“Sounds great. Thanks.”
“You eat red meat?”
“Yes.”
“Steak?”
“Perfect. I got a portable TV. I’ll bring it and a six-pack. We’ll watch the game while we work.”
“Great.”
The cellular phone rang. Martinez picked it up, wrote down the information, then pressed the end button.
Webster looked at Martinez. His face was tense. “Who?”
“Three guesses.”
“Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”
“William Waterson—Sparks’s estate lawyer.”
Nobody spoke for a moment. Webster said, “Think we should go back up?”
“Yeah, turn around.”
Webster moved the ’Cuda into the right lane, preparing to exit at the next off-ramp and reverse directions. Martinez picked up the cordless.
Webster asked, “Who y’all calling now?”
“Decker.”
19
“No way you two are doing a solo tail back into boony canyon—”
“Loo, it’s paved—”
“Martinez, listen to me,” Decker interrupted. “After what you told me about Sanchez, he’s going to be looking. He spots the ’Cuda, you’re roadkill. All he has to do is get a couple of friends to box you in—one car in front, one behind—and bump you on a hairpin turn, down a five-hundred-foot drop. I don’t turn women into widows, Detective.”
“If we wait for backup, we could miss him,” Martinez countered.
“Bert, Waterson’s a respected member of the community. He isn’t going anywhere.”
“What about Sanchez?” Webster piped in.
Decker barely heard the question through the ambient freeway noises. “What about Sanchez?”
Martinez said, “Don’t you want to find out what he’s up to, Loo?”
“Bert, we know what he’s up to. He’s running a chop shop. First, even if we wanted him, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Second, even if it was our jurisdiction, we’re not going to find him. He’s picked a perfect area for cover. Miles of isolated canyon roadway with outlets leading to God knows where. He’s gone. Forget about him.”
“Semi’d be easy to spot, Loo.”
“The hills are heavily wooded. You could easily hide the truck, yea, even an eighteen-wheeler, off-road. Only possible way to find it would be with a low-flying chopper. Not a good use of time or money right now because we don’t know who we’re dealing with. For all we know, Sanchez might be armed with Uzis. Send in a copter, Grease Pit might do some target practice with the pilot. Turn around and come home.”
Martinez swore silently. Webster took the phone. He said, “How ’bout this, Loo? We wait at the mouth of the canyon for Waterson. If he should hop on the freeway, we follow. Plain and simple and very, very visible.”
“Let me reiterate, Tom. Waterson isn’t going anywhere. What purpose would it serve to follow him into the city?”
“Bert and I are just a mite curious to see where he winds up after his clandestine meeting with Sanchez.”
There was a long pause over the line. Decker said, “Pinpoint where you want to wait.”
“The Placerita on-ramp to the 14 West,” Webster said. “It’s a stone’s throw from the Sierra Highway. Very well trafficked. Give us an hour, Loo. What could it hurt?”
Decker paused again. “The cell phone you’re on. Will it maintain contact up there?”
“Probably not,” Webster admitted.
Decker waited a beat, then said, “All right. Wait at the Placerita entrance. But I’m telling you right now. If Waterson doesn’t come down through Placerita, you have direct orders not to go looking for him in the canyon. Stay away from anything that even hints of ambush, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Decker said, “If I don’t hear from you after one hour, I send a posse out. If I send a posse out, you’re both in deep shit. Get it?”
“Got it. Over and out.” Webster smiled. “Now that wasn’t so hard.” He gunned the engine, edging the speedometer to ninety.
“Why don’t you just put wings on the sucker and get a pilot’s license.” Martinez crossed himself. “Next time, I drive.”
“I’m just hurrying things ’cause I don’t want to miss Waterson.”
“Be nice if we got there in one piece.”
“You worry too much.” Webster raced onto the 14.
“You got binoculars?” Martinez asked.
“In the trunk.”
