L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  David nodded, knowing it was too late. Whoever had taken Chris was already gone.

  “We’ll find him, Davey.”

  Neither of them commented on the obvious. They’d find him, yes. But would he be alive?

  The lights of the airport appeared off to the right. David swung onto World Way and let the siren and lights get him through the traffic.

  David braked to a stop in front of the entrance where he had dropped Chris not four hours before. Martinez pulled in behind him. Both sirens wound down. The lights were still flashing, bathing startled pedestrians with a crimson glow.

  They met on the concourse.

  An airport security officer approached them.

  “Sir?” The security officer flashed a nervous smile and David thought he was going to salute. Instead he fidgeted with his belt.

  “We’ve canvassed the area and no one reports seeing anyone matching the description of either person you’re seeking. Do you want us to continue?”

  “Did Chris Bellamere take his flight to Denver?”

  “No sir, he did not.”

  “Then keep looking, but I suspect the two have already fled the area.”

  “We do have a videotape of the main concourse, the area both of them would have had to cross to reach the Encounter.”

  David and Martinez traded glances. “Video? Show us.”

  The senior security officer, Norm Drover, was a dour, pot-bellied man in his late fifties with a thatch of graying hair combed over his bald dome and suspicious eyes that glinted at the world from behind a pair of glasses. He nodded curtly at David and Martinez.

  “We’ve isolated the video loops for the time and area in question.”

  Norm pulled out a chair on casters and indicated to the two detectives to take chairs nearby. Only Martinez accepted his offer. David crowded close to the screen, studying each passing figure with intensity. He had no trouble recognizing Chris when he entered the concourse and moved down the corridor. He was alone.

  “There,” Norm said. “He enters the elevator that would take him up to the restaurant.

  One of my men recovered a BlackBerry, a laptop case, and an envelope from his table.”

  “Envelope?”

  “Yes, from a DataTEK Systems. It was empty. Everything was secured into evidence by an officer from the LAPD.”

  David frowned. “Who would have brought an envelope from his work? It would have to be someone he worked with.”

  “Manager of the Encounter says he was in there less than half an hour before his friend helped him out of the place,” Norm said.

  “Did he appear drunk when he arrived?”

  “No, the waiter claimed he seemed sober.”

  “Yet thirty minutes later he’s supposed to be roaring drunk?” David felt his temper rising. He barely felt Martinez’s hand on his arm.

  Norm shrugged. “Drunks are a funny thing. Look sober one minute, falling down stupid the next. He figured he’d come in just under his limit. Said if he’d been female he might have wondered—but who expects a man to be drugged?”

  David knew what he said was true, but he hated that after everything that had happened, it had been that easy to take Chris. Someone should have been watching.

  Someone like him.

  “Hold on,” Norm said. “We think this is him.”

  Another figure entered the same elevator Chris had gone up in moments before. All David could see was his back.

  “No one else goes into the elevator. If we fast-forward this...” Norm did just that. “Is that Bellamere?”

  Two figures emerged from the elevator this time. It was obvious one was supporting the other. Again, David had no trouble recognizing Chris, though his head was hanging down. He stumbled as he walked. Norm froze the image just before they walked off screen.

  David also has no trouble recognizing the second man, carrying Chris’s luggage.

  “Tom Clarke.”

  Monday, 12:10 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains Chris ran. The stairs were covered with thin carpeting that gave his bare feet purchase.

  He hit the door at the top with his shoulder and it flew open, nearly dumping him onto the tiled kitchen floor. He skidded past a massive refrigerator and barely avoided colliding with the counter beyond it.

  His side ached and hot blood welled out of myriad small cuts. He blinked away stinging blood as it dripped down his face, mingling with his tears. He ran, heedless of where, aware of only one thing. Death followed him.

  His bare feet gave him one advantage. He ran silently. Behind him, he could hear Tom blundering up the stairs, the solid soles of his dress shoes pounding noisily on the risers. His breathing was labored, and pain-filled.

