THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  ‘Right. Do you have any ID?’

  Okay, so I don’t always get it right.

  ‘Look, it’s rather a sensitive private matter. Candy was referred to me by one of your clients. Could I speak to her?’

  It was clear he didn’t want to disturb the Goddess Candy on account of some redneck walking in off the street. So I took a step towards him and jutted my chin, and that was enough menace to spur him into action.

  Oddly, Candy was more amenable than her minion. She called me in from the depths of her private office without even coming to peek at me. I entered as the minion exited, his features set in a scowl.

  I shut the door behind me. Candy was behind a very large curved desk, which was appropriate because she was a very large curved woman. She didn’t get up, but I could tell she had height to go with the girth; she was indisputably tall sideways.

  Trying to prove I wasn’t as much of a bumpkin as I looked, I went and shook hands with her.

  ‘My name’s Freeman,’ I said. ‘James Freeman.’

  She was not outwardly impressed. ‘You’ve been watching too many Bond movies.’

  She had short, straight hair, and a face that was as full of curves as her body: chipmunk cheeks, a round blob of a chin, and heavily-lipsticked lips that went up and down in an exaggerated cupid’s bow.

  ‘Sorry to just descend on you without an appointment,’ I said, with just a touch of grovel. ‘It’s just that I need to contact the former owner of a property you sold, up on Latigo Canyon. He’s an old friend, and somebody died he’ll want to know about.’

  ‘Who’s your friend, Mr Freeman?’

  ‘Carl Heider. The people who bought the house from you seemed to think you would know where he moved to.’

  ‘The name doesn’t ring any bells. What’s the address?’

  She jotted it down on a square of paper from a dispenser, and called someone called Theo on her intercom. The minion came in and she handed him the paper.

  ‘Dig out the file, will you, honey?’

  Studiously ignoring me, Theo nodded and flounced away.

  I amused myself contemplating the outlook. From Candy’s eyrie it was all blue. French windows led to a tiled balcony, dotted with wooden outdoor furniture. The odd sailing boat scudded across the ocean vista, fairly driven along by the wind that had chilled me on the slopes of Laurel Canyon. Candy noticed the direction of my gaze and preened herself.

  ‘That’s a five million dollar view,’ she smirked. ‘I never get tired of it.’

  ‘Who would?’

  Theo returned with the file. It was in a yellow transparent sleeve. She slid out the contents, pored over them.

  ‘You’re out of luck,’ she said at length.

  ‘You don’t have information on the place he bought?’

  ‘That’s not the problem. We had to sign a confidentiality agreement, not to divulge it to any unauthorised third party.’

  ‘What constitutes an authorised third party?’

  ‘Police, FBI, military possibly.’ She raked up a smile. ‘The President. Are you one of those?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of running for President,’ I offered. ‘Maybe in 2020. Does that count?’

  She clapped her hands together in an “interview terminated” fashion.

  ‘Fine. Come back in 2020. If you win.’

  ‘It’s worth money.’

  ‘Let me tell you how much I make in commissions in a bad year. Then you can tell me how much you’ll pay.’

  I surveyed the office more closely. Noted the expensive oak furnishings, the scattered ornaments, the cocktail cabinet with the ranks of single malt whiskies, the Gautier XO cognac, the Four Roses bourbon, liqueurs galore. Not forgetting the five-million dollar outlook. Thought about what it would cost to buy or rent.

  ‘Five thousand,’ I said.

  It was enough to raise her eyebrows, that was all. It would be the quickest 5Gs she ever earned. Still it didn’t move her. After about two seconds of deliberating, she turned it down.

  ‘Ten,’ I said, which was about half my remaining available cash funds.

  She sucked air through her teeth.

  ‘It’s tempting, but I daren’t. My reputation matters here in Malibu. And don’t bother to assure me you wouldn’t reveal your source. It’s my integrity that stops me.’

  Funny thing, integrity. You can’t argue with it.

  So Mistress Candy wasn’t to be bought. No matter. She had at least two employees for whom a grand would blow their respective integrities out of the window. For two, they’d make a compact with the devil himself.

