Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SWAT Team Tango
JAMIE
Jamie stood frozen, hands up, adrenaline rushing, as the barrel of an assault rifle was pointed directly at her head.
“Lower that gun, son.” A strong, sure voice came from behind the young man.
“Sorry, sir,” the young officer uttered as he immediately lowered the gun.
Jamie nearly fell over, she was so relieved.
The young man, who was clad in black gear, a helmet, and yellow goggles, was accompanied by five other SWAT team members, who rushed into the restaurant. Chef Pascal, his sous-chef, Justin the bartender, and Amber the waitress all came out from the kitchen.
The man with the deep voice walked in slowly. He had an air of authority; he was calm, observant, with a bushy mustache that looked like a push broom under his nose. He removed his helmet, looked around, and greeted them.
“Hello, folks. My name is Detective Sergeant Arliss Roverson, I’m the tactical team leader of this SWAT operation.
We suspect there has been a series of explosions in this area of Manhattan Beach.
It is unclear if these are bombings or something less sinister.
At this point we are unsure of their origin.
To keep everyone safe, we have locked down the immediate six blocks.
We don’t know if there are more munitions planted, waiting to go off.
We’ve scrambled all cell service to inhibit communication and movement by the perpetrators, and frankly, to impede another remote detonation, if that’s what this was.
Please comply with this order or risk arrest. You are all on lock-down at this location until further notice. No one leaves.”
Everyone in the restaurant went silent.
“What about the stiff?” Rick asked.
“Pardon me, sir?”
Chef Pascal then stepped up and said, “Officer, I submit myself for arrest.” He offered his wrists to the detective as if he was expecting cuffs to be clamped on.
Detective Roverson squinted at Chef Pascal. “For what?”
Jamie piped up. “Detective Sergeant, it appears that one of the diners might have expired.” She pointed over in the direction of Nigel, whose body was arched forward, hovering over a plate of duck.
Nigel’s wife sat six feet away, curled up in a corner, clutching a glass of red wine, mute but dry-eyed, probably still in shock.
“Who is he?” Detective Roverson asked, his jaw tightening with every chew of his gum.
Chef Pascal was nearly in tears. “Nigel Spokes. Ze eminent food critic of Los Angeles. He was ze only food critic villing to come and dine at Piccolo given my history of accidentally poisoning my patrons.”
Roverson raised both eyebrows at this, as did everyone else in the room except Jamie.
He walked over to Nigel. He checked for a pulse and mumbled into his walkie.
He got a response back in his earpiece and sighed.
He turned around to the rest of them. “Well, folks, we can’t remove the deceased right now.
Until we can secure the location and get forensics in here to investigate, the body has to stay. ”
Justin the bartender suggested, “Can we at least move him to the freezer?”
Amber stiffened at the suggestion.
Roverson considered this and said, “I suppose that’s more sanitary.
But we’re going to have to bag everything that might be evidence.
” He glanced at Chef Pascal. “Including every speck of food the deceased may have consumed.” Roverson made a hut hut sound and the five other SWAT team members surrounded Nigel’s table, produced a stash of Ziploc baggies, and began to carefully bag and tag items including all the food.
Pascal turned white and nearly fainted.
Jamie tried to comfort him. “Chef Pascal, we ate everything you served us, and no one else is dead.”
“Zat is a small comfort, danke schon.” Chef Pascal’s shoulders sagged.
He shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen, closely followed by the sommelier. Justin ambled back to commandeer his small bar, obviously sensing cocktails were in order. Amber scurried away without explanation. The singles were settling in for what looked like a long night.
As the SWAT team completed their forensic tasks, Jamie looked around for Cliff. He was still nowhere to be found. She wandered over to the bar and heard someone say in a hushed voice say, “Psst. Hey.”
She turned and saw a SWAT team member discreetly waving her over. Unnerved but unsure how to proceed, she tentatively waved back. Then the guy took off his goggles and said, “Jamie, it’s me, Jon Robey.”
Flooded with relief that a SWAT team member was not in fact hitting on her, she said, “Oh, Jon, hi. I didn’t know you worked SWAT.”
“Oh, I’m still doing my thing on Vice, but I do SWAT on a freelance basis for the fun of it. Lets me use my tactical training in real-life situations. Plus, I get to handle this baby.” He held up his AR-15 semiautomatic weapon.
“Ah, yes. The chosen weapon of America’s school shooters,” Jamie cracked.
Jon grinned and said, “Not on my watch.”
She and Jon Robey had been newbies together.
During her first year working at the LA Superior Court, Jon was an eager rookie, looking for all the action, chomping at the bit to be a hero.
