“Okay.” He nodded pensively.
“I’m sorry. I mean, I know that isn’t much help. I wish I could script it for you. But this is real life.”
“No, I hear what you’re saying.”
I swallowed. Calculated risk coming up.
“Listen. I think Chaladian has someone staking out the hotel. I think I’ve nailed the schlub he has doing it. And I’ve got a plan.”
“Whatever it is, I’m in.”
“What I need you to do is keep Thompson out of sight from now until I call you.”
“When will that be?”
“Hard to say. I’ll lead him as far away from here as I can. When I’m absolutely sure he’s too far out of range to double back easily, I’ll call you.”
“And what do I do?”
“Move Thompson to some other decadent luxury hotel. When Chaladian gets tired of chasing me, he can come back here and start over from square one.”
“You understand you could be driving halfway to San Diego?”
“If I can string him along that far, I will.”
“I love this plan! Now, the lady has a mind of her own, as you well know. But I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Forty-six
Next step: Find a decoy. That figured to be a snap.
The Beverly Hills Hilton has at least three bars. There may be a couple more that I missed. I went to the one on the floor below the lobby, where you’re not going to be seen by everyone who casually strolls into the hotel. The two willowy blondes in little black dresses that I spotted—one at the bar and one in the booth farthest from the door—told me I’d made the right choice. I caught the eye of the one in the booth, nodded, went to the bar, and ordered a vodka neat.
It took her a full eighty seconds to join me. That didn’t absolutely prove she was a party girl, of course. She could have been a librarian or a choir director. Sure she could. Judging from her opening question, she made me for an out-of-towner from the get-go.
“What brings you to LA?”
“Star Trek convention. Plus, I thought as long as I was here I might try out for the Clippers.”
“Almost tall enough, but the wrong color.”
“I get that a lot.”
She sipped something clear. My guess would be Seven-Up, but that’s just a guess. She gave me a half smile, but made sure I understood she wasn’t exactly blown away by my idea of snappy patter. Then came the pitch.
“You interested in anything in particular?”
“A trip to San Diego.”
“I never heard of that before. Is that anything like Around the World?”
“Just what it sounds like. We drive out, we come back. Maybe all the way to San Diego, but probably not. Guaranteed that you’re back in time for Leno.”
“That counts as all night. Five hundred.”
“You take plastic?”
“Jesus Christ!” She looked away in disgust and started to slide off her stool.
“Just kidding.” I showed her the money so she’d know I really had it. “Go up to the lobby and wait for me.”
“Where will you be?”
“Getting my wheels.”
I waited for a minute after she walked out of the bar before I paid my tab and left. Up to the lobby, handed Thompson’s valet tag to the concierge, got it back from him after he’d phoned for the truck, then walked over to Party-girl.
“Can we wait outside? I could use a smoke.”
“Nope. Sorry. Suck it up for about ten more minutes.”
Four of those minutes had passed before I saw Thompson’s truck roll up to the hotel’s massive revolving door. I took Party-girl’s right arm.
“Show time, babe.”
I led her to the left, to a smaller, standard door near the concierge’s desk. I had her go through before I did, so that she was between me and the street as we walked the dozen feet or so to the truck. No way anyone who was paying attention could possibly miss her. Someone watching through a telephoto lens would see a tall blonde striding up to Thompson’s truck and then along the bed until she disappeared through the passenger-side door.
Around the truck for me, five dollars of Trans/Oxana’s money to the valet, collect the key, slip behind the wheel and—AWAY ALL BOATS! I had that puppy making tracks on Wilshire before you could say, “San Fernando Valley.” I did a little lane-to-lane weaving around Priuses and other crap that LA calls cars to make it look like I was trying to get somewhere in a hurry. Then I headed for I-5 south.
“The smoking lamp is now on, if you really can’t do without it.”
“No, that’s okay. I only smoke when I’m bored.”
