The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  It hung there for a while. Matt guessed that Grubb had shot another load of smack and was in the twilight of his high.

  “Let me help you, Grubb. Tell me what you wanna do.”

  “I want to meet in a place where I’ll feel safe, Jones.”

  “I can think of a dozen places right now. How ’bout the station?”

  “No way, man. No fucking way.” He took a shallow breath and exhaled. “I’ll find the place. I’ll find it and call you in the morning. We’ll meet in the afternoon.”

  “You sure you want to wait that long?”

  “Tomorrow, Jones,” he said. “You and me. Tomorrow afternoon.”

  The phone went dead. Matt checked the caller ID and read the words UNKNOWN CALLER.

  He returned the phone to its charging base, took a long swig of vodka, and started pacing through the living room again.

  His brain was all hopped up, his stomach on fire and churning. No way was he ready to fall asleep and take another meeting with the Grim Reaper.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Matt entered the station using the back door off the lot and headed straight for the conference room. It was early, 6:00 a.m., and he was loaded with goods from his favorite street vendor—a tall cup of piping-hot coffee and a poppy seed bagel toasted over charcoal with lox and cream cheese.

  He set his laptop down on the table. While he waited for the machine to boot, he pulled a file from his laptop case and spread the papers out beside his pad and pen so that he could read them at a glance.

  Matt had managed to get four hours of deep, dreamless sleep last night, which he was more than grateful for. But before all that, with a bit of luck and good timing, he’d also managed to get something done. He’d called back Burton with the news that Grubb wanted to come in, then spent another hour briefing Cabrera and Lieutenant McKensie on everything that had happened since he’d walked out of the station yesterday and decided to take the long way home. Everyone seemed to agree that even if the case wasn’t breaking their way just yet, it had taken on direction.

  But Matt had done something even more last night. Working with Jimmy Kim, their contact at the phone company, and Keith Upshaw, a friend of David Speeks in the Computer Crime Section, they had been able to trace Lane Grubb’s call to Matt’s house. When Matt entered the number associated with the unknown caller, the message service for Yellow Brick Leasing came online. The recording stated that the office was closed until tomorrow morning and directed the caller to the company’s automated message system.

  Yellow Brick.

  Matt typed the words into a search engine on his laptop and hit “Enter.” A long list of irrelevant entries appeared on the screen that included the song by Elton John, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” T-shirts on eBay from the farewell concert of the same name, images from the movie The Wizard of Oz, long lists of novels and self-help books that appeared contrived and were written by people Matt had never heard of, a gardening center in Atlanta that had painted its bricks yellow and held a sale two years ago, and finally, on page five at the very end of the compilation, Matt learned that a warehouse had been available for sale or lease six years ago in a town fifteen miles south of Birmingham, Alabama, on Yellow Brick Road.

  Matt thought it over as he took a first bite out of the bagel and sipped his hot coffee.

  He went back to the search window and revised his entry.

  Yellow Brick Leasing.

  When the new list rendered on the screen, Matt could tell at a glance that almost nothing had changed. The leasing company hadn’t made the list this time either, even though the six-year-old entry for the warehouse in Alabama had. It seemed more than just strange.

  He took another sip of coffee thinking about Geeks, then killed the thought as quickly as he could. Returning to the search window, he made a slight revision and hit “Enter.”

  Yellow Brick LLC.

  A long moment passed as Matt eyeballed the first two entries on a completely new list. He rolled his chair closer to the table. It felt like maybe he’d just hit pay dirt.

  Yellow Brick Leasing was here, but it appeared to be overseen by a parent company, the Yellow Brick Legacy Group LLC. And while it looked like they kept a small office on Wilshire Boulevard, they weren’t really involved in leasing houses or luxury cars. Yellow Brick was a family of hedge funds, the corporation headquartered on Wall Street.

  Pay dirt.

  Cabrera walked in, carrying his briefcase and a bag from a fast-food restaurant.

  “Did Grubb check in yet?” he asked.

  Matt shook his head. “He sounded pretty high last night. I’m thinking lunchtime, if we hear from him at all.” He watched Cabrera yawn and set his things down on the table. “When you ran Sonny Daniels’s plate and got his license, did they email any images?”

  Cabrera pulled a file out of his briefcase. “I’ve got all three,” he said. “I made a hard copy. What do you need?”

  “I just want to know when their licenses were issued.”

  Cabrera leafed through his file and pulled a sheet of paper out. Rolling a chair over, he sat down and compared the dates on all three driver’s licenses.

  “You might be on to something, Matt. These were issued three years ago. On the same day, three years ago.”

  “Then they really aren’t from LA.”

  “But where are they from?”

  Matt turned back to his laptop. “New York,” he said. “Wall Street. Give me a minute.”

  “Wall Street?”

  Matt clicked the link on the search engine’s list and opened the Yellow Brick Legacy Group’s home page. After locating the site map at the bottom of the screen, he found a link called “About Us” and clicked through a series of pages until he hit the list of corporate officers.

  More pay dirt.

  All three of them were there. Lane Grubb, Ryan Moore, and Sonny Daniels.

  Wall Streeters. A hedge fund company.

