Terminal (A Lomax & Biggs Mystery Book 5) (20 page)

There was no time for an evacuation. Whatever went down was going to be a public spectacle.

We got out of the car and watched as the helicopter took position fifteen hundred feet over the largest pool of liquid petroleum—the lake pit with its life-size fiberglass statues of mammoths. Charlie appeared in the doorway along with two more potential victims. I recognized them from the annual report—Zweig, the manufacturing boss, and Boynton-Forbes, the world’s most unethical ethics officer.

“Detective Lomax.” It was Charlie. “Pick one.”

Kilcullen handed me the radio. “Charlie,” I said. “Don’t do it.”

“You’re telling me not to kill at least one of them?” he said. “You of all people, Lomax? These bastards killed your wife.”

I looked at Terry. “How the hell does he know that? I never told him about Joanie.”

Terry shook his head.

“Charlie, I know what they did,” I said. “But I’m a cop. Turn them over and let a jury decide.”

“I’m not going to live long enough to see a jury trial,” Charlie said. “I gave you the option. Pick one.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

He pushed. Hard. Twice. And the two men came tumbling out of the aircraft.

The crowd, which had become uncontainable, let out a collective scream as the two corporate officers plummeted from the sky, and ten seconds later were claimed by the same black ooze that had swallowed mastodons and saber-toothed cats eons before them.

“Mother of God,” Kilcullen said.

As far as I knew, Granville was still alive. I radioed up to Charlie. “You made your point. Stop now. Please.”

“I can’t stop,” Charlie said. “I get paid piecework, and I’ve still got one more piece to dispose of.”

Kilcullen grabbed the radio from me. “This is Lieutenant Brendan Kilcullen. Egan Granville has been nominated by the President of the United States to be Secretary of Health and Human Services. You toss him out of that chopper, and LAPD won’t be the only ones dogging your ass.”

“I’m not tossing him just yet, but as taxpaying citizens we’ve got some serious questions to put to Mr. Granville about his policies and procedures at Chilton-Winslow.”

“Cut the shit, you son of a bitch,” Kilcullen bellowed.

“You sound angry, chief. You should be thanking me. I saved the county a fortune in legal expenses it would cost them to prosecute the two murderers I just delivered. All that’s left for you to do is fish them out of the muck. Have fun.”

Charlie stepped back inside the chopper as it lifted up and flew off.

This time he didn’t tell us where he was headed. And he didn’t wait for us to follow.

CHAPTER 53

TERRY AND I
spend so much time moaning about what a pain in the ass Kilcullen is that we tend to forget that he didn’t pick up a gold bar because of his irrepressible charm.

Kilcullen is a kickass cop. As soon as the bodies hit the cauldron of bubbling black soup, he yelled at me and Terry to track the chopper. Then he grabbed a bullhorn, and the very same abrasive asshole who had impounded our candy machine took charge of organizing the troops, dispersing the crowd, and opening the roads for emergency vehicles.

In ten minutes he turned the crime scene from bedlam to controlled chaos and finally to a reasonable semblance of order. Then he passed the baton to a cohort from the Wilshire station and rejoined us. “Do we have a bird in the air?” he asked.

“Air Five is on his tail,” Terry said. “The jacked chopper headed due west. He was over Roxbury Park thirty seconds ago.”

The radio came alive. “Air Five to Six Henry One.”

“Go ahead, Air Five,” Terry called back.

“The Bell is at six hundred feet and dropping. I think they’re putting her down.”

“Where?”

“They’re on Constellation crossing Avenue of the Stars, and hold on, detective… son of a … they’re hovering over the Westfield Century City mall.”

We all knew what was coming next.

“Six Henry One, your bird is down. He landed on the roof of the mall and killed the engine.”

“Mike,” Terry said, “scramble some units to Century City.”

The radio chirped again. “Six Henry One, your perps are on the run. White female in a dark flight suit, and two white males, one in a camo jacket, the other in a blue business suit.”

“The suit is not a perp. Repeat, he is not a perp,” Terry said. “He’s a hostage.”

“Camo jacket just hustled him to an exit door. The three of them are gone—disappeared into the mall.”

I had Dispatch on my radio. “I need units at Century City—as many as you can roll. Code 3.”

“Most of my cars are at the tar pits,” the dispatcher said. “I can pull them in from Rampart and Southwest.”