I figured Chaladian couldn’t be too far away. It’s not like he was the CIA who could put seven people on this stakeout. He had to be waiting within a few blocks, close to a car he could jump into as soon as he got a call from his lookout. He could cut himself a little slack, because no way anyone was going fast for long in LA afternoon traffic, and Thompson’s truck figured to stand out. But he couldn’t plan on driving all the way across town or letting any grass grow under his feet either.
I spotted him just before we hit the freeway. Not quite a block behind us. He’d hidden his head and face with a biker helmet that looked like a prop from Iron Man, but his general shape and the way he moved his body as he maneuvered the hog he was riding struck very familiar chords in my memory.
I pulled onto I-5 and settled into the traffic flow. It wasn’t freeway speed, but it wasn’t bumper-to-bumper either. There’s a ton of traffic on LA freeways, almost twenty-four-hours a day, but most of the time it moves. I kept to the far outside lane, in case he was tempted to cruise past on the right for a good look at my blond passenger. He didn’t try it. Never got closer than four or five car lengths.
Forty minutes of this was plenty for my purposes. Mission accomplished. I pulled out my phone and punched in Trowbridge’s number.
“Yo.”
“This is Davidovich. The coast should be clear. I’ll keep him on this wild goose chase for as long as he’ll play along, so you can make your move.”
“Um, actually, we’re uh, kind of already moving. Sort of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I got a text from Wellstein. He has a project he thinks would be a perfect vehicle for Katrina. We’re headed down to see him.”
“YOU’RE WHAT?”
“Yeah, I figured you’d be pissed. Sorry. My bad. But, you know, the lady has a dream. We’re in a Mercedes and I’m driving, so even with your head start there’s a chance we’ll get there before you.” He hung up.
Shit. The text to Trowbridge was Wellstein yelling, “Play ball!” Setting the wheels in motion for his own personal star turn. His spectacular final scene. He was thinking just like I was. He figured Chaladian would see Trowbridge and Thompson leaving and follow them. The three of them would end up somewhere in the neighborhood of his office. Then he’d blow Chaladian away in front of an A-list audience. Or go down in a blaze of glory trying to.
I’d seen this coming. I’d figured out what Wellstein had in mind when I stumbled over Psalm one-forty-nine. And I had decided days ago, somewhere in the desert, that I wasn’t going to let it happen. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe Hilliard and her riff on prison, maybe the Iraqi teenager, maybe Thompson—probably some combination. This old Jewish man with a horrible disease was not going to end his life as a murderer—or, much more likely, as a grotesquely failed attempted murderer, writhing on the ground in agony with a couple of Chaladian’s bullets in his gut. It would solve a lot of my problems if he actually managed to waste the guy, and if anyone ever needed killing Chaladian did. Saddam Hussein needed killing too. That doesn’t mean you forget about the collateral damage.
That was the big reason to get T
rowbridge and Thompson stashed someplace where Chaladian wouldn’t know where to look for them. I couldn’t control Wellstein’s timing, but once I got those two out of the way I wouldn’t have to. I could just make my way down there, pour out my soul to him, tell him my plans for Chaladian and, if that didn’t work, muscle the gun away from him. But Wellstein hadn’t politely waited around while I got my ducks in a row. And now he’d dealt Trowbridge and Thompson into the game. Caught me flat-footed on that one.
Okay, fine. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. One piece of good luck, though. I had Chaladian following me instead of Trowbridge and Thompson. I could lead the SOB all the way to La Jolla. If I could just keep him on my tail, he wouldn’t come anywhere close to Wellstein tonight.
But that was a big IF. Suppose Chaladian still had someone watching the Beverly Hills Hilton? Suppose that someone had seen Trowbridge and Thompson leave and was getting word to him? Reflexively, I patted the back of my right hip where the Colt Trooper nestled in its skeleton holster under my shirt tail. Angela—turned out that was Party-girl’s name—caught my gesture. She put it together with my half of the phone conversation, and suddenly I was getting a you’re-the-hottest-stud-in-LA vibe from her. I shook my head. Chicks love bad boys, and then they wonder why guys won’t put the toilet seat down.
