exacting a promise that she would divulge her findings only to him.
He was about to tackle the after-action report on the morning raid when his phone warbled. “Bauer.”
“Special Agent Bauer? This is Detective Jerry Alder, LAPD. I’m Frank Castalano’s partner.”
Jack sat up. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Frank wanted you to know he’s captured a suspect in the Beverly Hills murder.”
“Where? When?”
“The Angeles National Forest, about fifteen minutes ago. Listen. The man is a Saudi citizen here on an education visa. He’s high on some kind of drug and talking jihad against all infidels—”
“Don’t say anything more over this line. Where’s Frank taking the suspect?”
“Central Facilities between Fifth and Sixth Street, near the bus terminal. We can control access to the prisoner better there than at the Court House.”
“That’s smart.” Jack knew
Chappelle would hit the roof if he didn’t see the after-action report on his desk in thirty minutes, but instincts told Jack this was more important than composing a futile exercise in bureaucratic double-speak.
“Tell Frank I’m on my way.”
6. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The eight-man crew representing the Stage Carpenters and Craftsmen Union, Local 235, had gathered inside the union-mandated break area — in this case a large silver recreational vehicle parked on the street outside the mammoth Chamberlain Auditorium.
Not a hundred yards from the RV’s door, the red carpet was being rolled out for the Silver Screen Awards Ceremony. In less than eight hours, celebrities would be strutting down that carpet and into the pavilion. Fans and ranks of paparazzi were already staking claims to the choicest locations — behind well-guarded police barricades.
Inside the air-conditioned RV things were more relaxed. The workers lounged on couches and chairs and some took advantage of the microwave oven and coffee maker. Others smoked — strictly against Los Angeles County regulations — and watched television.
The men had been at it since 6 a.m., putting together the stage props for tonight’s awards show. Everything was in place now, except an elaborate replica of the award itself, and a large wooden podium to set it on. These props were to be placed at center stage, and the prefabricated structure was on its way over from a construction contractor in El Monte. This final piece of the set would arrive within the hour, with plenty of time to set it up before the curtain rose on the live broadcast.
Even if the parts had arrived, the union contract stipulated that after four hours of work, a meal break was mandatory. Of course, the team was supposed to stagger their breaks so that someone was always available for carpentry work. But Pat Morganthau — the team’s regular foreman — had not shown up for work and could not be found at any of his usual haunts. Meanwhile the instructions issued by the substitute foreman the management company had dispatched to the site— a twenty-something guy named Eddie Sabir — were being pretty much ignored by the union men.
In the middle of a cable sports report, the RV door opened.
“Heads up, the Teamsters have arrived,” yelled one of the carpenters. Boos and catcalls followed.
A Middle Eastern man stood in the doorway. He waved a greeting with one hand, the other held a bright blue plastic storage container.
A portly fellow watching ESPN from a lounge chair slapped his forehead. “Shit, Haroun, why’d you have to show up now?”
The man in the doorway offered the union men a broad smile.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Haroun. “The bad news is that the props are in the truck and the truck is here, which means we all have work to do. But the good news is that my wife has made honey cakes again.”
A burly carpenter with a long ponytail whistled. “Man, bring ’em on.”
The portly man muted the sportscast. “Come on in, Haroun, sit down. We just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
Haroun set the plastic container on the table, shook his head. “No, no, I must get the truck into the loading dock. Please be my guest. I shall return in a few minutes and join you.”
“Better hurry,” said the carpenter with the ponytail. “The last time you brought honey cakes they were gone before the foreman got any! And boy did Morganthau bitch.”
Haroun hurried out the door. Ponytail Man helped himself to one of the tiny nutty cakes dripping with sweet honey. He passed the container to the others. “Man, these hit the spot,” he gushed after a hearty first bite.
Before he took another, a groan came from the couch, out of the mouth of the youngest man in the room. He was slumped on the couch beside the portly worker. The lanky, twenty-two-year-old had shaggy blond hair and a deep surfer’s tan. He groaned again and clutched his stomach.
“What the fuck is wrong with him,” the portly man asked before sampling the sticky pastry.
“Dickhead here went to that new strip club out by the airport,” Ponytail Man replied. “He drank till three a.m., then came to work.”
“He ain’t gonna be worth shit,” opined a middle-aged, muscle-bound worker with a shaved head. He leaned back in his armchair and licked his gooey fingers.
The sick young man couldn’t take it anymore — all the eating, the smacking lips, the smells. He jumped up and raced to the john, slammed the door and locked it behind him. He hung his head over the toilet, waiting.
“Another worshipper of the porcelain god,” quipped Ponytail Man. The others laughed.
Inside the cramped head, the young man gagged a few times, but nothing came up despite his nausea, the wracking cramps. He wasn’t surprised. He’d lost the contents of his stomach a long time ago, and wondered now when the agony would subside. Vowing never to drink to excess again, he ran water, washed out his mouth, rinsed his face. After he toweled off, he felt a little better, so he took a deep breath and opened the door.
At first he thought the whole thing was a twisted joke.
Ponytail Man was slumped over the table, head lolling to one side, eyes wide and unblinking, lips blue. The portly sports fan’s eyes were wide and staring at the television broadcast, but he could no longer see. Another man was sprawled next to him on the couch, mouth gaping, tongue black and distended.
The big, bald dude lay dead on the floor, fingers curled and clutching the carpet. The youth whimpered, felt more than saw movement behind him. Then something hard and cold touched the back of his head. The young man froze, knees suddenly weak.
“You really should have eaten the cakes,” said Haroun. The sound suppressed Colt bucked in his hand. The young man’s head burst like a melon; his body jerked and tumbled limply to the floor.
Haroun grunted as blood sprayed across his face. “As Hasan commands, so it shall be,” he murmured.
The muffled sound of the shot had hardly faded before eight men in jeans and T-shirts entered the RV. Unlike Haroun, not one of these men was of Middle Eastern origin. All were Caucasians with brown or black hair, three were blond with fair skin and gray or green eyes. Their appearance easily fit the names and identities of the dead men around them.
Silently, the newcomers stripped the tool belts, ID tags, wallets, vests, clothes, keys and watches from the dead men. Meanwhile Haroun gingerly lifted the box of cakes and gathered up the fallen pastries, careful not to touch the tainted confections with his bare flesh. He dumped the poisoned food into a garbage bag, tossed the sound suppressed handgun in with it, then joined the others.
For the past two weeks, Haroun — obeying the instructions of the mysterious Hasan — had worked side-by- side, and socialized with the murdered men who lay at his feet. On three previous occasions Haroun had brought honey cakes baked, he said, by his dutiful and obedient Muslim wife. In truth Haroun had no wife, nor would he ever have one— except perhaps in Paradise where he would have many. Each time, the cakes had been delivered to him