“That won’t cut it,” Kilcullen yelled at me. “They wouldn’t have landed there unless they had a car waiting. They’ll be in the wind before we have units in position. Tell her to contact Westside Security and shut the mall down.”

“Boss, we can seal off all vehicle exits,” I said, “but they can walk out of any one of a hundred different doors on foot. They’re too smart to leave a car in the garage. It’s probably waiting for them outside.”

Terry grabbed at the last straw. He radioed Air Five. “You saw what they were wearing—camo jacket, blue suit. If they’re still on foot you might be able to spot them from the air and see what vehicle they get into.”

“Detective, do you know how many ways there are to get in out of that place?” the pilot said. “Plus there’s construction scaffolding covering the entire northeast corner, which is probably why they picked this mall instead of any one of a dozen others. It’s a long shot at best.”

“Right now it’s the only shot we’ve got.”

We stayed on the air with our spotter, but after ten minutes
it was over. “No trace,” Air Five called in, “and we just got a call. Drive-by in Inglewood. We’ve got shooters to chase down. We’re out.”

“Thanks,” Terry said. He turned to Kilcullen. “We lost them.”

“Shit,” he said. “So you’re telling me that these lunatics kidnapped a member of the President’s cabinet on
my
watch.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Terry said, “he wasn’t confirmed yet.”

“Not confirmed is a fucking asterisk,” Kilcullen said. “The picture in the paper tomorrow morning will be me standing there yelling into a bullhorn while the goddamn Secretary of whatever dumbass department he’s in charge of disappears right from under my nose.”

My cell phone rang. A blocked number. I took the call and put it on speaker.

“Detective Lomax,” the voice on the other end said. “Crazy weather we’re having. Partly cloudy and raining corporate executives.”

It was Charlie Brock. Kilcullen recognized the voice and screamed at the phone. “Did you hear what I said before, asshole? You may have a beef with some drug company, but you are fucking with the Washington power establishment. Let Granville go now.”

“Hey, is that you again, chief?” Charlie said. “Lomax, tell your boss not to fret. We’ll turn Granville loose.”

“When?” I said.

“After the trial.”

“What trial?”

“That’s why I called you,” Charlie said. “It’s the day of reckoning for the Chilton-Winslow evil empire. We’re going to live stream it on the web, and I want to make sure you tune in to the Egan Granville-Amanda Dunbar Show.”

“You’re putting Dr. Dunbar on trial too?” I said.

Charlie laughed. “I guess you haven’t figured it out yet, have you, detective? Amanda Dunbar isn’t on trial. She’s the injured
party. She’s the plaintiff, the judge, and the jury.”

The pieces of the puzzle all fell in at once, and I wanted to kick myself for not seeing it. Dunbar was one of the only people who knew that Joanie was one of the Ovamax victims. That’s how Charlie found out. Dunbar told him.

“I work for Amanda,” Charlie said. “Best damn boss I ever had. She pays half a million a pop for every one of those white-collar murderers we eliminate. And you know what’s the best part?”

I didn’t say a word. I knew he’d answer his own question.

“It all came from the blood money Chilton-Winslow paid her to take the fall for their crimes.”

CHAPTER 54

RUPERT SIMMS HADN’T
broken the law in thirty-seven years, but when Charlie Brock offered him a hundred thousand dollars for one simple job, he jumped at it. “I can’t say no at this stage of my life,” he’d said, adding with a laugh, “That’d be Stage IV, in case you was wonderin’.”

He sat behind the wheel of the van and tapped the numbers into the calculator on his iPhone for the third time. No mistake about it. He would have had to drive a UPS truck for six thousand two hundred and fifty hours to make what Charlie was paying him to drive about ten miles.

He knew it wasn’t Charlie’s money. Charlie and Dahlia were just worker bees like him. But he didn’t want to know nothing more about nothing. All he cared about was that a hundred large was a sweet chunk of change to leave behind for his sisters and their kids.

He heard the chopper approaching, and he looked up. Sure enough, just like Charlie said, the LAPD air force was right behind him.

They’d done a dry run the day before, and once Charlie and Dahlia were out of the helicopter it would take them two and a half minutes to get from the roof to the exit where the construction was outside The Container Store.

