Extra Kill

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Lieutenant Luis Mendoza is tasked with solving a double murder, shrouded in strange rites. Acting on one of his famous hunches, he is drawn into the world behind the glitter of Hollywood and into the Temple of Mystic Truth. There he finds cultists Martin and Cara Kingman, who turn out to be less than spiritual . . . 'A Luis Mendoza story means superlative suspense' Los Angeles Times

Release date: May 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

THAT he was making history was an idea that didn’t enter the head of the rookie cop Frank Walsh. He was riding a squad car alone for the first
time, which made him more conscientious than usual. He saw this car first when they pulled up at a stop light alongside each other on Avalon Boulevard; he’d never seen one like it and was
still looking for some identification when the light changed and it took off like a rocket. He was going the same way, and it was still in sight when they passed a twenty-five-mile zone sign; it
didn’t slow down, and Walsh happily opened up and started after it.

The bad old days of quotas for tickets, all that kind of thing, were long gone—and Frank Walsh was twenty-six, no starry-eyed adolescent; nevertheless, there was a kind of gratification, a
kind of glamour, about the first piece of business one got alone on the job. In time to come, he would have kept an eye on that car for a while, clocked it as only a little over the legit allowance
and obviously being handled by a competent driver, and let it go. As it was, a mile down Avalon he pulled alongside and motioned it into the curb.

It was quite some car, he thought as he got out and walked round the squad car: a long, low, gun-metal-colored job, a two-door hardtop. This close he made out the name, a strange one to
him—Facel-Vega, what the hell was that? One of these twenty-thousand-buck foreigners, probably with a TV director or a movie actor or something like that driving it, just to be different and
show he had the money. Walsh stopped at the driver’s window. “May I see your operator’s license, please?” he asked politely.

The driver was a slim dark fellow with a black hairline moustache, a sleek thick cap of black hair, a long straight nose, and a long jaw. He said just as politely, “Certainly,
officer,” and got out his wallet, correctly slid his license out of its plastic envelope himself, and passed it over.

There was a woman beside him, a good-looking redhead who seemed to be having a fit of giggles for some reason.

Walsh checked the license righteously, comparing it with the driver. A Mex, he was, and quite a mouthful of name like they mostly had: Luis Rodolfo Vicente Mendoza. The license had been renewed
within six months and matched him all right: five-ten, a hundred and fifty-five, age thirty-nine, eyes brown, hair— Walsh said, “You know, Mr. Mendoza, you were exceeding the limit by
about fifteen miles an hour.” He said it courteously because that was part of your training, you were supposed to start out anyway being polite; but he felt a little indignant about these
fellows who thought just because they had money and a hot-looking expensive car the laws weren’t made for them.

The driver said, “You’re perfectly right, I was.” He didn’t even point out that practically everybody exceeded the limit in these slow zones; he accepted the ticket Walsh
wrote out and put his license back in its slot, and Walsh, getting back in the squad car, was the least bit disappointed that he hadn’t made the expected fuss.

It wasn’t until his tour was over and he reported back to his precinct station that he found out what he’d done. It was the car that had stayed in his mind, and he was describing it
to Sergeant Simon when Lieutenant Slaney came in.

“. . . something called a Facel-Vega, ever hear of it?”

The sergeant said it sounded like one of those Italians, and the lieutenant said no, it was a French job, and what brought it up? When he heard about the ticket, a strangely eager expression
came over his face. “The only Facel-Vega I know of around here—what was the driver like, Walsh?”

“He was a Mex, sir—why? I mean, his license was all in order, and the plate number wasn’t on the hot list. Shouldn’t I—?”

“And his name,” asked Slaney in something like awe, “was maybe Luis Mendoza?”

“Why, yes, sir, how—”

“Oh, God,” said Slaney rapturously, “oh, brother, this really makes my day! Walsh, if I could christen you a captain right now I would! You gave Luis Mendoza a ticket
for speeding? You don’t know it, but you just made history, my boy—that’s the first moving-violation ticket he’s ever had, to my knowledge.”

