Sizzle (32 page)

There was a good chance that Merriam and his men feared the Flynn gang more than they did a prison sentence, but Sam wouldn’t rest easy. Everyone assumed that Merriam had hired Flynn’s men to go after Lyra, and now with Merriam behind bars, that the threat was over. If Sam had to get Flynn alone in a room to make the connection, by God, he’d do it, even if it meant losing his job. Better the badge than Lyra. The thought of anything happening to her made him crazy.

He never should have left her. He knew he could come up with at least ten reasons—or excuses—for leaving, but none of them held up under scrutiny. The truth was, Lyra scared him. Sam had left because he didn’t want to love her, and how stupid was that? He’d been an idiot and a coward. And, damn, he did love her.

He called her apartment and her cell phone to tell her he was coming, but no one answered. He decided to check in with Detective O’Malley.

“Anything new on the two guys you picked up?” he asked.

“No,” O’Malley answered. “Trapp probably told you we haven’t been able to connect them to Merriam yet. Johnson and Foley, the two who shot at you in the park, won’t give us anything. As much as we’d like to prove Merriam hired them, we don’t have the evidence.

Same with the car bomb. We can’t connect that to Merriam either. We’ll keep trying.”

“Good,” Sam said. “We can’t let go of this until you do.” PER THE D.A.’S INSTRUCTIONS, O’Malley arranged to have Johnson and Foley brought to the interrogation room. They had been sitting in their cells long enough to get worried, and it was a last attempt by the D.A.’s office to make a deal with whoever talked first. O’Malley didn’t think there was a chance in hell that either one of them would rat out Flynn. He could be more terrifying than any prison.

Sam was a few miles from Lyra’s apartment when the detective called him and asked if he would like to observe. Sam immediately turned around and drove to the station. He had no intention of simply observing. He had questions of his own.

O’Malley spotted him coming up the stairs. Sam was wearing a comfortable pair of jeans and a white shirt. O’Malley, in the same old rumpled blue suit he wore three out of five days, envied him.

“Nice dress code you feds have.”

“I’m not at work,” Sam informed him.

As they walked down the hall, O’Malley said, “Look, I slacked off on that list you gave me, and I’m sorry about that. I also want you to know I appreciate getting the recognition as head of the joint operation.”

“Trapp did that.”

“Yeah, but you told him to. Anyway, thanks.”

“Are they here yet?”

“Just arrived. We’ve got Johnson in one room and Foley in the other. We’re waiting on the D.A.’s assistant.”

“Let’s go.”

“You’re not going to wait for the D.A.?”

“No.”

Sam went into the observation room and looked through the window at Johnson, who was nervously biting off a fingernail and spitting it on the floor. He was young, barely out of his teens. Sam watched him for a minute, then crossed the hall to look at Foley. The middle-aged man leaned back in his chair and looked bored as he tapped his fingers on the table.

“I’ll start with Johnson.”

O’Malley followed Sam into the room where Johnson waited. The young man smirked when O’Malley introduced the agent.

Sam couldn’t see Johnson’s hands under the table. “Is he shackled?” he asked O’Malley.

“You afraid of me?” Johnson snickered, but Sam ignored him.

“Why does it matter?” O’Malley asked Sam.

“I can’t throw him into the wall if he’s shackled.”

The way he stared at Johnson when he made the threat was so intimidating, O’Malley thought he might really do it.

Johnson wasn’t convinced. “You can’t do that. You’re an FBI agent.”

“Not today,” he said. “I’m on vacation.” He turned to O’Malley. “You want to take my gun and wait outside a few minutes?”

“You can’t touch me,” Johnson snarled. “I know my rights. It’s illegal.” Sam took a step toward the table, and Johnson recoiled.

“I’m not just any agent,” Sam said. “I’m the agent you tried to kill in Paraiso Park, and that’s illegal. I can do pretty much anything I want to you.” The assistant D.A. was watching from the other side of the glass when Johnson shouted he wanted his lawyer present. “Great,” he said. “Agent Kincaid has him so scared, he won’t say another word.”

