The Kill Clause

12

TIM did a drive-by without slowing. A large Tudor house, not quite a mansion, loomed behind a wrought-iron fence. Beside the detached three-car garage, a Toyota truck, a Lincoln Town Car, and a Crown Vic were parked next to a Lexus and a Mercedes. Two of the three chimneys issued smoke, and light seeped around the drawn curtains of the downstairs windows. A gathering. And a demographically mixed one at that. The luxury cars had been there when Tim had taken his last drive-by a few hours ago, but the American metal had arrived more recently.

The house had checked out as belonging to the Spenser Trust, and further digging, predictably, had yielded little. Trusts are notoriously difficult to trace, as they aren’t filed anywhere-the paperwork exists only in a lawyer’s or accountant’s file cabinet. The trustee, Philip Huvane, Esq., was a partner in an offshore law firm on the Isle of Wight. Tim’s contact with the IRS had said he couldn’t get back to him with more specific information until tomorrow, and he wasn’t optimistic he’d have anything useful even then.

Tim turned the corner and drove around the block. A conservative, moneyed community located south of Hollywood and west of downtown, Hancock Park is Los Angeles’s best stab at East Coast sophistication. The enormous houses Tim watched fading into the dusk had been built mostly in the 1920s by rich WASPs, after the infiltration of the middle class had made Pasadena less palatable. Despite the imperious brick mailboxes and staid English exteriors, the houses still feel a touch gritty and oddly free-spirited, like a nun smoking a cigarette. In Los Angeles there’s a new twist to every habit.

When Tim came up to the house again, he pulled into the drive. He pushed a button on the call box, and the large gates swung open. He put the Beemer in park, preferring to leave it outside the gates in case he needed to make a hasty retreat, slung a black bag over one shoulder, and walked to the front door. Oak, solid core. Doorknob probably weighed ten pounds.

Tim adjusted his Sig, ensuring that it remained snugly tucked into his jeans over his right kidney, handle flared outward to precipitate a fast draw. He’d looped a few rubber bands around the fore end of the grip just below the hammer so the pistol couldn’t slip beneath his waistband. It didn’t sit on him as well as his. 357.

He raised the knocker, a brass rabbit that looked uncomfortably elongated, and let it fall. It sent an echo into the house, and the murmur of conversation inside ceased.

The door swung open, revealing William Rayner. Tim covered his surprise quickly. Rayner wore an expensively tailored suit, much like the one he’d had on in the television interview last night, and he held a gin and tonic, from the smell of it.

“Mr. Rackley, so glad you decided to come.” The man offered his hand. In person his face had a decidedly mischievous cast. “William Rayner.”

Tim pulled the proffered hand aside with his left and tapped Rayner’s chest and stomach with the knuckles of his right, checking for a wire.

Rayner regarded him with amusement. “Good, good. We value caution.” He stepped back, letting the door swing with him, but Tim didn’t move from the porch. “Come now, Mr. Rackley, we certainly didn’t invite you all this way to beat you with pipes.”

Tim entered the foyer warily. It was a dim room, heavy with original oils and dark wood. An ornately carved newel post marked the base of a curving staircase carpeted with a brass-pinned runner. Without another glance at Tim, Rayner walked ahead into an adjoining room. Tim circled the foyer before following.

Five men-including Rayner-and a woman awaited him, sitting in elaborate armchairs and on a seasoned leather club sofa. Two of the men were twins in their late thirties with hard blue eyes, thick blond mustaches, and Popeye forearm bulges covered with reddish-blond hair. They were unbelievably sturdy, with action-figure bulk, barrel chests, and sharp-tapering lats. About average height-maybe five-ten. Though they were nearly identical, some ineffable quality gave one a harder, more focused orientation. He was holding a glass of water but sipping it like a scotch. Probably spoke fluent Twelve-Step.

A slight man with too-thick eyeglasses in fat black frames sat perched on the couch. His features were rounded and yielding, like those of a cloth doll. His Magnum, PI, shirt screamed out in the muted furnishings, as did the sheen of light from his bald, pointed head. He had no chin to speak of and an extremely slight nose. His upper lip bore the signs of a repaired cleft palate. His small hand swept up from between the cushions of the couch, knuckling his glasses back up the almost nonexistent bridge of his nose. Beside him sat Tim’s visitor from last night.

The woman sat in one of the armchairs directly facing Tim, framed perfectly by the fireplace behind her. She was primly attractive; a thin button-up sweater showed off a lean, feminine build, and her glasses looked as if they’d been plucked off the face of a 1950s secretary. She wore her hair up, neatly styled and fixed in place by a pair of black chopsticks. The youngest of the group, she looked to be in her late twenties.