“You know him, Lieutenant?”

“Do I know him?” said Slaney. “Do I—? I suppose he had a woman with him?”

“Why, yes, there was a redhead—a pretty one—”

“I needn’t have asked,” said Slaney. “There always is—a woman, that is, he’s not particular about whether it’s a blonde or what. He looks at them and
they fall, God Almighty knows why. Do I know him, says you. For my sins I went through the training course with him, eighteen years back, and we worked out of the same precinct together as
rookies. And before we both got transferred, the bastard got a hundred and sixty-three dollars of my hard-earned money at poker, and took two girls away from me besides. That’s how well
I—”

“He’s a cop?” said Walsh, aghast. He had a horrid vision of riding squad cars the rest of his life, all applications for promotion tabled from above. “My
God, I never—but, Lieutenant, that car—”

“He’s headquarters—Homicide lieutenant. The car—well, he came into the hell of a lot of money a couple of years after he joined the force—his grandfather turned out
to’ve been one of those misers with millions tucked away, you know? Oh, boy, am I goin’ to rub his nose in this!” chortled Slaney. “His first ticket, and from one of
my rookies!”

“But, Lieutenant, if I’d known—”

“If you’d known he was the Chief you’d still have given him the ticket, I hope,” said Slaney. “Nobody’s got privileges, you know that.”

Which theoretically speaking was true, but in practice things weren’t always so righteous, as Walsh knew. He went on having gloomy visions for several days of a career stopped before it
started, until he came off duty one afternoon to be called into Slaney’s office and introduced to Mendoza, who’d dropped by on some headquarters business. Slaney was facetious, and
Walsh tried to balance that with nervous apology. Lieutenant Mendoza grinned at him.

“Cut that out, Walsh, no need. Always a first time for everything. The only thing I’m surprised at is that it was one of Bill Slaney’s boys—I wouldn’t expect such
zealous attention to duty out of this precinct.”

“Why, you bastard,” said Slaney. “Half your reputation you got on the work of your two senior sergeants, and I trained both of ’em for you as you damn well
know.”

“Yes, Art Hackett’s often told me how glad he was to be transferred out from under you,” said Mendoza amiably.

All in all, Walsh was enormously relieved; despite his rank and his money Mendoza seemed to be a regular guy.

That happened in January; a month later, the memory of this little encounter emboldened Walsh to go over Lieutenant Slaney’s head and lay a problem before the headquarters man.

“I’ve got no business to be here, Lieutenant,” said Walsh uneasily. “Lieutenant Slaney says I’m a damn fool to waste anybody’s time about
this.” He sat beside Mendoza’s desk, stiffly upright, and fingered his cap nervously. He’d called to ask if he could see Mendoza after he came off duty, and was still in uniform;
he was on days, since last week, and it was six o’clock, the day men just going off, the night staff coming into the big headquarters building downtown with its long echoing corridors.

“Well, let’s hear what it’s about,” said Mendoza. “Does Slaney know you’re here?”

“No, sir. I’ve got no business doing such a thing, I know. I asked him about it, sir, and he said he wouldn’t ask you to waste your time. But the more I got to
thinking about it . . . It’s about Joe Bartlett, sir, the inquest verdict yesterday—”

“Oh?” said Mendoza. He got up and opened the door. “Is Art back yet?” he asked the sergeant in the anteroom.

“Just came in, want him?” The sergeant looked into the big communal office that opened on the other side of his cubbyhole, called for Art, and a big broad sandy fellow came in: the
sergeant Walsh remembered from last Friday night and yesterday at the inquest. He wasn’t a man to look at twice, only a lot bigger than most—until you noticed the unexpectedly shrewd
blue eyes.

“I thought you’d left, now what d’you want? I just brought that statement in—”

“Not that. Sit down. You’ll remember this young fellow, he’s got something to say about the Bartlett inquest. You handled that, you’d better hear it too.”

“Bartlett,” said Sergeant Hackett, and sat down looking grim. Nobody liked random killings, but the random killing of a cop, cops liked even less.

“I don’t think that inquest verdict was right,” blurted Walsh. “I don’t think it was those kids shot Joe. Lieutenant Slaney says I’m talking through the top
of my head, but— I tried to speak up at the inquest yesterday—maybe you’ll remember, Sergeant, I was on the stand just before you were—but they wouldn’t let me
volunteer anything, just answer what they asked.”

“What was it you wanted to say? Didn’t you tell your own sergeant about it?”

“Well, naturally, sir—and the lieutenant—and they both think I’m nuts, see? Sure, it looks open and shut on the face of it, I admit that. Those kids’d just held up
that market, they were all a little high, and they weren’t sure they’d lost that first squad car that was after them—maybe they thought we were the same one, or maybe they
didn’t care, just saw a couple of cops and loosed off at us. We were parked the opposite direction, but they might’ve figured, the way the coroner said, that that first car had got
ahead and gone round to lay for them.”

Which had been the official verdict, of course: that those juveniles, burning up the road on the run from the market job, had mistaken the parked squad car for the one that had been chasing them
and fired at it as they passed, one of the bullets killing Bartlett. They’d already shot a cashier at the market, who had a fifty-fifty chance to live.

“They say, of course, that they never were on San Dominguez at all, never fired a shot after leaving the market,” said Hackett.

“Yes, sir, and I think maybe they didn’t. I—”

“Giving testimony,” said Mendoza, “isn’t exactly like talking to somebody. Before we hear what brought you here, Walsh, suppose you give me the gist, in your own words,
of just what did happen. I know Sergeant Hackett’s heard it already, and I’ve read your statement, but I’d like to hear it straight.”

“Yes, sir. We were parked on the shoulder, just up from Cameron on San Dominguez. That’s almost the county line, and one end of our cruise, see. We’d just stopped a car for
speeding and I’d written out the ticket. Joe was driving then and I was just getting back in, and in a second we’d have been moving off, when this car came past the opposite way and
somebody fired at us from it. Four shots. It must’ve been either the first or second got Joe, the doctor said, by the angle—and it was just damned bad luck any of them connected, or
damned good target shooting, that’s all I can figure. The car was going about thirty. The shots came all together, just about as it came even with us and passed, and the way things were I
hardly got a look at all. Joe never moved or spoke, sir, we know now the shot got him straight through the head . . .” Walsh stopped, drew the back of his hand across his mouth. He’d
liked Joe Bartlett, who’d been a good man for a rookie to work with, easy and tactful on giving little pointers. Ten years to go to retirement, Bartlett, with a growing comfortable paunch and
not much hair left and always talking about his kids, the boy in college, the girl still in high school. Also, that had been Walsh’s first personal contact with violence, and while he’d
kept his head it hadn’t been a pleasant five minutes. “He slumped down over the wheel, I couldn’t get at the controls until I’d moved him, it was—awkward, you can see
that. I think I knew he was dead, nothing to be done for him—I just thought, got to spot that car. . . . I shoved him over best I could to get at the wheel, but by the time I got the hand
brake off and got her turned, my God, it wasn’t any use, that car was long gone. I was quick as I could be, sir—”

“It was just one of those things,” agreed Hackett.

“I got the siren on, and I went after it, but no use, like I said. I saw that, and I pulled into the side and reported in what had happened. They told me to go straight to Vineyard and
Brook, there was an ambulance on its way there already, so I did. That’s where they’d finally picked up the kids, you know, just then. Price and Hopper, I mean, and Gonzales and Farber
in the first car that’d been after them were called in too—they were there when I got there. Price had to fire at the car to get it to stop, and one of the kids was hit, not
bad—you know all that, sir.”

Mendoza nodded. “That’s all clear enough. What’s in your mind about it now? Your own sergeant and Sergeant Hackett had your story then, and you said, if I recall rightly, that
it must have been those juveniles. Something changed your mind?”

“It looked,” said Walsh, “like it must’ve been, sure, because what else could it have been? I mean, it’s not as if there were a dozen cars around that area
that night with somebody taking pot shots at squad cars out of them. When we came to sort it out, the times looked tight, but it could have happened like that, and how else could it
have?”

“We went into it as thoroughly as possible,” said Hackett.

“Yes, sir, I know. And I don’t want to make out that I was mistaken in anything I told you, it’s not that. It’s just that when I came to think about the whole thing
afterward—as a whole, if you see what I mean—well, it’s nothing to get hold of, nothing definite, but the more I thought about it— And I told Sergeant Simon, and Lieutenant
Slaney too, but I guess the reason it sounded crazy to them is just that—how else could it have happened?”

“What bothers you about it?” asked Mendoza patiently.

“The main thing is the times. Sure, it could have been, but it’s tight figuring. Look, here’s Cameron and San Dominguez, where it happened. I don’t see how I could have
been more than thirty seconds getting under way afterward, even call it a minute before I got the car turned and got up speed after that car—and it didn’t take me another minute to see
it was no go. All right,”—in his urgency Walsh was forgetting some of his nervousness—“there’s two minutes, and I’m about half a mile down San Dominguez. Give me
another ten seconds to pull in and start to call. I couldn’t get through right away, they were busy that night, but it couldn’t’ve been more than another twenty seconds before I
was reporting in. Say that’s three minutes, even four, after the shots were fired—I don’t think it was four, actually, but give it that much leeway—and I was talking maybe
another twenty seconds or half minute, and the girl had me wait another ten, twenty seconds while she checked on where that ambulance call was from—Price reported in just before me. So
I’m sent to Vineyard and Brook where they got the kids, and that’s about half a mile from where I was then, or from where the shots were fired—it makes a kind of triangle, see,
with the point at Vineyard and Brook. O.K., now when I got there, which was maybe two and a half minutes later, the first squad car’d already got there, that’s Gonzales and Farber,
who’d been the first to go after the kids, and they’d been called up after Price and Hopper were on the kids’ tail. Look, I even made a diagram of it, and this is how it
works out in my book. Call it five past nine when the shots were fired at us and Joe was killed. Say it was the kids, they’ve got to get over to Vineyard—which runs the same way as San
Dominguez, it’s not a cross street—and be going west there hell-bent for election when Price and Hopper spotted them two-three minutes later. Because Price’s call in, saying they
were on them, was clocked at seven minutes past nine, and Gonzales and Farber got the word where to join them a minute later. The ambulance call Price put in, same time as he reported arresting the
kids, came over at eleven minutes past nine. And at about that time I was calling in about Joe. I can’t figure how it could’ve been more than four minutes between Joe’s getting
shot and Price and Hopper picking up those kids. And you know, I don’t suppose they gave one look at the car and spotted it, bang, right off—they’d take a closer look to be sure
it was those kids, which cuts down the time a little.”

“Mmh, yes. You’ve really gone into this, haven’t you?” Mendoza tilted back his chair, regarding the opposite wall thoughtfully. “That sounds like a very short space
of time, but a lot of things can happen in three or four minutes, and you’re not absolutely sure of the times on your end, are you? Even if you’d just happened to look at your watch
before Bartlett was shot, it could have been off a bit from the clocks in the radio room here.”

