TIMOTHY O’ROURKE HAD worked for Senator McSweeney for several years, as a combination chauffeur-bodyguard. When the senator had geared up for the presidential campaign, he had been switched to a full-time security officer. But he’d been pushed aside even before the arrival of the Secret Service and the redoubling of the Service’s efforts following the attempt on McSweeney’s life. O’Rourke was considered a bit too old and too rough around the edges to really fit in.
Though that wasn’t his interpretation of what had happened.
“These young guys and their BlackBerry thingers,” O’Rourke had told Ball bitterly several weeks before, when he had effectively been demoted to the status of an advance flunky. “They don’t understand the importance of experience. What experience do they have, anyway? None.”
Ball remembered the conversation as he waited for O’Rourke to answer his cell phone. It was shameful how they pushed older guys out, he thought, though he knew in this case there was probably a bit more to the story than O’Rourke let on. The retired trooper was several years older than Ball, and not nearly in as good physical shape. And he’d never been as smart.
“O’Rourke.”
“Hello, Tim, how are you?”
“Chief?”
They exchanged greetings and caught up briefly, enabling Ball to ascertain that O’Rourke was in fact on the West Coast. While he’d had a backup plan in case O’Rourke wasn’t, things would be considerably easier this way.
“I wonder if you could do me a favor,” said Ball.
“A favor? What do you need, Chris?”
“I’d like to talk to you in person, if you don’t mind. I’m in town, actually.”
“LA?”
“It’s kind of important. I know you’re busy.”
“Busy.” O’Rourke made a derisive sound as if he were spitting into the phone. “They’re humoring me here, Chris. I could go away for a month and they’d never miss me.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“Close.”
“Want to have dinner?”
“Already ate.”
“Let’s grab a drink then,” said Ball. “I know a place.”
THEY MET AT a small bar Ball had picked out before making the phone call. O’Rourke had retired as a zone sergeant for the New York State Troopers before signing on with McSweeney, and like most of their conversations, this one began with him recalling a minor incident they’d watched unfold in the local court, where the citizen judge had actually fallen asleep several times during the proceedings. Ball chuckled, though he felt bad for the judge. They were on their second beers before O’Rourke asked what he had wanted.
“I need a job, actually,” Ball told him. “I was wondering if there might be something on the senator’s staff.”
He wove a story of political intrigue, claiming that his foes in the village had finally outmaneuvered him.
“Well, I’m sure Senator McSweeney would help. Somehow. There isn’t much to do now. I mean, there are plenty of things to do, but the Secret Service takes care of most of it.”
“You’re not involved at all?”
“Of course I’m involved.”
Ball bought another round, encouraging O’Rourke to talk. He picked up as much information as he could about the security arrangements, pulling out names and data about the routines.
By the time they were done, O’Rourke had convinced himself that he was going to get his old friend a job. They were going to have a great time together.
O’Rourke had also had quite a bit to drink, more than enough to make him tipsy.
“I think I better drive you home,” said Ball.
“Nonsense. I’m sober.”
“If you get stopped, it’ll look very bad for the campaign. And I won’t get my job.”
It took another round to convince him.
KILLING AMANDA RAUCI had taken so much out of Ball that he decided he wasn’t going to kill O’Rourke; instead, he’d leave him locked in the trunk of the rental car and park it somewhere no one would find it for a day or two. But when Ball pulled off the road and got out of the car, pretending that he was going to relieve himself, the sleeping O’Rourke suddenly stirred.
“Where you goin’, Chris?”
“Gotta take a leak.”
“Where the hell are we?”
“Damned if I know,” lied Ball.
And then suddenly O’Rourke became belligerent, pointing out that they should have been back at his hotel by now.
“Look, I don’t know the damn state,” said Ball. He had already taken O’Rourke’s pistol; he put his hand on it as he walked around the car toward the field.
“We’re out in the middle of nowhere,” said O’Rourke, getting out of the car. “Hey, where’s my gun?”
“Here,” said Ball, and he killed O’Rourke with a single shot to the head.
A sharp edge of panic struck Ball in the ribs as O’Rourke fell. Had someone seen him stop? Was he close enough to the nearby houses to be heard?
He’d checked the place carefully, he reminded himself, but his paranoia continued to grow. He picked O’Rourke up and put him in the trunk, then took off his shirt, worried about bloodstains. Ball went to the ground and kicked at the dirt.
Get out of here, he told himself. Go! Take the car and go.
He felt better as he drove. By the time he left the car in the long-term parking lot at LAX and queued up for a cab to take him back to his hotel, he was back to his old self.
Not the police chief self, but the man who’d lived on his wits in the city years before, the man who knew how the night worked, and how to take advantage of it.
The man he needed to be for the next twenty-four hours.