All around them rose bookcases, stretching from the floor to the twenty-foot ceiling. A sliding library ladder hooked onto a brass bar that ran the length of the far wall. The books were organized by set and series-law publications, sociology journals, psych texts. When Tim saw the rows of Rayner’s own books, he recognized this as the library from which KCOM had broadcast Rayner’s interview last night-it only looked like a set. His books all bore titles reminiscent of network movies from the eighties-Violent Loss, Thwarted Vengeance, Beyond the Abyss.

A honey-hued writing desk occupied the far corner; on it stood a sculpture of Blind Justice with her scales. This hokey prop seemed a cut below the other furnishings, perhaps because it was placed for TV. Or for Tim.

The woman smiled curtly. “What happened to your eye?”

“I fell down the stairs.” Tim dropped his bag on the Persian rug. “I would like to state for the record that I have not consented to anything, that I am only here regarding a meeting about which, at present, I know nothing. Are we agreed?”

The men and the woman nodded.

“Please respond orally.”

“Yes,” Rayner said. “We are agreed.” He had a con man’s easy charm and quick grin, qualities Tim recognized all too well.

As Rayner slid behind Tim to close the door, the woman said, “Before anything else, we’d like to offer our condolences for your daughter.” Her tone rang genuine, and it seemed to include some personal sadness. Had the circumstances been otherwise, Tim might have found it moving.

The man whom Tim recognized from last night rose from his chair. “I knew you’d show up, Mr. Rackley.” He crossed the room and took Tim’s hand. “Franklin Dumone.”

Tim felt him for a wire. Dumone gestured to the others, who unbut-toned or pulled up their shirts, exposing their chests. The twins’ compact, gym-tempered torsos struck a contrast to the formless flesh of the man in the loud shirt. Even the woman followed suit, pulling aside her sweater and white blouse and exposing a lace bra. She met Tim’s glance unflinchingly, mild amusement playing across her lips.

Tim removed an RF emitter from his bag and walked the perimeter of the room, scanning the wand across the walls to check for any radio frequencies that indicated the presence of a digital transmitter. He paid particular attention to the electrical outlets and a grandfather clock beside the window. The others watched him with interest.

The device emitted no tones suggesting they were being recorded.

Rayner had been watching Tim with a little grin. “Are you done?”

When Tim did not respond, Rayner nodded to the severe-looking twin. With a quick flick of his hand, the twin removed Tim’s G-Shock from his wrist. He tossed it to his brother, who dug in his shirt pocket, came up with a tiny screwdriver, and removed the watch’s backing. With tweezers he extracted a minuscule digital transmitter, which he pocketed.

The man in the bright shirt spoke in a high-pitched, wheezy voice complicated by a number of minor speech defects. “I turned off the signal when you pulled through the gate-that’s why you didn’t pick it up just now.”

“How long have you been listening to me?”

“Since the day of your daughter’s funeral.”

“We apologize for the intrusion into your privacy,” Dumone said, “but we had to be sure.”

They’d been party to his shooting review board, his confrontation with Tannino, and his and Dray’s intimate exchange of blows last night. Tim fought to regain his focus. “Sure of what?”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

Tim made no move to the couch. “Who are you, and why have you been gathering intel on me?”

The twin tightened the final screw and tossed the watch back at Tim, hard. Tim caught it in front of his face.

“I assume you know of William Rayner,” Dumone said. “Social psychologist, expert on psychology and the law, and notorious cultural pundit.”

Rayner raised his glass with mock solemnity. “I prefer celebrated cultural pundit.”

“This is his teaching assistant and protege, Jenna Ananberg. I myself am a retired sergeant from Boston PD, Major Crimes Unit. These two are Robert and Mitchell Masterson, former detectives and task-force members out of Detroit. Robert was a precision marksman, one of SWAT’s top snipers, and Mitchell worked as a bomb tech in explosive ordnance disposal.” After a reluctant pause, Mitchell nodded, but Robert, who’d snatched the watch from Tim’s wrist, just stared at him.

Robert’s aggressive bearing and the sharpness of his face reminded Tim of the Green Beret who had trained him in hand-to-hand. He’d taught Tim a close-quarters front-move, a downthrusting punch to the opponent’s groin, tight and viciously hard, timed with the twisting sink of the hips to give it more force. It could shatter the pelvis like a dropped dinner plate. The Beret claimed that if the punch was correctly aligned so the knuckles struck the top of the pubic bone, it could knock a man’s dick clean off. His smile when he’d related the fact had a particular gleam that told of strange appetites and vivid memories.

