They’ll run you up and down the circuit like a goddamn rodeo pony.
“Just in state?” I prodded.
“And possibly elsewhere,” he added with reluctance.
We had turned off the main road and were driving through more agriculture, vineyards and artichokes and lettuce, high, parched hills rising in the distance. Impossible to ever guess that a twenty-mile drive would bring us to the Pacific’s shores. I thought of the first explorers crossing the vast continent, struggling over mountains, sunburned, frozen, bug-bit, malnourished, beaten down by a thousand hardships. Reaching this point, could they have suspected that the end to their journey was so close?
The sun had declined to just above the hills and the sky had purpled. The suspension of the Mercedes wasn’t tuned to make us feel the road, alive and exciting underneath. It was a hovercraft. A confident, Bavarian, fist-in-velvet message that the dangerous excitement of the world could be mastered, tamed, held at bay.
“Why did you guys really take Coombs?” I asked.
Albert’s knuckles were tight on the wheel. “I don’t know. They never involve me in those decisions.”
“You’re an accountant.”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed as if I had just exonerated him. “I’m an accountant. That is all I know.”
“You’re the accountant, and there was money involved. A lot of money. Of course you know about Coombs.”
I was getting used to Albert’s squirming, slippery style. Deny, deny, deny, then admit the minimum and deny again. I felt like a prosecutor grilling a subpoenaed witness.
“Why grab Coombs?” I asked again.
“We were negotiating with him. He was an intermediary. Mr. Z lost patience.”
I laughed. “You’re good at telling me things you know I already know. If you remember, I was in the room when he said that. How about a little insider’s perspective?”
Albert sighed helplessly as though I had asked him to recite The Iliad from memory. “Coombs represented a client who had… business with our Organization.”
“Business?”
“We had discovered him in a compromising position.”
“Blackmail.” I thought of the DVDs. Amateur porn that felt a little too amateur. The older, out-of-shape men and the teenage-looking girls.
Albert gave a philosophical shrug. “Whatever you wish to call it. They wanted the matter to go away and our people wished to capitalize on the situation. Creating a buyer and seller, the fundamentals of any economic system. Simple. But these people we were dealing with are in one ecosystem, and Mr. Z is in another. Coombs was the bridge between us.”
“So why burn the bridge?” I had a pretty good idea of the answers to some of my questions, but I wanted to keep him talking, get him comfortable. The more he talked, the likelier that he’d slip up and give me something real.
“Mr. Z grew impatient,” Albert replied. “He decided they were stonewalling. But if he had Coombs, then a strict deadline could be set. Specific consequences could be communicated.”
We had driven away from the fields and were in a commercial stretch, all big box stores and gas stations and fast food. No more farmland, here. Just asphalt and ugly buildings and loud billboards full of 800 numbers for cheap liposuction and ambulance-chasers.
Steinbeck country. I wondered what Steinbeck would have thought.
I asked the question that mattered. “Who was the client Coombs was representing?”
Albert took his eyes off the road long enough to look at me. “That, I do not know.”
I let the stun gun brush his arm and he flinched.
“Sure?”
“I swear. All I know is that there was a lot of money at stake.”
“How much?”
“Millions,” he said.
“How many millions?”
“An eight-figure sum.” He braked hard as a yellow light turned red. “The exact amount was being negotiated, but it was close to ten million.”
“And Coombs is still alive?”
“As far as I know.”
The light turned green and Albert turned left. “It’s still not too late to turn around. I have some money saved, that I can give you. Walk away from all this. Go free. Take my advice.”
“No, thanks.”
“You really don’t care about money?” He sounded incredulous. We had passed through the commercial district, now. Buildings were farther apart. More space, fewer cars, no pedestrians.
“It’s not that,” I said. “I care about some things more.”
“What about your safety? Your life? Do you value those things?”
I think you’d try to save me without even thinking about it.
“I intend to stay healthy,” I said. “And if you’re lucky, and you listen, maybe you can, too.”
