“You drive,” I say, then point the gun at Erlacher. “You, shotgun.”
Salerno unlocks the door and gets behind the wheel and unlocks the passenger door for Erlacher. I get in the back.
“Start the car,” I say. Salerno does it. I reach under the front seat and feel around for the dead man’s Ruger and find it. I tuck the Ruger under one of the towel strips tied around the bandage on my thigh.
“Where are we going?” Erlacher says.
“You said something about an army in Glendale,” I say, as I shove Salerno’s little automatic into my sock.
Erlacher turns and stares at me.
“You can’t be serious,” he says.
I touch the muzzle of the 500 to the back of Salerno’s neck.
“Drive, Zegna,” I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
No one says anything as we head south on PCH. Salerno drives as I hold the gun an inch from the back of his head. Erlacher stares out the windshield, rubbing his palms on his jeans.
“Take Kanan,” I say to Salerno, as we approach the intersection.
“What are you planning to do when we get to Glendale?” Salerno says.
“Get Karen, if she’s there.”
“And if she’s not?”
“Find out where she is, from whoever’s there.”
“How?”
“Have to figure that out when we get there. We have time to beat Sal and his guys back. They’ll spend a few minutes looking for Erlacher, then five or ten minutes tossing the place. Maybe there won’t be so many footsoldiers left back at Glendale for us to deal with.”
“Us?” Salerno says.
“I have four guns and two human shields,” I say. “I figure we can handle two, maybe three guys.”
Salerno snorts. The light turns green and he turns onto Kanan.
“What about cops?” Salerno says. “You said you called them.”
“I lied.”
“Fucking insane,” Elli says. “Insane.”
“We’ve got time to talk,” I say to Erlacher. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story, Elli. Why didn’t they bring Karen to your place? Were you going with them somewhere to get her?”
He stares ahead, shakes his head, and says nothing.
“Speed up a little,” I say to Salerno. “We want to beat them.”
No one speaks for twenty minutes, until we approach Glendale on the 134 and the rain starts.
“What’s the exit, Elli?” I say.
“I don’t remember,” he says. “I was only here once.”
“When?”
“Last summer.”
“What were you doing here?”
He doesn’t respond. We approach the first Glendale exit.
“Better come up with it quick, Elli,” I say.
“What are you gonna do, shoot us both?” he says.
“No, I’d be happy just to ruin you and send you both to prison,” I say.
“You’re the one who ought to be worried about prison, Rhodes,” Salerno says. “I could drive to Glendale LAPD right now and turn you over.”
“If you were going to do that, you would have done it already,” I say. “But you haven’t, which tells me you’re in deep with all this.”
“And just what do you think ‘this’ is?” Salerno says.
“Blackmail, to start,” I say. I wave the gun at Erlacher. “He was sexually involved with a minor and they were milking him for whatever they could get. Either Sal or Penelope or both. That’s why he killed her.”
“You’re wrong,” Elli says.
“Makes more sense than the young-girl-falls-in-love-with-old-lizard story.”
“You don’t what you’re talking about,” Erlacher shouts suddenly, turning to glare at me, his tiny eyes wide with rage, his thin lips pulled back so tight that they turn white. I am surprised by the sudden outburst. A few minutes ago he was a whiny coward. Now he is seething.
“You’re in way over your head, you stupid prick,” he screams at me. His fists are balled tight, the muscles in his neck taut ropes. Coiled, ready to strike.
He glares at me for a moment, then turns away.
“I’m done,” he says, his voice flat now, emotionless. “This is as far as I go.”
Just like that, the sudden flare of rage is gone. Now he seems numb—without any feeling at all.
Plenty of powerful people have achieved their positions by manipulating others with mercurial behavior—either as a well-honed technique or because it’s in their nature. But Erlacher’s demeanor changed so quickly and so dramatically that I reconsider what I told Karen about him. I told her he was probably a sociopath. Now I’m beginning to wonder if he is something much worse—borderline personality, narcissistic personality—whatever shrinks currently call it, it’s clear that he’s more dangerous than I had thought.
