The Last Detective

by Robert Crais

  Lucy shook her head as if she were numb.

  “They weren't made from Richard's office. The company pays for the phones at his house, too. Richard called San Miguel from home.”

  “Can she print out the call list?”

  Lucy asked in a monotone robotic voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Have her make a hard copy.”

  Lucy asked for a hard copy.

  “Have her fax it to us.”

  Lucy gave her fax number, then asked Sondra to send it. Lucy's voice was distant, like a little girl lost in the woods.

  The list of calls printed out of Lucy's fax a few minutes later. We stood over the fax as if it were a crystal ball and we were waiting to see the future.

  Lucy read the list, holding my hand so tightly that her nails cut into my skin. She saw for herself. She repeated Richard's home number aloud.

  “What did he do? Oh, my God, what did he do?”

  I had been wrong about everything. Richard had been so frightened that something bad would happen to Ben and Lucy because of me that he had decided to make it happen himself. He arranged for the fake kidnapping of his own son so that he could blame it on me. He wanted Lucy to come to her senses. He wanted to drive us apart to save her, so he had hired people who were willing to do anything—Fallon and Schilling and Ibo. He probably hadn't known who they were or what they had done until Starkey and I pulled the Interpol file. I guess Myers had helped him put it together. But once Fallon had Ben, Fallon had double-crossed him and now Richard was caught.

  “Oh my God, what did he do?”

  Richard had lost Ben.

  I took the fax and the other things, and then I took Lucy's hand.

  “Now it's time to see Richard. I'll bring him home to you, Luce. I'm going to get Ben.”

  We went down the stairs together, then drove to Richard's hotel.

  time missing: 52 hours, 21 minutes

  The Beverly Hills Hotel was a great pink beast that sprawled along Sunset Boulevard where Benedict Canyon emptied into Beverly Hills. That part of Beverly Hills was home to some of the wealthiest people in the world, and the Pink Palace fit well, resting on a little rise like a Mission Revival crown jewel. Movie stars and Middle-Eastern oil sheiks felt comfortable staying behind the manicured walls; I guess Richard felt comfortable there, too. He was in a bungalow that cost two thousand dollars a night.

  Lucy knew which room was his, and was the only one of the three of us who looked like she belonged at the hotel. I looked like a maniac, and Pike just looked like Pike.

  We crossed the lobby, then followed a winding path through verdant grounds that smelled of night-blooming jasmine. Ben could be anywhere, but Richard was home; Myers had answered his phone. That meant Fallon still had Ben, and Richard was still trying to buy him back.

  Pike said, “How do you want to play this?”

  “You know how I'm going to play it.”

  “In front of Lucy?”

  She said, “You don't have a choice.”

  The bungalows that dotted the path were expensive because they were private; each little bungalow separate from the others, and hidden by landscaping. It was like walking through a tailored jungle.

  Ahead of us, we saw Fontenot standing outside a door at a fork in the path. He was smoking, and bouncing from foot to foot. Nervous. Myers came out of a room, spoke to him, then went up the path. Fontenot went into the room that Myers had left.

  “Is that Richard's?”

  “No, Myers is staying in that one. It's not a full bungalow; it's just a room. Richard has the bungalow across.”

  “Wait here.”

  “You're out of your mind if you think I'm waiting.”

  “Wait. I want to get Fontenot first, then we'll see Richard. Fontenot might know something that will help us, and it'll be faster if you wait.”

  Pike said, “Fontenot will help. I promise.”

  Lucy looked at Joe, and nodded. She knew he meant it, and that speed was everything.

  Lucy stayed on the path in the shadows while Joe and I went to the door. We didn't bother with knocking or pretending to be room service or anything cute like that; we hit the door so hard that the doorknob caught in the wall. That made three busted doors in one day, but who's counting?

  Fontenot was watching television with his feet up on the bed. A pistol sat on the floor beside him, but Pike and I were inside and on him before he could reach it. He hesitated, seeing our guns, then wet his lips.

