A blue Ford Thunderbird rolled past the three agents, going north on La Cienega. Art saw the passenger crane his neck, looking down the driveway as the car passed the house.
“Deans and Harriman,” Hal said, identifying the two agents in the T-Bird.
Art figured that they could all hit the house within thirty seconds. He, Omar, and Hal, along with Rob Deans and Andy Harriman, would come from the front. Shelly Murdock and Drew Smith were on the opposite street and would come over the back wall. All they were waiting for was a signed search warrant. Judge Gallanter was assigned to the investigation full-time to provide for quick and easy processing of warrants. He had, however, taken it upon himself to take a late lunch, and had further complicated matters by leaving his pager in the office. He was being “hunted” as everyone waited.
“Seven Sam.”
“Seven Sam.”
“Possible suspect is identified from DMV as male, black, five eight, one sixty, black and brown. DOB of four twelve sixty. Justice shows arrest on five-oh-two; conviction on nine eight eighty-eight. Time served: one month in county. License status: valid. Possible suspect is registered owner of nineteen ninety-one Jeep Cherokee four-door, blue; license of four-Charlie-Frank-Mary-two-eight-one. Registration expires three one ninety-four. Copy?”
“Ten-four, copy,” Art replied. The information was written on the notebook stuck to the windshield on a suction mount. LAPD cars had computer terminals that displayed such data. No such luck in unmarked Bureau cars.
“Seven Sam, stand by.”
They waited. Art checked the time again. It was one minute past four.
“Seven Sam.”
“Seven Sam.”
“Be advised, the warrant is approved and en route. Copy?”
“Ten-four, copy. Dispatch, clear the channel and stand by.” The time was close. Art felt for his gun. Good.
“Channel Charlie is in priority use. Seven Sam is senior. All other units stand by. David and Edward channels are clear. Dispatch by.”
“King One and Two,” Art called.
“King One, by.”
“King Two, by and ready.”
Everyone was ready. Hal started the engine.
“Seven Sam to King One and King Two — move in!” The Chevy lurched forward, its tires screeching only slightly until the rubber grabbed. It wasn’t like the movies, Art had realized long ago. “Dispatch. Notify the LAPD units.”
“Tenfour.” The answer was quick and condensed.
Art was focused on the house. Down the street King Two — the T-Bird — came around in a U-turn and approached the house from the north. Neither Bureau car bothered to activate its small red strobes, but the local cops were coming hell-bent with their racks flashing a block behind King Two.
Seven Sam came across the street diagonally from the gas station and into the house’s driveway. The three doors came open and the agents jumped out. Deans and Harriman pulled up in front, facing traffic on the wrong side of the street.
Art went right up the porch steps, taking a position on the knob side of the door. There was no screen. Hal was hinge side, his back flat against the house. Omar ran to the south side of the house to cut off any escape route there. Deans and Harriman placed themselves on the north side, in the driveway, with Rob moving along the structure toward the rear, keeping well below the high window lines every step of the way.
“Seven Sam, King One in position,” Shelly reported from the back. The house was completely surrounded.
Agent Harriman directed the four LAPD officers to cover the garage and the windows overlooking the driveway. Two of them had shotguns from the patrol car racks. They all moved to the safe side of a stone wall between Jackson’s house and his neighbor’s, three of them working their way back to the single-car garage.
Hal looked to Art and got the nod. “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!” Lightman’s voice boomed. Anyone in the house would have heard it.
They listened for a few seconds. It was quiet. Not just in a lack of response to the entry demand, but hushed. Deserted. Art had thought as much. Jackson was gone. But they had to do it by the book.
“FBI! Open up, NOW!” Hal added decibels to the last word.
There was still no response.
“Hal,” Art said, holding his Smith & Wesson two-handed and pointed low. “Kick it.”
Hal warned the other units by radio that they were moving in. He looked back to the street while putting the radio in his back pocket. Traffic was stopped. He couldn’t see south, toward the freeway, but a hundred feet north there was an LAPD unit blocking the street in both directions. “I’m ready,” he said, getting the go from Art.
The lock was flimsy, as most single locks were, and the door swung violently inward under the force of Hal’s flat- footed kick. There must have been a table with something glass on it near the door as the breaking sound indicated.
Hal went in first, with Art right behind. Harriman followed them. They moved quickly, their guns pointed forward and to one side — Art left and Hal right. Andy also swept the right side, double-checking entryways as the trio passed them. Room after room was checked. The house was empty. For good measure Hal stuck his head through the covered opening to the attic. It was also empty.
Two of the uniformed cops entered as Hal hopped off the kitchen chair. They saw the dark hole to the attic above his head. “Damn brave, mister,” one of them commented. Its meaning was more ‘damn stupid.’
Art’s head turned sharply to the lawmen. “Secure the outside, please.” The words were not a request. Having jurisdiction did have advantages. Both of the cops retreated out in silence. Art turned to Hal. “Let them handle perimeter, but I don’t want them in here. This is Bureau territory.”
“Got it, Art,” Hal said. “Gladly.”
Outside, the senior LAPD officer — a sergeant — instructed his men, more of whom had arrived, to secure the scene. That meant stringing a line of yellow perimeter tape all around. It also meant closing the right northbound lane of traffic. The FBI vans belonging to the forensic teams would need the parking space very soon. The downside was obvious; this close to the Santa Monica freeway there was bound to be a hell of a traffic jam on La Cienega, especially at four in the afternoon — the height of rush hour.
“Hal, you’re front,” Art said. The agent moved to block the front door. Only those with a suit and a shield would get past him. Andy opened the back door, letting Shelly and Drew in.
“Shelly, check the back. Drew, you secure it. Watch the back wall. We don’t want any busybodies getting over. Andy, you’re with me — let’s take a look.” Art lifted the hand-held Motorola to his mouth. “Seven Sam to dispatch.”
“Seven Sam.”
“Notify forensics that we’re going to need two teams at this location. Roll six more teams out here, ASAP. Copy?”
“Ten-four, copy.”
The two men first took stock of the front room. An older TV stood on a wobbly looking stand. Stone age, Andy thought. The rest was sparsely furnished. Nothing extravagant. Art led off to the back of the house, to the lone bedroom. Andy detoured back to the kitchen. Their inspection wasn’t detailed, just designed to pick up any obvious clues. Forensics would tear the place apart.