Battle Cry Read online

  Today’s addition to the scent infusing the room.

  Despite it being mid-morning, Friedlander looks to have arrived no more than a few minutes before. A harsh contrast to the day-plus bender Marsh is currently on, his black leather satchel rests on the corner of his desk, buckles still fastened shut. Beside him, the computer monitor sits dark.

  Four years have passed since Marsh ascended to the role of detective and moved over to the Central District precinct. In that time, he can count the number of visits he’s made to this office on a single hand.

  Once for his initial meet-and-greet. Another, his mandatory first-year evaluation. The remainder, occasional briefings on matters that rose to the point Friedlander needed to make a public statement.

  During his very first visit, the captain had made clear his particular management style.

  Or complete lack thereof, depending on how one wanted to look at it.

  Time and again, he had used the word delegation. Mixed in was plenty of flowery language and unnecessary explanation, but the takeaway for Marsh had been that the man wanted to be as hands-off as possible. He might claim it was because he trusted that the people he brought in were competent and didn’t need him looking over their shoulder.

  In reality, Marsh had encountered plenty of people like him on his climb. Folks that for various reasons had opted to get off the path themselves. That decided they no longer wanted to deal with the stress or the effort or whatever else.

  People that had allowed apathy to set in.

  A stance completely foreign to him, now perhaps more than ever.

  “Been a while since we’ve sat down like this,” Friedlander opens.

  “Yes,” Marsh replies. “Six months or so, anyway.”

  “Really?” the captain replies, his eyebrows rising. “Has it really already been that long since the...uh...”

  He raises his free hand, snapping his fingers. A practiced move meant to signal he is trying to recall the topic of their last discussion.

  Posturing Marsh is not in the mood for, jumping in before the charade goes any further.

  “The armored truck robbery,” he inserts. “Over on Golden Hill.”

  “Right,” Friedlander replies. “Right, right, right.”

  His eyes narrow as he stares off. Feigning to remember the details of the case, he maintains the pose a moment before turning to face forward. Placing down his thermos, he rests his hands on the desk before him.

  Somewhere in his early fifties, the majority of his hair is still present, if not a far cry from the original hue. Busted blood vessels line his cheeks and nose, a likely result of his preferred beverage before switching to tea years before.

  On his features is his best solemn expression, a look that sits somewhere between bored and constipated.

  Again, the acrimony Marsh feels spikes.

  A few miles south of where they now sit is a house that was the site of a massacre the night before. A place where six men all wearing the leather vest of a local motorcycle gang were found murdered. Five of them shot, the sixth bludgeoned to death.

  That alone should be cause enough for him to be out working the pavement. Coupling it with the fact that he’s spent the last week investigating that very same crew for various other things ranging from murder to arson, he can’t help but feel his agitation grow.

  Things are accelerating in a way he never could have imagined. If he doesn’t figure out why and get ahead of them, there is no telling where it might go next.

  “Anyway,” Friedlander says, “the reason I asked you here this morning was to talk about everything that’s going on.”

  Having expected as much since getting a request to meet the day before, Marsh’s face remains neutral. He draws in a deep breath, not needing to hear the remainder of whatever Friedlander is about to say.

  “Captain,” Marsh says, “I know it seems like a lot, but-”

  “Seems?” the captain inserts, cutting him off. “Two murders? One in public, another with a damn wire?”

  To that, Marsh doesn’t immediately respond. He thinks of the two murders being alluded to, presumably those of Dr. Brendan Hoke and Mira Clady the week before.

  Both heinous enough, but nothing compared to what happened nine hours earlier.

  Flicking his gaze to the corner of the desk, slow dawning settles on Marsh. Having just arrived, the captain doesn’t yet know about the scene in Chula Vista.

  A status Marsh would like to maintain if at all possible.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot,” Marsh concedes. “But I assure you, we are making headway.”

  Friedlander’s lips curl as he works his lower jaw to the side. He seems to mull something a moment before replying, “Let me start by saying, I’m on your side. I really am. You know this.”

  Having heard enough similar speeches over the years, Marsh presses his fingertips down into his thighs. His rear teeth come together, waiting for whatever backhanded comment is set to come next.

  “Now, I’m sure you guys are making progress. You’re the best around. But we need it to be quicker.”

  Marsh’s clamp on his quadriceps grows tighter. With it comes an increase in heart rate and body temperature, warmth flushing his features.

  The majority of murders are solved before the scene is even closed. Either the killer is found standing over the body or enough damning evidence is directly available to make it obvious.

  Of those that actually require an investigation, the timeframe can run from days to years. Some are never solved.

  To expect two murders – let alone the still-warm scene in Chula Vista – to be solved in ten days is foolish. Perhaps even reckless.

  “Sir,” Marsh begins, choosing his words carefully. “I am aware of how vital the first days after a crime are-”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Friedlander says, cutting him off yet again. “That first incident was able to be kept off the radar. It happened around midnight on a weeknight. Whole thing was scrubbed and gone before most people knew a thing.