Robert and his brother were dangerous men, not because they gave off anger but because they exuded a fearlessness that years of training and combat had attuned Tim to distinguish. They shared a graveyard gleam in the eyes.

Dumone continued, “And this is Eddie Davis, aka the Stork. He’s a former sound agent and forensic locksmith for the FBI.”

The little man waved awkwardly before rewedging his hand between the couch cushions. Given the weather, the sunburn on his nose was as mystifying as his nickname.

Dumone paced behind Tim, and Tim pivoted slightly to keep him in view. “And this, fellow members of the Commission, is Timothy Rackley, a former platoon sergeant who used to wear the Rangers tab. His military training includes Close Quarter Combat School, Night Movement School, SERE School, HALO School, Jumpmaster School, Pathfinder School, Land Nav, Sniper School, Demo School, SCUBA, Urban Warfare, Mountain Warfare, Jungle Warfare. Did I leave any schools out?”

“A few.” Tim noticed an antique mirror hanging on the far wall, and he crossed to it, taking a letter opener from the desk on his way.

“Would you like to name them?”

Tim touched the tip of the letter opener to the mirror. The gap between the point and the reflection indicated all was normal; a one-way would have showed none. He returned the letter opener to the desk. “I’ve always thought credentials are overrated.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Tim bit the inside of his lip, his impatience growing. “When it comes down to it, everyone bleeds just about the same.”

Robert, who’d risen to lean cross-armed against a bookcase, snickered. Dimpled finger marks on his T-shirt sleeves showed he’d stretched them first to get his biceps through. Neither twin had spoken yet; they were busy posturing and exuding menace. Their intensity was displayed in the flush of their cheeks. Tim knew their type from his Ranger days: competent, vigorous, and fiercely loyal to what they thought their ideals were. Not afraid to get mean.

Dumone turned back to the others and continued, “In his three years with the U.S. Marshals Service, Mr. Rackley has received three Outstanding Performance Ratings, two Distinguished Service Awards, and the Forsyth Medal of Valor for saving a fellow deputy’s life, one Mr. George ‘Bear’ Jowalski. The September before last, Mr. Rackley kicked through the wall of a crack house, retrieved Mr. Jowalski’s injured body while taking fire, and carried him to safety. Isn’t that right, Mr. Rackley?”

“That’s the Hollywood version, yes.”

“Why didn’t you stay in Spec Ops for the army?” Dumone asked. “Bump up to Delta?”

“I wanted to spend more time with-” Tim bit his lip. Rayner started to say something, but Tim held up his hand. “Listen to me carefully. I will leave if you don’t tell me why I’m here. Right now.”

The men and Ananberg exchanged looks, seeming to reconcile themselves to something. Dumone settled heavily into a chair. Rayner took off his jacket, revealing an elegant shirt with flared sleeves and gold cuff links, then hung it across the back of an armchair. He stepped in front of Tim, ice jiggling in his glass.

“There is one thing we all share, Mr. Rackley. Everyone in this room, including you. We all have loved ones who have been victimized by perpetrators who managed to evade justice due to loopholes in the law. Procedural defects, chain-of-possession mishaps, warrant irregularities. The courts of this country, at times, have trouble functioning. They’re backed up, choked with statutes and new case law. Because of this we’re forming the Commission. The Commission will operate within the strictest legal guidelines. Our criteria will be the Constitution of the United States and the Penal Code for the state of California. We’ll review capital cases in which defendants have gotten off due to technicalities. The three responsibilities with which we will be concerned are those of judge, jury, and executioner. We’re all judge and jury.” His eyebrows drew together, forming a single silver line. “We’d like you to be our executioner.”

Dumone used both arms to help himself out of the chair. He headed over to a collection of bottles on a shelf behind the desk. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Rackley? Christ knows, I need one.” He winked.

Tim looked from face to face, searching for some hint of levity. “This is not a joke.” He realized his remark sounded closer to a statement than a question.

“It would certainly be an elaborate one and a considerable waste of time if it were,” Rayner said. “Suffice it to say, none of us have a lot of time on our hands.”

The ticktock of the grandfather clock was slightly unnerving.

“So, Mr. Rackley,” Dumone said, “what do you think?”

“I think you’ve all been watching too many Dirty Harry movies.” Tim dropped the RF emitter wand into his bag and zipped it up. “I want nothing to do with vigilante retribution.”