Angela’s case of the hots, though, wasn’t at the top of my list of things to worry about right now. My gut was tingling. I checked the rear-view mirror for the Harley. Not four car lengths behind me anymore. Closing fast in the lane inside mine, looking for a chance to squeeze past. No way I’d still be ahead of him in two minutes. I looked over at Angela.
“Bad news, bright-eyes. Looks like we’re going all the way to San Diego after all.”
She’d gotten a cigarette out and had been playing with it, tapping one end against her cigarette case and that kind of jazz. Now she opened the case, put the cigarette back inside, and laid her head complacently against the seat cushion.
“I wouldn’t necessarily call that bad news.”
Chapter Forty-seven
They didn’t beat me to the suburban office strip where Wellstein did business, but they came too damn close for my liking. Angela and her Marlboro Lights had been pouting next to the truck for less than twenty minutes when Trowbridge’s midnight blue Mercedes sports coupe cruised into the parking lot around 7:45. He must have driven like a maniac. No sign of Chaladian or his Harley anywhere.
I let loose with a very relieved sigh when a brown Chrysler Imperial turned ponderously into the parking lot from its other entrance. Channeling my inner Proxy, I’d called for the thing when I’d hit the first San Diego exit. Angela was busy telling me her one hundred favorite rom-com lines at the time, so she hadn’t quite grasped what I was doing.
“There’s your ride home, Angie. Back in plenty of time for Leno, just like I promised. Unless you’d rather pull the late shift at BHH.”
“WHAT?” She whirled to face me while Trowbridge and Thompson climbed out of the Mercedes. “This is IT? A drive to San Diego?”
“For five hundred bucks, and you earned every penny.” I raised my voice to cover the thirty feet separating us from the Mercedes. “Hey, Trow.”
“What? Who’s ‘Trow’?” Angela reversed her about-face and caught sight of Trowbridge. The vision reduced her voice to a breathless and reverent whisper. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Who’s that with him?”
Trowbridge had gathered Thompson into a major squeeze with his left arm and was giving me a huge, grinning wave with his right.
“Her name is Katrina Thompson. They get along real well.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is.” Angela’s petulance was almost touching. “I’m prettier than she is. I’m blonder than she is. I’m more stacked than she is. What’s so special about her?”
“She doesn’t smoke.”
“Really? Do you think that’s it?” Angela got rid of her cigarette. “The least you could do is introduce me.”
I shrugged as Trowbridge and Thompson approached us. Didn’t seem like much to ask.
“Angela, Kent and Katrina. Kent and Katrina, Angela.”
She air kissed both of them, offered a little sigh, and then began sauntering toward the Chrysler. Three fetching, booty-swinging steps into the trek she turned back in my direction.
“Could you just turn your head about three inches to your right?”
I did. She lashed out suddenly and slapped my cheek—a good, sharp, no-kidding smack. I saw it coming and could have stopped it, but I figured everything would go faster if she just got it off her chest. While the crack! was still echoing in my ear, she wagged her right index finger in my face.
“That was for teasing.”
Then she finally simpered off to the Chrysler.
“Spirited little minx.”
This from Trowbridge. For a blinding, red-eyed second I had the urge to grab his shirt the way I had Wells’ in Omaha and explain that this was real life and real serious, not some damn summer blockbuster from New Paradigm Studios. But I got past that. What was the point? He was trying to impress a girl. Guys have started wars to do that. I wasn’t going to reverse humpty-million years of evolution with a little heart-to-heart.
“Okay.” I cleared my throat, trying to be low-key. “Not the play I called, but we’re where we are and we’ll try to make it work somehow. Let’s go see what’s on Sydney Wellstein’s mind.”
