“You shittin’ me? He kill me for sure, he find out I got caught jacking, you know, stealing on the side. I can’ let him kill me.” His voice rose. “No way, man. You let me go, I’m gone. You and Chuy never see me again. You don’ know that man, what he like to do.” He made another sign of the cross.
I gentled my voice. This kid was clearly terrified of something. “What does Chuy like to do?”
A gentle salt breeze was blowing in from just over the dunes, but he shuddered, as if hit by an arctic blast.
“I’m done talking,” he said.
The image of a young banger’s butchered body, squeak-squeaking on Heather’s gurney, flicked through my mind. I prayed I was wrong about this. But if I wasn’t wrong, the kid had every right to be scared.
I turned my attention back to Manolo, whose skin was slick with sweat.
“I’m taking your pistol,” I said. I counted out eight $100 bills. “Here. That should cover it. I suggest you and your buddy Pedro use this money to get as far away from here—and Carnaté—as possible.
Manolo shoved the bills in his pocket, which hung down around his calves. He looked away, scuffing at the sand. Without his gun and bravado, he was just another lost, scared adolescent, wearing pants five sizes too big.
He licked his lips. “He gonna know you did this.”
“Chuy Dos?”
“Naw. Carnaté. Carnaté knows everything.”
Beyond the dunes, an ocean lullaby was ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing. “I hear Canada’s nice this time of year,” I said.
He finally met my eyes, dead serious. “Maybe I see you there, amigo.”
He ran across the dunes and into the darkness. I waited until he was out of sight.
Mike was snapping shots of the blasted side panel with his iPhone, for posterity.
“Mike, when you get home, can you call the Lost Hills Station and make an anonymous report on this van?” Let them deal with it.
“Sure thing, boss.”
I called Bill, and this time he picked up. Turned out, he hadn’t been asleep after all. He was called out on an officer-involved, drive-by shooting in Echo Park.
“I’m sorry, you’re saying what now?” Bill said, his voice low.
“I need to follow up on something,” I said. “It has to do with this gang of gangs. You up for a little joyride?”
Bill groaned, but I knew I had him. Anyway, he was already up.
I had Mike drop off my boxed Guard-on system and me at the 24-hour Jack in the Box farther up the PCH. I shoveled down a breakfast sandwich and a small greasy loaf of shredded potato generously called hash browns, and downed a scalding cup of bitter coffee. Bill pulled into the parking lot 40 minutes later, and I climbed into his car.
I turned the Herstal over to him. Maybe a trace would shed some light on this new gang.
“I’d forgotten this about you, Tenzing. How much you love to ruin a guy’s beauty sleep,” Bill said. He bagged the Herstal and locked it in his glove box. “Okay, Cowboy. Where to?”
I brought up the GPS tag on my phone and filled him in, as we merged onto the 10 and sped along the mostly deserted freeway and surface streets until we got to the Culver City industrial lot. I directed him to park up the block. The front of the lot was dead still, although the silence was underpinned by a constant, low-frequency hum. I couldn’t locate the source, but it was close by. I checked the office module, but there was no light on inside. In fact, the whole place was suspiciously bathed in inky darkness.
“Now what?” Bill asked, one eyebrow cocked.
I led him to the back alley. The guard’s hut, too, was dark. I looked up and down the alley. No pickup truck. No Tercel hatchback. I crossed to the spot in the fence where the guard’s entrance was masked by overlapping slats. I kicked at the hidden gate in frustration.
It swung open.
We called out a few times before entering the lot, on high alert, but the site appeared vacant. I led Bill to the first warehouse. It was locked up tight, but I was able to hitch Bill onto my shoulders so he could play my flashlight through one of the high windows. A youthful memory flared, only back then it had been me standing on Lobsang’s shoulders, stealing an ancient text from the monastery library. I shook the recollection off. Bill’s weight dug into my shoulders as he peered inside.
“There’s nothing in there, Ten. Just a big room.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s empty, pal.”
All three warehouses were stripped clean: not a pill, pot plant, or mobile unit in sight. Back in the car, I sat in stony silence, my body stiff with disappointment. Bill finally cleared his throat.