The rain picks up. Salerno slows as the Corolla’s bald tires hydroplane on the downpour swamping the freeway. I take out my pre-paid phone and put the battery in. I take out my wallet and find Marsh’s card. I hold it up in the rearview mirror so Salerno can see it.
“I’m calling Lieutenant Marsh at LAPD,” I say to Salerno. “I’m sure you know him. You washed out of LAPD before you got into the sleazebag business, as I recall.”
“Go for it,” Salerno says. His voice is calm but he grips the wheel tighter and I see his jaw muscles flex. I dial and wait as the phone rings.
“Yeah,” Marsh answers. I hear voices—noise in the background on the other end of the phone.
“Detective Marsh. It’s Jack Rhodes.”
There is brief silence, then Marsh says, “Where are you, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I’m with Penelope’s killer,” I say.
“Who’s that?” Marsh says.
“Elli Erlacher,” I say. “He’s—”
“I know who he is,” Marsh says.
“Fucking dead man,” Elli says softly, staring ahead.
“How’s Melvin?” I say to Marsh.
“Not good,” he says. “If you want to see him again you’d better do it soon. I can take you to him right now.”
“I figure Wen can track my phone in what, five, ten minutes?” I say.
“I suppose,” Marsh says. “But let’s just talk for a—”
“I’m gonna hang up now but I’ll leave the phone on,” I say. “Come and get me.”
I end the call.
“That’s that,” I say to Erlacher. “Tell me the exit and I’ll shut the phone down. Or we can keep driving until they track the phone and we get pulled over.”
Erlacher stares ahead, his mouth drawn down, thinking.
“Personally, I don’t care,” I say. “If we don’t get Karen the cops will, after they arrest us and I tell them about Sal and the Glendale army.”
Erlacher stares out at the rain. The Advil has begun to wear off and I try to push the pain to the back of my mind, thinking of what I told Karen about negative capability. It almost works. I lean to the side a little to take the pressure off of my throbbing leg.
“What’s it gonna be, Elli?” I say.
“There,” Erlacher says finally, nodding at the sign for the Harvey Drive exit.
Salerno exhales loudly to show his irritation, then takes the exit, slowing until we stop at red light at the end of the ramp.
“This isn’t Glendale,” I say. “It’s Eagle Rock.”
“It’s all the same shithole,” Erlacher shrugs.
Salerno clicks up the speed of the windshield wipers as the rain hammers down harder.
“Left or right?” I say. Erlacher shows no reaction.
The light turns green. I touch the gun barrel to the back of Salerno’s neck.
“Fuck, Elli,” Salerno says.
A car behind us honks.
“Turn off the phone,” Erlacher says.
I hold up the phone and pull the battery out so he can see.
“Left,” Erlacher says.
Salerno turns left and we head east on Colorado.
>
“It’s not far,” Erlacher says. His voice is normal now, almost cheerful. He is neither panicked, nor enraged, nor catatonic. He seems to have made up his mind about something, which is more worrisome than all the rage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We drive east on Colorado for five minutes. On our right is a neighborhood of modest bungalows packed into tight parcels of land. On our left are the hills, where large, elegant homes sprawl over manicured lawns.
“I’m not going up there,” Erlacher says, glancing up at the hills. “You call all the cops you want, but I’m not going.” His tone is conversational, like he’s discussing the weather.
“Fine,” I say. “You can stay in the car or hitch a ride in the rain. Just tell me where it is.”
“Left on Dahlia,” he says.
Three more blocks and Salerno turns left and we head up into the hills where the fancy homes are. We wind our way up, passing larger and larger homes on larger and larger lots, until we reach a cul-de-sac with no homes at all. There is only a tall, heavy gate which bars entry to a long driveway. At the end of the driveway, on the top of a steep hill, is a massive, square, Colonial-style brick house.
