Ransom River (7 page)

At Leticia’s Taqueria on Wilshire Boulevard, the TV mounted above the counter played a news channel nonstop. Night, morning, noon, it showed violence and corruption, hurricanes and drunken senators and naked celebrities. When the jerky images and breathless audio first interrupted normal coverage, nobody bothered to look up. This was Los Angeles. Los Angeles TV news would interrupt coverage of the Second Coming for footage of supermodels fighting in an alley.

The reporter’s voice cut through the restaurant’s background noise. “The police won’t tell us what’s happening inside the Ransom River Superior Courthouse, but we have reports that shots have been fired.”

Seth Colder stopped eating. He turned to the screen.

The news crew was huddled inside the parking garage across the street from the courthouse. The reporter slid in and out of view, a youngster who couldn’t get the frightened excitement out of her voice.

Seth thought,
Enjoy the rush, sweetie. It sours quickly.

“All we know is that an incident is in progress in the Criminal Division, where Ransom River police officers Jared Smith and Lucy Elmendorf are on trial for the murder of teenage burglar Obrad Mirkovic.”

Seth wiped his hands on a napkin. He forgot his coffee.

He hadn’t been through the doors of that courthouse in two years, but
nothing about it had changed. And what he saw, from the shoulder-mounted news camera inside the parking garage, brought him to a standstill.

The Ransom River PD was there in force. Patrol units and unmarked cars with antennas on the back, officers positioned behind them. They’d barricaded both ends of the block.

The reporter said, sotto voce, “There. The courtroom windows.”

The camera zoomed in. Seth forgot that he was in L.A., that he was mountains and valleys and a lifetime away from Ransom River.

Hostages stood pressed against the windows of a third-floor courtroom. Men and women were crowded against the glass, hands up. They blocked any view of the courtroom interior.

He knew that police snipers would be moving into place. In that garage, certainly. The news crew would get yanked any second. If the cops were smart.

If, that is, the cops realized where the news team was broadcasting from. And if they weren’t too busy to shut off the feed. And if some idiot commander didn’t decide the news team’s footage provided the PD with a useful vantage point. The authorities needed to shut that news crew down. Letting it broadcast live was dangerous.

Because Seth knew he was looking at Judge Wieland’s courtroom. And like all busy Superior Court judges with full dockets, Wieland was adept at juggling. He would lend his ears to the case being tried in front of him while he signed motions with one hand and checked his e-mail with the other. He had a big screen on his desk, and it was wired for speed.

Anybody in that courtroom could watch the same TV broadcast Seth was looking at. If they did, they could stay one step ahead of the cops.

Rory swallowed hard.
Hold it together.
Behind her in the courtroom, crying continued. At Judge Wieland’s desk, the phone rang and rang. But she couldn’t hear Wieland, didn’t know if he was still breathing, whether anybody was able to offer a human touch as he lay struggling. Reagan and
Nixon paced nearby, arguing in jittery undertones. Rory slowly, slowly turned her head so she could see them.

“We got to do it, and now,” Reagan said.

“No.”

Nixon took a phone from his pocket. At first Rory thought he was checking the time, but he scrolled through a couple of buttons, as if he was looking for messages. With apparent frustration he put it away.

“…just go, the two of us,” Reagan whispered. “We could…”

Outside the window a helicopter lowered briefly into view. Engine noise droned through the room.

Nixon tightened his grip on Reagan’s arm. “…losing proposition. We leave by ourselves, we die. No. The plan is the plan.”

“Then what are we going to do? There’s…”

From the hallway a new voice blared through the bullhorn.

“This is Sergeant Ray Nguyen of the Ransom River Crisis Negotiation Response Team.”

Hostage negotiator. Rory held her breath. Reagan flinched.

And glanced at the doors. He muttered, “If we surrender—”

“No.” Nixon shook him by the arm. “Do you not fucking understand the consequences? If we—Jesus Christ, surrender? Not just the payment we’d…”

“I’m here to listen to you and to try to make sure everybody stays safe. So can you tell me please, who am I speaking to?”

Reagan pulled his arm free. “I understand, you dick. If we don’t draw him out, we—”

“Shut up,” Nixon said. “We stick to the plan or we lose.”

Reagan barked a hard nonlaugh. “Plan? It’s already blown. Now what?”

Nixon turned and crossed the courtroom. Rory couldn’t tell if he had a destination or simply wanted to get away from Reagan. And Reagan’s fear and Reagan’s questions.

Outside in the late morning sun, police officers were positioned behind their vehicles. The news van had sidestepped the order to evacuate and taken up a position inside the parking garage. Down the street in the distance,
an enormous vehicle rolled toward them. Some gigantic RV, painted in the white and blue colors of the Ransom River Police Department. It was a mobile command center. Maybe SWAT. Maybe a food truck with margaritas for the mall visitors. Jesus, would SWAT storm the courtroom? If they did, would they even know how many opponents they faced?

Nixon’s voice came louder than she expected. “Hey, police.”

