The Informant (36 page)

He was still dressed in the gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans he'd worn to case the houses in Pasadena before dawn. He judged that the outfit would keep him from standing out much in these wooded hillsides, but he kept moving, climbing to improve his cover while he watched for the blue car. He didn't want to go too high, where the short live oaks were sparsely spread and there were stretches of empty brown grass. He crouched in thick brush about three hundred feet away. As he looked down on the scene, he sensed a presence, or maybe realized he'd seen something without identifying it, and moved only his eyes in that direction. It was a scrawny, intense-eyed coyote standing thirty feet off, the sunlight dappling its fur. After a few seconds, the coyote seemed to sense some change it didn't like and skulked off into the tawny brush higher up the hillside.

The dark blue Crown Victoria pulled up the drive into the lot and stopped. The two men got out and slammed the doors, then walked toward the carousel. They stood and looked at it for a minute or two, and then the one with the MAC-10 stepped to the left to the ticket booth. He craned his neck to look at the window, seemed to despair of seeing inside, and gave up. He raised his MAC-10 with its silencer on the barrel and fired a line of rounds across the front of the booth about six inches from the ground, then a second line back across the booth about two feet up. The noise was barely audible, just the gun's hot, expanded gas spitting out bullets, and the bullets punching through the wooden-board wall. The gun was so fast that after it was still, the ejected brass casings clinked as they all fell on the asphalt, bounced once, and rolled. The man removed the long, straight magazine, put it in his coat pocket, and inserted a fresh one.

Thirty rounds. If Schaeffer had been closer, he could have counted holes in the ticket booth, but he was pretty sure the man was using thirty-round magazines. The second man kicked open the door of the ticket booth, looked inside, and closed it again, but it was hanging on one hinge so he just propped it shut.

They moved to the second, larger building, the snack stand. It was hardly more substantial than the ticket booth, but they didn't spray the wall. They went to the door, and the man with the MAC-10 fired a short burst at the door lock and then shouldered his way inside. The two spent a minute or two looking behind things, but found nothing.

Schaeffer could see the MAC-10 had altered their behavior. It was such an overpowering weapon that they seemed to have forgotten that it couldn't do everything. And they seemed to think it made them bulletproof. He began to move down the hill closer to them while he waited for his moment to come. The two men came out of the snack stand and moved to the carousel. They stepped into the center where the motor was and satisfied themselves that he wasn't hiding there. While they were occupied, Schaeffer crept closer.

They walked up over the grass-covered hill to the parking lot and toward his parked Camry. They seemed not to feel any urgency about what they were doing. Schaeffer watched the one with the MAC-10 raise it and fire short bursts at the tires on the far side, then shoot out all the glass. His magazine was empty again so he put in a third. This time he aimed at the engine and fired. He walked around to the other side to get the last pair of tires. He had not noticed that the car no longer shielded him from the brush-covered hillside; he was standing in the open.

As the man began his burst, Schaeffer rested his right arm on the low horizontal branch of an oak tree, took careful aim, and fired. His first shot caught the man with the MAC-10 in the back and spun him around. As the man began to buckle, Schaeffer fired another shot and caught him in the chest. The man sprawled on the pavement.

His companion, the driver, snatched up the MAC-10, ducked, and stayed low as he scuttled to the far side of Schaeffer's car. When he got there, he learned what Schaeffer already suspected. The third magazine was empty.

Schaeffer shifted his aim to the second man. He rested his arm on the tree limb and fired whenever he saw a slice of the man appear over the hood of the Camry as he tried to spot the man who had shot his companion.

When Schaeffer had exhausted the bullets in the Beretta's magazine, he reached into his messenger bag for another pistol. He aimed it carefully at the far edge of the hood of his gray car, directly above the flat front tire. The man would be crouching there to keep from having a shot ricochet under the car and hit him. He counted to five, then began to squeeze the trigger. His trigger finger had already traveled about two-thirds of the pull when the man raised his gun hand and his head above the edge so he could return Schaeffer's fire. He was still raising his head when Schaeffer's firing pin touched off the next round. The shot barely nicked the surface of the Camry's hood, ricocheted upward slightly, and pounded into the man's forehead.

