by Alan Russell
When the Ranger reached me, I said, “So what the hell happened?”
“I was kind of hoping you could tell me,” he said.
The light from the streetlamp was enough for him to see my scrapes. “I didn’t think the driver would still be coming for you after I took out his windshield and forced his hand.”
“I’d be dead if it weren’t for Sirius.”
“I got to get me a war dog.”
“So who was it who tried to run me down?”
“That I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he was getting his orders from Novak. And I’d bet the farm that he’s a pro who’s done more than a tour or two with the CIA. Next time you have me watch your back, I’ll need a program to sort out all the bad guys.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There were lots of players, Gideon. I spotted the minivan you told me to watch for. It was too dark to positively make out who the driver was, but it had to be our secret squirrel. He cruised up and down the road a few times, looking like some kind of a hungry shark trying to scare up a meal. But that was only the first player.”
“How many players are there?”
“I count at least three, but there might be more. You almost got an up-close-and-personal introduction to our friend in the black Charger. And there was the third invitee who paid a visit to your parked car. But what say we talk while we walk?”
“Lead the way.”
“Let’s follow the sirens. I’m betting we’re going to find your friend Novak.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because right after I threw two rock fastballs at the windshield of the Charger, a few things happened that I don’t think were coincidental. First, I heard the noise of twisting metal caused by impact. And suddenly that lawnmower sound was no more. About that same time I noticed flames lighting up the sky down the road. Something must have happened to Novak and his car. He sent up his drone to spy on you and give directions to the driver of the Charger. Death by drone would have had every LAPD detective looking into your killing. Death by a hit-and-run on a crazy winding road after your car broke down would be one of those tragedies no one looks into very carefully.”
“So you think something happened to Novak while he was operating the drone?”
“The timing of the fire suggests that. One moment the drone was aloft, and the next it wasn’t. I didn’t hear any explosion, but with most car fires there isn’t one. Whatever the case, a fire doesn’t combust like that without a lot of help.”
“I’ll take your word on the sequence of events,” I said. “I was a bit preoccupied by a car trying to run me down.”
“My bad,” said Pullman, “but next time you send me into dark territory, at least give me something to fight with. Sticks and stones aren’t my preferred weapons.”
“And drones aren’t mine.”
He looked at me. “You well enough to run?”
When I nodded, he said, “Let’s do it.”
I got to hear most of Pullman’s story while we ran. He hadn’t been idle while scouting my parked car.
“The guy on the scooter was your first visitor,” Pullman said.
This was beginning to sound like a Fellini film. “What guy on the scooter?”
“The guy who came along a little while after you got in the car with the star. He parked down the hill, and at first I thought he was just out for a little stroll. He walked by your car and went a little way up the fire road. I thought he was looking for a place to piss, but I guess he was just making sure no one was around. After he turned around and started walking back, he stopped by your car and bent down. I assumed he was tying the laces to his running shoes. But what he was doing was sabotaging your car.”
“Describe him for me,” I said.
“He was tall and thin. I’d put him at six one or so, and not much more than a buck fifty. He had his helmet on the entire time, but he moved like someone south of thirty.”
That meant it wasn’t Corde. And it wasn’t Neal Bass.
“It’s another shill in the audience,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not even sure. It’s a gut feeling. Go on.”
“I couldn’t help but wonder if there might be something hinky about scooter guy, so I followed him down the hill. I expected he would head toward the 405, but instead he went the opposite way. From the dirt road above, I used my CSS scope and watched him pull up to our black Charger. Scooter guy nodded to whoever was sitting in the Charger, and then he reversed his route.
“This wasn’t the first time I’d seen that Dodge Charger, by the way. It seemed odd to me that the driver just sat there waiting.
“I decided there wasn’t much I could do besides join our mystery driver in his waiting game. When you finished with your silver screening—and I must say that from what I observed the two of you looked cozy together—I tried to call you to tell you what was going on. That’s when I discovered my cell phone transmission was being jammed. I assumed Novak was lining you up in his crosshairs, so I decided the only thing I could do was to beat feet and try to get to our meet-up spot as quickly as I could.
“I made it to your abandoned car, and saw the directions you left for me. At about the same time, I heard the sounds of an approaching vehicle. Because I was operating under rules of engagement, I kept out of sight, which is why the driver of our curious Charger never saw me.
“From behind some brush I watched him insert some kind of pronged device up your tailpipe, and with two separate thrusts he pulled out the cause of your car’s failure. I could actually smell the potatoes from where I was observing.”
“Potatoes?”
“I’m pretty sure they were russets, and probably from Idaho. It was those potatoes that caused your engine to shut down. When the cylinder head fills with compressed exhaust, it cuts off the fuel. And without fuel the engine essentially runs out of gas.”
“You want fries with that?” I muttered. “I didn’t know about the potatoes. But I did notice both back tires impaled with metal wiring.”
