by Robert Crais
I took a bite. Spicy red juice ran down my fingers.
“Delicious.”
“Not too hot?”
“Transcendent.”
He pulled a towel from his apron and wiped his hands.
“How do you know Nola?”
“I’m looking into something involving her brother. She told me you were close, so I’m hoping you can help.”
“Is this what she said, we were close?”
“My word, not hers. Sorry. She spoke well of you. Not so well of her father.”
He smiled, but with more sadness than pleasure.
“The lamb. Don’t let it get cold.”
I took a bite of the shank.
“Sir, this is superb.”
He was pleased with my compliment.
“Juan has been gone for years. What could involve a dead man?”
“He came to own a house when he was up in Solano. Turns out Juan’s name is still on the title, and someone using his name has been paying the taxes. I’m hoping you can tell me about it.”
Pedroia made a tired snort.
“Of course. Colinski’s house.”
I ate more lamb, and tried to look calm.
“Juan told you about it?”
“Of course. Juan told me everything. He told me everything about everything, whether I wanted to hear or not.”
“It was Jacobi’s house. Juan got the house from a man named Jacobi, not Colinski.”
He wiped at his hands again, and now there was anger in the rubbing.
“He got the house from Jacobi, yes, but he did this for Colinski. The Great Colinski wanted the house.”
He rolled his eyes when he said it, and my ears filled with a growing hum. The sound of something far away getting closer.
“Who was Colinski?”
He glanced away. Embarrassed.
“An older boy from the neighborhood. One of those trashy boys Juan used to run with. A criminal. Juan’s crush.”
He fell silent, and wiped at his hands.
“Juan would do anything to please him.”
“Does the Great Colinski have a first name?”
“Royal. Such a name, don’t you think? Royal Colinski from East L.A.”
The burner vibrated in my pocket, but I was learning too much to stop.
“Why did Colinski want the house?”
“Who knows? A place to hide, cut dope, stash cash, party. Stupid, I said, how are you going to clean up, being involved with a man like this, but the Great Colinski had spoken.”
“Jacobi and Juan were both addicts. Did Juan trade drugs for the house?”
“Yes! This was Colinski’s brilliant idea.”
“Do you know where he is now, Colinski, or what he’s doing?”
He flipped the towel.
“I had no interest in the people Juan ran with. I’m clean now, but not then, and I wanted to be clean. We wanted to get clean together, and Juan tried, I do believe he tried, but he would see his old friends, and fall into the old patterns.”
I asked him to hold the carton, and took out the sketch.
“What do you think?”
He studied the image.
“Colinski?”
“I’m asking.”
His uncertainty wasn’t inspiring, but I knew he was trying. Juan’s crush. The Great Colinski.
“Could be.”
“Three nights ago, a man was murdered at Juan’s house. This man left the scene.”
“I think this is him, but I am not sure.”
I put the sketch away.
“One more thing. Three weeks after Jacobi signed over the property, he died of a drug overdose.”
“I remember. Juan told me.”
“Did Juan kill him?”
Pedroia looked surprised.
“Juan was weak and needy, but not cruel.”
“Eleven days after Jacobi died, Juan was murdered.”
“A prison brawl. Brown and black. Juan was caught in the middle, they said. Not even involved.”
“He was stabbed sixteen times.”
Pedroia clenched when I said it, as if the knife were punching into his back.
“Are you saying Juan was murdered because of this house?”
“I don’t know. But with Jacobi and Juan dead, no one was left to connect Colinski to the house.”
Pedroia glanced at the uneaten tacos, and dropped the carton into the trash.
“He wouldn’t listen.”
“Nola thinks well of you. She respects what you felt for her brother. She didn’t ask me to say this.”
He nodded.
“The birria, not too much kick?”
“Not for me. I like spicy.”
“One always wonders.”
Pedroia climbed back into his aqua truck. I walked back to my car, and checked my phone. The incoming caller was Pike, so I got back to him right away.