“Of course not,” Ananberg said. “We would never ask you to engage in such activities. Vigilantes are outside the law. We’re an adjunct to it.” She crossed her legs, lacing her hands over a knee. Her voice was soothing and had the practiced cadence of a newscaster’s. “You see, Mr. Rackley, we have an immense luxury here. We can concern ourselves exclusively with the merits of a given case and the culpability of the defendant. We needn’t stand on procedural formalities or permit them to get in the way of justice. Courts regularly have to make rulings irrelevant to the merits. They’re not always ruling on the case itself-they’re ruling preemptively to deter illegal or improper government conduct in the future. They know that if they overlook warrant limitations or Miranda rights even once, it can set a precedent that will open the way for the government to act without regard for individual rights. And that is a valid and compelling concern.” She spread her hands. “For them.”

“Constitutional guarantees will still function,” Dumone said. “We’re not in conflict with them. We’re not the state.”

“You understand firsthand how complex Fourth Amendment search-and-seizure issues have grown,” Rayner said. “It’s gotten to the point that good-faith efforts by the police fall short. The system’s rough patches aren’t due to crooked cops who feel they’re above the law, or bleeding-heart knee-jerk judges. These are men and women like you and me, of good conscience and fair temperament, who are seeking to uphold a system that’s increasingly undercut by its neurotic fear of victimizing the accused.”

Robert finally chimed in with a smoker’s voice, his hands flaring in disgust. “An honest cop can’t even fire a shot without being waylaid by an internal investigation, shooting board…”

“Maybe a criminal and civil case on top of that,” Mitchell said.

Dumone spoke coolly, mitigating some of the twins’ sharpness. “We need those people, and we need the system. We also need something else.”

“We’ll be tied not to the letter of the law but the spirit.” Rayner gestured to the sculpture of Blind Justice on the desk. Their prop.

Tim noted how carefully orchestrated the presentation was. The affluent milieu, designed to impress and intimidate him, the arguments laid out succinctly, the language heavy on law and logic-Tim’s language. The speakers hadn’t so much as interrupted one another. Yet despite their skillful maneuvering, they also evinced circumspection and righteousness. Tim felt like a buyer annoyed with the salesman’s pitch but still interested in the car.

“You’re not a jury of their peers,” Tim said.

“That’s right,” Rayner said. “We’re a jury of intelligent, discerning citizens.”

Robert said, “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a jury, but lemme tell you-they ain’t your peers. They’re a group of sorry-ass individuals with nothing better to do on a workday and no brains to fabricate an excuse to duck duty.”

“But you’d be lying to say you don’t have biases. Your system is flawed, too.”

“Isn’t everything?” Rayner said. “The question is, is our system less flawed?”

Tim took this in silently.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Rackley?” Ananberg said.

Tim didn’t budge. “Do you have an investigative arm?”

“That’s the beauty of our system,” Rayner said. “We’ll address only those cases that have already gone to court-cases in which suspects were let off due to procedural technicalities. These cases tend to have exhaustive evidence and reports already in the dockets, court transcripts, and case binders.”

“And if they don’t?”

“If they don’t, we won’t touch them. We’re aware of our limitations-we don’t consider ourselves equipped to deal with more complex investigation and evidence gathering. If the proof isn’t all there, we happily defer to the court’s decision.”

“How do you get the court files and case binders?”

“The court files are public record. But I have several judges-close friends-who send me materials relevant to my research. They enjoy seeing their names in the acknowledgments of my books.” He worked something off one of his cuff links with a fingernail. “Never underestimate vanity.” A self-aware grin. “And we have certain arrangements-untraceable arrangements-with temps, mailroom workers, clerks, and the like, positioned advantageously in DA and PD offices. We get our hands on what we need our hands on.”

“Why do you only review capital cases?”

“Because our capabilities for punitive action are limited. We can impose either a death sentence or nothing at all. Because of this we don’t concern ourselves with lesser charges.”

Robert settled back against the wall and flexed his crossed arms. “Our rehabilitation program is not yet under development.” He ignored Dumone’s unamused glance, his eyes on Tim, dark stones in the leathery flesh of his face.

Ananberg said, “An added benefit is, we serve as a corrective for all those death-penalty biases. The majority of those sent to death row by America’s traditional courts are underprivileged minorities who can’t afford proper representation-”

“Whereas we’re an equal-opportunity exterminator,” Mitchell said.

“Do you know, Mr. Rackley, one of the overlooked benefits of legal punishment?” Tim found Rayner’s rhetorical questions to be another indication of his not-so-subtle condescension. “It removes from the victims and victims’ families the moral obligation of retaliation. In doing so it prevents society from deteriorating into feuds. But when the state defaults on its ability to inflict punishment for you, you still feel it, don’t you? The moral necessity to see justice done for your daughter? You’ll always feel it-believe me. The twitch of a phantom limb.”

