Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “Jesus,” he said in astonishment.

  He whipped his head toward the rearview mirror.

  A black Lincoln Navigator was looming in back of him. He couldn’t make out the driver’s face because the Navigator’s sun visor was down.

  It looked like the same SUV he had been tailing, but he couldn’t be sure, unable to make out the license tag with the vehicle so close to his tailgate.

  Brody pulled over to the side of the road to exchange information with the driver.

  The Lincoln lurched forward and screamed past him, not before a bullet whistled through Brody’s open window grazing his forehead.

  Blood poured into Brody’s left eye, blinding him. It was a flesh wound, but it was bleeding like crazy.

  Enraged, he pulled into traffic and gave chase, the Lincoln speeding away from him.

  He was having trouble seeing and driving with only one eye. His depth perception was shot. He almost smashed into a cream Mercedes as he changed lanes to pursue the Lincoln. The driver of the Mercedes leaned on his horn.

  Brody felt warm blood streaming down his cheek and throat.

  He decided he better stanch the wound before he passed out from loss of blood, which was flowing freely. He pulled over to the side of Hollywood Boulevard, dug a handkerchief out of his rear trouser pocket, and pressed it to his bullet-nicked forehead to stop the flow of blood.

  Seeing his distress a middle-aged pedestrian on the sidewalk approached his Mini and told him she was calling 911, digging her cell out of her capacious pocketbook.

  He tried to wave her off, but she put through the call.

  Now he would have to stay till the EMTs arrived, he decided in dismay, watching the Lincoln vanish in the traffic ahead. If he continued chasing the Lincoln, the cops would bust him for reckless driving. He wouldn’t tell the EMTs someone had shot him, or he’d have to file a police report. Deirdre had said no cops, so he wanted to keep them out of this. He would tell the EMTs he had grazed his head in the accident.

  He wiped the blood out of his eye as best he could with the handkerchief, wiped the blood off his face and throat, held the handkerchief pressed against his wounded forehead, and wondered who the hell had tried to kill him. Why would the guy that was tailing Lyndon try to kill him?

  The guy must have made Brody’s Mini following him, but why retaliate with flying lead?

  Brody wondered who he was dealing with. Whoever it was was packing. The guy who had been tailing Lyndon meant business. Brody wondered what Lyndon was into. Something that drew the wrong crowd.

  His handkerchief clamped against his forehead, Brody heard a siren’s keen in the distance. He was convinced all he needed was a butterfly for the nick in his forehead. The round had barely touched him. He hadn’t even felt it. All he had felt was the blood streaming down his face.

  There was nothing he could do now but wait.

  Chapter 18

  A butterfly bandage on his forehead, Brody returned to his residence, a one-bedroom apartment with piles of books and DVDs in it. He didn’t own many material possessions. His apartment had dirty windows that he never washed and an occasional cobweb dangling from the ceiling. He was a lousy housekeeper, and he didn’t have a maid.

  He sat at his cluttered desk near a window that overlooked the street, booted up his laptop, dug his cell phone out of his trouser pocket, e-mailed the image of the blonde Lyndon had picked up on Highland Avenue to his laptop, and saved the image in his documents file.

  He went online and uploaded the photo to Google reverse image search, where he tried to ID her. He got a hit on Terri Symonds, who worked at Sugar Babies International. The same high cheekbones and expressionless blue eyes fixated on nothingness.

  It looked like her, decided Brody.

  Lyndon had said he managed models, as well as movie actors. The rubric of models could include the profession of sugar babies, Brody supposed. Terri Symonds might be one of his clients at Pickers Talent Agency. Did sugar babies have managers nowadays? Brody figured it was possible, since everybody else did.

  Somebody knocked on his door.

  He answered it.

  The suit at the door had cropped white hair and wore black acetate-framed glasses. Brody figured the hair was dyed. The guy was tall, in his forties with a receding chin and eyes the color of dusk on a winter day. He wore a turquoise necktie, his charcoal grey jacket unbuttoned.

