The Survivor: A Novel Part 36

"Anything I have to."

His knuckles ached, but she didn't relent.

"You come back." She bit her lower lip hard enough that the color left beneath her teeth. "You come back and say good-bye first."

It took some effort for him to let go of her hand.

Casper followed him down the hall, his nails making too much noise on the floorboards. Nate tapped a knuckle against his father's door and heard a m.u.f.fled answer: "Come in."

He stood in the doorway as his father rustled up against the headboard, pulling on a pair of spectacles. Early morning leaked around the curtains, a pale shade of gray.

"Dad," he said. "It's gonna get bad."

"Hardly call it a picnic now."

"Worse. Soon enough I'll be framed as a cop killer. The whole law-enforcement community is gonna come after me, on top of those men. I gotta leave and take care of some stuff. It's dangerous for you to stay around Janie and Cielle-"

"I got them."

"It's much safer for you to go back-"

"I'm not asking, Nate." The hard words rang around the room. He cleared his throat apologetically. "I can help protect them from those men. And anyone else."

"I don't want you to be at risk, Dad."

Nate's father pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up, his weathered face was as vulnerable as Nate had ever seen it. "I haven't done anything worth anything in a long time. Don't take this away from me, son."

They regarded each other in the semidarkness.

Nate nodded once and withdrew.

Beneath the fan that had been half torn from the ceiling by the weight of his daughter's body, Pavlo spread Nastya's clothes across her luxurious duvet. With a razor blade-her razor blade-he visited a great, calm violence on her shirts and skirts, her bras and panties. He wore bifocals, his sole concession to his age, which lent him greater gravity and a dignified elegance he did not often display. He required them; it was meticulous and vital work. Firming the razor between thumb and fist, he dragged a dress across his arm, the blade's corner rising through the silk like a shark's fin.

Beyond the picture window, the lights of the Strip were on a low simmer, daybreak still barely a notion at the horizon. The spectacular city view had been freed once and for all, the curtains torn from the rod and shredded at Pavlo's hand. Traces of Nastya's lipsticked message remained, red smudges on the pane.

Yuri and Misha entered and stood like waiters waiting to be acknowledged. Plucking a red bra from the mound, Pavlo sliced through one cup, then the other. "What?"

"The police responded to Abara's barn," Misha said, "off our tip. They are processing the evidence now."

"Good." Pavlo cut the b.u.t.tons from a sheer blouse, one by one. "And Overbay?"

Yuri said, "We are watching the airports and-"

"Find him." Pavlo's hands stopped, then resumed, making an incision down the length of the blouse, splitting it between the shoulders. "Don't watch. Do."

"We have been spending money to gather addresses," Yuri said. "Overbay's buddy pals from the war. His friends. Guesthouses or second homes. The wife's parents have condo in Arrowhead. His father has cabin in Bouquet Canyon. A doctor friend of wife has Malibu beach house. Those kinds of places. It is how they track criminals."

Pavlo said, "What of the wife's old boyfriend?"

"He drove east after crossing us. As of last night, he checked in to a motel in Ohio. No phone calls to or from him. He is useless to them."

Pavlo s.n.a.t.c.hed the sheaf of papers from Yuri's hand and flipped through them.

"How much did this cost me?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

Pavlo handed the papers back and turned his attention to a pair of panties on the bed. "There are four of you. Split the list in half and go. Start with nearest places first." He pushed a strip of black lace across the blade until it frayed, then gave way. Misha had exited, but Yuri remained, his big swollen face the picture of concern. "Go!" Pavlo yelled. "Leave me!"

The door clicked quietly closed. Pavlo cut through more black lace, then shoved the razor savagely through the crotch, tearing, ripping. He was sweating, his arms straining against the fabric, and he realized he was burying a roar in his throat. A spasm of fury seized him. He raked the mound of sliced fabric off the duvet and watched the strips and ribbons scatter across the floor, the remnants of his broken daughter. But it wasn't until he turned the razor on himself, carving a furrow up his ink-sheathed forearm and releasing the pain that had been scouring his insides, that he finally understood the sweet agony Nastya had found in the blade.

Chapter 56.

The 6:00 A.M. cold whipped through the imprecise seal of the not-so-weatherproof Wrangler's soft top, the stream blowing across Nate's forehead as steady and loud as cranked-on air-conditioning. Praying that Eddie Yeap would be as usual the first coroner at the morgue, Nate input the number into the cell phone he'd borrowed from Janie and stepped on the gas. Before he risked his next move, he had to know if he was wanted yet for the murder of Agent Abara, and Eddie was, he hoped, the guy with his hands inside the guts of the case. As the line rang, Nate ran through the reasoning he'd constructed as he'd flown down the freeway.

A murder in Chatsworth would fall under the jurisdiction of the Devonshire station, which meant the body and the crime scene should be processed by LAPD. Because Abara was an FBI agent, the case would go federal, but Nate was banking on the fact that no one would want to transport evidence across the country to the lab at Quantico, because of both the delay and the risk of deterioration of the chillingly fresh evidence. Which meant that his best bet for getting information on the case's status was from- Eddie Yeap picked up. "Yullo?"

"Hey, Eddie. It's Nate."

"Nate Bank-Hero Nate?"

The greeting boded well-not a salutation offered to a cop killer.

"Listen," Nate said, "I caught a death notification for that agent killed out in Chatsworth. Abara. I have to go tell his mother."

"I thought FBI handled their own."

"I guess they're as short-staffed with this stuff as we are. Anyway, Brown asked me to handle it."

"You coming in?"

"Later. But I was wondering if you could give me a preview."

"Well, Jonesy's in bad shape. Heh. They used an honest-to-G.o.d rescue saw. You believe that?"

Nate parked at a meter a few blocks away from the Police Administration Building. If things went bad and he had to bolt, he didn't want to get stuck in a parking garage. "Any physical evidence?"

"I got bupkis off what was left of Jonesy, but scuttleb.u.t.t is the latent-print unit pulled something off the rescue saw."

Climbing out, Nate paused. Then slammed the door, a little harder than necessary, and started briskly toward the building. "Where are they with that?"

"Prints are at the lab now."

"Already?"

"Fast-tracked. Killed an agent, ya know. Heh."

"When do you think they'll have results?"

"I'd say any minute."

Nate picked up the pace, just shy of a jog. "Ask you one more question?"

"Course."

"I a.s.sume FBI's handling the investigation. But who's the detective liaison?"

"Ken Nowak."

By arriving unreasonably early, Nate hoped to dodge colleagues and complications. Even so, as he stepped out from the elevator with an empty duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he proceeded cautiously, unsure what he'd find. Sergeant Jen Brown's office was dark and most of the cubicles empty. Unnoticed, he picked his way toward his desk.

A loud voice startled him. "Surprised you'd show your face around here."

He turned, Ken Nowak drawing into sight around a part.i.tion wall. Leaning back in his chair, that hockey puck of a key ring resting next to his propped-up loafers.

Ken lowered his feet and settled forward with a touch of menace. "After that whole airport-terrorist incident, I mean."

Nate released a breath as evenly as he could manage. "It was just a mix-up."

"I bet. What you doing here?"

"Picking up my stuff."

"You don't need that." With a smirk, Ken gestured at the empty duffel hanging from Nate's shoulder. "They already took care of your s.h.i.t for you."

Nate glanced over at his desk. Sure enough, his personal things were boxed and waiting. His nonpersonal things-files, forms, research-appeared to be gone.

"Oh," he said, hoping he looked appropriately dismayed. "Well, I have to wait for Brown anyway. She had some stuff for me to sign, I'm guessing severance paperwork so I don't sue anyone."

Ken elected not to take up the feigned attempt at worker camaraderie.

Nate took a breath. "How 'bout you? Isn't this a little early?"

"I been here half the night. Big case, FBI agent iced out in Chatsworth. Literally. I'm waiting on print results from the lab." Ken turned back to his desk and took a sip of coffee. "We get our hands on the piece of s.h.i.t who did it, ain't gonna be a pretty sight."

Nate managed a nod, staring at the phone just beyond Ken's knuckles. As soon as it rang, he was dead. He moved swiftly to his desk and powered up the computer. What he needed, what he'd come for, were weapons. Real weapons, as in a.s.sault rifles, handguns, C4. A virtual armory. Like the one Danny Urban had collected, the one that had been seized by the cops and put into an evidence locker down the hall.

The problem was, Nate didn't know which evidence locker. But the database did.

His muscles had gone tense, braced to hear the ring of Ken's phone. Typing furiously, he called up the log-in screen and keyed in his user name and pa.s.sword.

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 b.u.mper'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 pa.s.s 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 b.u.t.ton 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 doork.n.o.b 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 b.u.t.tocks providing a counterweight to a st.u.r.dy bosom. She was lovely and cheery, an oversize heart to match her proportions.

Fl.u.s.tered, he scratched at his head, feigning casual. "Yeah, actually. I was just waiting for you. Sergeant Brown a.s.signed 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 h.e.l.l, 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."