“Sorry about that, Hayes.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said. “For disturbing you. You left a message?”
“I did,” Moran said, and she could almost see him pushing his glasses up his nose. “We actually got a DMV hit on your perp: Everett Cole.”
A nice little jolt went through Colleen’s midsection. “Cool.” She had her pencil and penny notebook out, on top of the pay phone.
“He owns a ’74 Triumph Bonneville,” Moran said.
Triumph. “That’s the bike in the Polaroid. So Ev did pick up the cash from the little guy at the Transbay Terminal.”
“You caught him in the act, Hayes. Hang on to that photo.”
“You know it,” she said. “Do you have an address for Mr. Cole?”
He did. An apartment just past West Hollywood. Rex Williamson had said he thought Ev might live around the LA area.
“Thanks,” Colleen said. “Sorry again about you-know-what.”
Moran said quietly, “Daphne just worries I’ll get bored with gardening and be lured back into police work.”
Daphne didn’t realize how much Moran was able to live the part vicariously by helping Colleen out and staying right where he was.
“Please tell her I appreciate her concern,” Colleen said.
“Keep me posted.”
Colleen hung up, checked her watch. Time to head over to West Hollywood.
Santa Monica Boulevard took her into the seedier part of the city, especially once she got off onto the side streets. Ev Cole’s apartment building had probably been grand fifty years ago. Now it was a dry-rot special, with a cracked stucco exterior and a boarded-up window on the ground floor. A brilliant-green metallic lowrider sat outside the entrance in the middle of the street, several gang bangers sitting idle inside while music throbbed from bass speakers in the trunk. “The World Is a Ghetto.”
Colleen drove down the block, parked off La Brea, where her car stood a better chance of surviving. She walked back to Ev’s apartment building. The big Latino in the passenger seat wore a blue do-rag low down on his forehead and mirrored sunglasses that followed her.
“Looking good, mama,” he said.
In the entrance, she scanned the numbers. Ev’s was 301. She rang it. The intercom buzzed and spat.
“Yeah?” a young man’s voice said in a hard American accent, nasal, with the hint of a slur. He might have been loaded. But he wasn’t British.
“Is Ev home?” she asked.
“Who is this?”
“Deedra,” she said, cupping her hand over her mouth, adding a sense of urgency. “I need to talk to Ev. Is he there?”
“Deedra?”
“Right,” she said. “Is Ev home?”
“Nah. But I am, babe.” A potential beau. Lucky her.
“I really need to speak to Ev.”
“I thought you left town. What you up to?”
“I just got back from India. C’mon, let me in. These guys in the Monte Carlo are staring at me like I’m a pastrami sandwich.”
He laughed. “C’mon up.” The buzzer buzzed, letting Colleen into a grimy lobby that reeked of cat pee and was being overtaken by bags of trash and stacks of newspapers.
Ev lived on the third floor. She took the stairs, past floors of blaring televisions and stereos. People shouted at each other. Others laughed.
As she got to 301, she pulled the Bersa Piccola from her jacket pocket, flipped the safety off with her thumb, kept the small pistol down behind her butt.
Steve Miller was playing in 301. At least Ev’s roommate had good taste in music.
She knocked on the door with her left hand, shave-and-a-haircut.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened, letting a waft of stinky marijuana smoke out.
A big shirtless guy with a USMC tattoo on his fleshy bicep stood there, holding a can of Colt 45. He was white, in his thirties, with a Keith Richards shag cut, a shark’s tooth earring, and a droopy porn star mustache. He needed a shave. He ponged of booze and sweat. He was muscular but had a band of hard beer gut around his middle.
His eyes flashed as he looked at Colleen in her dressy outfit, clearly not Deedra. His slimy smile faded.
“Wait—who are you?”
“Shut up,” she said, bringing the gun up fast, pushing it into his gut. He backed into the room like a wind-up toy, dropping his beer. The can splashed onto the dirty orange rug.
She shut the door behind her.
