Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  Curious, she waited outside the rendezvous court, studying a painting and watching Reynolds at his table in the reflection on the glass. Sure enough, he was joined almost immediately by Stenzel. The two of them remained deep in conversation for several minutes before Reynolds dismissed him.

  Abby ducked out of the sight as Stenzel walked through the doorway. Following at a distance, she passed behind him while he spoke with a clerk at the desk. She picked up enough of their exchange to know that Stenzel was inquiring about a car rental.

  Presumably Reynolds and his campaign manager had come to the Brayton together. Now Stenzel was going off on his own in a rented car. Reynolds must have other travel plans.

  She couldn’t follow them both. The congressman interested her more. With any luck he had used the same Ford minivan he’d driven to the town hall meeting last night.

  She took the elevator to the hotel’s underground garage and wandered among the parked vehicles until she found the van, easily identifiable by the two REELECT JACK REYNOLDS bumper stickers on its rump. From her purse she took out a roll of reflective tape and tore off a six-inch strip, which she attached to the bumper. In the dim light of the garage, the tape was invisible, but outside, in direct sunlight, it would throw off considerable glare. She would be able to stay well back and still see the telltale shine.

  Reynolds had said he was going to lunch at noon. He ought to be through by one thirty or so. Then she would see where he went.

  Tailing a client wasn’t exactly standard procedure. But then, Reynolds wasn’t her client anymore. In fact, inasmuch as he refused to reimburse her for her services, he had never really been her client at all.

  “Should’ve paid me, Jack,” she whispered.

  ***

  By two o’clock she was starting to wonder how long it took Reynolds to chow down. She’d been sitting in her Miata, parked across the street from the hotel garage, for more than an hour.

  Finally the Ford came into view, heading up the exit ramp. She keyed the ignition. When the van breezed past, she followed. Reynolds headed onto the southbound Harbor Freeway, the 110.

  The tail job was easy. Reynolds, unlike most of the people she had surveilled, wasn’t paranoid. He executed no evasive maneuvers. He signaled when changing lanes, only moderately exceeded the speed limit, and gave her plenty of warning when transferring from the 110 to the 10, and from the 10 to the 405.

  He was headed back to Orange County, it appeared. Going to his office or his home. Stenzel might have had a more suspicious destination in mind. She was beginning to think she’d followed the wrong man.

  ***

  Just past the Huntington Beach exit, Reynolds’ cell phone chirped.

  “Yeah,” he said, cradling the phone between his head and shoulder.

  “We got her.” Stenzel’s voice was excited, higher than usual.

  “You sure?”

  “She’s on the mailing list. She lives in San Fernando, fifty miles outside our district. And her paper trail only goes back eight years. What’s the protocol for me now?”

  “Nothing. I’ll handle it from here. Just give me her address.”

  “903 Keystone Drive.”

  Reynolds nodded, committing the address to memory. “I’ll be a little late getting back to the office,” he said. “Need to see some people. Do I have anything on for this afternoon?”

  “Your schedule’s open.”

  “Keep it that way. And, Kip—you did a good job on this. Excellent work.”

  “I aim to please.”

  Reynolds nearly ended the call, then remembered a question he’d meant to ask. “What name is she using?”

  “Andrea Lowry. Does that matter?”

  “No.” Reynolds smiled. “No, it doesn’t matter at all.”

  ***

  Abby was getting seriously bored by the time her quarry entered Orange County. But when the van left the freeway, heading into Santa Ana, she got interested all over again.

  Reynolds, she remembered, had been raised in the Santa Ana barrios. Possibly he was indulging in a little nostalgia by venturing home again. She doubted it. He didn’t seem like the sentimental type.

  On TV, Orange County existed as a place of endless beaches, posh malls, and glistening marinas. And all of those things were real enough, and had earned the shoreline its nickname, the Gold Coast. But TV always oversimplified, and the reality of the county was inevitably more complex. Inland, away from the yachts and beachfront condos, there lay a massively overdeveloped patchwork of freeways, urban centers, and suburban sprawl. Hillsides, once bare, now sprouted condos, and condos on top of condos, and still more condos on top of those. Newness was the driving force here.