He started the van, waited for the signal, then pulled out of his
parking spot on Pandora Avenue. Two and a half minutes later he rolled slowly past the construction on Century Park West, stopping just long enough to board his three passengers.

“Clothes off,” Charlie said to Granville as Rupert turned onto Overland Avenue.

Granville removed his suit jacket and tie. He’d offered them a million dollars when they hijacked his helicopter. Then five when they killed Sutter, and twenty million when Boynton-Forbes and Zweig were hurled into the tar pits. They hadn’t even blinked. He wondered if the old black guy driving the van could be swayed.

“Shirt and pants,” Charlie ordered. “Leave the underwear. If you shit yourself, that’s your problem.”

“I’ll pay you sixty million dollars to let me go,” Granville said, stepping out of his pants. “Split it three ways, that’s twenty million apiece.”

“Dahlia and I aren’t interested,” Charlie yelled at the driver. “How about you, Rupert?”

“Hell no,” Rupert hollered, making the right turn onto Olympic Boulevard. “That’s the kind of money can fuck a body up. I’m fine the way I is, but I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that fancy blue suit he’s shucking. The man’s about my size. I mean if you think he’s done with it.”

“It’s all yours,” Charlie said, tossing an orange jumpsuit at Granville. “Dress for success, Egan. You gonna be a felon, you gotta look like a felon.”

Granville put on the jumpsuit, then Dahlia sat him on the floor and covered his mouth with duct tape.

Charlie called Amanda. “Hey, Doc, everything went smooth.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve been watching the Twitter feed. There were a couple of tweets when you tossed out Sutter, but once you got to the tar pits people started posting pix and OMGs and WTFs like mad. Now you’re trending. #LAChopperDropper.”

Charlie laughed out loud and repeated the hashtag for Dahlia and Rupert.

“These people have no idea what’s coming next,” Charlie said. “You ready?”

“I’m just waiting for the star of the show,” Amanda said.

“We’re almost there.”

“Then it’s time for you to call Detective Lomax.”

“I still think that’s a bad idea, Amanda.”

“Listen to me, Charlie. We might not have gotten every last one of them, but we got the ringleaders, and the big fish is on his way in. As soon as we’re done with him I want you, Dahlia, and Rupert to get your mercenary asses as far away from LA as possible. We’ve had a great run. Thanks. I’ll see you all in heaven.”

Charlie laughed. “
Heaven
? You sure about that?”

“Charlie, after I get through with Egan Granville, God Himself is going to personally open the gates and thank us for fixing his fuckup. Now make that call.”

He hung up and looked across the van at his beautiful Israeli lover. Dahlia nodded her head. “Do it.”

Charlie dialed the phone. “Detective Lomax,” he said as soon as the cop picked up. “Crazy weather we’re having. Partly cloudy and raining corporate executives.”

CHAPTER 55

MAJOR CRIME SCENES
take on a personality of their own, and the best way to describe this one was
three-ring circus
. Everyone wanted a front-row seat. And not just the media hounds and paparazzi. Within minutes after the shit hit the tar, the roads were jammed with amateur gawkers, gapers, and ghouls of every stripe.

“Screw Familyland,” Terry said, a wide grin lighting up his muley mug. “This is the hottest tourist attraction in town.”

Just as I finished the phone call with Charlie Brock a gleaming black fifty-foot Incident Command Post docked on South Cur-son Avenue, and the door opened.

“Dudes.” It was Muller. He was wearing baggy shorts and the ugliest Hawaiian shirt I’d ever seen.

“Hate the shirt. Dig the ride,” Terry said. “Where’d you get it?”

“Emergency Ops. She was going to roll with or without me,” he said. “I just happened to be close enough and fast enough to jump on. Welcome aboard.”

“Jesus,” Terry said, as soon as we got inside. “It’s like the Millennium Falcon in here.”

“Rrrrr-gggrrhhhg,” Muller responded in perfect Wookie.

“Mike and I need to get on the Internet,” Terry said. “You got Wi-Fi on this contraption?”

“It’s got about two million bucks’ worth of high-tech bells and whistles. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in case you
need someone who knows what buttons to push.”

We brought him up to speed, then the three of us sat down in front of a wall of monitors. Muller scanned the Internet looking for the live stream Charlie had promised, while Terry and I surfed the broadcast channels, which featured talking heads posing preposterous theories about a crime scene they knew absolutely nothing about.