The small living room was a mess, cans and bottles and an open pizza box on the sofa littered with half-eaten crusts. The TV, on the floor, flickered soundlessly. Wile E. Coyote was fastening an Acme rocket to his back. On the stereo, Steve Miller was singing about being a midnight toker.
There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the small apartment.
“Who are you?” His voice shook. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Ev,” she said.
“Not here.” He shook his head quickly, gulped. “Ev’s not here.”
“Where is he?” She kept one eye on the hallway to the rest of the apartment.
“I dunno.”
She pointed the gun at the TV. Fired. The TV jumped with the boom and a fist-sized hole appeared, ringed with cracks. The room stunk of burnt electronics.
“Jesus fuck!” he said. “Are you crazy?”
Colleen pointed the gun at the stereo.
“Let’s try that again,” she said.
“Sheep Hole,” he stammered. “Sheep Hole.”
“Ev’s into sheep? What the hell is ‘Sheep Hole’?”
“The cabin. East of Joshua Trees. Point that fucking thing somewhere else, will you?”
She pointed the gun down. “Details.”
“Off Highway 62,” he spluttered.
“Keep going.”
“Highway 62. The Old Dale Road. Just past Bush. Amboy Road. The Pass. Sheep Hole Mountain Pass. On the right there’s a ghost town. Ev is up the mountain.”
“Up the mountain where?”
“Cabin. Up behind the ridge on the right. A couple old mining buildings. Hidden away.”
“Is someone with him?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t want to know. It’s nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with me.”
“Phone number?”
“No phone.” He shook his head violently. “No electricity.”
“When did Ev go to Sheep Hole?”
“Don’t know. But he hasn’t been here for a few days. He was up in SF before. He called me from outside Sheep Hole.”
So Ev went to SF to work on the sham kidnap. Picked up some ransom money at Transbay, shot Lynda later on in a fight. Abducted Melanie Cook? Seemed like it. Did he take Melanie Cook to Sheep Hole?
Ev would need someone to help him. It would be difficult to transport and keep tabs on an eleven-year-old girl on your own. If she were alive.
“Your wallet,” she said, aiming the pistol at the big guy’s gut, standing back. “Slowly.”
One hand up, he reached behind him and pulled out a snakeskin wallet on a chain.
“ID,” she said. “Get it out.”
He fumbled out his driver’s license and handed it to her with shaking fingers.
She stood back another step, the gun up, gave the license a quick read.
“And what part do you play in Ev’s life, Vincent?”
“Roommate. We’re not even friends.”
“But you seem to know about his place in Sheep Hole.”
“I do a favor for Ev once in a while, okay? So what?”
“And what favors have you done lately?”
“Ev called me. A few days ago. Had me drop some stuff off at Sheep Hole. So I went.”
“What stuff?”
Vincent stared at his dusty python boots. Then he looked back up. “You’re not gonna tell Ev I said anything, are you?”
“I won’t breathe a word—unless you mess me around.”
“His bag. He keeps it un
der his bed. He wanted me to bring it. I didn’t even look inside.”
“Sure you did. Especially if you drove it all the way to Sheep Hole.”
“No way.” His voice cracked. “You’re nuts if you think I’m gonna cross Ev.”
“Then I guess I give this license to the cops and tell them you’re an accessory to kidnapping. Maybe even murder.”
“Jesus! Is that what Ev’s up to? I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”
“How much do you want to protect Ev now?”
He nodded and sighed. “There was a tape recorder in his bag. His English passport. An address book.” He stared down.
Was Ev planning on running soon? “What else?”
“A piece.”
“A gun?”
He didn’t look up. “Sawed-off Rossi. A box of shells.” Now he did look up. “Christ, you better not tell Ev any of this.”
“No reason to,” she said. “If you keep your mouth shut. Anyone with Ev? An accomplice?”
“I think so, yeah. Don’t know who. Someone was there, though, walking around. But I didn’t go inside. And Ev didn’t ask me in. He just wanted me to give him his stuff and leave. And that was fine with me.”
“Anyone else there? A girl? A young girl?”
