Chapter 7

Whitaker was right in saying the facility wasn’t a prison. Located in one of LA’s suburbs and surrounded by houses and apartment complexes, the short red-brick building looked more like an urgent care facility or retail space than a secure facility, with lots of parking and trees planted all across the site.

It wasn’t until he got to the door that Taylor had his first indication that this place was something other than ordinary. Next to the glass door was a sign that told visitors to press the button and wait to be buzzed in. Even here, it didn’t look that secure, with large windows and metal doors.

The inside didn’t look that much different from an urgent care facility either, although the seating in the waiting area was overstuffed chairs and couches instead of hard plastic. They even had a reception counter with nurses in scrubs and filing cabinets full of files.

There were a couple of things to indicate this wasn’t just a normal retirement community or urgent care facility. One was the complete lack of patients in the outer area. There were two other people in the reception area, sitting by themselves, but both were in their thirties and looked like they were waiting for someone.

The other thing was the doors. Both the door leading into the rest of the facility and the door behind the reception area weren’t the normal lightweight swinging doors. Although painted, Taylor could tell they were metal, and neither had windows in them. These doors weren’t for keeping visitors from wandering into the rest of the facility, they were very clearly there to keep the people in the facility from wandering out.

Whitaker must have managed to get them cleared, because Taylor barely flashed his badge when the nurse buzzed him through into the rest of the building and told them what room to go to.

Going through the heavy door was like walking into another world. Everything was clean and sterile, almost like a hospital. Gone were the carpets and plushy, overstuffed chairs. Here it was tile floors, fluorescent lights, and off-white walls. The biggest changes were the people.

Other than the occasional nurse or orderly, easily identifiable in scrubs, walking here or there with purpose, everyone else was either shuffling around almost aimlessly or just sitting, staring into nothing. Some of them were in hospital gowns, and others in normal street clothes, although a lot of those were poorly put on, with missed buttons or turned the wrong way out.

The pair eventually made it to the indicated room, and after knocking and getting no response, let themselves in. An old man sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the room, facing a barred window that looked out towards the parking lot, just kind of staring.

“Mr. Randazzo,” Taylor said from the doorway.

He repeated himself two more times, still getting no answer, before he and Robles let themselves in. The room itself was tiny. If he’d wanted to, the man in the chair could have reached out and touched the bed pushed against one wall and the opposite wall at the same time. There wasn’t enough room for Robles and Taylor to stand on either side of him, so Robles edged around to face the man while Taylor stayed behind and a little to the side of him.

“Are you Antone Randazzo?” Robles asked.

The man didn’t say anything, just stared ahead like Robles wasn’t even there. Taylor had been telling the truth when he told Whitaker he wasn’t getting his hopes up for this interview, but he’d expected at least some kind of recognition at least that they were in the room.

“This guy is gone,” Robles said.

“Damn. I know this guy did some bad stuff back in the day, but I don’t think I’d wish this kind of thing even on my worst enemy. I’d want to go standing up, knowing who I am, not like this. He might have a pulse, but he’s basically just as dead as Tony Randazzo,” Taylor said.

Suddenly, the old man’s head tilted up slightly, looking towards Taylor to his right.

“Tony?” he asked in a feeble voice.

“Yeah,” Taylor said, kneeling down to his level. “You’re son Tony. Do you remember him?”

“Tony’s a good boy. He’s going to Stanford next year,” the old man said.

Taylor stood up and took a step back, towards the door, shaking his head at Robles, as if to say ‘this guy is gone.’

“Mr. Randazzo, do you remember coming to LA with Tony several years ago?” Robles asked, giving Taylor a ‘wait a second’ gesture.

“LA?” the old guy said, turning back towards Robles.

“Yes. Los Angeles. You and Tony moved out here from Vegas for work.”

“No. We moved from Las Vegas. They were going to set us up,” he said, and then turned back to Taylor, who’d moved to stand next to Randazzo again. Pointing a finger at Taylor, he said, “I told them Tony was the man. He could make it in LA when all the rest couldn’t. Big Jim and Sal Neese and Al Detti ... all of ‘em failed. But not my Tony.”

“I heard he did really good,” Robles said, half crouching in front of Randazzo, regaining his attention. “Pushed out the Mexicans and the Chinese, right?”

“Exactly. They thought we were a joke. They thought we were playing a game, ‘cause they’d seen a few movies. They didn’t know my Tony. He got rid of all of them.”

“I hear he even had the best hitter in the business working for him. I heard no one could get past this guy. Tony pointed at someone, and this guy would take care of them.”

“No. There wasn’t a guy. Tony never had a go to a guy,” Randazzo said.