“Medillo had help getting the house. I got a name. He might be the man in the sport coat.”
“I got a name, too. Your fake Meryl is a problem.”
The heat in my chest cooled.
“Who is she?”
“Her true name is Janet Hess. She’s the Special Agent in Charge of Homeland Security, the L.A. Field Office.”
I climbed into my car, and started the engine. Pike was right. My fake Meryl was a problem.
44
THE LOS ANGELES RIVER flowed southeast across the bottom of the San Fernando Valley to Griffith Park, where it made a hard right turn past Dodger Stadium, Chinatown, and Downtown L.A. to the Long Beach Freeway like a fated lover anxious to find her mate. The river and the LBF dropped straight through the heart of the city to Long Beach, where the river ended its forty-eight-mile trek to the Port of Los Angeles. There, at the end of its journey, the Queen Mary and the Aquarium of the Pacific flanked the river’s mouth. The L.A. Field Office of Homeland Security waited across the street.
“She went to Long Beach?”
“Yes. The SAC. Want me to stay on her?”
“No. This changes things.”
“Thought it might.”
“We have to talk to Jon. Come to Silver Lake, and we’ll figure out what to do.”
I pulled into traffic, but stopped two blocks later, and Googled her name. Her official DHS portrait was easy to find. Janet Hess looked a couple of years younger than the woman I knew as Meryl Lawrence, but Meryl was Hess, and her CV was impressive.
Janet Hess currently serves as Special Agent in Charge (SAC)/Director of Intelligence, Homeland Security Investigations, U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Los Angeles, California. Ms. Hess is responsible for all aspects of the ICE/HSI investigative mission in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, Las Vegas, and southern Nevada. Prior to her current appointment, she served as ASAC/Field Intelligence Director of the Los Angeles Human Smuggling and Trafficking Unit (HSTU), and as Supervisory Special Agent/Group Supervisor of the Orange County National Security Group and Anti-smuggling Investigations Unit. Prior to working with DHS, Ms. Hess served with the Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service (DOJ/INS) as a Special Agent with the National Security Investigations Unit and Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF).
Hess had the full force, authority, and resources of her agency at her disposal, yet she hired a civilian under false pretenses, and exposed herself and her agency to a liability nightmare. She must have expected to gain something by using me she felt she couldn’t get from her agents, and this was likely a secret thing she wanted no one else to know.
I took out the Amy file, and studied the sketch. Scott felt it was a good likeness of the man in the sport coat, but Hector Pedroia couldn’t pin the tail on Royal Colinski.
I put the sketch aside, steered back into traffic, and phon
ed Scott as I drove.
“You still at Major Crimes?”
“Yeah.”
The low voice.
“I need two things. Can you talk?”
“Not really. Stiles is close.”
“The surveillance teams went away. Did you know?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Try to find out why. Be subtle, but try to find out.”
“Okay. She’s gone. Now we can talk.”
“I need you to run a name.”
“Running a name isn’t as easy as it sounds. Who is it?”
“Thing is, whoever this turns out to be, you can’t tell Carter or anyone else. You have to sit on it until I give the word. Agreed?”
“This sounds shifty, Cole. I don’t like shifty.”
“He might be the man in the sport coat.”
Scott was silent, but I heard him breathe.
“I’m not saying it’s him, but it’s possible. He’s the true owner of the house.”
“I’ll run it.”
“This stays between us?”
“Yes. Give me the name.”
“First name Royal, R-O-Y-A-L. Last name Colinski.”
I spelled Colinski.
“He’ll be in the system. Print his full sheet and his mug shot. We’ll need it.”
I reached Silver Lake a few minutes later, and found Jon’s Rover above the construction site. I parked uphill around the curve, walked down, and climbed in. Jon had the driver’s seat pushed back, and his laptop propped on the console.
I said, “Did you get to her car?”