“For thousands of years caltrops have been used in war. That’s why the driver of the Charger pulled out his pliers. I watched him remove the evidence of someone tampering with your car. That way, when your body was found down the road, everyone would assume it was just one of those unfortunate accidents of a driver leaving his broken vehicle and getting killed by a hit-and-run.”
“What’s our Mr. Potato Head look like?”
“He’s a white guy, maybe forty, five foot nine and very fit. He moved like someone who knew what he was doing. After he finished covering up the tampering with your car, he drove down the road but didn’t go all that far. I caught up with him and observed him for a minute. At first I couldn’t understand why he was just sitting in his car and waiting, but then I heard the buzzing sound moving back and forth overhead, and it suddenly struck me that the eye in the sky was tracking you. And then I realized that Novak wasn’t planning on sending a missile your way. That would have been a tad obvious. But what if he dispatched a different kind of missile? What if he was herding you to just the right spot on the road where a car could run you down? From his vantage point above, Novak would know when the coast was clear and when to dispatch his four-wheeled missile.
“I went a little ways down the canyon so that the driver wouldn’t see me, and after skirting by him, I ran as hard as I could. I wanted to reach you before the Charger was given the green light, but I was too late. When the Charger came my way, I did what I could, but the two stones I threw only slowed it down. My hope was that the shattered windshield would cause your hit to be called off. No hit man wants anything to make him stand out. But I guess it wasn’t deterrent enough. Thank God for your war dog.”
“Amen,” I said.
The fire was out before we arrived on the scene,
but half a dozen emergency vehicles were still on the scene. Novak’s Odyssey was gutted.
“It looks like a bomb hit it,” I said.
“Or a drone,” said Pullman.
“You mind keeping a low profile while I check on this?”
My Ranger pointed to a spot off the road. “I’ll be sleeping over there.”
The black Charger with the broken windshield was found the next morning in a Target parking lot in Burbank. The car had been stolen and was wiped clean of fingerprints.
As for the man on the scooter, that was a nonstarter. There are tens of thousands of wannabe hipsters living in the L.A. area, and it seemed as if every one of them drove a scooter.
In the two and a half days since almost being run down, I had been spinning my wheels in lots of directions but had come up with nothing. Everyone involved, or potentially involved, was stonewalling.
On advice of his team of lawyers, Drew Corde hadn’t commented on what had happened other than to have one of his mouthpieces read a statement purportedly written by him that threw his erstwhile best friend to the wolves. According to his statement, “Longtime employee Rick Novak, of his own volition, engaged in questionable activities that resulted in his unfortunate death.”
Corde’s lawyer had gone so far as to say that Novak “had apparently and regrettably gone rogue for his own uncertain purposes.”
OZ and Corde had put as much distance between themselves and Novak as possible. Their strategy seemed to be working; it’s hard to connect dots when you’re going against a legal team with lots of erasers.
That’s why I was surprised to see Corde’s name come up on my cell phone display.
“Detective Gideon?” he said. His usual bravado sounded noticeably absent.
“I’m glad you decided to return one of my many calls, Mr. Corde.”
“As you undoubtedly know, I was being advised by my lawyers not to comment on this matter.”
“And so why are you calling me now?”
“I thought it was time we had a chat, although I’m sure my lawyers would be apoplectic at the thought of such.”
To my knowledge, Corde was the first person I had ever heard use the word “apoplectic” in a sentence.
“Here’s to apoplexy,” I said.
“Before I continue with this conversation, I need you to confirm that this call isn’t being recorded and that no one but you is listening to me speak.”
“You’ve got my ears only.”
“I will take you at your word, with the understanding that a lie on your part would be entrapment.”
“I already told you that this is between us. If you need it signed in blood, then let’s arrange a face-to-face.”
“I don’t believe at this point such is necessary. At this juncture what I’m doing is sending up a trial balloon.”
“And here I thought you only sent up drones.”
He ignored my comment. “I think we both have things the other wants, Detective Gideon, but with the lawyers involved we are likely to be left wanting.”
“So you want to cut a deal?”
“I want to come to an understanding.”
“I’m not the only one working the case now. LAPD has investigators from SID, SIS, RHD, and Counter-Terrorism turning over rocks.”
The acronyms were short for Scientific Investigations Division, the Special Investigation Section, and Robbery-Homicide Department.
“And that’s just the homeboys,” I said. “The Feds are also actively investigating.”
“And what everyone is going to discover is that Rick Novak crossed the line. They are going to agree he must have been unbalanced to do what he did.”
Corde was reminding me of the Claude Rains character of Captain Louis Renault in Casablanca. He knew he was lying, and I knew he was lying, but he had to play his part in the charade.
“ ‘I’m shocked,’ ” I said, “ ‘shocked to find that gambling is going on in here.’ ”
I didn’t quote the next line, when the croupier showed up and handed Louis money, saying, “Your winnings, sir.” I had seen Casablanca so many times that I could probably quote the entire film.