  “Yeah?” said Brody, holding the door open, not recognizing the guy.

  “Special Agent Brad Peltz of the West LA branch of the FBI,” said Peltz, producing his FBI badge.

  Brody inspected the badge without handling it. It looked genuine.

  He didn’t know why the FBI would want to talk to him. He didn’t welcome the idea.

  Whatever you said to the FBI could be used against you in a court of law, Brody knew.

  He said nothing.

  “Can I come in?” said Peltz.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’d like to you ask you a few questions.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Peltz smiled. “Did you do something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would you need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know why the FBI would be interested in me.”

  “Let me come in, and I’ll tell you.”

  Brody didn’t have anything to hide. He had no idea what this was about, and Peltz had piqued his curiosity.

  “Come on in,” said Brody. “My maid’s on vacation,” he added, noticing Peltz scoping out the disheveled living room that had a hodgepodge of newspapers scattered on the floor.

  “What happened to your head?” said Peltz, eying the butterfly paramedics had applied to Brody’s forehead after they had given him a tetanus shot at the scene of his accident in Hollywood.

  “I cut myself shaving.”

  Peltz stared at him.

  Brody jacked his eyebrows.

  Carrying a black leather attaché case Peltz passed by Brody’s laptop and eyeballed the screen.

  Brody wished he had turned the laptop off. He hadn’t been expecting company.

  “Sugar Babies International,” said Peltz, reading the screen.

  He gave Brody a look.

  “Job research,” said Brody.

  Peltz nodded, walked to the only sofa in the room, and sat down. He looked uncomfortable.

  Brody had put a slipcover on the sofa because the leatherette upholstery was disintegrating and shedding on the floor and on his clothes whenever he sat on it.

  Brody claimed a bonded leather recliner in better condition a few feet away from him.

  “First I need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement for me,” said Peltz, lifting his attaché case to his lap, opening it, and removing a document.

  “I don’t think I should sign anything without a lawyer present.”

  “What I’m gonna tell you is in the strictest confidence. Therefore, you need to sign this NDA,” said Peltz, holding up the document.

  “Maybe you’d better leave. I don’t want to sign anything,” said Brody, fixing to stand up and escort Peltz to the door.

  “If you don’t sign this NDA, we’ll have no choice but to notify the IRS that you’re cheating on your taxes.”

  Brody froze in his seat. The last thing he wanted was to have the IRS audit his tax return. Not that he cheated on his taxes, but who knew what they would find if they audited him? They might end up charging him with tax evasion and clapping him in the joint.

  Peltz saw that he had Brody’s attention and handed the NDA over to him.

  Brody sat back in the recliner and scanned the document, which said he would divulge nothing of what Peltz was about to reveal to him under penalty of a prison term in the federal supermax ADX in Colorado where he could rub elbows with the Unabomber and other unsavory convicts.

  “I don’t know if I should sign this,” said Brody, continuing to peruse the NDA.

  “Your life may depend on it.”
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  Brody took umbrage. “Is that some kind of threat?”

  “Threats are against the law,” Peltz said somberly.

  Brody had the distinct impression he was being squeezed and he didn’t enjoy the feeling of having his balls wedged in a vise. He didn’t want to antagonize the feds. They had all sorts of ways they could make your life difficult.

  “What’s in this for me?” he said.

  “You get to show your patriotism.”

  “I can do that in other ways—without signing an NDA.”

  “Do you like traitors?”

  “Of course not. What’s this got to do with traitors?”

  “Sign the NDA and I’ll tell you.”

  NDAs were never a good way to start a relationship, he knew, but he didn’t see a way to wiggle out of signing it. He didn’t want the government breathing down his neck.

  Full of misgivings, he decided to cooperate. “Do you have a pen?”

  Peltz pulled a ballpoint out of his jacket’s breast pocket and handed it to him.