Rory turned her head another couple of inches. Nixon stood back from the main doors about ten feet. Reagan hustled to his side.

“What’s—”

Nixon lifted a hand to silence him. He raised his voice. “Hey, cops.”

The bullhorn answered. “This is Sergeant Nguyen. Who am I speaking to?”

“The guy who’s gonna tell you what to do,” Nixon called out.

After a pause, Nguyen continued calmly. “Okay. Can you tell me what’s happening in the courtroom? Does anyone need medical attention? Is everybody safe for now?”

“Shut up.
Shut up.
”

The air in the courtroom abruptly felt too warm. It smelled of aftershave and cordite and sweat.

Quiet. After a second, when the bullhorn didn’t repeat its expression of concern, Nixon shouted, “Here is a list of my demands.”

Dammit.
My
demands. Nixon deliberately wanted to mislead the police into thinking there was only one attacker inside. Why?

Maybe to deceive the authorities in a way that would help him escape. With hostages. Maybe to ambush any cops who rushed the courtroom expecting resistance from a single gunman. To take out as many officers as he and Reagan could before they went down themselves.

“Got a pen?” Nixon shouted. “Write this down.”

Rory looked again at the parking garage. There had to be cops in there. They had to be watching the courthouse. However, with hostages crammed against the windows, those cops couldn’t see the two gunmen.

But they could see her.

T
he scene at the perimeter was crowded and chaotic. Police black-and-whites blocked either end of the street outside the courthouse, and uniforms pushed back any civilian who lingered too long near the building, playing lookie-loo. The cops had no sawhorse barricades but had strung yellow police tape to mark the danger line. The crowd pressed close, angling for a good view. Noisy, confused, some with their hands to their mouths, others on tiptoe, they peered at the courthouse, trying to see the mayhem. Which, frankly, wasn’t obvious from street level.

A Los Angeles television news crew toughed it out and barged through the crowd, the cameraman and reporter forging past people. When the police turned their backs, the news crew ducked beneath the yellow tape so they could get footage of the swarm. The reporter grabbed sound bites from people. Witnesses to horror.

“Cops drove up like an invasion…”

“Heard there was shooting inside…”

“Those poor people against the windows. My God, like fish in a barrel…”

The reporter got a one-on-one with a man who was near tears. The guy kept putting his hand to his forehead and waving at the courthouse. Great visuals.

In the background, off to the side, the cameraman noticed a young woman pushing her way to the front of the crowd. Her face was strained with shock. She was in her late twenties, a perfect Southern California
beauty. A stunner, actually. Sleek black hair that shone almost blue with the sun. Eyes to match, feline and hot. A nose ring. A sleeveless red T-shirt, unbuttoned to show creamy and perfectly augmented breasts.

Honey shot,
his instincts screamed. He tapped the reporter on the shoulder, trying to refocus his attention from Angsty Man to the frightened beauty.

“What the hell?” the beauty said. “What’s going on?”

An older woman said, “Terrorist attack on the courthouse.”

Honey Shot put a hand to her head. “Oh my God.”

“I heard shooting. I heard the gunfire,” the older woman said.

The man behind her added, “It’s the Mirkovic trial. They’ve got everybody trapped in the courtroom.”

Honey Shot gaped at the courthouse, openly horrified. “No.”

“Yeah, look which courtroom it is. That’s the Mirkovic trial.”

“Oh Jesus.”

Finally alerted by the strength of her reaction, the reporter turned to her. The cameraman refocused. Honey Shot looked near tears.

“You sure? You goddamned sure?” she said.

The crowd nodded. She let out a harsh cry.

The reporter said, “Miss—”

“My cousin’s in there,” she said.

Everybody’s attention clicked toward her.

“My cousin’s a juror on the Mirkovic case. Is this for real?”

“Miss, what’s your cousin’s name?” the reporter said.

She pressed her hands to her head. “Rory Mackenzie.”

“Number one,” Nixon shouted. “Defendants Jared Smith and Lucy Elmendorf will plead guilty to the murder of Brad Mirkovic.”

Surprise rippled through the courtroom. At the defense table, Jared Smith said, “
What?
”

“Two,” Nixon called. “Both defendants will sign a confession to the
murder. This confession will describe their crime in full and complete detail. It will include a statement admitting they took Brad Mirkovic’s life with deliberation and malice aforethought.”

So he knew the California Penal Code definition of first-degree murder, Rory thought. Good for him. Did he realize he was on the hook for felony murder himself, because Reagan had killed the
Justice!
vigilante?

“Three,” Nixon shouted.

Christ, these guys loved to count.

“The defendants’ confession will be read live on all major networks. It will be read in full. And the defendants’ signatures will be shown on-screen, so everybody knows they’re authentic.”

After a second, Nguyen said, “Okay, let me make sure I got all that.”

Nixon shifted his shotgun, almost cradling it. The sun caught the barrel, a strange, dull light, like the glint of a reptile awakened from beneath a warm rock.

Nguyen said, “You want the defendants to sign a confession and—”

“And I want five million dollars in gold bullion.”