Wes and Callahan exchanged looks. Callahan nodded briskly. They would play out this string together.
DeRossi drove on. They turned at the corner and headed north past Universal City, heading up towards the barrio. Most cars were going the other way. The street lights sent little sparkles up the dusty side window. Neon lights glittered as they passed through the NoHo Arts District, a row of movie houses and acting studios and little stage theaters with 24-hour markets and funky little liquor stores squashed like yard gnomes in between.
Penzler faced the back seat. This time he kept the gun out of sight. He smiled broadly, with the feral eyes of a predator.
"So now tell me, where is this suitcase?"
Wes said, "It's under a house."
"Where?"
"Near my dad's place."
Someone stopped too quickly in front of them. Without thinking, DeRossi leaned on the horn. Callahan looked out the window. To the right, in a vacant lot, two homeless men were fighting over a wine jug in a large paper sack. The long top of the bottle protruded from the torn bag like a huge glass nipple. The smaller one kicked the larger man in the shin. He grabbed his booty and ran off down the alley.
"It's near your Dad's place." Penzler nodded. "Okay, I believe you, kid. And we both remember the way, don't we, partner?"
They were already moving the right way, but heading a little too far east. So DeRossi just angled to his left and continued to drive. Callahan could see his face reflected in the rear view mirror. DeRossi was the reluctant one. He looked pale and his forehead was damp with flop sweat. The detective was tense and far more worried about all of this than his colleague. Perhaps there was a way to exploit that anxiety.
Callahan said, "Can I ask you guys something?"
Penzler just stared. Overhead lights and flickering business signs danced behind his head like psychedelic worms.
"How much is this attorney Pearlman going to take off the top?" Callahan asked.
"What do you care?"
"I'm betting what, maybe half? So that will leave you guys with twenty-five percent apiece for taking all the risk?"
Penzler strained to mask his expression. Even in the evening shadows, his eyes gave him away. Callahan wasn't far off. He let Penzler think about things, wheels slowly turning in that dinosaur brain.
Then Wes picked up on the strategy. "He probably told you we were in on this so-called drug deal."
"So?"
"So we couldn't go to the cops. He said we'll have to let you get away with it or blow the whistle on ourselves."
Penzler didn't speak, but didn't tell them to shut up either. His piggy eyes were gleaming. The hook had taken root deep inside, where greed and short-sightedness ruled over that shred of a conscience. He was interested.
Callahan said, "What do you think, Wes? Should we do it?"
He looked over. Wes nodded. Then Callahan did not continue. He waited for curiosity to take over.
"Do what?"
Callahan thought for a minute. "Okay, here's the deal, Penzler. We'll split it with you, eighty for you and twenty for us. This Dennis is your problem. But we only get ten percent each, you get forty each. And fuck Pearlman."
Penzler considered. "Maybe."
"There's one thing you ought to consider seriously here," Callahan said. "Don't let it slip through the cracks, you know?"
"What's that?" Penzler seemed amused.
Wes picked up on that thread, too. "We're not yanking your crank about this not being the drug money. So you win two ways. You get a higher piece of this change, and whatever drug money got lifted, it's still out there somewhere. Why not go for both? Unless you two did my dad, you got no more problems from us. My word on that."
DeRossi looked back in the mirror, eyes squinting, head bobbing. He liked the sound of a clean finish to risky business. Penzler seemed sold as well, but less willing to give himself away.
"One other thing matters," Callahan said. "Just so you know."
"What's that?"
"Pearlman is actually the one who can't go to the cops. He saw Wes as a client, broke confidentiality and set up a felony. He'd lose his license to practice law and probably do some serious time."
Wes continued. "So we make our little arrangement tonight and divide things up and we can all just walk away. You can tell Pearlman whatever you want. Say the money was gone. Someone else has it. Go track it down and divide that up, too. Do this our way. It's a sweet deal."
