Her school uniform was dirty and torn, hair frazzled, eyes wild. Blood from the shooting had sprayed her all over. She looked like she had crawled out of a grave.
"It's okay," Robin said again. She hugged her daughter.
She and Gray had found the bottling plant after a slow, watchful drive down Central. They hadn't been sure it was the right place until they'd discovered the open gate and the police car. Gray had led her deeper inside the factory, where sounds of a scuffle could be heard.
Distantly she knew she ought to be shocked at the killing that had taken place nearly before her eyes, but she couldn't find the appropriate emotion inside her. The gun was still in Tomlinson's hand. He'd been about to kill Meg. Another second, and it would have been too late.
By shooting the man, Gray had saved her daughter. That was all Robin cared about. It was all that mattered.
She stroked Meg's hair and looked into her eyes. "Stay with me now," she whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere," Meg said.
Robin knew she still hadn't seen Gray. How would she react when she recognized him? It would be another painful jolt to her system, already overloaded by stress.
But Meg could handle it. She was strong. Robin had never known just how strong until tonight.
"Let's get out of here," she said softly, "okay?"
Meg nodded. "Definitely."
Robin helped her to her feet. Together they climbed the stairs toward the glow of the flashlight that still rested on the landing. She remembered what she'd told herself as the fumes had started to overcome her: Go toward the light.
At the top of the staircase Meg raised her eyes, looking past the glow, and saw Justin Gray.
He stood there, watching the two of them with a cool, quizzical expression, the gun that had shot Tomlinson still held lightly in his right hand.
Meg drew back, making a startled, fearful noise. Robin tightened her grip to keep her from falling down the stairs.
"It's all right," she soothed, "he won't hurt us. He's with us now. He's one of the good guys."
The gun swung in their direction. Gray smiled. "You sure about that, Doc?"
Robin shook her head, irritated with him. "Justin, stop fooling around."
But the gun didn't waver, and neither did his smile. "No foolin'. Looks like I'm sitting in the catbird seat now, wouldn't you say?"
"Mom amp;" The word from Meg was a tremulous moan.
Robin stared at Gray, unable to process what was happening, unable to think.
"Still think you're gonna save the world?" Gray asked. "I got news for you. This old world is long past saving. And us leopards don't never change our spots."
Chapter Fifty-six
After leaving Robin Cameron's office, Wolper stopped off at his mid-Wilshire apartment to pick up the packet of items he'd prepared long ago for just this eventuality. It was hidden in the bathroom wall, behind the mirror over the sink. He had to unscrew the mirror and take it down in order to remove the bulging envelope secreted in a cutaway section of drywall. Hidden alongside the package was a.22 pistol, untraceable.
He replaced the mirror and put away his tools before leaving with the package and the gun. Brand's home in Hollywood was only a short distance away. He made it there in under five minutes, spending the drive considering various ways to approach the situation.
He expected Brand to be homeprobably taking his house apart one wall at a time in search of the planted evidence. Trouble was, the evidence hadn't been planted yet. That was what the envelope was for.
He didn't think it would be overly difficult to kill Brand. The man wasn't smart. He was easily manipulated, easily distracted. He only had to turn his back for a second and bang, a bullet in the temple, fired by the untraceable gun. He would wipe off the prints, put the gun in Brand's hand, and fire it again, leaving powder marks on Brand's fingers. The second shot would go into the ceiling. The crime-scene people would say Brand's hand had slipped the first time he fired. It wasn't uncommon. People got a little nervous when they were about to kill themselves.
Suicide was what it had to look like. Cameron had been rightthe investigators would know that the fire in her office was arson. They wouldn't suspect Gray. Arson wasn't his style, and serial killers rarely varied their MO.
No, suspicion would fall on her newest patient, the emotionally disturbed Sgt. Alan Brand.
She had left with him, after all. That was how Wolper would report it to RHD. Wolper had driven Cameron and Brand back to the arcade, then left on his own because the D-chief had said he wanted him off the case. Cameron had said she would let Brand drive her to Parker Center. Only he hadn't taken her there. The two of them had gone to her office. It must have been Cameron's ideashe'd been trying to recover her memory of the attack. And she'd succeeded. She'd remembered that Brand had done it. Brand had felt there was no choice except to kill her. He'd set fire to the office and left her to choke on the fumes. Then he'd driven home and killed himself.
That was what had gone down tonight. Brand just didn't realize it yet. The victim was always the last to know.
When RHD searched Brand's carport, they would find evidence that he'd been mixed up in dirty dealings. The Valdez shooting wouldn't look so righteous anymore. That evidence would give him motive to attack Robin earlier today. He'd been afraid she would dig too deeply into his secrets and expose the dirt.
And the carjack attempt? Most likely it would be dismissed as coincidence. Even if someone guessed the truththat a couple of homeboys who ran with the Gs had been hired to jack Cameron's Saab and mess her up, hospitalize her so she couldn't continue her therapy programno one would pin it on Wolper. It would be Brand again. It was all Brand.
Brand, the mastermind. Wolper smiled.
It would work. It wasn't exactly the way he'd hoped things would work out, but as a backup plan, it was solid. He had all the angles covered.
Would have been easier if the carjacking had gone as planned, or if he'd succeeded in killing her this afternoon in her office. Would have been easier if Brand had agreed to pop Cameron in the video arcade, instead of wimping out and proving himself unreliable and therefore expendable.
What was the big deal about killing some nosy shrink, anyway? Weren't there enough shrinks in LA? Hell, Wolper would have iced her himself in Hollywood, except that having been seen leaving Parker Center with her, he would have been an obvious suspect. Would have killed her when she and Brand were in the car with him, if he'd felt he could trust Brand to play along.
That was the problem, though. He couldn't trust Brand. The man just didn't have the balls for this kind of work. And now he was going to pay for it.
Wolper parked on a side street so his car wouldn't be connected to Brand's home. With the envelope in his hand and the throwdown gun in his waistband against the small of his back, he walked the dark streets to Brand's bungalow. As he approached, he saw that the gate to the driveway was open and the carport was empty. Brand wasn't here.
He wondered about the open gate. Careless of Brand, especially in this neighborhood. It made things easier, though. He could walk right onto the property and plant the evidence, then wait for Brand to return.
There was no need to break into the house. The sign on the front lawn warned of a security system, and while many of those signs were phony, the name on Brand's was legitimate. No surprise. Cops saw a lot of craziness on the streets of this city. Off duty, either they migrated to the relative safety of the suburbs or they stayed in town and made their home a fortress.
Rather than tangle with the alarm system, Wolper decided to plant the contents of the envelope in the carport, among the paint cans and hardware supplies piled up along the side wall. He fished a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket, opened the envelope, and began removing the assorted items inside. There were two stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with rubber bands, some crystal meth and rock cocaine, a cell phone that had disappeared from an evidence room and had since been used to call an address in Newton Area that was a known hangout of the Gs, and, most incriminating of all, a floppy disk that listed payoffs and bank account numbers. The accounts had been opened overseas by an American using forged credentials. The American was Wolper himself, but no one could ever prove it wasn't Brand.