The Dark Halo, page 29
Then they were moving again, five minutes out.
His thoughts shifted to the task in hand.
If Dorsey had planted a camera in the room with the big picture window to monitor the shoot-out, then it stood to reason that another camera was positioned to cover the car where Olivia was held captive. Olivia had been his leverage; he couldn’t risk losing that. The setup required two cameras minimum. But where there were two, there could be more.
Dorsey would check the feeds before he arrived, to see if it was safe. The Ferryman was careful. He got in, he got out. No one saw him, and he left no evidence behind. More than two cameras meant extra time installing, then removing. He’d want to limit that, as well as the possibility of the cameras being seen.
Two cameras then, the minimum needed to get the job done.
Coombes parked on Berkeley Avenue and saw that the rest of the task force was already there. The six of them hustled up the street toward the Sutton house, then after a nod to the cop parked outside, walked up the driveway. The patrol car pulled away and they were left in the shadows.
It was full dark, the moon no more than a fingernail clipping in the sky. He set out where he wanted each of the task force positioned around the property and to avoid at all costs the room of the shoot-out and anywhere near where the Mercedes sat as there were likely to be cameras in those areas.
“You better be right about this. I’m missing time with my girl to be here with you.”
He turned to Wallfisch.
“When we catch our serial killer, I’ll be sure to tell him about the nine to five, Monday to Friday hours that you prefer.”
“We already caught him, Coombes, remember? He’s in the morgue.”
“Why are you here, Wallfisch?”
“If you’re wrong, I get to see you fail, if you’re right I get a piece of the action.”
Coombes shook his head.
“You can teach a pig to hunt, but that won’t make him a dog.”
Wallfisch came at him, but stopped himself the last second.
“What you say to me?”
“I didn’t choose you for this task force, Wallfisch. I have suits with more experience than you. Right now, is the longest I’ve seen you standing in three years. Now get the fuck upstairs and watch for this guy like I told you and try not to let your fat ass fall through the floor.”
Wallfisch’s breath hissed out, like he had a slow puncture.
Just when Coombes thought he’d have to tell him again, Wallfisch turned and walked away into the darkness, toward the stairs. Falling through the floor was a real possibility for Wallfisch, the fire damage was extensive. Show over, the rest of the team moved into position, leaving him alone with Sato.
“I thought he was going to hit you,” she said softly.
She was standing right in front of him in the darkness looking up into his eyes. Her lean abdominal muscles pressed against his groin in a way that didn’t feel accidental. She moved against him like a cat.
“What are you doing, Grace?”
“Helping you stay awake.”
Coombes thought about what Lass had said about the energy that flowed between him and Sato. He was right, and it was getting worse with every passing second. They were going to have to get real and put an end to it before there was any fallout. He moved away from her and sensed her face falling.
“We need to focus.”
Silence grew between them. The darkness was almost total and although there was now a space between them, it still felt intimate. Minutes passed. The image of the homeless man on the street came back to him. The man had wild hair and a beard that trailed over a filthy white T-shirt. He was nothing like Dorsey, he didn’t even look like Jake Curtis, who at least had the beard. It was where he was standing in front of his Dodge.
He had it then, what he’d been trying to remember.
The man who stood in the middle of the street photographing them after their visit to the Capitol Records Building was Gabriel Dorsey. Coombes wanted to scream, he’d been right there in front of them and they’d had no idea. Was that the only time, or had there been other close calls?
How many chances had he missed?
Not far away, he heard the soft whoosh of someone shutting a car door. Not slamming it shut, being careful. Quiet. The darkness shifted next to him; Sato had heard it too. Coombes took out his Glock. This was his own weapon, his LAPD-issued Glock was elsewhere, awaiting a verdict on his shooting of Nicolas Sutton.
There was no street light outside, the only light came from the moon above and the glow of Los Angeles below. A figure walked up the drive and a flashlight snapped on. It was angled low, with a narrow cone. After the darkness, the light was incredibly bright. He heard it then. Dorsey whistling to himself, a happy tuneless rasp.
Twenty feet away, he turned to the side, following the driveway around to where the Mercedes had sat. This was not a surprise to Coombes, yet he found that he hadn’t thought through what he would do if Dorsey grabbed that camera first. The best potential capture point was inside the house and it was where he’d positioned his team.
He forced himself to stay still, and wait.
Dorsey wasn’t long. Less than a minute later, the flashlight reappeared, the whistling back in Coombes’ ears. Soon he would walk through the doorway and turn to the right, toward the room where the second camera had to be. There was no front door, everything wood had been destroyed by the fire Dorsey himself had started.
Dorsey stood in the doorway and the whistling stopped.
The flashlight swept around the room, shadows stretching out into the black. Coombes and Sato were to one side, pressed into the space of a doorless closet. If the flashlight landed on them, it was all over. He hadn’t thought about Dorsey using a flashlight, a ridiculous oversight.
Dorsey remained in the doorway. Had something tipped him off?
The flashlight went out.
