Lethal Measures

  Lethal Measures by LEONARD S. GOLDBERG

  ALSO BY LEONARD GOLDBERG

  Deadly Medicine A Deadly Practice Deadly Care Deadly Harvest Deadly Exposure

  A DUTTON BOOK

  DutTON Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Putnam Inc.” 375 Hudson Street, N.w York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, February, 2000 10987654321 Copyright Leonard S. Goldberg, 2000 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

  CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Goldberg, Leonard S. Lethal measures / Leonard Goldberg. p. em.

  ISBN 0-525-94528-8 (alk. paper) I. Title.

  PS3557.035775 L4 2000 813’.5421—dc21 99-043711 Printed in the United States of America Set in Sabon Designed by Leonard Telesca

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  FOR PAIGE AND JULIE

  There’s no savagery of beasts that’s not infinitely outdone by that of man.

  —Herman Melville, Moby-Dick Wednesday, March 10, 9:48 p.m.

  The Mardi Gras festival in West Hollywood brought out the cross-dressers in force. Most were men in cocktail dresses and evening gowns. A few had on Playboy bunny outfits despite the chilly night air. Onlookers lined the sidewalks, pointing and laughing as a pair in miniskirts and high heels blew kisses as they passed. A flasher in a raincoat quickly exposed and covered himself. The crowd roared. Two cops appeared out of nowhere and escorted the man away. The crowd booed.

  Eva Reineke watched one of the policemen speak into a walkie-talkie. Her eyes went back to the crowd, trying to spot other cops listening with earpieces or talking into handheld transmitters. She didn’t see any, but she knew they were there. She could sense their presence.

  Someone bumped into her from behind and pushed her forward. She turned abruptly, her hand reaching instinctively for the semiautomatic weapon in her waistband.

  “Sorry, little lady,” the drunk slurred. He looked at her for a moment, then smiled crookedly.

  “Or are you a little boy?”

  Eva tried to move around the drunk, who was wearing the uniform of an Air Force colonel. There were no ribbons or decorations on his chest. A fake, she thought.

  It was probably a costume.

  The man grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close. His breath smelled like stale beer.

  “Let’s take off that cap and see if you’re a little boy.”

  Eva brought her knee up forcefully and slammed it into the drunk’s crotch. The man dropped like a dead weight, gagging and groping for his testicles.

  Unhurriedly Eva walked away and waited a full ten seconds before

  glancing back. The drunk was still curled up on the sidewalk. No one had come to his assistance. The crowd was too busy watching the freak show.

  Eva came to the window of a music store and stopped to study her reflection. She was wearing combat fatigues and a billed cap that was pulled down to the tip of her nose. The only exposed part of her face was her lips and chin. Her gaze went to the reflections of the people passing behind her. They were all civilians. No uniforms, no cops.

  “Hey! This guy is hurt!” a voice cried out.

  Eva walked into the store and browsed, occasionally glancing at the front window. People were hurrying by to see the new show. A sick man lying on the sidewalk. That would be more interesting than a bunch of loony transvestites.

  Fucking people, she thought disgustedly and wondered for the thousandth time what America was coming to.

  “Can I help you?” asked a young clerk wearing jeans and a tank top with no bra.

  “I’m looking for gospel,” Eva said.

  “In the back near the door,” the clerk replied, pointing.

  “If you need any help, let me know.”

  “You bet.”

  “That’s a cool outfit you’ve got on. Where did you get it?”

  “Army-Navy store.”

  Eva strolled to the rear, and when the clerk wasn’t looking she slipped out the back door. The parking lot was full, the attendant leaning against a wall, smoking a joint and listening to rap music on a boom box. Eva hurried across the dimly lighted lot, then stepped over a low cement wall and went down a narrow alley until she reached Fletcher Drive. She stopped, moved into the shadows and waited to see if anyone was following her. A dog barked. A television set up ahead was playing too loud. The alley remained deserted.

  Eva walked up the street that led into the Hollywood Hills. It was after 10:00 p.m. and most of the houses were dark. Those few with their lights on had the living room drapes tightly closed. No doubt their doors were bolted and secured, Eva thought grimly. And some of the homeowners probably had loaded weapons because this was not a safe neighborhood. But the people on the block wouldn’t have to worry about their safety much longer. Soon they’d be dead. The treacherous would die for sure, and so would some of the innocent. Eva had no regrets

  about that. When God wanted to stamp out evil, he frequently killed innocent people as well. He did it in Sodom and Gomorrah. He did it in Noah’s time with the flood. It was God’s way.

  Eva glanced quickly up and down the street before she crossed over. There were a few cars parked along the curb, but she recognized them. They belonged to neighbors. She heard a rustling sound somewhere close by and stopped, all of her senses now alerted. Her eyes went to a nearby hedge as she reached for her weapon. Then she saw what it was. A neighbor’s cat was stalking something in the bushes.