“Yes, sir, I know. But another thing, as I don’t need to tell you, Price and Hopper didn’t just slam bracelets on the kids and rush right back to report in, there’d be a
couple of minutes there, getting the kids out of their car and so on. . . . Well, I don’t know, it just seems to me—”

“Look,” said Hackett, rubbing his jaw. “Leave all this thirty seconds, twenty seconds business out, what you’re saying is, it seems to you that by the time you got sent
to meet that ambulance, the kids had been busy with Price and Hopper a little too long to have been over on San Dominguez when Bartlett was killed. Now I’ve got just this to say. Time’s
funny—when a lot’s happening, sometimes it seems to go faster and sometimes slower—you’ve had that experience?” Walsh nodded silently. “I agree with you that it
all happened damn fast, but we’ve got no check on exact times, and nobody can say just on that account it couldn’t’ve been those kids. And the gun checks—as much
identification as we’ll ever get. I don’t need to remind you it was a homemade gun with a smooth bore, so, sure, Ballistics can’t say definitely this bullet came out of that
gun—but the market cashier and Bartlett both had .38 caliber bullets in them, and the kids had half a box of ’em left. It looks pretty open and shut.”

“I know,” said Walsh helplessly. “All I can say is, even making every allowance for the way you do lose track of time in the middle of a thing like that—well, I still
feel it’s too tight. And, Sergeant, why did they turn off San Dominguez if it was them?”

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“It’s the main drag,” said Walsh, “the best road along there. They were all from that section, they’d know the streets. They must’ve known that if I was on
their tail after they’d fired at us, their best chance of losing me was to stay on San Dominguez, because it’s a divided highway and not much traffic that time of night. They could make
tracks and still do enough weaving in and out of what traffic there was to throw me off. They’d know I couldn’t have got their plate number—it’s dark as hell along there,
those arc lights are so high—and they’d blacked out their taillight. Look, you get off the main drag along there, most of the cross streets are full of potholes and not all of ’em
go through to the next main street, Vineyard. They’d be damn fools to turn off right away, and take a chance on getting to the next boulevard—they couldn’t be sure I wasn’t
on them when they’d turned off, the way they must’ve if they were going to be spotted where we know Price and Hopper spotted them, on Vineyard just west of Goldenrod going about
sixty.”

“Well, now,” said Hackett. “They weren’t exactly thinking very clear, you know, right then.”

“They’d just shaken off Gonzales and Farber, Sergeant, after a twenty-minute chase—and Lieutenant Slaney says Farber’s the best damn driver out of our
precinct.”

Mendoza laughed. “That’s a point—he’s got you there, Art. Of course,”—he sat up abruptly—“they wouldn’t have us after them if they
weren’t damn fools to start with, and damn fools have a habit of acting like what they are. And like the rest of us they have good luck and bad luck.” He brushed tobacco crumbs off his
desk tidily, straightened the blotter, lined up the desk tray with the calendar as he spoke; but automatically, like a persnickety housewife, thought Walsh. Even in the midst of his earnest effort
to get through to them with this, Walsh couldn’t help noticing. One of those people who went around straightening pictures, he figured Mendoza was: the orderly mind. He looked it too, very
natty and dapper in an ultraconservative way, like an ad in Esquire—the faintest of patterns in the tie, and that suit must have cost three hundred bucks if it cost a dime. Of
course, all that money Lieutenant Slaney said he had . . .

“And if it wasn’t the kids?” asked Mendoza. “What else?”

“It’s crazy,” said Walsh, “I know. But suppose it was somebody who wanted to kill Joe as—well, who he was. Not just a cop in a squad car. A—a specific
cop.”

“Now let’s not reach for it,” said Hackett dryly. “You know anybody who might have wanted Bartlett dead? Who might try it like that?—not just the easiest method, by
the hell of a long way. I manage to keep up enough of a score on the board myself so I don’t come in for extra practice, but I’d think twice about trying a target shot like that,
practically in the dark and at thirty miles an hour.”

“I know,” said Walsh again, humbly. “It sounds crazy to me too, Sergeant. If it wasn’t those kids, I don’t know who it could’ve been, or why. But I just
can’t figure it as the kids, when I think back over it. The way I told you, I didn’t get any kind of look at the car, . . .