Their first look at the bedroom had been past the barrel of their guns, with hearts pounding and senses tuned to detect threats. They hadn’t seen the obvious. Art saw it now. Maybe people who knew they weren’t returning to a place were predisposed to leaving it disheveled as a defense against their loss. Horseshit. The drawers were open, as was the closet. Art walked to it. It was half empty, he estimated. Mr. Jackson must be doing some traveling.
“Sir.” Shelly stepped in.
“Yeah.” Art was scanning the room, outwardly not acknowledging the agent’s presence.
“There’s a car in the garage. It matches with the suspect’s vehicle — license and everything.”
Art’s eyes were wide when he turned to Shelly. “Well, imagine that. A new-looking car, right?”
“I wouldn’t mind driving it.”
“It looks like our friend is getting guiltier by the minute.” And he wasn’t going to make himself simple to find. “He may be using some other transportation. Oh well. Go ahead and call it in, Shell. I want an APB out on this guy.” Art looked around the room from its center, then down. The bed was made. Didn’t sleep here, did you, Marcus? Something happened here, though. Art could feel it.
The all-points bulletin went out immediately. Mr. Marcus Jackson, whose present whereabouts was unknown, was a wanted man. The official reason was for questioning in relation to the assassination. Unofficially, the reason that often carried the most weight in the legally constrained world of police work, he was a suspect in the conspiracy and a person who had the capacity to kill. Twenty-five minutes after the broadcast went out nearly every law enforcement agency south of Sacramento had at least the verbal information. Most had photos spitting out of their fax machines. The California Highway Patrol field offices were the first to get them, and soon after, their fleet of patrol vehicles had them as well.
The newly arrived teams of agents were pounding on doors in the neighborhood. People saw things — that was a fact of human nature. The presence of the police and serious-looking men in suits made the resident of the house on La Cienega an instant celebrity up and down the block. Soon everyone would remember something about Jackson.
Most of it would be useless, but something helpful was bound to be sifted from the whole.
Art left the house by the back door just as the second forensic team was arriving through the front. They would start on the house. Art’s interest was now on Jackson’s Jeep, which the first forensic team to arrive had already begun working on.
He recognized only one of them. “Bobby. You’re among strangers.”
“I’m the guide,” Agent Bobby Valenzuela explained. “This is the team from Denver.” He went on to introduce the three visitors. “No one thought about getting all these guys around once they were here.”
No one had thought of that, Art now saw. You couldn’t just hand the van keys to out-of-town assistance and expect them to find their way around a city like L.A. “Where are our guys?”
Valenzuela slid the elastic-strapped dust mask over his head, letting it hang at the neck. It was meant to keep the moist breath of the forensic agent off any prints he might be examining on the vehicle. “They’re all tied up with evidence back at the site.”
Even with the incoming help they were still stretched thin. Art motioned to the vehicle. “What do you think?”
“We’ll get prints for sure. I can see some with just my eyes.”
“I want to know if there are any besides Jackson’s. If there are we’re going to need a rush match with any we found on the suspect debris.”
Valenzuela shook his head. “I don’t know about that. Dan said there isn’t much, if anything, that we can use. A couple partial prints at best.”
“Still, let’s do it,” Art persisted. “Do your best.”
The mask came up, covering the agent’s mouth, and he turned to do his magic on the Jeep. Art stood silently at the open side door to the garage. The big double doors that opened to the driveway were still closed to the dismay of the crowd gathering across the street.
Art didn’t see Jerry Donovan come up from behind. A tap on his shoulder alerted him. “Jerry. How the hell did you get here? I mean, in town?”
Donovan had been on a backpack fishing trip in the Maroon Bells area of Aspen, Colorado. “Let me tell you, it’s a damn shame when an Army chopper plucks you out of a spot that God Himself made for the fisherman. What’ve we got going here?”
It took five minutes to update his boss. “He’s got some relatives, according to some lady two doors down. But that’ll take some time to confirm.”
Donovan took it all in. He had obviously come straight from a quick change of clothes and a shave. His balding head of black hair was longer than he usually wore it. “A smart one, it seems.”
“Maybe.” Art wasn’t sure about that. Fortunate, possibly, and well directed more likely. He felt it in his gut that there was a further player in this, someone behind Jackson.
The second agent felt his top collar button pop. “Damn fast dressing!” He left it undone. “Hey. What say you and me head on back to the barn.” The barn was the office, and Art hadn’t been there since the morning of the shooting. Donovan bent forward and down, examining Art’s chin. “If that’s the worst you ever get…”
“I know. I’m lucky.”
“Who’s senior here?”
“Hal Lightman.” Art looked to the front.
“Good. Ready?”
The drive to the FBI office was slow in the lingering Los Angeles rush-hour traffic, taking nearly forty-five minutes.
“I went a little out of channels, Jerry,” Art admitted as the car exited the freeway. Donovan’s silence meant ‘go on.’ “Eddie’s over at the Israeli consulate. I wanted to contact someone I knew from their embassy — a terrorism expert.”
“I don’t know, Art.” Donovan could see how that might backfire. “Picture the media if they get a hold of it. ‘FBI and Israelis investigate the middle eastern connection in the assassination.’” His gaze emphasized the words. “You get my drift? Especially if this Jackson connection pans out. The press would read that as a homegrown job, even if it’s not.”
Art wanted to tell his superior that his line of thought was bullshit, but wisely toned down his tongue. “I understand, but one of the shooters is—”
“Alleged shooter, Art.” Again, Donovan spoke louder with his eyes. “Remember that.”
“Are you telling me to back off on that?” Art asked, with no love of the idea in his voice.
Donovan paused. “No. It’s your call.”
There hadn’t been any doubt in Art’s mind. His boss was just doing his job, and in a small way, he was right. But then he thought in political terms, not those of a cop. He had come up through the ranks from the financial investigations section, a path that was safe and deskbound from beginning to end. That, Art believed, made him a candidate for something, somewhere, someday. Fortunately, though, he didn’t impose his own skittishness on those he supervised. And there was that small bit of truth in Donovan’s words. The whole thing could be taken wrong, and that could lead to even more problems. International incident? Maybe. But the detrimental effect it could have on the investigation was what worried Art the most. The Israelis certainly wouldn’t be happy to share any information if their role were disclosed and twisted. He had to make sure it was kept quiet, and he had to get a good, solid link. Evidence that Obed was one of the shooters, and that there was something substantive in any relation he or the other assassin had to any terrorist backing.