“I’m going to assume you weren’t tripping on some special Tibetan juju medicine, Ten, and that those warehouses actually had something in them.”
“Someone must have gotten spooked by my earlier visit. I’m telling you, they were full of drugs and marijuana plants and … and portable operating units.”
“Emphasis on portable,” he said.
“Agh!” I hit the dashboard, realizing. “Everything—the shelving, the hydroponic systems—all of it was on rollers!”
“Modern gangs,” Bill said, philosophically. “They think of everything.” He yawned. “I don’t know about you, partner, but I’m ready to call it a night.”
CHAPTER 13
The concrete floor presses against my cheek, cold and unyielding. I am stretched out, prone. I have been here before. I lift my head to look around. A man steps out of the corner shadows. It can’t be. But it is. My father lifts his right hand with the palm facing me. With his left hand, he points to the ground. The first gesture is meant to dispel fear, the other to call the earth as witness.
“You can’t be here,” I say. “You’re dead.”
“You only think I am,” my father answers, and his eyes turn the color of blood.
I run outside, into a barren stretch of desert sand. Sere. Lifeless. Carcasses litter the perimeter; maybe human, maybe animal, they’ve been left to rot by their attacker—me. I look at the horizon, which comes alive with whirling sand. The cloud of dust envelops me. The air swirls, dark and full of grit.
I start to walk, when a second man—more a boy, really—appears before me in the billowing sand storm. His hands are cupped in front of his chest. A beating heart rests in the shell formed by his palms.
Miguel. Dead Miguel.
And then I know. I am back. Back in my recurring lucid dream.
“Show me,” I say.
Then I am standing at the base of a tall stone watchtower. As I look up, the tower sprouts limbs, like a human. Or a cactus.
I step inside. It is pitch black. I feel my way up the steep stairs, past the first level, past the second. My legs are heavy. Climbing is like lifting concrete, but I force my way up the rough-hewn steps to the third level.
I can go no farther.
“Help me,” I say. “I am lost.”
A low voice speaks into my ear. It is androgynous, neither male nor female. For the first time, I wonder if it is my own voice I am hearing.
“Go back,” it says, and the impenetrable dark fills with the ringing of bells.
I was jolted awake. My cell phone was clanging—I had recently changed the ringtone to Bell Tower—and for a moment I was confused, straddling two realities.
I cleared my throat and answered. “Hello?”
“Tenzing? It’s Bets, Bets McMurtry.” Her voice was low but frantic and laced with fear. “Clara called me! I just got the message. She must have called last night after I went to bed! She’s still alive, but you have to find her! She’s in trouble!”
“Hang on,” I said. Did I oversleep? I checked the time, my heart thud-thudding in the disjointed rhythm of panic, but it wasn’t even 6:30 A.M. yet. I’d been out for only a few hours. I was okay.
I sat up in bed, shoulder-hunched the phone under one ear, and grabbed a pen and my notebook.
“Okay. What did she say? Tell me exactly.”
“She sa
id, she said, ‘Ayúdame,’” Bets wailed. “She said it twice. ‘Ayúdame! Ayúdame!’”
Help me. Something tightened across my chest, like a leather strap.
“That’s all she said. Then she hung up. Ten, she sounded so scared!”
“Can you give me the number of the phone she called you from?”
“I think so,” Bets said. I waited, but without much hope. “Oh, no. It says ‘number unknown.’”
“Bets, I’d like to come get your phone.”
“But that’s impossible … I mean, I don’t think I can …” I heard a doorbell ring in the background. “Shit! I have to go. Please, Ten. Find her before it’s too late.”
“Bets! I need that phone!”
I heard raised voices, and a man came on the phone.
“Detective Norbu? Mark Goodhue. I’m sorry, but we’re dealing with an emergency over here. We will get back to you shortly.”
Just like that, they were gone. Apologies to the Buddha, but I wanted to throttle both of them.
I jumped out of bed. My eyes itched with exhaustion, but there was no time to lose.
