Glover took off the dress and handed it to her, then put on his pants and T-shirt. “They didn’t let me get a shower for the past few days. If the dress is ruined, I’ll pay for it.”
They headed west toward San Diego. When they reached the San Diego airport, Garza took the freeway exit and stopped in front of the terminal. He and Esmeralda got out. Stahl shook hands with Garza, hugged Esmeralda, and said, “Thank you both. When you get home, check to be sure your money has been deposited in your bank, and then call me.”
“Of course,” said Esmeralda. “Adios.” She set off for the airline ticket counters.
“See you soon, Dick,” said Garza. He hurried to join Esmeralda in the airport.
Stahl got back into the car, this time in the driver’s seat, and drove toward the freeway entrance. He said, “Your wife is waiting for you at a hotel up the road in La Jolla. I’ll leave you there and drive on to LA. Your passport and hers are in that bag on the floor. There’s also a wallet with money and a credit card.”
“How did you get my passport back from them?”
“The same way I got you back.”
“Thank you for my life. I’m sorry I didn’t react right to things at first. This has been such a—”
“It’s okay. Nobody crouches in a closet for more than a week without getting a little confused.”
“I’d like to pay you for the extra … trouble.”
“No,” said Stahl. “Your wife paid in advance, and I would have charged the same for an easy trip. When you get into the hotel, rest for a few days. Don’t go back to the house where you used to live unless you have armed bodyguards or police officers with you. Move to a new place far from there, and keep the address a secret for as long as you can. Stay hard to find for the next year or so, and then you should be all right. Whoever is alive back there might like revenge, and might kill you if it were easy, but they won’t want to waste a lot of time, and there’s no more money in killing you than in leaving you alone.”
5
Dick Stahl walked into the four-story redbrick office building on Sepulveda Boulevard. The double doors on the ground floor opened into a glass atrium about forty feet high that enclosed wide concrete steps that looked as though they ought to be outdoors. Somewhere in the glass panels above there were leaks, so drips of water had fallen from above and formed puddles in front of the steps. He could see it must have rained here too while he was gone.
Stahl took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked down the hallway to the steel door he’d had installed. The sign on it said: NO-FAIL SECURITY.
He had a jumpy, uncomfortable feeling today, a hot sensation on his spine. In Mexico he had listened only for the sound of sirens, and then after he and the others had crossed into the United States he’d kept the radio off so he could listen to his own thoughts about his rescue of Benjamin Glover. But a few minutes ago, while he was in his car on the way to the office, he heard something on the radio that shocked him. He thought now that he must have heard it wrong and was anxious to get inside and turn on the television set in his office.
He pushed the door open and entered the outer office. He could see his office manager, Valerie, at the desk behind the glass wall. She was blond and about forty, a person who always moved as though an emergency had been declared, chewing gum as she darted from place to place swooping to pick up papers that had to be fixed or finished. As he watched her she stopped and typed something into the computer at the reception desk, then moved out of the field of the big bulletproof window. He’d had the bulletproof glass installed when he started the business seven years ago and it had no nicks in it yet, but it made him feel better about having employees sitting in plain sight.
Stahl stepped in and caught a movement in his peripheral vision. He looked at the row of leather chairs along the wall of the reception area and saw he had a visitor. David Ogden stood and stepped toward Stahl. Today he was wearing his LAPD uniform with the three stars of a deputy chief on the collar. But there was black tape across his badge.
“Hi, Dick,” said Ogden. “Valerie said you’d be back this morning.”
“David,” said Stahl. “What’s going on?” His eyes were on the badge. “I heard something on the radio, but I—”
“It’s bad,” said Ogden. “It’s really bad, Dick. Yesterday afternoon there was a call to a house in Encino. The caller said he was the owner. He said he was away in Europe, and that he’d gotten a threat that his house was all primed to blow up. Tim Watkins and his guys took the call. Tim went in, but they couldn’t save the house. Later, when half the Bomb Squad was searching the rubble for unexploded ordnance, a secondary bomb went off, a big one.”
“Who got hurt? How many?”
“Not hurt. They’re dead, Dick. Fourteen men. Half the bomb techs on the force. Gone. They’re calling it the biggest massacre of police officers in national history.”
“Tim Watkins? Who else?”
“Maynard, Del Castillo, Capiello, Graham. I have a list.” He took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stahl.
Stahl stared at it.
Ogden said, “This seemed like a routine call at first. Tim and his crew responded, and then when the place blew up, the ones who went to help clear the scene were the senior people, the most experienced. We lost everybody who was there.” He paused. “I came to ask for your help.”
“You’re asking retired techs to fill in?” said Stahl. “I’ll be willing to help out for a few days, until reinforcements arrive. It’s been a while, but I’ve kept my certification current. You can run into anything in the security business.”
Ogden said, “The reinforcements aren’t arriving. You know how many bomb techs Ventura County has right now? Two. Whenever anybody in Southern California has a situation, they count on reinforcements from us.”
“Have you called the FBI?”
“First call we made. The FBI techs stationed here are going to pitch in. Same for ATF. But transferring anybody to us long-term means taking them from other cities. They’re going to put a rush on getting the first twenty officers on our waiting list trained, but you know how long that takes.”
Stahl knew. The first part of the course that used to be at Redstone Arsenal in Alabama had been moved to Fort Lee, Virginia, a couple of years ago and was still at least six weeks. The part after that in Florida was thirty-nine weeks. Stahl said, “It’ll be a year before the first one is back here ready to work.”
“All we can do is get started today. We’re also asking police forces all over the country for lists of bomb techs who retired within the past three years and might still be certified.”
“What a mess.”
“That’s why we need you.”
“Sure. I said I’d help out for a while.”
“We need more than that, Dick,” said Ogden. “You trained Watkins, Capiello, Del Castillo, and half the other senior technicians. You ran the squad for five years.”
“Two years.”
“Nobody else who’s alive has done it for a day. We need you to run the squad for a while, until we can get a permanent commander. I can get you a rank of acting captain.” He frowned. “Whoever did the bombing is still out there. We lost fourteen cops, and we don’t know a thing about who did it. No group has taken credit. The recording Tim Watkins left told us nothing.”
“Just let me think about it, and we can talk tomorrow.”
“There isn’t time. My car’s outside. You don’t have to do anything now but introduce yourself.”