jumped out. Deans and Harriman pulled up in front, facing traffic on the wrong side of the street.
Art went right up the porch steps, taking a position on the knob side of the door. There was no screen. Hal was hinge side, his back flat against the house. Omar ran to the south side of the house to cut off any escape route there. Deans and Harriman placed themselves on the north side, in the driveway, with Rob moving along the structure toward the rear, keeping well below the high window lines every step of the way.
“ Seven Sam, King One in position ,” Shelly reported from the back. The house was completely surrounded.
Agent Harriman directed the four LAPD officers to cover the garage and the windows overlooking the driveway. Two of them had shotguns from the patrol car racks. They all moved to the safe side of a stone wall between Jackson’s house and his neighbor’s, three of them working their way back to the single-car garage.
Hal looked to Art and got the nod. “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!” Lightman’s voice boomed. Anyone in the house would have heard it.
They listened for a few seconds. It was quiet. Not just in a lack of response to the entry demand, but hushed. Deserted. Art had thought as much. Jackson was gone. But they had to do it by the book.
“FBI! Open up, NOW!” Hal added decibels to the last word.
There was still no response.
“Hal,” Art said, holding his Smith & Wesson two-handed and pointed low. “Kick it.”
Hal warned the other units by radio that they were moving in. He looked back to the street while putting the radio in his back pocket. Traffic was stopped. He couldn’t see south, toward the freeway, but a hundred feet north there was an LAPD unit blocking the street in both directions. “I’m ready,” he said, getting the go from Art.
The lock was flimsy, as most single locks were, and the door swung violently inward under the force of Hal’s flat- footed kick. There must have been a table with something glass on it near the door as the breaking sound indicated.
Hal went in first, with Art right behind. Harriman followed them. They moved quickly, their guns pointed forward and to one side—Art left and Hal right. Andy also swept the right side, double-checking entryways as the trio passed them. Room after room was checked. The house was empty. For good measure Hal stuck his head through the covered opening to the attic. It was also empty.
Two of the uniformed cops entered as Hal hopped off the kitchen chair. They saw the dark hole to the attic above his head. “Damn brave, mister,” one of them commented. Its meaning was more ‘damn stupid.’
Art’s head turned sharply to the lawmen. “Secure the outside, please.” The words were not a request. Having jurisdiction did have advantages. Both of the cops retreated out in silence. Art turned to Hal. “Let them handle perimeter, but I don’t want them in here. This is Bureau territory.”
“Got it, Art,” Hal said. “Gladly.”
Outside, the senior LAPD officer—a sergeant—instructed his men, more of whom had arrived, to secure the scene. That meant stringing a line of yellow perimeter tape all around. It also meant closing the right northbound lane of traffic. The FBI vans belonging to the forensic teams would need the parking space very soon. The downside was obvious; this close to the Santa Monica freeway there was bound to be a hell of a traffic jam on La Cienega, especially at four in the afternoon—the height of rush hour.
“Hal, you’re front,” Art said. The agent moved to block the front door. Only those with a suit and a shield would get past him. Andy opened the back door, letting Shelly and Drew in.
“Shelly, check the back. Drew, you secure it. Watch the back wall. We don’t want any busybodies getting over. Andy, you’re with me—let’s take a look.” Art lifted the hand-held Motorola to his mouth. “Seven Sam to dispatch.”
“ Seven Sam. ”
“Notify forensics that
Art went right up the porch steps, taking a position on the knob side of the door. There was no screen. Hal was hinge side, his back flat against the house. Omar ran to the south side of the house to cut off any escape route there. Deans and Harriman placed themselves on the north side, in the driveway, with Rob moving along the structure toward the rear, keeping well below the high window lines every step of the way.
“ Seven Sam, King One in position ,” Shelly reported from the back. The house was completely surrounded.
Agent Harriman directed the four LAPD officers to cover the garage and the windows overlooking the driveway. Two of them had shotguns from the patrol car racks. They all moved to the safe side of a stone wall between Jackson’s house and his neighbor’s, three of them working their way back to the single-car garage.
Hal looked to Art and got the nod. “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!” Lightman’s voice boomed. Anyone in the house would have heard it.
They listened for a few seconds. It was quiet. Not just in a lack of response to the entry demand, but hushed. Deserted. Art had thought as much. Jackson was gone. But they had to do it by the book.
“FBI! Open up, NOW!” Hal added decibels to the last word.
There was still no response.
“Hal,” Art said, holding his Smith & Wesson two-handed and pointed low. “Kick it.”
Hal warned the other units by radio that they were moving in. He looked back to the street while putting the radio in his back pocket. Traffic was stopped. He couldn’t see south, toward the freeway, but a hundred feet north there was an LAPD unit blocking the street in both directions. “I’m ready,” he said, getting the go from Art.
The lock was flimsy, as most single locks were, and the door swung violently inward under the force of Hal’s flat- footed kick. There must have been a table with something glass on it near the door as the breaking sound indicated.
Hal went in first, with Art right behind. Harriman followed them. They moved quickly, their guns pointed forward and to one side—Art left and Hal right. Andy also swept the right side, double-checking entryways as the trio passed them. Room after room was checked. The house was empty. For good measure Hal stuck his head through the covered opening to the attic. It was also empty.
Two of the uniformed cops entered as Hal hopped off the kitchen chair. They saw the dark hole to the attic above his head. “Damn brave, mister,” one of them commented. Its meaning was more ‘damn stupid.’
Art’s head turned sharply to the lawmen. “Secure the outside, please.” The words were not a request. Having jurisdiction did have advantages. Both of the cops retreated out in silence. Art turned to Hal. “Let them handle perimeter, but I don’t want them in here. This is Bureau territory.”
“Got it, Art,” Hal said. “Gladly.”
Outside, the senior LAPD officer—a sergeant—instructed his men, more of whom had arrived, to secure the scene. That meant stringing a line of yellow perimeter tape all around. It also meant closing the right northbound lane of traffic. The FBI vans belonging to the forensic teams would need the parking space very soon. The downside was obvious; this close to the Santa Monica freeway there was bound to be a hell of a traffic jam on La Cienega, especially at four in the afternoon—the height of rush hour.
“Hal, you’re front,” Art said. The agent moved to block the front door. Only those with a suit and a shield would get past him. Andy opened the back door, letting Shelly and Drew in.
“Shelly, check the back. Drew, you secure it. Watch the back wall. We don’t want any busybodies getting over. Andy, you’re with me—let’s take a look.” Art lifted the hand-held Motorola to his mouth. “Seven Sam to dispatch.”
“ Seven Sam. ”
“Notify forensics that
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