I coffee’d up and was on my way to East L.A. and Clancy’s lookout point well before 7 A.M. The key to everything rested inside those cleaning vans, and I was not going to be caught flat-footed a second time. Clara had been missing for almost a week. The odds had been solidly against her survival. But as of earlier this morning, she was alive enough to beg for help. I intended to provide it.
I found the parked Impala and tapped on Clancy’s window. He lowered it, stifling a yawn. With his stubbled cheeks and raccoon eyes he, too, resembled—as Bets had so graphically put it—warmed-over roadkill. Three days of round-the-clock surveillance will do that to a man. I was right on his heels in that department. I’d even spooked Tank this morning.
“Yo,” Clancy said. “Just in time.”
“What’s their schedule?”
“Well, in about twenty, if all goes as usual, most of these puppies will pull out, empty. Not the one I been keeping my eyes on, mind you, but most of the rest. Your favorite hasn’t moved once. It’s like they know why we’re here and who we’re watching. Weird. Anyway, eight o’clock, out they go. Empty. Two hours later, back they come. Empty. Around three o’clock, same thing. Out, empty; in, empty. Whatever they’re transporting ain’t from here.”
Clancy yawned again.
“Thanks,” I said. “Now, go home. Get some solid in-your-bed sleep. Once you wake up, if you’re up to it, go to the Aon downtown and watch for this car.” I gave him the make, model, and license-plate number of Mark Goodhue’s Mercedes and showed him a snap I took of Mark. “If you catch this man on the move, follow him. Are you keeping track of your time?”
“Oh, I’m keeping track,” Clancy said. “This rate, I’ll be done with my hours and ready to set up on my own before next week!” He ran his hands through his hair, which was a good deal less halo-like. In truth, it more closely resembled a pelt from an unidentifiable animal. “Anything else?”
“You might want to take a shower.” I smiled. “You know, before your wife and daughter get back. You look like crap.”
“Now who’s callin’ the kettle black?” He drove off, laughing.
Sure enough, at 8 A.M. sharp, several Hispanic men, all dressed in navy coveralls, a small white logo sewn on their front pockets, appeared like magic from the one-story office building and climbed into their assigned black Ford vans. Not my two bruisers, though, and sure enough, the van I’d spotted at the beach stayed put. I followed the exodus at a discreet distance, as they all drove maybe ten blocks east before pulling into another lot. Whoever was running this operation clearly understood the benefits of mobility in all things—moving targets are much harder to hit.
I pulled over and parked two blocks before their stopping place; my Shelby’s noticeable frame and color had me at a distinct disadvantage. Through my windshield, I could see this second lot belonged to a rundown church, its paint peeling and the cross on its roof tilted to one side, as if it, too, had experienced a rough night. I lifted my binoculars. The church’s sign was too faded and chipped to read, and it occurred to me I was looking at an abandoned house of God. Any praying going on inside wasn’t officially sanctioned.
A side door opened, and a young man with a thick billow of shiny black hair slicked straight back from his brow wheeled out a garment rack. He was about my size and shape, and also wearing the navy coverall uniform. His arms were covered in tats; he could be from the same litter of puppies as Manolo and Pedro. He leaned back on his heels, halting the rack’s progress, and the long row of black backpacks dangling from the top pole swung from side to side like bodies.
I snapped some photos, but I already knew the backpacks matched Sofia’s. Switching back to my binoculars, I zoomed in and, sure enough, spotted the telltale bulges of tracking devices sewn into the nylon at the base of the packs. Just then, a city bus trundled by and pulled over at a bus stop just past the church. The automatic doors opened and discharged a small army of chattering women in matching navy maids’ uniforms. They bustled into the lot. A second Metro bus followed suit, along with several junky cars and pickups, as more and more maids joined the growing throng.
My cell phone buzzed. Heather’s text was brief: AT WORK. CALL ME?
