"Hector Duncan?" I said aloud. The description and locale were right. "Are they talking about our Duncan?"
Myers nodded, forehead furrowed. I thought: What the hell?! Had they picked up Arnette on his way to the station? Maybe he'd seen a patrol car and flagged it down. But why arrest Duncan? The same call would alert the beat officers in the vicinity. KCBS building security would get a call, too.
Seconds later they broadcast an all-cars bulletin to arrest for questioning Martti Seppanen, white male, age 33, height about 6 feet, weight about 230, hair brown, eyes blue, build stocky and muscular, last seen driving an aquamarine four-door Ford sedan traveling west on Sixth near Vermont, license plates unknown.
They hadn't learned that from Arnette. The only ones who could have told them that were Steinhorn and Masters! I had gooseflesh crawling over me in waves, and I expected to hear sirens and see flashers coming behind me any minute. I got myself together and had the car's computer copy the microcube into memory.
Luckily for me, the LAPD is chronically undermanned. We reached the Hollywood Hills with no sign of having been spotted. I'd just started up Hollycliffe when we heard a patrol car report that they had Hector Duncan in custody and would be heading downtown on the one-oh-one.
If they had Arnette and Duncan both, then they also had both of the microcube copies I'd sent. Most importantly, they had the one I'd sent to KCBS.
When I got to Molly's place, I drove a couple hundred feet past it and turned up a little dead-end lane, parking by a "For Sale" sign on a picket fence. Then we backtracked to Molly's on foot. When I rang her doorbell, I half expected a uniformed policeman to answer. That's the shape my mind was in. Instead I heard Molly's voice trumpet, "NEVER MIND, KATEY! I'VE GOT IT!" Seconds later she opened the door. "Martti!" she said, as if I was an old and dear friend. Then Myers registered on her. "Both of you! Come in!" She bustled us through the door and closed it behind us, then we sat down in a sunroom with a view across the L.A. Basin. "So," she said to me, "who's your friend? And what brings you here today?"
There was something about that brass voice, red hair, and complete integrity that settled me down. I introduced Myers, then I told her about his statement, and Arnette, and Duncan, and seeing Masters—all of it, wondering if I was giving her too much too fast. She grew a crease between her eyes, and clenched her jaw, jutting her chin out.
"You know what the hell's happened, don't you?" she said when I'd finished.
"Masters and the LAPD have something going together."
She nodded. "Damn straight they do! That's the only explanation. D'you have the foggiest idea what?"
"I think so," I answered. And told her, the picture developing for me as I talked. The biggest crime organization in L.A. is the so-called Spanish mafia. It's bigger than the Sicilian or Korean, even bigger than the black. None of them is actually an organization. Each is a group of so-called "families," with loose agreements on what are sometimes called franchises. Anyway, in the Spanish mafia, the three biggest, most troublesome dons had disappeared during the past three years, which had thrown the families into serious disarray. With discipline impaired, factions distrusting each other, fighting each other, it wasn't surprising that their morale, security policies, and agreements had gone down the tubes. The LAPD had arrested dozens of family members, and the prosecutor's office had sent most of them to prison.
In major crime syndicates, the leaders, the dons, are protected by layers of underlings—protected from violence, protected from informers, protected from getting their own hands dirty in ways the police could use to put them away. And if the heat did get bad, they'd bop across the border into Mexico. Take a vacation for a few weeks or months till things cooled off.
But starting two years ago, Luis "El Grande" Lopez, Eddie "Yaqui" Macias, and Johnny "Numero Uno" Guzman had dropped from sight, one after another, as if on one of those vacations. Only they hadn't reappeared. After this long, it was doubtful they'd be back, doubtful they were alive. Matter of fact, I'd pretty much forgotten about them.
How it looked to me was, the LAPD had gotten used to hiring Prudential, for example, to handle a lot of their more demanding investigation load. It was more economicaclass="underline" didn't require as much staff, as much organization, as much facilities—as much pressure. Now, it seemed to me, they'd gone a step, a long step, further. They'd hired an Ensenada-based criminal organization, SVI, to assassinate selected underworld leaders who seemed legally untouchable.
I asked Myers if I was on the right trail. He smiled a small, wry smile. "I'm your witness on that, too," he said.
"What're you going to do about it?" Molly asked.
"First of all, I was hoping you'd hide Robert here till I can pick him up again. He's our principal witness. Beyond that, I've got some resources I have to check with before I can make any explicit plans."
It was about a minute till noon then. Molly turned her TV on to the KCBS noon news, to see if, just possibly, Hector Duncan's microcube had somehow gotten through to their news people. Instead of hearing about SVI though, and the murder of Ray Christman, we watched footage of an apartment building—my home—the front half of it a pile of broken concrete. Police with dogs poked around for possible survivors while equipment and workmen moved rubble. The anchorman, Bart Weisner, said nothing at all about Kelly Masters, but he did say that the police were seeking an unnamed resident of the building for questioning.
I was willing to bet that I was the unnamed resident. They'd have a hard time making that stick. I had witnesses to my arrival at the office at a time that wouldn't allow my being the bomber. So they weren't thinking clearly. There were people at the top, in the LAPD, who were sweating, making poor decisions they'd play hell backing out of. And this had to be something that only a few were involved with. Now things were getting out of their control—Masters was going psychotic—and every time they did something to cover it—gave some weird order—the people around them would wonder. It wouldn't hold together long. Their only chance, not very good, was to get rid of me as soon as possible, and hope everything would settle out again.
Now, with Molly using my minicam, I recorded briefly what had been learned in Ensenada, and what I'd heard on the police band afterward, including the pickup of Hector Duncan. Concluding with what I suspected about unidentified LAPD officials and the SVI. Robert verified it. Then I used my last spare microcube to copy Myers' earlier statement, with my own as an addendum.
* * *
As long as my car was parked where it was, our hiding place was compromised. So leaving the cubes with Molly, I drove the car to Ralphs' Market at the corner of Western and Franklin, and left it in the parking lot. According to Molly, the store was open around the clock. A car parked there could go unnoticed for days.
Then I hiked back up the hill. She'd offered me the use of her second car, an old Dodge Town Van. I also borrowed a Dodger cap her son had left at home, and a denim work jacket she wore in cool weather, for walking, or for working around the yard. Plus I got a microcube mailer from her.
I drove the old Dodge down the hill. I wanted to mail the cube to Bart Weisner at his home, rather than the studio, but I didn't know his address. It wasn't listed in the public directory. So I stopped at Ralphs' lot, got in the company car, and used its computer to access the State Data Center—via the office mainframe, of course—then used the Lane County contract to access Weisner's mailing address. I was in luck: it was a 90027 post office box.
I didn't know whether the LAPD was monitoring the firm's computer or not, or even if they could. But if they were, they could use the call to locate the car; the boys in blue might arrive soon. So I got back in the Dodge and left. At the nearby Los Feliz Post Office—90027—I addressed the mailer, and dropped the microcube in the chute. Weisner's postal box was in the same building. If he picked up his mail that evening, he'd get it then. Otherwise, surely the next day.