the Viking Funeral (2001) (38 page)

He knocked on the door and, when nobody answered, took out the master key and silently fitted it into the lock. He pulled Alexa's Astra, jacked a round into the pipe, then quietly pushed the door open.

The hallway was mirrored on both sides to give the narrow corridor a wider feel.

An old fear hit him.

Shane hated going through mirrored entries when he was shaking a house; too easy to get spotted. He took a deep breath before quickly slipping into the white-on-white condo. He stopped just before entering the living room, keeping his back flat to the mirrored wall on the right, using the mirrors opposite him to search the living room. His ears were straining for any sound of movement. Nothing.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Alexa appear in the front doorway with yet another Astra in her right hand. She had more of those little automatics than the Spanish Mafia. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for her to stay outside.

She nodded and held her position as Shane moved carefully into the empty living room. He slid past the wall-to-ceiling plate-glass window and checked the kitchen.

Nothing.

He worked his way down the apartment's center hall, pausing at the guest bedroom door, pushing it slowly open, checking inside.

Empty.

He continued on to the master suite. He had a premonition of death, almost as if he could see around the corner into the future. A cold fear was beginning to ice the edges of his stomach. He cracked the bedroom door and looked in. The bed was mussed, but empty. He entered cautiously, checking the perimeter of the room first. The suite was spacious, dominated by a king-size bed and a plate
-
glass window that took in the smog-drenched Hillcrest Country Club sixteen stories below.

The bedroom was deserted. The bathroom wasn't.

He found her there, naked.

It wasn't pretty.

What human beings were capable of doing to one another sometimes horrified him.

She was lying in her tub brutally shot in five places. Both kneecaps were shattered, as well as both elbows. The kill shot had opened a gaping hole in the center of her chest. Lisa had been blond and pale in life, but lying in her tub, naked and bloodless, she looked like a broken doll in its white porcelain container. Papery skin wrapped her lifeless body like thin, transparent tissue. Her blond hair was tipped in dried blood, turning the feathered ends red.

Sex goddess in repose.

"Shit!" Shane heard himself say, then called out in a loud voice, "I've got her! It's clear, master bath!"

In seconds, Alexa and Filosiani entered with Lieutenant Heart and the two jump
-
outs from the stairwell.

"Okay," Filosiani said as soon as he saw the body. "Everybody out. This here's a crime scene. Let's not foul it for Forensics with our own prints and fibers."

They all backed out of the bathroom and stood in the hall.

"Jody's our doer," Shane said softly.

"Then he's turning into a monster," Alexa said softly.

"No," Shane answered, "he's just decided not to hide it anymore."

Filosiani said, "I'll get Homicide out here. My guess is, if she knew where Sandro Mantoor and Jose Mondragon are, then Jody musta found out before he killed her."

"She was pretty tough," Alexa said, with a tinge of admiration as she looked toward the bedroom door. "She must have taken all four joint shots before she talked. After he got what he wanted, he put the fifth round through her heart."

"Sure is the way it looks." Shane shuddered.

"So how do we find Papa Joe?" Alexa said. "If Jody gets to him first, he'll get the money, kill Sandy and Jose, and run. Once he gets out of the country, we'll lose jurisdiction and probably never find him."

"There's a guy, an ex-Air Unit pilot named David VanKirk," Shane said. "IAD terminated him for making night flights, smuggling dope in from Mexico with his police helicopter. If you've still got an address, I'd send somebody out to his place to sit on him. Jody may try and use that chopper to get outta California."

"Good idea," Filosiani said. Because his cell phone wasn't working in this steel-and-glass building, he ran toward the elevator on his way outside to call Homicide and gather up a surveillance detail on David VanKirk.

"This is a dead end, of course," Alexa said softly. "Without Lisa, we've got nothing... nobody..
. N
o place to start. My guess is Jody won't take a chance on VanKirk."

Shane nodded.

However, there was one other possibility that began tickling Shane's thoughts. It was a huge long shot, but he had been on such a cold streak, he figured he was due. He hoped it was time for him to finally cash a winner.

Chapter
48.

TREMAINE LANE WAS an L
. A
. County Sheriff." Shane was standing outside of Century Park East with Lisa and Filosiani. The Homicide team had just arrived, and the Forensics techs were unpacking their blue windowless van.

"Tremaine wasn't in Shephard's file. We don't have any background on him," Alexa answered.

"He was working undercover. The whole Viking thing started at the Sheriff's Department. I always wondered if maybe the culture had somehow migrated to us, through one of these joint-ops task forces we're always running. Tremaine and Hector Rodriquez were tight. Is there any way to pull Sergeant Rodriquez's assignment jacket to see if he ever worked a joint-op with Tremaine Lane?"

"Easy enough," Filosiani said, then picked up the radio on the nearest squad car and got a patch through to the Records Division. He identified himself, told them what he wanted, and asked for a rush.

"Roger that, sir," the female Records Division clerk said. In less than a minute, she was back on the air. "In July of '99, Sergeant Hector Rodriquez of SWAT was assigned to the Cobra Unit in the Valley. Cobra was working with L
. A
. Impact, which included half a dozen county sheriffs. They worked a big arms deal in the Sunland. Ten Class A felony arrests came down."

"D o you have the names of the other sheriffs who were in on that bust?
"
Filosiani asked.

"No, sir. You have to get that from Sheriff Messenger's office.
"

"Call over there and tell Bill Messenger I need a meeting. Tell him it can't wait. I'll be there in ten minutes.
"

At five-foot-seven and 135 pounds, Bill Messenger barely made the Sheriffs Department height and weight regs. He was a dark
-
complexioned, second-generation Egyptian American with close-cropped, silver-gray hair and a penchant for perfectly tailored, double
-
breasted suits. The jacket he was wearing had brass buttons on it, giving him a distinct Napoleonic tilt. Titanium-framed glasses, as spartan as his waistline, rested atop a Roman nose.