The darkness rushed back in, only this time Coombes’ vision was blown out by the after images from the flashlight. He heard nothing. He couldn’t tell if Dorsey was still standing in the doorway. It was impossible to remain in a cover position that prevented him from seeing his quarry. He eased himself around on his right foot like a door opening and brought his Glock and Maglite up, both of his hands together, ready to turn on his flashlight.
He heard a creak far over to his left and he turned toward it. There was another creak and Coombes moved out from the closet space, toward the sound. Purple shapes swam in his vision, he could see nothing, not even if Dorsey was still in the room.
It had to be twenty or thirty seconds since the light had gone out, he couldn’t risk Dorsey getting away. Their whole case against him relied on catching him red-handed.
A flashlight came on at a high angle, filling the room.
The sounds hadn’t been Dorsey, they’d been Wallfisch coming down the stairs. The room was empty in front of him. Coombes swung his head back to the doorway and saw Dorsey lunge at Sato. He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up like a shield in front of him. He had a silver revolver in his left hand and he pressed it against her temple.
“Drop the guns or I’ll kill her. You know I’ll do it.”
“Easy. Let her go.”
“I won’t tell you again, Coombes.”
Sato’s hands were empty, she must have dropped her gun. Then he noticed her fingers change, tucking them in, one at a time. Ten, nine, eight. Coombes held up his hands.
“Okay, don’t shoot.”
The fingers continued their countdown. When the last finger folded in, Sato arched back and smashed her head into Dorsey’s face. He let go of her and Coombes changed his grip from dropping his gun and fired it just over Dorsey’s head. He couldn’t afford to hit Sato, so had missed deliberately. Dorsey spun to the side and fired his revolver into the room, hitting nothing. Wallfisch’s flashlight was blinding him.
Then he was gone, and running, disappearing into the darkness beyond. Coombes chased after him, Wallfisch trailing him down the stairs.
He expected to see Dorsey on the driveway in front of him running toward his vehicle, but instead saw him go around the side return, back toward where he’d picked up the first camera. He set off after him, his own flashlight now on. There was no way out in that direction, the driveway ended in a fence and Dorsey had to know that from the number of times he’d been there.
As he came around the side there was a bright flash in front of him and another round whistled past his ear. He ducked back into cover, before he realized it was a wild shot, intended to buy Dorsey time to escape. He cursed himself and began his pursuit again, his flashlight next picking Dorsey out at the top of the fence as he moved onto the low roof of the property next door.
There was a way out, Coombes saw, through the neighbor’s property, onto the next street over. As he got up on the neighbor’s roof, Dorsey dropped down, out of sight.
He ran across the roof alone.
Wallfisch wouldn’t get over the fence, and the others would move to phase two, picking up the camera left behind in the room with the picture window. He got to the end of the roof and heard yelling out on the street. He dropped to the ground and was in time to see Dorsey pull a man out of a blue Mustang, then get in and race off down the street.
No shitshow, his lieutenant had said.
He was pretty sure this qualified.
45
Coombes ran after the car, ignoring the owner of the Mustang, who was still on his ass after being car-jacked. The night air was cool and dry, but beads of sweat soon formed on his forehead, neck, and back. He wasn’t as fit as he wanted to be, and he made a silent deal with himself to get into better shape as soon as possible.
At the bottom of the road, he saw Dorsey turn right.
Back in his car, he hit the gas, heading after the Mustang. The other man had a two-minute lead and there was no way he’d be able to make up the lost ground on his own. Fortunately, he wasn’t on his own. He called in a description of the car and Dorsey, requesting an airship and every available unit in the area.
He reached Scott Avenue and turned right toward Silver Lake Boulevard. The junction was on the crest of a hill, and he took the turn fast. His Charger rose up high on its suspension, wheels close to leaving the asphalt, before crashing down again.
He flashed past a junction without seeing what it was, or checking the cross street for the Mustang. He figured Dorsey would’ve done the same thing, keen to put in some quick distance. A school scrolled by on the right, like a prison with bees painted on the walls. He slowed for the next left junction and was treated to a millisecond glimpse of tail lights turning west again at the end of the street.
He turned down Coronado after them. He couldn’t swear it was the Mustang, or if he just wanted it to be the Mustang so much, his eyes were filling in the detail. He hit the gas hard, pushing his Dodge to catch up. Speed humps were built into the road and this time his wheels left the surface, once, twice, by the time he got to the third hump, he wasn’t even lifting his foot off the gas anymore.
If the suspension was trashed, they could bill him.
He got to Reservoir Street and plunged down the steep grade. At the top of the next hill he saw the Mustang with its distinctive tail lights and the back of the Shelby racing stripes. He flashed through a stop sign then the road angled up again and he pushed the Dodge’s engine hard to close the gap.
Ahead of him Dorsey braked dramatically, the back of the Mustang swinging over to the left as the car turned sharply to the right, off a side street. When the car cleared, Coombes saw two LAPD SUVs blocking the street in a nose-together wedge. He followed the Mustang’s path with less of a skid, and powered north up McCollum. The street was lined with tall palms and was immediately familiar to Coombes. He’d been here before.
Dorsey floored the throttle, leaving him far behind.