Tim walked over, got in Rayner’s space just enough to imply aggression. Robert pushed himself up off his incline against the wall, but Dumone backed him down from across the room with the briefest flutter of his hand. Tim took note of all these dynamics and plugged them in to the dominance hierarchy he was evolving in his head. Rayner didn’t give the slightest indication of being intimidated.

Tim gestured at the others. “And you collected them through your work?”

“Yes. I conduct extensive subject analysis in the course of my research. It’s helped me determine who would be responsive to my ideas.”

“And you took an interest in me when my daughter was killed.”

“Virginia’s case caught our eye, yes,” Ananberg said.

Tim was impressed by her decision to refrain from euphemism and refer to Ginny by name. This small, knowing touch also added credibility to Rayner’s claim that everybody present had lost a family member.

“We were having a hard time finding candidates,” Rayner said. “Your particular set of skills and ethics is remarkably rare. And the other remotely similar candidates we were considering fell too much into the rule-follower camp, which made them unlikely to partake in a venture such as this. We started looking at candidates whose lives had been marred by some personal tragedy. Especially those who’d had loved ones killed or raped by assailants who navigated through a faulty system to find their way back onto the streets. So when Ginny’s story hit the news, we thought, here is someone who understands our pain.”

“We didn’t know, of course, that Kindell would get off again,” Ananberg said, “but when that happened, it pretty much sealed our decision to approach you.”

“We’d hoped to recruit you as a deputy marshal, when you still had access to your tracking resources,” Rayner confided. “We were disappointed by your resignation.”

“I never would have done anything to undermine the service,” Tim said. “I still wouldn’t.”

Robert scowled. “Even after they betrayed you?”

“Yes.” Tim turned back to Rayner. “Tell me how it started. This…idea.”

“I met Franklin when I was in Boston for a law and psychology conference about three years ago,” Rayner said. “We were on the same panel-I had lost a boy, Franklin his wife-and we had an immediate affinity for each other. We went out to a meal afterward, found ourselves a few drinks in and theorizing openly, and the idea of the Commission was hatched. The next morning, of course, we dismissed our conversation as hypothetical banter. The conference ended, and I came back to L.A. A few weeks later I had one of those nights-you know the kind of night to which I’m referring, Mr. Rackley? The kind of night when grief and vengeance take on a life of their own? They become tangible, electric.” Rayner’s eyes drifted.

“Yes.”

“And so I called Franklin who, as fate would have it, was having a night similar to mine. We revisited the idea of the Commission, again in the safety of the night, but this time it took. It seemed less frightful in the cold light of the next morning.” His eyes regained their sharp focus, and his tone became more brisk. “I had tremendous resources at hand for selecting members of the Commission. In my studies I looked for law-enforcement officers with unusually high IQs, who were sensitive to authority and policy but were also independent thinkers. Now and then someone would strike me as particularly right for the Commission. And Franklin could run background checks, contact them, bring them into our circle.” He flashed a pleased little smile. “The hesitation you’re displaying now, Mr. Rackley, affirms our opinion that we want you on board.”

“Think of the collective experience and knowledge we have assembled in this room,” Ananberg said. “All the different ways we’ve spent time with the law, learning its curves and contours, flaws and strengths.”

“What if you disagree on a verdict?”

Rayner said, “Then we’ll throw out the case and move on. Only a unanimous verdict will stand in the Commission. Unanimity is required for any policy shift as well. That way, if any of us grows uncomfortable with anything, we have veto power.”

“Is this the entire Commission?”

“You will be the seventh and final member,” Dumone said. “If you elect to join.”

“And how is this little enterprise funded?”

Rayner’s mustache shifted with his grin. “The books have been good to me.”

“You’ll draw a humble paycheck,” Dumone said. “And, of course, all expenses will be covered.”

“Now we’d like to clarify one point,” Ananberg said. “We do not advocate cruel and unusual punishment. The executions are to be swift and painless.”

“I don’t go in for torture,” Tim said.

Ananberg’s lipsticked mouth pulled to one side in a smirk, the first break in her icy facade. Everyone seemed comfortable with letting silence fill the study for a few moments.

Tim asked, “What’s the status of your personal cases?”

“Franklin’s wife’s killer disappeared after being acquitted,” Rayner said. “The last reports of him were from Argentina. The man who killed the Stork’s mother is currently incarcerated for a later offense. Robert and Mitchell’s sister’s murderer was later shot and killed in an unrelated incident, and Jenna’s mother’s killer was beaten to death in a gang killing over a decade ago. That’s the status of our-how did you put it?-personal cases.”

“And the man who killed your son?”

Bitterness passed through Rayner’s eyes, then vanished. “He’s still out there, my son’s killer. Walking the streets. Somewhere in New York-Buffalo when last I heard.”

