Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘No,’’ Jesse said.

  ‘‘We have to narrow this down,’’ I said.

  I walked to the plate-glass windows. The surf was pummeling the beach. South of the horizon a storm was brewing, shedding wind in our direction. Spray flew white under the moonlight.

  ‘‘I bet anything Sinsa and Shaun know where the boat is,’’ I said. ‘‘They had no trouble contacting Toby to send him after P.J. and Devi.’’

  ‘‘So we get them to tell us, or show us, or lead us there,’’ Jesse said.

  ‘‘How?’’ Marc said.

  I watched the ocean churning black. Thinking of depths and crosscurrents.

  ‘‘We trick them. Turn them against each other.’’ I turned from the window. ‘‘I have an idea.’’

  I got hold of Shaun’s cell phone number from Ted Gaines, Brittany’s father. I didn’t tell him why I wanted it. While I was on the phone with Gaines, Jesse got the Glock. It was our lone weapon; Lieutenant Rome had insisted on keeping hold of Brian’s gun because I’d discharged it into my bathroom—and maybe even into Shaun. Jesse checked the Glock’s magazine, cleared the chamber, and set the gun on the table next to an extra ammunition clip. Then he took off his sweater and reached for P.J.’s shirt. I hung up, giving him a look.

  He pulled on P.J.’s shirt and jacket. They were tight across his shoulders.

  ‘‘You know Lily Rodriguez wants to disguise herself as you and fake the money drop, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘That’s my sense,’’ I said.

  ‘‘But that won’t get P.J. back. If we’re going to pull a fast one with a disguise, there’s only one that’ll work. Me.’’

  He held out a pair of kitchen scissors. ‘‘Cut my hair.’’

  I took them. ‘‘Hold still.’’

  Five minutes later, I said, ‘‘Done.’’ He ran a hand over his head.

  ‘‘Don’t look in the mirror,’’ I said. ‘‘It’ll work. In the dark, from far away. The clothes will do most of the trick.’’

  Marc rolled up the map. ‘‘Don’t take offense. It’s a decent imitation, but face it. They’re going to notice the wheelchair.’’

  Jesse spun around. ‘‘I know. Believe me, it’s the only thing a lot of people notice. So if I’m not in it, it’ll never dawn on them who I am. All I have to do is stand up and we’re home free.’’

  As long as you don’t lose your balance, I thought.

  Jesse nodded to me. ‘‘Okay. You’re on.’’

  I phoned Shaun’s number. My stomach was the size of a walnut. The phone rang, and he answered. I took a breath.

  ‘‘Pick the glass out of your scalp and listen to me,’’ I said.

  There was a pause. ‘‘Delaney.’’

  ‘‘When you tape people’s mouths shut, you keep them from giving you vital information.’’

  ‘‘What in hell are you talking about?’’

  ‘‘I have a proposition for you.’’

  Another pause. ‘‘Is this some kind of joke?’’

  ‘‘On you and me. Sinsa’s playing us. And it’s time to turn the tables.’’

  He breathed into the receiver. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Tell me if I have this right. Sinsa wants you to ambush me tonight when I get off the bus at the natural history museum.’’

  Quiet on the line. I listened to background noise, hearing traffic.

  ‘‘But I won’t be there. I don’t need to put any money under the seat on a bus. The money has already been delivered.’’

  Jesse and Marc watched me. Their faces were tense and focused.

  ‘‘I paid the fifty thousand dollars to Toby Price an hour ago,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You gave Toby the money?’’

  ‘‘All of it.’’

  He was quiet again. I forced a sick laugh from my throat.

  ‘‘Let me guess. Sinsa told you there wasn’t any money.’’

  ‘‘I know there wasn’t any money.’’

  ‘‘You idiot. Of course there was money.’’

  ‘‘Then where was it?’’

  ‘‘In the safe at the law firm, Sanchez Marks. I got it out tonight.’’

  ‘‘You’re lying.’’

  ‘‘They grabbed Devi Goldman along with P.J. Don’t you know who she is? She’s the daughter of the firm’s chairman. Of course there was money to ransom her. They’re lawyers.’’

  Hesitation. ‘‘I don’t get it.’’

  ‘‘I’m trying to tell you. Sinsa set us both up. P.J. and Devi are already home having a beer, and Toby’s getting ready to sail.’’

