In the meantime, they have her.
Somewhere, she is with them, right now.
I think of nail guns again, and I force the thought away.
Which is best for her? Turn myself in now and tell them everything I know? Or try and think of anything else I can do, on my own? They don’t have me yet. What can I do before I turn myself in?
Think. Replay what just happened…
Sal somehow followed Melvin to the Bowl. How? Melvin would have spotted him…
Once I showed up with Karen, Sal made his move. He drove up, shot Melvin, tried to shoot me, and grabbed Karen. He took a huge risk taking her alive. If he only wanted her silence he would have simply rolled up and shot us all. But he didn’t, which means she’s worth a great deal to him alive—a hell of a lot more than a credit card scam, or hooking.
What would make her so valuable to him?
My thoughts race, scattered and disordered.
Sometimes, when I get stuck on a writing problem, I clean up my office to clear my head. I decide to clean up the car interior and hide the guns better and I notice my bloody pants on the floor in front of the passenger seat, in a heap where I had tossed them. I pick them up to fold them neatly under the seat and they feel heavy and I remember the cell phones I lifted from the dead men. I pull them from the pockets and start scrolling through the call records. The first phone has no numbers that mean anything to me, but the second one has a number with a 310 area code that I recognize from somewhere.
Then it hits me.
I know the number.
I stuff the pants under the passenger seat, then put the car in gear and drive out of the parking lot and head for Vineland. I pull into a gas station and try two of the credit cards from the dead men but both are rejected at the pump. I realize I have nothing to lose by using my own credit card at this point, so I use it to fill up the car. I’ll be far away from here by the time anybody catches the charge and tracks it. And by then I won’t care. I fill the tank and get back in the car and turn left onto Vineland and make my way up into the hills. When I reach Mulholland I turn right, heading west.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Just as I reach Pacific Coast Highway there is an on-scene report on the radio about the Rose Bowl shooting. Two unidentified men are dead, and an FBI agent is in “grave condition” at an undisclosed hospital. I listen for a while but there is no other information of any use.
I turn right onto PCH, heading north. In ten minutes I am in Malibu. I get as close as I can to the Colony, then turn left and pull into the parking lot at the Motel Miki. I park close to the beach, then gather up the phones, two of the guns, and Erlacher’s keys. I get out of the car, stick the Glock in the back of my waistband, and hold the 500 in my hand as I walk down the sandy path to the beach.
I limp along the beach for a while, until I pass the Colony. At the north end I see a house—a massive box of concrete and glass that dwarfs all surrounding structures. The big one.
The entire western wall of the house is glass, and as I get closer I can see Erlacher inside, in the large, open living area. He’s on a cell phone, pacing back and forth. I walk closer along the hard, wet beach, following the jagged line between sea and sand, thankful for the thick blanket of clouds that hide the moon.
When I’m about thirty feet from the house, I kneel behind a small sand berm, wincing at the pain in my leg. I can see Erlacher from here but if he should look my way he can only see the top of my head, if anything. I see a second man in the house—a fit, movie-star handsome guy in jeans and a dark, tight-fitting crew-neck sweater. He is sitting on a black sofa, sipping from a bottle of water. He looks familiar but I can’t place him.
I find Erlacher’s number on the headless man’s phone and press CALL. I peer over the sand berm and see Erlacher take the cell phone from his ear to look at the ID. Then he answers.
“Hello?”
“Elli. It’s Jack.”
I see Erlacher stop pacing and go over to the handsome guy and tap him on the shoulder. Handsome gets up and goes to Elli and tries to listen in on the call, his ear next to Erlacher’s phone. I get up and move toward the house, watching them.
“Hey, Jack. Where are you, man?”
“Just left the Rose Bowl,” I say, as I reach the deck. I stand under it, near the stairs that lead up to the house.
“Yeah?” Erlacher says.
“Yeah,” I say. I head up the stairs to the deck, slowing as I reach it. I see Erlacher go to a bar that takes up most of the east wall of the living area. The handsome guy follows him. Erlacher opens a bottle of something and pours.
“Are you alright?” he says.
“I’m fine, but I have a question for you.”
“Sure, man,” he says. “What is it?”
“There’s something I want to show you first,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. “Where are you? I’ll come meet you.” He takes a drink and goes to a large table with enormous, square steel legs and a thick glass top. He picks up a pen by the telephone on the table and leans over to write on a yellow legal pad.
“I’m close,” I say. “Why don’t I come to you?”
Erlacher hesitates, his pen raised over the pad.
“Ah…okay,” he says.
“Alright if I come by right now?”
“Sure,” he says, then picks up the handset from the telephone base on the glass table and starts dialing.
I walk up to the glass wall and point the 500 at him. He’s about ten yards away.
“Put the phone down, Elli.”
He stops dialing, then whirls around and sees me and drops his drink, which shatters on the bleached hardwood floor.
“Holy shit, Jack,” Erlacher says on the phone. The man in the sweater sees me and starts to reach around his back with his right hand.
“Tell your friend to show me his hands or I’ll shoot him right now,” I say.