A look of trepidation crossed Vincent’s face. “There was a light on in the back room. So someone else might’ve been there, too. Like I said, Ev didn’t ask me in. I just gave him his bag and left.”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s check out Ev’s room.”
“What?” Vincent screeched.
“You first. Turn around—slowly.”
He did and she followed him down a cramped hallway to an austere room that contrasted with the trashy apartment. Neat. A single bed, the sheets stripped off, a chair, a pair of jeans hanging over the back. A desk, organized. Spare and basic.
Colleen went through the closet, bent down, keeping one eye on Vincent as she peered under the bed. A copy of Penthouse magazine. She stood up, pulled open the top desk drawer. Papers. Bills. All neatly stacked. She rummaged through them. Nothing. She shut the drawer.
“Okay,” she said, “back into the living room.” She guided Vincent out.
She tossed his driver’s license on the floor. “If you contact Ev, or he calls you and you give him a heads-up about this little visit, I’ll be back.” She raised her eyebrows. “Claro?”
“Yeah. Sure. Okay.”
She left the apartment, the door open, headed down the stairs.
“Fucking bitch!” Vincent screamed, slamming the door behind her.
She slipped the Bersa into her pocket, pulled the flap over her tailored jacket, headed back out.
The green Monte Carlo was still parked in the middle of the street, blaring funk music.
The guy in the blue do-rag gave her a friendly smile.
“Sorry to see you go,” he said. “But I do like to watch you walk away.”
She gave him a smirk.
Back at the Torino she chased away a couple of teenagers eyeing the car. Inside, she got out her California map.
Joshua Trees was about 130 miles east of Los Angeles. Sheep Hole, a bare green patch on the map, was just northeast of that. The Mojave Desert. What looked like a mountain pass. Two and a half, three hours of driving. It was early evening.
She hadn’t eaten all day. She didn’t want to lose time, but she was starving.
She drove up to Pink’s Hot Dogs on North La Brea and devoured a chili dog, standing outside by the walk-up counter, washing it down with soda. Grease and sugar coursed through her system, fortifying her.
Afterwards, she went inside to use the restroom and change. On the way she spotted a steak knife on the rim of a plate at a vacated table. A backup weapon. Without anyone seeing, she nabbed it. In the restroom she wiped off the knife, wrapped it in a clean paper towel, pocketed it, and donned jeans and sneaks, brushed her teeth and washed her face. She left, with her good clothes and shoes stashed in her bag. She filled up the Torino at a 76 station, buying a pack of mints, stopping at the pay phone where she inserted quarters, dialed Inspector Owens in SF. He didn’t answer. After hours.
She dialed Moran one more time, taking a breath as she prepared for Daphne’s warm reception.
“We’re in the middle of dinner, Colleen,” she said coldly.
“Your husband wanted me to keep him posted of something. It will only take a minute.”
Moran came on the line.
“I’m not trying to ruin your marriage,” she said. “But I have an update.” She told him about Sheep Hole. “If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning, call Owens. Better warn Daphne to expect another call.”
“Tell me you’re not going up there alone, Hayes.”
“Just to check things out. I’ll report back.”
She heard him sigh over the crackle of the phone line. “Don’t.”
“Let me ask you a question,” she said. “What would you do if you were in my place?”
Another pause.
“I’d check things out,” he admitted. “Same as you.”
“Then I’m learning from the best,” she said.
“I expect to hear from you by midnight, Hayes.”
She hung up, and headed east, getting onto Highway 10. She sucked a mint as she dialed in KROQ—the “ROQ of Los Angeles”—and cranked up Sly and the Family Stone.
Part of her said she needed help and was apprehensive of what lie ahead. The other part of Colleen asked who? Moran? How long would it take for him to get down here? Owens? He’d warned Colleen to stay well away from this case. Time was evaporating. Ev had his passport and might take off any moment. Melanie needed help now.
She’d go to Sheep Hole, scope out Ev’s place, see what was what, then decide.