“Impossible.”
“I disagree,” I said. “It’s very possible. But only if I know what to expect. So why don’t you tell me all about where we’re going and who’s there, and then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do when we arrive.”
33
I was looking at a motel.
Two stories, faded blue paint, outdoor stairwells, built in the classic midcentury motor court design. A three-sided rectangle, a wing on each side reaching out like a hungry embrace around a front courtyard. Parking spaces slotted along each wing so people could drive their cars right up to the rooms. Almost all of the parking spots were empty except for a cluster of moving trucks along the right-hand wing. No people in sight anywhere. A neon sign proclaimed NO VACANCY in tired red. Surprising. This motel seemed like it should have a sign saying NOTHING BUT VACANCIES.
“What is this place?” I wondered.
He sounded glum. “It’s where Coombs is staying.”
In front of us was a gated, empty swimming pool aproned by concrete. Next to it was an ancient charcoal grill, planted in the concrete like a dead tree stump. No kids running around, no families unpacking their cars. As lifeless as the surface of the moon. I could see nothing through the motel’s windows except drawn blinds. A dusty, unappealing place. Out of the way, unfriendly, suggesting the very opposite of comforts from the long road.
We parked in front of the empty pool next to a big black SUV and a pair of white, windowless cargo vans. The accountant was nervous. Sweat, quivers, all the obvious signs that something was amiss. Signaling distress as obviously as a flare shot off a lifeboat.
“You need to pull yourself together,” I said.
He slammed a hand against the dashboard. “This was a mistake! I told you it was. Why didn’t you listen?”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
Anger dusted into pleas. “You’re sure? We can still drive away. Please.”
I opened my door. “You talk too much.”
It was almost dusk, the air cooling as the sun retreated behind the hills. We walked toward the lobby entrance. The barbecue grill by the pool was orange with rust. It was impossible to see the gaping rectangle of the waterless pool and not think of an unfilled grave. The bottom was covered by a scuzz of dead leaves. It was hard to imagine that kids had ever splashed and played and laughed there.
As we approached the front doors a man emerged to intercept us. Maybe twenty-five, he wore brand-new white sneakers and a red Adidas tracksuit that did a bad job of hiding the gun in his waistband. The familiar snake-and-star tattoo on his hand.
“We’re here to pick up our guest,” Albert said. “His time’s up.”
Adidas stared at him, working a bulge in his lip that must have been chewing tobacco. “No one told us anything.”
To my relief, Albert’s voice sounded authoritative. “You know what you need to know, when you need to know it.”
“Sorry.” Adidas looked chastened. Clearly there was a hierarchy. Maybe the accountant wasn’t in direct charge of Adidas, but he occupied a higher rung. “Follow me.” He spat a brown stream into the dead soil of a planter and shifted the bulge in his lip to the other side of his mouth.
He made a big show of holding the door for me. Then I felt his hand cupping my butt in an appreciative squeeze. I ignored him and followed Albert inside.
The lobby looked like any motel lobby. Yet it felt off. I realized why after a moment. There was something artificial about it. I thought of props, facades, like walking on the deserted stage set of a performance that had closed years before. Everything that was supposed to be in a motel was there. A check-in counter with a real live clerk and a little silver bell, coffee urn and stack of cups, TV tuned to a football game, potted ferns, armchairs, coffee tables covered with magazines. But lifeless. No trace of hospitality. Nothing to suggest that normal people checked in and ate and slept and showered and checked out.
A facsimile of a motel lobby. Fake.
Spooky.
I wondered if the silver bell would even ding if I pushed it. The magazines on the tables were years old, covered in dust. The clerk watched us. He didn’t look like any motel clerk I’d ever seen. A brawny, dead-eyed man who looked like he’d sooner give up his right arm than smile. He watched us without a word.
Fake.
“Where is he?” Albert asked Adidas.
