"Something must be done about vengeance,
a badge and a gun."
Know Your Enemy
Rage Against the Machine
"Ma'am, I clocked you at forty-four in a forty mile-per-hour zone," the officer said. A brass pocket-tag announced: Kalas.
"Are you serious?" Katrina Hart exclaimed. "I was definitely under forty!"
"Ma'am, I never joke about speeding in a residential area. And you were."
Kat fought tears and a tremor in her lower lip, gripping the driver's-side window with both hands.
"Look, this is the third time in two weeks I've been stopped along here. You guys know I live two blocks away, so you stake out this street. I know you're here, and I make a point of going extra-slow. I was not speeding!
"Why are you doing this… sir?" Kat asked, determined to remain respectful.
Kalas ignored her. He copied the attractive woman's license info, and handed her the ticket book.
"Sign in that block."
Kat scrawled her signature and held the pad at arm's length. Her other hand was clamped to the car door's window, which lacked three inches of being fully open.
"What's your problem, lady?" the cop asked, pointing with his pen.
"I'm afraid of you," Kat murmured in a thin voice. She hated showing frailty, but was on the verge of sobs.
Officer Kalas laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. "Afraid of me? Why?"
Kat took a deep breath. "Because you guys killed someone very special to me!"
"Erik Steele?"
Kat's eyes widened, exposed. If she opened her mouth, she'd lose it and tell the dunce what he could do to himself. Or break down and cry. The latter occurred frequently, even now, weeks after Erik had been shot to death five feet from her.
Smirking, Kalas ripped a pink copy of the traffic ticket free and two-fingered it through the window. Kat snatched it and tossed the slip on the passenger seat.
Kalas stuck his face into the window, sneering.
"Erik Steele got what he deserved. He shoulda known better than to carry in Metro country!"
Bad breath threatened to gag Kat. The guy either had skipped the toothbrush, or downed an onion for breakfast.
Standing, the cop hitched his equipment belt and bared his teeth.
"You might want to take that magnet off your car, Miz Hart. And have a nice day!"
Furious, Kat yanked the car into gear, signaled and pulled away from the curb. The street was a blur. She kept wiping her eyes, but couldn't stop weeping.
Three tickets! Over six hundred dollars! I can't afford this crap!
The magnet would have to go. Max and Kyler had given her a red, white and blue ribbon-loop magnet imprinted with "R.I.P.", Erik's name and lifespan: 1972-2010. Dozens of cars and trucks cruising the streets of Las Vegas now sported the magnetic-ribbon memorial, a statement of support for an innocent victim.
Evidently, Metro's brown-shirts considered them an affront, an in-your-face challenge to their unassailable license to kill.
Kat parked and checked the rear of her car. She stared at the half-loop ribbon a long moment, then pried the magnet free. Although ashamed of succumbing to blatant Metro intimidation, she knew Erik would understand. The memorial ribbon was more of a red flag than a statement of love. It literally had become a cop-magnet.
* *
Win Steele flicked a desk lamp switch and tapped the computer keyboard. While the Apple iMac hummed to life, he scanned memory joggers scrawled in a spiral notebook.
Shortly after 5 a.m., he'd given up on sleep. His brain had been yakking for more than an hour, shaping another flaming blog item. Might as well get it written and posted on Erik's memorial website.
It was a relief to be back in his own house, 800 miles away from the Nevada nightmare. Their two-day drive to Colorado Springs had been uneventful, traveling in tandem with "Bear," a tall, rugged outdoorsman, and his wife.
Out of the blue, Bear—Win's former college roommate—had called and offered to haul Erik's belongings home. It was another miracle, one of many that Win firmly believed constituted tangible proof that God's arms were embracing his family. Bear and his wife were the latest Earth-angels He had provided, miraculous answers to wee-hour prayers.
Bear's call had come shortly after Win learned that not a single company in Southern Nevada would rent him a light truck for a one-way trip. Yes, there were trucks available, but only if they were returned to Las Vegas. No one-way rentals, though.
Frustrated, he had mentioned the senseless situation to Link Mann, Erik's dynamic public-relations-expert friend, who was shepherding the Steeles through a news-media frenzy.
"That's because hordes of people are moving out of Las Vegas," Mann explained. "Our economy is a disaster. Thousands of citizens are walking away from mortgages that are underwater. And this rash of high-profile shootings by Metro cops has scared the hell out of folks, especially the elderly. They're packing up and moving.
"Too many rental trucks leaving town, and none coming into Vegas. The companies' fleets are down to zip, and it's costing local franchises a fortune to hire deadhead-return drivers.
"Consequently, no more one-way truck leases."
Erik's Army footlockers, boxes of books, photo albums and files, clothes, framed West Point and Duke University diplomas, electronics gear and a set of high-end golf clubs now resided in the Steeles' basement, silent reminders that Erik's earthly existence had been snuffed out. He was gone, leaving only poignant memories of his thirty-eight years.
Win yawned and reread his latest Internet missive, posted it to the blog section of Erik's memorial website, and reviewed the final paragraphs one more time, as if through the eyes of a Las Vegas Metro lurker:
… Being a police officer is a dangerous, demanding profession, and these brave public servants don't always receive the respect and appreciation they deserve.
However, their badges and guns come with a responsibility to protect and defend ALL citizens, not just fellow police officers and a privileged few. Every one of us should demand and expect no less from our law-enforcement employees.
Erik Steele died a senseless, unwarranted and violent death that defies logic and understanding. He was exercising his lawful right to carry a concealed weapon, and had a valid Concealed Firearms Permit in his wallet. Incredibly, he was killed by the same Metro department that had issued his permit, under Sheriff Alex Uriah's authority.
After seeing and hearing numerous eyewitness reports, then weighing them against Metro's accounts, I have to believe that Erik ran into a perfect storm of mistakes, antigun hysteria, bad decisions, oversized egos, unwarranted overreactions, and finally, excessive force born of irrational fear. I stand ready to be proven wrong, if the facts state otherwise.
May the truth be known. May those responsible be held accountable.—Winfield B. Steele
At 6:35 a.m., Doc Black phoned. "Hey, Win. Just checking to see how you're doing," the former sheriff quipped.
"At oh-dark-thirty?" Win chuckled.
"Yeah, okay," Black confessed. "I read the latest blog posting and knew you were up. Gotta say, you're really torquing the tails of those Metro morons!"
"That's intentional. Doc… ," Win hesitated a long beat, "in your professional opinion, should I be worried about my family's safety? Or my own?"
He didn't mention recent "irregularities" that had prompted the query.
"Well… probably not right away," Doc said. "At the moment, you're too high profile for anybody to mess with you. But Metro's head-shed is going nuts, and that might motivate some imbecile to strike back.
"I would suggest you install a home-security system, though."
He recommended two commercial firms and outlined their services. "They'll want to put the company's sign in your front yard, but don't do it. That'll tell a cop what he needs to disable the system, and the bad ones know how.
"It'll cost more, but use a private outfit that has its own responders, too. Not one that just calls a sheriff's deputy. The 'blue wall' crosses state boundaries, and a responding officer might be more sympathetic to your enemies than to you."
"Copy all," Win assured. "Cripes! Doesn't 'protect and serve' mean anything to Metro?"
"Oh, some still adhere to P&S. But today's cops have been brainwashed by police unions into believing 'protect-and-serve' applies first and foremost to protecting their own. Civilians are a distant second.
"Hey, been meaning to tell you," Black added, changing subjects. "Putting up those billboards all over Vegas was brilliant. Old man Steele scored a slam dunk with that one!"
"Can't take credit for it, Doc. That brain-flash belongs to Max Decimus, one of Erik's supersharp friends. He came up with the idea, negotiated an incredible deal with billboard companies, and raised thousands of dollars in donations through the memorial website.
"We now have seven electronic 'boards that cycle our ad every few minutes," Steele explained. "The first one said, 'Let the Truth be Known,' and showed the website URL. Since it went live, dozens of eyewitnesses have contacted us."
"Well, Metro's never had to deal with this type of push back from a victim's family. The Tower is running in circles, and that dipstick sheriff is spittin' spikes!" Black chortled.
"His poll numbers are tanking, and the billionaires who bankrolled his reelection campaign are nervous. Their horse is stumbling in the backstretch, and those backers think Uriah could lose this race."
