Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Tim made a mental note to confirm that.

“They’ve started installing metal detectors on several floors today, I assume to have them good to go by the time Lane arrives. Access-control-card checkpoints on every floor to breach the inner rooms, guard booths to boot before the editing and interview suites. And there’s a brunette on the seventh floor with an ass like Jennifer Lopez who almost made me plummet to my death when she dropped her keys.”

“All right,” Tim said. “Good job.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Robert hopped out and slammed the door behind him.

•Mitchell was just leaving Rayner’s house when Tim drove through the gates in the rental van and parked beside his own car. Mitchell ignored him, climbing into his truck. He was backing up fast when Tim knocked the side panel with a fist. Mitchell hit the brakes.

“What?”

Tim pulled a pencil from behind his ear and pointed at the eraser. “Can you make me a contained explosive charge this size?”

“What for?”

“I need something I can hide inside a small item.”

“Like in a watch?”

“Right, like in a watch.”

Mitchell’s mouth shifted and clamped. “It’ll be tricky. I’d have to build a minuscule, custom-made detonator.”

“What’ll you use? C4?”

“C4? And why don’t we throw around a few sticks of dynamite or fire off an ACME cannon while we’re at it?” He shook his head. “Leave the pyrotechnics to me. We’ll need a sensitive primary explosive, like mercury fulminate or DDNT.”

“And you’re thinking an electronically initiated receiver?”

“Yeah, but that’ll be the problem. There’s not much space-especially if you’re wiring this shit into the existing circuitry of a watch- so I doubt I can fit anything that’ll pick up a specialized electrical transmission from any sort of distance. Maybe I can get you a couple hundred yards’ range on a remote-control device.”

“A couple hundred yards would be fine. And the charge can’t send out shrapnel. We can’t hurt any bystanders with the explosion.”

Mitchell ground his teeth. “Ya think?” He started the truck rolling again, and Tim had to step back so the tire wouldn’t run over his foot.

•Tim drove to the Moorpark firing range to break in the. 357, practicing his draw, getting a sense of the new metal. It felt like home.

When he left, he inadvertently drove several blocks toward his and Dray’s house before realizing his mistake and turning around. Passing a park where he used to take Ginny, he broke out in a clammy sweat. He detoured, heading past the long drive leading to Kindell’s garage. The . 357 fit snugly in his old hip holster. He removed it and pressed it to his thigh, felt its heat even through his jeans. The fact that he had again moved from grief to anger was not lost on him.

Anger was easier.

After driving downtown, showering, and cleaning his gun, he stretched out on his bed and finally checked the Nokia’s messages. Two, both from Dray, over the past couple hours.

She sounded discouraged on the first. “I’ve been hitting walls in every direction on the accomplice angle. I finally caved and called the LAPD detectives who worked Kindell’s priors-they were actually really kind, had heard about Ginny…” She cleared her throat, hard. “They still wouldn’t give me specifics, but they took a turn through their case logs and assured me there weren’t any trails or red flags. Almost all of what they had, they said, would be in the court transcripts, which I already have. I played the guilt card with Gutierez and Harrison, pressed them pretty hard, and they rousted Kindell for us one last time. Said he’s not talking-his lawyer made real clear that keeping his mouth shut is what’s gonna keep him out of jail. He’s a regular constitutional expert now, even ordered them off his property unless they were gonna press charges. We’re not gonna get anything from him. Ever.” A deep sigh. “I hope things are panning out better on your end.”

The sadness expressed in her voice on the first message gave way to irritation on the second, since Tim hadn’t gotten back to her. He tried her first at the office, then at home, finally leaving a vague message saying he had nothing to report on his end and explaining he’d wanted to wait until he was alone to talk to her. Hearing her voice, even on a recording, set the hook of his grief more firmly.

He took a moment to consider how lucky he was to have so much to do.

He relieved Robert at four o’clock. Robert slid out of the coffee-shop booth, leaving a clipboard full of notes and charts on the table, hidden in the Newsweek. Tim sat and glanced through his jottings. Calendar of movements, times the trash went out, security positions. It was impossible to deny Robert’s proficiency.

Tim sipped coffee and watched who came out of which exits and when. Just before five he crossed the street, passing the immense window full of suspended TVs, and entered the lobby-a large marble cavern with a grotesquely baroque chandelier, oddly dated given the building’s exterior. Just inside, a newly positioned guard directed a perfunctory glance at Tim’s license-thank you, Tom Altman, RIP-before letting him pass. A huge screen, composed of sixteen close-set TVs, formed the west wall. No side doors, no open stairs, no pillars behind which to hide. About twenty yards in from the revolving doors, a massive security console greeted visitors.

Tim took note of the cameras at each corner of the ceiling before acknowledging the security guard with a nervous smile. “Yeah, hi, I, uh, I was wondering if I could fill out a job application form. For, you know, maintenance or whatever.”

“Sorry, sir, there’s a hiring freeze right now. You might want to try ABC. I’ve heard they’re looking.”

Tim leaned forward on the counter for a moment, taking in the bank of bluish-white screens the guard was monitoring. The angles were largely south-facing, capturing the faces of visitors as they entered. Tim searched them for blind spots. “Thanks anyways.”

“No problem, sir.”

Tim turned and headed out. The security lenses above the revolving doors represented the sole cameras devoted to recording people as they exited. Tim kept his head lowered when he pushed through onto the sidewalk.

He took a new post in the window booth of a deli next door to Lipson’s Pharmacy and Medical Supplies. Munching on pastrami, he recorded the order of the office lights blinking out on the eleventh floor.

THE SURVEILLANCE WAS continuous over the next forty-eight hours, an endless cycle of coffee and leg cramps. Meanwhile, public outrage against Lane continued to grow, and death threats kept pouring in. KCOM had begun promoting the interview almost around the clock-ads graced buses and taxi tops, and commercials launched on KCOM’s affiliated radio station supplemented the aggressive TV campaign.

The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting the event.

Tim observed the intensifying circus atmosphere with equal parts awe and concern-the security machinations, gleaned through the Stork’s wiretapping and Rayner’s rooting, were ever shifting. Tim’s plan nearly had to be scrapped several times, the first when KCOM’s legal department started making noises about retracting the live aspect of the interview, wanting to prerecord Lane at an unspecified time as a security precaution. Next Lane wanted to shift the meeting to a secret location, for his own safety and cachet, but Yueh was understandably uncomfortable with this, given Lane’s history and notorious hatred of the media. With the support of the brass, KCOM security finally threw down a veto, preferring to deal with variables contained in-plant rather than opening up a new locale. For this concession Lane extracted the promise that the interview would remain live, so his gospel couldn’t get misrepresented or chopped up in edit. KCOM marketing and Yueh herself were more than happy to comply-putting a live spin on Event TV had already served to up the PR ante. To exploit the hype further, an added fifteen-minute viewer-call-in segment at the end ensured that Lane could respond to the Angry Public.