Smart, willing, and physically fit, Greenbaum had graduated near the top of his academy class. He was going to be a good cop-move up to detective in four or five years, maybe even eventually make lieutenant-but he knew he had a lot to learn. In the time since he’d started riding patrol, his training officers had opened his eyes to a lot they didn’t teach in the classroom. Some Greenbaum agreed with, some he didn’t, but he’d resolved to reserve judgment until he had the full picture. Although he was only six months into his probationary boot year on the force, one thing he had already learned: Things weren’t always as they seemed.
He caught up with his T.O. inside the complex. “That’s it,” said Odegard, stopping in front of a two-story unit on the left. “One fifty-seven. You do the knocking.” Without awaiting a response, he stepped into the shadows, moving behind a clump of palms.
The condo was quiet, but lights burned in several windows-one downstairs, another on the second floor. Greenbaum pushed the bell. Listened. Rang it again. Then, thinking the button might be broken, he knocked. Finally the door swung open.
“Detective Shelby, West LA,” said a dark-haired man standing on the other side. Greenbaum noticed an LAPD shield hanging from the man’s belt.
“Yes, sir. We got a call-”
“I know.” The man squinted into the darkness. “You got a partner?”
“Right here.” Odegard stepped from the bushes. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Family disturbance,” the detective answered. “Wife got beat up by her ex. She knows a friend of mine-Dan Kane. I live in the area and he asked me to swing by.”
“I know Kane,” said Odegard. “Works homicide.”
“That’s him.” The detective glanced into the condo. “I already requested emergency services. Right now I need one of you to take the woman’s statement,” he added, addressing Odegard. “And you-Greenbaum,” he continued, reading the young officer’s plate, “wait out here. The lady said that her ex-husband is drunk and may come back. If he does, grab him.”
Greenbaum stepped aside to let Odegard pass, watching as the detective closed the door behind them. For the next several minutes he stood on the front steps, wondering whether the ex-husband would be stupid enough to return. Probably not with a cop waiting outside, even if he is drunk, he decided, considering moving into the bushes as his T.O. had earlier. Suddenly a muffled whump sounded inside the condo, like someone dropping a phone book.
Seconds later the front door cracked open again. “I need you,” the detective said.
“Yes, sir.” As Greenbaum stepped inside, he smelled the odor of something burning. Newspaper? Matches? “What was that noise?” he asked.
“I heard it, too,” the detective answered. “That’s what I want to show you. Upstairs.”
At the detective’s direction, Greenbaum climbed a staircase, the dark-haired man close at his heels. “The room at the end,” the detective instructed when they reached the top landing. “You won’t believe this.”
The smell had grown stronger. Candles, Greenbaum thought absently as he proceeded down the hallway. Christmas candles.
The door at the end of the hall was closed.
“Open it,” the detective ordered, for some reason sounding amused.
Puzzled, Greenbaum twisted the knob. The door swung open, revealing a large bedroom. Candles lit the interior. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust…
He froze when he saw the woman on the bed.
Something hard pressed against the back of Donny Greenbaum’s skull. It was the last thing he ever felt.
45
I braked hard as I passed the Brentwood Country Club golf course, my heart heavy with thoughts of Catheryn. I checked for cross traffic and ran the light at Bundy, glancing at my watch as I jammed the Suburban’s accelerator to the floor.
Even driving on the shoulder past Caltrans cleanup crews and ignoring the speed limit all the way in, it had still taken what seemed forever to get there. I screamed through the next light, skidded onto Westgate, and squealed to a stop in front of Lauren’s condo. Leaving my car at the curb, I bolted up the walkway, a wave of apprehension coursing through me as I recalled the Lauren’s voice on the phone. She had sounded terrified, close to panic. And that bit about it being my idea to bring a news team into the task force briefings…
Clearly a warning.
The front door to Lauren’s condo stood open. I hesitated, noticing an unattended black-and-white LAPD cruiser parked in the rear alley. The troops must have arrived. Still I hesitated. Something about the house struck me as wrong. I stood on the landing and listened.
Silence.
I withdrew my automatic and slipped inside. Listened again.
Still nothing.
Quietly, I made my way into the family room. I passed the Christmas tree. Torn wrapping and a pile of toys lay at its base. I detected the smell of pine, and something else.
Smoke?
Nobody in the kitchen. The pantry, powder room, and den were empty, too.
Upstairs?
I returned to the entry and eased up the stairs. A bathroom door stood open at the top, tinges of red on the sink and floor. After a quick glance inside, I moved to a door on the right.
Inside, the bed was empty. The comforter was thrown back, the covers rumpled. A uniformed patrol officer lay sprawled nearby on the carpet. A crimson puddle outlined his head. I touched the officer’s throat. Warm, no pulse.
I backed from the room, a trickle of sweat gathering under my arms.
It hasn’t been long. Is he still here?
Without a sound I retreated down the hall to the other bedroom door. When I arrived, I heard a low moan on the other side.
Go in fast or slow?
Fast.
I slammed into the room. Swinging my automatic in a two-handed arc, I crabbed left, moving out of the lighted doorway.
Candle on the dresser, another by the window. Someone on the bed. Someone else on the floor. Nobody moving.
Finger tensed on the trigger, I flipped the light switch. A lamp on the nightstand came on. A second police officer lay at my feet, the back of his skull matted with blood. My eyes narrowed as I turned toward the bed. Lauren.
I rushed over. Hearing my approach, Lauren began struggling, fighting to free herself from ropes binding her to the bed frame.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, lifting Lauren’s head and unwrapping a blood encrusted gag that covered her lower face. She had been severely beaten. Her face was bruised, her nose broken. Both of her eyes were nearly swollen shut.
At the sound of my voice Lauren stopped struggling. “Kane?” she sobbed, peering up at me. “Kane?”
“It’s me,” I said softly.
“I can’t…”
“Lie quiet. I’ll call an ambulance. Where’s Candice?”
“At her dad’s. Will you-”
“I’ll take care of everything. Save your strength. Don’t talk.”
An opened Christmas present lay on the nightstand beside the bed. With a chill, I noted the box’s contents:
