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  Mordente frowned, pinning a tattered press ID to his dirty white Paramount Studios sweatshirt. "You look like a tourist, but you'll pass."

  She put her hand on the small of his back and led him to her Mazda, double-parked a few feet away. Mordente opened the hatchback and motioned Macklin to remove his camera equipment.

  "It's a two-hour drive to Damon's place, so you may as well stow your stuff back here," she said. Macklin dropped the cameras in a clump beside a scruffy shoulder bag covered with outdated press-pass stickers and pins. He pulled on the strap with one hand. It felt as if the bag was stuffed with bricks.

  "What is this thing?" he asked.

  "The rest of your cunning disguise. I borrowed it from a photog friend of mine. It's got a bunch of lenses and crap in it. He thinks I'm shooting my sister's wedding," she said, slamming shut the hatch and walking around to the driver's side door. "Get in. There's a six-pack of beer and couple BLTs in the icebox behind your seat."

  "Great, I'm starving."

  Macklin opened the door and dropped himself into the contoured bucket seat. Mordente shifted and the car shot forward with a lurch. She's a little tenser than she looked, Macklin thought. He twisted in his seat, put the icebox on his lap, and opened it.

  The fishy stench sprung out into Macklin's face like a jack-in-the-box. "My God, Jessie, how long have you been storing Flipper's carcass in here?"

  Mordente shrugged. "Do you want to complain or do you want to eat?"

  His growling stomach answered that question. He rummaged through it while she steered right onto Third Street and onto the southbound Harbor Freeway. He removed two cold Heinekens from amid the ice, took two of the four BLTs out of a Ziploc bag, and helped himself to a bunch of seedless grapes in a plastic bag.

  "What can I get you?" he asked.

  "Just put a sandwich on my lap," she said. "I'm great at eating and driving. You can wedge the beer between my seat and the gearbox. Gimme a napkin, too—they're in the glove compartment."

  Macklin tossed a sandwich in her lap, popped open a beer, and crammed it into the tight space beside her seat cushion. The napkins, which had been rolled up and stuffed into the glove box, fluffed out into Macklin's lap when he opened the compartment. A glare from Mordente stifled his grin, and he gave her a napkin.

  They ate in silence. Macklin's sandwich tasted like rotten tuna fish, and his grapes were so fishy they could have been plump salmon eggs. And even though he spent five minutes wiping the rim of his beer can with a napkin, it still tasted like he was drinking the water out of a goldfish bowl. His hunger overcame his distaste, and he ended up eating the other two BLTs and swallowing half of another beer during the ride up to Threllkiss' lakeside retreat.

  "Great breakfast, Jessie," he said as they turned off the winding road that rimmed the steep hillside and onto a gravel trail. Ahead, he could see the vague outline of the fence lining Anton Damon's compound and a streak of blue water through the pine trees to his right.

  "Let's hope that sadist you saw at Burger Bob's isn't at Damon's place," she said, "or that may have been our last meal."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It smelled like someone's old grandmother lived inside Justin Threllkiss' lakeside home. There were plenty of Uzis, dark sunglasses, sweat-soaked khaki shirts, mud-caked Jeeps, and even a small, dragonfly-like helicopter, but not a single grandmother in sight.

  Brett Macklin paused in the doorway and let Jessica Mordente enter the house ahead of him. She Lone Ranger, he thought, me Tonto. The guy who opened the door for them had a thick, short neck and a fleshy, insolent face with red circles under his deep-set eyes.

  "Howdy, I'm Brett," Macklin said, flashing a toothy grin and thrusting his hand out at Flesh Face. He thought a little Mr. Good Ole Boy might do him some good. "Nice, friendly place you folks got here."

  Flesh Face ignored him. Macklin shrugged and followed Mordente into the living room. Anton Damon stood in front of the stone hearth in an Izod polo shirt and jeans, holding a strawberry daiquiri in a frosted glass.

  "Welcome, Ms. Mordente, welcome," Damon said, waving his free hand expansively. Two facing couches and a coffee table separated Damon from Macklin and Mordente. Rising from the couch to Macklin's right was a red-haired man with a pale forehead that seemed to glow. "This is my associate, Mr. Craven."

  The man with the glossy forehead bobbed his head as his way of saying hello.