  She moved quickly to the door and knocked once sharply. Then she knocked twice more.

  “Who’s there?” a male voice asked.

  “One of the Righteous,” Eva said.

  The door opened and Eva entered a small living room. There was no furniture, not even a chair. The Venetian blinds were old and yellow and drawn shut.

  “Where are they?” Eva asked quietly.

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Tell me everything that happened. I want the exact words that were spoken.”

  “Well, some of it was in Spanish, so I ” “Just tell me what you remember.” Eva cut him off.

  “I want it word for word.”

  Rudy Payte stroked his goatee as he thought back. He was stocky and well built, in his late twenties, with his hair shaved down to his scalp.

  “I went to take a leak, and when I came back I heard one of them speaking English.”

  “You were still in the hall outside the kitchen door. Right?”

  “Right. They didn’t know I was there,” Rudy said, keeping his voice low.

  “Anyway, I thought it was kind of strange that the guy was speaking English.

  They always talk in Spanish when they’re alone.”


  “What was he saying?”

  “He wanted to know how much the reward would be if he told them which bank was going to be robbed.”

  Eva’s face hardened.

  “He had to be talking to the cops.”

  “Or the feds.” Rudy nodded.

  “One of his friends said something in Spanish, and then the guy asked the cops how they could be sure they’d get the reward money.”

  “And then?” “That’s when I coughed real loud to let them know I was coming back into the kitchen.”

  “And he hung up?”

  “Yeah. They went back to speaking Spanish real quick.”

  Eva moved over to the Venetian blinds and cracked them apart to look out. The street was still quiet. An old man was walking his German shepherd. The dog was casually sniffing a tree. Eva turned back to Rudy.

  “Are you sure they used your cellular phone?”

  “Positive,” Rudy said at once.

  “It was still warm from the guy’s hand when I picked it up. And there ain’t any other phones in the kitchen.”

  “Good,” Eva said, frowning.

  “And we know there’s no way they can trace your cell phone number to this address.”

  Rudy hesitated, unsure.

  “Maybe there’s a way.”

  Eva shook her head.

  “The machine the cops have will only tell them the phone number that made the call, not the address.”

  “But they can look that up.”

  “And they’ll find the phony Culver City address I gave when I got the phone.”

  She looked through the blinds once more, wondering if the cops had had the time to pinpoint the location of the cellular phone call. She knew it could be done by plotting the lines of transmissions as they bounced off the satellite orbiting high above the earth. That was how they’d located O.J. Simpson in his Bronco on the freeway. It could be done, she thought again, but it would take a fair amount of time to do it. Turning back to Rudy, she asked, “How long was he on the phone?”

  “Not more than a few minutes.”

  “Be specific.”

  “Two minutes,” Rudy estimated.

  “Three at the very most.”

  Eva nodded, but she thought he was lying. The Mexicans weren’t stupid. They wouldn’t have picked up the phone just because Rudy had gone to the bathroom. He had probably turned the shower on and stayed in there forever, like he usually did.

  “What do you want to do?” Rudy broke into her thoughts.

  “Make believe it didn’t happen.”

  Rudy looked at her sharply.

  “What!”

  “Just make believe everything is fine and follow my lead.”

  Eva walked down the hall and through swinging doors into the kitchen.

  Rudy was a step behind her, a fake grin on his face. The four Hispanic men standing around the table waved and smiled at her.

  “Evita!”

  “Hola, Evita!”

  “Buenas noches, Evita!”

  The men knew her name was Eva, but they called her Evita after Evita Peron, about whom they had learned in the movies. The great Evita, who had worked so hard for the poor and downtrodden of her beloved Argentina. The great Evita, who had helped so many. And their Evita would help them as well. They would rob a bank for her, and she would make sure their families were financially secure.

  Each man would go to his grave knowing his family was looked after.

  The men even thought she looked like Evita Peron, with her slim body and pretty face and green eyes and dark blond hair pulled back severely into a bun. They had argued about her age. Some believed she was in her early thirties. Others thought she was closer to forty. All agreed she would be heaven to sleep with.

  “Evita, would it be possible for us to have some food?” the tallest of the Hispanic men asked.

  “We have not eaten all day.”

  “Of course.” Eva smiled at the man, wondering if he was the betrayer, the one who had talked with the cops on the phone.

  “But first we must begin practicing for the bank robbery. Each of you has been given a protective vest, which you will wear at the time of the robbery. The vests are made of a special plastic material that will stop bullets in case of a gunfight. You must wear it under your coat to protect yourself. On the day of the holdup, you will have your body armor on for over two hours. That’s a long time. We must make certain the vests will not cause any blisters or skin irritation, even after hours of wear. So tonight you will put the vests on and leave them on for a full hour to see if there is any reaction.”

