The Kill Clause

45

Tim was grateful the Mastersons had chosen a Lincoln, since there was no way he could have worked a clutch and the gas with one good leg. He coasted onto the freeway well before LAPD closed in on Monument Hill. The faintest edge of gold peeked above the horizon, enhanced by the inland smog.

Bowrick rested Mitchell’s. 45 in his lap. Tim took it and slid it into his hip holster. Its weight on his hip was comforting. After making the mistake of glancing at his reflection once, he did his best to avoid the rearview mirror.

Fighting pain and light-headedness, he kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road.

Finally he eased to the curb and parked. Pulling his remaining money from his pocket-four hundreds-he handed it to Bowrick.

Bowrick folded the cash into a pocket. “Thanks.”

“I’m not your guardian angel. I’m not your big brother. I’m not gonna be the godfather to your kid. I don’t care about your problems or your issues. But if you’re ever in trouble-I mean real trouble-you find me. You’re not gonna slip up. Not after all this.”

He got out and limped through Fletcher Bowron Square Mall, drawing strange looks from a few early-morning suits. Blood and sweat had left his shirt warm and sodden. Bowrick trudged silently a few steps back, one leg dragging behind, head lowered, hands shoved into his pockets. After a moment he sped up, his posture straightening, to walk by Tim’s side.

Passing under the tile mural, they entered the Federal Building. The security guard at the entrance lowered his cup of coffee, his face blank with disbelief. “Deputy Rackley, are you…?”

They walked past him. Thomas and Freed were bullshitting in the lobby, Freed thumbnailing a stain out of his Italian tie. Their faces pivoted wide-eyed at Tim’s approach. Tim grabbed Bowrick’s arm, presenting him. “This is Terrill Bowrick. I blew his cover. You help him.”

He left them in stunned silence.

Blood had worked its way down Tim’s leg into his shoe; it squished when he walked. He left bloody footprints on the tile of the second floor, all rights, a neat line of paisley.

A secretary flattened herself against the wall, clutching a stack of papers to her chest.

Tim pulled the. 45 from his holster and dropped the magazine. It bounced on the floor. He shucked the slide, letting the round spin and rattle to a stop on the tile. Holding the unloaded gun limply by the barrel, he carried it away from his body, upside down, pointed innocuously into his hand. He’d left his jacket in the elevator so he could show his empty holster.

When he pushed through the doors into the offices, the deputies’ heads snapped up. From the smell of coffee and sweat, they were pulling a double shift. Maybeck’s face went pale; Denley froze in a half crouch above his desk; Miller peered at him above a cubicle wall.

Tim walked into Bear’s office, a small white box that recalled an unfurnished college dorm room more than anything else. Bear was poring over a stack of crime-scene photos from Rhythm’s house, a head-wound close-up on top. When he looked up, his shiny cheeks took a moment to still from the movement.

Tim set the. 45 on Bear’s desk and sat down.

Bear nodded, as if in response to something, then removed a fat brick of a tape recorder from a drawer, set it on his desk, and turned it on. He hit a button on his phone and spoke into the speaker. “Yeah, Janice, can you send him over? Please tell him I have ex-Deputy Rackley in custody.”

He and Tim stared at each other.

Finally Bear said, “I got the dog. He pissed on my carpet.”

“The way you keep your place, I don’t blame him.”

Bear nodded at Tim’s leg. “You need medical attention?”

“Yes, but not immediately.”

They stared at each other some more. Bear rubbed his eyes, the skin moving with his fingers. The wait was excruciating.

Minutes later Marshal Tannino appeared, cutting off a few deputies pretending not to gawk at the open doorway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and locked it.

Bear indicated Tim’s leg. “He might need medical attention.”

“Fuck medical attention.”

“I’m fine, Marshal.”

Tannino leaned against the file cabinet and crossed his arms, the glossy fabric of his suit jacket bunching at his shoulders. His eyes picked over Tim’s badly scabbed face, his soggy shirt, the blood-stiffened leg of his jeans. “What surprise do you have for us now? I’m guessing it has to do with a phone call I just got from Chief Bratton about two bodies found up on Monument Hill.”

Tim started to speak, but Tannino’s hand flashed up angrily, his gold ring glittering. “Wait. Just wait. I heard a full account of your dinner with Bear on the twenty-eighth of February, which I still refuse to believe…” He paused, regaining his composure. “So maybe you’d better take this one from the top, because I’m gonna have to hear with my own two ears how my best deputy managed to land himself and this office in a pool of shit so deep it makes the Rampart scandal look like a small-claims dispute.”

Tim started from the beginning, reiterating what he’d told Bear at Yamashiro. He told how the Commission had plotted the initial executions and how the Mastersons had gone on the warpath. He told how he’d discovered their role in Ginny’s death, how he’d tracked them, and how they’d died, ending up with his freeing Kindell and driving down here to turn himself in.

A remarkably awkward silence punctuated the end of his story. Bear rearranged the photos on his desk. Tannino ran a hand through his dense hair and studied his knockoff loafers.

Finally Tim said, “Marshal, sir, my leg’s going numb.”

Tannino looked up at Bear, ignoring Tim. “Call the paramedics. Have him brought to County. Book him there.” He walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

His face drawn and weary, Bear picked up the phone and called for an ambulance.