“From what I understand,” said Corde, “there’s been a lot of evidence uncovered that suggests Novak went rogue.”
“Is that right? The way I see it, he didn’t blow his nose without you knowing.”
“That won’t be the conclusion of others.”
“Phone records show he talked to you minutes before he jammed communications.”
“We spoke on an unrelated matter.”
“What about his drone?”
“Please,” said Corde. “What Novak was flying was more of a remote-controlled flyer than it was a UAV. From what I understand, it wasn’t a commercial UAV, but something an experienced hobbyist could have built. If there was some tie-in with OZ, or with me, why wouldn’t he have used a Dumbledore or a Wasp to attack you?”
“The answer is simple: you wanted plausible deniability in case anything went wrong.”
“Your time would probably be better spent looking at Novak’s erstwhile employment than his present job,” said Corde.
“I suppose it was the CIA who got to Novak’s house and computer and wiped everything clean?”
“Doesn’t that sound like something they would do? And wouldn’t Novak’s training with them, and his contacts, also explain how he was able to obtain state-of-the-art jamming equipment?”
“Did you call me for any other reason than to try and spin an international conspiracy theory?”
“As I said, I might be able to supply you with information that I know you are most anxious to hear.”
“So talk to me.”
“I might know something about your mysterious man on the scooter.”
“If you are as innocent as you say, then it would be to your advantage to tell me what you know.”
“This is supposed to be quid pro quo. But I will tell you something for free: the man on the scooter didn’t kill Rick Novak.”
While Rick Novak had been trying to kill me with a drone, someone had taken him out with a Molotov cocktail. Two bottles filled with flammable material had been tossed into the sunroof of his minivan. For good measure, a third Molotov cocktail had been thrown at the driver’s window and had shattered on impact. Both the inside and outside of the car had been ablaze within moments. Novak had died of smoke inhalation and burns.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“If that’s true, what good is your information?”
“You need to look for another murderer. I had nothing to do with Novak’s death.”
“Novak isn’t my priority. And his homicide isn’t my case. Even if it was, my top priority is Wrong Pauley. That’s my interest.”
“But what’s your real interest?”
“I just told you.”
“No, you didn’t. You know to what I am referring. Or do you want me to pretend surprise and proclaim, ‘Gambling in Casablanca?’ ”
So he did know my reference, just as I knew his.
“The trail has gone cold, Detective. You might think you have smoking guns, but all you have is smoke. And that’s all you will have. I’ve been doing some overdue spring-cleaning. And though I am not admitting to any guilt, I am confident there is nothing that can tie me in to the attempt on your life.”
“Then why are we talking?”
“You might be able to prove that I illegally deployed UAVs, but even that’s no sure bet. I want to put everything behind me.”
“I would think illegally deployed UAVs would be the least of your worries. Why is that important to you?”
“Isn’t it obvious? OZ depends on its government contracts. If I were prosecuted for illegally operating a UAV, the government would li
kely be punitive. Even the cloud of illegality might cause the government to take its business elsewhere.”
“Let’s say I stopped looking at illegally operated drones. What do I get in return?”
“You’d get what you wouldn’t otherwise, what with my spring-cleaning. There’s no longer a trail for you to follow. Everything is gone now, do you understand? The only way you’ll know is through me. And I think you’d give just about anything to know, wouldn’t you?”
I didn’t answer. I was glad he couldn’t hear how loud my heart was beating or see my hungry expression.
“If you want to know the truth about angels, Detective, if you want to know the full story, we’ll need to come to an understanding.”
CHAPTER 24:
PRISONERS AND CONUNDRUMS
I tried to stall Corde. I wanted to believe I could get answers without him, but he knew my game and tactic and said he needed to hear from me in the next forty-eight hours. If we didn’t come to some understanding by that time, he warned me, “You’ll forever be in the dark.” And then he added, “You don’t want your angels to fly away, do you?”
Because I’d put my personal life on hold for so long, I allowed myself an evening for recess with Lisbet. Absence had made our hearts grow fonder, and for the time at least, our recent tiff seemed to be forgotten.
When Lisbet pulled up in my driveway, Sirius and I came out to greet her. Mouths and tongues came at Lisbet from all directions, and her laughter was contagious. When she disentangled herself from us, I gathered up the grocery bags. Tonight was going to be a treat: Lisbet had insisted on making dinner.
As we made our way up the walkway, Lisbet had her arm draped over my shoulder, and I had my arms around the groceries. My partner did a lot of tail wagging. I set the groceries on the kitchen counter and then took a seat on a barstool at that same counter. The only job Lisbet had assigned me was to get two bottles of wine and to make sure her glass didn’t run dry while she made the meal.
“I took my task very seriously,” I told Lisbet. “Earlier today I went to Mission Wine on Burbank Boulevard and spent an hour looking at their selection.”