Penzler frowned as if still considering things. Callahan could see the greed taking root. He exchanged looks with DeRossi. Both men shrugged. DeRossi seemed relieved, as if they now had a deal. He sat up a bit and drove a little faster. But Penzler let his face go blank. His eyes went shark dead, big mouth open slightly, breathing going harsh. He had death on his mind.
And now Callahan was thinking, he's a psychopath. He looked at Wes and shook his head. Wes seemed to get it. They were on very thin ice.
I have to keep stalling them, Callahan thought. We need to get them on the street and near the house, where Donato's men can spot us. If they pick up that I'm there with strangers and I didn't clear it first, they'll know that something's wrong. Then they'll notify Jerry at once. And with me late for that dinner already, Jerry will get it. He and Hal will send help. Hell, Darlene will send the cops. Someone will get there. Maybe just in time . . .
Or then again, maybe not.
The universe can speed up or slow down on a whim. This night it ran a marathon race in what seemed like five minutes. They rolled on north, where the businesses decayed into zombie shops, streets and alleys haunted by groups of bangers and pairs of teen hookers with tiny red skirts, long legs gone blue and dimpled from a breeze. A cluster of distant stars broke through the night smog. Rap music slammed into bass speakers coming from homes and apartment buildings. The car was hot, its rancid air stank of gasoline and human sweat.
During the too-brief drive, Callahan tried to imagine different ways things could still work out in their favor. The limo driver reporting him missing right away, Jerry reacting by trying to trace his cell phone via GPS. Or Donato's men spotting them instantly and coming out of their car with guns ready. Julius and some newly hired bodyguards stepping outside to change the flow of fate. Because right now, things felt pretty hopeless.
When push came to shove, Penzler wasn't about to divide anything. Hell, he might event shoot DeRossi too, move the bodies around and stage a way to come out of this a decorated hero. And if the suitcase contained no money, nothing of obvious street value, he might kill everyone else just out of spite. Callahan exchanged looks with Wes McCann. They both knew time was running out.
The car drove slowly down the block and approached Calvin's home. Wes cleared his throat. "Park in front of the house."
"No fucking tricks," DeRossi said, nervously. "Penzler here will pop you in a heartbeat."
No matter which way it goes, Callahan thought, we're all dead.
Penzler slid out the passenger door. Checked up and down the block. Opened the rear door and said, "Get out."
Callahan slid out first. Wes followed him across the back seat, butt scooting along, hands secure behind his back. They heard a distant siren and the faint thump of party music blocks away. A jet passing overhead. Dogs barked and howled. They stood before Penzler in the cooling dark, that gun stable in his hands. Callahan felt his chest tighten in anticipation of the bullet.
"I'll get the suitcase," Wes said. "You'll have to take off the cuffs."
Penzler's mind working. A slight smile. Callahan thought, it's better for him if the cuffs are off, makes resisting arrest look more believable.
"DeRossi, cover them."
DeRossi got out. He brought up his thrown-down pistol. His hand was shaking. Callahan swallowed. Penzler went around behind Wes McCann and pulled a knife from his coat pocket. He sawed at the younger man's plastic cuffs, probably wanting them to look severed. Wes had the wide eyes of the very frightened. His arms loosened, and he rubbed
his sore wrists. The cuffs remained around them, as if he'd broken free somehow, worked them loose against sharp metal or broken glass.
Breeze rustled trash in the crowded gutter. Another dog barked up the street and someone far away slammed a door. Callahan could see the car with Donato's men against the right curb, still parked several homes up the block. Were they sleeping? Had they radioed in already?
"It's over here," Wes said. "Under the house next door. I'll have to crawl under and find it."
"If I lose sight of your feet," Penzler said casually, "I'll shoot you both dead and call this in as a burglary."
They crossed the street. Callahan and DeRossi followed. Callahan's knees went weak as they approached the opposite curb. He didn't risk another glance down the block. He pretended to stumble and dropped to one knee. DeRossi almost discharged his weapon.
"Sorry," Callahan said. "I tripped."
