She took his hand. “You’ll be there to break my fall.”
“How can you know that?”
“You always are.”
He looked away, embarrassed. “I really think you’d be better off taking some time to get yourself together. Deal with what you went through. Get it out of your system.”
“Oh, hell, I’m not a newbie. I’ve been shot at before. And I’ve shot back. I killed a man once, and I didn’t lose a damn bit of sleep over it.”
“Maybe it would be better if you had.”
She pulled her hand away. “Are you going to help me or not?”
He thought about it. “Tell me what you intend to do.”
“Find this guy. Then bring in the feds.”
“How are you going to tip off the FBI without involving yourself?”
“I have a contact in the Bureau.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“They don’t know the city like you do.”
Wyatt pursed his lips. “Nice compliment.”
“It’s the truth.”
“I know you’re manipulating me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your lips are moving.”
She bristled. “Somebody woke up on the cynical side of bed.”
“It’s hard not to be cynical with someone who uses you.”
“Look, Vic, if my being here is a problem—”
“It is. You know it is. We can’t be seen together. It’s risky enough for me to come to your place. The damn doorman and those guards at the desk could pick me out of a lineup with their eyes shut by now.”
“How would they be able to pick you out if they had their eyes shut?”
He ignored the question. “I’ve taken a lot of chances for you, Abby. And, let’s face it, it’s pretty much a one-way street.”
“I take, but I don’t give. Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s what you said.”
“You’re not disagreeing.”
“Would I have any reason to disagree?”
“Maybe I’d just better go.”
She turned away. He put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back. His voice was softer than before. “The situation must be pretty desperate if you’re coming here.”
“Not desperate. Just urgent.”
“Subtle distinction. You promise you’re not going to go off and get yourself killed?”
“That’s not the plan.”
“And you aren’t gunning for revenge?”
“My life isn’t a Charles Bronson movie. I told you what I want to do.”
“Yes. You told me.”
“And you don’t believe it,” she said flatly. Tess hadn’t believed her, either. She was tired of being doubted. “Okay, I’ll take off, then.”
“Not till I get you that info.”
She cocked her head, uncertain she’d heard right. “Yeah?”
“One of our gang guys will know about the Scorpions. Just wait here. And try to be inconspicuous.”
“I always am.”
He left. She paced the small office, barely aware of the chatter on the police radio. A uniformed cop stuck his head in the doorway, saw her and not Wyatt, and mumbled something about coming back later. Other than that, she was undisturbed.
She thought about what he’d said. Yeah, she was stressed. Who the hell wouldn’t be? She was tense and a little hyper. So what? She’d survived a goddamned gunfight. All her senses were temporarily heightened, her mind racing. That wasn’t a bad thing. If anything, it gave her an edge.
Maybe coming to the station house had a been a bad idea. She knew she shouldn’t be seen with him, especially by his fellow officers. It was the kind of thing that could come back to hurt him if she were ever exposed. But she was in a hurry. She wasn’t in the mood to play it safe.
He complained that she rarely told him anything about her cases. He was right. But the thing was, she was doing it to protect him. The less he knew, the better.
That was part of it, anyway. Not the whole truth. If she were being completely honest with herself, she would have to admit that she never shared more than necessary. Not with Wyatt. Not with Tess. Not with anybody. She was the original lone wolf. It had always been like that for her, but in recent years she seemed to have retreated even deeper into isolation and wariness. She had learned to trust no one, to be perpetually on guard.
It wasn’t the easiest way to live. And it wasn’t getting any easier. More and more often these days, she was getting that trapped feeling. It came on for no apparent reason and lingered for hours or days. Usually a dream served as a harbinger. She would dream of herself in prison—not a real prison, simply a place she couldn’t escape from. It might be nice and pretty, with attractive décor and comfortable furnishings, but she couldn’t leave. Sometimes the prison looked like her condo, and other times it looked like the ranch in Arizona where she’d grown up, but most of the time it was just an anonymous place, as meticulously appointed as a luxury hotel, and as impersonal.
She’d had the dream on and off for years. She was pretty sure she knew what it meant. Her symbolic imprisonment was a subconscious complaint about the life she’d chosen.
She worked alone. She’d created a job that allowed her to interact with a wide variety of people while maintaining a cautious separation from them all. Sometimes she felt trapped in the private world she’d carved out for herself.
Still, there was more to the dream than that. She had a feeling she was trapped in a deeper sense than simple emotional disconnectedness. Trapped by ... circumstances? Fate? She wasn’t sure she believed in either. Circumstances were what you made them. Fate was a myth. Or so she liked to tell herself. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe when she’d signed up for this life, she’d boarded a train that was headed down a straight stretch of rail toward a predetermined end, and now the train was moving too fast for her to jump off.
Not that she would have jumped off, anyway. She was committed. She would ride this line to the end—even if it was a dead end. What the hell. Everything was a dead end if you looked far enough ahead, wasn’t it?
Besides, there was always a chance the train would jump the rails. She wasn’t sure if that part of the analogy was comforting or disquieting. She supposed it depended on whether or not she survived the wreck.