Within minutes, the ’Cuda neared the Placerita exit. Just as Webster edged the car onto the eastbound off-ramp, Martinez spotted a midnight blue Lincoln entering the westbound on-ramp in the opposite direction.
“Shit!” he said. “The Lincoln just got on the freeway going back toward L.A.”
“Fuck!” Webster depressed the accelerator and the ’Cuda thrusted forward. The off-ramp led to a near-empty intersection. Webster shot a red light with a left turn, narrowly missing an oncoming Toyota. The shaken driver let go with a long honk and a series of lost curses. Webster floored the ’Cuda, catapulting it back onto the freeway. “See the Lincoln?”
“No.”
“Fuck!”
A Cutlass cut in front him. Webster braked hard, throwing them both backward. He rolled down the window and screamed. “You fuckin’ asshole! I’m gonna kill you!”
The Cutlass quickly moved out of the lane and dropped back into traffic. Martinez was ashen.
“That son of a bitch!” Webster muttered.
Patiently, Martinez said, “Slow down, Tom. Now!”
Finally, Webster braked. Breathing hard, he said, “Spot the Lincoln?”
“No.” Martinez’s heart was pounding at his breastbone. His eyes moved like radar, scanning through the traffic in front of him. Then he looked out at the side mirror. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He jerked his head around. “It’s behind us.”
“Where?” Webster said.
“Right-hand lane, about…six, seven car lengths behind.”
Webster’s eyes went to his rearview mirror, then slowed the ’Cuda to a speed less than the flow of traffic. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s there, take my word for it.”
Webster braked again. Within moments, the Lincoln came into view. He grinned. “Gotcha, baby!”
Martinez sat back, let out a deep breath. “You almost got us killed.”
Webster said nothing. Then he started to laugh. A moment later, so did Martinez. He hit his partner’s shoulder. “Son of a bitch! Drive like that again, you’ll never father another child.”
The ’Cuda cruised at a safe speed, allowing the Lincoln to gain distance until they were neck-and-neck. Martinez gave Waterson a quick once-over through the luxury sedan’s rolled-up window. Dark jacket, tie, and sunglasses. Stubby fingers gripped onto the wheel. Full cheeks, white hair, liver lips.
Martinez said, “Drop back about a hundred feet. Not too quickly. Move nice and easy. We don’t want him to suspect anything.”
Webster did as told. “Why would Waterson suspect anything, let alone a tail?”
“Because guilty people always suspect something. Mark my word, Tommy. Hanging around Sanchez, Waterson’s hiding something. I believe in guilt by association.”
“Hang around scum, you become scum.” Webster thought about the statement. “Sort of a social Lamarckian concept, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Maybe he’s only doing his duty as executor of Sparks’s estate.”
“What duty?”
Webster said, “Maybe Sparks left Sanchez money for the cause. Waterson could just be the delivery boy.”
“Waterson as Sanchez’s delivery boy?” Martinez smiled. “Remind me never to hire you as a chauffeur or a casting director.”
“You put it that way, it don’t make much sense.” Webster paused. “Did the family read the will yet?”
“I don’t know.”
&nbs
p; From the 5 South, Webster hooked back on the 405 South. As he tailed the Lincoln, he suddenly noticed the flash of Waterson’s right-hand blinker.
Martinez said, “He’s getting off at Devonshire.”
“I see it.”
“Not so close.”
“I know, I know. Take it easy.”
“Sorry. I just don’t want to mess up at this point.”
Webster laughed. “We’re proceeding ’bout as fast as the infamous white Bronco.”
“Son of a bitch should have shot himself,” Martinez groused. “Saved us all a shitload of money. Millions of dollars flushed down the crapper and for what? He’s turning right, Tom.”
“I see him. He’s heading west.”
The Lincoln moved swiftly down the broad, pine-lined boulevard, past small, worn ranch houses resting on an area rug’s worth of land. The neighborhood had hosted thousands of citrus trees with their sweet blossoms and succulent fruit. Not many had survived the transition from agriculture to suburbia. Only a couple hundred stalwarts favored the land with their aromatic perfume, sweet edibles, and delectable shade during the sweltering West Valley summers.