  The wealthier areas were adult playgrounds where everything was new, glistening, beautiful, and oddly sterile. They drew in prosperity and commerce. The older districts, left behind, became home to Orange County’s underclass, which was sizable and, like everything else in California, growing.

  Santa Ana was one of the old sections. Its population was largely Hispanic. Here was where the bus lines brought the chambermaids who made beds in Newport Beach’s luxury hotels and the gardeners who trimmed bushes outside Irvine’s million-dollar homes. Santa Ana was crowded and noisy and unpolished, its crime rates were high, and it was not a place where a man like Jack Reynolds was likely to spend his leisure time.

  Abby stayed two or three cars behind him, catching glimpses of the reflective tape through gaps in the traffic. The van turned down a side street. She continued straight, afraid to pull directly behind her quarry. Her red sports car would stand out, and even a driver who wasn’t looking for a tail might spot it.

  At the next corner she turned, then paralleled Reynolds’ projected route for a few blocks before cutting over to the street he’d been traveling on. The van was nowhere in sight. It was possible she’d lost him, but there was an equal chance he’d parked somewhere along the way. She retraced the route and spotted the van in the parking lot of a motorcycle repair shop.

  Reynolds wasn’t at the wheel. He must have gone inside.

  She cruised past the shop, a dingy square structure with off-white stucco walls that had turned considerably more off-white with the passage of time. From inside came the whir of power drills and the sputtering cough of a faulty engine. A hand-painted banner over the door read HARLEY SPECALISTS. She wondered why someone would take the time to paint the sign by hand but wouldn’t check the spelling first. She also wondered what the hell Congressman Reynolds was doing in a cycle shop. Nothing on his Web site or in his office had indicated a passion for motorcycles, and she seriously doubted that he would drop by to shoot the bull with a bunch of mechanics on a Friday afternoon, even if they did happen to be his constituents.

  The situation was becoming more complicated—and more troubling. She didn’t like the fact that Reynolds had come here so soon after their meeting, as if her refusal to cooperate on the case had led him to take some more drastic measure.

  Such as? She didn’t know, but a fair number of bikers were known for their participation in criminal acts. Reynolds had been willing to tiptoe along the edge of the law by hiring her. Maybe now he’d been prompted to cross the line entirely.

  Well, she could hardly walk into the bike shop and ask him about his plans—although her sudden appearance in that environment would boast a certain theatrical flair.

  If she couldn’t talk to Reynolds, who could she talk to?

  There was one obvious choice, and that was Andrea Lowry herself.

  It was a good thing Reynolds wasn’t her client, because going behind a client’s back to get info on him from his own stalker was definitely not in her usual playbook. And of course Andrea might not tell her a thing. They hadn’t exactly hit it off last night.

  The thing was, though, Andrea knew when she was being lied to. She must have been lied to a lot. But suppose someone were to try telling her the straight truth. No lies, no games, just simple honesty. Would she respond?r />
  It was worth a shot, if for no other reason than it was the only shot Abby had left. She drove out of Santa Ana and headed north on the 405, which would take her back to L.A.

  11

  Shanker was in the garage when he saw the Man enter the waiting room of his shop. The Man—that was how Shanker thought of him. To everyone else he was Congressman Jack Reynolds, but to Ron Shanker he would always be the Man.

  He’d been talking to a pimply red-haired kid about rejetting the carbs on his Yamaha, one of those riceburners Shanker hated. But what the hell, business was business, and with the Mexicans crowding him on all sides, he needed all the business he could get. The Mexicans wouldn’t come to him, of course. They knew about the war three years ago, and although a truce was now in effect, it didn’t mean the two sides were friendly.