  I targeted the immaculate girl. Theo was compromised anyway. He didn’t like me, and I wasn’t like him.

  I positioned the Audi down the road, lined up for a quick launch. She left the office at five after five. She was on the skinny side, but had a nice rolling gait. Her car was a white Buick Encore fairly compact, parked on the right, about four cars ahead of mine. Her style of driving proved to be cautious and hesitant. Made it easy for me. I kept a car between us most of the ride as she travelled towards the Pacific Highway and pointed the Buick at Los Angeles.

  Our shared journey took twenty minutes plus or minus. We turned left just short of the Santa Monica Pier and paralleled Highway 10 for maybe a half mile before taking a right, by a Chevron filling station. A few more twists and turns brought us to her destination, a condo on Euclid Street, so said the GPS.

  She parked on the street. It looked like an okay neighbourhood. No graffiti to speak of, and no rotting wrecks. I eased in as close as I could get and jogged up to her front door, catching her just as she entered.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ I said in my most polite and cultured voice.

  She was instantly alert. I half expected her to dip into her purse for a Mace and give me a faceful.

  ‘It’s okay, I was at your office just now. I saw Candy.’

  She nodded in recognition, relaxed a notch or two.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Information, and I’ll pay well for it.’

  Little flashes of greed twinkled in her hazel eyes.

  ‘What information?’ Still wary, but definitely hooked.

  ‘The address of a house that one of your clients bought a year ago.’

  ‘What do you want it for?’

  ‘An unpaid debt,’ I improvised. ‘It’s worth a thousand to you.’

  Her mouth popped open. It was rather a nice mouth. Certainly, before Maura happened along, I wouldn’t have refused it, had it been offered.

  ‘Wouldn’t Candy give it to you?’

  ‘She wanted too much money.’ I feigned hesitation. ‘Tell you what – I’ll make it two thousand, but that really is the limit.’

  ‘Two ... thousand.’ With that, she passed the point of no return.

  I glanced around, like a conspirator fretting about being eavesdropped. A bunch of kids was playing baseball in the lengthening shadows, a couple of guys were bent over the engine of a collector’s car, hood raised; a pedestrian or two trudged along the sidewalk. Just a normal suburban street.

  I had the four five hundreds ready to titillate her appetite. I fanned them out so she could see I wasn’t sandwiching a pair of ones between the five hundreds. She was mesmerised.

  ‘This is what you have to do ...’ I began.

  Candy usually worked late, so to be safe we waited until nine before setting out for the office. The girl, who was called Verity, did the driving, I sat beside her. She was a bit nervous, about me and the mission both, I guessed, but it all went smoothly.

  While I sat outside, she went inside. A light came on. Through the glass door, I watched her go to a file cabinet, unlock it with a key on a chain, and open the middle of three drawers. She flicked through the sections, withdrew a file, and took it to the copying machine. A man and a woman came out of a building a few doors along with a short, stocky dog on a leash. They descended three steps to the sidewalk. The dog was tugging on his leash like a motor boat
towing a pair of water skiers. They paid me no attention. They dwindled along the street until they were lost from sight.

  Inside Candy’s Real Estate office Verity finished copying and transported the file back to its slot. She locked the cabinet. She extinguished the light. She came out, hurrying a little. The office door was evidently self-locking. Seconds later, she was back in the car, handing me a single sheet of paper.

  I switched on the interior light and read the copied document. It was the front page of a contract to buy a property at Avila Beach, San Luis Obispo. The buyer was Carl Donald Heider of Penthouse 2, Arcadia Tower, Houston TX77071. She hadn’t had enough time to fake up a document, so I was prepared to take it on trust. I placed the four bills in her outstretched palm.

  ‘Thanks a million,’ she said, and planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘You don’t know it, but you just saved my life.’

  Probably meaning I had rescued her from a debt or paid her rent.

  ‘Don’t get found out. You never saw me again after I left your office this afternoon.’

  ‘For sure.’ She treated me to a coy smile. ‘Maybe that’s a pity.’

