“Hold it,” Art said, a hand coming up. A single finger pointed down.
The muddy footprints on the cement walkway were fresh. A second later their weapons were out. Art drew closer, noticing more details now. The prints, a single set, came from the direction of the backyard and ended at a side door. Fainter prints belonging to the same shoe — a boot of some kind — appeared to follow the same path on a reciprocal, and a different set of prints tracked over the first. One went in, two came out. They approached the spot carefully and listened. Art gently pushed on the door with his elbow. It didn’t budge, and he decided not to try the lock. There might be better access around back. They continued on, avoiding stepping on the tracked prints, and eased cautiously around the corner. Art checked what lay before them. A damp cement path led along the back wall of the garage, then opened to a lattice-covered patio that large box windows looked out upon. They crept toward those, ears peeled for sounds of danger, weapons held firmly and pointed at the ground. Once at the windows Art rose up on the balls of his feet and looked in. It was the kitchen, and was empty…except for—
Blood. A pool of it covering a good portion of the tiled floor, part of its area blocked by a cooktop island. Art moved further along the window until—
Shit. “Body,” Art said quietly. It was about the right size and dressed professionally. Monte Royce. The blood about the head and the distance prevented a positive identification, but that would change quickly. Art led the way back around to the front of the house to the main entrance. “We’ve got to kick it.”
Frankie holstered her weapon and surveyed the door. It was solid, and would obviously take more force than she could muster alone to breach. But to either side were cement planters, about a foot and a half in height. She picked one up, dumping its contents, and grasped it in an approximation of a battering ram, swinging it back and forward in one smooth motion. Its flat, round base connected with the door near the lock, and elicited a sharp snap from the member. A second swing pushed the door in completely.
Art went through first. Frankie dropped the planter and redrew her weapon, joining him. “FBI! FBI!” they yelled together, Art covering the staircase to the front, Frankie the opening to the kitchen to the right. On the stairs’ carpeted surface they noticed very faint prints similar to those outside. But to the right was where their attention was mainly focused. Listening for any signs of movement, they moved through the house, entering the kitchen after just a moment. They now saw the body from the opposite direction as before. It was almost certainly Royce. There was absolutely no doubt, however, that whoever it was was very dead.
“Dammit,” Frankie said softly.
Art pointed to the same muddy footprints in the tiled floor. “Upstairs,” he said.
They left the kitchen and went to the stairs. Each step was taken slowly to avoid the obvious tread marks. The agents stopped on the upper-floor landing. There were several doors along the corridor that stretched to either side. Only one of them, the second to the right, was open. The prints led to and from it. Art paralleled the tracks to the door as his partner hung back, but did not enter, using his eyes to examine the room — a bedroom — from the hall.
No. Even from fifteen feet it was clear that the scene in the kitchen had been repeated upstairs, though the stark contrast between what remained of the frilly white bedding and the explosion of crimson near the headboard took this to a higher level of grotesque.
This was not random, Art knew. It was not a run-of-the-mill burglary gone wrong. Nothing was missing that could be seen. No obvious disturbance. This was a hit. Plain and simple. And he had a good idea who was responsible for it.
“Another one,” Art said. “Looks like the mother.” He looked back to Frankie. “Come on.”
They moved quickly back down the stairs and outside, holstering their weapons as they ran to the front of the property and grabbed on to a decorative tree to help rescale the wall. A black-and-white was rolling up just as the agents hit the sidewalk.
“Is everything all right?” the nurse inquired worriedly.
“I’m afraid not,” Frankie answered.
Art trotted to the police car, making his shield obvious to the two officers. “There’s two dead inside.” The passenger immediately took the mic in hand. “It looks fresh.”
“What are you doing here?” the driver inquired.
“We were hoping to question one of the victims.” Someone had seen to it that that was not going to happen, Art thought. “Look, I’ve got to make a call.” Art stepped away, reaching for his cell when it began ringing. “Jefferson here.”
“Art, it’s Hal. We’ve got a mess here.”
A mess? He felt his eyes widen. Oh no. “Mankowitz?”
“He’s dead. Someone did him good. Blew the hell out of him with automatics.”
“Royce is dead, too. And his mother.”
“What?!”
“Hal, get up to Barrish’s house now. Fast!”
“All right.”
Art knew that no more explaining was needed. What was supposed was quite obvious. Someone was cutting his ties to a place, and to a time. And if that someone wasn’t stopped fast he might just disappear…if he hadn’t already.
Darian set the bag with the guns in it on the floor of the backseat. “Where’d you get it?”
Roger smiled. “From some guy’s ad in the paper. Two grand. It runs perfect.”
Perfect it didn’t have to be, Darian knew. Just good enough to get them across country. “Then let’s get out of here.”
Roger got behind the wheel of the Olds Cutlass, Mustafa taking the seat next to him. Darian and Moises climbed in the back.
“Brother Moises here do good?” Mustafa asked, looking back over the front bench seat.
Darian looked to the newest of their number and smiled. “He did good.”
Moises looked to the floor, a combination of embarrassment and a sudden nervous stomach hitting him. The adrenaline had worn off now, allowing the reality of the situation he’d walked willingly into to flash crystal clear in his mind. The reality, and a discovery he’d never considered. “It was easy,” he said, the revelation coming not from the soul but from the heart. He wasn’t sure he had the former any longer.
“Righteous things are,” Mustafa said, sharing some wisdom with the boy.
Roger started the car and got them moving. He headed immediately for the Santa Monica Freeway, entering eastbound at La Cienega.
“No turning back now, Brothers,” Darian said.
Mustafa agreed with a rare smile. “Power, brother.”
Darian started to answer, but was cut off.
“Power, brother,” Moises said, his hand extending forward.
It was a good beginning, Darian saw. And there was so much still to come.
“Ray!” Assistant Building Engineer Carl Tomei yelled as he entered the roar that filled 74. He let the door close behind and looked left, then right. Where the hell was he? “Ray!”
Nothing. Even in the steady, constant drone Ray should hear the call, Tomei knew. The hearing protectors required on this level were “tuned” to muffle the machinery noise while allowing sharper, more defined sounds, such as voices, to be heard.
But he had to be here. That camera crew he’d brought up to snoop around had already left, unless the receptionist was mistaken. Not likely, he thought. Then where was he? Tomei walked along the main feed duct, looking over its top on the off chance that Ray was checking something in an out-of-the-way place. He leaned on the duct every few yards, then continued on, giving up once there was no more area to check. “Dammit, Ray, where the hell — Oh, shit!”