Chapter Forty-eight
His office was the only one of the eight in the strip that still had lights on. I hustled in front of Trowbridge as we approached the door. He was the Asset and I wasn’t. If we were walking into a trap, I was supposed to take the punch or the bullet. The outside door wasn’t locked. I cautiously opened it. No one in the reception area, but the door to the office behind it was half open, and Wellstein’s raspy, sarcastic voice came through clearly.
“You don’t know what the novelization will cost? Well, it must be a matter of no importance then. We won’t worry about it. We’ll just wait for the bill to come in and pay it.”
Trowbridge and I looked at each other. Trowbridge shrugged. I couldn’t improve on that. While we loitered in indecision in the outside doorway, Wellstein went right on with his rant.
“T-L squared, Mandy. Too little, too late. I want this project to work and I see a way forward, but we’ve gotta get past finger-fucking. Call me back tomorrow and be ready to say something.”
We heard the receiver slam into the cradle. I stepped all the way into the reception area and started toward the door to Wellstein’s office. Trowbridge, following, tapped me gingerly on the shoulder. I looked around at him.
“Maybe I should go first? Because he technically invited me? And you’re not strictly speaking on the list?”
I was about to explain who was the Asset and who wasn’t when we heard the shot. It boomed out at us, minimally muffled by the thin walls. Someone who’s only heard large-caliber gunfire from sound effects machines has no idea what it’s like. It doesn’t just blast your ears, it shocks your whole body. Rocks you backward, as if you’d been shoved. Trowbridge screamed something blasphemous. Thompson, the Marine veteran, contented herself with yelping, “Shit!”
I drew the Colt with my right hand and slammed the outside door shut with my left. Cocking the Colt, I fixed my eyes on the office doorway, while talking over my shoulder to the other two.
“Make sure that front door is locked.”
I barked that order without yelling it. Thompson hopped to that chore. I deliberately kept my voice at normal volume but with a now-hear-this tone that Thompson, at least, would recognize. People in a situation like this want orders, not suggestions, but not from someone who sounds like he’s panicking.
“You two stay right here. I’m going into the office. If you hear anything that sounds like a shot or a st
ruggle, run like hell and call nine-one-one on the way.”
Four measured paces brought me to the office doorway. I stopped and showed my handsome profile. Arm raised and Colt pointed toward the ceiling, I gave the hollow-core wooden door a nudge kick that sent it all the way open. Waited for shots or sounds or something. Nothing. Bright, fluorescent light spilled through the opening. Danger, if there was any, figured to come from my right as I entered. I took a couple of deep breaths. Here goes nothin’.
I plunged through the doorway, pivoting immediately to my right and leveling the Colt. I didn’t dive or roll or turn my gun sideways or anything, like Trowbridge undoubtedly would have if this were a scene in a retro-noir flick. I just kept moving until I was all the way past the far end of the desk. No danger lurked in the office. The only other creature there was Wellstein, and he wouldn’t be shooting anybody. I put two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse, just to be sure. Zilch. I didn’t need a coroner to know Sydney Wellstein was dead.
He sprawled against the back of his desk chair. A massive purple stain spoiled the part of his white Ocean Pacific pullover in the area of his heart. The Russian automatic that I’d taken from Chaladian and transferred to Wellstein lay on the desk in front of his body. Some papers lay under the gun. I could read BANKRUPTCY in oversized, boldfaced type on the top one. A window in the back wall, behind and to the left of the desk, was open and the screen was brutally punched through. I could read the setup like a book.
An old man looking at a terrible death decided to kill himself, make it look like murder, and frame Chaladian for the crime. He got his son out of the country. Put on a big, showy act for us and for someone named Mandy to make it look like he had a big project going and was focused on the future. Shot himself through the heart instead of eating the gun because that would look more like murder. Meticulously drew up bankruptcy papers to document a motive that would only work for Chaladian. Opened the back window and smashed the screen to make it look the murderer escaped that way. And then shot himself.
Jail Coach Page 21