Erlacher says something to the guy in the sweater and he raises his hands.
“Put the cell down and open the door,” I say.
Erlacher stares at me for a second, then tosses his cell on the table and comes toward me with his hands half-raised and opens the sliding glass door.
“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me, dude. Come on in.”
He slides the door open and I walk inside. The large living space has a soaring ceiling with exposed steel beams, hospital white walls, recessed steel shelves, and a black leather sectional sofa that looks uncomfortable. Enormous, artless abstract paintings hang on every wall that isn’t glass. The only warmth in the room is from a gas fire in a black granite fireplace that has a steel hearth.
“You look like shit, dude,” Erlacher says. “You alright? Can I get you something?”
“I’m fine.”
“Jack, this is Tony Salerno,” Erlacher says. “You know Tony.”
“P.I. to the fabulous,” I say to Salerno, recognizing him. “Last time I saw you, you were on the news, perp-walking to your arraignment.”
Salerno grins. He has perfect teeth, bleached white against his flawless tan. His trim black hair is slicked back neatly.
“I could say the same about you,” he says.
“You can put that away,” Erlacher says, looking at the 500. “It’s cool, there’s no one else here.”
I point the gun at Salerno.
“Turn around,” I say. He turns and I go to him and lift up the back of his sweater and pull a small automatic from his waistband.
“Any others?” I say.
“Nope,” Salerno says. “And I got a CCW for that.”
“Good for you,” I say. I pat him down and find a wallet and a cell phone, which I drop in a carafe of ice water on the bar. I put the little automatic in the pocket of my sweatpants, which are getting weighed down with weapons, then I nudge Salerno toward the sofa with the 500.
“Sit down, where you were,” I say. Salerno returns to the sofa and sits. I move behind Erlacher and pat him down.
; “Jack, what the hell, man?” Erlacher says, with a forced smile. “What’s going on?”
I step away from him and take the dead man’s phone from my pocket and toss it to him. He fumbles it and drops it, then picks it up off the floor.
“What’s this?” he says.
“It’s a phone that belonged to one of Sal’s guys,” I say. “You talked to him twice today.”
“What are you talking about?” he says. His fake smile evaporates and he looks down at the phone. “What the hell is this supposed to mean?”
“It means you paid Sal to pick up Karen tonight,” I say. “Is he bringing her here or are you going to meet him?”
He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head and waves me off and turns his back and goes to the glass table. He picks up the land-line handset from its cradle on the base.
“You’re fucked up, bro,” he says, glancing down at the blood seeping through my sweatpants. “Your leg’s messed up and you look like shit. You need a doctor.” He starts dialing a number on the handset.
“Put the phone down, Elli.”
He keeps dialing.
“Put it down. I won’t tell you again.”
He raises the phone to his ear and smirks at me.
“What’re you gonna do, shoot me?” he says.
I shoot the phone base on the table. The phone base explodes and the entire glass top of the table shatters. Erlacher jumps back, his tiny eyes open wider than I would have thought they could open. My ears ring from the blast. Salerno stands up.
“Fucking…shit!” Erlacher says, staring at me, then at the shattered glass all over the floor.
“Sit down,” I say to Salerno. He sits. I point the gun at Erlacher.
“I gave the cops the security video from the Marmont that shows you going into the room where you killed Penelope. Was she blackmailing you because you were going to Karen’s site? Or was Sal? Or did you pay him to pick Karen up so you could take her away for other purposes? Or is it all of the above?”
He stares at me like I’m a gray whale that slid up from the ocean and asked for a towel.
“Rhodes, you’re in enough trouble as it is—” Salerno says.
“Be quiet,” I say, keeping my eyes on Erlacher. “Why do you want to get your hands on Karen so badly? Do you plan to kill her or just buy her?”
Erlacher doesn’t move. He stares at me.
“Got your jet fueled up? Where’s it going? Gonna take her to the Maldives and make her your child-bride? Or your slave?”
He looks at the gun, calculating.
I move to Erlacher’s side so I can keep Salerno in sight, and aim the gun at Erlacher’s left temple from three feet away. I put my thumb on the hammer spur of the 500 and pull it back, cocking the gun with a loud click that echoes in the big room. Erlacher’s face turns white and he edges away from me. I have always marveled at the power movie clichés have over movie executives.
“I don’t have to buy her,” Erlacher says. “She’s in love with me.”
“Really,” I say. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
“It’s true,” he says. “I love her and she loves me. I know, she’s young—and she’s your kid—but it’s true. You don’t believe me?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he says.
“You’re an ugly middle-aged creep with the personality of a monitor lizard.”
“You don’t know her like I do,” he says. “I’m gonna get her out of here—out of trouble—away from the life. Take her someplace safe, take care of her.”
“She doesn’t even know who you are. She never mentioned you, never asked me to take her to you. You’re gonna have to do better, Elli. So I’ll ask one more time: is Sal bringing her here? Or are you meeting him somewhere to get her?”
“There’s a million dollars cash in a safe in my bedroom,” he says. “It’s yours. I’ll put another million in a numbered account and give you the number. No bullshit, no tricks. I suggest you do something incredibly smart, and take the money and go.”
