Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Dolan's face grew as tight and hard as a ceramic mask, but her voice softened. “Don't cut me out of this, Harvey. Bishop said I could go.”

“You did. You're here. But this is far enough. When the location is secure, you and your boyfriend can come in.”

He jutted his jaw at me, and I wondered how it'd feel to kick it. The “boyfriend” would like kicking it just fine.

I said, “Why are you doing this, Krantz? Are you scared she's going to get the credit for doing your job?”

Watts said, “You're not helping.”

I spread my hands and stepped back. “You want me out of it, fine, I'm out of it. But Dolan earned a piece of this.”

Krantz considered me, then shook his head. “That's big of you, Cole, volunteering like that, but I don't give a shit what you want or not. I still think your partner killed Dersh, and I still think you had something to do with breaking him out. Bishop might be willing to overlook that, but I'm not.” He glanced back to Dolan. “Here's the way it is: I run this Task Force. If you want any chance, and I mean any , of getting back on Robbery-Homicide, you'll sit your fanny back in that car and do exactly as I say. Are we clear on that?”

Dolan's face went white. “You want me to be a good little girl, Harvey?”

Krantz drew himself up and tugged at his vest. It made him look bulky and misshapen, like a deformed scarecrow. “That's exactly what I want. If you're a good girl, I'll even make sure you get some of the credit.”

Dolan stared at him.

Krantz told the rest of them they'd be going in one car- his-and then the four of them got into it and drove away.

I said, “Jesus, Dolan, what a prick. I'm sorry.”

She looked at me as if I was confused, and then she smiled.

“You can sit here if you want, World's Greatest, but I'm going in through the back.”

I didn't think it was a smart idea, but that didn't do any good. She climbed into the Beemer without waiting for me, and it was either stand there like Krantz's toad or go with her.

Krantz had gone up the front street, so we drove up the back, straight to where the second radio car was waiting. The two uniforms were standing against the fender, smoking while they waited for Krantz's call.

Dolan said, “You guys hear from Krantz yet?”

They hadn't.

“Okay. We're gonna move in. Wait for the call.”

I said, “Dolan, this isn't smart. If we surprise one of these guys, they could blow our heads off.” I was thinking about Williams, looking so hinky he'd pop a cap if someone behind him sneezed.

“I told you to wear a vest.”

Great.

The property behind Sobek's was a single-family bungalow about the size of an ice chest. Nobody was home, except for a yellow dog in a narrow wire pen. I was worried the dog would bark, but all it did was wag its tail and watch us with hopeful eyes. Dolan and I moved up the drive, and into a backyard that was separated from Sobek's by a chain-link fence overgrown by morning glories that were brown and brittle from the heat. His converted garage was close to the fence and easy to see.

Dolan made a hissing sound to get my attention, then motioned for us to go over the fence.

When we were on Sobek's side, we separated and circled the building. I listened close at the windows, and tried to see inside, but couldn't because they'd been covered by what looked like plastic garbage bags. The bags meant he was hiding something, and I didn't like that.

Dolan and I met near Sobek's front door, then moved to the side.

I whispered, “I couldn't see anything in there. Did you?”

“Every damned window is like this. I couldn't see anything and didn't hear anything. If he ain't our guy, he's a goddamned vampire. Let's try the door.”

Stan Watts and Harvey Krantz came down the drive, and froze when they saw us. Krantz made an angry wave for us to come over to him, but Dolan gave him the finger.

“You're cutting your own throat with that guy, Dolan.”

“He's fucked me long enough. You got your gun?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's try the door.”

Dolan went to the front door and knocked, just the way you'd knock if you wanted to ask your neighbor for a small favor. I stood three feet to her left, gun out, and ready to get on Sobek if he answered.

Stan Watts drew his gun and hurried over beside me. Krantz stayed out by the duplex. I could hear Williams and Bruly in the next yard.

Watts said, “Goddamnit, Samantha.” But it was only loud enough for me.

Dolan knocked a second time, harder, and said, “Gas company. We got a problem we've traced to your house.”

No answer.

She said it louder. “We've got a gas company problem out here.”

Still no one answered. Watts stood, and Krantz hurried over from the duplex. His face was red, and he looked like he wanted to bite someone in the neck.

“Goddamnit, Dolan, I'm going to have your ass for this.” He was whispering, but it was harsh and loud, and if anyone was inside they would've heard. “This is my collar.”

I said, “He's not here, Dolan. Pull back and let's figure out what to do.”

Krantz put away his gun and jabbed me with his finger. “I'm going to have your ass for this, too. You, and her. Stan, you're a witness.”

The three of us were still off to the side when Dolan touched the knob. “Hey, I think it's open.”

I said, “Dolan. Don't.”

Samantha Dolan eased open the door just far enough to peek inside, but she probably couldn't see anything.

Dolan relaxed.

“We're clear, Krantz. Looks like I've done your job again.”

Then she pushed the door open and something kicked her backward with a sound like a thunderclap.

Stan Watts yelled, “Gun!” and hit the ground, but I didn't hear him.

I pushed low through the door, firing at a smoking double-barrel shotgun even before I knew what it was. I think I was screaming.

I fired all six rounds before the hammer clicked on nothing, and then I was running back into the yard, where Watts was trying to stop the bleeding, but it was already too late.

The point-blank double load from the shotgun had blown through her vest like it wasn't there.

Samantha Dolan's beautiful hazel eyes stared sightlessly toward heaven.

She was dead.

As Detective Samantha Dolan's blood seeps into Los Angeles' dry earth, Laurence Sobek parks his red Cherokee in the next victim's drive. He no longer carries the little .22 with his homemade Clorox suppressors; he carries a full-blown .357 magnum loaded with light, fast hollow points. When he shoots his victims now, they will blow apart like overripe avocados, with no chance for survival.

Sobek has the gun in his waist, his hand tight on its grip as he goes to the door. He knocks, but no one answers, and, after knocking again, walks around to the back, where he tries the sliding glass doors. He considers forcing the doors, but sees a Westec alarm light blinking from its control panel.

Sobek is ready to kill. He is ready to do murder, and wants to with such a ferocity that his palm is slick on the pistol's wood grip.

He goes back to the Jeep, and drives up the hill until he finds a parking place with an unobstructed view of the house. He waits for the child.

* * *

Krantz said, “Oh, holy Jesus. Oh, Christ.”

He dry-heaved, and turned to lean against an avocado tree. Williams and Bruly came around the corner, guns out and eyes wild, the four uniforms following with their shotguns. Someone shouted from one of the surrounding houses. The yellow dog howled.

Bruly yelled, “Is she dead? Jesus, is she dead?”

Watts's hands were red with Samantha Dolan's blood. “Krantz, clear the house. Williams, clear the house, goddamnit.”