  Brody took a hardback book from the coffee table, laid the document on it, and signed on the dotted line. He handed the NDA back to Peltz.

  “Thank you,” said Peltz, and inserted the document into his attaché case, which he snapped shut.

  “What have I got myself into?” said Brody, dreading to hear the answer.

  “If you tell anything of what I’m about to tell you to anyone, we can sue you for breach of contract and jail you for the rest of your life for violating the Espionage Act.”

  “I can’t believe you guys do this stuff.”

  “You’ll thank me afterward.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Your signature on that paper may have saved your life.”

  Chapter 19

  “I’ll cut to the chase. Do you know Lyndon Fox?” said Peltz.

  Brody didn’t like Peltz’s line of questioning. How did Peltz know he had anything to do with Lyndon, and why would he care?

  “Why?” said Brody.

  “Either you know him or you don’t.”

  Brody didn’t want to lie to the FBI. They could charge him with perjury. Peltz was making him nervous.

  “I know who he is,” said Brody.

  “You must know more than that about him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “One of our agents saw you at Fox’s house on Georgina Avenue.”

  Brody’s discomfort was increasing. Why would the FBI be surveilling Fox’s house? he wondered.

  “I had business with his wife,” said Brody.

  “What is your business?”

  Brody decided he better level with the feds. They probably already knew what he did for a living, anyway.

  “I’m a private detective,” he said.

  Brody wondered where this was leading. He knew the feds wouldn’t waste their time surveilling a guy suspected of cheating on his wife. This was about something else.

  “What do you know about Lyndon Fox?” said Peltz.

  “Not much.”

  “Do you know he travels to Cabo San Lucas a lot?”

  “No.”

  Peltz placed his attaché case on his lap and laid his palms flat on the black leather.

  “We believe he may be engaged in espionage for the Mexican government,” he said.

  “You think he’s a spy?”

  “We’re trying to confirm it.”

  “What good would he do the Mexican government? He works in a talent agency. He wouldn’t have access to state secrets.”

  “His talent agency manages speaking engagements for well-known politicians.”

  “You think the politicians are giving him state secrets?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Isn’t espionage the CIA’s job?”

  “Only on foreign land. The Bureau handles counterespionage on domestic turf. The CIA is, however, helping us.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They notified us that Lyndon frequents Cabo. They brought it to our attention.”

  “Just because he likes Cabo doesn’t mean he’s a spy.”

  “No, not at all. But when you combine his trips to Cabo with his connections to US Senators and deep-state bureaucrats in Washington, we want to know more. You understand?”

  “I get your drift.”

  “Are you a patriotic American? Do you want to help us?”

  Brody didn’t need long to think about it. “Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep an eye on Lyndon Fox and tell us when he does anything suspicious. You’ll have access to him because you’re working for him.”

  “I’m not working for him. I’m working for his wife.”

  Peltz shrugged. “Same difference.”

  Brody didn’t see that he had much choice. “What if I don’t want to get involved?”

  “We need you,” said Peltz, like that was the end of the discussion, and rising to his feet. “Any help in our surveillance of him would be appreciated.”

  He was a big guy, about six two. Probably played tight end on his college football team, decided Brody.

  It dawned on Brody that the guy driving the Lincoln Navigator who crashed into him might have been conducting surveillance for the feds when Brody had tailed Lyndon to Hollywood. And Brody had accidentally got mixed up in it.

  Christ, he thought. He had no idea. But the guy had taken a shot at him for Christ’s sake. Did the feds normally shoot a guy for interfering with their surveillance?

  He decided not to look like a jerk and bring the matter of the crash up to Peltz. Peltz might think Brody had tried to interfere with their surveillance by tailing a fed that was tailing Lyndon and he might throw Brody in jail for all Brody knew. How was Brody supposed to know the guy was a fed? Maybe the guy wasn’t a fed. Brody didn’t want to sound too nosy about the FBI, so he held his tongue.

  Brody didn’t want to think about it.

