‘‘Yeah, yeah . . .’’
‘‘Anyway, there’s no way this would make the papers, much less TV news, just on what happened. Routine holdup shooting. We might have a couple of good images, so maybe it’ll make it—not because it means anything, but because the images are good.’’
‘‘I hope I got some,’’ Coughlin said nervously, looking over his shoulder at Louis. ‘‘I just kept pulling the trigger.’’
‘‘You did okay,’’ Louis said from the back of the truck. He had the tape up on a monitor. ‘‘It’s not great, but it’s usable.’’
Anna watched as Louis rolled through it, then turned to Coughlin. ‘‘A couple of things: You move too fast from one subject to the next. You show the guy on the ground, the shooter, and the gun, but only for a couple of seconds each time. You have to dwell on them for a moment. Remember, we can always cut, but we can’t get more. Same with the wounded guy inside. You gotta stay on him: he’s the interest, and the women working on him. But mostly the wounded guy.’’
‘‘I was thinking I should help,’’ Coughlin said.
‘‘No,’’ Anna said. ‘‘You can’t think that way if you ride with us. You’re making the movie, not acting in it. You’re an eye.’’
‘‘That’s cold,’’ Coughlin said.
‘‘That’s the way it is,’’ said Anna.
A couple of minutes later, Coughlin took the radio out of his pocket, pushed the transmit button and asked, ‘‘ Anything?’’
He listened, then said to Anna, ‘‘Nothing.’’
Anna got out her phone and started dialing TV stations.
Two kids, motorheads from a valley technical school, were chasing each other down the Ventura, when one lost it and rolled his rebuilt Charger off the freeway and down an embankment. They started that way, but when Anna got an exact location from Louis, she called it off. ‘‘If we get up there, we’re trapped in traffic,’’ she said. ‘‘Not worth the time.’’
‘‘The kid’s dead,’’ Coughlin said.
‘‘Yeah, but we can’t get in and out, and that’s the main thing,’’ Anna said.
A chase started on the Santa Monica, the highway patrol running after a Porsche 928. Anna pointed them down the San Diego as Louis monitored the chase.
‘‘He’s probably gonna have to make a decision when he gets to the San Diego,’’ she said. ‘‘Either north or south. If he comes this way, we might have a shot. A nine twentyeight means there’s some money. Could be a movie tiein . . .’’
But the Porsche went straight on, dropped onto the PCH and suddenly pulled over and gave it up.
Nothing.
Later on, they headed for a truck fire, broke off before they got there. Arrived too late at a shooting incident, found nobody hurt and cops everywhere. Coughlin checked again, and the trailing cars had not spotted anyone tracking them.
‘‘Waste of time,’’ Anna said, pulling on her lower lip. ‘‘We’re wasting time.’’
‘‘Got to be a little patient,’’ Coughlin said.
Very late, they were rolling south on Sepulveda, looking for any movement at all, when Louis said, ‘‘Body found.’’
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘Mmm . . . it’s over a fence. Must be pretty high, because they can see it but they can’t get to it. No address yet.’’
‘‘Okay.’’ Coughlin was concentrating on the driving, Louis worked the radios, and Anna let her mind drift. All evening, she’d felt herself drifting away from the immediacy of the truck; out of it.
The problem was Clark. Were they done? Certainly. Or probably. But all those years ago, when they were working their music together, she playing it, Clark composing; when they were going to concerts together, and clubs, toying with rock & roll; when Clark was putting together the ‘‘Jump Rope Concerto,’’ the first work to bring him notice; in the years they were doing that, she had woven a mental web around them, a cocoon to hold them—and when suddenly it began to come apart, she’d never dealt with it. She’d fantasized, instead, of pulling all the strands back together.
And now she thought, this perfect house she’d built in Venice, with all the homey touches from the Midwest: was this a nest for Clark? Is that where the energy had come from? Because he’d like it. No—he’d love it. She’d been obsessive about it, all the small touches, the quilts, the rag carpets on the wooden floors, the folk art, the pottery.
Was that what she’d been doing? Building for a man who’d engineered a break that had hurt her worse than anything since the death of her mother.
