he was wearing a ski mask. One of those kinds with just eyeholes. And he had on a coat, like an Army jacket-what do you call it-”

“Camouflage?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Could you tell how tall he was? Anything about his size?” Bailey asked.

Enrique swallowed and wiped his forehead. “Uh, I think he was kind of tall.” But Enrique wasn’t much taller than me-five feet seven, tops. Most men would seem tall to him.

“Could you show us how much taller than you?” I asked.

“Maybe about this much?” Enrique gestured about three inches above his head. That would make the shooter about five feet ten. “And he looked kind of stocky, I think. Not fat. Just…not thin.”

It was possible the coat made him look bigger than he really was. This type of eyewitness description could be notoriously unreliable. One man’s idea of big was another one’s idea of medium.

“Did he say anything when he was firing the guns?” I asked.

“No. He just started shooting at everyone around him. Then he ran out.”

“Did you see him throw anything down before he ran?” I asked.

“Yeah, I think he dropped the guns.”

“Did you see him do that?” I asked.

He frowned. “No, I guess not, but I heard the police saying that.”

We wrapped up with the manager and stepped away to talk to Gina privately.

“Have they found any decent witnesses?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Gina said. “You might check with Jay Rollins. He took the people in the parking lot.” She pulled out her cell and punched a number. “Hey, Jay, where you at? I’ve got the lead IO here.” She listened, then said, “Okay, I’m sending them over.” Gina ended the call. “I’ve got to stay here and coordinate.” She pointed to a black man in a detective uniform-sports jacket, tie, and slacks-in the parking lot, standing next to an unmarked car. He was talking to a squat woman in a long skirt and hooded parka.

“Thanks, Gina,” Bailey said.

I couldn’t remember when I’d seen Bailey look so miserable, so defeated.

Gina gave her a sympathetic look and slapped her on the back. “Don’t worry, Keller, you’ll get the son of a bitch. You always do.”

We headed for the parking lot. “Yeah,” Bailey muttered under her breath. “The question is, when?”

When we got to him, Jay was still listening to the woman, and she didn’t sound as though she was inclined to be finished any time soon. He nodded in our direction and held up two fingers to let us know he’d wrap it up.

“I mean, it was just a blur,” she said. “But I know I saw a guy running. I know I did.”

From Jay’s expression, I could tell this was probably the fifth time she’d repeated that amazingly unhelpful statement. But there was something about him that told me he was pretty good at dealing with people like her. He couldn’t have been much past his forties, but he had a kind face and a relaxed attitude. Jay let the woman run through it all again, then thanked her and motioned for us to follow him.

He headed toward a circle of squad cars at the far west side of the parking lot. As we fell in next to him, we exchanged introductions.

“I don’t envy you this one, Detective Keller. But I think I may have the break you were looking for.”

A break. At last. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.