Gregg Hurwitz: The Survivor

ACCESS DENIED.

Of course.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Plan B. Now.

Rising, he crossed to Ken’s desk. “I meant to ask, you still driving that gold Chrysler?”

“Champagne.”

“Right. I parked near you. I think someone dinged you. Rear bumper’s half off.”

“You’re kidding me.” Already Ken was up, digging for his car keys, hustling out. “You’d better be wrong, Overbay.”

Nate waited for him to pass from sight, and then he swiped the thick ring of work keys Ken had left behind. As he moved to go, Ken’s phone rang, the caller ID screen lighting up: SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION DIVISION. The crime lab.

Nate lunged to lower the volume on the ringer, not daring to breathe. A frozen instant. But Ken’s footsteps continued up the hall, and then the elevator car chimed its arrival. Nate blew out a shaky exhale. A moment later the voice-mail button blinked its red alert.

He tore his eyes from the phone and ran down the hall, readjusting the empty duffel across his back. He had five minutes, seven tops.

The evidence room was off the main corridor, just shy of the elevators. The reinforced door stood locked, the metal shutter rolled down behind the guard cage. Nate stared helplessly from the autolocking doorknob to the lump of keys sitting in his palm, maybe twenty of them. Had he hoped that one would have a big label on it reading EVIDENCE LOCKERS?

With fumbling hands Nate tried one key after another. The dead bolt stood firm, unimpressed with his offerings.

Another key failed. And the next. Sweat ran down Nate’s forehead, stung his eyes. A memory surfaced-had he read somewhere that LAPD had changed the rules after Rampart so cops no longer were allowed keys to the evidence room? Which meant that even if he did have time to check every-

A voice from behind broke through his thoughts. “Help you there, Overbay?”

His hands froze. Hiding the keys, he lowered them into his pocket. Slowly, he turned.

Bernice Daniels, the evidence custodian, loomed behind him, holding up a gleaming silver key connected by a plastic clip coil to the front pocket of her overburdened polyester pants. She was a dense, squat woman, boulderlike buttocks providing a counterweight to a sturdy bosom. She was lovely and cheery, an oversize heart to match her proportions.

Flustered, he scratched at his head, feigning casual. “Yeah, actually. I was just waiting for you. Sergeant Brown assigned me to the Danny Urban case. And I like to … you know-”

“Look through every last piece of evidence. I know. But it’s been a while since Homeboy Hit Man caught a bullet barrage. Why you serving the death notification now?”

Less than ten yards away, a set of elevator doors peeled open and Ken Nowak stepped forth.

Nate cleared his throat, regained his focus. “They just located a son. So I have to go let him know.”

“Oh, dear.” Bernice opened the door, stepping inside and hoisting the metal shutter behind the guard cage.

Annoyed, Ken walked briskly by. “The hell, Overbay? My car’s fine.”

“That’s good. I must’ve had the wrong car.”

“I’m surprised there’s another. It’s a rare color.”

Ken continued past, heading toward his desk and the waiting voice-mail message identifying Nate as Abara’s killer. Nate watched him walking away, every step one more tick of the countdown.

He turned back, debated making a break for the elevator.

Bernice’s voice pulled him from his trance. “I believe the Urban case is locker 78B. Here. You’ll need to sign the evidence log-”

“Of course.”

The metal door swung open, revealing the promised armory. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward and started grabbing whatever he could, raking items from shelves and hooks into the open duffel. Assault rifle, handguns, magazines, boxes of ammo, blocks of C4, electric blasting caps, even a grenade. How much time until Ken charged through the door behind him? Ten seconds? Five?

He sensed Bernice hovering at his back, troubled.

“Nate?” She spoke slowly, as if to an insane person. “What are you doing?”

He zipped the bag and stood. Bernice’s mouth was literally agape. No sound of footsteps coming up the hall.

“Can you give me a hand with this?” He slid a heavy evidence box from a wall rack straight across into Bernice’s arms. She received its weight, cradling it against her chest.

Reaching down, he snapped the coil clip with the key from her pant pocket, stepped outside, and swung the autolocking door shut, trapping her inside.

He stared at her through the metal cage. “I’m sorry, Bernice.”

Shouldering the hefty duffel, he ran for the elevator and thumbed the DOWN button. At the end of the hall, Ken appeared, wheeling around the last row of cubicles. He paused, his broad shoulders rotating as he scanned and locked onto Nate.

Between them Bernice began shouting and banging on the cage.

Ken started sprinting up the corridor.

Nate jabbed at the elevator’s DOWN button again and again.

Ken hurtled at him, shoes slapping tile, a running back sensing the end zone. Bernice was hollering now, maximizing those impressive lungs.

The doors parted. Nate slid through, tapped the ground-floor button, holding it in so hard that his finger bent back. Though Ken was out of sight, his labored breaths and furious footfalls came through the closing doors and seemed to reverberate around the car.

Ken’s fingertips flew into view just as the doors clamped shut, and then Nate staggered back a step, pulled by the weight of the duffel, and coughed out a chunk of air. Arming sweat off his brow and reconsidering his route, he clicked the button for the second floor so as to dodge security in the lobby.

He slid out at the first crack of light, letting the doors scrape him from either side, and then he hustled down two corridors to a rear stairwell, his left foot slightly sluggish. He took the stairs two at a time and shoved through an emergency door, setting off a shrill alarm. Stepping around a decorative hedge, he jogged for his Jeep, the weaponry clanking reassuringly against his back.

Nate sat in his Jeep at the curb, staring up the steps of the front walk. Through the kitchen window, he watched her. Though it was almost noon, she still wore a bathrobe, and she fussed about the coffeemaker, her movements slowed by age. Even from here he could see she’d lost a good amount of weight, and he hoped that she wasn’t ill.

He climbed out, making sure to lock the Jeep given what was in the cargo hold, then mounted the stairs and rang the bell. A delay. The shuffle of footsteps.

Grace Brightbill answered, one frail hand resting on the knob. She looked much older than Nate would have thought, but living alone could do that to a person. A whorl of puzzlement appeared in the wrinkles of her forehead.

“It’s-” Nate had to clear his throat and start over. “It’s Nate Overbay, Mrs. Brightbill. Charles’s old college roommate.”

Her face lightened with recognition. “Nate, of course. Come in, come in.”

Thanking her, he entered, enveloped by warm air and the scent of cinnamon. Though it was barely November, a Christmas tray on the coffee table held a raft of desiccated brownies.

She followed his gaze. “Would you like one?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “No, thank you. I just ate.”

A voice said, “Yup. She’s still at it,” and Nate looked up to see Charles reclining, one ankle hooked over a knee, arms spread on the couch back. Black, dried blood caked his hands, and sand dusted his hair. Through the hole blown in his stomach, Nate could make out the plaid upholstery behind him.