He took as long as he dared to return to his feet. He and DeRossi moved on. Wes and Penzler were already by the side of the abandoned home. They stood in the gloom. All the houses were dark, even the one belonging to Julius. Callahan wondered if Julius had security cameras, some way of spotting them, perhaps calling the police. His life didn't flash before his eyes, not exactly, but he found himself filled with regret for dozens of insensitive things he'd done and said. Would Darlene ever figure out what really happened to him? Would she still care? Had Hal and Jerry set any wheels in motion once he'd missed the limo?
"The crawl space, over here."
Penzler used his flashlight. Blinding glare met threatening shadow. Wes crept into the pool of light. He went forward like a soldier, head down, crawling on forearms and elbows. The crawl space under the house seemed to eat him up. Callahan half expected to see it produce fangs and chew Wes in half.
"You," Penzler said. "Turn around."
Here it comes, Callahan thought. He turned around and let Penzler saw his plastic cuffs off. He turned around slowly, rubbing his wrists. Penzler was still covering him. Wes was still under the house. Callahan imagined him making a run for it, putting the concrete surrounding the crawl space between them and trying to escape on hands and knees. A panicked journey alone through the spider webs and filth.
But Wes didn't leave Mick behind. He edged his way back out.
"Let's see it," Penzler said.
Wes rolled over onto his back. His face, clothing and arms were covered with leaves and dirt. He clutched a small suitcase against his chest. Spotting that, Penzler stepped away, choreographing something in his mind, a way to kill them and sell it as a righteous shoot.
Penzler came to a decision. He raised his weapon.
DeRossi was also in the line of fire but may have been too dim to notice. Curious about the suitcase, he turned on his own flashlight. Both men squinted. Penzler grunted, jerked his light up and instinctively covered his eyes. The two cops had accidentally blinded one another for a second.
Wes threw the suitcase up and away into the darkness, off to Penzler's right. The movement and noise caused the detective to twitch. His gun discharged harmlessly into the dead grass. Meanwhile, Wes rolled towards Callahan, who had already taken the hint. The two of them backed away rapidly into the dark, ending up almost side by side. Callahan sensed something, grabbed Wes by the arm to hold him still.
And that's when it happened. Penzler there, eyes squinting and face contorted with rage, aiming right at his partner. DeRossi still stupidly giving his position away, aiming his light right at Penzler. Each man lit up as brightly as a star in a spotlight.
Cough.
Penzler changed. His head exploded into a mist of pink and tiny shards of bone. His corpse collapsed like a bag of sticks.
Cough.
Detective DeRossi puked up blood. He sank to his knees and then his head vanished. The two dead cops flattened chest down at once, their rolling flashlights smearing the gore, dirt and shadow into some parody of modern art painting. It was virtually soundless and over in two seconds flat.
"Don't move," Callahan whispered. "I won't," Wes said.
They stood there, intelligence overruling all instinct, bodies shaking from adrenaline. A few more seconds passed. Then three creatures with long noses and eerie insect eyes emerged from the gloom between the houses. They wore black uniforms cleared of all insignia and battle rattle. Blackwatch?
The men on the left and right pinned Wes and Callahan respectively, their NV sights ready for another head shot. The man in the center checked the bodies and whispered quietly into something attached to his Kevlar vest. He listened for a response then made hand gestures to the two snipers. Weapons were lowered to half mast. They would live, at least for the time being.
Callahan and Wes were searched for weapons and taken prisoner. The guard took Callahan's cell phone, removed the battery and gave it back. The mercenaries were cool, efficient and continued to work in total silence.
A black van rolled up and pulled to the curb. One of the soldiers kept them covered. Four men covered in white Hazmat outfits, faces covered with plastic, jumped out of the van and ran toward the house. They were carrying a dizzying array of devices, pumps and sprayers and plastic sheeting. Some kind of cleanup crew, ready to eliminate the bodies and any trace useful in forensics. Wes and Mick weren't dead yet, so Callahan knew someone had ordered them taken alive. He wondered why. He doubted Donato's men might try to play hero now, not against a professional crew such as this. With luck, they'd just follow or radio in something useful.
