“I don’t care for that kind of entertainment,” Roy said. “It glorifies violence and deformity. It’s sick.” Studying the photo, Roy wondered how young Spencer Grant had been when he’d suffered such a grievous wound. Just a boy, apparently. “The poor kid,” he said. “The poor, poor kid. What quality of life could he have had with a face as damaged as that? What psychological burdens does he carry?”
Frowning, Wertz said, “I thought this was a bad guy, mixed up in terrorism somehow?”
“Even bad guys,” Roy said patiently, “deserve compassion. This man has suffered. You can see that. I need to get my hands on him, yes, and be sure that society’s safe from him — but he still deserves to be treated with compassion, with as much mercy as possible.”
Davis and Wertz stared uncomprehendingly.
But Nella Shire said, “You’re a nice man, Roy.”
Roy shrugged.
“No,” she said, “you really are. It makes me feel good to know there are men like you in law enforcement.”
The heat of a blush rose in Roy’s face. “Well, thank you, that’s very kind, but there’s nothing special about me.”
Because Nella was clearly not a lesbian, even though she was as much as fifteen years older than he, Roy wished that at least one feature about her was as attractive as Melissa Wicklun’s exquisite mouth. But her hair was too frizzy and too orange. Her eyes were too cold a blue, her nose and chin too pointed, her lips too severe. Her body was reasonably well proportioned but not exceptional in any regard.
“Well,” Roy said with a sigh, “I’d better pay a visit to this Mr. Grant, ask him what he was doing in Santa Monica last night.”
Sitting at the computer in his Malibu cabin but prowling deep into the Nevada Gaming Commission in Carson City, Spencer searched the file of current casino-worker permits by asking to be given the names of all card dealers who were female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty, five feet four inches tall, one hundred ten to one hundred twenty pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. Those were sufficient parameters to result in a comparatively small number of candidates — just fourteen. He directed the computer to print the list of names in alphabetical order.
He started at the top of the printout and summoned the file on Janet Francine Arbonhall. The first page of the electronic dossier that appeared on the screen featured her basic physical description, the date on which her work permit had been approved, and a full-face photograph. She looked nothing like Valerie, so Spencer exited her file without reading it.
He called up another file: Theresa Elisabeth Dunbury. Not her.
Bianca Marie Haguerro. Not her, either.
Corrine Sense Huddleston. No.
Laura Linsey Langston. No.
Rachael Sarah Marks. Nothing like Valerie.
Jacqueline Ethel Mung. Seven down and seven to go.
Hannah May Rainey.
On the screen, Valerie Ann Keene appeared, her hair different from the way she had worn it at The Red Door, lovely but unsmiling.
Spencer ordered a complete printout of Hannah May Rainey’s file, which was only three pages long. He read it end to end while the woman continued to stare at him from the computer.
Under the Rainey name, she had worked for over four months of the previous year as a blackjack dealer in the casino of the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas. Her last day on the job had been November 26, not quite two and a half months ago, and according to the casino manager’s report to the commission, she had quit without notice.
They — whoever “they” might be — must have tracked her down on the twenty-sixth of November, and she must have eluded them as they were reaching out for her, just as she eluded them in Santa Monica.
In a corner of the parking garage beneath the agency’s building in downtown Los Angeles, Roy Miro had a final word with the three agents who would accompany him to Spencer Grant’s house and take the man into custody. Because their agency did not officially exist, the word “custody” was being stretched beyond its usual definition; “kidnapping” was a more accurate description of their intentions.
Roy had no problem with either term. Morality was relative, and nothing done in the service of correct ideals could be a crime.
They were all carrying Drug Enforcement Administration credentials, so Grant would believe that he was being taken to a federal facility to be questioned — and that upon arrival there, he would be permitted to call an attorney. Actually, he was more likely to see the Lord God Almighty on a golden airborne throne than anyone with a law degree.
Using whatever methods might be necessary to obtain truthful answers, they would question him about his relationship with the woman and her current whereabouts. When they had what they needed — or were convinced that they had squeezed out of him all that he knew — they would dispose of him.
Roy would conduct the disposal himself, releasing the poor scarred devil from the misery of this troubled world.
The first of the other three agents, Cal Dormon, wore white slacks and a white shirt with the logo of a pizza parlor stitched on the breast. He would be driving a small white van with a matching logo, which was one of many magnetic-mat signs that could be attached to the vehicle to change its character, depending on what was needed for any particular operation.
Alfonse Johnson was dressed in work shoes, khaki slacks, and a denim jacket. Mike Vecchio wore sweats and a pair of Nikes.
Roy was the only one of them in a suit. Because he had napped fully clothed on Davis’s couch, however, he didn’t fit the stereotype of a neat and well-pressed federal agent.
“All right, this isn’t like last night,” Roy said. They had all been part of the SWAT team in Santa Monica. “We need to
The previous night, if any of them had seen the woman, he would have cut her down instantly. For the benefit of any local police who might have shown up, a weapon would have been planted in her hand: a Desert Eagle.50 Magnum, such a powerful handgun that a shot from it would leave an exit wound as large as a man’s fist, a piece obviously meant solely for killing people. The story would have been that the agent had gunned her down in self-defense.
“But we can’t let him slip away,” Roy continued. “And he’s a boy with schooling, as well trained as any of you, so he might not just hold out his hands for the bracelets. If you can’t make him behave and he looks to be gone, then shoot his legs out from under him. Chop him up good if you have to. He isn’t going to need to walk again anyway. Just don’t get carried away — okay? Remember, we absolutely
Spencer had obtained all the information of interest to him that was contained in the files of the Nevada Gaming Commission. He retreated along the cyberspace highways as far as the Los Angeles Police Department computer.
From there he linked with the Santa Monica Police Department and examined its file of cases initiated within the past twenty-four hours. No case could be referenced either by the name Valerie Ann Keene or by the street address of the bungalow that she had been renting.
He exited the case files and checked call reports for Wednesday night, because it was possible that SMPD officers had answered a call related to the fracas at the bungalow but had not given the incident a case number. This time, he found the address.
The last of the officer’s notations indicated why no case number had been assigned: ATF OP IN PROG. FED ASSERTED. Which meant: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms operation in progress; federal jurisdiction asserted.
The local cops had been frozen out.