  Chris felt a hot satisfaction at the damage he had done. He only wished he could have done more.

  Right now he had a more pressing issue. He had to get outside.

  He eased through the doorway, trying not to knock anything over or crash into things.

  A thin light bled in through the open windows. The light had an odd color; at first he thought it was some kind of streetlight, but then he realized it was the moon. He caught a glimpse of it though the nearest window. It was nearly full. He could even make out some stars casting their own light.

  He had no idea where he was. They were beyond the veil of light Los Angeles normally spilled into the night sky, drowning out all but the most persistent stars. How far from the city had they driven? What chance would anyone have of finding him?

  The living room was filled with shadow and light. Dark shapes loomed—a floor lamp, a high-backed sofa, a big-screen TV. Deeper in the shadow, a matching high-backed chair faced the TV. Beside it was an end table. Light glinted off something plastic. A phone.

  He grabbed the phone, knocked the end table with his hand, and lunged to catch it before everything fell. He plastered the receiver to his ear, feeling for buttons to dial 911.

  It was dead.

  He tapped the button in the cradle to get a dial tone. Nothing. Damn.

  Footsteps in the kitchen. Softer now. More focused. Tom was trying to sneak up on him. He swung around the high-backed chair, crying out in surprise when he tripped over something. He fell sideways, and his hands were engulfed in cold stickiness. The smell of blood overwhelmed his senses.

  He raised his head and stared into the sightless eyes of Saul Ruben, DataTEK’s CFO.

  Cold moonlight shone on pale flesh, starkly illuminating the dark, fingernail-sized hole in the center of his forehead.

  Tom really had taken care of his problem.

  Monday, 12:20 am, Los Angeles International Airport David reached up to touch the frozen video image. His fingers tracked across the cool screen, sliding over the grainy image of his lover. Icy fear slipped through his reserve.

  Martinez was already on his cell. Vaguely, David heard him snapping at someone on the other end. Then he broke the connection and punched in another number, and a new argument started.

  “...employee records, Mr. McGill. I want this Clarke’s address. No, not tomorrow.

  Now. Then find someone who can get them. Who lives closest? Rebecca? Who the hell is Rebecca—”

  David touched his arm. “I’ve got her.” He entered her number on his cell while Martinez continued to argue with Petey.

  David held his breath when the line started ringing at the other end. He barely let it out when a sleepy female voice answered.

  “Yeah? Who’s this?”

  “Rebecca Chapman?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Detective David Laine. We met a few days ago—”

  “I remember.” Becky’s voice grew stronger and more pissed off. “What the hell is this about? Why are you calling me at... nearly one o’clock in the morning?”

  “We’re on the other line with your boss, Peter McGill. He tells me you’re the closest to the DataTEK offices. We need you to go in and look up an address for us.”

  “An address? Now you’re confusi
ng me. Whose address could you possibly need at this time of night? Who are you hassling now—”

  “This is important, Ms. Chapman. I can’t go into details, but it involves Chris.”

  “Chris? How—”

  “We need Tom Clarke’s address. Don’t argue, Ms. Chapman. Not now.”

  “Tom’s address?”

  “I need you to go into DataTEK. This is Chris’s life, Ms. Chapman. I’m serious.”

  From the other end of the line he heard a male voice and Becky’s muffled response.

  Then Becky came back on. “I don’t have to go in. I can log on from here. Hold on, let me get to my laptop.”

  “Calling DMV,” Martinez said. “I’ll find what they have on this Tom Clarke.”

  Becky came back on. “Okay, I’m dressed. You want to tell me what I’m looking for?

  Just what the hell has this got to do with Chris?”

  “He’s in... trouble,” David said. “I can’t really tell you any more than that. Not now.

  But we need to locate this Clarke guy.”

  Becky still sounded more confused than alarmed, which suited David just fine. Panic wouldn’t help Chris right now.

