Hostage - Страница 13

Mikkelson said, 'Okay. Here they come. The guy we think is Rooney entered a few minutes ago, then left. Here where the tape picks up, it's maybe five minutes later.'

'Okay.'

A sharp-featured white male matching Dennis Rooney's description opened the door and walked directly to Junior Kim. A larger white male with a broad face and wide body entered with him. The second man's hair was shaved down to his scalp in a buzz cut.

'Is that Rooney's brother?'

'The third guy is about to come in. The third guy looks like Rooney.'

A third white male stepped inside before Mikkelson finished. Talley knew the third man was Rooney's brother from the resemblance, though Kevin was shorter, thinner, and wearing a Lemonheads T-shirt. Kevin waited by the door.

Talley studied their expressions and the way they carried themselves. Rooney was a good-looking kid, with eyes that were hard but uncertain. He walked with an arrogant, rolling gait. Talley guessed that he was posturing, but couldn't yet tell if Rooney was posturing for others or himself. Kevin Rooney shuffled from foot to foot, his eyes flicking from Dennis to the gas islands outside the store. He was clearly terrified. The larger man had a wide flat face and expressionless eyes.

'We have an ID on the big guy?'

'No, sir.'

'Was the camera hidden?'

'Hanging off the ceiling big as a wart on a hog's ass, and these guys didn't even bother to wear masks.'

Talley watched the video without a feeling of connection. During his time on LAPD he had seen three or four hundred such videos, all showing robberies gone bad just the way this one was about to go bad, and only one out of twenty perpetrators had bothered to don a mask. Mostly, they didn't care; mostly, they didn't think about it; geniuses didn't go into crime. Only the first tape had shocked him. He was still a probationary officer, twenty-two years old and fresh from the academy. He had watched a thirteen-year-old Vietnamese girl walk into a convenience store just like this one, shoot the elderly African-American clerk in the face at point-blank range, then turn her gun on the only other person in the store, a pregnant Latina named Muriel Gonzales who was standing next to her. The pregnant woman had fallen to her knees, thrusting her hands up as she begged for her life. The Vietnamese shooter touched the gun to Muriel Gonzales's forehead and let off a shot without hesitation, then calmly walked around behind the counter and cleaned out the cash register before walking out of the store. When she reached the door, she hesitated, then returned to the counter, where she stole a box of Altoids. After that she stepped over Muriel Gonzales and left.

Seeing those murders had left Talley so shaken that he had spent the next two months thinking about resigning.

The events in Kim's Minimart happened as quickly: Rooney lifted his shirt to expose a gun, then vaulted over the counter. Kim stood with a gun of his own. Talley was relieved that Rooney had told the truth about Kim having a gun. It wouldn't help Rooney in court, but Talley could use what he was seeing to play on Rooney's sense of being the victim of bad luck. That was all Talley cared about right now, finding things he could use to manipulate Dennis Rooney.

The struggle between Rooney and Junior Kim lasted only seconds, then Kim staggered backward, dropped his pistol, and slumped against the Slurpee machine. Rooney was clearly surprised that Kim had been shot. He jumped back over the counter and ran to the door. The larger man didn't move. Talley found that odd. Kim had just been shot and Rooney was running, but the third man just stood there. Junior Kim's pistol had landed on the counter. The third man tucked it into his waist, then leaned over the counter, resting his weight on his left hand.

Mikkelson said, 'What's he doing?'

'He's watching Kim die.'

The big man's pasty Pillsbury Doughboy face creased.

Mikkelson said, 'Jesus, he's smiling.'

Talley's back and chest prickled. He stopped the tape, then rewound it until the unknown subject leaned forward on his hand.

'We need to confirm that the younger guy is Kevin Rooney, and we need to ID the third subject. Make hard-copy prints from the tape. Show them to Rooney's landlord, his neighbors, and the people at his job. We might get a fast ID on the third guy that way.'

Mikkelson glanced at Dreyer uncertainly.

'Ah, Chief, how do we make prints from the tape?'

Talley cursed under his breath. In Los Angeles, an officer would take the tape to the Scientific Investigations Division in Glendale, then return an hour later with however many prints were needed. Talley thought that the Palmdale PD probably had the necessary equipment to do that job, but Palmdale was a long drive in Friday-night traffic.