“I bet you just can’t wait to vote him guilty.”

“I wouldn’t touch my own case, actually.” Rayner looked offended at Tim’s expression of disbelief. “This is not a vengeance service.” His face firmed with a stalwart pride common to maudlin World War II movies. “I could never be objective. However…”

“What?”

“We’re going to call upon you to be. I’ve selected Kindell’s case for the Commission. It’ll be the seventh and final one we examine in our first phase.”

Tim felt himself flush at the thought of another crack at Kindell. He hoped his longing wasn’t too clear on his face. He gestured at the others. “How about theirs?”

Rayner shook his head. “Yours is the only personal case we’re going to examine.”

“Why’d I get so lucky?”

“It’s the only case that precisely fits our profile. An L.A. crime, a lot of media heat, the trial botched due to a procedural violation.”

“L.A. is key from an operational perspective,” Dumone said. “We’re only comfortable dealing with cases in this area. Our strongest contacts are here.”

“We’ve spent a lot of time here, me and Mitch,” Robert said, “smelling the street, figuring out how to operate-operate invisibly. You know the drill. Well-placed contacts. Phone lines. Car rentals. Back routes around town.”

“You must have well-placed contacts in Detroit,” Tim said.

“We’re known there. In Hell-A nobody’s anybody until they’re somebody.”

“Once we start traveling, dealing with other court systems and police bureaus, it really opens us up,” Dumone said. “Not to mention the trail it leaves. Airline tickets, hotels.” His eyes twinkled. “We dislike trails.”

“Something tells me there’s another angle,” Tim said. “Like Ginny’s case being a carrot you can dangle in front of me. That’s why it’s the ‘seventh and final’ one.”

Rayner seemed pleased-Tim was talking his language. “Yes, of course. No need to pretend. We do need an insurance policy of sorts, to make sure you’re not doing this just for revenge. We want to ensure that you stick around, that you’re committed to our cause. We’re not here merely to serve your agenda-there’s a greater social good at stake.”

“What if I don’t think the other executions are justified?”

“Then vote against all six of them, and we move to Kindell.”

“How do you know I won’t do precisely that?”

Dumone’s head was tilted back at such an angle to suggest authority and mild amusement. “We know you’ll be fair.”

“And if you’re not equally fair, just, and competent when we’re deliberating the Kindell case,” Ananberg said, “we’ll ask you to recuse yourself or I’ll personally vote against execution. You won’t muscle a guilty past us.”

Dumone settled back in his chair. “It serves you, too. To delay Kindell’s case until last.”

“How do you figure?”

Rayner said, “If we ruled to execute Kindell first, you’d be the most obvious suspect.”

“But if we rule to kill him after two or three other high-profile executions, the suspicion will be shifted off you,” Dumone said.

Tim reflected for a moment, silently. Rayner watched him with shiny eyes, seeming to enjoy this all a bit too much.

“We know about your accomplice theory,” Rayner said. “And rest assured-I can obtain information that you can’t get access to-from all sides of the case. The public defender’s notes from his interview with Kindell, media investigator reports, maybe even police logs. We’ll get to the bottom of your daughter’s murder. You’ll get her the fair trial she never received.”

Tim studied Rayner for a moment, his stomach knotting with anxiety and excitement. Despite his aversion to Rayner, he couldn’t deny that some connection existed-to another father who had lost a child. To someone who actually took Tim’s accomplice theory seriously because he understood what it meant to be plagued.

Tim finally crossed to one of the armchairs and sat. On the low table before him was an American Psychological Association journal titled Psychology, Public Policy, and Law. On the light brown cover, Rayner was listed as the principal author of two articles.

Keeping his eyes on the journal, Tim said quietly, “I just need to know who killed my daughter. Why she was killed.” Hearing himself express this deep-rooted imperative so starkly-as a plea directed out at the unfair universe-gave it a sudden reality and pitifulness. His eyes moistened. Quickly following came a stab of self-disdain for revealing emotion here, in front of these hardened strangers. The childhood lesson his father had drummed into his head: Never give up the personal-it will return as a weapon wielded against you.

He waited until his face felt less heavy before raising it. He was surprised to see how uneasy his grief made Robert and Mitchell. They’d grown fidgety, uncomfortable, suddenly real-their own remembered pain cutting through the barriers, washing the aggression right out of them.

“We understand,” Dumone said.

Robert said, “You get to serve your personal cause-pursuing your daughter’s killer or killers-and the bigger legal issues…”

“-illuminated-” Mitchell said.

“-by the hell you went through. The rest of us don’t get that.”

