Private L.A. (Private 6)

The block between Londonderry Place and Sunset Plaza Drive was taped off. The full-on media carnival was yet to arrive, but the sideshow was already set up and running. As we moved gear inside the police lines from the east, Bobbie Newton was on air, having a best-friends-forever moment with June Wanta, the sixty-seven-year-old grandmother of ten who’d shot and killed the gunman who’d rampaged through Mel’s.

“Where’s your gun, June?” Bobbie Newton asked breathlessly.

“I gave it to the police, of course,” Wanta said, nervously lighting a Marlboro, puffing.

The smoke went in Bobbie Newton’s face, made her unhappy, but she moved upwind and gushed, “You’re a hero, June! How does it feel?”

“I’m no hero,” the old woman said, taking another puff. Her hands were trembling. “I just defended myself from a crazy fool the way anyone who’d taken an NRA handgun course would.”

The crowd that had gathered broke into laughter and cheers. Bobbie Newton, however, looked at the grandmother as if she’d suddenly sprouted a set of horns. Then she peered into the camera, said, “Yes. See there, friends, the value of education. It never ceases to amaze me.”

Turning back to the grandmother, Bobbie said, “Now, I understand you came face to face with the shooter before he started, uh, shooting.”

“That’s right,” Wanta said, took a drag off her cigarette.

“How are you sure it was him?”

The grandmother looked at Bobbie Newton like she was a ninny, said, “Back home in Thief River you don’t see too many black guys dressed up like Marilyn Monroe Does the Roller Derby.”

The crowd roared. Mrs. Wanta looked over, puffed, smiled, waved, and then said, “Gotta go now, Bobbie. Police want to talk to me.”

She turned, walked away, smoke trailing her. The crowd cheered more loudly.

“There you go,” Bobbie Newton said, grinning inanely at the camera. “A reluctant hero blows away the bad guy and saves who knows how many lives in the process. I have the feeling we’re going to be hearing much more from Mrs. June Wanta. A star is born. Can we say movie deal?”

“Why does everything have to end up with a movie deal in L.A.?” Mo-bot snorted as we moved away into the crime scene.

“Company town,” I replied before spotting Fescoe and FBI Special Agent in Charge Christine Townsend emerging from Mel’s Drive-In.

“It’s carnage in there, Jack,” Fescoe said, clearly shocked. “Son of a bitch supposedly skated through the place shooting anyone he pleased.”

“Until he got to Grandma,” I said.

“Wish there were more like her,” Townsend said, looking over at Mrs. Wanta, who was lighting another cigarette and listening to a detective’s questions.

“We wanted Sci to process the shooter’s body,” Fescoe said, gesturing toward the sidewalk and the corpse of the wiry cross-dresser. “That’s his specialty, right?”

“Among many others,” I replied, motioning Kloppenberg, Mo-bot, and the rest of their team toward the dead killer. “You think he’s No Prisoners?”

Fescoe shrugged. “Haven’t seen the calling card yet. But he did try to kill seven people.”

“Doesn’t look anything like the guy at the CVS.”

Special Agent Townsend shrugged. “Maybe he wore makeup in the CVS job and this is over.”

“No,” Fescoe said. “Jack’s right. This guy’s got a different facial structure.”

“Then this isn’t over,” I said. “The dead guy, whoever he is, is just one of any number of people, at least two, who could be behind this entire—”

Fescoe’s phone rang. The chief turned away, answered.

“Anything new on the Harlows?” I asked Townsend.

“Nothing hard,” she replied. “You?”

“I’ve got a guy flying to Panama.”

“You have unlimited resources or something?”