The door opened, and Wyatt came in. “Their main hangout,” he said without preliminaries, “is a biker bar on South Grande Avenue, name of Fast Eddie’s. There’s about twenty-five, thirty members in the Santa Ana club, plus a few probates—aspiring members—at any given time.”
“And they all have these tattoos?”
“All the sworn members, yeah. It’s part of the initiation ceremony. The tat isn’t always on the neck. Sometimes it’s on the biceps or the chest or wherever.”
“As gangs go, are we talking major crime or penny-ante stuff?”
“Somewhere in between. They push meth and designer drugs, but they don’t produce the stuff themselves. They’ve made efforts to legitimize themselves—graffiti cleanup, toys for tots, that sort of thing. But it’s all bullshit. At heart they’re all about drugs and violence.”
“A real credit to their community.”
“They’re people you don’t want to fool around with.”
“I never fool around,” Abby said quietly.
Wyatt gave her a long look. “That's what worries me.”
She didn't like his inquiring stare. It was hard to know what secrets he might draw out of her. He knew her so much better than Tess did.
She broke eye contact, moving quickly to the door. “Thanks, Vic. I owe you.”
He showed her an unreadable smile. “I'll put it on your tab.”
24
Reynolds had spent the night in his home office, a small, private retreat on the ground floor of his house. Nora knew better than to disturb him there. He’d microwaved a frozen fettuccini dinner and forced himself to eat it, the meal washed down with more than one glass o
f Scotch. At ten p.m. and again at eleven, he turned on the local news to see the story of the home invasion in San Fernando. He learned nothing from the accounts except that the reporters and a few onlookers had remained outside the house late into the night. He knew that Shanker’s men could do nothing until the media left.
By midnight he had to assume that the goddamned reporters were finally gone. They wouldn’t linger after doing their live stand-ups for the late local news. When the TV vans left, the neighborhood curiosity seekers would leave, too. And Bethany—Andrea—would be alone.
He had no doubt she would stay in the house. She would not trust the police enough to accept their protection. And if she was as paranoid and hostile as Abby Sinclair said, she wouldn’t have any friends she could go to.
She ought to be easy prey.
He waited, nursing another Scotch. Shanker’s boys would get it done this time. Hell, they might have done the job already. Andrea could be dead, even now. Or dying, her blood draining onto the floor as she lay helpless. He hoped she knew who was responsible. He wanted her to know who killed her.
His cell phone rang. He snatched it off his desk. “Yeah.”
“It’s me.” Shanker’s voice.
“You get it done?” Reynolds licked his lips and realized the old expression was true—he could almost taste it.
But Shanker took a moment too long to answer. “No,” he said finally. “We didn’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“She’s being watched.”
“What?”
“I went up there to scout the area. Figured I would do the job myself. No more delegating. I hung out in a park across from her house. Nobody noticed me. I was wearing grungy clothes, looked like a homeless guy. I waited till after the TV assholes left.”
“And?”
“A little later I saw somebody go into the house next door to the target’s residence. It’s a house that’s supposed to be unoccupied. Abandoned. Windows boarded up. But people are in there. And there’s another thing. A van.”
“What kind of van?”
“Cargo type, no rear windows. Got the name of a plumbing company on it. Parked down the street. It’s been there all night.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I got close enough to see some light from the front compartment. There’s people inside the van. It’s a stakeout, Jack.”
“Who? Cops, feds?”
“I don’t know. Cops, I assume. Home invasion’s not a federal crime. Undercover cops are probably waiting to see if anybody comes back for a return visit.”
Reynolds gripped the phone too tightly. “Fuck it. Send them in anyway.”
“I can’t do that. The cops—”
“Get some backup. Three, four of your guys. Go in with shotguns. Kill the fucking cops. Blow them the fuck away. With enough firepower and the element of surprise, you can do it.”
There was another long silence. “I don’t think that’s too realistic, Jack.”
“Realistic? You don’t think it’s fucking realistic? How about your ass in a concrete drum? Is that realistic? How about what happened to Joe Ferris?”
“I’m just trying to look at the situation as it stands. I’m already on my way back to Santa Ana. I gave it my best shot, but for tonight, it’s a no-go.”
“Fuck that bullshit. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Jack, what can I tell you?”
“You can tell me you got results. That’s what the fuck I hired you for. I even gave you a second chance to make good. That’s not something I would offer to just anybody. Now you’re jerking me off and making excuses—”
“It’s not excuses. She’s under surveillance. She’s a hardened target. I can’t touch her.”
“God damn it, you listen to me. I want that woman dead. Now. Tonight. I don’t care what it takes, I want you to make it happen. You hear me, you dumb dogshit cocksucker? You hear me?”
“I hear you, Jack. But I can’t help you. Maybe in a day or two, if the heat’s off ...”
“I ought to cut your fucking balls off. Except you don’t have any. No cojones, Ron. Even a damn lettuce picker has more guts than you.”
“Jack, we can work something out.”
“You’re a dead man,” Reynolds said, ending the call. “Fucking dead,” he added to the empty room.