Detective Muren stood beside him. “Hold on just a minute. Let’s see what Kincaid does.”

Sam smiled at Johnson then said to O’Malley, “Get him his lawyer, but make it quick.

As soon as they move him out of here, he’s a dead man.” After dropping the news, Sam stood as if to leave.

Johnson shouted to him, “Wait! What do you mean ‘I’m a dead man’?”

“You didn’t hear?” Sam asked. Turning to O’Malley, “You didn’t tell him?” The detective played along. “I didn’t want to scare him.” Sam shook his head. “You’re leaving that to Flynn, huh?” He once again started to leave.

“What have you heard?” Johnson blurted.

Sam turned, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest. “Flynn thinks you talked. He’s got people out there just waiting for the chance to take you out. That’s the word, anyway.”

“But I didn’t talk. Why would Flynn think I did?”

Sam smiled. “I told him you did. Say your prayers, Johnson.” For a third time, he turned to leave. He got as far as the hall when Johnson screamed, “I want to make a deal. I’ll talk but I want witness protection and …” When Sam returned to the interrogation room, he was followed by the assistant D.A.

Johnson knew who he was because he’d been questioned by him twice before.

“I’ll take over from here,” he told Sam. “I’ll let you know—”

“I’m staying,” Sam said.

“This is a—”

Sam cut him off. “He shot at a federal agent. I could take total control of this case with one phone call.”

“I don’t want to argue with you. If you want to stay, fine. Just don’t interfere.” O’Malley decided to stay, too. Like Sam, he leaned against the wall and listened as Johnson talked.

Johnson directed his statements to Sam. “I didn’t shoot at you. I drove the car, that’s all.

Foley was the shooter. He’d been told to kill the girl.”

“Who told him?” the assistant D.A. asked.

“Flynn.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, but Foley and I figured it out. It was payback for an old friend. I heard him tell Foley that, several years ago, the friend had some very incriminating evidence on Flynn.

The guy could have put this out to the world and ruined Flynn, but he didn’t do it, and he didn’t try to blackmail him. This friend told him, like in The Godfather, if he needed a favor someday, maybe Flynn could help him out.”

“And now that favor was to get rid of Lyra Prescott?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s the friend who wanted this done?”

“I don’t know. Flynn never mentioned his name to Foley or me. Now can I have my deal?”

“He didn’t tell you anything about the friend?” Sam demanded.

“Just that he met him a long time ago, and the friend didn’t rat on him.”

“What did this have to do with Merriam?” the assistant D.A. asked.

Johnson laughed. “You guys have that all wrong. Flynn never would have done anything for Merriam. He had some dealings with Merriam a couple of years ago, and the jackass tried to swindle a couple hundred grand out of him. No way would Flynn do him a favor.”

“So why was Lyra Prescott the target?”

“Flynn said something about the girl messing things up for his friend and him. They couldn’t keep dumping things they didn’t want found.”

Sam felt an urgency to find Lyra. There were unanswered questions racing through his mind, but he was clear on one thing: the man who wanted to hurt her was still out there.

O’Malley followed him as he hurried out of the station. “What are you thinking, Sam?”

“Lyra caught something else with her camera. I need to look through all her film again.” He hurriedly drove to Lyra’s apartment. Sidney answered the door, immediately sensing something was wrong.

“What’s happened?”

“Is Lyra here?”

“No. Sam, what’s wrong?”

“I need to make sure she’s all right. I need to see her.”

“She came back from San Diego with a lot of footage of some kids, and she’s still working on her project after class. She told me she had a full day ahead of her. She has to meet Professor Mahler and give him all her research materials and her memory cards. Then she has to show him she’s finished the children’s film. She’s not getting home until really late.”

“Thanks, Sidney.”

Sidney stopped him as he was leaving. “Lyra’s safe, isn’t she? On campus she—”

“I’ll find her and stay with her. Don’t worry.”

Sam was putting it all together, but he needed to be sure. The campus was almost empty.