SOON, I texted back, as a slight, bowlegged man a few years shy of 40 strutted out of the building with the cocky confidence and build of a bantam rooster. I was betting on this being Chuy Dos, the alpha fowl. He clapped his hands, and the women clustered around him. He was dressed Mexican caballero-style, with tight jeans, pointed boots with steel toes, a dazzling white shirt, and a straw hat. He removed the hat and held it over his heart. He began to speak. Some of the maids bowed their heads. I wondered if perhaps they were praying, until one of the women raised her hand and said a few words. Chuy Dos jammed the hat back on his head and talked heatedly, pounding his fist in his hand. Two more women chimed in, and he interrupted again, this time more calmly.
I wished I could read lips. I couldn’t tell if Chuy had dissension in the ranks or was just conducting business as usual. He clapped his hands a final time. The maids formed a line, and he distributed the backpacks, sliding them off the pole individually. His young assistant stood nearby, writing on a clipboard, as each woman collected her prize and climbed into her assigned van.
All aboard. The vans squeezed through the exit one by one, like cows through a chute. I decided to follow the last one out, and eased onto the street behind it. I trailed along without incident as the others peeled off. After several turns, we found our way onto the 10, heading west.
Once we were safely on the freeway, and I had put a few cars between us, I called Heather.
“Yes,” she said, her tone a little businesslike. Maybe one of her superiors was nearby.
“It’s me. Can you talk?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I have an organ-transplant question.”
“How romantic,” she said, but I knew Heather. She loved shoptalk, and there was an undercurrent of curiosity in her tease. “Mind you, anything I say about transplants will have to be theoretical,” she added. “I take organs out; I’ve never installed one.”
“No problem, I’m looking for basic information. Do you know how much organ transplants cost these days?”
“Which organ? And which hospital? More importantly, with or without insurance?”
“Actually, I was thinking black-market value, but now that you mention it, why would anyone in their right mind go that route, instead of doing it legitimately? Heather, can you hang on a moment?”
The van merged onto Pacific Coast Highway, and I wondered if I was going to wind up back at Mac Gannon’s. That would be interesting. I slowed down, once again allowing several cars to move between us.
“Okay,” I said. “Where were we?”
“You were wondering who might want to buy black-market organs,” she said. “My hunch would be rich people who
need them. I’m guessing really wealthy people don’t appreciate all the rules that govern transplant medicine. Any medicine, for that matter.”
“What kind of rules?”
“You have no idea the hoops you have to jump through. And everybody has to jump. No exceptions. Hospitals like ours are very sensitive to bad publicity. We could lose all our funding if some mogul or other bought his way to the top of the list for a new liver, say, or lung or heart. Organ donation may be the last remaining situation, at least here in Los Angeles, where fame and fortune don’t buy faster results. You know the One Percent—they do not like to wait, period. My guess is they’d happily pay black-market prices if they could get that kidney or lung right now. Why?”
“Just curious. So what’s a good transplant go for these days?”
Heather paused.
“Round figures,” I said.
“I’m not sure, Ten. I’d have to double-check.”
“Well, how about if you wanted to purchase an organ?”
“Hello? Not my bailiwick. I mean, I assume a donor-cycle organ is pretty valuable.”
“Donor-cycle?”
“Sorry. Morgue lingo. It’s what we call motorcycles. Almost all the best organs come from eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-old motorcycle crash victims. They’re the healthiest ones around, providing the kid hasn’t been hitting the alcohol and cigarettes too hard yet.”
Same with young gang members, I thought. “So, who performs the transplants? With these black market organs, I mean?”
“Jesus, Ten! How on earth would I know that? All I do know is we’ve got one of the best legit guys right here at USC, on our hospital staff. Dr. Kestrel. Perfect name, by the way: he looks exactly like a bird of prey. I must have told you about him.”
“Dr. Kestrel? Don’t think so.” My neck tensed.
“He’s a legend, travels all over the world lecturing to other surgeons. The joke around here is that Dr. K. could transplant your soul without leaving a scar. All the nurses are in love with him. They think he’s a god; he’s that good with his hands.”
Had I found Heather’s Dr. K.? Did she, too, love him, or did she not?
The Third Rule of Ten Page 16
