“Hello, Tim, how are you?”
“Chief?”
They exchanged greetings and caught up briefly, enabling Ball to ascertain that O’Rourke was in fact on the West Coast. While he’d had a backup plan in case O’Rourke wasn’t, things would be considerably easier this way.
“I wonder if you could do me a favor,” said Ball.
“A favor? What do you need, Chris?”
“I’d like to talk to you in person, if you don’t mind. I’m in town, actually.”
“LA?”
“It’s kind of important. I know you’re busy.”
“Busy.” O’Rourke made a derisive sound as if he were spitting into the phone. “They’re humoring me here, Chris. I could go away for a month and they’d never miss me.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“Close.”
“Want to have dinner?”
“Already ate.”
“Let’s grab a drink then,” said Ball. “I know a place.” they met at a small bar Ball had picked out before making the phone call. O’Rourke had retired as a zone sergeant for the New York State Troopers before signing on with McSweeney, and like most of their conversations, this one began with him recalling a minor incident they’d watched unfold in the local court, where the citizen judge had actually fallen asleep several times during the proceedings. Ball chuckled, though he felt bad for the judge. They were on their second beers before O’Rourke asked what he had wanted.
“I need a job, actually,” Ball told him. “I was wondering if there might be something on the senator’s staff.” He wove a story of political intrigue, claiming that his foes in the village had finally outmaneuvered him.
“Well, I’m sure Senator McSweeney would help. Somehow. There isn’t much to do now. I mean, there are plenty of things to do, but the Secret Service takes care of most of it.”
“You’re not involved at all?”
“Of course I’m involved.”
Ball bought another round, encouraging O’Rourke to talk. He picked up as much information as he could about the security arrangements, pulling out names and data about the routines.
By the time they were done, O’Rourke had convinced himself that he was going to get his old friend a job. They were going to have a great time together.
O’Rourke had also had quite a bit to drink, more than enough to make him tipsy.
“I think I better drive you home,” said Ball.
“Nonsense. I’m sober.”
“If you get stopped, it’ll look very bad for the campaign.
And I won’t get my job.”
It took another round to convince him.
Killing Amanda Rauci had taken so much out of Ball that he decided he wasn’t going to kill O’Rourke; instead, he’d leave him locked in the trunk of the rental car and park it somewhere no one would find it for a day or two. But when Ball pulled off the road and got out of the car, pretending that he was going to relieve himself, the sleeping O’Rourke suddenly stirred.
“Where you goin’, Chris?”
“Gotta take a leak.”
“Where the hell are we?”
“Damned if I know,” lied Ball.
And then suddenly O’Rourke became belligerent, pointing out that they should have been back at his hotel by now.
“Look, I don’t know the damn state,” said Ball. He had already taken O’Rourke’s pistol; he put his hand on it as he walked around the car toward the field.
“We’re out in the middle of nowhere,” said O’Rourke, getting out of the car. “Hey, where’s my gun?”
“Here,” said Ball, and he killed O’Rourke with a single shot to the head.
A sharp edge of panic struck Ball in the ribs as O’Rourke fell. Had someone seen him stop? Was he close enough to the nearby houses to be heard?
He’d checked the place carefully, he reminded himself, but his paranoia continued to grow. He picked O’Rourke up and put him in the trunk, then took off his shirt, worried about bloodstains. Ball went to the ground and kicked at the dirt.
Get out of here, he told himself. Go! Take the car and go.
He felt better as he drove. By the time he left the car in the long-term parking lot at LAX and queued up for a cab to take him back to his hotel, he was back to his old self.
Not the police chief self, but the man who’d lived on his wits in the city years before, the man who knew how the night worked, and how to take advantage of it.
The man he needed to be for the next twenty-four hours.
134
Rubens stood at the back of the Art Room, surveying the room. It was nearly empty, with only two runners and the supervisor, Chris Farlekas, on duty. It had been a long, fruitless day, and Desk Three’s center of operations was eerily quiet — never a good sign.
“Nothing?” said Rubens when Farlekas glanced up at him.
“A few things. The analysis of the DNA sample from Chief Ball should be available soon. Ambassador Jackson checked in from Secret Service headquarters. There was a threat against another candidate. The Ser vice isn’t sure if it was a copycat or not. It was sent by e-mail and they know where it originated. They’re in the pro cess of seizing the computers. I volunteered our help, but they said it was under control. The network is in Las Vegas, and they have plenty of agents there. It was sent from a Starbucks,” added Farlekas. “A little different than the others.”
“The President?”
“Due in LA around five a.m. tomorrow. The Ser vice is confident they can protect him.”
“Have Mr. Dean wait for him at the airport. He wants to be briefed personally.”
“I already told him.”
Rubens glanced around the room. There was nothing for him to do here, and he had more than enough work waiting back upstairs. Still, he wanted to stay.
No, what he wanted to do was solve this, apprehend Chief Ball, and find out who was trying to assassinate McSweeney — assuming Gallo was right and it wasn’t the police chief.
“I’ll be in my office. Let me know if anything develops overnight.”
“You’re going back to your office?” asked Farlekas. “It’s past seven.”
“I have a few things to wrap up,” said Rubens. “Thank you for your concern.”
135
Dean had never been in the presidential limo before, and his first impression was one of disappointment. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but the reality seemed almost disappointing. The back consisted of two bench seats facing each other. The leather seats were plush, but otherwise the interior seemed no more luxurious than what you would find in a standard Mercedes S. There was a bit more room, but still, Dean’s knees nearly