'You know the computer store in the mall?'

'Sure. They sell PlayStations.'

'Call first. Tell them we have a VHS videotape and ask if they know how to grab and print a frame. If they can, take it there. If they can't, call the camera store in Santa Clarita. If they can't help, call Palmdale.'

Talley pointed out the unknown subject's hand resting on the counter. He turned to Cooper and Frost.

'See here where he put his hand? I want you two to meet the Sheriff's homicide team at Kim's, and tell them about this. They'll be able to lift a good set of prints.'

'Yes, sir.'

Talley told them to get to it, then headed back out to the street and climbed into his car. He considered his impressions of Rooney from the videotape and from their conversation. Rooney wanted to be 'understood,' but he also wanted to be seen in exaggerated heroic terms: Tough, manly, and dominant. Talley decided that Rooney was a low-self-esteem personality who craved the approval of others while seeking to control his environment. He was probably a coward who covered his lack of courage with aggressive behavior. Talley decided that he could use Rooney's needs to his advantage. He checked his watch. It was time.

Talley opened his phone and punched the redial button. The phone in Smith's house rang. And rang. On the tenth ring, Rooney still hadn't answered. Talley grew worried, imagining a mass murder though he knew it was more likely that Rooney was just being a dick. He radioed Jorgenson.

'Jorgy, anything happening at the house?'

Jorgenson was still hunkered behind his car in the body of the cul-de-sac.

'Nada. It's quiet so far. I would've called you if I heard anything.'

'Okay. Stand by.'

Talley pressed the redial button again. This time he let the phone ring an even dozen times before he closed the phone. He went back on the radio.

'You hear anything from the house?'

'I thought I heard the phone ringing.'

'See any movement?'

'No, sir. It's quiet as a clam.'

Talley wondered why Rooney was refusing to answer the phone. He had seemed agreeable enough during their first contact. Talley keyed his radio again.

'Who's on with the CHiPs?'

The California Highway Patrol officers had been used to supplement his own people on the perimeter of the house. They worked off their own communication frequency, distinct from the Bristo freq.

'I am.'

'Tell them to advance to the property lines. I don't want them exposed to fire, but I want Rooney to see them. Put them at the east and west walls, and at the back wall.'

'Rog. I'll take care of it.'

If Rooney wouldn't answer the phone, Talley would force Rooney to call him.

DENNIS

The money changed things. Dennis couldn't stop thinking about the money. It no longer was enough to escape; he was frantic to take the money with him. Dennis brought Mars to the closet, letting him see the boxes of cash that crowded the closet floor. Dennis laid his hands on the cash to savor the velvety feel. He lifted a pack of hundred-dollar bills to his nose and riffled the bills, smelling the paper and ink and the sweet human smell of cash. He tried to guess the number of bills in the pack. Fifty, at least; maybe a hundred. Five thousand dollars. Maybe ten thousand. Dennis couldn't stop touching the money, feeling it; softer than any breast, silkier than a woman's thigh, sexier than the finest ass.

He grinned up at Mars so wide that his cheeks cramped.

'There's gotta be a million dollars here. Maybe more. Look at it, Mars! This place is a bank!'

Mars barely glanced at the money. He went to the back of the little room, looking at the ceiling and the floor, tapping the walls, then studied the monitors. He pushed the boxes aside with his feet.

'It's a safety room. Steel door, reinforced walls, all the security; it's like a bunker. If anyone breaks into your house, you can hide. I wonder if they have sex in here?'

Dennis was irritated that Mars showed so little interest in the cash. Dennis wanted to dump the cash into a huge pile and dive in naked.

'Who gives a shit, Mars? Check out this cash. We're rich.'

'We're trapped in a house.'

Dennis was getting pissed off. This was the life-altering event that Dennis had always known was waiting for him: This house, this money, here and now – this was his destiny and his fate; the moment that had drawn him all the years of his life, plucked at him to take chances and commit outrageous acts, made him the star in the movie of his own life – all along it had been pulling him forward to the here and now, and Mars was harshing his mellow. He shoved a pack of cash into his pocket and stood.

'Mars, listen, we're going to take this with us. We'll put it in something. They must have suitcases or plastic bags.'

'You can't run with a suitcase.'

'We'll figure it out.'