  “The second one, though, has created a little buzz. I guess a few details have gotten out, some media is starting to poke around.”

  Marsh feels his eyebrows rise. A bit of surprise floods into the cocktail of emotions already working through him.

  Of the two murders, he would have thought the first would be the one to attract attention. A young local woman married to a Navy SEAL, shot in cold blood in the most visible public place in the city.

  Not exactly the type of thing the Chamber of Commerce would want printed in a brochure.

  The second incident took place in a forgotten neighborhood. It involved a tiny medical clinic that was working against zoning regulations. Served to help a population that was marginal at best.

  About the only thing it had that would be of special interest was the sensational nature of it.

  “Who’s doing the pressing?” Marsh asks.

  “I got the call from City Hall,” Friedlander replies, “but I got the impression they were merely a middleman.”

  Another bit of surprise flares in Marsh. Not quite enough to be called shock, though not far from it.

  “For who?”

  “Not sure,” Friedlander says. “I didn’t ask, and they didn’t seem real keen to share.”

  More questions pile at the front of Marsh’s mind, though he doesn’t bother voicing them. Already it is clear Friedlander is just a relay station as well. Another rung in the ladder meant to separate what happened from those that could be hurt by it.

  A fact that brings even more confusion to mind.

  Shoving all that aside for the time being, Marsh instead focuses on the more immediate. He considers what little has been shared and what it means for him looking ahead.

  “Best guess, how much time do we have on this?”

  Chapter Eight

  Much like every time she is forced to be seated in this office, all Elsa Teller can think about is the veneer Senator Carter Flynn presents to the
world. The hair that is too dense. And too straight. And even, somehow, too silver.

  The skin pulled taut, not a line or wrinkle on a face that is now past sixty years of age.

  Even the tone he chooses to go with, a mix of natural California sun and bottled product.

  As she takes it all in, she can’t help but wonder who the man is trying to fool.

  An inquiry that is answered a moment later as he begins to speak, revealing it to be himself.

  Much like many of the other people she’s known in similar positions.

  Phone pressed to the side of his face, he talks with an inflated timbre that resonates throughout the office. Perched on the front edge of his chair, his shoulders and chest are both thrust outward, as if expanding his ribcage makes it easier to reach such a bombastic tone.

  Speaking in the usual litany of sound bites and clichés, he punctuates each sentence with a burst of faux laughter.

  Three feet away, Teller pretends not to notice. Head turned to the side, she keeps her gaze on the surf rolling in along the La Jolla coastline. Moving on toward the middle of the day, the top of each curl is tinged gold.

  Handfuls of surfers rise and fall with each swell. Adults that have eschewed meaningful employment in the name of chasing their hobbies.

  An existence Teller can’t begin to imagine, even in moments such as this.

  “Sorry about that,” Flynn says, dropping the phone into its cradle. The instant it touches down, his inflated tone recedes as well, replaced by a rasp. His true voice after decades of performing before the masses.

  Falling back into his seat, he props one elbow on the armrest of his chair. Pressing his thumb and forefinger to his brow, he attempts to knead the skin, his flesh stretched so tight it all but refuses his effort.

  Seeing it, Teller’s mouth flickers slightly.

  It is a singular moment of levity in what has been quite a shitty night.

  Beginning sometime after midnight with a call from Sven, the hours thereafter were spent doing triage. Monitoring police bands to hear what the local chatter was. Reaching out to key people inside the department for their take. Speaking with media contacts to see if word had yet gotten out.

  A stretch that culminated just an hour before with the call from Flynn himself requesting she come by.

  Even if the words and tone employed made it clear it was anything but a request.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Flynn opens. “With the in-state work period coming to a close, I’m set to board a plane back to D.C. in a couple days.”

  He doesn’t bother continuing the flimsy explanation, nor does he need to. Teller knows the entire thing is bullshit.

  The congressional in-state work period ended a week prior. Flynn has just opted to stick around to get an early jump on campaigning for next fall’s election.

  Word is, the outgoing mayor of Los Angeles is contemplating running. Considering the good will and name recognition the woman carries in the region, Teller will likely be getting a lot more of these impromptu summons.

  “Of course,” Teller replies. Her voice is saccharine sweet, even as it burns coming out. “What can I do for you?”

  Dropping his hand away, Flynn lets his arm fall back into place. He sighs heavily, upper body deflating even further.

  “I wanted to check in with you on that thing we talked about last week. My press secretary came to me this morning and said there’s some chatter about an incident last night.”

  Calling six men shot inside a residential home in a neighborhood not known for drugs or violence an incident seems an unusual choice of words, though Teller doesn’t press it. To men like Flynn, nothing short of the restaurant he is at being out of his favorite wine qualifies as an actual emergency.

  “After we spoke,” Teller replies, “I took measures to do as requested.”

  “And where does it stand?”

  “It is being handled.”

  Flynn sighs again, this one closer to an angry grunt. He fixes his stare on Teller, seeming to believe the weight of his gaze alone is enough to force her compliance.