  "I'd like you to meet my photographer," Mordente said.

  Macklin reached around Mordente and pumped Damon's hand enthusiastically. "Brett Macklin's the name. It's a real pleasure, Mr. Damon."

  Damon beamed. "Thank you. Where would you like me to stand?"

  Macklin dropped the heavy pack on the hardwood floor beside a small stack of freshly cut wood near the hearth. "Right there is fine. You just talk with Ms. Mordente and I'll get you natural. 'Posed' is a dirty word with me, Mr. Damon."

  "All right," Damon said. "Wes, why don't you bring our guests something cold to drink." He smiled at Mordente and Macklin. "Wouldn't you both like that?

  Mordente opened her mouth to speak when Macklin suddenly cut in.

  "Yes, sirree, we certainly would!" Macklin chirped, pushing up his sleeves and crouching beside his pack, rummaging through his gear.

  Damon nodded at Craven, sending Threllkiss' emissary off to make some fresh daiquiris.

  Mordente sat down on the couch that faced the window looking out over the lake. Damon was to her left. She set a tape recorder on the glass coffee table beside a bowl of roasted peanuts.

  "Last time we talked about your future. This time I'd like to talk about your past." She scooted into the couch corner and angled herself towards Damon.

  While Damon talked, Macklin scrambled around the room taking pictures. He didn't know what the hell he was doing. All his moves were picked up from watching reruns of Lou Grant and Cheryl Tieg commercials. But he listened to Damon and kept his eye on the guard movements outside, thereby getting a feel for both Damon and his operation.

  Macklin paused every so often to take a drink of his daiquiri. Craven may not ooze charisma, but he sure as hell knew how to make a fantastic strawberry daiquiri. It was the first one he'd ever had that didn't taste like a 7-Eleven slurpee.

  ". . . my past is so detached from me. It's like trying to remember the scenes and plot of a movie you saw somewhere once years ago," Damon concluded, an hour later. "It's hard for me to connect with the man I used to be. Jesus is standing between him and me, blocking the view."

  "So have you been back to the dry riverbed where you killed the Kallahans?" Mordente asked. Damon was looking weary—she wasn't. She would probably never run out of questions and had managed to expose some nerves. Macklin, though, had gone through four rolls of film and didn't know whether a single shot had turned out.

  "Yeah, yeah I have," Damon said, holding his glass out to Craven, who had sat across from Mordente through the whole interview and hadn't said a word. But his presence was felt. He reeked of Ty-D-Bol. "Can I have another, Wes?"

  It was Damon's third. Macklin had helped himself to two. Mordente was still sipping her melted strawberry ice and rum. Craven had nursed a Dixie cup of water. Maybe he was watching his weight, Macklin mused. Maybe Craven would splurge and have a saltine for dinner. Craven went past him into the kitchen.

  "Anyway, I went out there. I was disappointed," Damon said. "I don't know what I expected to find, a memorial perhaps, an engraved stone or plaque. I thought maybe somebody would have done something to mark the spot. It was an epicenter of a great movement, of a great controversy. Blood was spilled there, lives were changed there, and consciousness was raised there. Its historic significance has been overlooked." Damon sighed and shrugged. "They're building a new canal or aqueduct or something there."

  "Yes, but what did you feel?" Mordente said.

  Damon rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. "I don't know. Sadness. Anger. Wistfulness. Separation. I saw a social movement lingering ab
ove the soil like wisps of evaporating dew. I saw an angry young man that I didn't recognize anymore wave a shiny clean ax and grin at me. I saw the Kallahans in the blend of dark shadows cast by the trees."

  He shrugged again and Macklin snapped a photo.

  "Then I walked away," Damon said, "and bought a double cheeseburger and a chocolate shake at this great Fosters Freeze I know in the valley. God, it was still as good as I remembered it."

  "Okay, let's move on to something else," Mordente said.

  "Sure," Damon said.

  Craven returned with new daiquiris for everyone.

  "Why don't you move by the window," Macklin suggested out of boredom. Besides, he wanted an excuse to watch the guards along the shore. "We'll change background and lighting a bit, you know? Maybe I'll win a Pulitzer or something, huh?"

  Damon obliged, strolling over to the window. Macklin leaned against the back of the couch, twisted the camera lengthwise, and held the trigger for a few shots.

