Robert Crais - Hostage

“We watched the tape at Kim’s to make sure we had something. I left it cued up.”

“Did you pull up anything on Rooney from traffic or warrants?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dreyer opened his citation pad. Talley saw that notes had been scrawled across the face of a citation, probably while they were driving.

“Dennis James Rooney has a younger brother, Kevin Paul, age nineteen. They live together over in Agua Dulce. Dennis just pulled thirty days at the Ant Farm for misdemeanor burglary and theft, knocked down from felony three. He’s got multiple offenses, including car theft, shoplifting, drug possession, possession of stolen goods, and DUI. The brother, Kevin, did juvenile time on a car theft beef. At one time or another, both were in foster care or were wards of the state. Neither graduated from high school.”

“Any history of violent crimes?”

“Nothing in the record but what I said.”

“When we’re done here, I want you to talk to their landlord. Guys like this are always behind on the rent or making too much noise, so the landlord has probably had to jam them. I want to know how they reacted. Find out if they threatened him or flashed a weapon or rolled over and made nice.”

Talley knew that a subject’s past behavior was a good predictor of future behavior: People who had used violence and intimidation in the past could be expected to react with violence and threats in the future. That was how they dealt with stress.

“Find out from the landlord if they have jobs. If they work, ask their employers to come talk to me.”

“Got it.”

Mikkelson stepped away from the VCR.

“We’re ready, Chief.”

“Let’s see it.”

The screen flickered as the tape engaged. The bright color image of a daytime Spanish-language soap opera was replaced by the soundless black-and-white security picture of Junior Kim’s minimart. The camera angle revealed that the camera was mounted above and to the right of the cash register, showing Junior Kim and a small portion of the clerk’s area behind the counter. The counter angled up the left side of the frame, the first aisle angled along the right. The camera gave a partial view of the rest of the store. Small white numbers filled a time-count window in the lower right of the screen.

Mikkelson said, “Okay. Here they come. The guy we think is Rooney entered a few minutes ago, then left. Here where the tape picks up, it’s maybe five minutes later.”

“Okay.”

A sharp-featured white male matching Dennis Rooney’s description opened the door and walked directly to Junior Kim. A larger white male with a broad face and wide body entered with him. The second man’s hair was shaved down to his scalp in a fuzz cut.

“Is that Rooney’s brother?”

“The third guy is about to come in. The third guy looks like Rooney.”

A third white male stepped inside before Mikkelson finished. Talley knew the third man was Rooney’s brother from the resemblance, though Kevin was shorter, thinner, and wearing a Lemonheads T-shirt. Kevin waited by the door.

Talley studied their expressions and the way they carried themselves. Rooney was a good-looking kid, with eyes that were hard but uncertain. He walked with an arrogant, rolling gait. Talley guessed that he was posturing, but couldn’t yet tell if Rooney was posturing for others or himself. Kevin Rooney shuffled from foot to foot, his eyes flicking from Dennis to the gas islands outside the store. He was clearly terrified. The larger man had a wide flat face and expressionless eyes.

“We have an ID on the big guy?”

“No, sir.”

“Was the camera hidden?”

“Hanging off the ceiling big as a wart on a hog’s ass, and these guys didn’t even bother to wear masks.”

Talley watched the video without a feeling of connection. During his time on LAPD he had seen three or four hundred such videos, all showing robberies gone bad just the way this one was about to go bad, and only one out of twenty perpetrators had bothered to don a mask. Mostly, they didn’t care; mostly, they didn’t think about it; geniuses didn’t go into crime. Only the first tape had shocked him. He was still a probationary officer, twenty-two years old and fresh from the academy. He had watched a thirteen-year-old Vietnamese girl walk into a convenience store just like this one, shoot the elderly African-American clerk in the face at point-blank range, then turn her gun on the only other person in the store, a pregnant Latina named Muriel Gonzales who was standing next to her. The pregnant woman had fallen to her knees, thrusting her hands up as she begged for her life. The Vietnamese shooter touched the gun to Muriel Gonzales’s forehead and let off a shot without hesitation, then calmly walked around behind the counter and cleaned out the cash register before walking out of the store. When she reached the door, she hesitated, then returned to the counter, where she stole a box of Altoids. After that she stepped over Muriel Gonzales and left. Seeing those murders had left Talley so shaken that he had spent the next two months thinking about resigning.

The events in Kim’s Minimart happened as quickly: Rooney lifted his shirt to expose a gun, then vaulted over the counter. Kim stood with a gun of his own. Talley was relieved that Rooney had told the truth about Kim having a gun. It wouldn’t help Rooney in court, but Talley could use what he was seeing to play on Rooney’s sense of being the victim of bad luck. That was all Talley cared about right now, finding things he could use to manipulate Dennis Rooney.

The struggle between Rooney and Junior Kim lasted only seconds, then Kim staggered backward, dropped his pistol, and slumped against the Slurpee machine. Rooney was clearly surprised that Kim had been shot. He jumped back over the counter and ran to the door. The larger man didn’t move. Talley found that odd. Kim had just been shot and Rooney was running, but the third man just stood there. Junior Kim’s pistol had landed on the counter. The third man tucked it into his waist, then leaned over the counter, resting his weight on his left hand.

Mikkelson said, “What’s he doing?”

“He’s watching Kim die.”

The big man’s pasty Pillsbury Doughboy face creased.

Mikkelson said, “Jesus, he’s smiling.”

Talley’s back and chest prickled. He stopped the tape, then rewound it until the unknown subject leaned forward on his hand.

“We need to confirm that the younger guy is Kevin Rooney, and we need to ID the third subject. Make hard-copy prints from the tape. Show them to Rooney’s landlord, his neighbors, and the people at his job. We might get a fast ID on the third guy that way.”

Mikkelson glanced at Dreyer uncertainly.

“Ah, Chief, how do we make prints from the tape?”

Talley cursed under his breath. In Los Angeles, an officer would take the tape to the Scientific Investigations Division in Glendale, then return an hour later with however many prints were needed. Talley thought that the Palmdale PD probably had the necessary equipment to do that job, but Palmdale was a long drive in Friday-night traffic.

“You know the computer store in the mall?”

“Sure. They sell PlayStations.”

“Call first. Tell them we have a VHS videotape and ask if they know how to grab and print a frame. If they can, take it there. If they can’t, call the camera store in Santa Clarita. If they can’t help, call Palmdale.”

Talley pointed out the unknown subject’s hand resting on the counter. He turned to Cooper and Frost.

“See here where he put his hand? I want you two to meet the Sheriff’s homicide team at Kim’s, and tell them about this. They’ll be able to lift a good set of prints.”

“Yes, sir.”