“I’m not clear on this,” Art said. “What’s the significance?”
“Lifelong cop, right?” Jacobs inquired. Art nodded. “Do you know how I put myself through school? I was a draftsman. Learned it in high school, three years of it. It paid damn good. All my meager knowledge told me that a wall went from floor to ceiling.”
“Right. So?”
“So why, or better, how did the scuff marks get there? I’ll tell you how — the new wall did not go all the way to the true ceiling. It went about three inches above the suspended ceiling. That gave maybe twenty-seven inches of clearance to the true ceiling.” There was still no light of revelation. “Shall I expand?”
“Please.” Art didn’t let on that an image was forming in his mind. It both intrigued and angered him.
“The wall that closed off the alcove was weaker structurally than the rest of the east wall, so it folded back against the north side of the small room when the blast went off. Strapping kept some of it intact, including this part and the doorframe. A lot of debris was blown into this seven-by-seven area, and the stuff in there was buried by it. Layers of debris. The outer layer was stuff from the room — bits of chairs, etcetera. Next were the actual parts of the blown-in wall and door, including the padlock, still closed on the hasp.” He raised an eyebrow. “Then the electronic equipment, all smashed to pieces. Finally, along with little parts of all kinds, were twelve empty soda cans and cookie and candy wrappers. The bottom of the pile.”
Eddie looked at Art. He was staring down at the wood, his jaw muscles flexing. The Joker had never seen his boss this pissed.
“So,” Art said, the air coming from his lungs like steam passing from a pipe, “we suspected they hid out for a day or two.” His body straightened up, hands in pockets, the right one squeezing his key ring for all it was worth. “The tow date on the car was Friday. That means they spent two nights in the Eight One Eight, in a locked room.”
“Correct,” Dan affirmed. “They went into the building, maybe that evening, and somehow got into that classroom. From there, just move a couple ceiling panels and climb over.”
“The scuff marks,” Eddie said. Jacobs nodded agreement.
“A few snacks and forty hours later they climbed back over and…”
“God damn it!” Art cursed loud and slow, each word distinct and filled with the anger his body was frying to suppress. His hands came to his hips as he turned away, looking up to the ballroom’s patterned ceiling. The lines crisscrossed and twisted, interconnecting each design with the eight to all sides of it. Go easy. Art. Breathe. Breathe. The compressed feeling in his chest abated slightly with the last of the three breaths, and he turned back. “That building was swept by the Secret Service on Saturday, and again on Sunday before it was secured. For Christ’s sake, how did they miss this?”
“It’s just a guess, but the Service was working off of floor plans only as recent as the remodeling.” Jacobs had thought that one out. It pissed him off royally.
“Which didn’t have the new room on it.”
“Right, Eddie.”
Art was shaking his head. Idiots. “That’s a bullshit excuse. There was a door. They had to see it, and they should have checked it. Dammit!” His heart rate rose again. “Why didn’t they just stick the key in the lock? What the hell was so hard with that?”
“No excuses, Art.” Dan wouldn’t try to make any for the Service. “The maintenance super for the building was supposed to meet the Service security detail on Sunday morning for the lockdown of the area. The one Saturday wasn’t real thorough. That was supposed to be the one on Sunday. Anyway, the maintenance guy didn’t show, so they contacted his assistant. Apparently, though, they didn’t wait for him. By the time he got there the detail was already to the sixth floor.”
“How the hell did you get all this?” Art had calmed somewhat. He sat down, his hand massaging one comer of his growing forehead.
“The assistant super was over at the building with some people from the management company that oversees the place.”
“When?” Something clicked in Art. A quick look to Eddie confirmed that he had caught it also.
“This morning. They’re pretty worried about the structure, you know. They want to get some engineers in there as soon as we’ll let them.”
Dan Jacobs was an agent who specialized in the scrutiny of physical, inanimate evidence, not the oddities and nuances of human behavior. That was the street agent’s territory. Art’s and Eddie’s. They had worked the street, knocked on doors, and asked thousands of questions during their years in the Bureau. The potentially important clue Dan had unknowingly brought to their attention might have been discovered later — maybe too late.
“Do you think that’s funny?” Art asked.
“I think it is.” Eddie smiled, his expensive and perfect dental work open for viewing.
Just as the two senior agents had failed to comprehend Dan’s analysis of the physical data without extended explanation, he did not follow what they had deduced. “What’s up?”
Art took a pen in hand. “What’s that assistant’s name, Dan?”
Within twenty minutes Eddie was en route to the Israeli consulate, and Art, with six other agents, was heading for address on La Cienega Boulevard, less than thirty minutes away.
It was a small house on the east side of the street, set on a small lot like those on either side for several blocks. The peeling yellow trim and dirty white clapboard siding were just one of the many signs of decay indicative of the neighborhood, and of many of the urban areas around the downtown area. Of course there were corridors of wealth, the high- and low-rise glass towers that were the main scenery visible from the freeways. Art wondered sometimes if it was planned that way, considering that most visitors to Los Angeles never left the freeway between their touristy destinations.
Art checked his watch. Three fifty-five. “Where the hell is the call?”
Agents Omar Espinosa and Hal Lightman did not answer. The question was to himself. The bulky Latino agent sat in the back, behind the driver, with the Atchisson shotgun resting on his lap. It was an ugly weapon, brand-new in the Bureau’s arsenal, looking like a puffed-up assault rifle less the stock. The twelve 00 buck rounds in the box magazine had only one purpose. Hal was driving, with Art to his right clutching the mike. From where they were parked the house was in view continuously, and the gas station lot afforded some protection from being seen.
“Seven Sam.” The dispatcher’s voice brought the radio to life.
“Seven Sam,” Art acknowledged his call sign.
“Be advised, LAPD units are on standby two blocks north of your location.”
“Ten-four.” Good. The local cops were in position, just in case. He was hoping they wouldn’t be needed and was fairly certain that they wouldn’t be. If he were Marcus Jackson he’d be long gone. Jackson was the maintenance superintendent for the 818, and there were more than a few questions the Bureau wanted to ask him. Thanks to Jacobs’s innocent discovery of Jackson’s absence the day of the assassination — a time when he was expected to be there — and early this day, Art and Eddie were able to find a possible link in the conspiracy. The shooters would have needed inside help, particularly if Jacobs’s theory was correct. Marcus Jackson had worked for the management group that owned the building for just six months, and he would have knowledge of the relatively easy access to the storage room.