Still pacing, the negotiator raised the phone to his face. Tim watched him walking and waiting as the phone rang and rang.
"What the hell's he doing in there?" Tannino said.
A movement on the blocked-off stretch of Wilshire caught Tim's eye. A blue-and-white ambulance motored up the center of the empty street. He watched it as the SWAT lieutenant and Miller crunched endgame scenarios. The ambulance approached the LAPD officer working the sawhorses a half block up. Tim pivoted, regarding the two fire department rescue vehicles parked on the far side of the fire engine.
"Who called for a civilian ambulance?" His question went unanswered amid the banter, so he repeated it, louder.
The lieutenant said, "No one. Ours are right there."
The cop waved the ambulance through. Tim said, "Then you'd better have someone stop that vehicle and ID the driver."
The lieutenant spoke into his radio, and two black-and-whites lurched forward, halting the ambulance's progress. It screeched, banking off the skid, the familiar shield drawing into view on its side: UCLA MED CENTER, EMERGENCY MEDICAL SERVICES.
Tim's breath caught. "Damn it, Walker."
He shouldered past Tannino and the lieutenant, sprinting toward the Beacon-Kagan Building. An instant later, on cue, Walker kicked through the exit beside the revolving doors. Three spotlights zoomed over, casting the building front in daylight. Walker wore a ballistic vest over his T-shirt, and he held his Redhawk at his side. He was without Dolan. A piece of paper, pinned to his vest, fluttered in the breeze.
Tim hurdled two cop cars, parked hood to hood so the headlights kissed. He banged past an open car door, yelling, "Hold fire, hold fire!"
Walker halted. Tim stood alone in front of the blockade, mist rolling through the spotlights' glare. Walker faced him from about twenty yards, revolver dangling. Tim's gun was still at his hip, though the holster strap was thrown. His right hand was fastened around the stock, his elbow pointing back. His feet slid, found a shooting stance, but still he didn't draw. Around him Tim could hear puzzled murmurs and shouts.
Tim said, "Don't. We can figure something else out."
The SWAT sergeant yelled that he was blocking their angle, but Tim didn't move. He stayed frozen, his eyes on Walker's, the heat of the spotlights baking his back, the snipers ready with their armor-piercing rounds. Walker's lips moved, resignation taking shape as the faintest of grins. He gave Tim a little nod and raised his arm.
Tim drew and shot him through the forehead.
A chilled moment of silence, and then ART and SWAT lumbered out from their various posts, making tactical advances on the body, though there was no way there was still life in it. Thomas cleared the weapon, and the two fire department paramedics crowded the body.
Tim could make out the first few lines of scrawled writing on the paper safety-pinned to Walker's vest.
Last Will and Testament
I leave to Sam Jameson my
The sergeant said, "Why the hell would he show us he had a vest?"
Tim didn't slow his pace past the body. "So I'd know where not to shoot."
A paramedic unsnapped the vest, and a pack of ice fell out the right side. "This for his bullet wound?"
"No," Tim said. "Put it back in. Get the UCLA ambulance up here. They're set up for him already."
The paramedic looked puzzled. "How?"
"Because he called ahead." Tim shoved through the door, Bear following him offset to the right so he'd have more room for his Remington. A hidden button beneath the reception booth popped the door into Vector. Propping it open, Bear signaled the second team of paramedics to hold back, and he and Tim pressed forward down the corridor. Freed, Thomas, and Miller shuffled behind them, covering the rear.
Up ahead their dark corridor intersected another, that one lit. Rounding the corner, Tim felt his teeth grind. An office chair lay overturned, dumped forward, Dolan still bound to it. All they could see were his legs and the uprooted base, the wheels still rocking on their mountings. Tim sprinted down the corridor. Dolan's face and chest were mashed to the floor. His eyes flickered, and he tried to turn his head.
Beside his bruised cheek, six titanium bullets lay on the floor where Walker had let them fall.
Chapter 78
Edwin answered the door, regarded the FBI team soberly, nodded, and withdrew. Behind the cluster of agents, Tim and Bear waited by the koi pond. It had become the Bureau's case, but Tim had some pull with Jeff Malane, the special agent in charge, who requested Tim and Bear's presence for the arrest. A few years back with Tim and the Escape Team, Malane had busted up an incipient terrorist group trying to gain a foothold in Los Angeles, and he'd ridden the acclaim up the promotional ladder. Now he wore nicer shoes and a more pronounced scowl.
The 5:00 A.M. sky was a sheet of blued steel. After a few minutes, Bear made an impatient noise, but Malane held up his hand. They'd let Dean get dressed.
The other agents milled around the porch. A lot of rumpled button-ups and bad ties. Melissa Yueh was there, too, with a sized-down team. Tim had tipped her as repayment for her help earlier. She was made up and vibrant, her face flushed with an excitement that bordered on sexual.
The immense door opened with a groan of wood. Dean tugged a cuff free of his jacket sleeve. "The hell is this?" His glare pulled to the team of agents, the rolling TV camera.
Malane said, "I'm placing you under arrest for mail and wire fraud, health-care fraud, securities fraud, failure of corporate officers to certify financial reports, destruction of audit records, and criminal conspiracy to commit involuntary manslaughter. Those are just the Title Fifteens and Eighteens. I have an SEC investigator waiting to pile on charges. The asset-freeze order went through an hour ago-you'll have a hearing on it in ten days. In the meantime you can relax in the Metropolitan Detention Center."
Melissa Yueh slid into the scene as if on wheels, now front and center with her crew, offering the play-by-play. Instinctively, Dean raised a hand to hide his face, but Malane grasped his wrist and bent it down to the handcuff.
Dean was too wise and experienced to comment.
Gripping the handcuff chain, Malane steered him down the walk past the cameras, past the agents, past the deputies. Dean slowed when he caught sight of Tim and Bear.
Dean hunched against his cuffs, and Malane rested a hand on his coiffed hair, dipping him into the dark sedan. Malane nodded at Tim, who walked over and leaned in. The interior smelled of new leather and old cigarette smoke.
Tim spoke quietly. "You're right. We couldn't link you to Tess's murder. But she's responsible for your takedown. Remember that. See her face when you close your eyes."
Dean cast a vaguely bored gaze forward. "Whatever document you may possess means nothing on its own. You've got no evidence. I'll shake you boys off like fleas."
Tim lifted his stare to the tinted opposite window. Dean's brows drew together, and then he turned. Across the wide Bel Air street, Dolan leaned against Tannino's Bronco, his arms crossed. On one side of him the marshal, Guerrera on the other.
Dean's shoulders curled in an inadvertent cringe. His chin quivered ever so slightly.
Tim slammed the door and banged the roof, and he and Bear watched the sedan drift up the street, beginning the long drive downtown. It turned the corner.
When Tim looked back, Tannino's Bronco was gone, Dolan along with it.
"Well," Bear said, "that's that. What's for breakfast?"
Chapter 79
The desert scent of sage drifting through his open window, Tim cruised up Pearblossom Highway. Unfiltered by smog or clouds, the sun was a perfect blood-orange disk, hanging low in the western sky. He was due home for dinner, but he'd found himself on a detour after leaving the office.