Cloudburst by Ryne Pearson Page A

we’re going to need two teams at this location. Roll six more teams out here, ASAP. Copy?”
    “ Ten-four, copy. ”
    The two men first took stock of the front room. An older TV stood on a wobbly looking stand. Stone age, Andy thought. The rest was sparsely furnished. Nothing extravagant. Art led off to the back of the house, to the lone bedroom. Andy detoured back to the kitchen. Their inspection wasn’t detailed, just designed to pick up any obvious clues. Forensics would tear the place apart.
    Their first look at the bedroom had been past the barrel of their guns, with hearts pounding and senses tuned to detect threats. They hadn’t seen the obvious. Art saw it now. Maybe people who knew they weren’t returning to a place were predisposed to leaving it disheveled as a defense against their loss. Horseshit . The drawers were open, as was the closet. Art walked to it. It was half empty, he estimated. Mr. Jackson must be doing some traveling.
    “Sir.” Shelly stepped in.
    “Yeah.” Art was scanning the room, outwardly not acknowledging the agent’s presence.
    “There’s a car in the garage. It matches with the suspect’s vehicle—license and everything.”
    Art’s eyes were wide when he turned to Shelly. “Well, imagine that. A new-looking car, right?”
    “I wouldn’t mind driving it.”
    “It looks like our friend is getting guiltier by the minute.” And he wasn’t going to make himself simple to find. “He may be using some other transportation. Oh well. Go ahead and call it in, Shell. I want an APB out on this guy.” Art looked around the room from its center, then down. The bed was made. Didn’t sleep here, did you, Marcus? Something happened here, though. Art could feel it.
    The all-points bulletin went out immediately. Mr. Marcus Jackson, whose present whereabouts was unknown, was a wanted man. The official reason was for questioning in relation to the assassination. Unofficially, the reason that often carried the most weight in the legally constrained world of police work, he was a suspect in the conspiracy and a person who had the capacity to kill. Twenty-five minutes after the broadcast went out nearly every law enforcement agency south of Sacramento had at least the verbal information. Most had photos spitting out of their fax machines. The California Highway Patrol field offices were the first to get them, and soon after, their fleet of patrol vehicles had them as well.
    The newly arrived teams of agents were pounding on doors in the neighborhood. People saw things—that was a fact of human nature. The presence of the police and serious-looking men in suits made the resident of the house on La Cienega an instant celebrity up and down the block. Soon everyone would remember something about Jackson.
    Most of it would be useless, but something helpful was bound to be sifted from the whole.
    Art left the house by the back door just as the second forensic team was arriving through the front. They would start on the house. Art’s interest was now on Jackson’s Jeep, which the first forensic team to arrive had already begun working on.
    He recognized only one of them. “Bobby. You’re among strangers.”
    “I’m the guide,” Agent Bobby Valenzuela explained. “This is the team from Denver.” He went on to introduce the three visitors. “No one thought about getting all these guys around once they were here.”
    No one had thought of that, Art now saw. You couldn’t just hand the van keys to out-of-town assistance and expect them to find their way around a city like L.A. “Where are our guys?”
    Valenzuela slid the elastic-strapped dust mask over his head, letting it hang at the neck. It was meant to keep the moist breath of the forensic agent off any prints he might be examining on the vehicle. “They’re all tied up with evidence back at the site.”
    Even with the incoming help they were still stretched thin. Art motioned to the vehicle. “What do you think?”
    “We’ll get