  Matt couldn’t believe what he was reading in their biographies. When he hit a link to the Wall Street Journal, he clicked it and an article about the three partners appeared from the business section. Matt checked the date and found that the piece had been written last year to celebrate Yellow Brick’s ten-year anniversary on Wall Street. According to the journalist, the three partners had known each other since meeting at a prep school in Greenwich, Connecticut, and had become known in the world of high finance as the Brothers Grimm. They began as corporate raiders, had a reputation for being ruthless, and had made their fortunes before they were thirty. Four years later they started their first hedge fund under the name Yellow Brick Legacy Group LLC and never looked back.

  Matt turned to his partner and pointed at the screen. “Look,” he said. “Look how complicated things just got.”

  Matt went back to the keyboard and typed Sonny Daniels’s name in the search window. When the list assembled, he spotted an article from the New York Daily News and hoped that it would be even more telling.

  The headline above photographs of all three partners read THE BROTHERS GRIMM, along with the subheading, THESE THREE IDIOTS DON'T PAY TAXES.

  Matt moved over so that Cabrera could read the article as well. From the first sentence to the last, the biography of the Brothers Grimm was a detailed portrait about greed. All three were rich, private school, country club types with chips on their shoulders. All three were spoiled brats. None of them had ever served in the military. None of the three could ever remember voting, and their tax returns obtained by the newspaper’s legal department revealed that none of them had ever given a dime to a charitable cause. According to the journalist who interviewed them, not one of the three felt any sense of responsibility to their country, their community, or anyone other than themselves. The world was their oyster, they kept telling the writer. It was all about how much money they were making and how much fun they were having as they grabbed more and more cash out of other people’s hands.

  Cabrera stopped reading. “They’re shithead
s,” he said in a quiet voice. “All three of them are shitheads. They think it’s a game.”

  Matt pushed his coffee aside and sat back in his chair. “To them it probably is. And that might explain why they seemed so naive when we met them. They had no immediate sense of danger, remember? No street smarts. No wisdom because they’ve never had to fight for anything. It also explains why Dee Colon wants in. The Brothers Grimm. She knew who they were from the beginning.”

  “But what could they possibly be doing out here?”

  Matt nodded. “You mean, what are they doing in that factory? And what is Grubb afraid of? Why doesn’t he want to just meet here?”

  “That’s easy. You said it yourself. Robert Gambini beat him up last night.”

  “That may be part of it, but I think it’s these guys. Sonny Daniels, Ryan Moore, and now, Dee Colon. No way they’d want Grubb to talk to us. Not if they’ve got something going.”

  Cabrera tossed it over. “Has it occurred to you that their interest in Robert Gambini might have nothing to do with the illegal side of his business?”

  “I think we’re on the same page but keep going.”

  Cabrera glanced at the Daily News article on the laptop, then turned back. “After reading this, I can’t see why three rich assholes from Wall Street would have any interest in opening up shop here in LA just to wean users off oxycodone with high-grade smack. They’re already rich. Why would they take a risk like that?”

  “Because they think they’re smarter than everybody else,” Matt said. “Because like we said before, life’s a game and they think they can win every time. They think they’re invincible. Let’s face it, even the rich want to get richer. If you’ve got two million in the bank, you’re gonna want ten, right?”

  “But I’m guessing they’ve got more than that,” Cabrera said. “Probably too much to count. That’s why it still doesn’t make sense.”

  Matt thought about it as he got up and walked over to the window. He could see McKensie walking into his office with Mitch Burton. The group waiting for Grubb’s call had begun to assemble. Matt turned back to his partner.

  “I can think of one way that it might work,” he said.

  “How?”

  “What if they were trying to steal away Robert Gambini’s license to sell weed? If they were going after his pot shops, if that’s what they really wanted, then it would make a lot of sense.”

  Cabrera gave him a long look. “He’s got pot shops all over LA, Matt.”

  “And in San Diego, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. And don’t forget about Vegas and Colorado. See what I mean? He’s got an MBA in business. When the rest of the country goes legal, he’s got the infrastructure to be the one on top. The next Marlboro Man. The next Reefer Man. Who wouldn’t want to steal that?”

  A moment passed as a new reality settled into the room. Cabrera tossed his pen on the table.

  “I see it,” he said finally. “Making money with no risks. So what if a couple of people get murdered along the way. That’s the price of doing big business, right?”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  They had spent most of the day in McKensie’s office. Burton had brought his work with him and had set himself up at the table by the window. Matt and Cabrera used the time to update their reports and enter everything into the Chronological Record. It was almost three, and Grubb still hadn’t called.

  McKensie glanced at his watch, then turned to Matt. “What if the only number he’s got is the landline to your house?”

  “It’s call-forwarded to my cell. So is the phone on my desk.”

  Matt turned back to his laptop as he chewed it over. The truth was that he’d become worried about Grubb. Worried that Sonny or even Colon had gotten to him.

  He let the thought go. He could smell someone brewing a fresh pot of coffee on the bureau floor and left the room to fill his office mug. Everybody seemed to be on pins and needles, even the guys at the homicide table not working the case. There was an edge to the entire day. Something in the air that had spread through the station. He took a quick sip of the fresh brew and started to head back to McKensie’s office. But before he reached the door, his cell started vibrating in his pocket.