  I said, “Did you see DeNice? Did you see what they did to him?”

  Fontenot was shaky getting to his feet. He had the twitchy eyes of someone who had been nervous for most of the day and was even more nervous now. The room smelled of bourbon.

  “What the fuck? What are you doing?”

  I kicked his gun under the bed.

  “Is Richard in his room?”

  “I don't know where Richard is. Get out of here. You got no business being here.”

  Pike snapped his pistol across Fontenot's face like before. Fontenot fell sideways onto the bed. Pike cocked his pistol and pressed the muzzle into Fontenot's ear.

  I said, “We know. We know that Richard hired them. We know this was all about fucking me over, but it turned upside down. Is Richard in contact with these people? Has he made a deal for Ben?”

  Fontenot closed his eyes.

  “Is Ben still alive?”

  Fontenot tried to say something, but his lower lip trembled. He closed his eyes tighter, like he was trying not to see.

  “They cut off Debbie's head.”

  I shouted into his face.

  “IS BEN STILL ALIVE?”

  “Richard doesn't have enough money. They want it in cash, and he can't get enough. They only gave him a few hours. We got some of it, but not all. That's why Debbie went to see them, and look what they did. We been trying to put this together all day, but look what they did.”

  Something moved behind me. Lucy had come to the door.

  She said, “How much do they want for my son?”

  “Five million. They want five million in cash, but Richard couldn't put it together. He's been trying all day, but that was all he could get.”

  Fontenot waved at the closet, and cried even more.

  A large Tumi duffel was in the closet. It was heavy with packs of hundred-dollar bills, but it wasn't heavy enough.

  time missing: 52 hours, 29 minutes

  When Myers opened the door, I pushed Fontenot hard into the room. Richard was haggard, with his hair sticking out as if he'd been running his hands over his head all afternoon. Even Myers looked beaten. Richard was holding his cell phone with both hands, like a bible.

  “Get out. Get them out of here, Lee.”

  Pike heaved the bag into the middle of the floor.

  “Look familiar?”

  A smile flickered at the corner of Myers's mouth. He was probably relieved.

  “I'd say they have the money and they know what we're doing.”

  Lucy came in behind Joe. Richard's eyes widened and he raked his hand across his head as if it had become a nervous tick.

  “They don't know anything. Keep your mouth shut.”

  Myers stared at him.

  “Richard, stop. It's time to stop before this mess gets worse. The wheels are coming off, Richard. Jesus Christ, wake up.”

  Lucy was as rigid as a statue. Her legs were tight together, her face closed. Her eyebrows were knitted so deeply that her eyes were hidden.

  “You self-absorbed sonofabitch. Where is my son?”

  Richard's eyes fluttered like two trapped moths. His mouth hung loose, as if he had aged a thousand years since yesterday. I didn't feel so angry any more; I felt empty, and worried for Ben.

  Richard was so scared that I turned to Myers.

  “What's Fallon doing, Myers? How are they playing this?”

  Richard screamed.

  “Shut up!”

  Myers moved faster than I thought he could; he grabbed Ric
hard by the shirt and bent him backwards toward the bed.

  “They know. Get your head around it, Richard—they know. Now let's get back to business. Your son is waiting.”

  Myers shoved him away, then turned back to the black Tumi bag.

  “That's three-point-two million, but they want five. We tried to tell them, but, you know, no one ever believes you with something like this. DeNice was their answer.”

  Myers stepped around the money, then looked at me.

  “Fallon knows what he's doing, Cole. He's been jamming us all day, pushing it forward to keep us off balance. We didn't even know it was happening until this morning. That's how fast it's been, just this one day. All of it started this morning.”

  “Where are you with it?”

  “He gave us today to get the money, that's it. Just the one business day. Richard has to call them by nine. That's in eight minutes. Fallon told us not to bother calling after that. You know what he'll do after that.”