"Hey, how do you know all this Vegas stuff? You have a mole in Uriah's office?"
"Old cops have friends in strange places. Just like old reporters."
Black's mostly one-way conversations with his Homeland Security contact, code-named Bishop, had been quite revealing.
"What are your sources saying?"
"'Bout the same. A bunch of good cops on the inside feed stuff to us. They agree these blogs are yanking the Tower's chain big-time."
"Yep, they are. And some of your most loyal followers are inside that dysfunctional department. Thousands of Metro employees are reading those blog postings. Very few good cops and Metro admin types have any use for Uriah and his corrupt jackasses."
Win cracked a weary smile. "I appreciate the insights, Doc. You've been there, and your knowledge of how large law enforcement departments operate is utterly golden. I'm deeply indebted to you."
"Not a problem, my friend," Black harrumphed. "I admit that I'm stunned—and ashamed—by what you've encountered in Vegas. Professional law enforcement officers are not quick-to-shoot, and they damned sure do not cover up their sick mistakes. Metro is a malignancy, a tumor of systemic corruption. And it'll destroy Las Vegas, unless its leaders and a crop of worthless killer-cops are removed."
"No argument here, Doc! I'm trying to give the system a chance, but Metro's too damned dirty to conduct a credible investigation," Win said. "Its Homicide perverts are working harder to destroy Erik's reputation and character than to unravel what happened at Ho's!"
"It's going to get a lot uglier," Doc predicted. "Keep me in the loop, okay? I'm committed to helping however I can.
"Sorry to run, but I'd better get to work."
As Win signed off, he noticed a white pickup truck parked across the street. Its driver was pointing something at the Steele home. Already irritated, Win headed for the door. Long strides brought him to the pickup's driver-side window in seconds.
"Excuse me," Win barked, startling the driver, who was writing on a clipboard. "We have an active neighborhood watch program here, and I saw you pointing something at my house. Mind telling me what you're up to?"
"No problem, sir," the driver answered, unperturbed. "I'm conducting a survey for the water company. They're installing prototype wireless smart meters, and I'm documenting homes that have been identified as candidates."
"And what water company would that be? There's no logo on your door."
The guy hesitated, "Uhh… Colorado Springs Utility."
Win glared at the guy. "Wrong answer, bud. We're serviced by Donala."
"Yeah, but… , we… ," the man stammered. "I'm a contractor. I can't keep all of these little districts straight."
Win bent closer and purred, "Mister Contractor, you go back to Vegas and give Captain Cover-Up a message from ol' man Steele: The next time one of his goons bothers Erik's friends, or my family, or me, his sleazeball just might go home in a box."
He slapped the door jamb, stalked back to his driveway, and watched the small pickup, until it rounded a curve.
Win was still seething, when he jerked the front door open. Layna was in the foyer, knotting a waist-tie around her housecoat.
"What was that about?" she asked sleepily.
Win recounted the conversation, skipping his over-the-top warning.
"What makes you think he was Metro? Maybe he really was a water-company contractor," Layna said.
"The guy was too smooth—and clueless about Donala servicing this area. And he had cop eyes," Win said flatly. "As Kyler said, when we met with the Clark County coroner: 'All the right things came out of his mouth, but the dude had cop eyes. Dead, no emotion.' The guy in that pickup had the same dead eyes."
Layna sat in Win's leather desk chair, folded her arms and shot Win the look. That withering, you-gotta-be-kidding-me skeptical one. Over forty years of marriage, he'd received that look a few times.
"You're being irrational," she proclaimed, crossing her legs. "You're seeing bogeymen behind every tree.
"That temper of yours is putting us in Metro's crosshairs, and I'm scared. Yes, those Metro killers murdered our Erik, but let the Justice Department handle them. I don't want to lose you, just because you're out for revenge."
Win paced back and forth across the office, arguing that, so far, he'd not lost his temper. Everything he'd done had been logical, calculated and measured.
"Those bastards not only killed our son, now they're trying to destroy his character," he fumed. "And I won't tolerate their stupid attempts to intimidate us!"
Layna shook her head, stood and hugged Win, burying her head against his chest. He wrapped lean arms around her shoulders and caught a hint of yesterday's perfume.