  Matt hurried into the room and pulled out the phone. The words UNKNOWN CALLER were blinking on the face. Matt shot Burton a look, then Cabrera and McKensie. As he took the call, he switched on the speaker so everyone could listen.

  “This is Jones,” he said.

  The caller didn’t reply, but judging from the din in the background, he hadn’t ditched the call and was still there.

  “This is Matt Jones,” he repeated. “Is that you, Grubb?”

  Matt could feel the others moving closer. The lack of a response was excruciating.

  “If it is you, Grubb, if you still want out, I can help you. I can keep you safe.”

  “Safe?” Grubb said in a shrill voice. “They’re following me.”

  “Who’s following you?”

  “All of them.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Grubb didn’t answer the question. Matt lowered his voice.

  “Are you stoned?”

  Grubb sighed. “Maybe a little.”

  “Did you find a place to meet? A safe place to meet?”

  “I think so.”

  Cabrera pulled out a pad and pen, ready to write down the address.

  “Tell me where you’d like to meet,” Matt said.

  “It’s a new café. It used to be called Café Pinot.”

  Matt knew the place. “On the corner of Fifth Street and Flower.”

  “Yeah,” Grubb said. “That’s it. On the corner by the park.”

  “That’s a great place, Grubb. You couldn’t have picked a better place. It’s an open space.”

  Grubb didn’t say anything for a while, then—

  “I thought so, too. I need to be safe.”

  “Do you have a piece of paper handy? Can you write something down for me?”

  “I guess so.”

  “We need an alternate location,” Matt said.

  “Why?”

  “Just in case you get to the café and change your mind. There are a hundred reasons why you might change your mind, Grubb. We need another place to go just in case you do. A place that’s safe.”

  Another stretch of silence went by. “I guess that makes sense. Where’s the second location?”

  “Another restaurant not very far away. The Red Dragon. It’s in Chinatown on Bamboo Lane.”

  “I know the place,” Grubb said. “I like that place. It’s quiet.”

  “If you walk into the café and change your mind, you’ll head straight for the Red Dragon, right? There’s a private dining room in the back. Everybody knows me there. Tell them you’re waiting for me, and they’ll take good care of you.”

  “It’s just me and you, right, Jones? You’re coming alone.”

  “It’s just us, Grubb. It’s just me and you. Now what time do you wanna meet?”

  “In an hour and a half,” Grubb said. “Four thirty. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  The phone went dead. Everybody looked at each other. But it was McKensie who seemed the most concerned.

  “The sun goes down at four thirty,” he said. “It’ll be dark. And the park’s filled with homeless people. Any chance this is a trap?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The café was nestled on the corner of Fifth Street and Flower in Maguire Gardens, an urban park surrounding the Central Library in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. The park featured numerous fountains, open lawns, and walkways lined with benches and low walls meant for additional seating. On the downside, McKensie had been right. In recent years the park had become a magnet for the homeless.

  Matt let the thought go as he stepped off the sidewalk. Although he appeared to arrive alone and sat down on the wall in front of the café’s entrance on Fifth Street, he was wired for sound and had an audience. Cabrera was watching with three members from the Special
Investigation Section hidden in a converted taco truck parked across the street. Patrol units were out of sight and stationed around the corner on Flower. Both Fifth Street and Flower were one-way thoroughfares, four lanes wide. Lieutenant McKensie, along with a handful of detectives, were spread out on both streets in SUVs. In the park, ten more detectives dressed in plain clothes filled in the landscape. And in the café itself, Deputy DA Burton, along with two detectives borrowed from the Cold Case Unit, had a table by the windows and a front-row seat.

  Matt adjusted the wire behind his shirt and checked the time. Even though he was ten minutes early, the sun had begun to set, and he could feel a chill in the air. He glanced at the taco truck, then at the heavy traffic on the streets. Grubb had picked an open place, but because of the time of day, because of the crowds of people exiting the buildings and filling the sidewalks, the setup seemed awkward and made Matt feel uneasy.

  He took a deep breath and tried to focus, sifting through the sea of faces walking toward him and away. He glanced at the people in the park behind him, then at Burton with the two detectives inside the café. As his gaze moved down Fifth Street, he turned to his left and spotted Grubb walking south on Flower. He got to his feet and started down the steps to the sidewalk. Grubb looked up and nodded from a half block off as he reached the intersection and waited for the light to change.

  And then Matt saw it.

  The black Mercedes coupe, hidden in the gloom revving its engine on Flower another half block behind Grubb.

  The light turned. When Grubb stepped off the sidewalk, the black coupe lurched forward and accelerated through the heavy traffic. Matt didn’t need an interpreter to realize what was happening. He burst forward and ran toward the intersection, waving at Grubb and shouting at him to turn back. He could see the Mercedes bulldozing cars out of its way.

  Horns started sounding, and then all the sirens—the loud, piercing noise echoing off the tall buildings and coming from everywhere at the same time.

  Grubb seemed confused by the chaos and didn’t appear to understand that he was in danger.