“He’s staying in 107.” Adidas took a cup from the stack by the coffee urn and spat another stream of brown liquid, working the bulge in his lip. The coffee urn was empty and dust-covered, its unplugged cord dangling from the wall. He opened a second door and led us into the ground level corridor. Fluorescent lights lit up peeling walls and scuffed carpets patterned with twining flowers. We passed an alcove with an ice machine and vending machine. The vending machine was unplugged, its racks empty. The ice machine didn’t hum. Like an abandoned set, I thought again. Decrepit.
Room 107 was halfway down the corridor. Adidas spat into his cup and used a key card. The door opened to reveal an ordinary motel room. Blinds drawn, bed and desk and nightstand and bathroom. Everything correct.
Yet off.
The blinds, I saw, were sealed with electrical tape. The desk was bare of lamps or pens or glasses. The bed and bed frame looked normal enough except, like the desk, they were bolted to the floor. And except for the chain that ran from the bed frame, across the flowery comforter, to a metal cuff, which encircled a bare ankle.
Coombs lay on the bed.
Adidas stormed over, eager to show how on top of things he was. “Get up, asshole,” he yelled. “You have company.”
Coombs, unshaven and unwashed, looked a far cry from the suave, elegant man I had last seen. There were bags under his eyes and bruises across his face. He wore only a dirty white V-neck and boxer shorts.
“Get up!” Adidas shouted again. He grabbed Coombs’s shoulder and jerked him up. “Move it!”
Coombs climbed to his feet. I saw his face change fractionally as he saw me. Perplexed, questioning. And then a moment later, understanding.
He shifted anxious eyes to Albert, as though my presence was the least important thing in the world. “What’s happening?” he asked.
Albert said, “Your time is up. Two days.”
Coombs licked his lips. “I want to stay here.”
I couldn’t help but admire his delivery. Thinking of our dinner, the way he had started to walk away—as though sitting, or not sitting, was all the same. Now the man had been beaten, frightened, maybe worse, but already he was reading the room, looking for the minute cues that told him how to act and what to say. Understanding that a man in his position, as miserable as he was, would be desperate not to leave.
Adidas smacked Coombs across the face with the back of his free hand. “No one cares what you want, asshole.”
Coombs addressed Albert, his voice rising. “The money is on the verge of going through! You got what you wanted!”
“Too late,” replied the accountant. “We have lost all patience, I’m afraid.”
A show. The two of them. Performing.
There was a metallic clinking as Adidas unlocked the bracelet around Coombs’s ankle. He threw a pair of gray sweatpants and flip-flops toward him.
“Get dressed. Hurry.”
I glanced at Albert. His face was clammy.
A few more minutes. That was all I needed. A few more minutes for him to avoid having a complete breakdown. A few more minutes of good luck. Just a few.
Then we were free.
Coombs pulled on the sweatpants.
Almost there.
Adidas spat into his cup. “Good to go?”
Albert nodded. “Let’s go.” He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. The three of us behind him.
Something strange happened.
Albert’s hands flew to his throat.
Blood spouted through his fingers as I heard the air explode, split by supersonic force. Albert had already fallen to his knees. He clawed at his throat and fell sideways. Another bullet cracked into the doorframe, sending splinters flying. The hallway was a kill zone. I pushed Coombs back into the room as a third bullet split the wall where his head had been. Adidas stared in confusion, his tobacco cup still in his hand, too surprised to even remember his gun. He looked from us to the accountant’s body as I stepped back into the room. As the door swung shut, I saw him running down the hallway in the opposite direction of the gunshots. There were two more shots as I pulled the door closed and heard it latch.
Coombs and I alone in the room. The two of us.
“We have to get out of here.” I ran over to the window and stripped away the taped blinds. I stopped. Instead of a glass window was a thick sheet of plywood, nailed into the wall. The nails holding it looked like lawn darts.
“We have to break it,” I said.