  Hard breathing. ‘‘You’re full of shit.’’

  ‘‘Shaun, you’re into film. Doesn’t the phrase femme fatale ring any bells?’’

  Did I hear him wiping his hand across his forehead?

  ‘‘She’s the femme, and you’re going to be the fatale. Think about it. She hasn’t done a bit of the dirty work. She’s set you up to take every fall. Brittany, Ricky, and now P.J. and me.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘So who’s on the surveillance tape closing down the fake checking account at Allied Pacific Bank—her, or you?’’

  ‘‘Stop—just stop. What the fuck are you saying?’’

  ‘‘That she’s going to split that fifty thousand with Toby. Meanwhile, you’re walking into a SWAT ambush at the natural history museum.’’

  Outside a train whistle rose on the night, bellowing past up on the tracks, followed by the clack of the wheels. All right, time to light the second-stage booster.

  ‘‘But I don’t want them to have that fifty K. And if we get it back from Toby, nobody’s the wiser. It doesn’t have to go back into the safe at the law firm. You and I can split it.’’

  Long, long quiet. ‘‘Why should I help you?’’

  ‘‘You get us on board, I bring the gun. The rest is ballistics.’’

  He breathed noisily. ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  Come on, Shaun, buy it. I was running out of bluffs. And then I heard, on Shaun’s end of the line, the same train whistle I had just heard. He was close. Real close.

  He was coming here. Shit. The bastard, jumping the gun, trying to get me.

  ‘‘Forget it,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll do it myself, and keep all fifty thousand bucks.’’

  ‘‘No, I never said that—’’

  ‘‘Call me back if you change your mind.’’

  I hung up. ‘‘He’s coming. We’re getting out of here.’’

  They looked at me. Jesse put his hand on the Glock.

  ‘‘Not yet,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s on the scent. We’re going to let him lead the hunt, like a hound dog.’’ I ran for the front door. ‘‘Marc, throw me your keys. Move it, men.’’

  37

  I floored Marc’s truck up the driveway and out into the road. In the rearview mirror I saw Jesse and Marc pull out in the Mustang. Jesse didn’t follow me but turned off the road and backed the Mustang into the bushes past his drive. He switched off the headlights. I turned the corner and saw a freight train racketing past the railroad crossing. The lights and bells were going and the gate was down. I pulled up and waited. If Shaun was on the other side, I was going to have to do this fast. I hoped to hell he didn’t have a gun.

  The caboose clacked past. For a few seconds the bells and lights kept going. Across the tracks, beyond the other gate, I saw a single bright headlight.

  Shaun was riding P.J.’s Suzuki.

  The gate swung up. I put down the window. Jamming it in first gear, I popped the clutch and bounced across the tracks. I stuck my arm out the window and flipped Shaun the bird.

  I shouted, ‘‘Forget it, asshole. The money’s mine.’’

  He wasn’t wearing a helmet. Even in the darkness I could see the shock on his pretty face. I hit the gas.

  This truck had plenty of power but not what I wanted right then, acceleration. I upshifted, shot a glance at the mirror, and saw Shaun turning the bike around to follow me.
r />   Fumbling with the headset mike for my phone, I called Jesse. ‘‘He’s on my tail. Driving P.J.’s bike.’’

  ‘‘We’re coming.’’

  The pickup’s headlights swallowed the road. Trees streaked past. ‘‘I’ll be at the freeway on-ramp in about a minute.’’

  ‘‘We just crossed the tracks.’’

  The trees thinned, and I passed the Miramar Hotel. The road curved. The freeway overpass was ahead, past a stop sign. Checking the mirror, I saw that I was out of sight of the bike. I turned off the headlights, braked, and swerved into a driveway. I shut off the engine. I could hear the bike coming up the road. I held my breath.

  In the mirror I saw the bike race past behind me. Shaun stopped at the stop sign, turned onto the overpass, and cruised slowly across, as though looking over the railing to see which way I had gone. I lost sight of him. I stuck my head out the window, trying to hear the Suzuki.

  Into the phone mike I said, ‘‘He didn’t follow me. But I can’t tell whether he got on the freeway north-bound, or stayed on San Ysidro heading toward the mountains.’’

  I put the pickup in reverse and spun the wheels backing out of the driveway.

  In my ear Jesse said, ‘‘Whoa.’’