  Pike said, “You should have told the police.”

  Myers glanced at Richard, then shrugged.

  Richard said, “They were supposed to take him away for a few days. He was supposed to watch videos and eat pizza until we came out, that's all it was supposed to be.”

  Lucy took a step toward him.

  “You had him stolen, you asshole! You had your son kidnapped! And you didn't even love him enough to admit it or ask for help.”

  “I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I'm sorry.”

  Lucy slapped him, then hit him with her fist. He didn't move, and he didn't try to protect himself. She hit Richard over and over again, grunting loudly with each effort—unh, unh, unh—like when she played tennis.

  “Luce.”

  I caught her arms gently and eased her away.

  Richard blubbered like a baby with snot running from his nose. Lucy had broken it. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, and sat there shaking his head.

  “I don't have the money. I can't get it in time. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't.”

  Myers said, “We have four minutes.”

  Fontenot shook his head.

  “He wants the money this bad, he'll wait. We can tell him it'll just be another hour, that the money is on the way. He'll go for it.”

  Pike spoke softly.

  “No, he won't. He's pressing because that's how he controls the situation. He wants to keep you off balance. He won't give you time to think. He wants the money, but he also wants to survive the mission, and that means he will not let you stall. He planned the operation, and now he's working the plan. He'll do what he said he would do, and then he'll disappear.”

  Fontenot said, “Jesus Christ, you make it sound like he's in a war.”

  Richard rubbed his face. His fingers went through his hair. He seemed calmer now, but still nervous.

  “I don't know what to do. I don't have the money.”

  I looked at Myers again.

  “What's supposed to happen if you had the money?”

  “He would tell us where to meet them, then we'd trade the money for Ben.”

  I looked at the Tumi bag. It was a big bag because three million dollars took up a lot of room, but five million would take up almost twice as much.

  I went over to the bed and sat beside Richard. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he glanced away.

  I said, “Do you love him?”

  Richard nodded.

  “I love him, too.”

  Richard blinked a bit, and his eyes filled with sorrow. His voice was hoarse.

  “You can't know how much I hate you.”

  “I know, but now we're going to save Ben together.”

  “Haven't you been listening? I already offered them the three million, but they wouldn't take it. They want five. They said it's five or nothing, and I don't have that much. I can't get it. I don't know what to tell them.”

  I put the hotel phone into his hands.

  “Do what you do best, Richard. Lie. Tell them that you have all five million and that you're ready to trade for your son.”

  Richard stared at the phone, and then he dialed.

  23

  time missing: 52 hours, 38 minutes

  Richard made the call at exactly nine P.M. and he was convincing. Myers and I listened on the extension. Fallon told Richard to bring the money to the west end of Santa Monica Airport. He told Richard to bring it alone.

  Myers and I both shook our heads.

  Richard's voice shook when he answered.

  “No goddamned way. Myers is coming. It'll be just us, and you'd better have Ben. If Ben's not there, I'll call the police. I should call the police anyway.”

  “Is Myers listening?”

  “I'm here, you prick.”

  “It's the west end of the airport on the south side. Drive past the hangars and stop. Get out of your car but stay next to it, and wait.”

  Myers said, “No boy, no money. You won't even get close to the money unless we see the boy.”

  “I just want the money. Stop, get out of your car, and you'll see me when I want you to see me. I won't be close to you, but you'll see me. When you see me, call this number again. Do you understand?”

  “I'll call you when I see you.”

  “Guess what happens if I see anyone else?”

  “I don't have to guess.”

  “That's right. You don't. Fifteen minutes.”

  Fallon hung up.

  Richard put down his phone and looked at me.

  “What do we do?”

  “Exactly what he told you to do. We'll do the rest.”