It was like a camera zooming out, the Mustang was in a different league. The road they were on was taking them back toward where the chase had started, they’d only be a couple of blocks from the Sutton house. By the time he got to the top of the road, the Mustang was gone. He looked both ways on the cross street and could see no sign of the tail lights.
Coombes opened his window and listened. He heard the big V8 breathing somewhere, like a lion panting. It was close. He rolled across the junction and turned left again, which was still McCollum, but with a dogleg. His headlights swept over a darkened Mustang ahead. The headlights snapped back on and the car took off. They were thirty feet apart now. His closer distance pushed Dorsey straight across the next junction at Berkeley. The road became narrow, with a thickly vegetated island on the left that prevented U-turns.
The road widened out and a gatehouse sat in the middle of the road, a stubby barrier extending three feet into the road. Dorsey drove through the barrier without lifting his foot off the throttle, tuning the last foot of the barrier into dust.
Once past the gatehouse, Coombes fell back and stopped at a four-way junction. No matter how it looked on a GPS unit, there was no exit ahead. It was a dead end. This was a gated community, and the people who lived here didn’t want outsiders coming and going all day. Steel barriers had been installed, cyclone fencing. A situation Dorsey was no doubt familiar with from his own property in Brentwood.
The Mustang got to the end of the road, swung around a turning circle and stopped, pointing back the way it came. Coombes smiled. He was at the other end of the street, yet he still felt the anger and frustration in the way Dorsey revved the V8.
A minute passed and nothing happened.
That was okay by Coombes. It was better to let a criminal realize for themselves that it was hopeless to continue than to force the realization on them. Dorsey had to have prepared in some way for this moment. Nobody killed nine people without thinking about what would happen if they got caught, it just wasn’t possible.
The two Interceptor Utility SUVs rolled up behind Coombes like tanks, high beams blazing, strobes pulsing. One drove past, blocking the road to the left, the second lining up in the lane next to him. Four cops emptied out fast, spreading out across the street, guns drawn, bristling with intent. Coombes sighed. The show of force blew any calm acceptance that had been building in Dorsey. The uniforms gave him something to fight against.
There would be no peaceful surrender now, only a last stand.
A quarter mile away, a police helicopter directed its searchlight in their direction, and the street lit up in ghostly white light. One of the uniformed cops began working his way toward Dorsey, a shotgun pressed into his shoulder, the long barrel aimed down at the asphalt. Part way, the cop dropped onto one knee and leveled the shotgun at the Mustang.
“Get out of the vehicle and lie face down on the road.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Coombes said.
The Mustang’s rear wheels spun, brakes still on. Smoke poured out, the screech of the tires tearing at the asphalt audible to Coombes through his windshield. He pictured the scene from above, like a chess board. The uniforms were spread out with no cover from a speeding car. Once he’d plowed through them, Dorsey would simply mount the footpath, drive around the blockade, and back down the hill to the gatehouse.
Escape was still possible.
Dorsey released the brake and the Mustang shot forward toward the cop with the shotgun. Coombes hit the gas and raced to meet the oncoming car, forcing it to line up with him, not the cop. Dorsey’s face was caught in his headlights. He was grinning, his eyes wide. Time seemed to elongate as the two cars headed toward each other. He didn’t know what he was doing. It was stupid, like something that would happen in a Pacific Pictures movie. Dorsey’s crazy face would be the last thing he saw before he died.
He flashed back to Sato’s cheeks turning red in McDonald’s.
It was something he wanted to see again.
There was something between them, something worthwhile.
At the last second, he turned the wheel hard to the left, away from the impact. Dorsey flashed past, a bright blur. Coombes stamped on the brakes as he approached a tree, but he was going too fast to stop. The front of his Dodge crumpled up and his airbag deployed into his face, his seatbelt yanking him backward.
A second passed, then another.
He heard nothing but a high-pitched tone.
Coombes patted the huge gray pillow of the airbag out of the way and got the door open. Dust filled the air inside the car’s cabin. He stumbled out onto the street and saw no sign of the Mustang. The high-pitched sound continued. The cop with the shotgun approached.
“Are you OK? I think you just saved my ass.”
Coombes nodded. “Where did he go?”
His voice sounded distant, through a thick carpet. The cop turned and pointed.
“Through that hedge.”
There were no tire marks on the road to indicate that Dorsey had attempted to brake or turn away from the head-on collision. Instead, the Mustang had continued straight and punched right through a 12-foot-high hedge.
Coombes drew his gun and ran across the street. The uniformed officer moved with him, covering his flank.
He stopped at the boundary and turned to the cop.
“If that prick comes back out here without me, put him down.”
“That works for me.”
46
Coombes stepped through the gap in the hedge into the yard beyond. The destroyed hedge lay all around but there was no sign of the Mustang. He moved forward, his finger resting on the trigger of his Glock. He resisted the urge to move quickly and risk getting blindsided by Dorsey in the shadows.
There was a light in the black ahead.
He followed it up a raised bank of earth. At the top of the rise he saw a large swimming pool in the yard below. The water glowed. A smile spread across his face. The Mustang was at the bottom. After clearing the raised bank, the Ford had hit the water and been dragged down by the weight of the engine.