  "What are your feelings regarding Mr. Jury?" Mordente asked.

  "I wondered when you'd get around to that." Damon grinned, walking past Macklin and sitting on the couch beside Mordente. "Now you're going to get brutal."

  Mordente smiled.

  "I think it's unfortunate that people are dying," Damon said.

  Cagey bastard, Macklin thought.

  "Do you also think it's unfortunate that he's getting a lot of publicity and that his beliefs are similar to your own?"

  Damon laughed. Craven crinkled his Dixie cup and tossed it towards the fireplace. He missed. It bounced onto Macklin's shoe and he threw it in as he got up and sat down next to Craven.

  "I don't know what his beliefs are, Ms. Mordente, and I have no feelings on the publicity he's getting. It doesn't concern me," Damon said.

  "But he says what he's doing is the White Wash way. Certainly what he does is a reflection on your movement, and you haven't denounced him publicly," Mordente countered.

  "For one, he may be a White Wash member, but that doesn't mean we endorse him or that he reflects our concerns. I have not made any public statement regarding his actions because, for one, I don't want to establish any sort of connection between the two of us, negative or positive. Mr. Jury is Mr. Jury and Anton Damon is Anton Damon. Let's leave it that way."

  "The police, by questioning you, have already made the negative connection you speak of."

  Damon's smile had slowly disappeared. His lips were tight in grim resolution. "You're right in a way. But, I believe theWhite Wash–Mr. Jury issue was overshadowed by the outrageous, unwarranted behavior of Sergeant Shaw. The issue wasn't Mr. Jury. It was the free expression of ideas. Shaw was acting out a personal vendetta aimed at silencing me. He's a Negro, you know."

  Mordente nodded.

  "Shaw and the Negro people are afraid of me," Damon said, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. "They shouldn't be. I only want to make life better for them. I want them to settle into their proper, God-ordained places. Attaining happiness will be painful for some of them, but happiness always has a cost, doesn't it?"

  Macklin took a picture. The tiny click shuddered like a cannon blast in the suddenly silent room.

  "That'll be a dandy picture." Macklin grinned.

  # # # # # #

  As the gate swung closed behind them, Macklin reclined the bucket seat in Mordente's car and exhaled slowly.

  "What a frightening bastard," he said.

  She nodded. "Do you think he's behind the killer?"

  "I'm certain," he replied, closing his eyes.

  "What now?"

  "You got me. I'm gonna sleep on it."

  "Before you start your hibernation, let me ask you one question."

  "Go ahead."

  "How did the pictures turn out?"

  Macklin opened one eye. "Fine. All of 'em are masterpieces. Why?"

  "Because my name's going on them—that's why. How do you think I convinced the Times not to send a photographer?"

  "How will you explain that to Damon?"

  "By then, it may not matter."

  # # # # # #

  Damon remained at the couch, staring at the place where Jessica Mordente had sat, thinking how much he would like to make love to her. She looked like a loud one.

  Craven appeared from the kitchen. "I just talked with Mr. Threllkiss about your proposal."

  "And?"

  "He agrees."

  "Good." Damon nodded and then yelled. "Dalander!"

  Flesh Face lumbered into the room. He was in Laguna shorts with a towel around his neck and he carried a bottle of Coppertone number 4 and the latest Soldier of Fortune magazine in his hand. He had been on his way out to catch a few rays.

  "I want you and our Mr. Jury to grab Sergeant Shaw tonight and bring him here," Damon said. "Use restraint. Don't rough him up any more than you have to."

  "Right," Dalander said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday, May 25, 3:32 a.m.

  "He's with a white woman," Dalander whispered, astonished, as he and the killer crept into Shaw's darkened bedroom. Since Dalander was rarely able to convince a woman to voluntarily sleep with him, he didn't see how a black man possibly could. And a white woman, at that.

  A table fan whirred on the dresser across from the bed, and sheets were bunched up around the couple's ankles. Shaw and Sunshine wore only bikini underwear, and their bodies were slick with sweat.

  Sunshine, who slept on the left side of the bed, lay curled against Shaw's back, her arms wrapped around him and her hands resting on his stomach. They looked snug and peaceful.

  "Nigger bastard," said the man in the red leather jumpsuit, gliding around Shaw's side of the bed. He grabbed Shaw by the neck with his left hand and yanked him up. Shaw's eyes flashed open and the killer punched him in the face with a right cross, knocking the detective out cold.

