Faye Kellerman: The Mercedes Coffin

Diaz said, “We’ve been asked to stand by. Right now, we’re just accessories.”

Garrett said, “Turf war.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Oliver said. “We included them in every step of the operation.”

“True, but if there’s a homicide, it’s gonna fuck up their statistics, not ours.”

The media started coming their way: just in time for a live report on the eleven o’clock news. There was a woman from ABC, a man from CBS, a man and a woman from NBC. There were people from the local networks, people from Fox, people from CNN and MSNBC. The print media-Internet as well as newspapers-was equally eager for answers. Big headlines sell. If Rudy Banks had expectations of regaining his bad boy spotlight, dormant for the last decade, now was his chance.

The detectives were barraged with questions.

All the respective media got for their efforts were legitimate shrugs of ignorance. The press kept at them for a while, then moved on to another group in hopes of snagging something more interesting. By then, it was eleven-thirty.

Decker’s cell rang again. It was Liam again. “How can I get over to you? I can’t get through this bloody mess.”

“Go home, Liam. You can see all the action better on your own TV set.”

“I’m already seeing it on TV, mate. There are about a hundred people with laptops. Another hundred with video cameras.”

“O’Dell, I have to go.”

“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll start talking to them. Lots of bloggers out there, mate.”

“Don’t do that, Liam!”

“Where are you, mate?”

“You tell me where you are.” Decker listened and then said, “I’ll send someone to get you.” He hung up and said, “Liam O’Dell is threatening to talk to the media unless we pick him up and let him watch at close range.”

Marge said, “I’ll find him.”

Decker called Rina, telling her it looked like a long night. After he had hung up, his eyes focused on five men in dark suits stepping out of a black town car. “Special Ops…or maybe feds.”

Oliver said, “It’s not a federal case.”

“Maybe SMPD requested the help,” Decker said. “Maybe FBI has a field office close to here. Or maybe the hostage negotiator lives nearby.”

“Too many people around,” Oliver said. “We should go home. We’re not doing anything here, and by morning it’ll probably be resolved.”

“You can go,” Decker said. “I’m sticking around.”

Marge managed to find her way back with Liam O’Dell in tow. He wore a sweatshirt and jeans with slippers on his feet. “Any sign of Mudd?”

“I don’t know a thing, O’Dell,” Decker shrugged. “We’re just watching, same as you.”

“Who are all those guys?”

“FBI or Special Ops,” Decker said. “Can’t tell without a scorecard.”

O’Dell pursed his lips. “Shouldn’t we go over there or something?”

“No, O’Dell, we should stay right here,” Decker said. “If the men in black want to talk to us, they’ll come get us.”

“What’re they doing?”

“If I had to guess, they’re probably figuring out how to establish phone contact with Rudy.”

“How long is that going to take?”

Decker slapped an arm around O’Dell. “Liam, my friend, the wheels of justice grind very slowly.”

Cindy showed up a half hour later with a laptop, a large keg of coffee, and a pile of paper hot cups. She poured some java for all to share, and then she logged on to one of the local networks.

The group sat around watching themselves sit around.

It was after midnight, and the crowd hadn’t thinned a whole lot. Since L.A. usually shut down by eleven, Decker figured he had provided the city with its late-night entertainment.

A half hour passed, and the suits deigned to come their way. The agent who spoke looked to be around forty. He was well dressed with a chiseled chin and an angry expression. He was chomping gum. “Who’s Decker?”

“It’s Lieutenant Decker and that would be me. Who’re you?”

“Special Agent Jim Cressly of the FBI. What do you know about this?” Decker told him everything he knew. “So you have a prior relationship with Rudolph Banks?”

“I told you I spoke to him once over the phone. What’s going on?”

Cressly said, “He wants to talk to you.”

“Who does? Rudy?”

“Yeah, Rudy. This way.” When the group of detectives started to surge forward, Cressly held up his hand. “Uh-uh. Only Decker.”

“I’ll be back.” Decker rolled his eyes and spoke in his best Governator voice. Cressly led Decker into a police mobile unit van set up with phone lines, then introduced him to Jack Ellenshaw, the FBI hostage negotiator. Ellenshaw was around forty with a long face and a prominent chin. Neatly dressed and neatly trimmed just like Cressly. The FBI liked them a certain way. Advancement could be based on an inch of hair length.

After Ellenshaw gave him a two-minute lecture on the electronics, he asked, “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“Actually, I have.”

“One time, two times?”

“Two.”

“Were you successful?”

“I never lost a hostage,” Decker said, “One time the shooter died, one time the shooter lived.”

“Let me handle it. I’ll write down what you need to say on a pad of paper. Just stick with my lines and you’ll be okay.”

Decker didn’t answer. He had no intention of adhering to a script. He was an ad-lib-as-needed kind of guy. “Do you know how many people he has with him?”

“Three women and Cecil Dobbins.”

“The clerk, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I heard he was injured.”

“He was shot in the arm. We need to get a move on.”

“How about the women? Names? Ages?”

“Amber Mitchell, twenty-six, Lita Bloch, eighteen, and Pamela Nelson, twenty-one.”

“Any of them have a medical condition?”

“We’re trying to find that out right now.”

“And you sure there’s no one else except those five?”

“Not sure of anything.”

“Whose line are you calling to get to Rudy?”

“Pamela Nelson. We need to get started.”

“Call him up.” Decker felt surprisingly calm until he heard the line ringing. When he heard the voice, his heart started beating full force.

WHO THE FUCK is this?”

If Decker hadn’t recognized the timbre, he sure would have recognized the hostility. “It’s Lieutenant Peter Decker, Rudy. You asked for me.” Silence. “How are you doing?”

“How the fuck do you think I’m doing? All of a sudden, I’m looking down the barrel of the fucking U.S. Army. What the motherfucking hell is going on?”

The negotiator was writing like mad and pointing to his pad. Decker ignored him. “I’m not sure. I just got here.”

“What the fuck did I do?”

“Who said you did anything?”

There was a pause. “Then why is some fucking cunt on the news flashing my picture on TV and saying I’m wanted for murder?”

“I have no idea,” Decker told him. “Why don’t you fill me in on what happened?”

“Why don’t you ask one of your fellow morons what happened? Don’t you idiots talk to each other?”

“All we’re doing is trading ignorance. Only you know the real story.”

“Fucking A right about that! Why were you interested in talking to me in the first place, Decker?”

“I was stuck with a cold case. We were routinely interviewing everyone who was interviewed at the time. I told you that the first time we spoke.”

“Who the fuck remembers? What cold case?”

“Dr. Bennett Little.”

“Nobody ever interviewed me for Bennett Little’s murder. I told you, I barely remember it.”