She had to think Melanie Cook was still alive. Had to.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Miles of dirt road had jarred Colleen’s kidneys loose by the time she finally approached the incline to Sheep Hole. In the cleavage of the mountain pass, the night sky blazed over the desert with brilliant stars unscathed by city lights. If Melanie wasn’t looming in the back of her mind, it would have been a beautiful sight.
On the right, near the top of the pass, the outline of several low buildings darkened the hills. Colleen drew closer, stopped the Torino, its engine rumbling, and squinted into the dark. The buildings were old, wooden, faded. Windows were broken or boarded up. On one structure an old shake roof was collapsing. The shell of a rusted-out Model T, sans wheels, sat in the rocky dirt. One door hung open, sagging earthward. Next to the vehicle, a broken white toilet lay on its side.
Colleen fished around in her bag of tricks, got her binoculars. She fixed in for a better look. A crumpled wooden mine sluice lay over the rocks.
She put the Torino into gear, spun around, drove down the pass a couple of hundred yards and pulled into a turnaround she had spotted on the way up. There was no need to put her only transportation at immediate risk.
She got out the steak knife she had liberated from Pink’s and, keeping the blade wrapped in its paper napkin, slipped it down her sock, taping the knife around her ankle with adhesive bandage, loose enough to move freely.
She checked the clip in her Bersa Piccola. Loaded up with eight short .22 rounds. The small black gun was lightweight and might look like a toy but fit nicely and was remarkably accurate.
She got out of the car, slipped the gun in the back pocket of her Levi’s. She retrieved her five-cell flashlight from the trunk and put her bag of gear away. Locked up the car.
Ready to go.
A cold wind tunneled down the pass as she hoofed it up the road in the moonlight. It felt good to unwind after so many hours in the car and helped to ease the growing tension of what she might find.
At the dirt turnoff where the ghost town lay in shadows, she stopped, taking deep breaths, flashlight in hand, turned off for the moment.
She walked slowly by the long-abandoned Ford. Looking around, s
he saw what appeared to be fresh tire tracks. She approached the few empty wooden buildings built in the late 1800s. Uninhabited and dark. An open door creaked in the wind. A puff of dirt blew across the sagging porch of what had once been a general store, many years ago.
No one there.
Next door was an old garage, and workshop. The tire tracks led around back. She followed them. They disappeared under old-fashioned side-by-side garage doors. She rubbed the dirt off a grimy window with the heel of her hand. Peered in.
A black BMW sedan.
Her heart thumped.
She clicked on the flashlight, aimed it into the garage, at the car.
BMW 320i. Lynda’s.
Suddenly, the sound of rocks rattling behind her made her jump. Heart pulsing, Colleen spun, reaching for the pistol in her back pocket.
Her flashlight beam lit up a huge bighorn sheep, bigger than a man, staring down at her curiously from a high rock. The curled horns on either side of the beast’s head were the size of platters. She gasped, catching her breath, directing the flashlight beam down to the ground before turning it off.
The ram rotated, took off. Rocks clattered.
She stood, sucking in deep breaths as her heartbeats settled. Waiting, stone still, listening to the desert. Praying she hadn’t alerted anyone. Up the hill, the animal trotted off.
In the distance, she heard a door open. She ducked behind a rock.
“Who’s there?” a man’s raspy voice said. He wasn’t English so if Ev were there, he had company. As Colleen had suspected.
Was Melanie there as well?
She took several more calming breaths, raised her head, peered up the mountain into the darkness where the buildings sat.
A big man with a flashlight on the porch of the cabin. In his right hand, he held something. A gun. A short rifle or a long pistol. The sawed-off shotgun Ev’s roommate mentioned? He looked familiar.
It hit her. The big guy at the Transbay Terminal. Duffle Coat.
He went back inside, shut the door. She heard muted conversation. Then silence.
She had a choice. Go back down the road, get in her car, drive the dirt road back to 62, head back to civilization, call Moran. And wait for help.
But something inside would not let her wait that long. Melanie might well be in that hut. If she were still alive. She couldn’t waste another minute.
Tie Die Page 24