As the road stretched westward, the homes gave way to apartment buildings, factory showrooms, and lots of corner gas stations and strip malls. Farther west, the area once again became open space as the boulevard neared the foothills.
Martinez said, “He’s going toward the Santa Susanas.”
“From one mountain range to another.” Webster pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe Waterson and Sanchez are partners in a chain of chop shops. Sanchez does the dirty work, Waterson does the finances. An interesting albeit farfetched concept. But whoda thought Sparks would involve himself with a bunch of bikers.”
Waterson entered the West Hills area, slowed, then turned on his left-hand blinker, heading straight into a tree-lined residential area.
Martinez said, “Pass him up.”
“Why?”
“Because the ’Cuda doesn’t have enough cover in such a quiet neighborhood. Pass him up.”
Webster kept the ’Cuda going straight, watching the Lincoln turn in his rearview mirror. “Now what?”
“Turn left at the next opportunity.”
Webster did as told. “Backtrack?”
“You know what? I think I know where he’s headed.” Martinez punched open the glove compartment, pulled out a street map. “We’re about a mile away from Sparks’s house. Go straight about…half a mile, then turn right on Orchard, left on Vine, then left on Alta Vista. Betcha we’ll find the car there.”
Webster raised his brow. “You sure you want to lose him at this point?”
“We’re too visible to follow him, Tom. After what happened to Sparks, he may even think that someone’s out to get him. Just trust me on this.”
They rode the next few minutes in tense silence. As Webster neared the Sparks house, he slowed the ’Cuda, took in the neighborhood. Large two-story homes on what seemed like big parcels of land. But the construction was only serviceable at best. Composite wood-sided housing or thin, textured stucco jobs. All of the homes were roofed in adobe-colored Spanish tile, giving the blocks uniformity. Giant carob trees shaded the streets. Dirt sidewalks.
Fancy area for a guy like Webster. But he couldn’t help wondering why a guy as rich as Sparks would have chosen this over Beverly Hills or Malibu, or at the very least, one of the million-dollar developments in Granada Hills.
Sparks’s home sat by itself at the mouth of a cul-de-sac. Parked in the driveway was Waterson’s Lincoln.
“Bert one, Tom zero.” Webster did a three-pointer and turned around. “Now what?”
Martinez picked up the cell phone and called Decker.
“That was fast,” Decker said. “Where are you?”
“In front of Sparks’s house. Waterson’s Lincoln is parked in the driveway. You want us to pay a visit?”
“No. Right now, I want you to go over to impound and start taking the Sparkses’ Buick apart. Good job, guys.”
“What about Waterson?”
“I’m scheduled to see the widow today at three. So I’ll drop by a little early.”
Martinez glanced at the ’Cuda’s clock. “A little early? It’s straight-up noon, Loo.”
“My oh my,” Decker said. “My watch is running fast.”
Michael answered the door, seemed surprised by Decker’s appearance. The young man wore a crewneck sweater over a vanilla shirt, khaki pants, and loafers. He fiddled with his collar, looked over his shoulder as if waiting for someone to come to his rescue. “I thought you were coming later.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience. May I come in?”
The med student was hesitant. “My mother is kind of indisposed right now.”
Decker stood firm. “I’m really sorry for coming at an awful time.”
Michael ran his hand through a thick nest of black curls. Uncertainty seemed to be his hallmark. “Could you hold on a second?”
“Of course.”
The door closed, reopened a minute later. Mike had brought reinforcements in the form of older brother Paul, both of them staring at Decker with the same deep blue eyes. Strong fraternal resemblance. But the med student was slimmer, younger, and sans tic.
Paul said, “Mom’s resting. If it’s important, I’ll fetch her.”
“The sooner I talk to her, the better.”
Paul’s eyes moved at shutter speed. “So it’s important?”