  The tall man nodded his understanding.

  “Please put them on now.”

  The vests were heavy sheets of bright orange plastic. They covered the chest and back and were held in place by Velcro straps. As the men put them on, they made brief eye contact with one another. All hoped that they would never have to wear the vests, that they could cut a deal with the police and collect a reward large enough to give their families security. All of the men had incurable diseases, all were certain to die within months. They were poor men whose deaths would

  leave their families destitute. But Evita had heard of their plight and approached them, offering a way out. The bank robbery would provide security for their wives and children.

  “Good,” Eva said, when they were finished.

  “For the next hour, I want you to walk around the house, wearing your vests at all times. Do not, under any circumstances, go outside. Understood?”

  The men nodded.

  “Good. We will return within the hour with food and drink for you.”

  “Gracias, Evita!”

  “Gracias!”

  Eva walked out of the kitchen, Rudy just behind her. Halfway down the hall, he grabbed her arm.

  “You can’t trust those bastards,” he growled in a low voice.

  “They’ll wait a few minutes and then they’ll—” Eva placed an index finger against his lips.

  “Shhh!”

  They went out into the chilly night and scanned the neighborhood, looking for people or things that shouldn’t have been there. The cat was still stalking something in the bushes. The old man and his dog were no longer in sight. Eva counted the cars parked at the curb, making certain their number hadn’t changed while she was in the house. She signaled to Rudy, and they quickly crossed the street and got into their car.

  Rudy turned the ignition key.

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “Drive,” Eva said tonelessly.

  “Keep the headlights off until we get to the big intersection.”

  Eva took off her cap and the dark blond wig she was wearing beneath it. She shook her red hair loose and fluffed it with her hands. Leaning forward, she wriggled out of the top of her combat fatigues.

  Rudy watched out of the corner of his eye, admiring her breasts as she slipped into a football jersey with the number 32 on it. Then she reached into the glove compartment and took out a remote-control device that was the size of a pager.

  Rudy smiled, thinking he should have known better than to underestimate her. She was smart as hell, twice as smart as any man he’d ever met.

  Now they were approaching the intersection.

  “Switch your lights on,” Eva told him.

  “Which way do I turn?”

  “Left. Away from the freak show.” At the intersection the light was red. They stopped and watched two transvestites stroll hand in hand across the crosswalk. One was wearing a miniskirt, the other a skintight unitard.

  “This place is like Sodom and Gomorrah,” Rudy grumbled.

  “I wish those two were in the house with the Mexicans.”

  “Their time will come too.”

  The light turned green.

  Eva primed the remote control and pressed down on a red button.

  In a fraction of a second an electrical impulse reached the detonator in the C-4 that was embedded in the orange vests the Mexicans had secur
ed to their chests.

  There was a sudden flash, followed by a blast so powerful that it caused the pavement beneath the car to shake violently.

  Rudy held on tightly to the steering wheel.

  “Whoa!”

  Eva put her hand on the dashboard and braced herself. Car alarms were going off everywhere. People were running about, screaming and looking for cover. It took another few seconds for the car to stop vibrating. Eva put the remote-control device back into the glove compartment.

  “And that takes care of our friends.”

  “Jeez! How much C-four did you use?”

  “Two bricks in each vest.”

  “Man, oh man! They won’t find an intact toenail from those guys.”

  “That’s the general idea,” Eva said and pointed ahead.

  “The light is green. You can go now.” Thursday, March 11, 8=02 a.m.

  Simon Murdock stared at the television screen, shocked by the devastation he saw. The explosion had turned a half block of houses into rubble. Sixteen people had been killed, twenty-eight injured seriously enough to require hospitalization. And the numbers were rising. Now the television was showing a fireman as he emerged from a pile of bricks and wood. He was carrying a child, no more than three years old. The toddler with his nightie still on was obviously dead. Murdock winced and looked away, thinking that only a madman would do something like this. A bomb! In the middle of Los Angeles! Jesus Christ!

  Murdock glanced around his office at Memorial Hospital. Potted plants and flowers were everywhere, gifts delivered yesterday to celebrate his twentieth year as clean of the medical center. They gave the room a cheerfulness that seemed extremely inappropriate at the moment. His gaze went back to the television set.

  The intercom on Murdock’s desk buzzed loudly. He quickly pushed a button and spoke to his secretary.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Kitt from the Federal Bureau of Investigation is on line one.”

  Murdock used a remote control to turn off the television set and pushed another button on the intercom.

  “Simon Murdock here,” he said, reaching for a legal pad and a pen.

  He listened to a perfunctory greeting, then began jotting down the instructions being given by William Kitt, the head of the FBI Domestic Terrorism Unit. The following needed to be done.