“Detective Mattera,” Jenny said as we approached. “This is Jack Morgan.”
“Mr. Morgan,” he said, stepping away from the desk to shake my hand. He had curly black hair and bright, watchful eyes. “My name is Salvatore... Sal. You’re on my list of people to talk to. I understand one of your colleagues was injured in the attack.”
I was impressed he was on top of the details. “Girlfriend and colleague,” I replied. “And yes, two gunshot wounds. She’s recovering at Cedars-Sinai. They think she’s going to be okay.”
“Glad to hear it,” Sal said.
“I wanted to offer my support to the Academy and to the LAPD if appropriate, and to direct Private’s resources into helping find the guy who did this.”
Sal’s eyes narrowed. “For revenge?”
“Justice,” I said.
He nodded toward his colleagues busy reviewing the CCTV footage. “You don’t think we’ve got this?”
Jenny shifted uncomfortably.
“I know you’ve got this,” I responded. “My offer isn’t a reflection of any lack of faith in the LAPD. I also know what it’s like at the heart of an investigation like this and how useful it can be to have more minds and bodies to throw at a problem.”
Sal pursed his lips as he considered my words.
“And I know what my team can add even to the most experienced group of investigators.”
Sal nodded. “Okay. If Ms. Powell is happy, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly not this one. I know your organization, Mr. Morgan, and I’m not too proud to say you’re right. It could give us an advantage. I want to find this guy before he skips town. If he hasn’t already left.”
“The Academy won’t have any problem with you assisting, Mr. Morgan,” Jenny said. “And we want to thank you for your intervention last night.”
“Yeah,” Sal agreed. “I’ve seen the footage, and it confirms what the witnesses said about you stopping the guy. If you hadn’t stepped in...”
“We’re grateful,” Jenny said when the detective’s voice trailed off.
I nodded, though I wasn’t interested in the recognition. I’d done what I hoped anyone with my training would have done, given the opportunity. “What have you got?”
Sal nodded toward a laptop beside him. “We’ve been reviewing footage, pulling anything useful.” He selected a clip on the computer. “This is from the intersection of Santa Monica Boulevard and Century Park East and it shows the shooter stepping off a bus twenty minutes before the attack.”
I looked at the image on-screen, which showed the man rolling down his ski mask as he left the bus on the busy street.
“He’s pulling his mask down,” I remarked.
“Or adjusting it,” Sal responded. “Either way, there’s a chance he was photographed without it on the bus. I was about to head to the depot. You want to come along for the ride?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Chapter 6
Detective Salvatore Mattera looked like he was on his way to star in a cologne commercial. He looked stylish and rugged in a fresh-off-the-rack suit. I sat beside him in his black Lincoln Aviator, aware of how rumpled and grubby my tux felt and how disheveled I must look next to him. I rubbed my chin and felt rough stubble.
“I need a shower,” I remarked, and he looked at me and smiled.
“I was on a stakeout once and our suspects got antsy. Me and my partner couldn’t leave our tiny attic in the neighboring building for three days otherwise we’d have broken cover. I was pretty ripe by the time our relief could take over.”
I grinned, warming to the guy. “How many years on the job?”
“Twelve. Six as detective,” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.
We were heading toward the headquarters of the Big Blue Bus corporation on 7th Street in Santa Monica and were stuck in slow-moving lunchtime traffic. We slowed to a crawl as we passed each exit.
“How did you get into the PI business?” Sal asked.
“My dad started Private. I took it over from him a while back and set up offices internationally,” I replied. “But LA will always be our home.”
“There’s nowhere like it.” He gestured at the eight-lane highway and the endless lines of cars in both directions. “Though this probably isn’t the best place to illustrate that sentiment.”
I started to agree but he turned to look at me, an earnest expression on his face. “I don’t know whether it’s the ley lines or whether the ancient gods spilled some kind of potion here, but this place is special.” He hesitated. “Why else would every other bum on the planet want to live here? Come on, people!” He gestured to the nose-to-tail traffic.
We both laughed, and I was grateful for his easy company.
As we turned off the freeway, I received a message from Mo-bot saying she’d managed to speak to Justine who had said to tell me she was feeling a lot better. The message boosted my spirits and I felt revived as we pulled into the parking lot beside the Big Blue Bus building. The street outside featured a line of vehicles, familiar to anyone who has lived in or visited LA. The security guard on the gate pointed us in the direction of a space, and once Sal had parked, we headed into the two-story glass-and-steel building. On the other side of the lot, I saw buses lined up for cleaning and servicing, a fuel depot and a drivers’ lounge.
Inside, a friendly receptionist took us to the depot manager’s office, where a forty-something man in a white shirt and black pants was waiting for us.
“Detective Mattera?” he asked.
Sal nodded.
“I’m Ray Jenkins,” he said, offering his hand. “Depot manager.”
Sal shook it. “Mr. Jenkins, this is Jack Morgan. He runs Private, a detective agency that’s assisting us with our investigation.”
Ray and I shook hands, and I could tell he was sizing me up, trying to figure out exactly how a scruffy man in a tux was involved with this investigation.
“One of my colleagues was injured in the shooting,” I revealed, and that seemed to put his mind at ease.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ray replied. “One of your colleagues, Detective Landis, called and told me all about what you’re looking for. I pulled the footage from the Route 5 bus you caught on camera last night. It’s all set up.”
He gestured at his PC and we gathered around his desk to get a view of the monitor. The window behind us overlooked the yard, and the walls of the office were lined with photos of buses and groups of employees. I got the sense he was a man who took pride in his work, and the footage he’d cued up reinforced this view.
“Here,” he said, leaning forward to use his mouse.
He clicked a video file, and the interior of one of the buses traveling through LA at night appeared on screen.
I immediately saw the shooter making his way from the back of the bus to the center doors.
“He got off at Santa Monica and Century Park,” Ray said, before scrubbing back through the video.
“He has his mask on,” I remarked to Sal, who frowned and nodded. I could tell he shared my disappointment.
“See stranger things than ski masks when you ride the bus,” Ray said absently as on-screen passengers embarked and disembarked in reverse while he reprised the bus’s journey.
The shooter stayed in the last row of seats for the whole trip. He didn’t talk to anyone and no one went near him, maybe because of the mask.
“He gets on the bus in Santa Monica near the ocean,” Ray said, before switching to another file, “and before that, he rides the Route 9.”
He scrubbed back through footage of another bus, and daylight filled the windows. The landscape in the background was wild and mountainous. I watched the shooter rise from his seat and walk backward before disappearing from the footage. Ray rewound a little further and then allowed it to play again.