  I saw him streak past behind me. He cut the corner at the stop sign and gunned the car onto the freeway heading north.

  ‘‘Ninety percent sure he’s heading up the coast,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘But you take San Ysidro, just in case.’’ In the background Marc said something. ‘‘And Dupree says the truck goes faster if you drive forward.’’

  I headed up San Ysidro Road in the night, past a grove of oaks, cruising toward the mountains, slowing to look up and down side streets. I saw no sign of Shaun.

  In my ear Jesse said, ‘‘Got him.’’

  I braked.

  ‘‘He’s heading north on One-oh-one, and there’s plenty of traffic to screen us. Now let’s see if he takes us to Toby.’’

  I pulled a three-point turn and headed back to catch up with him. ‘‘Is it time to call Lily?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  We were ripping along. I was doing eighty, and it still took me ten miles to catch up with Jesse. By then we were heading through Goleta. Shaun streaked up the freeway. We shadowed him, hiding in traffic, taking turns getting behind him so he wouldn’t become suspicious. We rolled through the commercial flare of the town, and on past long miles of suburbia that gradually thinned into countryside. The highway began to snake over hills and gullies, past canyons thick with eucalyptus, through the big ranches where prize cattle grazed the hills and the scent of lemon flowed from the orchards. Wind buffeted the truck. Traffic dribbled to a minimum.

  I was a hundred yards behind the Suzuki. Jesse was another hundred behind me. I pinged him on the phone. ‘‘It’s starting to feel naked out here.’’

  ‘‘Only a few places he can turn off between here and the point. Drop back if you’re nervous.’’

  ‘‘We can’t lose him.’’

  We headed into open countryside. To my right the mountains blocked the sky. To my left the ocean spread in a satin void across the horizon. Only the occasional wink of light from an offshore oil platform broke the blackness. We passed El Capitán Beach, and Refugio. Passed dirt roads that turned off toward coves and cliffs. Passed a half-hidden road leading through trees to an oil refinery. We crossed the Tajiguas Canyon bridge.

  Jesse said, ‘‘I think I know where he’s headed.’’

  ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘The Cojo Oil pier, out past Gaviota Beach. Moor a sailboat there in the dark, and it would be impossible to spot from the road. And a coast guard search boat would have to come way around the point to spot it.’’

  ‘‘Then I’ll call Lily Rodriguez.’’

  Over the phone, I heard him talking to Marc. ‘‘No, we have a decision to make. There are two roads to the pier. The first is the one everybody knows about, but it’s slower, with cattle guards, a creek, and gates. The second one’s farther up the freeway, but if we push it we can beat Shaun by miles.’’

  ‘‘So take the second road.’’

  ‘‘Here’s the problem. The first road also leads to Aubrey’s Cove. You could anchor a boat there and row a rubber raft to the beach. If that’s where Shaun’s going, we’d lose him. And we wouldn’t get back for half an hour. Way too late.’’

  ‘‘Your call,’’ I said.

  The engine droned. ‘‘Okay, stick with me.’’

  ‘‘What are you going to do?’’

  ‘‘Improvise.’’

  The truck swallowed the road. The white line blurred past. ‘‘I’m giving Lily the heads up. We’re way the hell out here. It’s going to take deputies God knows how long to catch up. But they can send a car to the cove as well as the pier.’’

  ‘‘Do it.’’

  But Lily’s phone was switched off. I got Gary Zelinski, who sounded irked in the extreme. ‘‘Following Shaun Kutner? Do you know there’s a warrant out for his arrest? He’s a wanted murderer. You should have phoned in this information when you first found it.’’

  ‘‘You can scold me, or you can send the deputies to this pier.’’

  ‘‘I’ll send them. You just sit tight. All of you.’’

  Hanging up, I strained to see Shaun ahead. We crested a rise, and his brake lights came on. He pulled off the highway, turning toward the beach. I backed off the gas.

  The Mustang came screaming past me, blowing right by the turnoff. I punched Jesse’s phone number.

  ‘‘Blackburn. You’re improvising at a hundred miles an hour.’’

  ‘‘We’re taking the chance. Come on.’’

  His taillights were diminishing. I passed the first turnoff, seeing a sign that read COJO OIL. Sitting tight wasn’t an option. I followed him.

