The Survivor

Chapter 56

The 6:00 A.M. cold whipped through the imprecise seal of the not-so-weatherproof Wrangler’s soft top, the stream blowing across Nate’s forehead as steady and loud as cranked-on air-conditioning. Praying that Eddie Yeap would be as usual the first coroner at the morgue, Nate input the number into the cell phone he’d borrowed from Janie and stepped on the gas. Before he risked his next move, he had to know if he was wanted yet for the murder of Agent Abara, and Eddie was, he hoped, the guy with his hands inside the guts of the case. As the line rang, Nate ran through the reasoning he’d constructed as he’d flown down the freeway.

A murder in Chatsworth would fall under the jurisdiction of the Devonshire station, which meant the body and the crime scene should be processed by LAPD. Because Abara was an FBI agent, the case would go federal, but Nate was banking on the fact that no one would want to transport evidence across the country to the lab at Quantico, because of both the delay and the risk of deterioration of the chillingly fresh evidence. Which meant that his best bet for getting information on the case’s status was from-

Eddie Yeap picked up. “Yullo?”

“Hey, Eddie. It’s Nate.”

“Nate Bank-Hero Nate?”

The greeting boded well-not a salutation offered to a cop killer.

“Listen,” Nate said, “I caught a death notification for that agent killed out in Chatsworth. Abara. I have to go tell his mother.”

“I thought FBI handled their own.”

“I guess they’re as short-staffed with this stuff as we are. Anyway, Brown asked me to handle it.”

“You coming in?”

“Later. But I was wondering if you could give me a preview.”

“Well, Jonesy’s in bad shape. Heh. They used an honest-to-God rescue saw. You believe that?”

Nate parked at a meter a few blocks away from the Police Administration Building. If things went bad and he had to bolt, he didn’t want to get stuck in a parking garage. “Any physical evidence?”

“I got bupkis off what was left of Jonesy, but scuttlebutt is the latent-print unit pulled something off the rescue saw.”

Climbing out, Nate paused. Then slammed the door, a little harder than necessary, and started briskly toward the building. “Where are they with that?”

“Prints are at the lab now.”

“Already?”

“Fast-tracked. Killed an agent, ya know. Heh.”

“When do you think they’ll have results?”

“I’d say any minute.”

Nate picked up the pace, just shy of a jog. “Ask you one more question?”

“Course.”

“I assume FBI’s handling the investigation. But who’s the detective liaison?”

“Ken Nowak.”

By arriving unreasonably early, Nate hoped to dodge colleagues and complications. Even so, as he stepped out from the elevator with an empty duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he proceeded cautiously, unsure what he’d find. Sergeant Jen Brown’s office was dark and most of the cubicles empty. Unnoticed, he picked his way toward his desk.

A loud voice startled him. “Surprised you’d show your face around here.”

He turned, Ken Nowak drawing into sight around a partition wall. Leaning back in his chair, that hockey puck of a key ring resting next to his propped-up loafers.

Ken lowered his feet and settled forward with a touch of menace. “After that whole airport-terrorist incident, I mean.”

Nate released a breath as evenly as he could manage. “It was just a mix-up.”

“I bet. What you doing here?”

“Picking up my stuff.”

“You don’t need that.” With a smirk, Ken gestured at the empty duffel hanging from Nate’s shoulder. “They already took care of your shit for you.”

Nate glanced over at his desk. Sure enough, his personal things were boxed and waiting. His nonpersonal things-files, forms, research-appeared to be gone.

“Oh,” he said, hoping he looked appropriately dismayed. “Well, I have to wait for Brown anyway. She had some stuff for me to sign, I’m guessing severance paperwork so I don’t sue anyone.”

Ken elected not to take up the feigned attempt at worker camaraderie.

Nate took a breath. “How ’bout you? Isn’t this a little early?”

“I been here half the night. Big case, FBI agent iced out in Chatsworth. Literally. I’m waiting on print results from the lab.” Ken turned back to his desk and took a sip of coffee. “We get our hands on the piece of shit who did it, ain’t gonna be a pretty sight.”

Nate managed a nod, staring at the phone just beyond Ken’s knuckles. As soon as it rang, he was dead. He moved swiftly to his desk and powered up the computer. What he needed, what he’d come for, were weapons. Real weapons, as in assault rifles, handguns, C4. A virtual armory. Like the one Danny Urban had collected, the one that had been seized by the cops and put into an evidence locker down the hall.

The problem was, Nate didn’t know which evidence locker. But the database did.

His muscles had gone tense, braced to hear the ring of Ken’s phone. Typing furiously, he called up the log-in screen and keyed in his user name and password.

ACCESS DENIED.

Of course.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Plan B. Now.

Rising, he crossed to Ken’s desk. “I meant to ask, you still driving that gold Chrysler?”

“Champagne.”

“Right. I parked near you. I think someone dinged you. Rear bumper’s half off.”

“You’re kidding me.” Already Ken was up, digging for his car keys, hustling out. “You’d better be wrong, Overbay.”