Another van pulled up, some kind of generic plumbing logo on the side. Callahan and Wes here hustled inside. They drove slowly up the block, no squeal of tires to attract attention.
As they passed Donato's car, Callahan quickly peeked out the window. The car seemed empty, the men were gone. Or perhaps just dead in the trunk.
They were on their own.
TWENTY-ONE
Friday night
The faux plumbing van drove through the night, gathering speed as it moved further away from the crime scene. The driver was expert, cutting tight curves, running lights, changing freeways after only one exit. The world outside became a blur of street signs, traffic lights, street lights and night sky. These evasive maneuvers eventually confused Callahan. At first he thought they might have been heading towards Agoura or Ventura, but soon realized they could just as easily have doubled back to the San Fernando Valley. They slowed only when the team seemed sure they were in the clear. The operative who sat in the back with them rarely blinked, and never lowered his modified AK47. A radio in the front played classical music without commercials.
Wes turned to face Mick. "Okay, Doc? Out of curiosity, do you have any idea what the hell is going on?"
"Not a clue."
Wes deadpanned, "Is your life always this interesting?"
"Pretty much."
Wes leaned back against the wall of the van. He closed his eyes, as if catching a nap. Callahan sat quietly, staring back at the man who guarded them. He had removed the NV goggles, but his face was smeared with black paint. It was totally devoid of expression. He might as well have been carved from onyx. Callahan stuck his hand in his pocket. He fingered his empty cell phone where the battery used to be. Finally, he closed his eyes too. May as well try to catch some rest . . .
They hit a straight stretch of road. The driver floored the engine. Tires squealed like pigs at breakfast. Callahan felt himself tilt backwards as the van took a sharp turn. They began to slow down. Something in the body language of their captor made him sit up straight. The guy had stiffened slightly and the gun was back at nine o'clock aimed right at this gut. The vehicle came to a full stop, rocked for a second. Doors opened and slammed and the side door slid open.
"Out."
Armed figures in black, possibly the same men without the masks. Wes stepped out first. Callahan followed, blinking at the change of light. They were in some kind of warehouse, a huge and empty place with industrial lighting. He looked around. Cement floors, a few used cars
parked against distant walls, some tools. Straight ahead was a chilling sight. Long rows of clear plastic sheeting covered the walls and floors. Different kinds of rope and some hoses. There were saw horses, flat boards, and sharp knives and power tools in a pile. Wes had gone pale.
Someone had planned ahead, in case they needed to make a real mess. Was this all about interrogation? Why, since they now had the suitcase?
The soldiers ushered them into the covered area. One motioned for them to sit down. Callahan wondered why their hands and feet had not been bound. Perhaps someone still needed to decide which side they were on, or how much they knew about what had happened. Either way, he doubted they would be allowed to witness this much and just walk away.
The men whispered among themselves. They leaned against the wall. One lit a cigarette. Callahan heard footsteps coming down the hall, light and fast, a smallish man perhaps. A door opened. The figure in the entrance also wore black. A woman. She stepped into the room.
"Well I'll be damned," Wes McCann said, "if it isn't the one that dragged my sorry ass into this. Mick, meet Jessie Keaton."
The beautiful young woman smiled but her eyes stayed flat.
Callahan shook his head. He looked at Wes and sighed. "Actually, I know her too, Wes. She told me her name was Stella. She's been playing us both."
"I was just doing my job," the woman said. She walked briskly, posture loose and confident. The men in the room stood a little straighter. Jessie/Stella was clearly in a position of authority. "Just to simplify things, you can both call me Jessie for now. It's a lot closer to my real name than Stella. Are you all right?"
Wes shrugged. "I guess. I'm still wondering who did my father."
Jessie walked closer to Callahan. "This all just spun out of control, Mick. I'm sorry you had to get dragged into it, for a while there it looked like we could distract you with the bookie stuff and let you skate. Believe me, no one wanted a public figure involved."
"Nice to know I'm still a public figure. You'd never know it by my bank account."
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 21