“No, thanks.”
“How much do you want? Three million? Four?”
“Did you kill Fat Zach?”
“I never killed anybody.”
“You paid Sal or him to do it,” I say, nodding at Salerno. “You knew Zach had the video, so you had somebody go get it and they shot him.”
Erlacher shakes his head.
“No,” he says.
I nod toward the sofa.
“Might as well sit down,” I say. “I called a detective at LAPD before I called you. They’ll be here soon.”
Erlacher’s face turns red and he starts pacing.
“You stupid…motherfucker,” he says. He strides around in a tight circle, rubbing his forehead so hard it leaves a dark blotch. “These people…they’re not people you fuck with.”
“Tell that to the two of them I just killed.”
“Listen to me, asshole, they got a fucking army out there in Glendale,” he says. “I’ve been there.” His face has gone from red to purple and his eyes are wet. He is either terrified or enraged or both. I figure both.
“Take it easy, Elli,” Salerno says from the couch.
Erlacher comes closer and yells at me, spitting.
“They got footsoldiers up and down the valley. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here. You’re a dead man. Take my money and get out because I’m not going down with you.”
“You seem upset, Elli,” I say. “That makes me think they’re bringing her here. That, plus the fact that you’ve got an armed goon in an Armani sweater here with you.”
“Zegna,” Salerno says.
Erlacher stares at me, his chest heaving. His cell rings from the glass-littered floor where the table used to stand. I go and pick it up, keeping the gun on him. The ID on the phone says FRONT GATE.
“The gate,” I say, and toss the phone on the couch in front of him. “Let them in.”
The phone rings again. Erlacher looks at Salerno.
“I just want her,” I say. “I don’t care about you.”
The phone rings again. Erlacher doesn’t move.
“If you don’t answer it I will,” I say. I take a step toward the phone.
Erlacher picks it up before I reach it.
“Speaker,” I say. I point the gun at his face.
He presses the speaker button.
“Yes,” he says.
“Mr. Erlacher, this is the front gate,” I hear a female voice. “I have a Mr. Williams here to see you.”
“Okay, let ‘em in,” he says. He ends the call and looks at the glass all over the floor.
“What do I do about that?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say. “Let’s go. Out the back.” I point the gun toward the sliding glass door to the deck.
He looks at Salerno again.
“I just killed two of Sal’s guys,” I say. “You want them to walk in and find me here with you?”
Salerno gets up.
“Come on, El,” Salerno says.
Erlacher follows Salerno to the sliding door. I trail them out, keeping the gun on them, and slide the door closed behind us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I herd them down the deck stairs to the beach.
“How do you get to the front of the house?” I say.
“Gate,” Erlacher says, nodding toward a security gate installed in the tall pink stucco wall that runs alongside the house, from the back to the front.
“Go,” I say.
I follow them to the gate. Erlacher stops, grabs around his pockets.
“Fucking keys,” he says. “I don’t have the—”
I toss him his keys. He catches them, startled, then fumbles with them and finds a big square key and unlocks the gate.
We move along the side of the house, then climb the slate steps toward the front. I stop them at the corner of the house, where I can see the driveway. There are two cars parked in the circular pebble drive—a black Rang
e Rover and an orange Lamborghini.
Erlacher heads out toward the cars and I grab his arm and pull him back behind the corner of the house.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Be quiet,” I say. “Stay put.”
I move a few steps away and stand behind a thick froth of bougainvillea, where I can watch the driveway and keep an eye on Salerno and Erlacher.
We wait for a moment, then a black Cadillac Escalade pulls into the drive and stops. Sal gets out of the passenger seat and yet another short, stout, dark-haired man gets out of the back. Who is cloning these goons? I see the silhouette of a big, thick man at the wheel. Karen is not with them.
Sal and the backseat guy go to the front door and Sal presses the button for the doorbell.
They wait. We wait.
Sal rings again, then motions to the driver of the Escalade, who is still at the wheel. The driver gets out. He is a giant. A tall bull of a man with a blonde crew-cut and hands the size of catcher’s mitts.
The giant joins them at the front door. Sal takes a pistol-grip pump shotgun from the inside of his leather coat and the two other men aim handguns at the front door. Sal shoots the deadbolt and the door blows open and the three of them rush inside.
I move behind Salerno and poke him in the back with the 500.
“Go.”
“Where?” Salerno says.
“To the street. Quick.”
Salerno moves, Erlacher follows close behind him, and I follow both of them down the pebble drive to the street.
“Right,” I say.
Salerno turns right and we head down the street. Erlacher walks stiff-legged, staring ahead at nothing like a shell-shocked soldier on a death march.
“What exactly are you planning to do, Rhodes?” Salerno says, as we reach the end of the block.
“I promised someone I’d help them,” I say. “So I’m going to help them.”
“Who?” Salerno says. “The girl? What can you possibly—”
“Shut up,” I say.
After a few minutes we reach the Corolla and I toss the key to Salerno.
Killer In The Hills (A Jack Rhodes Mystery) Page 10