"What's the emergency, Tony?
"
Messenger said, negotiating his way across his cream and tan office, threading past two form-over
-
function Danish modern chairs that squatted on delicate tapered legs like futuristic spiders. He shook hands with Tony, Shane, and Alexa. The two L
. A
. law-enforcement heads were exactly the same height, but that's where the similarities ended. Standing nose to nose, they were the yin and yang of law enforcement. The Day-Glo Dago radiated warmth of personality, while William "Bill" Messenger had the emotional temperature of a garden snake.

"We got a problem," Tony said, looking at the door. "Mind if I close that?"

"My secretary doesn't leak," Messenger said testily.

"Yeah, but her husband might." Tony kicked the door shut, and by mistake it closed too hard, slamming loudly.

Bill Messenger winced.

"Who are these people?" the sheriff asked, looking at Shane and Alexa.

"This is Lieutenant Alexa Hamilton," Tony began.

"The Medal of Valor winner who died a week ago?" Messenger said, and cocked a bushy eyebrow.

"I'll get to that. And this is Sergeant Shane Scully," Tony added.

"The man who killed her. You run a strange shop, Tony." Messenger was glaring at both of them.

"The staged killing of Lieutenant Hamilton was part of an undercover op," Filosiani said. "This pertains to the problem you had a few years back with that rogue group of sheriffs who called themselves Vikings."

"Not to quibble, but that didn't happen on my watch. Sheriff Bloch hosted that disaster. However, I ended up with the mop and pail after he died."

"The culture has spread to us," Tony said bluntly.

"Too bad. The Vikings were racists... minority-hating sheriffs who took their suspects down into county aqueducts and beat them. I had my hands full, and was never sure I rooted them all out. I fielded three civil-liberties lawsuits when I tried to arrange a lineup to check my men for that silly tattoo they all had on their ankles. 'Illegal body search.' The courts called it. 'Unconstitutional'... 'Lack of probable cause.'" He shook his head sadly. "They want a perfect department, but they won't let me do what it takes to weed out the bad apples."

"The LAPD Vikings aren't racists," Shane said. "But they are killers."

"What makes you say they're not racists?" Messenger challenged. "'Cause my Vikings did everything but burn crosses and hang people from trees."

"I know they aren't, because I've been undercover with them for the past week."

"That's why you staged the phony shooting?" Messenger said, looking at Tony. "To set his cover?"

"Yeah, but it's a long story, and I don't really have time for it now," Filosiani said. "The reason we're here is that we found out one of your deputies, Sergeant Tremaine Lane, was working inside that LAPD deep-cover unit without my knowledge. We now believe he was a Sheriffs Department plant reporting back to you, Bill."

"I think not
"
Messenger said, but his bearing had suddenly turned rigid.

"Your undercover is dead," Shane said. "Cut to pieces. Skinned alive by a death
-
squad maniac, then left to die hanging on a fence in Colombia. I was there when it happened."

"I see." Messenger didn't move.

"I understand you have a responsibility to protect the identity of your UCs," Tony said. "'Specially since you've been infiltrating a sister law-enforcement agency without notifying its chief in advance," he added sharply. "But the fact is, we're running short on time and I'd really appreciate it if I could cut through the fuckin' cow shit and get a straight answer here before more people die."

Sheriff Messenger finally moved. He crossed the room and actually threw the lock on the door, which moments before he had insisted they leave open. Then he turned and walked back to the center of the room, using the little journey around his spacious office to compose his thoughts.

"Okay," he finally said. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that Sergeant Lane was working a special assignment for me..
. A
nd now you say he's dead?"

"Yes, sir," Shane said. "He had joined an off-the-books LAPD squad who also called themselves Vikings, complete with the same ankle tattoos as your sheriffs. I think Tremaine got duked into the unit by one of our SWAT sergeants, Hector Rodriquez, who worked
a j
oint-ops with him in the Valley two years ago."

"How do I know my guy's really dead?" Messenger said.

"'Cause I'm telling you. I was there! I saw him die!"

"Excuse me for doubting your word, Sergeant, but I watch the news. I understand your own department ran a psychological profile on you just last year. You could be delusional, a disenfranchised troublemaker. Owing to the sensitivity of all this, you're going to have to tell me something more to convince me."

"Tremaine and I got captured in Colombia, in a town just across the Venezuelan border, called Maicao. His skin was peeled off in strips. Jesus..
. W
hat the hell else you want from me?" Shane was starting to get hot, glowering at the emotionless little man.

"Calm down, Sergeant," Tony said softly. "Bill's gonna help out...'cause if he don't, I'm gonna run a stick through his nuts and roast 'em over a slow fire in the governor's office."

"Yeah, and just how you think you're gonna do that, Tony?"

"You put a guy in my department without clearing it with me first. I'll get the district attorney to subpoena your Command Directive, then I'll roll it up and jam it so far up your ass, you'll be able to start breathing through it."

The county sheriff took off his titanium glasses, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket, and went to work giving the lenses
a t
horough cleaning..
. T
hen he slipped them carefully back onto his nose.

"Okay, let's also say, just for the hell of it, that I might acknowledge that Sergeant Lane was working in an undercover capacity inside your department." Messenger was speaking slower now, as if his words had solemn weight. "And let's say he stumbled into your rogue Viking unit. Since your man here says he's dead and can't report in, that would seem to end it. How am I supposed to help you?"