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“All right…” He paused. “He was a good cop then. A damned good cop. A lot of us looked up to him.”
“Before he bagged out.”
Mercer looked at me. “You must know by now, things happen in a cop’s life that don’t always break down so easily into choices the rest of us can understand.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t spoken to him in twenty-two years.”
Mercer nodded. “I can’t speak for him as a father, or as a husband, but is there a chance that as a man, or at least a cop, you’ve judged him without knowing all the facts?”
“He never stuck around long enough to present the facts,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Mercer said. “I’ll tell you some things about Marty Boxer, but another time.”
“Tell me what? When?”
He drew down the privacy barrier and instructed his driver that it was time to head back to the Hall. “When you find Chimera.”
Chapter 43
LATER THAT NIGHT, as his Town Car slowed in the evening traffic near his home, Chief Mercer spoke up from the backseat. “Why don’t I get out here, Sam.”
His driver, Sam Mendez, glanced back. The mandate from the Hall was no unnecessary risks.
Mercer was firm on the matter. “Sam, there’s more cops on patrol in a five-block radius here than there are back at the Hall.” There was usually a patrol car or two cruising on Ocean and one stationed across from his home.
The car eased to a stop. Mercer opened the door and thrust his heavy shape onto the street. “Pick me up tomorrow, Sam. Have a good night.”
As his car pulled away, Mercer lugged his thick briefcase in one hand and threw his tan raincoat over his shoulder with the other. He experienced a surge of freedom and relief. These little after-work excursions were the only times he felt free.
He stopped at Kim’s Market and picked out the sweetest-looking basket of strawberries, and some choice plums, too. Then he wandered across the street to the Ingleside Wine Shop. He decided on a Beaujolais that would go with the lamb stew Eunice was making.
On the street, he glanced at his watch and headed toward home. On Cerritos, two stone pillars separated Ocean from the secure enclave of Ingleside Heights. The traffic disappeared behind him.
He passed the low stone house belonging to the Taylors. A noise rustled out from a hedge. “Well, well, Chief…?”
Mercer stopped. His heart was already pounding.
“Don’t be shy. I haven’t seen you in years,” the voice said again. “You probably don’t remember.”
What the hell was going on?
A tall, muscular man stepped out from behind the hedge. He was wearing a cocky smirk, a green wind-breaker wrapped around him.
A vague recognition came over Mercer, a familiarity in the face he couldn’t quite place. Then all at once it came back to him. Suddenly, everything made sense, and it took his breath away.
“This is such an honor,” the man said. “For you.”
He had a gun, heavy and silver. It was extended toward Mercer’s chest. Mercer knew he had to do something. Ram him. Get to his own gun somehow. He needed to act like a cop on the street again.
“I wanted you to see my face. I wanted you to know why you were dying.”
“Don’t do this. There are cops everywhere around here.”
“Good. That makes it even better for me. Don’t be scared, Chief. Where you’re going, you’ll be running into a lot of your old friends.”
The first shot struck him in the chest, a burning, clothes-searing thud that buckled his knees. Mercer’s first thought was to shout. Was it Parks or Vasquez stationed in front of his house? Only precious yards away. But his voice died inaudibly in his chest. Jesus God, please save me.
The second shot tore through his throat. He didn’t know if he was up or down. He wanted to charge the killer. He wanted to take this bastard down. But his legs felt—paralyzed, inert.