“Why did you choose L.A.?” Tim asked.

“Because this city has no notion of accountability, of responsibility,” Rayner said. “As you’re aware, L.A.’s court rulings, especially for media-intensive cases, seem to go to the highest bidder. Justice isn’t administered by the courts here, it’s administered by box-office grosses and a well-oiled press.”

“O.J. Simpson just bought a one-point-five-million-dollar house in Florida,” Mitchell said. “Kevin Mitnick hacked in to the Pentagon, now he’s got a talk radio show out of Hollywood. LAPD’s got a scandal a week. Cop killers and drug dealers land record deals. Hookers marry studio moguls. It’s got no memory, Los Angeles. There’s no logic here. No rhyme. No reason. No justice.”

“The cops here,” Robert said, with surprising vehemence, “they don’t give a shit. There’s so many murders, so much indifference. This town just chews people up.”

“It’s seductive, and, like most things seductive, it burns you with indifference. Kills you with apathy.”

“That’s why this city.” Robert crossed his thick arms again. “L.A. deserves it.”

“We want the executions to serve as crime deterrents,” Rayner added, “so they’ll have to be high-profile.”

“So that’s what this is?” Tim glanced around the room. “A grand experiment. Sociology in action. You’re gonna bring justice to the big city?”

“Nothing quite so grandiose,” Ananberg said. “The death penalty has never been a proven deterrent.”

“But it’s never been deployed in this fashion.” Mitchell was standing now, gesturing concisely with flattened hands. “Courts are clean and safe, and-due to the appeals process-their rulings lack a sense of threatening immediacy. Courts don’t scare criminals. The thought of someone coming unexpectedly in the night will. I know there are certainly methodological complications with our plan, but there’s no denying that murderers and rapists will be aware there’s another level of the law they may have to answer to-it’s not just the court game. They might hop through a loophole, but we’ll be out there, waiting.”

Mitchell demonstrated the commonsense logic and unaffected eloquence of a self-taught thinker; Tim realized he’d underestimated the man’s intelligence at first glance, probably due to his intimidating physical presence.

Robert was nodding emphatically, in aggressive agreement with his brother. “The streets of Singapore look pretty graffiti-free to me.”

Rayner’s chuckle drew a sharp look from Ananberg.

“Correlation is not causation.” Ananberg wove her hands over a knee. “My point is simply that we shouldn’t expect some sort of drastic social impact. We’re acting as the mortar between the cracks in the law. No more, no less. Let’s be frank about what we’re doing. We’re not saving the world. In a few specific cases, we’re serving justice.”

Robert set down his glass with a thunk. “All me and Mitch are saying is, we’re here to kick a little ass and dispense a little justice. And if it trickles back to the motherfuckers that there’s a new sheriff in town…well, hell, that won’t break our hearts either.”

“It beats whining and building memorials,” Mitchell added.

The playfulness gone from his eyes, Dumone turned to Tim. “The twins and the Stork will be your operational team. They’re there merely to provide you support. Use them as you see fit, or not at all.”

Now, finally, Tim understood the hostility he’d elicited in the twins from the first moment, their blatant jockeying with Tim before the others. “Why would I be in charge?”

“We lack the operating skills that someone with your unusual combination of training and field experience brings to the table. We lack a subtlety of execution needed for this first phase of, uh, executions.”

Rayner said, “We need a primary operator who’s extraordinarily levelheaded on the front line.” One of his hands circled, then settled in his pocket. “These executions need to be carefully orchestrated so the occasion of a shoot-out with law enforcement never arises. Ever.”

Dumone freshened his glass at the small bar behind the desk. “As I’m sure you’re aware, there are a truckload of ways things can go south. And if they do, we need a man who’ll keep his head, who won’t gun his way out of trouble. The Stork is not a tactical operator.”

The Stork’s smile was flat and generically curved, like a slice of watermelon. “No, sir.”

“And Rob and Mitch are good aggressive cops, like I was when the sap was still rising.” Dumone’s smile held some sadness; something was hidden beneath it, perhaps the blood-spotted handkerchief. He tipped his head toward Tim deferentially. “But we haven’t been trained to kill, and we’re not Spec Ops-cool under fire.”

“It’s been a long, frustrating haul closing in on a viable and receptive candidate,” Rayner said wearily.

Tim took a moment with this, and they let him. Rayner’s eyebrows were raised, anticipating Tim’s next question. “How do you protect against someone breaking all these elaborate rules you’ve set up? There’s no controlling authority.”

Rayner held up a hand in a calming gesture, though no one was particularly agitated. “That is one of our primary concerns. Which is why we have a no-tolerance policy.”