“You have a breakthrough?” Michael asked excitedly.
“Not yet, I’m afraid. May I come in?”
The door opened completely, and Decker walked inside. Sitting on the family-room couch was the man with the veiny nose. He stood when he saw Decker, regarded Paul with questioning eyes.
“This is Lieutenant Decker, principal investigator of my father’s case,” Paul said. “Lieutenant, William Waterson, my father’s lawyer.”
Decker shook the attorney’s hand—firm grip, but not bone-crushing. The lawyer was about four inches shorter than Decker, around six even. His face held a drinker’s complexion, but his eyes were strong and lucid.
Waterson said, “Any news, Lieutenant?”
“Nothing worth reporting.” Decker remained standing and so did Waterson. “Are you also in charge of administering Dr. Sparks’s estate, sir?”
Waterson’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”
Decker said, “Then you’ll be disclosing the will’s contents. See, there must be a will. Because Sparks had a family trust. When you have a trust, you have a will.”
Waterson eyed the two brothers. Michael shrugged ignorance, Paul revealed nothing. The lawyer said, “May I ask where you obtained such confidential information?”
“Just did a little poking around. No big deal.”
Paul broke in, eyes fluttering. “Yes, Dad and Mom have a family trust and Dad had a will. Hopefully, we’ll be reading it soon. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. Easier for my mom. This way she’ll have access to her funds.”
And you’ll have access to a million bucks. As soon as insurance pays up. Which may take a long time. Decker kept his thoughts to himself. To Waterson, he said, “Nice of you to make house calls. Just out in the area or is this truly personalized service?”
“Azor Sparks was a dear friend. I feel I owe it to him to keep an eye on Dolly.”
“She has children. Why does she need watching from you?”
Michael nodded enthusiastically. Waterson glared at him, then at Decker. He said, “After losing my beloved wife four years ago, I can assure you it’s a trying time for her. Anything I can do to help ease her pain.”
“That’s very decent of you, sir.”
“That’s why we were put on this earth, Lieutenant,” Waterson stated. “To love God and be decent with each other.”
Decker nodded solemnly. He lied, “I called your office about an hour ago. You weren’t in.”
“No, I was
n’t.”
“Can I ask where you were?”
“Why are you curious about me?”
“Please bear with me, sir.”
“I was consulting with a client,” Waterson said stiffly. “And no, I won’t tell you who. That’s privileged information.”
“So you do make house calls.”
“I don’t see where this should be any of your concern. Do I detect a note of antagonism from you?”
Decker looked him in the eye. “Don’t mean to be confrontational. I was just taken aback by good, old-fashioned service, Mr. Waterson.” Charging portal-to-portal at two hundred an hour. “Commendable in this day and age.”
Waterson didn’t know how to read the compliment. He played it straight. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You’re in solo practice, Mr. Waterson?”
“I have partners.”
“But it’s your firm.”
“Yes.”
“Estate law?”
“Primarily, but we do everything.”
“Do you know Jack Cohen?”
Waterson’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I do. Good attorney. Where do you know him from?”
“Used to work for him way back when.”
The lawyer was puzzled. “Doing what?”
“Estates and wills.”
Waterson absorbed Decker’s words. “You’re an attorney?”
“Was many moons ago. I’m hopelessly out of practice, but I can still recall a thing or two. Things like trusts avoid probate. That’s most fortunate for Mrs. Sparks. She doesn’t need financial constrictions on top of all her other woes.”
“You’re absolutely right. I assure you Dolly is being well cared for.”
“Certainly appears that way.”
“It is that way.” Waterson stuck out his hand. “I must be going. Nice to have met you.”
Decker took the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Waterson. I might have other questions. Do you have a card on you?”
“Of course.” The lawyer handed him a standard 2 × 3 rectangle, then shook hands with both sons. “Take care of your mother. I’ll call upon her later.”
“Thanks for coming down,” Paul said.
“For your family, I’d do anything, Paul.”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09 Page 24