  ‘Maybe. And maybe you should thank your lucky stars.’

  She didn’t ask why. My words might have triggered a warning sign inside her brain, that my being here, bribing her to raid the office of her employer, was about more than an unpaid debt. She started the engine and piloted us back to her place a lot quicker than when we came, as if she were suddenly anxious to be rid of me.

  TWENTY

  Sunday morning in Solana Beach. A still, sunless Sunday morning. Cold, clammy, and cheerless. Not how it’s supposed to be in ever-sunny southern California where, according to the song, it never rains. Just goes to show you shouldn’t rely on weather statistics and pop music.

  It was my last morning at the Courtyard. While I was breakfasting, I received a text message from Maura.

  R U OK? Any progress?

  I was going to call you last night

  but didn’t want to get you at

  bad moment. Call me when

  convenient.

  All OK at this end except Nick

  seems to be hovering around

  more than usual.

  Richard back in Houston. Feel

  sure we can trust him.

  Love M xxx

  Three kisses today. I was going up the ratings. My reply was composed with care. I assured her I was fine, and that I would call later. The Nick business troubled me a tad, but I decided to leave it be until we talked. About Richard, I made no comment. My sign-off matched hers, only I made it four kisses, and predicted that her next message would up the ante to five.

  North on the Pacific Highway. San Luis Obispo was a good three hundred miles from Solana Beach. The most direct route lay through Los Angeles. I was tempted to skirt round it but didn’t. I stuck with Highway 5 and peeled off on to 101 just north of Hollywood, where I took a break for lunch. As a consequence, it was mid-afternoon before I was clear of the LA conurbation and able to take some pleasure in the scenic delights of the Hidden Hills and the Saratoga Hills before hitting the coast at Ventura. A watery sun made an appearance as I neared Santa Barbara, and came and went thereafter.

  After the morass of LA, it was a relaxing run on up the coast to San Luis Obispo. When my destination was still about twelve miles down the road, I passed an off ramp signed to Avila Beach. I wasn’t tempted to go exploring. It would wait until tomorrow. But the familiar, gut-coiling excitement that preceded any precarious venture began to surface. From here on I was back in the danger zone. Where every mistake carries a penalty, and any penalty can be terminal.

  I made it to San Luis Obispo while the sun was still above the horizon. It was cooler than in Solana Beach, as I discovered when I pulled into a diner on the outskirts of the town, that offered free Wi-Fi with refreshments. My tablet informed me the best hotel was the Madonna Inn, which was located beside the highway, a few miles from where I was parked.

  The sun was at its last gasp when I motored on. The countryside around was mostly undulating and partly wooded with signs of cultivation. Beyond the town were two almost identical mountain peaks, dominating the skyline. I wondered idly why Carl Heider had chosen this part of the world for his country residence. Within minutes I was in front of the hotel, a rather bizarrely styled building with a touch of the art-deco, and a spire on top of a rounded section of the second floor. It was floodlit in front, so you couldn’t miss it. Rooms were available. I chose one on the second floor with a balcony and a picture postcard tableau of the Pacific shimmering in the dying vestiges of daylight.

  After a session of exercises to set the blood coursing through my veins again, I called Maura.

  ‘Hello ... Drew?’ I had prevented her from logging my number on her cell phone out of security considerations, so she was only guessing who was calling.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Well, any one of a number of admirers. Where are you?’

  ‘Don’t ask yet. I’ve gotten a lead but haven’t followed it up yet.’

  The real reason was that I didn’t want Richard to know.

  ‘Take care when you’re checking it out. Think about those two guys who met us at the lake. They’re on live-in duty watching over Lindy.’

  ‘They’re the least of my problems.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’ Her wistful tone touched me.

  ‘Goes for me too.’

  More sentiments along these lines before we said our goodbyes. Until tomorrow.

  I plugged the cell phone into the charger. I hefted my valise onto the bed and lifted out the contents in one. Along the side of the valise that formed the base when stood on end, was a hidden compartment with a sliding aperture. I slid it aside and removed the Ruger automatic. It had been a tight fit, as the compartment was designed to hold a 9mm Beretta P4 Storm, a smaller piece of hardware. The sound suppressor didn’t fit at all and had had to take its chances among my clothes.