"You heard Sofia," Layna said, words muffled. "The Mafia still runs Vegas, and Metro's bad cops are the Mob's enforcers. They kill anybody who gets in their way, and they're never held accountable. I don't want them to kill you, too… !"
Her voice trailed off in a high-pitched cry.
Win held his wife a long time, unable to respond with promises he couldn't keep. Layna definitely had suffered enough, losing two brothers, a father and now her eldest son. She was incredibly strong, but wouldn't survive losing another family member to senseless violence.
God knows she'd picked up a few gray hairs, over the years, worrying that her husband and father of their two boys might not come home. She'd put up with years of flight testing, plus hundreds of evaluation flights for Aerospace International magazine stories.
Now, in their "golden years," Layna couldn't bear the thought of becoming a widow, simply because her hotheaded husband could't let vicious Metro dogs sleep.
But there's no way he could let the killers walk, unscathed, either. One way or another, God would hold them accountable. And Win Steele had signed up to be one of His Earth-warriors, a vehicle through which the Lord would wreak justice on thieves who had stolen Erik's life.
* *
Officer Loring Malovic listened to a cryptic, sinister voicemail. It was the third he'd received, since his name had surfaced in the Vegas media as one of three officers, who had shot Erik Steele. Each message had been a warning laced with palpable hate.
Malovic played the message for his wife, proving that he was under fire, the target of threats from God knows whom. Sandy was skeptical, dismissing the calls as pranks foisted by her husband's fellow officers.
"It's somebody at the station, Mal," she scoffed. "Some guy who's jealous of your 'vacation' time."
Malovic protested, but Sandy refused to talk about it. Or anything else.
She'd grown increasingly distant, since that horrible night of July 10. She worked longer hours at the hospital, and never felt like eating, when she got home. They rarely had a meal together, even when Mal expended considerable effort to prepare an impressive dinner. And they hadn't shared a bed in weeks.
Malovic was rapidly becoming a soul adrift. On administrative leave, until the coroner's inquest hearing was convened, he spent every day alone. A couple of officers had dropped by early on to congratulate him for being "a no-shit hero, protecting all those civilians from that whacked-out Steele dude."
He'd repeatedly discounted the Metro-promulgated myth that Steele had been a threat, but his fellow rookies were having none of Malovic's "modesty."
Only one senior officer, Lieutenant Jim Johns, who was running a tight election campaign against Alex Uriah, had seemed to understand the angst Malovic was experiencing. Lt. Johns had called and asked if he could stop by "to see how you're doing."
Malovic didn't really know Johns, although they were both assigned to the West Substation. Johns arrived in civvies, not a uniform, which was less intimidating. The sixteen-year veteran outranked the rookie considerably.
Johns had listened intently to Malovic's account of the Steele shooting, then quietly, matter-of-factly dropped a bombshell.
"That's the story Mikey Greel told you to relate. I want to hear what really happened."
Rattled, Malovic stammered and stuttered, but stuck to the Greel version. Maybe Johns was there to trip him up, see if the rookie was truly "on the team."
Nevertheless, Johns scratched away, asking pointed questions that led Malovic to conclude the lieutenant already knew the truth.
"I assure you," the slender officer stressed, "I'm here to help. I have no use for Captain Greel's unethical methods, and, if I'm elected, I'll get rid of that animal.
"You have the makings of a good police officer — but not if you compromise your integrity and tarnish that badge with falsehoods."
Malovic had struggled to level with Johns, but, in the end, was too spooked by Vader's subtle threats. Unless Johns was elected sheriff, the lieutenant couldn't protect a snitch.
Ultimately, Malovic had stuck to Greel's cover story about the shooting. Now, he was haunted by Johns' look of pity and final comments.
"We both know Erik Steele was murdered," Johns had said, "and that Mikey Greel orchestrated a sloppy cover-up. What you probably don't know is why Vader did it.
"Greel doesn't give a flyin' flip about you or the other shooters. His job is to get Sheriff Uriah reelected, because that's what Antone Galocci has decreed. Vader only answers to Galocci. Who do you think provides all that cash for Raven missions?"
Malovic had dropped his eyes, a reaction that didn't escape the senior officer.