‘‘Bellagio,’’ Louis said.
Anna frowned, missing it. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘The body was found off Bellagio.’’
‘‘Over a fence?’’ she asked, sitting up.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Get an address,’’ she snapped. To Coughlin: ‘‘If it’s over a fence, it could be the Bel Air Country Club. Get up on the freeway, let’s go . . .’’
The body was on the golf course, but so were the cops, and they couldn’t get close. Coughlin edged the truck up to a cop car and the cop said, ‘‘Get the fuck out of here.’’
‘‘Hey, I’m just trying . . .’’
‘‘Didn’t you hear me, dummy? Get the fuck out of here,’’ the cop said. He was young, with a pale, Nordic face, untouched by any apparent emotion other than irritation.
‘‘All right, but I gotta go up there to turn around.’’
‘‘Hey! You ain’t coming through here,’’ the cop said. ‘‘Just back it up.’’
‘‘I can’t back it up.’’
‘‘Back the fuckin’ truck up or I’ll have your ass out here on the street, wise-guy.’’
Coughlin backed the truck up, muttering under his breath, Anna and Louis watched in amusement, and when they finally got turned, Louis said, ‘‘Fuckin’ pigs.’’
Coughlin looked up into the mirror and said, ‘‘I shoulda kicked his ass.’’
‘‘They would have thumped you like a tub of apple juice,’’ Anna said.
Coughlin continued on down the street, paused at the corner, snarled, ‘‘Little fuckin’ Nazi rat.’’ And then: ‘‘You gotta put up with this all the time?’’
‘‘All the time,’’ Anna said. ‘‘The cops see the dish on the roof, and it’s open season.’’
‘‘You cause us a lot of trouble,’’ Coughlin said.
‘‘No, we don’t,’’ Anna said. ‘‘You cause yourself a lot of trouble. Like your little Nazi back there. He could have been polite; instead, he treats us like dirt. So . . . why should we be nice?’’
‘‘Shit.’’ Coughlin put the truck into a driveway, backed up, turned around.
Anna said, ‘‘What’re you doing?’’
‘‘Going back.’’
Louis and Anna sat in silence as Coughlin took the truck back up the road, then slowed as he came up to the cop car blocking access to the body. The young cop saw them coming, put his hands on his hips, shook his head and then jabbed a finger at the curb. Coughlin pulled over and rolled the window down.
‘‘Are you deaf or stupid?’’ the cop asked, looking up at Coughlin.
Coughlin stuck an ID card out the window. ‘‘I’m a sergeant with the Los Angeles Police Department, working an undercover detail, is what I am. And what I feel like doing is coming out there and kicking your ass up around your neck, you little prick,’’ he said. ‘‘But I can’t because I’d be breakin’ cover. So what I’m gonna do instead is, I’m gonna call my buddy down in personnel and see if we can fuck with your records. See if we need anybody directing traffic around sewer projects about sixteen hours a day . . .’’
He went on for a while, while the young cop opened and shut his mouth like a dying fish. Then Coughlin threw the truck into reverse, backed into a drive, and headed out again.
‘‘Feel better?’’ Anna asked.
‘‘Much.’’ Then: ‘‘First time I’ve ever done anything like that.’’
; ‘‘You oughta do it more often,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Good for everybody’s souls.’’
She’d liked him before. Now she liked him better. After a while, she said, ‘‘You might be able to make a living at this.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘Maybe. You got the first part of the attitude.’’
But that was it for the night. The following cars waited at both ends of Dell, watching cars, and for people on foot; Coughlin walked her down to her house, where a light showed in the window. Harper came to the door.
‘‘Anything?’’
‘‘Nothing,’’ Coughlin said.
‘‘All quiet here,’’ Harper said.
Anna said, ‘‘It was absolutely flat. No feeling of anything. I think the guy has backed off.’’
‘‘No. He’s fixed on you. He can’t help himself. He’s hanging around, but he knows we’re here, too. He’ll try to figure something out.’’
‘‘Nobody’ll get in or out of here,’’ Coughlin said. ‘‘We’ve got vans at both ends, night vision gear, the whole works.’’