Schaeffer knew he had little time left. The MAC-10 was silenced, but his pistols were not. He ran from the woods, past the carousel, across the little parking lot, and stood over the driver, the man he had just shot. Schaeffer kicked the man's pistol away from his body, patted his pockets, and found the keys to the blue Crown Victoria. He noticed a tag on it that said
ABLE SECURITY.
He stepped to the car and set his messenger bag on the floor in front of the passenger seat, beside a clipboard with papers on it. He stepped back to the Camry, opened the trunk, took his suitcase, tossed it onto the back seat of the Crown Victoria, and drove.

He regretted the destruction of the gray Camry because it had been a good car for driving unnoticed and unremembered. The Crown Victoria was less common, but it had a powerful engine, and from a distance it looked like a plain-wrap police car or a fire commander's car. He took it down the park's side road away from the carousel to the main road and turned right toward the south.

Once he was on the main road through the park, he felt less urgency and tension. The park police would take a few minutes to isolate the source of the shots and then drive there and find the two bodies. There would be at least a few minutes while they tried various ways of fitting together what they saw. There were two men with guns lying nearby, one of them an automatic weapon with a silencer. Had they killed each other? Once the cops learned enough at the scene to reject that idea, they would start calling to shut down park exits, but he would be gone.

He glided past a pony ride and a little train station with a midget train circulating on a narrow track that wound through a grove of trees. The road emptied onto Los Feliz Boulevard, and he sensed that he had emerged in another part of the city. He drove south as steadily as he could, making it through the traffic signals on the green and turning right when they were red, then correcting his course when he could do it without slowing down. In five minutes he was three miles away and still moving.

He thought about what had happened today. He had been ambushed and attacked twice, and it was time to counterstrike. Judging from the car keys, the clipboard, and the car model, the two men he had just killed had been working for something called Able Security Service as a cover. He tried to guess what the rest of the shooters would do next. They wouldn't fall back to some defensive position. They weren't bodyguards hired to protect somebody. They were killers hired to find him and kill him. They would be out looking for him.

He got onto the Golden State Freeway, merged onto the 134 Freeway going east, and drove hard. He got off at the Lake Avenue exit and turned left at San Pasqual Street. He turned into a long, narrow parking lot that ran behind a row of stores, cruised up the back aisle searching for a parking space, and finally found one. He was in a busy shopping area, and shoppers were constantly leaving their cars or coming back to them, so he had to be careful not to let any of them see what he was doing. He picked up the clipboard from the floor and looked at the papers clipped to it. The sheet said
ABLE SECURITY PATROL LOG.
He went to the Crown Victoria's trunk, set the clipboard inside, opened his suitcase, pulled out a sport jacket, and put away his gray hooded sweatshirt. He brought the messenger bag to the front, selected two pistols, checked their magazines, and hid them in his coat. He pulled out of the lot and drove out to Lake Avenue, then turned off again.

He skirted the busy streets to stay in the quieter neighborhoods. He made it back to Marengo and studied the houses. He thought about the blue Crown Victoria he was driving. It was one of the reasons why he had suspected the shooters worked for a security company. The car looked like a police car, and they would have wanted to take advantage of that resemblance. It would be the sort of thing that would make some opponents panic, and others do what they were told.

Using the car was probably worth a try if he did it quickly and insistently enough. It was now early afternoon. He had seen Lazaretti once or twice, but he was sure Lazaretti had never noticed him. He lifted his messenger bag onto the passenger seat and found the Justice Department identification wallet he had stolen from Elizabeth Waring in Chicago and put it into his coat pocket.

He pulled in front of Tony Lazaretti's driveway and parked at an angle, blocking it the way cops did. He walked at a brisk pace to the front porch, rang the bell, and knocked loudly at the same time.

The man who came to the door was about twenty-five years old and had the watchful eyes of a store security guard, but he was wearing a black sport coat and a pair of jeans, with neoprene-soled deck shoes on his feet. "May I help you?" He said it with a scowl of contempt: this middle-aged cop, or whatever he was, had no idea who he was bothering.

