Killer Karma

“Tell me what you know about these Flaxx burglaries.”

Razor gave them a run-down, and included the fires.

Hamada whistled at Willner and waved him over. “Y’all’re working that firefighter’s death. Come hear this.”

Cole winced. He could guess Willner’s reaction.

After listening to Hamada repeat what Razor said about the fires, Willner remained as underwhelmed as Cole feared. “Jesus, Rasgorshek. Don’t tell me Dunavan sold you that cockamamie theory.” He outlined the evidence against Luther Kijurian.

To Cole’s disgust, Hamada and the others started nodding as they listened.

“Dunavan doesn’t believe the evidence?” Dennis said.

Leach grunted. “It’s typical. He can’t give up a chase or an idea he’s got his teeth into. I don’t see how any of this is connected to Dunavan killing the Benay woman, though. Go home, Rasgorshek.” He turned away. “I’ll leave you to it, Hamada. Keep me informed of developments.”

Cole caught the collective sigh of relief as Leach disappeared out the door.

Willner started back for his desk. “If you come across other information on Kijurian, let me know.” Passing Galentree’s desk, he stopped short. “What the…”

He had seen the laptop, Cole realized in disgust. Interrupted again!

Hamada turned. “Something wrong?”

“Something crazy. This thing typed a letter by itself.”

Razor started. Hamada’s brows went up. Dennis’s expression said: Yeah, right.

Cole sidestepped clear of the laptop. If only he could type faster.

Coming closer to the screen, Willner stared. “Holy shit. Listen to this. ‘Benay possibly witnessed Dunavan’s shooting- ”

The rush toward the desk interrupted him. In seconds he was surrounded. Cole backed through the desk to its far side.

Hamada read the rest of the message over Willner’s shoulder. “‘Dunavan’s shooting in the 2EC garage.”

His phone rang.

“Charlie, get that for me, will you?”

Dennis lumbered back to Hamada’s desk.

Hamada pursed his lips. “Two EC garage?”

Razor’s shoulders hunched as though against the cold. “The Flaxx offices are in Two EC.”

“Interesting.” Hamada continued reading. “‘See Gerald Lockhart, Seacliff, re Benay’s 10–10 or…’” His eyes narrowed. “See Lockhart about her location or…what, do you reckon? Do you have any ideas, Razor?”

“No.” He eyed the laptop as if it might bite.

“But you know the name,” Cole said. “It’s the same Lockhart in the message on your computer, old buddy.”

Razor’s eyes flicked Cole’s direction. He sucked in his breath.

Electricity shot through Cole. “Razor? You see me?”

Hamada glanced down at Razor. “Something wrong?”

Razor pulled his glasses off and polished them on his tie. “No.”

Cole grinned across the desk in triumph. “Like hell it was nothing! Admit it, you son of a bitch…you saw me! You know you’re awake and you saw me.” He came around beside Razor and punched his shoulder. “Come on, look at me.”

Razor stiffened but kept polishing the glasses.

Hamada eyed the screen thoughtfully. “Where’s Galentree?”

“Gone to the crime lab.” Willner’s forehead furrowed. “But if he came across this information, why didn’t he mention it to me, or tell you?”

“Just what I’d like to know.” Hamada picked up Galentree’s phone.

As he started punching in the crime lab’s number, Dennis trotted over, face grim. “That was the lab about Dunavan’s car.” He handed Hamada a memo pad filled with notes.

Razor froze.

A mask slid over Hamada’s face as he read. He looked up from the notes to Razor. “You might be right about Dunavan being the victim. They’ve typed the blood. It’s the same as his.”

Their faces all went grim.

“We don’t know Benay’s blood type, though,” Hamada said. “Did Dunavan carry a backup gun?”

Razor put back on his glasses. “Just his issued weapon.”

“Does he own a handgun of his own?”

“A.22 revolver for target shooting.” Razor frowned. “Why?”

“They found a 9mm bullet embedded in the carpet of the foot well, possibly from a Glock.”

The department issued Beretta.40's.

Hamada hefted the memo pad. “So it looks like someone else brought their own weapon to the party.” He flipped to a new page and copied down the computer message. “Andy, can I get you to ask your partner about this? I need to contact Flaxx Enterprises.” He checked his wrist watch. “They ought to be in the office by this time.”

Cole gave a thumbs up. Yes! Start hunting Sara. Work fast. The foreboding in him felt even darker.

Back at their desks, Dennis handed Hamada the phone records. Hamada punched the Flaxx number into his phone and handed the records back. “Try this number and see who she called after Flaxx, will you? And look up a phone number for Gerald Lockhart.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Razor asked.

Hamada pointed at the chair beside his desk. “Guests are always welcome to sit down and- Hello, this is the San Francisco Police Department.” He shoved a stack of Polaroids toward the edge of the desk, tore the page of lab notes off his memo pad, and laid it on the Polaroids. “May I speak to your personnel director, please.”

Earl Lamper. Lamper had that job as well as being IT director and head of Bookkeeping. Flaxx wanted just one person having complete access to the computers, Cole suspected. Except, was Lamper there today?

Razor picked up the crime lab notes and the Polaroids. Cole read the notes over Razor’s shoulder. The car had not been dusted for prints yet, but in going over the seats, they found blonde and black hairs on both the passenger and driver headrests, and — what? Fragments of clear plastic tape and sticky residue on the back of the passenger seat and headrest?

Cole frowned. Had the shooter left them? He could not remember the kids messing around with tape in the car.

Hamada introduced himself to someone else before asking: “Do you have a Sara Benay employed there? … Will you transfer me to Bookkeeping, then? I need to speak with her.” His brows rose. “Well, that’s handy.” His brows climbed higher. “She’s where? … Do you have a number where we can reach her? … Yes, sir, I can hold.”

Razor laid down the memo sheet and began shuffling through the Polaroids.

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Hamada said, “No surprise…Benay isn’t there, but this fellow says she flew home for a family emergency. He’s checking to see if she left a number.”

The Polaroids showed the Taurus…the blood-spattered dash, a blood-soaked headrest. Why blood-soaked, Cole wondered. It was too much for blowback blood.

Then he thought of the tape pieces and had a vision of his body, too difficult for the shooter to move to the trunk, taped upright in the seat. Had the shooter really risked driving like that? Cole whistled soundlessly. Even at night and with the windows rolled up, it was ballsy. Give the shooter credit for good nerves.

Another photo showed the front license tag. Which had a different number from his. The shooter must have switched plates. No, not switched plates, Cole realized moments later. A photo of the rear tag showed smeared numbers. In a third photo, some of smeared numbers were gone, revealing his tag numbers. The shooter printed a fake number on label paper — before or after killing him? — and stuck it over the real one.

Cute. No wonder the ATL failed to locate the car for so long. The fakes would never stand up to a close