  “Okay, I’m logged on. It’ll take me a couple of minutes to find the right HR

  records—damn, that means another password...Wait. Jesus, am I dumb or what? Chris left all that information.”

  “What do you mean? What did Chris leave?” Had he suspected Tom Clarke? But no, if he had, he would have said something to deflect suspicion from Trevor. “What is it, Ms.

  Chapman?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, call me Becky. Chris knew there was something flaky about Tom getting hired. He didn’t have the experience or the knowledge. Chris found out the guy’s uncle is DataTEK’s CFO and Clarke’s father is a major stockholder. So he ran down some information on both of them. Not that it would do any good, no matter what he found out. No way Petey’s going to fire someone with that kind of clout.”

  “Would Tom have known about this?”

  “He might have. Chris made no bones about not liking the guy. We all knew he was a phony.”

  “Who’s the uncle?”

  Silence. “Geez, you’d think I’d remember...Ruben. Paul, no, Saul Ruben.”

  “Check DMV on a Saul Ruben, too,” David said to Martinez. “See what they got on him.” To Becky, “Find me an address on this guy. Please.”

  “He lives in Brentwood,” she said and rattled off an address in the upscale side of town. “Pretty snazzy for someone just out of school.”

  David thought of Tom Clarke, who had to be on the other side of thirty. “He’s a little old to be just graduating, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe he needed uncle’s help getting into school. Hmm, this is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Chris really did some digging for just idle curiosity. The man’s good. Looks like Ruben’s got two places, one in Beverly Hills and another one up in Topanga Canyon. I always wanted a place out there. So rustic, you can hear the grass grow.”

  David and Martinez had always figured the doer had a hiding hole he took his victims to. Someplace isolated. In L.A. it didn’t get much more isolated than Topanga Canyon.

  The entire area northwest of Los Angeles—a rugged, series of winding canyons that had resisted development for years—was riddled with barely traveled roads that at certain times of the year you needed an SUV to traverse. Was Saul Ruben’s place on one of those?

  “What can you tell me about the place in Topanga? Any information at all?”

  “Just an address—Blackridge Road.”

  David took it, thanked her and hung up, glad he hadn’t had to reveal just how much danger Chris was in. He clutched the notebook with the two addresses and caught Martinez’s eye.

  “Let’s move.”

  “I’ll check out his home address,” Martinez said as they hurried through the concourse. “And call in some backup to meet me there.”

  “Think you can rustle up some warrants?”

  “No es problema, we got more than enough juice.” Martinez’s eyes narrowed. “You got something in mind?”

  “I want to check out the uncle’s place. Get anything on him through DMV?”

  “Address, phone, he’s got two vehicles registered to him. A BMW 330Ci coupe and a Ford Explorer—”

  “Let’s roll,” David said. Martinez eyed him circumspectly. “Go nail this bastard, partner.”

  “Let’s roll together,” Martinez said. “This is no time for heroics, partner.”

  “Nothing heroic about talking to a man’s uncle. We’re not talking crime family here.

  I just need to know if Tommy’s been keeping time with uncle lately. See if he’s noticed anything hinky. I’ll alert the sheriff’s people I’m coming. They can meet me there.”

  “Keep me in the loop. Tight. You’re in enough trouble without doing something really stupid.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” David slapped the hood of his Chevy and unlocked the driver’s side door. “Let’s go.”

  He peeled out, the bubble light and siren on again to clear the way. Behind him he watched Martinez scramble to get into his own car and play catch-up. Flipping open his cell phone he dialed the Blackridge Road number first. No answer. Then he dialed the Rubens’ Beverly Hills number.

  A woman answered his call. Her voice was sharp and abrupt.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this the Ruben residence? Saul Ruben?”

  “Yes, it is. Who is this?”

  “This is Detective David Eric Laine, with the Los Angeles Police—”

  “Oh dear God, did you find him?” The voice no longer sounded sharp. Now it sounded scared.