  Dalander pulled Shaw off the bed by the legs and smiled when Shaw's head thudded against the floor. Sunshine rolled over groggily and opened her eyes. Only a terrified gasp escaped her lips before the killer scrambled onto the bed and straddled her half-naked body.

  "Keep still. We just saved your life, bitch." He crushed her cheeks in his left hand and coaxed her up into a sitting position. She could see Shaw's motionless body sprawled on the floor at Dalander's feet. "You should be fucking your own kind. You're lucky we aren't cutting off your tits and turning them into couch cushions."

  She closed her eyes, her chest heaving, and tried to choke back her fear.

  "That's better," he said. His breath was sour. "Listen. Nigger here has three days to live. Mr. Jury can save his life by showing up, unarmed, at the Hollywood sign at midnight Saturday or Sunday. No show, and the nigger gets chopped up into puppy chow. Got it?"

  "I don't know who Mr. Jury is," she sputtered, her words muffled by his grip on her cheeks.

  He slammed her head back hard against the backboard. "Shut up, bitch. You better meet him, then, huh?" Tightening his grip, he nodded her head affirmatively. "Good." With his free hand, he covered her right breast and mashed it flat. "You're a real babe. Maybe you'd like me to come back some night and show you what a real man is like, huh?" Laughing, he forced her to nod her head again. "You'd like to suck my awesome cunt sword, huh?" Again, he jerked her head up and down. Releasing her head, he let his hand drop and then drove his fist into her stomach.

  Sunshine jerked forward, her mouth gaping open, as the air rushed out of her lungs. The killer grinned at her, sat up from the bed, and back-handed her across the face with a loud thwack. Sunshine slammed back against the headboard then fell face forward on the bed.

  "Sweet dreams," Dalander said to her and began dragging Shaw by the legs through the doorway like captured game.

  The killer lingered by the bed, staring down at Sunshine. He leaned forward and rolled her over onto her back. Her skin was flushed and she moaned softly, dazed and weak. He knew she couldn't wait. He knew she was ready for him.

  He slowly unz
ipped his jumpsuit. "Stuff the cop into the trunk. I'll be out in a few minutes."

  # # # # # #

  8:47 a.m.

  Someone tentatively rapped a fist against Brett Macklin's door. The near-silent thud jostled him a little, but he remained asleep on his back, Jessica Mordente lying on her side to his left.

  Again there was a knock at the door, harder this time. Macklin's eyelids fluttered.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  He licked his dry lips, swallowed, and opened his eyes slowly.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Downstairs, someone wanted his attention. Macklin exhaled slowly and slid his legs out from under the covers and set his feet on the floor.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Careful not to wake Mordente, Macklin eased the rest of his body out of bed. More knocking. He remembered he hadn't fixed the doorbell yet. A terry-cloth robe lay draped on the towel rack in the bathroom. He put it on, tying it as he hurried down the steps to the door. His eyes stung and his hair felt tangled.

  He slipped the bolt and turned the cold doorknob, pulling the door open towards him and taking a step back into the entry hall.

  Sunshine stood on his porch in a pink bathrobe and slippers. A bluish welt colored her cheek. Her body seemed lifeless and driven by some supernatural force, like one of the walking dead in a George Romero movie.

  The shock of seeing her hit him in the chest like a tossed brick.

  "Sunshine, what are you doing here?" Macklin asked, taking her cold hand and guiding her inside. He didn't see her car in the street behind her. Could she have walked six blocks like that?

  "They've got Ronny," she mumbled.

  He closed the door and saw Jessica Mordente standing at the top of the stairs clutching his maroon wool robe tight around herself.

  "Who, Sunshine? Who's got Ronny?" Macklin asked.

  Sunshine sat on the bottom step, her back to Mordente. "You're Mr. Jury, aren't you?"

  It was a statement, not a question. Macklin glanced up at Mordente, couldn't read her face, then looked back down at Sunshine.

  He nodded.

  Sunshine sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "They came in middle of the night. Two men, one in a red jumpsuit. They took Ronny and said he has three days to live. If you don't give yourself up to them at the Hollywood sign at midnight Saturday or Sunday they'll kill him."