‘‘Just gotta wait,’’ Harper said.
When Coughlin was gone, Harper asked, ‘‘Do you want something to eat?’’
‘‘I usually have soup, or something light,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Something to get the buzz off.’’
‘‘Got chicken noodle soup in the kitchen,’’ he said. ‘‘Go wash your face; I’ll get it.’’
They sat at the table, eating the soup and soda crackers, and she talked about the night with Coughlin; and as they talked, she felt looser and easier, and suddenly was enjoying herself. The time of the early morning, coming down, had always been one of her favorites; sharing it suddenly seemed to make it even better.
Then Harper said, seriously, ‘‘I’m not very romantic.’’
That had nothing to do with the night. She said, cautiously, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘I don’t know how to talk about this—I didn’t know how to talk about it with my wife, but I . . .’’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘‘I sort of . . . hunger for you.’’
‘‘We could probably think of a way to take the edge off,’’ she said, lightly, instinctively deflecting him.
‘‘I’m not talking about sex; or I am, but not only sex,’’ he said. He looked around the kitchen. ‘‘I’m just, right now, eating soup, having the best time I’ve had in fifteen years. And I just don’t want it to stop.’’
‘‘That’s pretty romantic,’’ she said. He flushed, and then she did, sitting with the soup, and then Harper said, ‘‘Eat your soup.’’
‘‘I am.’’ ‘‘Well, hurry.’’
Before she went to sleep, Harper a weighty lump on the other side of the bed, Anna was suddenly suffused with a sense of sadness and fear: she’d missed this, but she was also afraid of it. Afraid that it would end; afraid that it wouldn’t end. Afraid that she could lose control.
Harper got up in the morning. Anna made a few noises at him as he crept out of the bedroom, then went back to sleep. The phone rang just after one, and she crawled across the bed to pick it up.
Creek. ‘‘How’d it go last night?’’
‘‘Okay,’’ she said. ‘‘You don’t have to hurry and heal up anymore. This cop is a great cameraman.’’ There was a second of silence and she said, ‘‘Jesus, Creek, that was a joke.’’
‘‘Pretty fuckin’ funny,’’ he said.
‘‘God, you get shot a little and people start having to be sensitive around you . . . what’re you doing?’’
Another second of silence. ‘‘I was thinking about Clark again. And if you say he’s not the guy, then I believe you ninety-nine percent: I’m serious. But since we’ve got people being killed, you’ve gotta check the other one percent.’’
‘‘I’m not talking to the cops about Clark,’’ she said.
‘‘I understand that,’’ he said. ‘‘You’ve got to get Harper to check—Pam will help. She’s got a badge, Harper’s a lawyer, they could find out all kinds of stuff. And it’d all be in the family that way.’’
She thought about it for a few seconds, then said, ‘‘He didn’t do it.’’
‘‘I believe you,’’ he said. ‘‘But.’’
‘‘I’ll talk to Jake,’’ she said.
• • •
270 john sandford
Harper was on the tiny strip of canal-side lawn with a golf club, making slow-motion swings. Anna looked out over the sink, saw him, and when he turned, waved, and he twirled the club like a baton and headed for the door.
‘‘Morning,’’ he said. ‘‘Or good afternoon.’’
‘‘Want to run?’’ she asked.
‘‘Love to, but I’d probably have a heart attack,’’ he said.
‘‘Well, I’m gonna go down to the beach and run.’’
‘‘No, you’re not,’’ he said.
‘‘I am, too.’’
‘‘No.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘If I’ve got to run you down— and I could—and carry you back to the house, I will. You’re not going to run on the beach. I couldn’t keep up with you, and that’s something he may have been watching you do. If you want to run someplace else, I’ll take you there.’’
She put her hands on her hips: ‘‘Now you’re messing with me.’’
‘‘Damn right,’’ he said. ‘‘What do you want for breakfast?’’
She ran on the beach, but not on Venice Beach. Harper drove her to Santa Monica, parked on the bluff across from an art deco hotel, and they walked down an access stairway, across the highway, and onto the beach a few hundred yards from where Jason had been found.
