A few seconds later, the door opened, and a sun-bleached, graying head poked out. “Whadda ya need?”
“I’m painting my bedroom, and I’ve got to move my dresser out. There’re some cold brews in it for ya.”
Max held the door partly open with one hand and stood there, considering the offer. If he didn’t go for it, then what? Finally, he said, “Okay. Just gimme a sec to put on my jeans.” He closed the door, and Todd glanced at us and gave us a thumbs-up. I rolled my eyes, but he waved me off-Don’t worry. Yeah, why worry? Just because we were about to try to take down a murderer who had access to an armory? Piffle.
A few seconds later, Max emerged-a square body with skinny arms in a tank top, torn jeans, and flip-flops. In fifty-degree weather. What was he, a werewolf? Todd moved to the side as though to let Max lead the way, but when Max started to close the door behind him, Todd grabbed it. He put a finger to his lips and pushed Max against the wall. When Max started to protest, Todd pulled out his gun. Max’s eyes got big, and as we walked past him toward the door, they got even bigger. “You stay here,” Todd whispered. Max nodded compliantly. “The brews are still yours, bud.” Max slid away, his back to the wall, like a man who’d stepped out onto the ledge of a skyscraper.
Bailey and I held our guns down at our sides as we tiptoed single file toward the apartment. The door was a quarter of the way open. I peered inside but saw only darkness. My heart was thudding in my chest. What a weird place for me to die. In a dingy apartment in La Conchita. I listened for sounds of movement. Music was playing somewhere inside, but it wasn’t coming from the front room. Todd pushed the door farther open and moved inside, and we followed, our guns now straight out in front of us. We walked into a living room, which looked empty. I slowed down to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and tried to scan every inch of the room for places where Shane might be hiding, getting ready to spring.
On our left was the kitchen and dining area-a tiny square of linoleum. We stopped and looked around. There was no one there, but the music was getting louder. We moved past the kitchen to a small hallway. There was a door on the right. Todd put his ear to the wall near it and listened, then shook his head. He took one side of the door, and Bailey and I took the other. He carefully reached out and tried the doorknob. It turned. My heart was in my throat as he pushed the door open. It was a bathroom. And it was dark. Todd crouched down, gun in both hands, straight out in front of him. It was a half bath, so there was no tub or shower. And no one was in there.
Todd continued down the hall toward the door at the end. Bailey and I followed. The music was louder now. It sounded like “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, and it was coming from behind that door. This was it. I envisioned Shane standing inside, holding an AK aimed at us. I tried to pull Bailey back. She shook me off and moved in behind Todd.
Todd listened at the door, nodded to us, then twisted the doorknob. It turned, and as he inched the door open, I held my breath and steadied my gun in both hands. If Todd or Bailey missed their shot, mine would have to be the one to take Shane out. Then, in one swift motion, Todd threw back the door, crouched down, and pointed his gun, shouting, “Police!”
There stood Shane Dolan, hair dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his stomach. He froze, then threw his hands up. His towel dropped to the floor. Standing there naked as a jaybird, he screamed, “Don’t shoot!”
56
For several long seconds, no one moved. Bailey recovered first. “Uh, Todd, you can stand down. I believe we can safely say he’s unarmed.” She looked at Shane. “No offense. Feel free to get your towel.”
Shane nodded but kept his eyes trained on Todd as he bent down to get the towel and draped it around his waist.
“Where are your clothes?” Todd asked. Shane pointed to a chair. Todd gave the T-shirt and jeans a thorough going-over, then tossed them to Shane one at a time. Bailey and I checked his wallet and license to confirm his identity, then ripped through the room. We found a.38 Smith and Wesson under his pillow, a 9 mm Glock in the top drawer of the dresser, and an SBR AR-15 in the closet. They were all fully loaded. Bailey read him his rights. He waived them in a shaky voice.
We took him into the living room, handcuffed him, and tied him to a kitchen chair with some electrical cord Todd found under the sink. Bailey and Todd hovered over him, guns at their sides. Shane didn’t look so good now, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, all pale and trembling. But looking past that, I could see that his photo hadn’t done him justice. The wavy brown hair curling over his forehead, hazel eyes, and full, sensual lips that had a rebellious curl made for an undeniably sexy package. I’d always been wary of the type, myself.
Since I was the only one not visibly armed, I was unofficially elected to play good cop. “Where’s Logan Jarvis?”
His eyes narrowed with fury. “That lunatic asshole. I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”
This was not the answer, or the attitude, I’d been expecting. “You two just shot up that theater, said adios, and went your separate ways?”
Shane’s mouth dropped open. “Theater? Shooting? What the hell are you talking about?” He looked a little green around the gills. Some guys can do a pretty good job of feigning shock, but nausea-that’s a toughie.
“Shane, now is not the time to play dumb. We might be able to save you from death row if you help us. But you can’t waste our time with this ‘who me?’ bullshit.”
“Lady, I’m not kidding. I don’t know about any theater shooting. And the last time I saw Logan was a few weeks before the school shooting.”
I folded my arms and gave him my best “give me a fucking break” look. “So you had nothing to do with the shooting at Fairmont High.”
He teared up. His lips trembled, and for a few seconds it looked as though he was going to break down. But he closed his eyes, swallowed, and held it back. When he spoke, his voice was ragged. “Why in the hell would I want to shoot up a bunch of kids?” Shane looked at me, his expression tortured. “If I’d known that’s what that fucking freak was getting the guns for, I’d have called the cops. I sure as hell wouldn’t have sold him any.” He dropped his head, and I saw tears fall into his lap. “I had no idea that’s why he bought them until I saw the news that day.”
“But we didn’t release his name for a couple of days.”
“Yeah, but I knew what school he went to, and I knew what I’d sold him. The reports all said what kind of weapons they used.” He was right about that. “Plus, Logan talked some really weird shit just before…it all happened. He sent me this off-the-wall email the day before about seeing me ‘on the other side.’ At the time I just thought he was being his usual strange, geeky self. But then, when I saw the news about the shooting at Fairmont, I put it all together.”
“And ran.”
Shane gave me a hard look. “Bet your ass I ran.”
Because he was, at the very least, on the hook for selling guns to a minor, for selling guns without registration, probably for buying stolen guns, possibly for burning off the registration numbers. The list went on and on.
“Where were you at the time of the Fairmont shooting?”
“At the VA hospital in Westwood, getting my meds. Check it out; they keep records.”
“Don’t worry, we will.” Or rather, we’d been trying. The VA records were a mess. When Bailey got the tip about Shane being in La Conchita, she’d told the unis to drop everything else and focus on any records dated on or near the day of the shooting. With a little luck, we’d have our answer soon. “What were you getting meds for?”