  “Find who, ma’am?”

  “My husband, Saul Ruben. We had a dinner appointment with friends but he never showed up. That’s not like Saul—”

  “Ma’am, did he say where he was going?”

  “Yes.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “To our place up in the canyon. One of our neighbors up there told him he’d seen someone on the property recently. He wanted to check and see if anyone had broken in...We’ve had break-ins before, you know.

  That place is so isolated.”

  “What time was this, ma’am?”

  “He left here about one-thirty this afternoon.” Her voice rose in fear again. “That’s nearly twelve hours. I’ve called but all I get is voice mail. He would have called by now, I know he would have. Saul never just goes off—”

  “Ma’am, I’m heading up that way. Would you like me to check out your place? I could look and see if anyone has been by the premises lately, maybe check with that neighbor.”

  She gave him the neighbor’s address and phone number, someone named Chickie.

  David thanked her and hung up. He tried Chickie’s number. No one home. He drove north as fast as he could, his mind racing along with the car. Could Ruben have met up with Tom earlier today? Tom was clearly decompensating—no longer covering his tracks, no longer showing the care he took before to hide his actions. Did he know that he was at the end of his reign of terror and was setting it up to go out with one final, hated victim?

  Chris didn’t fit the profile of his normal victims—the others were all dark-haired and butch—so David knew this one was personal.

  Personal and up close.

  His last call was to the sheriff’s substation—only to be told a gas tanker had gone off the road in Malibu. The road was impassable and all units were tied up. Someone would be sent out to Blackridge as soon as a unit was available.

  David snapped, “They better. This is urgent.”

  “So is a major fire in Malibu, sir,” the dispatcher said coolly before disconnecting.

  David jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The car lurched forward as the engine roared.

  Well, he could make it personal too.

  Monday, 1:20 am, Fernwood Pacific Drive, Santa Monica Mountains Topanga Canyon Road was a civilize
d stretch of paved roadway that cut a path from Pacific Coast Highway to the San Fernando Valley. Fernwood Pacific Drive, on the other hand was largely a series of switchbacks. Mud and rock slides frequently shut the road down even to SUVs.

  Fortunately there hadn’t been any rain for nearly seven months, and the road was dry and clear.

  Except for the odd house light still burning at the end of half-hidden driveways, everything lay shrouded in darkness. House numbers were often obscured by bracken fern and scrub oak. He was glad for the thick vegetation around—it muffled his approach.

  He crawled along, taking the switchbacks with caution, since an approaching car might easily catch them both unaware. He turned on the high beams, trying to see a few feet farther down the winding road. Then he saw his turnoff ahead and turned into Blackridge Road.

  The engine labored as he ascended the unpaved road. A flash of color marked another roadside house number. He slammed on the brakes and skidded sideways, canting his high beams into a thicket of heavy brush.

  The driveway was nearly as hidden as the wooden sign painted with something reflective. Saul Ruben must like his privacy. David turned on his overhead light long enough to double-check the number Ruben’s wife had given him, then he backed up.

  Flipping off his high beams he swung the nose of the Chevy down what was little more than a goat path, hemmed in by more bracken and thick, dust-choked brush. Farther in, the trunks of sycamores and live oaks danced furtively in his headlights.

  The track switched back and forth past dense undergrowth thick with tree trunks.

  David wished he could turn his lights off but knew he’d be off the road in two seconds if he tried. He just had to hope no one in the house was watching.

  If anyone was in the house.

  If he was wrong about Tom bringing Chris here, then Chris was dead. He had no other means of guessing where Tom might have stashed his victims. He thought of calling the sheriff again, but didn’t feel like dealing with the officious prick.

  He edged past a border of untrimmed boxwood. Something glinted in his headlights and he made out the bumper of a car. A dark BMW was parked behind a light-colored Explorer. In the wan light it was hard to tell, but David knew without looking closer that the SUV was yellow.