“Negative. She hasn’t budged.”
Amy was stretched on the couch, reading a magazine. Her computer and phone were on the coffee table. She was motionless. Jon stared at the screen, just as still.
I watched Jon watch Amy. Jon Stone had been cooped in the Rover for twenty-eight hours, but he appeared sharp, alert, and freshly shaved. If he could lie on rocks above the tree line in the Hindu Kush for a couple of weeks, I guess spending the night in a Range Rover wasn’t so bad.
“This spook of yours, the one who told you the Internet chatter led nowhere, do you trust him?”
Jon glanced at me, curious.
“Yeah. Why?”
“He told you Homeland couldn’t ID the person making the posts, so they kicked it back to Washington.”
Now he frowned.
“Yeah.”
“The woman who hired me is a federal agent with Homeland Security. She is, in fact, the Special Agent in Charge of the L.A. Field Office, Janet Hess.”
Jon shifted for the first time.
“You know this for a fact?”
“Pike followed her to the Field Office.”
I brought up her image from the Homeland Security website, and showed him.
“Hess.”
“The Special Agent in Charge.”
“That’s what it says. The highest-ranking officer in the Los Angeles Field Office.”
Jon settled back.
“And why would the SAC want you involved in her case?”
“Why would your spook tell you their case was closed?”
Jon moved like a panther leaving his bed, and took out his phone.
“Let’s find out.”
Jon tapped a button, and held the phone to his ear. After a moment, he spoke.
“Obadete mi se vednaga, vuv vrusca c posledniat ni razgovor. Predishnata vi informatcia se okaza pulna glupost.”
Jon put his phone away and saw me staring.
“Sorry, dude. Security. He’ll get back to me.”
I stared, and he shrugged again.
“What, you don’t speak Bulgarian?”
Amazing.
Amy sat up, put aside the magazine, and went into the bedroom. Jon noted the time.
“Read nonstop one hour forty-one minutes.”
He brought up the bedroom camera. Amy appeared in the upper corner of the image and went into the bathroom. We could see the open door, but not Amy.
“Can we hear if she makes a call?”
“Maybe. Shh.”
He ramped up the audio. We heard silence, followed by the tinkle of water.
The toilet flushed, water ran, and Amy went into the closet. She backed out a few seconds later with the fringed jacket and a large, bright-colored purse. I remembered the jacket from the night before, but didn’t recall the purse. I wondered if the Ruger was in it. She tucked her phone into the purse, followed it with the picture of Jacob, and left the bedroom. Jon changed cameras as she entered the living room, and started the Rover.
“She’s leaving. You want out, go now.”
Amy added her computer to the purse, and put on the jacket. The layers of long, dangling fringe swayed like hair in water. She hung the purse on her shoulder, adjusted its weight, and went to the door.
“In or out, dude. I’m staying with her.”
I buckled the seat belt.
“I’m in.”
We watched as she let herself out.
45
AMY LOCKED THE DOOR and made her way down the steps. She held tight to the rail, as if she were afraid of falling. A certified terrorist threat.
We called Pike to fill him in. Jon used the Rover’s speakerphone so all three of us were on the call.
Pike said, “I’m twenty out. Does she have the explosives?”
Jon answered.
“Don’t know. I couldn’t reach her vehicle.”
Amy backed out in fits and starts, inching her way into the street.
Jon said, “This is excruciating.”
She finally made it into the street, and waited for the door to close. Four cars stacked up behind her, and we were the fifth.
Jon said, “This isn’t starting well.”
When we stacked up again at the bottom of the hill, we were so far behind we wouldn’t be able to see which way she turned. I jumped out and ran past the line of cars in time to see her turn. I ran hard back to the Rover.
“Left. She turned left.”
Jon jerked the Rover into the oncoming lane, powered past the cars ahead, and pushed through the turn. I rolled down the window, and stood tall in the wind.
“I don’t see her, Jon. I can’t see her.”