  Pike and I left at a dead run. We knew that Fallon was probably already at the airport and would be set up so that he could see Richard approach and watch for the police. Speed was everything. We had to get to the airport before Richard, we had to stay out of sight, and we had to come at Fallon in a way he didn't expect.

  I drove fast, and so did Pike, the two of us rat-racing across the city.

  Sunset Boulevard glowed with violet-blue light that rippled and shimmered on the hood of my Corvette. The cars we raced past were frozen in place, their tail lights stretched in front of us like liquid red streaks. I couldn't shift hard enough, I couldn't drive fast enough. We screamed across Westwood into Brentwood, and then toward the sea.

  Santa Monica Airport was a nice little place, one lonely airstrip built during a time when inland Santa Monica was mostly clover fields and cows, north of LAX and west of the 405. The city grew up around it, and now the airfield was surrounded by homeowners and businesses who hated the noise and lived in fear of a crash. You could get a good hamburger there, and sit on benches across from the tower to watch the airplanes take off and land. Ben and I had done that more than once.

  The north side of the airfield was mostly corporate offices and the Museum of Flying; old hangars and parking ramps lined the south. Many of the hangars on the south had been converted into offices or businesses, but many were empty; I guess they were cheaper to abandon than repair.

  I called Myers's cell as we got close.

  “We're almost there, Myers. Where are you?”

  “We just left the hotel. I'd say twelve or fifteen minutes. We're cutting it close.”

  “You're driving?”

  “Yeah. Richard's in back.”

  “When you reach the airport, slow down. Drive slow so that Pike and I have enough time.”

  “We can't be too late, Cole.”

  “They'll see your limo turn into the airport. They'll know you're here. That's what matters. They know you're from out of town, so just drive like you're confused.”

  “Shit, man, I'm doing that now.”

  I had to smile, even then.

  “I'll call you back when we're there.”

  I leaned on the horn all the way down Bundy, slowing for red lights but never once stopping, and twice Joe Pike pulled ahead. I straddled the curb to get around slower cars and hung on their bumpers, then downsh
ifted hard into the oncoming lanes. I hit a trash can on Olympic Boulevard, and raked a street sign as we blew under the freeway. My right headlight went out.

  All four tires smoked as I turned toward the sea.

  I picked up the phone.

  “Myers?”

  “I'm here.”

  “Two minutes.”

  We blew west two blocks north of the airport past a long row of offices and charter jet hangars. The tower stood silently in the distance, asleep for the night, its only sign of life a throbbing green and white light.

  Pike stopped at the embankment by the end of the runway, but I kept going. The office buildings gave way to a soccer field, and then to residential streets. I left my car a block away and ran on foot to the dark hangars that lined the south side of the field like overgrown shadows.

  Fallon would probably have a man on the roof and maybe another on the little service road that Richard would be using. A few cars were parked along the service road, but I couldn't see if anyone was in them and I didn't have time to go from car to car. The rooflines were clean.

  I edged past the last hangar, then peeked around the corner. A few small airplanes were tied down on the ramp with a row of fuel trucks parked by them. The trucks were all by themselves at the edge of nothing.

  I whispered into the phone.

  “Myers?”

  “We're at the east side.”

  “I can't see you.”

  “I don't care if you can see me; do you see them?”

  “Not yet. Go slow. I'm moving.”

  Pike was working his way toward the ramp from the north. I couldn't see him and didn't try; if I saw him, then they could see him, and either way would be bad. A trailer set up as a temporary office jutted out between the hangars. I slipped out to its end for a better view. I scanned the rooflines again, then the shadows along the base of the hangars, and then the trucks. Nothing moved. I listened as hard as I could. Nothing moved. I looked for shadows and shapes that were out of place, but everything seemed normal. No other cars were present. The hangar doors were closed. Fallon was probably waiting nearby if he was waiting anywhere at all.

  I whispered into the phone again.

  “I don't see anything, Myers.”

  “They'll hold in place until we get there, but they'll have to move. You'll see them.”