  A move that spikes the ire she feels for him. Makes her want nothing more than to point out that her loyalty is to the job and the money and the freedom it provides. Whether it is him calling the shots or some other narcissist in a suit is irrelevant.

  “But where does it stand?” Flynn repeats.

  Meeting his gaze, Teller pauses a moment. Long enough to let it be known she doesn’t appreciate the way this is going, but well short of broaching insubordination.

  She has enough on her plate to deal with at the moment without adding massaging his ego to it.

  “Professional assistance has been contracted,” Teller replies. “He was given two tasks. The first is complete, the second is underway.”

  “Underway,” Flynn intones. “And I can presume that last night’s-”

  “Yes,” Teller replies, cutting him off before he can refer to it as an incident a second time.

  There is infinitely more that could be added, though she doesn’t bother. Flynn doesn’t need to know what Sven shared on the phone. Not about being injured or there being a third party present or even of him getting what he was there for to begin with.

  Nor does he probably care.

  “I see,” Flynn says, his gaze cutting over to the windows. Staring out, he seems to contemplate this for a moment before asking, “Was there anything...?”

  “Of course not,” Teller replies, knowing his immediate thought would be self-preservation, making sure that this office was insulated in every way.

  His gaze shifts back to her. “And as far as a final timeframe?”

  Chapter Nine

  I’m still a quarter mile from Salvation Mountain when I spot it. After two hours of monochromatic desert landscape, it is plainly obvious as it comes into view. The first splash of color I’ve seen since leaving the base this morning.

  Bright and vibrant, it seems to sprout from the side of a dune, a cross between the Sistine Chapel and a Dr. Seuss novel.

  Alternating my glance between it and the unlined pavement before me, I can feel the urge to stop rising within me. Born of nothing more than abject curiosity, in another time I can see my wife and me pulling over and joining the small handful of cars lining the outer edge of it.

  Ignoring the searing desert sun, we’d follow the path winding along the perimeter and across the top. Strike funny poses and mug for photos. Drop a few bucks in the donation jar and thank whoever was manning it as we left.

  Things like that were always her specialty. Enjoying the little moments and ensuring I did the same. Stopping to look at a desert eyesore for no other reason than because we could.

  Life, to her, wasn’t just to be lived. It was to be relished.

  Much like the earlier memory of my Mira and me dancing in the rain, this imagined moment evaporates as fast as it arrives. The combination of time constraints and the sorrow that has been omnipresent since her passing tears it from my grasp.

  In its wake, I am left peering out at more of the same sandblasted landscape I’ve been immersed in since leaving the Valley View. Stretched far in every direction, there is no vegetation to speak of. No elevation save the occasional rise like the one I just passed.

  The last bit of modern civilization was a couple miles back, comprised of nothing more than a gas station and a diner.

  Far in the rearview is any hint of impending rain.

  Flicking my gaze down to my cellphone wedged into the middle console, I check to ensure that I am still on the right path. Speedometer pinned at thirty-five, I head on for more than another mile before a pair of trailers appear along the side of the road.

  Both made of metal, the sun shines bright off their sides. Front doors flung open, a pair of shirtless men with graying beards and potbellies sit in lawn chairs. Spread before them are tables of various knickknacks, hand-painted signs announcing homemade gifts for sale.

  As I roll pas
t, both men raise a hand in greeting.

  Matching their wave, I continue forward. Along the side of the road, what looks to be an ancient elementary school bus stop has been repurposed into signage, welcoming me to Slab City. Done in a style to match the mountain behind me, bright colors swirl around the letters. Rays of sunshine streak outward.

  Despite the welcoming color scheme, I can’t help but feel a bit of dread well up. Concern that the time spent driving out will be wasted. That while whatever Daniel Lucero might have to share will be interesting, it won’t be what I need.

  Lifting my foot from the accelerator, I let my speed drop to twenty miles an hour. To either side, more structures appear. Some look to be mobile homes, pulled out into the desert with this as their intended destination. Others seem to be nothing more than an amalgam of whatever could be scrounged together, pallets and tarps and assorted items all tacked into a loose tangle.

  Among them, I see no more than a couple of vehicles that look safe for human transport. Nowhere are there phone or electric lines. Based on the number of outhouses, I’m guessing there is a lack of plumbing as well.

  The feeling in my stomach grows more pronounced. I can’t say what would cause people to live in such harsh conditions, but my initial thought is that they are hiding from something.

  A fact that makes Lucero’s sudden relocation that much more concerning.

  With the clock on the dash putting the time at half past noon, foot traffic is at a minimum. Presumably, everybody has sought shade through the hottest hours, using whatever they can to stay cool.

  The few people I do spot resemble the first men I saw. Stripped down to nothing more than the essentials, they are posted up behind tables lined with wares of one sort or another.

  Most of them raise a hand as I pass. Some do not.

  Without fail, every single one openly stares.

  Keeping my tires in the center of the pavement, I follow it until I can go no farther. Guided by the instructions relayed last night by Lucero, I hook a left onto the sunbaked earth. My car bounces slightly as I follow the makeshift path for another half mile.