He threw the phone away. It clattered in a corner. He took a step in one direction, then another, unable to select any course of action, even where he wanted to walk. Then he turned and moved behind his desk, threw a row of books off the shelf onto the floor, and exposed a wall safe. He dialed the combination, opened the safe. Inside, among other valuables and secrets, there was a handgun. He pulled it out. Fully loaded. Spare clips in the safe.
He could do the job himself. Take the gun, drive to San Fernando right now, sneak unseen into Andrea’s yard, get into her house. Shoot her dead. But the shot would draw the undercover cops. And he had no silencer. All right, so he would kill her some other way. Smother her, strangle her, drown her in the fucking toilet. A silent kill, then an escape into the shadows—
Bullshit.
He wasn’t going to do any goddamn thing like that. He didn’t even know how to do it. It wasn’t part of his—how would Stenzel say it?—his skills set. Not one of his core competencies.
“Fuck,” he snarled, tossing the gun back inside the safe and slamming the door. He left the books in disorder on the floor. He poured himself another Scotch from the minibar and downed it fast, hoping the burn of alcohol would calm him, but if anything, it made him hotter than before. The situation was insane. He knew her name and address. He ought to be able to stamp her out as casually as he would tread on a cigarette butt. Instead he couldn’t get to her. She was closed off from him, protected by an unbreachable barrier. She might as well be in hiding on another continent. Yet she was so close—
He punched the oak-paneled wall. Pain flashed through his hand. He thought he might have broken it, but no, he could flex his fingers. The raw pulse of pain in his knuckles felt good somehow. Better than the Scotch had tasted. He didn’t need Scotch. He needed pain.
Not his own pain, though. His own pain was never the answer.
He found his car keys and left through a side door, taking his Mustang coupe. He drove fast on the surface streets and reached Rebecca’s condo in Costa Mesa. It was past one o’clock by now, and she was asleep, of course. At the front gate he buzzed her unit until she answered.
“Me,” he said. “Open up.”
She did, but only after she hesitated. He made a mental note of that. She would pay for hesitating.
She met him at her door. He pushed her inside and shut the door behind him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing his face, and from her expression he knew he must look like a wild man.
He didn’t answer. He pushed her down, and she fell on the floor in a confusion of long limbs and the tissuey folds of her nightgown.
“You bitches,” he said.
She stared up, uncomprehending.
“Dumb fucking bitches, playing your games.” He thought of Andrea. And Abby Sinclair, who’d walked out on him.
“Jack?” Rebecca whispered.
He struck her in the face. Her head snapped sideways and she groaned and there was blood on her mouth, and it was all good.
25
Abby left the station house and caught the Hollywood Freeway, speeding south into Orange County. The day’s traffic had finally cleared, and the Mazda could go all out. Putting the pedal to the floor relieved some of her tension, but not much.
Along the way, she stopped first at a large discount drugstore, then spent ten minutes in the bathroom of a fast food joint. When she emerged, her hair had been moussed and slipped back, her pageboy ’do transformed into a tight skullcap. Tacky oversized earrings, maroon lipstick, and glue-on fingernail extensions completed her makeover.
She didn’t think the bad guys at Andrea’s house could have se
en her. If they had, it couldn’t have been more than a glimpse. She looked sufficiently different to pass unrecognized now.
One thing was for sure. She could change her appearance a lot more easily than the man with the scorpion tattoo could change his.
At eleven thirty she arrived in Santa Ana and cruised down South Grande Avenue until she found Fast Eddie’s.
Wyatt’s info had been correct. The Scorpions did hang out here, or at least some biker club did. Choppers, all of them American-made and none boasting engines smaller than 900 cc’s, were parked out back in the deadpan glare of a mercury-vapor streetlight. The bikes were unguarded, their owners apparently known in the community—known and feared.
Abby didn’t leave her car in the lot. She didn’t want anyone seeing the Mazda and remembering it from Andrea’s neighborhood. Instead she motored down another block and found a space at the curb, then walked briskly to the bar, her purse in hand with the gun inside.
Fast Eddie’s was a clamorous hellhole. Some kind of noxious hip-hop was banging out of the cheap sound system. A woman who was high on more than life gyrated on a pool table while some guys yelled catcalls, and others shouted at her to get off the table so they could play pool.
Those guys weren’t Scorpions, though. The Scorpions were seated together in a corner of the bar, ignoring the bedlam.
She knew them at once, not from the tattoos, which she couldn’t make out at a distance, but from the air of masculine camaraderie that defined any wolf pack.
There were two dozen of them occupying a nest of corner tables. They wore their colors, sleeveless leather jackets with scorpion insignias on the back. A few female hangers-on, ranging in age from jailbait to over-the-hill, petted and fondled and looked bored. The men were loud and drunkenly obnoxious, their blurry stares daring any patron to start something. It was a safe bet that every one of them was packing a gun.
Although Santa Ana was largely Hispanic, the Scorpions were all Anglos. Most gangs formed along racial lines. Probably this one had originated as a way of defending a slice of this miserable turf from the encroachment of immigrants.
Mortal Faults Page 16