Jon muscled around cars, and the Rover’s turbocharged mill screamed. The blue water blurred as we raced up the edge of the lake. I glimpsed her Volvo, climbing into the hills.
“Got her! She’s leaving the lake.”
Jon pressed, and closed the gap.
The streets north of the reservoir led through the hills to the Golden State Freeway and a pleasant community called Atwater Village. I felt better as we approached Atwater. It was a lovely spot for lunch.
I said, “Lunch.”
Jon said, “Lunch.”
Then Amy turned away from Atwater, got on the freeway, and once again pulled ahead.
Jon powered forward, and I called Pike.
“She’s on the 5, northbound at Atwater.”
“Twelve minutes behind you.”
We clawed through sluggish, late-morning congestion, glimpsing the Volvo, and losing it.
Pike’s voice came from the speaker, quiet and calm.
“I’m on the 5.”
“She’s approaching the Ventura.”
Jon jockeyed us closer.
“Crossing the Ventura. Burbank.”
Pike said nothing, but Jon cursed.
“Bob Hope Airport. She’s going to the airport.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s the airport.”
“Get closer.”
We could ride Amy’s tail all the way to Seattle on the 5, but if she had a boarding pass and photo ID, Amy Breslyn could board the next jet out, and
leave us at the security gate.
We were six cars behind when Amy left the freeway and turned toward Bob Hope Airport.
“Closer, Jon. Tighten.”
Pike’s voice: “Eight minutes.”
Pike was pushing it, too.
I sat taller, using the Rover’s height to see past the cars ahead.
She was four cars away when her blinker flashed and she turned toward the airport.
“Joe?”
“I’m here.”
“We’re not letting her get on a plane. Jon?”
“Say it.”
“Drop me at the terminal. Follow her to the parking structure, but don’t park. Text me when she gets out, and circle back. She might be picking up someone. I’ll walk in with her, but if she flashes a boarding pass or joins a security line, I’m pulling her out.”
“What will you do if she screams?”
“Pull faster.”
“Meaning I should wait outside for you and the kidnap victim.”
“Yes.”
We were three cars behind when Amy passed the airport, and continued higher into the Valley.
Jon grinned.
“Negative airport. Northbound to nowhere.”
Pike’s voice: “Off the 5. I’m close.”
We dropped back again, and followed her to a low-end industrial area at the eastern edge of the Valley, where strip malls and mobile-home parks cowered beneath gang tags. Hancock Park was a world away. We were close, and we sensed it. Jon marveled at the surroundings.
“She isn’t coming up here for lunch, dude.”
“Blinker. She’s turning.”
Jon eased off the gas.
Two blocks ahead, Amy turned across traffic into a sprawling, drive-in storage operation called Safety Plus Self-Storage. A billboard on the corner read HOME BOAT RV—24 HR SECURE—100+ UNITS. Jon’s grin flashed from the far side of the Rover.
“Ground zero, brother. The Death Star.”
“Catch up. Go.”
Safety Plus was serious about security. A cinder-block wall topped with spirals of concertina wire protected the storage units. All we saw were the roofs of long metal sheds, the tops of shrink-wrapped RVs, and CCTV cameras atop stout metal poles. East Valley taggers had Kryloned the wall so often, their paint looked like urban camouflage.
We roared forward, braked hard, and stopped outside a nursery across the street to peer through the entrance. Inside, we could see a rental office with a glass front and a small parking area, but that was about all. A chain-link fence crowned by more razor wire barred the public from the RVs and sheds. An automated gate in the fence let customers with key cards drive to their units. The parking lot was empty except for a shiny blue pickup and a golf cart beside the office. Amy would have had a key card. She and her Volvo had disappeared into a maze of all-weather sheds and plastic-wrapped motor homes. Charles could be inside. The man in the sport coat might be with him. The place could be crawling with lunatic terrorists, but we saw nothing but wall.