  My starting point was the assumption that Heider was still the owner of the Avila Beach property. If so, and if Justine and the two girls were in residence, the two goons wouldn’t be far away according to Maura. Possibly in a separate guest house. Therefore I needed to prepare for self-defence. That was okay. I was used to it.

  The drill was simplicity itself. Find a secluded spot overlooking the house and watch the people traffic. Much as at Malibu Beach, except with more certainty of a result. It took twenty minutes to return to the Avila Beach exit, and another five minutes on the twisting road down to the town itself and the ocean. On my right a wide river and a golf course, emerald green against the natural beige of the adjacent terrain. I was guided by good signage to the downtown area: left into First Street, right into San Juan Street, left again for Front Street, so called presumably because it fronted the beach. Parking bays in echelon ranged on both sides.

  Beaches in late November, even in California, tend to be sparsely populated, and Avila was no different. I stood with my backside resting against the hood of the Audi for a while, and just soaked up the air. The sky was overcast, which tended to drain the colour from the surroundings. The ocean was a brooding greenish-grey and restless. No wind and no boats out there. The pier was long and bare, little more than an extended jetty. I extracted the binoculars from the holster at my belt and scoured the coast from left to right. It was pretty enough but yielded no clues.

  Avila Beach Drive. A long thoroughfare that ran between the golf course and the town. I had driven along it from the highway without being aware of its name. It continued over the narrow mouth of the river and thereafter stuck to the coastline as it wended west. I re-entered the car, stuffed the Ruger in its usual location, donned my parka to conceal it. Thus prepared, I drove across the bridge to the other side of the river and left the town behind me. The road was two lanes, with parking on both sides. The buildings thinned out, then it was just beach on my left and steeply rising hillside on my right. The vegetation
was Mediterranean, the California equivalent of maquis. I parked the Audi at the roadside and walked away from it. Another promenader, male, sixty-ish, bade me a good morning as we passed each other.

  After about a half mile, I came to a road branching off to the right, name of Wild Cherry Canyon. Below the sign a wooden marker had been nailed. Access to Hilltop 100 yds. No throughway. Hilltop. Unless there were two of them, this had to be the road to Heider’s house. The name was suggestive of high ground, which meant circumnavigating the place to find even higher ground where I could oversee it.

  I plodded up Wild Cherry Canyon, came to a fork. Another Hilltop sign, reinforced with a PRIVATE slogan. By using it, especially on foot, I would be calling attention to myself. Even now, hostile binoculars could be observing my moves.

  Okay, so backtrack to the highway, then continue to the next canyon a few hundred yards along. There the hillside was less steep, plus it was farther from the prying eyes of passers-by on the highway. From the crest, I ought to be able to work around behind the Heider residence. Provided it was where I calculated it was. It sounded like a piece of cake.

  I attacked the hillside at a lope, and was fit enough to maintain the pace to the top. Slowing to a walk, I advanced until I was looking down into Wild Cherry Canyon. Only a single dwelling was in sight, at the end of the track where I had seen the sign. Well under a mile distant, I estimated. It was built into a slope, three floors at the front, two at the back. The red shingle roof and the blue of the obligatory pool were the only splashes of colour. Beside it an outbuilding, a smaller version of the main residence.

  I moved off to the left, losing sight of the house, and therefore making myself invisible to its occupants. I spotted a group of people trudging up the slope of the far side of the canyon, which made me feel less conspicuous.

  On reaching a point where I reckoned I was opposite the house, I made for the crest again, covering the last few yards on my belly. There it was, right where it was supposed to be. Through the binoculars I studied the place. The walls were stone, the windows were barred on the outside, the terrace was tiled and abutted onto a deck that formed an L around two sides of the house. In the driveway, two vehicles. I struck gold at once: the larger of the two was a black Jeep Grand Cherokee. If it wasn’t the same Jeep as conveyed Maura and me from the Mono Lake airfield it was its twin brother.