Eleventh Hour

It was hanging off a paper plate, ready to make its final leap to the floor. Dane thought it more likely that the cleaning guy wouldn’t touch it. He smiled, shook his head. “I ate on the plane. Thank you, Inspector.”

The god-awful reality of it hit Dane when he saw his brother through the glass window in the very small viewing room at the morgue. Dr. Boyd, a tall, white-haired, commanding man, with a voice to make a sinner confess, had taken them through the security door, down the short hall into the room, and drew back the curtains. There was Michael, a sheet pulled up to his neck, only his head visible. Dane felt a lurch of pain so deep he almost gasped. He felt Delion’s hand on his shoulder. Then he saw the red dot on Michael’s forehead; it looked so fantastical, like it had just been painted on, nothing more, just a dab of makeup, some sort of fashion statement or affectation. He wanted to ask Dr. Boyd why they hadn’t cleaned it off, but he didn’t.

Dr. Boyd said very gently, “He died instantly, Agent Carver. There was just the slap of the bullet, then he was gone. No pain. I’m very sure of that.”

Dane nodded.

“You know that we’ve done the autopsy, taken fingerprints and DNA samples.”

“Yes, I know.”

Delion stepped back, his arms folded across his chest, and watched Special Agent Dane Carver. He knew what shock was, what anguish was, and he saw both in this man. When Dane finally nodded and stepped back, Delion said, “Chief Kreider wants to see us now.”

Chief Dexter Kreider’s secretary walked them into the chief’s office. The room wasn’t all that big, but the view was spectacular. The entire side wall was windows, looking out toward the Bay Bridge, a huge Yahoo! sign and a neon-lit diet Coke sign the other landmarks in view. There was a large desk, and two large cabinets filled with kitsch, something that made Dane smile, for a moment. Just about every higher-up’s office he’d been into had had at least one display case. And here, there was also a touch of whimsy—in a corner stood a colorful wooden carousel horse. Utilitarian and whimsical, a nice combination.

Dane knew that Chief Kreider could never sit on that carousel horse. He was a huge man, at least six-foot-four-inches, a good two hundred sixty pounds, not much of it excess, even around his belly. He had military-short hair, steel gray, and lots of it, wore aviator glasses, and looked to be in his mid-fifties.

He wasn’t smiling. “Carver? Dane Carver? Special Agent?”

Dane nodded, shook the chief’s hand.

“It’s good to meet you. Come, sit down. Tina, bring us some coffee.”

Delion and Dane sat at the small circular table in the center of the room. The chief still didn’t sit, he stood towering over them, his arms crossed over his chest. Then he began to pace until Tina, an older woman, with the same military precision as the chief, poured coffee, nodded to the chief, and marched out. Finally he said, “I got an e-mail from Dillon Savich, your boss back at Disneyland East.”

“That’s a good one,” Delion said.

Kreider said, “Yeah, fitting. Savich writes that you’re smarter than you’ve a right to be and you’ve got great gut instincts. He asks that we keep you in the loop. Delion, what do you think? You want to cooperate with the Feds?”

“No,” Delion said. “This is my case. But I’ll accept Carver in on the case with me, as long as I’m the boss and what I say goes.”

“I don’t want to take over the case,” Dane said, “not at all. I just want to help find my brother’s murderer.”

Kreider said, “All right then. Delion’s partner, Marty Loomis, is out with shingles, of all things, laid up for another couple of weeks. Inspector Marino has been in on this since Sunday night with Delion. I’ve given this some thought.” He paused a moment, smiled. “I knew Dillon Savich’s father, Buck Savich. He was a wild man, smart enough to scare a crook off to Latvia. I hear his son isn’t wild—not like his father was—but he’s got his father’s brains, lots of imagination, and is a professional to his toenails. I respected the father and I respect the son. You, Carver, I don’t know a bloody thing about you, but for the moment I’ll take Savich’s word that you’re pretty good.”

“Like I said,” Delion said, “I don’t mind him tagging along, sir. Hey, maybe he’ll even say something bright every now and again.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Kreider said. He paced a couple more times, then pulled up right in front of Dane. “Or would you rather go off on your own?”