"So we've already been on a Raven mission, huh?" Johns had stared at the rookie a long time, wearing an expression of sadness and…something else. Disgust.
Without another word, the man had donned a pair of sunglasses and departed. He never looked back, and never called again.
And Officer Loring Malovic had never felt more isolated.
* *
Detective Brian James and his teenage son, Gary, found seats in the upper tier of a temporary grandstand and settled in to watch the World Surfing Championship finals. An avid surfing fan, Gary had hounded his father into making the long drive from Las Vegas to Huntington Beach.
Gary had been raised in the desert, but could have passed for a Surf City native. Well-tanned, wearing baggy, wild-patterned, knee-length shorts, a tank top and flip-flops, the handsome blond drew admiring glances and smiles from a steady stream of bikini-clad girls. They unanimously ignored the dumpy old guy with Gary.
Detective James was hardly enthused about the beach or surfing, but he only had one weekend a month with his son. He was determined to log some serious quality time with Gary, and the kid loved surfing.
James breathed deeply, relishing cool, salty air — a welcome relief from the Las Vegas furnace. Concealed by wraparound sunglasses and a floppy hat, his eyes tracked the wealth of young, curvaceous girls. California dreamin' indeed!
Divorced and engulfed by a round-the-clock job with Metro homicide, the detective rarely saw a scantily clad, beautiful woman. Unless she was dead.
"Awesome! Check the banner, dad!" Gary said, pointing.
High above the waves, a hundred yards off the crowded beach, a single-engine aircraft was trailing a huge, transparent banner: VEGAS POLICE COVER-UP? R.I.P. ERIKBSTEELE.COM.
Detective James choked on his Pepsi.
"Aw, shit!" He threw a glance at his son, but Gary was focused on the next competitor, a bronzed surfer racing a monstrous, foam-flecked wave.
James turned away, fished a cell phone from his shorts pocket and punched a speed-dial key.
"Yeah, this is Detective James. Can you route me to Metro public information?"
He waited, until a duty officer came on-line.
"I thought somebody oughta know… . I'm down here in Huntington Beach, and I'm looking at one hell of an attack on our department."
He described the banner, as the airplane made a lazy turn south of the Huntington Pier and reversed direction. Over the next half hour, the aircraft would make several passes parallel to the beach. Ultimately, more than 100,000 surfing-championship spectators, tourists and beach house residents would see that damning banner. Another million or so would see it on national television.
James stood and craned his neck, searching the crowd. "Yeah, I can see several TV cameras. Ah… .maybe. A bunch of newsies are grouped around a coupla tall guys. … Hell, I don't know! I've never seen the other Steele kid. Doesn't look like the old man, the father that's been on TV in Vegas."
* *
"Sir, I'm positive the Steeles are responsible for this outrage," Deputy Chief Carly Singer declared. As the senior on-duty Metro officer, she had been notified of Detective James' heads-up call.
Sheriff Alex Uriah was leaving a campaign rally, when Singer called his private number. Smiling and waving, he hurried to his staff car, bodyguards clearing a path for their boss.
"Let me get this straight," he demanded. "An airplane is towing a banner over the World Surfing Championships, and the damned thing says something about a police cover-up in Las Vegas?"
"That's correct, sir."
"Damn it to hell!" Uriah roared. "What are we doing about it?"
"Nothing we can do, sir," Carly said. "It's already on three or four channels in Los Angeles, and our local stations are picking it up, as affiliates. If we say anything, we'll just feed the flames."
Uriah kicked a tire, seething. "Those bastards! Who the hell are these people? Why can't they accept that their son screwed up and got shot? Get over it, assholes!"
Singer responded with sympathetic agreement and hung up. She reflected on Uriah's impolitic, unspoken addendum: … Like every other Metro victim's family does!
The incumbent sheriff might not get it, but a thousand nervous police officers, who were more in tune with the community, were acutely aware of a glaring fact: Erik Steele's family had the resources and smarts to destroy Metro.
More and more, Singer feared, Las Vegas cops were despised by citizens, and no longer untouchable. Steele's killing had plunged Metro into unfamiliar territory, fighting an enemy it could not comprehend and, as the department's oblivious leaders would soon discover, a battle it could not win.