She was still cutting her teeth on psychos that were brought in by Vice.
They met when they were both on the team that successfully nabbed a sleezy con man who killed his mark in a fit of rage in the middle of a night club.
She and Jon struck up a friendship right away after he’d seen her deconstruct criminal behavior firsthand and had backed her theory to the detective in charge.
The mutual respect had bonded them as friends ever since.
To see him again was a bittersweet reminder of the exciting life and career she had left behind. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
“What are you doing now?” Jon asked. “I want all the juicy details.”
“I’m consulting, mostly.” Purposely opaque, Jamie didn’t think it important to tell him she was unemployed. Even less important that she had been a psychologist to C-suite narcissists. “I’m not quite at liberty to say.”
“Oooh, cagey. I hope it’s on some top-secret case from the FBI, like hunting down the next BTK killer.”
If only. She had to change the subject. “So, between us, what’s going on out there? Is it a mad bomber?”
He leaned in and whispered, “We’re not sure.
Might be, but the explosions didn’t have the hallmarks of your typical detonated bomb.
Seems to me they would have, or rather should have, been much bigger.
Whatever this was, it knocked out the power for six whole blocks. Southern Cal Ed is on its way now.”
Jamie thought about this a moment and something jogged loose in her brain. She turned to him and whispered, “Keep me updated, okay?”
“You bet. Who knows, you might help us figure out who’s behind it all.” Jon Robey gave her a boyish grin and then bounced over to the dead body of Nigel Spokes.
Maybe, she thought.
Ten minutes later, the body of Nigel Spokes was strapped to his chair and carried across the dining area by the SWAT team members toward the back of the restaurant.
His wife appeared inconsolable and remained mute, as Detective Roverson began asking her a few questions.
She seemed to nod blankly but nothing more.
Jamie was just about to go on a search when Cliff appeared stealth-like right next to her with two glasses of wine. “Since we don’t have Xanax, I thought this might help.”
Jamie took the glass of wine and filled him in.
“A lot has happened while you were away. It seems Nigel is being moved to the freezer to preserve evidence, all our phones are useless, we’re trapped here for the foreseeable future, and Chef Pascal has killed at least one diner before tonight. ” Jamie said this all flatly.
“On purpose?” Cliff asked.
“Shellfish allergy.”
“Ah.” He considered this for a moment, took a sip of his wine, and asked, “How long was I gone?”
“About twenty minutes.” Jamie tilted her wondering head. “Where were you? I was looking for you.” She grew quiet and observed.
Cliff remained calm but his eyes darted back and forth. “The lock on the men’s bathroom jammed. I was trapped in there until the waitress came to let me out.” He took of long sip of his wine and looked around the room.
He’s lying. She looked at him closer, focusing on his temple. “Did you cut yourself?” Jamie raised her finger to the wound and inspected the side of his head. She saw a small drop of dried blood and bruising was starting. Cliff brought up his hand to touch it and brushed her hand away.
“Hit my head on the towel dispenser in a fit of panic. Not a fan of small spaces.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Ah. Those towel dispensers can be nasty.” Something was way off.
She wavered, casting doubt over the entire idea of Cliff, which started to drain all the color out of the dream.
She didn’t trust her instincts when it came to her heart.
Didn’t have faith that her gift could suss out a liar, a cheater, a scumbag.
Maybe too much initial spark had blinded her to Cliff’s shortcomings.
She took a sip of wine. “Looks like we’re going to be here for awhile.”
“How long is awhile?”
“Hard to say. Detective Sergeant Roverson said the whole town is on lock-down.”
Cliff and Jamie surveyed the room. Justin was shaking up a cocktail at the bar.
The sous- chef was righting the tables and re-lighting the candles.
Nigel’s body had been removed, as if nothing ever happened, as if a life had not just been suddenly snuffed out.
Shannon and Kyle sat against the far wall, lost in their own conversation.
Rick and Holly were sparring loudly about something related to basketball.
A wonderful aroma wafted out from the kitchen where Chef Pascal had taken to working out his stress by cooking up another dish.
“There are worse places to be in a lock-down situation I suppose,” Jamie surmised.
“True,” Cliff said, still looking out at the room.
“We should make the best of it.” In a daring move, Cliff gently reached for her hand, his fingers lightly grasping her fingers.
Despite her misgivings, she responded. They rested there for a moment, and he began tracing the inside of her palm with his fingers.
She wondered if he was spelling out a secret language only she could understand.
It was a level of intimacy she welcomed; one she had deprived herself of for far too long.
They stayed like that for a moment in the dark. He, holding her hand, and she with so much to say and no way to say it.