Robles stood up and frowned. It was impossible to tell if Randazzo was clamming up or if he just didn’t remember. His tone of voice sounded the same and he still had a weird half smile, like he was talking to friends about a ball game he remembered. Taylor had actually been impressed. Robles’ entire demeanor had changed when he started talking to Randazzo, in a way he’d never seen Robles do in an interview. And it had been working, for the most part, that Taylor had hoped for a minute that he might answer the question.

“Wasn’t there...” Robles started to say, before stopping as Randazzo started rambling again, as if he hadn’t paused or Robles hadn’t said anything.

“No, it wasn’t a man. It was a woman,” he said, almost as if he was trying to picture her.

“A woman?” Taylor asked.

“Yep. Damnedest thing you ever saw. You know, back in those days, women didn’t really do a lot of work for the family. I guess people thought they weren’t strong enough. This girl. By God, you’ve never seen anyone like her. It was the eyes. They were like looking into a well with no bottom. I swear, I couldn’t bear to look into her eyes for more than a few seconds before it sent a shiver down my spine. And I knew some hard men. Real hard men who’d kill you as soon as look at you, and they weren’t a bit as scary as Tony’s girl.”

“Do you remember her name?” Robles asked.

“She had this black hair too. Kind of curly. She was real pretty, if you could get past the eyes, that is.”

“Mr. Randazzo,” Robles said again. “Do you know her name?”

“I think...” The old man started to say, and then chaos broke out.

The window exploded, followed by Robles’ shoulder as the bullet passed through him, spraying Robles’ blood across the old man’s face and shirt. Of course, the old man didn’t care, because the bullet continued its path through Robles into Randazzo Sr.’s face, putting an end to him caring about anything anymore.

It happened so fast, it took Taylor a second to work out what had happened. By the time he had, he was already on the floor, moving for cover next to the wall, underneath the window to limit how much of him the shooter outside could see. In violent situations, it takes much too long to think through and then commit to actions, especially when the bullets are flying. It’s why the Army breaks down and then trains its soldiers to respond first, then analyze and react second.

Taylor reached over and pulled Robles, who was grasping his ruined shoulder and screaming in pain, towards him, also out of the line of sight. There was no need to check on Randazzo Sr., the gaping hole where his left eye had been and the red spray across the back of the room was all the evidence they needed that he was dead.

Taylor didn’t need to think through what had happened. He knew who was responsible. The line up from the window, through Robles’ shoulder, to the old man was a perfect line; and the old man had already started telling them much more than the shooter would have wanted them to know. It was an amazing shot, since it would have had to take into account hitting the bone. The way it punched right through without deflecting meant the shooter was firing a heavy round and was probably fairly close by. A smaller round would have still penetrated Robles’ shoulder, but deflection would have been a problem, especially if the shooter couldn’t see that much of the intended target. That also applied to distance, since as the bullet lost velocity, it would have a lower chance of penetrating.

Those were guesses, of course, but he was fairly certain he was right. What he was sure of was that Randazzo, and not Robles had been the actual target. For one, there wasn’t a real reason to shoot Robles, except that he was in the way. There were two of them, after all, and if the shooter had been watching them enough to know to be here and see the interview, even if that was the case, a professional would have known killing one agent wasn’t going to stop the investigation.

The other reason was that, if this was the shooter they were looking for, they could have easily killed Robles if they’d wanted to. He’d been standing smack dab in the middle of the window, silhouetted against the brighter light from the hallway.

It would have been an easy shot. All that went through Taylor’s brain in an instant, as he was pulling Robles back and checking the wound. Outside in the hallway, everything erupted into chaos. People were screaming and staff started to run past, pulling confused residents with them toward some kind of safety.

“Hey,” Taylor yelled at an orderly who came into view.

Thankfully, the man stopped and crouched low, instead of just continuing on his way.

“Call 911. Tell them there are federal officers on scene, one wounded, and the shooter is still outside. We need cops and medical. And tell one of the nurses to come with bandages.”

Taylor had considered asking if there was a doctor on the premises, but in places like this, that would be unlikely. Besides, right now the best they could do was pack the wound to limit blood loss and try to keep Robles from going into shock. Taylor wasn’t a doctor, but he’d picked up enough in the Army, both in helping wounded soldiers and learning to wound others, to know the wound was high enough on the shoulder not to have hit an artery. It was impossible to tell through clothing, but the bullet looked to have gone through his collar bone or maybe just below it through the top of the shoulder blade.

Either way, he was going to need surgery to repair the damage.

The nurses showed up and Taylor slid out of their way, still staying as clear of the window as possible, even though he was almost certain the shooter was long gone. He could already hear sirens, but that wouldn’t have mattered. Within seconds of the shot, Robles and Taylor were both on the floor and the dead body of Mr. Randazzo was sitting in the chair, body lolled over its back, kind of balanced. It would have been enough for the shooter to see the target was dead.