‘‘I didn’t see any cops following,’’ Anna said.
‘‘That’s good,’’ Harper said. ‘‘But they’re there.’’
She ran most of a mile north, turned, ran back past him to the pier, then back. The beach was nearly empty, and Harper could see her all the way; and she could see everyone around her.
‘‘Not the same,’’ she said, when she got back. She was barely breathing hard. ‘‘I felt like I was wearing a leash.’’
‘‘Gonna have to do for a while,’’ he said. He mussed her hair, kissed her on the lips, and put her in the car. The feeling of being on a leash had been unpleasant; the feeling of being squired about was not. ‘‘We’re not trying to run your life,’’ Harper said. ‘‘We’re just taking care for a few more days.’’
‘‘Did you think about Clark?’’ she asked. She’d told him about Creek’s phone call.
‘‘I’ll talk to Pam—there are a few checks we could get done right away, through the cops, without talking to Wyatt. See if he had any problems with the police back east. I can get credit reports, see if I can find a guy to look around Harvard.’’
‘‘That’ll take forever.’’
‘‘Not with computers—we’ll have most of the paper in an hour or two,’’ he said. ‘‘Getting a guy to look around
Harvard—we could hear something tomorrow, if I can find the right guy.’’
‘‘I don’t want him to know about it,’’ Anna said.
‘‘He won’t feel a thing,’’ Harper said.
‘‘Still . . . Ah, God.’’
‘‘Up to you.’’
On the way back, she decided: ‘‘Go ahead with the calls on Clark—but you know what? I want to see him. Let’s see if we can find him.’’
‘‘Today? We oughta get some paper on him first.’’
‘‘So you said it’d take a couple of hours; so do it. We’ll go look at him tonight.’’
‘‘What about going out with Coughlin?’’
‘‘I’m thinking about putting him off. He’s a good guy, but I don’t think it’s gonna work . . .’’
‘‘Wyatt seems to . . .’’
‘‘Maybe Wyatt’s not thinking about him as much as I am,’’ Anna said. ‘‘If you put yourself in his shoes, why would he follow me on the job? There’re cops everywhere I go. There are two guys with me, everywhe
re I go. I’d more expect him to try my place, or your place. Follow us when we’re alone, like at the driving range.’’
‘‘Or at the beach, this morning.’’
‘‘Except that we’ve got escorts,’’ she said. ‘‘Unless . . .’’
‘‘Unless what?’’
‘‘Unless he’s lost interest. I just can’t understand this thing, why he’d be so interested in me.’’
Harper looked at her. ‘‘You don’t understand because your mind isn’t fucked, and his is. Maybe he’s still got enough control to lay back, just long enough to loosen you up, and get you thinking that you can go out on your own again. And when you do, he’ll be there.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ The thought scared her, but the fear wasn’t blinding.
Because when he found her—she’d have found him.
twenty-four
Anna called Wyatt to tell him that she wouldn’t be going out with Coughlin that night. Wyatt wasn’t in, but she left a voice-mail, and added that she’d be at the hospital visiting Creek. Pam Glass was already at the hospital, and Anna called to ask her about an FBI check on Clark.
‘‘I could do it in a few minutes, from here; I’d need his full name and date of birth,’’ she said.
Anna gave her the information. ‘‘Get it as quick as you can. I’m coming down to see Creek.’’
‘‘I’ll have it by the time you get here,’’ Glass said. ‘‘We have a new room, by the way.’’
Anna took the new room number, and when she got off the line, Harper asked, ‘‘Do you think you’ll be okay on your own? You’ve got the escort out there.’’
‘‘I’ll be fine,’’ she said. ‘‘Where’re you going?’’
‘‘I’ve gotta make it down to the office, sign some paychecks. Make some calls back to Boston.’’
‘‘Remember . . .’’
‘‘Yeah. I’ll go easy.’’
Anna never saw her shadow on the way to the hospital. She knew they were there, because she’d called to tell them she was leaving. Which car they were, or van or truck, she could never decide. Inside the hospital ramp, she saw no one: but she kept her hand on the pistol in her jacket pocket as she walked to the entrance.
The Night Crew Page 25
