added.
Thirty minutes later, two psychiatric paramedics arrived. Zack was led into the elevator. Just before the door closed, he turned and looked at me, a stunned, betrayed expression on his swollen face.
Chapter 21
What's with all these embassy cars? Where's our Intel on these people?'
Underwood was pissed, studying the digital photo blow-ups from the funeral. Brendan Villalobos, Mace Ward, Ruben Bola and I were crowded in his office.
The idea that foreign embassies might lodge a career-ending complaint in the federal hierarchy, definitely had Underwood worried. It was no fun being bait at the bottom of the political aquarium. While Underwood bitched about our inefficiency, I tried to get the image of Zack's swollen, disillusioned face to retreat to some dark place in the back of my mind.
'We gotta find out who these fucking people are,' Underwood said.
'This big guy dressed in the tweed jacket left in a car from the Russian Embassy,' Villalobos said, pointing at the pictures.
Ruben Bola followed his lead and picked up two photos. 'This bald guy in the blue blazer left in an Israeli embassy car. The foxy blonde in the business suit was in a silver Jag. We ran her plates but they came back to a company called Allied Freight Forwarding. Answering machine, post office box address. Probably a phone drop.'
Brendan Villalobos picked up photos of the guys wearing Forest Lawn jumpsuits. 'Anybody been able to identify these two cream machines?' he asked.
The African American was implausibly handsome. The shot of his partner showed a thin, narrow-waisted white guy with tattoos. He had an uneven, sandy flattop that looked like he'd done it himself with hedge shears.
'Where's their car?' Brendan asked.
I rummaged around and found a shot of an old Dodge Charger pulling out of the lot. Darleen and Kyle had printed several blow-ups of the rear bumper giving us a readable view of the license plate. 'California plate IdaMae-Victor three-seven-five,' I said. 'It came back to somebody named Leland Zant.'
'And?' Agent Orange had lost patience with us. 'Extensive drug record,' Ruben added quickly, keeping his eyes on his notes. 'Guy changes addresses a lot. Sally's trying to dig through the clutter and get a current.'
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door and Sally Quinn stuck her head in. 'Zant is doing a third strike in Soledad. He's been up there since last August.'
'So if he's in the cooler, who's driving this Charger?' Underwood barked. 'Come on, don't make me pull it out in scraps.'
Sally continued, 'Zant went down for moving forty kilos of cut. With that much weight, we popped him for felony dealing and the car became an LAPD asset seizure. The registration just transferred.'
'This Charger is an LAPD undercover?' Underwood frowned.
'Looks like it, sir,' Sally answered.
'So keep going. . Who was driving it? Getting a full report outta you is worse than dental surgery.'
Detective Quinn was turning red with anger, but to her credit, her expression didn't change. She took a breath and held his gaze. 'It was checked out of our motor pool to CTB.'
'I give up.' Underwood was getting snotty now. 'Counter Terrorism Bureau,' she clarified. 'They're upstairs on four.'
Underwood started rubbing his forehead with a freckled hand. 'What the hell is going on here? Did we just accidentally stumble into some multinational antiterrorism case?'
Nobody answered.
'Who in CTB checked the car out of your motor pool?' he asked Sally, holding up the two pictures of the Forest Lawn workers. 'Was it these two? Did you get their names or did you even bother to ask?'
'Don't know who they are, sir. It was checked out on what they call a blind borrow.' Detective Quinn's voice was strained. She'd had her fill.
'I wanta know who these two people are. If they're cops, I want their names.' Underwood was apoplectic, waving the digital pictures at us.
After a long silence, I volunteered. 'Homicide Special shares the floor with CTB. I've gotten to know a few people. You want, I could wander around up there and see if I can find out who these guys are.'
'Hey. . that sure sounds like a plan.' Underwood rolled his eyes in undisguised frustration.
I glanced at my fellow task force members. They all wore deadpans that would have won poker tournaments in Vegas.
I went upstairs and wandered around with our digital prints stashed out of sight in a manila folder. CTB was divided into two sections. The operational side was a regular squad room with partitions, which housed your basic, high-testosterone, door-kicking commando types. Across the main aisle from them was the Intelligence Section. It was a cluttered cube farm full of nerdy boys and girls with fluorescent tans, plastic belts, and intense expressions.
The way it was explained to me, CTB Intelligence worked on background, accessing computer data banks, and looking for known associates of terrorist cell members. Once a new list of potential bomb throwers was compiled, Intelligence would turn it over to Operations. Operations would then make a determination on which targets looked promising and the lieutenant in charge would assign one of the surveillance squads for a twenty- four-hour look-see. Sometimes they'd spot the target buying drugs. Sometimes they were conspiring with other known terrorists or buying street guns. Sometimes they were just picking up prostitutes. Whatever the crime, Operations would arrest them and pull them in for questioning.
What CTB had learned since 9/11, was that once a terrorist was arrested, most hardcore operations like Al Qaeda would never deal with him again. One minor bust, even one that didn't stick, eliminated a cell member forever. As a result, the terrorist cells were so busy rebuilding, they didn't get around to running plays.
I walked slowly down the corridors looking for a friendly face; somebody that I could show my packet of photos to. Then I looked up. Coming right toward me was the handsome black detective from Forest Lawn. He was now wearing a snazzy designer suit with an open-collared blue silk shirt. Fruity cologne trailed him like expensive exhaust. After he passed, the guy flicked an F-stop glance back in my direction.
We have ignition.
I followed him into his small, cluttered cubicle. He was taking off his coat and settling behind his desk as I came through the doorway.
'Something I can do for you?' he asked.
Instead of answering, I dropped his picture on the desk in front of him.
Chapter 22
I settled into the chair on the opposite side of the partner's desk in his cubicle, and gave him my best blank stare.
There was a long moment while he tried to decide how he wanted to play it. I obviously wasn't going to go away, so he heaved a deep sigh and said, 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours.'
He was one of those guys who had scored big in the gene pool. Mocha skin, square jaw, white teeth, piercing black eyes. But there was also a healthy dose of arrogance.
I reached into my back pocket, fished out my worn leather badge case and dropped it onto the desktop between us. He did the same. Then we each slid them across the three-foot polished surface at each other.
He was Roger Broadway, Detective III. On the job since '87. The picture looked like it came out of a modeling portfolio. We airmailed our creds back, both plucking badge cases out of the air simultaneously.