  He also didn’t like being squeezed. Having to sign that NDA annoyed him.

  “Would you see me out now?” said Peltz.

  “Sure,” said Brody.

  Peltz idled to the door behind Brody and said, “I’m glad you chose the right thing to do.”

  It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, decided Brody, who stood expressionless as he opened the door for Peltz. The bastard.

  Chapter 20

  Brody called Deirdre and arranged to meet her at a park located a few miles from her house.

  They sat on a park bench that overlooked a murky, algae-infested amoeba-shaped pond that had an arched wooden bridge spanning its narrowest pseudopod and had scattered ducks paddling in the water. Softball-sized brown stones strewed the cement bed of a two-foot-wide babbling stream that descended into the pond.

  A couple of gulls flew overhead, squalling as they dive-bombed down at the pond and swooped westward.

  “I followed your husband today,” said Brody. “Somebody rear-ended me in Hollywood.”

  Wearing oversized sunglasses, sitting with her legs crossed, Deirdre stared at the bandage on his head. “You had an accident?”

  “It wasn’t any accident. The driver took a shot at me,” said Brody, feeling the butterfly paramedics had applied to his forehead.

  “How awful. But that doesn’t prove it wasn’t an accident.”

  “I believe he rammed my car on purpose.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t road rage instigated by the accident? It happens all the time.”

  “I saw this guy following your husband, the same as I was.”

  “I don’t understand. Who else would be following him?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  She watched one of the green-necked mallards swimming lazily in a circle in the pond. The duck’s green feathers gleamed like oil in the harsh sunlight.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I think you’re mistaken.”

  The mallard lifted its wing and started biting its flank with its bill.

  Brod
y wondered if he should tell Deirdre about the FBI. He remembered he had signed an NDA and nixed the idea. Did she have any idea the FBI was interested in her husband? Was it possible she could be involved in his espionage activities? He didn’t think so. If the husband and wife were both spies, Brody couldn’t see her hiring a PI to investigate her husband’s possible philandering. A PI might stumble onto Lyndon’s and her espionage. Brody doubted she had anything to do with spying.

  “Have you seen that stalker lately?” he said.

  “No. Maybe he knows I got help to deal with him.”

  “Maybe,” said Brody, not believing it. “Do you want me to drop the case?”

  “Uh,”—she paused, thinking it over—“no. I’m not convinced he’s left.”

  “Lyndon gave a ride to a good-looking blonde to work today.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. He has a lot of good-looking blondes he represents,” she said, but didn’t look as confident as she sounded.

  Brody produced his cell phone and showed her the picture of Terri Symonds from Sugar Babies International.

  “Recognize her?” he said.

  She looked blank and shook her head no.

  “What kind of proof do you want?” he said.

  “I guess . . . I guess, I need to see them caught in the act.”

  “How about kissing?”

  “That won’t prove anything. He kisses a lot of his talent. It’s Hollywood, you know. They’re very expressive. They all go around kissing each other.”

  “You gotta see him down and dirty with a girl? In flagrante delicto.”

  “I don’t want to see anything, but I have to know,” she said, cut up, her voice tightening.

  Brody envisaged himself peeping through keyholes. Not his favorite type of assignment. But it went with the job.

  “Is this the same assignment you gave to Rakowski?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he couldn’t find any proof?”

  “He just started the job. And—”

  She broke off, thinking about Rakowski’s murder.

  Brody wondered if someone had been following Rakowski as Rakowski had been following Lyndon.

  Suspicions aroused, Brody scanned the park, trying to spot anybody untoward. Of course, if somebody was following him, the guy wouldn’t want to stand out. A mother wheeling her baby in a baby carriage, a thirtysomething woman walking her Dalmatian, two vagrants sleeping it off on the side of a grassy hummock, two shouting kids playing with a ball and scampering around on the grass, their mother sitting at a picnic table under the shade of an oak tree watching them . . . Nothing out of the ordinary.