I see Erlacher glance up at the house as we make a slow circle in the cul-de-sac.
“That it?” I say.
Erlacher lifts his chin in a small nod.
“Stop the car,” I say.
Salerno pulls over to the curb and parks.
“Turn off the engine.”
He shuts off the engine. The only sound is the rain pounding the roof of the car.
“Give me the key,” I say.
Salerno doesn’t move. I press the gun hard against the back of his head.
“Fuck you,” Salerno says, then takes the key from the ignition and puts it in the pocket of his jeans.
“I’m not gonna sit here like an asshole in a worthless car, in the rain,” he says. “You’re not gonna shoot me and we both know it.”
I shoot the ignition keyhole, blowing it completely off of the steering column, firing the 500 right beside Salerno’s ear. Salerno jerks forward, holding his hands over his ears, keening.
“Cocksucker,” Salerno wails. I see blood ooze out from between the fingers covering his right ear.
“Pull the trunk release,” I say. “It’s right by your left knee.”
Salerno either can’t hear me or simply ignores me. I grab the back of his neck and shove him forward and stretch over the seat and pull the handle on the trunk release. Erlacher is turned to the side, his back pressed against his door, watching me. He doesn’t look afraid, but I’m too busy to give him much attention.
I get out of the car and the rain pelts me as I go to the rear and lift the trunk lid and find a tire iron—the old-fashioned kind with a bladed end.
Salerno gets out of the car and comes back to me.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he yells over the rain, his hand over his bleeding ear. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“Educate me, then,” I say. “What am I dealing with?”
Salerno glares at me, flexing his jaw muscles, rain running down his tanned cheekbones. I wait for a few seconds, but he just glares and flexes, probably angry that the rain will ruin his hair. A little rain freaks out most Los Angeles residents. They get damp and go berserk.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, and close the trunk.
Salerno moves between me and the gate leading up to the Colonial house.
“You’re not going up there,” he says. “You’ll have to get through me, asshole.”
I swing the tire iron and connect with his left cheekbone. He drops in a heap, in a dirty puddle, out cold. Blood trickles down his neck and stains his sweater.
That was easy.
I go to the driver’s door of the Corolla and open it and lean inside, the gun pointed at Erlacher.
“Stay in the car,” I say. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“There’s a better way to do this, Jack,” Erlacher says. “If you go up there you’ll never come back alive.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“I can improve those chances,” he says. He looks at me directly, his eyes earnest and sincere, his voice calm and quiet.
“Get in and I’ll tell you the whole deal,” he says. “I can get you what you want. Let’s work it out. No bullshit.”
I look at him for a moment, then get in and close the door and aim the 500 at his chest.
“Thirty seconds,” I say.
“You were half right,” he says. “About the blackmail. Sal wanted fifty grand to keep quiet about me and Karen. But I knew that would never be the end of it, so I made a deal with him. I pay a million to shut him up and I get Karen. But one million became two, and then Penelope found out and she went batshit. She was gonna go to the cops.”
“So you killed her,” I say.
“Not me,” he says. “Leukatov.”
“There is no such person.”
“Sure there is,” he says. “Me, Sal and his guys, Salerno, Swartzman… We were all Leukatov, whenever it was convenient. He was some loser pimp Sal wasted, years ago. But we kept him alive. Bank accounts, credit cards, ID.”
“Sal doesn’t strike me as that clever.”
“He’s not,” he says. “It was my idea. Sal’s just a pimp. That’s how I met him. He used to get me girls. Penelope was working for him back then. I was banging her long before you were.”
Erlacher leans his head back against the headrest, cocky now.
“The Russians and Armenians—they’re not exactly what you’d call organized crime. They’re ruthless pricks, but they’re retards. But they do know how to bring young girls into the states. And a lot of my friends like young girls. So I introduced Sal to some of my friends—agents, execs, lawyers, couple of politicians. They hook up with a fourteen, fifteen year-old girl—or boy. Sometimes younger. And once my friends dip the quill, I own their asses. If somebody tries to fuck with me I scare the hell out of them about Leukatov and I get whatever I want. I own this town, bro. I had Swartzman set up an LLC to make it look legit.”