Schaeffer took out the leather identification wallet with its deeply embossed Department of Justice seal and flipped it open. "Elliot Warren, Department of Justice. I'd like to speak with Mr. Anthony Lazaretti, please."

"What's this about?"

"It's about him not going to a federal prison for the meeting in Arizona last week with a couple hundred Mafia guys who were conspiring to commit murder. Think he'll be interested?"

The young man's face went blank, like a curtain falling to end a play. "Please wait here." He turned and hurried up the staircase in the middle of the foyer. The house was old, with thick wooden fixtures squared off in the California Craftsman style and a large stained-glass window that cast a glow over the first landing. As Schaeffer stood watching the young man disappear, he thought about the risk he was taking. He had never met Tony Lazaretti. But if there was somebody here who had seen him in the old days, Schaeffer would have a problem. He would be caught standing alone in this open foyer, with no escape but through the front door and down the open driveway to the car.

He kept looking up the staircase, then from the foyer where he was to the long hall that led past the staircase to the kitchen and the back of the house. There were wide doorways on either side of the foyer, and he decided he needed to know where they led.
He stepped deeper into the house and looked to his right. Beyond the doorway was the formal dining room with a single long table down the center of the room. It shone like the back of a violin. He looked to his left and saw a library. It had floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. But they weren't books for reading. They were books of the sort that decorators bought by the truckload—big old volumes in leather bindings. There was a big globe on a stand, and a small mahogany table with a copy of the entertainment section of the
Los Angeles Times
open on it.

He decided that must be where the kid who had come to the door had been stationed when he'd arrived. He lingered in the doorway, looking up the stairs at the second-floor landing. He heard a door shut and footsteps, and a moment later three men appeared at the top of the stairs. Two of them stood at the railing and looked down at him, while the other descended. When Schaeffer had seen Tony Lazaretti years ago, he had looked like what he was—a kid of college age who had been brought up thinking he was a prince, somebody who could never be harmed, never be required to do anything, but would always be in charge. He'd had the look of the Lazarettis, the thick curly hair at the top of his head and the pointed chin at the bottom so he looked like an inverted triangle.

As Lazaretti came down the steps, he said, "Mr. Warren? Or is it Agent Warren?"

"It's Mr. Warren. Can you spare me a few minutes alone, please?" He held up his Justice Department identification wallet, then put it away.

"What's this about?"

"In here?" Schaeffer pointed at the library. "Is this a good place to talk?"

"Yeah, sure," said Lazaretti. "That's fine."

They walked inside, and Lazaretti closed the big wooden door. Schaeffer stepped to the door and flipped the small lever above the handle to lock it. Lazaretti looked puzzled, but seemed not to know what to say.

"Mr. Lazaretti, I understand you were at the meeting in Arizona a week ago."

"I was in Arizona, yes. I wasn't at any meeting. If somebody else happened to be there at the same time, that's just what happens at high-end resorts. I was on the French Riviera when the Cannes film festival was going on, but that doesn't make me an actor."

"When Frank Tosca called for an agreement to help him kill a man he'd been searching for, you voted for it. Since you came back, you hired a team of hit men to go after him."

Lazaretti looked pale, and his forehead seemed to be getting damp. "You've got me mixed up with somebody else. Lazaretti sounds a lot like some other names, especially if you're listening from far away."

Schaeffer took out one of his Beretta pistols and aimed it at Lazaretti's chest. "I just wanted you to know what your mistake was. Some people like to know."

"What? What do you mean?" He instinctively backed away, but bumped against the tall, immovable bookcase behind him.

"I mean I would have left you alone until the end of time." He fired two rounds into Tony Lazaretti's chest, watched him fall, then fired a round through his head.

He stepped to the library window, reached up to unlatch it, opened it and pushed the screen out, sat on the sill, and swung his legs out. He could hear rapid footsteps on the staircase. He dropped to the garden. The first sounds of pounding on the locked library door reached his ears as he stood outside the window. He leaned into the room, fired six rapid shots through the upper panels of the door, then turned and walked quickly across the lawn to the driveway he had blocked. He got into the blue car and drove off toward the freeway.