  Anyway, he couldn’t keep the Man waiting, especially not in the crappy little room at the front of the shop, a room whose sole amenity was an ancient coffeemaker that dripped poisonous sludge into a stained carafe. He handed off the red-haired kid to one of his mechanics, telling him to drain the gas tank before starting the tune-up because the bike had been in storage and the gas was old. Then he headed into the outer room.

  “Jack, how’s it hanging?” He extended a large hand and felt it gripped by the Man’s crushing fist. “What brings you here?”

  “Business.” He said it in the unmistakable way that meant trouble.

  Shanker nodded. “Let’s go into my office.”

  He led the Man through the shop, past the Dynotest room where a Harley was being run through its RPM range. Around him rang the screams of power tools, mixing with the casual profanities of his three mechanics. All of them puffed cigarettes, the burning ends glowing like red eyes behind veils of smoke.

  His office was down a short hall, past the stinkhole washroom that had needed a good cleaning for at least six months. The wall of the hallway was decorated with cycle calendars sent to his shop by manufacturers of tools and engine parts. Most of them displayed the wrong month, having been turned to whatever page featured the best artwork—the artwork in question consisting of color photos of busty, nearly nude, creatively tattooed women draped over motorcycles.

  Reynolds entered the office, and Shanker followed, careful to shut and lock the door. He noticed that the Man did him the courtesy of sitting in the visitor’s chair rather than stationing himself behind the desk. They both knew he could sit anywhere he pleased.

  The office was small and smelled of carpet cleaner. An air conditioner rattled in the window frame, working hard against waves of August heat.

  Shanker settled into the desk chair and tried not to look scared. It was tough to do, because the Man was one sprung motherfucker. He’d known the Man for a long time, and he’d been scared of him for nearly as long. And Ron Shanker was a guy who didn’t scare easy—he had the scars on his hide to prove it, battle scars from street combat.

  “What can I do ya for?” he asked with a weak, shit-eating grin.

  Reynolds ignored the question. “How’s business?”

  The inquiry took Shanker by surprise. The Man never made small talk with him.

  “Picking up,” Shanker said. “Not bad.”

  “I guess our economic policies are working.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Shanker didn’t have a clue what economic policies his congressman had voted for.

  “How’s the market on the streets?”

  “I seen better. Coke’s down, but this designer shit, like Ecstasy, is still pretty hot. And speed. Speed is always in demand.”

  “Speed kills,” Reynolds said with a slight smile.

  Shanker got the joke. It was what they used to say when they went out riding—and having said it, they would crank their bikes into gear and bust every speed limit, flashing past stop signs, flying through red lights. Because while they knew that speed kills, they didn’t believe they could die. They’d been young.

  Shanker knew better now. Like the Man, he was past fifty. He’d seen people die, and he knew how real it was.

  “Any trouble from the cholos?” Reynolds asked.

  “Not as long as we stay on our turf and they stay on theirs. Fucking taco benders are basically cowards. All bullshit, no action.”

  “I guess you ought to know. You get to see enough of them.”

  “Too many. Goddamn border monkeys spit out kids as regular as taking a crap. Hey, I got a good one for you. How many Mexicans does it take to grease an axle?” He paused before delivering the punch line. “One, if you hit ’im just right.”

  Reynolds laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. The two of them used to laugh all the time.

  “I don’t think I’ll be using that one in any of my speeches,” Reynolds said. “So, no new hostilities?”

  “Some hassles, you know. Guys going at it, trying to prove what big balls they got. Nothing major. Not since the Westminster Avenue thing.” Down on Westminster three years ago, Shanker’s guys had gotten into it with a crew of Mexishits. Well, actually El Salvadorans, but they were all Mexishits in the end. One of Shanker’s men bought it, but the cholos lost four of their own, plus another who was busted up so badly he would never pick lettuce again. After that, the truce had been called.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re still making out. Even so, I don’t suppose you’d object if I send a little extra business your way.”

  “I can always use more business,” Shanker said cautiously.