Classes had ended for the day, and the streetlights were just coming on. He was racing across the quad when he saw two young men approaching. He recognized them as two of Lyra’s friends, Carl and Eli.

“Hi, Sam,” Carl shouted and jogged over to him.

“Have you seen Lyra?” Sam asked.

“She was just in Mahler’s class with us.”

“Brutal, as usual,” Carl muttered. “Just a couple more classes with that creep, and I’ll never have to hear about tentacles again.”

Sam frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Tentacle of Greed,” Eli said. “That’s the name of the documentary Mahler made. It’s his only claim to fame. He won a little nothing award, but he never stops talking about it.

No wonder his wife left him.”

Carl added, “It’s about a couple of small mob families out here, and—Hey, where are you going?”

Like one of Lyra’s slide shows, the pictures flashed across Sam’s mind. The poster of Paraiso Park in Mahler’s office, Lyra sitting in Mahler’s office while one of Flynn’s men was planting a bomb under the car, Mahler telling her to concentrate on a children’s film instead of going back to the park. Last was the image of Lyra’s metal box with all the memory cards. Mahler wanted them because he thought there was something there that would damn him.

Running, Sam pulled out his phone and punched a number. When O’Malley answered on the other end, he shouted, “It’s Mahler.”

FORTY

LYRA WAITED AS THE LAST STUDENT FILED OUT OF THE CLASSROOM. This was the last class of the evening, and people were usually eager to clear out. There was little time left in the day, and Lyra was anxious to get to the lab to continue editing her film, but Professor Mahler wanted to see her in his office first. He had called her apartment late the night before and told her he’d been trying to reach her for a few days. He had noticed she’d missed a couple of his classes. With all the turmoil surrounding her on campus—

namely the bomb—he’d hoped she was safe, but he stressed that she still would need to make up for the classes she’d missed. He was also concerned that she wasn’t devoting enough time to the children’s film. When she explained that she’d been out of town filming first graders and was now beginning the editing process, she expected him to berate her for leaving town when the filming could have been done right here in Los Angeles. Mahler could always find something to say to keep his students in their places. He liked to make them feel small and insecure. She thought he did it to make himself more important.

Over the phone he cleared his throat, and she’d known a lecture was coming. “You need to take your studies more seriously or you’ll never make it in media, especially the film industry.”

“Yes, Professor,” she dutifully replied.

“There are eager young people out there dying for the opportunity to attend my classes.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Good. Now Lyra, I want to offer you praise.”

She nearly dropped her phone. Praise from Mahler? Unheard of.

“Your documentary on the park was quite good,” he told her. Coming from Mahler, this was effusive applause.

“Thank you, Dr. Mahler,” she said. “It wasn’t what I had set out to do, but I think it makes a statement about—”

“Yes, yes,” Mahler interrupted. “The reason I’m calling is that I think I might be able to present your documentary at a symposium in New York next week. If it gets the sort of recognition I think it will, you’ll have the opportunity to show it in screenings around the country.”

“That would be wonderful.” Lyra grew excited. If more people saw her film, it might actually do some good. Maybe Paraiso Park would be cleaned up, and some of the vandals and garbage dumpers would be brought to justice, or at least stopped.

“In order to make my presentation of your film,” Mahler went on, “I’ll need to see all of your research, and I’ll need to know what your process was, what equipment you used, and all the images you collected.”

“My pictures are stored on my memory cards,” she explained. “I transferred the ones I selected for the documentary to a computer file, but there are thousands more still on the cards.”

“Bring everything in,” he said. “Even the pictures of the charming garden you told me about. I’ll give them back to you later so you can consolidate them onto a disk if you want.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I have my evening class with you tomorrow. I’ll bring everything with me then.”

Mahler hung up without saying good-bye.

Sitting in the classroom now, Lyra impatiently looked at the clock over the door to the professor’s office. She hoped the meeting with him didn’t take long. She wanted to spend the few remaining hours of her day working on the children’s film. Carl and Eli had stopped to ask the professor a couple of questions, and he was ushering them to the door with curt, one-syllable answers.