“Thoroughbred Exclusives.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And it worked. Until I went and fell in love with Karen. That’s my sad story, Jack.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “You own the town but you go and screw it all up over some girl? I don’t buy it.”
“She’s not just some girl,” he says. “I’m in love with her.”
“Time’s up. Make your pitch, Elli.”
“I can get Sal off your back. I’ll pay whatever his price is to walk away, and Swartzman can fix your legal problems. People in the DA’s office owe me—one in particular who likes little boys. Believe me, he’ll play ball.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“We leave right now, and you take a vow of fucking silence forever about all of this and forget about Karen,” he says. “It’s the best offer you’re gonna get, buddy. Believe me.”
“Stay in the car,” I say. I open the door and get out.
“I am not bullshitting you, Jack,” Erlacher says, leaning across the driver’s seat and looking up at me in the rain through the open door.
“When Sal shows up I’ll take them up to the house and there won’t be any more deals,” he says. “You don’t believe me?”
“Let’s just say I think there’s more to the story,” I say.
“You willing to risk your life on that?” he says. “You willing to risk your daughter’s? Take the deal, Jack.”
I slam the door in his face and walk toward the gate. Erlacher rolls down his window and yells at me.
“Everybody deals in the end, Jack.”
I ignore him as I reach the gate. It’s at least ten feet tall. There is a small metal call box on a post planted on the left side of the driveway. I see no cameras. I think about smashing the call button with the tire iron or disabling it in some way but decide that could alert anyone who’s at the ho
use. I doubt Erlacher would try and summon them or warn them—but his behavior in the car has left me uncertain about any assumptions I’ve made about him. And if Sal and the others drive up and see a smashed call box it won’t be good for me. I leave the box alone.
I move away from the gate, following the wrought-iron fence for a few feet. I grab two heavy iron posts and grit my teeth against the pain and climb. The top of the fence is spiked with needle-pointed fleur de lis, which I climb over carefully, then jump down to the wet ground on the other side. I wait until the wave of pain subsides, worried about setting off motion-detectors. No lights flick on. No alarms blare out in the night. I look back at the Corolla. Erlacher is still sitting inside, watching me, his window rolled up.
I move away from the driveway, along the fence, through the wet brush and scruff. When I’m far enough from the driveway to be hidden from it, I begin the climb up the steep, muddy hillside toward the house, ignoring the blazing pain in my leg, using the tire iron as a crude mountain-climbing axe. If I had known I’d be scaling muddy hills all night I would have stopped at Sports Chalet and picked up some real gear. Just as I sink the bladed end of the tire iron into the earth, the rain roars down harder still.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Five minutes of digging, climbing, and bleeding, and I reach the crest of the hill, where the wild brush ends and the flat lawn begins. I lie on my belly at the edge of the brush, feeling rivulets of cold rainwater rushing under me, headed down the hill in a hurry, numbing the pain in my leg.
I look at the house through the downpour. If you were making a horror movie and needed a haunted 19th century mental hospital, this would be the place. It is bigger than it appeared from the street below—an immense, square, two-story red-brick building with small windows that give it an institutional look. The vast lawn is thick with towering, old-growth pine trees that whip around in the storm. A bolt of lightning and crack of thunder would complete the horror scene, but there is nothing but dense, roaring, windblown rain.
I’ll take it.
I move along the perimeter of the lawn, staying low, keeping my eyes on the house, tire iron in one hand, 500 in the other. Narrow windows flank the wide front doors of the house. The windows are illuminated but the glass is frosted and I can’t see inside. An SUV is parked in front. I can’t see anyone inside it, but the interior of the car is dark.
Killer In The Hills (A Jack Rhodes Mystery) Page 11