  “Right now I can use your services.”

  “Like what, as a for-instance?”

  “Like removing somebody who’s become a problem.”

  “Okay. I can get that done.”

  “Now.”

  “When you say now ...”

  “I mean today. This afternoon.”

  “In broad daylight?”

  “People die in the daytime. If your crew goes in fast and hard, they can get away before anybody knows what’s happening.”

  “It would be better to wait until dark.”

  “I’m not waiting. I want this individual blipped immediately. That a problem?”

  “No problem. I just wish you’d come to me sooner. It’s good to do a little preliminary scouting, you know, check out the territory.”

  “I just got the address a half hour ago,” Reynolds said, “while I was on my way here.”

  “Oh.” Shanker thought about this. “You were already coming? What would you have done if you didn’t have the address when you got here?”

  “I would have waited. I put my best man on it, and I have confidence in him. I always have confidence in the people I work with. They never let me down.”

  He said it with a emphasis that let Shanker know how important it was not to let Jack Reynolds down.

  “So where do we find this individual?” Shanker asked.

  “Address in the Valley.”

  “Who are we dealing with here? I mean, is this a hardened target—security protection, shit like that?”

  “It’s a middle-aged woman. She lives alone at this address.”

  Reynolds took out an index card, handling it by the edges between thumb and forefinger, and pushed it across the desk. On it was written 903 KEYSTONE DRIVE, the address printed in capitals to make a handwriting comparison impossible. Shanker guessed that Reynolds had never touched the surface of the card. He’d left no prints.

  “I can get it done,” Shanker said. He didn’t touch the card either.

  “What’ll it cost?”

  “Forget it. Gratis.”

  “I’ll pay. What’s the going rate?”

  “It’s just her? Just this one woman?”

  “For now.”

  Shanker hesitated, wondering how much he should ask for. Too much, and he might make the Man angry. Too little, and he would only be cheating himself.

  “Five grand,” he said.

  Reynolds nodded. “I’ll pay in cash when the job is done. Unless you need a deposit?”

  This had to be a joke
. Even if it wasn’t, Shanker found himself laughing. “Deposit? What, are you shitting me? No way.”

  He kept laughing, though there was nothing really funny about it. Except that it was funny—the whole routine they were going through, the scene they had acted out. They both knew Shanker would do whatever he was told, whether or not he was paid. They both knew Shanker was in no position to disappoint Jack Reynolds. And they both knew what happened to people who did disappoint him. Joe Ferris, for instance.

  Joe had made the mistake of trying to blackmail the Man back when Reynolds was just getting started in the DA’s office. Ferris had dirt on him—some small-time illegal shit Reynolds had done as a teenager—and he threatened Reynolds with career-killing exposure unless he received a monthly stipend, a lien on Reynolds’ income. Reynolds played along, paying him off for five or six months, until Joe got careless and allowed himself to be drawn into a private rendezvous with the Man. By then he thought he’d broken Reynolds down, made him his bitch.

  Jack Reynolds was no one’s bitch. The next day Joe Ferris was found dead in a vacant lot, his body mutilated in awful ways, all of which predated his expiration. The police never caught the killer and, given Ferris’s rap sheet, didn’t make much of an effort. But Shanker knew who had done it. And he knew that before he died, Joe Ferris had given up every piece of evidence that could have been used against Reynolds. No one could have held out against the methods that had been used, the terrible ingenuity employed.

  The Man was older now, but he hadn’t mellowed. He’d filled out his suits a little, polished his act, but if you stripped all that away, he was still a fighter who knew only the law of the barrio—to defend your turf, accept no disrespect, and show no leniency to your enemies, ever.

  “No deposit then,” Reynolds said when Shanker had gotten his laughter under control.

  “I’ll put my best crew on it,” Shanker promised.

  “Good. Let me know when it’s done.”

  Reynolds started to rise. Shanker risked a question. “You said there was only one person—for now. Does that mean there’s another one, for later?”