“Our contract is exclusively oral, of course,” Ananberg said, “as we don’t want to set anything incriminating down in writing. And this contract includes a kill clause.”

“A kill clause?”

“Legally speaking, a kill clause sets forth prenegotiated conditions detailing what will occur should a contract be terminated. Ours goes into effect the instant any member of the Commission breaks any of our protocols.”

“And what are those prenegotiated conditions?”

“The kill clause dictates that the Commission be immediately dissolved. All remaining documentation-which we go to every effort to keep to a minimum-will be destroyed. With the exception of tying up loose ends, there will be no future Commission activity of any kind.” Rayner’s face hardened. “Zero tolerance.”

“We’re well aware that the Commission places us on a slippery slope,” Ananberg said. “So we’re anxious to ensure that there will be no sliding.”

“And if someone withdraws?”

“Go with God,” Rayner said. “We presume that what passes here remains here, as it is equally incriminating to whoever elects to leave.” He grinned a smirky grin. “Mutual assured destruction makes for a nifty little insurance policy.”

Tim did not return the grin but studied the practiced lines around Rayner’s mouth. William Rayner, vehement proponent of the insurance policy.

Ananberg said, “The Commission would go on brief hiatus until we found an appropriate replacement.”

Tim leaned back in the armchair so he could feel his Sig pressing into the small of his back. He gauged his angle to the door-not good. “And if I decide against joining?”

“We would hope that, as someone who’s lost a daughter, you would appreciate our perspective and leave us to our work,” Rayner said. “If you were to contact the authorities, be advised there is no incriminating evidence on site. We will deny ever having had this conversation. And to say our collective words are greatly respected in the legal community is something of an understatement.”

All eyes were suddenly on Tim. The ticking of the grandfather clock punctuated the silence. Ananberg went to the desk, turned a key, then removed a dark cherry box from one of the drawers. Tilting it, she opened the hinged lid, revealing a gleaming Smith amp; Wesson. 357-service make-nestled in the felt interior. She closed the box and set it on the desktop.

Rayner lowered his voice so it seemed he was addressing only Tim. “When people endure such a…bureaucratic betrayal as the one the courts handed you, as the one the U.S. Marshals Service handed you, they contend with it in different ways, most of them bad. Some get angry, some get depressed, some find God.” One of his eyebrows drew up, almost disappearing beneath the line of his hair. “What will you do, Mr. Rackley?”

Tim decided he’d had his fill of questions, so he kept his eyes on Dumone. “How do they feel about taking a backseat? Operationally?”

Dumone’s and Robert’s fidgeting broadcast that this was well-covered ground.

The Stork shrugged and adjusted his glasses. “I got no problem,” he said, though no one had asked him.

“They’ll deal with it,” Dumone said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“They understand the necessity of bringing in a high-demand operator, and they’re reconciling themselves to the change.” Dumone’s voice gathered edge, and Tim could hear the tough Boston cop in it.

Tim looked at Mitchell, then Robert. “Is that true?”

Mitchell looked away, studying the wall. Robert had a slight upper lip, so when he smiled, his mouth was a sheen of teeth and hair. His voice came slick and sharp, like a scalpel. “You’re the boss.”

Tim turned back to Dumone. “Call me when they’re reconciled.”

Dumone’s shoes shushed across the rug as he approached. He stood over Tim, gazing down at him. His face, a blend of wear and texture, held in it a dark-tinted element of calm that Tim thought might be wisdom. “We’d like an answer now.”

“We need an answer now,” Robert said. “Either this proposal strikes a chord with you or it doesn’t. There’s no thinking about it.”

“This isn’t a gym membership,” Tim said.

“Our offer terminates the minute you walk out that door,” Rayner said.

“I don’t negotiate like this.”

Now Mitchell-“Those are our terms.”

“All right, then.” Tim stood and walked out.

Rayner caught him outside near the gate. “Mr. Rackley. Mr. Rackley!”

Tim turned, keys in his hand.

Rayner’s face was red with the cold, and his breath was visible. His shirt had come untucked. He looked less smug out here, away from his first-among-equals reign in the library. “I apologize for that. I can be a little…firm sometimes. We’re just eager to begin our work.” He moved to rest his hand on the trunk of Tim’s car but stopped, his fingertips hovering an inch off the metal. He seemed to have a tough time manufacturing his next words. “You are our top choice. Our sole choice. We took a great deal of care in selecting you. If you don’t sign on, we have to start the search over-a long process. Take more time if you need it.”

“I intend to.”

Tim pulled out into the street. When he glanced into his rearview mirror, Rayner was still standing in front of the house, watching him drive off.