He sat on the corner of a chaise longue, hunched forward, texting on his phone. Ellie didn’t see anyone else in the yard. She opened the gate and walked across the cobblestones, underneath a roofed area off the back of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked onto a good part of the downstairs—what real estate agents called “open concept.” In the adjoining kitchen, a big cooler, its lid open, sat on top of a dining table. She didn’t see anyone inside the house, and she gave the all-clear signal to Danny, who was moving with his hand resting on the butt of the nine tucked in his hip holster, on the other side of the yard, twenty or so feet away from the kid.
Then the kid looked up.
Saw Ellie, but not Danny.
Seeing one cop was enough. His body froze but his head swung across the pool, to the chaise longue sitting on the other side of the yard. The chaise was propped into a sitting position and faced the fence. Ellie couldn’t see who was sitting on it, just a woman’s tanned and slender arm hanging limply over the side, blood dripping from the fingers.
Ellie pulled out her sidearm, about to make the approach when Danny waved her back. “Stay with the kid,” he said. “And keep an eye out.”
Then, to the boy: “You. Keep your ass parked right where it is.”
Danny lumbered across the area around the pool and stepped cautiously on the grass, eyes scanning the backyard. Ellie took up a vantage point near the corner of the pool; it offered her the best view of the kid, the inside of the house, and Danny.
“Mrs. Vargas?” Danny called out.
The woman didn’t answer. Didn’t move, either, Ellie noticed. Her gaze cut sideways, back to the house. The living room and adjoining kitchen were still empty—as far as she could tell. She thought about the two words written on the dog tag—Help Us—and wondered who was inside the house. Wondered if she was being watched.
Danny moved across the lawn, taking bigger steps. Ellie thought she saw the woman’s arm twitch.
“Mrs. Vargas?” Danny called again. “LAPD.”
Still no answer, and that set something off in Ellie—an uneasiness that made her move into the backyard so she could get a better look at the woman lying on the chaise longue.
Ellie had seen a lot of messed-up shit during her short time as a patrolwoman. What she was witnessing right now immediately shot to the number one slot: Sophia Vargas—and it was her, no question, the woman an identical match with her driver’s license photo—wearing a pair of earbuds, her eyes closed and her mouth open and her right hand, buried underneath the tight fabric of her black bikini bottom, moving up and down, up and down, like she was trying to coax a genie out of its bottle.
When Danny’s shadow passed over the woman’s face, she opened her eyes. She saw the blue uniform and swallowed—not in embarrassment but in pleasure.
“Wait,” she said to him. “I’m almost there.”
Ellie watched, thunderstruck. She could see the still-fresh IV puncture wound in the crook of her arm, the wound bleeding, she was sure, from a recent transfusion.
“Ma’am,” Danny said, “I need you to stop masturbating.”
Sophia Vargas ignored him. She kept going, moving her finger even faster, trying to climax, not stopping or slowing down even when Danny leaned forward and yanked out her earbuds. Ellie had been told one of the side effects of blooding, at least in the initial hours after a transfusion, was a heightened sex drive, but she had never seen anything like this before.
Sophia Vargas arched her back. Her limbs stiffened and she cried out in pleasure.
Danny’s face was as red as an apple. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “What happened to your arm?”
The woman didn’t respond. She relaxed back against the chaise longue, trying to catch her breath.
Again Ellie glanced at the house—all clear downstairs, from what she could see—and then she looked back at the kid, who was sitting with his forearms on his knees and acting like what was unfolding here in the backyard was no big deal. Like he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He was way too young to administer a transfusion all by himself, but had he assisted someone? Was that person, maybe even group of people, hunkered down inside the house at this very moment?
Ellie had never heard of blooding being performed in someone’s home, but then again, this was Los Angeles, where if you were rich enough and willing to pay the price you could get anything you wanted, anytime.
“What happened to your arm, Mrs. Vargas?” Danny asked again.
“I gave blood,” the woman replied between breaths. “This morning.”
“Where?”
She licked her lips. Smiled. “One of those Red Cross mobile things.”
Bullshit, Ellie wanted to say. And why was Danny bothering with the whole Q & A dance? He had more than enough probable cause to arrest the woman on suspicion of receiving carrier blood.
The sliding back door slammed open. Ellie turned, saw a shirtless guy step out. He was tall and jacked with muscle, his chest and arms exploding with all kinds of shitty, colorful tattoos, like a box of crayons had vomited on him. The largest and oddest one was on his left shoulder: a gingerbread man with a bloody knife clamped between its sharklike teeth. He was a redhead—skin so pale it didn’t tan, freckles, and blondish red hair that had been shaved into a military-type crew cut.
Despite his intimidating build, Ellie didn’t feel threatened; his hands were empty, and she didn’t see a weapon in his shorts pockets. He was smiling, too, but there was absolutely nothing pleasant about it.
“Something wrong, Officers?” Gingerbread Man asked, his tone casual and relaxed, like he was receiving guests at a party. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t even give their presence a second thought; he walked away from them, to his right, heading toward a custom-made barbecue island.
Ellie was scanning the island surfaces, looking for a weapon, when Danny said, “Sir, I’m ordering you to stop right where you are and—”
Gingerbread Man lurched forward, had his hand on the grill handle when the kid, who had been staring sullenly at his feet the whole time, reached into the canvas bag beside him.
“Stop! Hands in the air!” Ellie shouted, just as the kid came out with an Uzi, the submachine gun looking way too big in his small hand.
“Down!” Ellie screamed, locked in the Weaver stance, like she’d been trained. Only this wasn’t a training exercise; this was real and this was happening and her career and life were hanging on whatever she did next. “Put the gun down now!”
But the kid wasn’t listening, and Gingerbread Man had flipped open the wide hood of the grill, revealing the AR-15 lying underneath. Two targets, both armed, spread across the area, a civilian and her partner in the middle. No good options.