Nate waited for him to pass from sight, and then he swiped the thick ring of work keys Ken had left behind. As he moved to go, Ken’s phone rang, the caller ID screen lighting up: SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION DIVISION. The crime lab.

Nate lunged to lower the volume on the ringer, not daring to breathe. A frozen instant. But Ken’s footsteps continued up the hall, and then the elevator car chimed its arrival. Nate blew out a shaky exhale. A moment later the voice-mail button blinked its red alert.

He tore his eyes from the phone and ran down the hall, readjusting the empty duffel across his back. He had five minutes, seven tops.

The evidence room was off the main corridor, just shy of the elevators. The reinforced door stood locked, the metal shutter rolled down behind the guard cage. Nate stared helplessly from the autolocking doorknob to the lump of keys sitting in his palm, maybe twenty of them. Had he hoped that one would have a big label on it reading EVIDENCE LOCKERS?

With fumbling hands Nate tried one key after another. The dead bolt stood firm, unimpressed with his offerings.

Another key failed. And the next. Sweat ran down Nate’s forehead, stung his eyes. A memory surfaced-had he read somewhere that LAPD had changed the rules after Rampart so cops no longer were allowed keys to the evidence room? Which meant that even if he did have time to check every-

A voice from behind broke through his thoughts. “Help you there, Overbay?”

His hands froze. Hiding the keys, he lowered them into his pocket. Slowly, he turned.

Bernice Daniels, the evidence custodian, loomed behind him, holding up a gleaming silver key connected by a plastic clip coil to the front pocket of her overburdened polyester pants. She was a dense, squat woman, boulderlike buttocks providing a counterweight to a sturdy bosom. She was lovely and cheery, an oversize heart to match her proportions.

Flustered, he scratched at his head, feigning casual. “Yeah, actually. I was just waiting for you. Sergeant Brown assigned me to the Danny Urban case. And I like to … you know-”

“Look through every last piece of evidence. I know. But it’s been a while since Homeboy Hit Man caught a bullet barrage. Why you serving the death notification now?”

Less than ten yards away, a set of elevator doors peeled open and Ken Nowak stepped forth.

Nate cleared his throat, regained his focus. “They just located a son. So I have to go let him know.”

“Oh, dear.” Bernice opened the door, stepping inside and hoisting the metal shutter behind the guard cage.

Annoyed, Ken walked briskly by. “The hell, Overbay? My car’s fine.”

“That’s good. I must’ve had the wrong car.”

“I’m surprised there’s another. It’s a rare color.”

Ken continued past, heading toward his desk and the waiting voice-mail message identifying Nate as Abara’s killer. Nate watched him walking away, every step one more tick of the countdown.

He turned back, debated making a break for the elevator.

Bernice’s voice pulled him from his trance. “I believe the Urban case is locker 78B. Here. You’ll need to sign the evidence log-”

“Of course.”

The metal door swung open, revealing the promised armory. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward and started grabbing whatever he could, raking items from shelves and hooks into the open duffel. Assault rifle, handguns, magazines, boxes of ammo, blocks of C4, electric blasting caps, even a grenade. How much time until Ken charged through the door behind him? Ten seconds? Five?

He sensed Bernice hovering at his back, troubled.

“Nate?” She spoke slowly, as if to an insane person. “What are you doing?”

He zipped the bag and stood. Bernice’s mouth was literally agape. No sound of footsteps coming up the hall.

“Can you give me a hand with this?” He slid a heavy evidence box from a wall rack straight across into Bernice’s arms. She received its weight, cradling it against her chest.

Reaching down, he snapped the coil clip with the key from her pant pocket, stepped outside, and swung the autolocking door shut, trapping her inside.

He stared at her through the metal cage. “I’m sorry, Bernice.”

Shouldering the hefty duffel, he ran for the elevator and thumbed the DOWN button. At the end of the hall, Ken appeared, wheeling around the last row of cubicles. He paused, his broad shoulders rotating as he scanned and locked onto Nate.

Between them Bernice began shouting and banging on the cage.

Ken started sprinting up the corridor.

Nate jabbed at the elevator’s DOWN button again and again.

Ken hurtled at him, shoes slapping tile, a running back sensing the end zone. Bernice was hollering now, maximizing those impressive lungs.

The doors parted. Nate slid through, tapped the ground-floor button, holding it in so hard that his finger bent back. Though Ken was out of sight, his labored breaths and furious footfalls came through the closing doors and seemed to reverberate around the car.

Ken’s fingertips flew into view just as the doors clamped shut, and then Nate staggered back a step, pulled by the weight of the duffel, and coughed out a chunk of air. Arming sweat off his brow and reconsidering his route, he clicked the button for the second floor so as to dodge security in the lobby.

He slid out at the first crack of light, letting the doors scrape him from either side, and then he hustled down two corridors to a rear stairwell, his left foot slightly sluggish. He took the stairs two at a time and shoved through an emergency door, setting off a shrill alarm. Stepping around a decorative hedge, he jogged for his Jeep, the weaponry clanking reassuringly against his back.