“Listen,” Nate said, “I caught a death notification for that agent killed out in Chatsworth. Abara. I have to go tell his mother.”
“I thought FBI handled their own.”
“I guess they’re as short-staffed with this stuff as we are. Anyway, Brown asked me to handle it.”
“You coming in?”
“Later. But I was wondering if you could give me a preview.”
“Well, Jonesy’s in bad shape. Heh. They used an honest-to-God rescue saw. You believe that?”
Nate parked at a meter a few blocks away from the Police Administration Building. If things went bad and he had to bolt, he didn’t want to get stuck in a parking garage. “Any physical evidence?”
“I got bupkis off what was left of Jonesy, but scuttlebutt is the latent-print unit pulled something off the rescue saw.”
Climbing out, Nate paused. Then slammed the door, a little harder than necessary, and started briskly toward the building. “Where are they with that?”
“Prints are at the lab now.”
“Already?”
“Fast-tracked. Killed an agent, ya know. Heh.”
“When do you think they’ll have results?”
“I’d say any minute.”
Nate picked up the pace, just shy of a jog. “Ask you one more question?”
“Course.”
“I assume FBI’s handling the investigation. But who’s the detective liaison?”
“Ken Nowak.”
By arriving unreasonably early, Nate hoped to dodge colleagues and complications. Even so, as he stepped out from the elevator with an empty duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he proceeded cautiously, unsure what he’d find. Sergeant Jen Brown’s office was dark and most of the cubicles empty. Unnoticed, he picked his way toward his desk.
A loud voice startled him. “Surprised you’d show your face around here.”
He turned, Ken Nowak drawing into sight around a partition wall. Leaning back in his chair, that hockey puck of a key ring resting next to his propped-up loafers.
Ken lowered his feet and settled forward with a touch of menace. “After that whole airport-terrorist incident, I mean.”
Nate released a breath as evenly as he could manage. “It was just a mix-up.”
“I bet. What you doing here?”
“Picking up my stuff.”
“You don’t need
Nate glanced over at his desk. Sure enough, his personal things were boxed and waiting. His
“Oh,” he said, hoping he looked appropriately dismayed. “Well, I have to wait for Brown anyway. She had some stuff for me to sign, I’m guessing severance paperwork so I don’t sue anyone.”
Ken elected not to take up the feigned attempt at worker camaraderie.
Nate took a breath. “How ’bout you? Isn’t this a little early?”
“I been here half the night. Big case, FBI agent iced out in Chatsworth. Literally. I’m waiting on print results from the lab.” Ken turned back to his desk and took a sip of coffee. “We get our hands on the piece of shit who did it, ain’t gonna be a pretty sight.”
Nate managed a nod, staring at the phone just beyond Ken’s knuckles. As soon as it rang, he was dead. He moved swiftly to his desk and powered up the computer. What he needed, what he’d come for, were weapons. Real weapons, as in assault rifles, handguns, C4. A virtual armory. Like the one Danny Urban had collected, the one that had been seized by the cops and put into an evidence locker down the hall.
The problem was, Nate didn’t know
His muscles had gone tense, braced to hear the ring of Ken’s phone. Typing furiously, he called up the log-in screen and keyed in his user name and password.
ACCESS DENIED.
Of course.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Plan B. Now.
Rising, he crossed to Ken’s desk. “I meant to ask, you still driving that gold Chrysler?”
“Champagne.”
“Right. I parked near you. I think someone dinged you. Rear bumper’s half off.”
“You’re kidding me.” Already Ken was up, digging for his car keys, hustling out. “You’d better be wrong, Overbay.”
Nate waited for him to pass from sight, and then he swiped the thick ring of work keys Ken had left behind. As he moved to go, Ken’s phone rang, the caller ID screen lighting up: SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION DIVISION. The crime lab.
Nate lunged to lower the volume on the ringer, not daring to breathe. A frozen instant. But Ken’s footsteps continued up the hall, and then the elevator car chimed its arrival. Nate blew out a shaky exhale. A moment later the voice-mail button blinked its red alert.
He tore his eyes from the phone and ran down the hall, readjusting the empty duffel across his back. He had five minutes, seven tops.
The evidence room was off the main corridor, just shy of the elevators. The reinforced door stood locked, the metal shutter rolled down behind the guard cage. Nate stared helplessly from the autolocking doorknob to the lump of keys sitting in his palm, maybe twenty of them. Had he hoped that one would have a big label on it reading EVIDENCE LOCKERS?
With fumbling hands Nate tried one key after another. The dead bolt stood firm, unimpressed with his offerings.
Another key failed. And the next. Sweat ran down Nate’s forehead, stung his eyes. A memory surfaced-had he read somewhere that LAPD had changed the rules after Rampart so cops no longer were allowed keys to the evidence room? Which meant that even if he
A voice from behind broke through his thoughts. “Help you there, Overbay?”
His hands froze. Hiding the keys, he lowered them into his pocket. Slowly, he turned.
Bernice Daniels, the evidence custodian, loomed behind him, holding up a gleaming silver key connected by a plastic clip coil to the front pocket of her overburdened polyester pants. She was a dense, squat woman, boulderlike buttocks providing a counterweight to a sturdy bosom. She was lovely and cheery, an oversize heart to match her proportions.
Flustered, he scratched at his head, feigning casual. “Yeah, actually. I was just waiting for you. Sergeant Brown assigned me to the Danny Urban case. And I like to … you know-”
“Look through every last piece of evidence. I know. But it’s been a while since Homeboy Hit Man caught a bullet barrage. Why you serving the death notification now?”
Less than ten yards away, a set of elevator doors peeled open and Ken Nowak stepped forth.
Nate cleared his throat, regained his focus. “They just located a son. So I have to go let him know.”
“Oh, dear.” Bernice opened the door, stepping inside and hoisting the metal shutter behind the guard cage.
Annoyed, Ken walked briskly by. “The hell, Overbay? My car’s fine.”
“That’s good. I must’ve had the wrong car.”
“I’m surprised there’s another. It’s a rare color.”
Ken continued past, heading toward his desk and the waiting voice-mail message identifying Nate as Abara’s killer. Nate watched him walking away, every step one more tick of the countdown.
He turned back, debated making a break for the elevator.