  38

  Dust thickening in the moonlight. With the headlights off, that was the only sign I had that the Mustang was still on the road ahead. We were curving downhill along a gully toward the beach, and the asphalt had run out half a mile back.

  Jesse’s brake lights came on. I stopped behind him, and through the swarm of dust saw Marc jump from the Mustang and run ahead. He pushed open the gate to a cyclone fence. We drove through. Posted on the gate was PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING. COJO OIL.

  Trickling water lit up the ground to our left. The road paralleled a stream. Ahead, moonlight tickled the ocean’s surface. We drove across the stream and Jesse stopped. I got out and my breath frosted the air. The salt bite was sharp on the night. Jesse put down his window.

  ‘‘I don’t want to drive any closer. But if you go up to that rise, you’ll be able to see the beach and the pier.’’

  Marc got out of the Mustang. We jogged up the rise. In the brush uphill from us, oil pumps rocked up and down. They looked like giant grasshoppers seesawing in the night. As soon as we topped the hill, the wind caught us. It was bitter. The surf was angry, spraying white mist in the moonlight. The pier stretched ahead of us, running half a mile into the water. On it were more oil pumps, a couple of derricks, and stacks of drilling equipment. The cyclone gate onto the pier was chained shut in the middle. The surf roared through the pilings.

  Marc crouched down and pointed at the far end of the pier. ‘‘Boat landing.’’

  I squinted at the darkness. I could barely make out a wooden staircase leading down from the top of the pier to the water.

  His voice rumbled. ‘‘And Toby’s boat’s moored alongside.’’

  ‘‘You can see that?’’ All I could make out was a bobbing blob. ‘‘Are those the lights in the cabin?’’

  ‘‘Can’t distinguish any movement. The curtains must be closed.’’ He continued staring. ‘‘How much time do we have?’’

  ‘‘Sheriffs might take twenty minutes. Shaun, ten minutes max.’’

  He glanced at his luminous blue watch. ‘‘It’s five till ten. Whoever’s downtown hoping to collect the fifty thou off the bus, in five minutes they’
re going to know it’s blown.’’

  ‘‘We can’t wait. We have to go.’’ I turned.

  He took my arm, stopping me. ‘‘Jesse won’t be able to get down the stairs to that boat. What’s he going to do?’’

  ‘‘Whatever it takes, Marc. He’ll go all the way, and beyond.’’

  Marc’s eyes were black under the moonlight. The wind kicked up, raking my face. The surf slammed through the workings of the pier. Marc turned and ran back to the Mustang.

  He clasped the windowsill. ‘‘We only have a few minutes. I say we screw stealth.’’

  Jesse nodded. ‘‘Absolutely. You have the tonnage. I’ll run interference.’’

  Marc pounded his hand on the roof of the car and sprinted for the pickup.

  ‘‘Wait.’’ Jesse held out the Glock. ‘‘Take it.’’

  Marc jammed it in the small of his back. ‘‘When I get your brother and the girl, I’m going to rip straight out of here and keep going until I reach safe ground. Make sure I have a clear path out.’’

  He ran to the truck. Jesse called to me, pointing at the hillside and telling me to get down behind the rise, out of sight. Marc slammed the pickup door and started the engine. His headlights flipped on, high beam. Jesse started the Mustang.

  Marc was going to get P.J., and Jesse was going to throw himself in front of anybody who tried to stop that. He wanted me out of harm’s way. And I knew what counted, and what he needed.

  I ran to the pickup and climbed in. Marc gave me a critical eye, but didn’t stop me.

  ‘‘Buckle up and cinch it down.’’

  He jammed it in gear. The engine groaned, the truck gaining speed over the rise. I buckled my seat belt, feeling the truck gather itself and power down the hill toward the pier.

  Marc upshifted. ‘‘Hang on.’’

  I braced myself. This wasn’t a movie, and that was no breakaway prop straight ahead, and hell, here it came, a big metal gate chained shut in the middle, shining silver in the headlights. We crashed straight into it.

  Sparks jumped. The truck shuddered. I swung against the seat belt and felt a stabbing pain in my ribs. The gate ripped from its hinges and flipped onto the hood, shrieking. Marc kept his foot down. The gate screeched across the windshield, flew aside, and we careered out onto the pier, climbing the incline, hearing the wooden rattle of the planks beneath us.