Coombs gestured hopelessly around the room. “Everything’s bolted down. I’ve spent the last two days thinking about getting out of this room. It’s a prison cell. The only way out is the door.”
“There has to be a way.”
I looked around, thinking.
There was a small click from the door.
The click of a lock unlatching.
Usually an innocuous sound. This time, deadly.
I lunged for the deadbolt. Too late.
The door opened.
Once again, I saw Mr. Z walk into a room. On one side of him was the hard-eyed motel clerk. The machine pistol he held made him look even less clerkish. Mr. Z’s remaining bodyguard, the one with the scarred brow and hatchet, was on the other side.
He was holding a hunting rifle.
34
“Albert… such a weak and disloyal man,” Mr. Z said. “So disappointing.” He had pulled a Snickers bar from his pocket and was eating it in quick bites. “Such a betrayal.” I could see the butt of some big cowboy gun sticking out of his wide jeans.
“You didn’t have to shoot him,” I said. “I forced him to help us. He didn’t want to. He didn’t have a choice.”
Mr. Z waved the candy bar at me. “He chose to betray me. Always, there is a choice.”
“To die in a blaze of glory? Is that really more honorable?”
Mr. Z shrugged. “He died anyway. Why not do it honorably? Albert was one of my most valued employees. It will be difficult to replace him, extremely difficult.” He let the empty candy wrapper fall to the floor. “But not impossible.”
Coombs said, “The money is ready. Put me in front of a computer and I can have it transferred in less than five minutes.”
Mr. Z looked bored. “Or I’ll send them your head, and then they can send me my money.” He jabbed a fat finger toward me. “I recognize you. You were there—in Monterey. You’re not a whore? Who are you?”
“The problem about blackmail,” I said, “is that eventually you end up catching a tiger by the tail. Just a question of when. How many rich and powerful men can you videotape before one of them decides to do something about it?”
“So you have learned a little about part of my business,” Mr. Z said. “But you’re wrong—these men are reasonable—or they become reasonable. They are not tigers. They understand that a f
ew pennies from their pockets are worth infinitely less than the consequences of exposure. No one wishes his life to be destroyed.”
“The dead women found in the U-Haul—it’s been all over the news,” I said. “That was you.”
Mr. Z said, “No one wanted that to happen.”
“Who was driving? I’d like to meet him.”
Mr. Z exchanged a grin with the bodyguard holding the hunting rifle. “That will be impossible, I’m afraid. They are no longer in this world.”
“And neither are the six women they killed. What are you going to do about that?”
“Do?” He opened a bag of Skittles and chewed a handful. “Why do anything? There are many more where they came from.”
“The case made national headlines, it’s all over the news. There’s too much public outrage. They won’t let it go.”
The fat man didn’t look convinced. “The women who died, they were not Americans. They were penniless, foreign, here without papers, no friends. An unfortunate combination, if you desire fairness, but that is how the world is.” He ate more Skittles. “They don’t have families to hire expensive lawyers or go on television to cry for justice. And so much news, every day, so much going on. People have short memories. No, I don’t think there will be more trouble for us.”
“Let us go,” Coombs said again. “We can all get what we want.”
Mr. Z shook his head. “Life doesn’t work like that. People want different things. We cannot all get what we want. For example, imagine what I want, after all this bellyache?” He gestured to his bodyguard. “Show them what I mean.”
The bodyguard raised the hunting rifle and sighted through its scope. A .30-30 bolt action. He was maybe ten feet away and the rifle was rock-steady. He could have hit me with his eyes closed. I could have been a hundred feet away and that would have been equally true.
Coombs stepped forward. Standing between me and the rifle.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”
I hadn’t expected that. “Get out of the way,” I told him, slipping a hand into my handbag while he blocked me from view.
Mr. Z laughed. “You’ve always been so slippery, such a greasy little weasel, so concerned with saving your own skin. And yet now, at the very end, you decide to become a hero? For what—for her?”
One Got Away Page 26