by Robert Ellis
He switched on the radio. A woman had just begun introducing the next cut, “Comfortably Numb”—not from a Pink Floyd album, but from a live concert David Gilmour recorded at the Gdańsk Shipyard to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the revolution in Poland. The concert had been videotaped, and Matt had watched the clip on the Internet more than a handful of times.
He settled back in the seat and let Gilmour’s voice sweep him away just as it always seemed to sweep him away, along with his remarkable guitar, that black Stratocaster. He listened until the music stopped, then found himself gliding into the parking lot at Griffith Observatory. He tried to pull himself together. He got out of the car and started walking up the fire road. His mouth became dry, but he could see Dante’s View at the top of Mount Hollywood. He wasn’t sure how much time it had taken to reach the peak, but when he spotted a bench, he sat down and gazed at the city. He could see the entire basin, from the tall buildings downtown all the way to Venice Beach.
He thought that the view from the top of the mountain would ease his pain, or at the very least give him some breathing room.
But the heat was unbearable, and he could feel the sweat evaporating as it dripped down his spine. He turned and gazed at the Hollywood sign across the way. In spite of the distance, he could see a small group of people praying over the spot where Brooke Anderson had been murdered. They were dressed in black and appeared strange.
The sight triggered a series of grim memories that made him feel even more anxious. He wondered if he wasn’t in the middle of something he couldn’t get out of on his own. Maybe he should drive down to Chinatown and check himself in. Maybe he should talk to somebody and get some rest. But what if they saw him this way? What would they think?
He heard something and his mind floated to the surface. It was a popping sound, and he saw a man running down the fire road. As his brain fog lifted, Matt realized that it was Billy Casper, the man in his rearview mirror, rushing toward him with his .38 still hot and smoking in his right hand.
Matt swept his fingers across his shirt, then looked down at the blood splashing onto his jeans. He’d been hit twice in the gut. He tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t move. When he reached for his .45, Casper beat him to it and tossed the pistol on the ground. His eyes rose to Casper’s face. The big man had an even bigger grin, stretching from ear to ear, as he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and threw him off the bench.
“Your father sends his best,” he said. “Fuck you, you piece of shit.”
Casper aimed the .38 at Matt’s chest and pulled the trigger. Matt felt his entire body shudder as he took the bullet and groaned. Casper was laughing at him and hurrying off.
He turned and searched for his pistol. It was just out of reach, a foot or two ahead, but he couldn’t move his legs. He rolled onto his stomach, digging his elbows into the dirt road and dragging his lame body forward. When the pain rocked through him from deep inside, he screamed out in agony. He gritted his teeth, glancing back at Casper. Then he dug his elbows into the ground and pulled his body another half foot forward.
That feeling was back. He was watching himself from a distance again. He could see himself grasping his .45 and rolling onto his side. He could see Casper’s sweat-stained shirt just beyond the muzzle. He watched himself pulling the trigger and clicking through the mag until all the noise stopped. Until all eight rounds had found their home in the big man’s back. And then it was over. Casper’s body went limp and started tumbling down the steep hill.
Matt watched the corpse hit the rocks and settle in a patch of thorns.
The pistol fell out of his hand, and he rolled onto his back. He could feel himself hyperventilating. When the pain came back even harder, he took it this time. He ate it and winced.
He glanced at the three wounds in his chest, all the blood gushing out, and knew that his father would be pleased. He wondered where he’d be when he received news of his first son’s death. Maybe aboard his yacht, the Greedy Bastard, out of Greenwich, Connecticut. Or maybe on the terrace sipping wine with his cheap-looking wife and their twisted sons.
A shadow moved across his face. Someone was standing over him. He wondered if he had already died. He wondered if it wasn’t the undertaker, preparing to drain his body of what little blood he might have left. He blinked his eyes again. He couldn’t be dead. Death wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.
The figure stepped closer, then knelt down beside him. After a while he realized that it was the woman from the Blackbird Café. She had blood all over her hands and blouse, and she seemed upset. She was on her cell phone. Every few moments she would look into Matt’s eyes and say, “Hold on, Jones. Hold on and everything will be okay.”
Matt looked her over when it suddenly dawned on him that he knew her. He’d met her once in the elevator at the crime lab. Her name was Lena Gamble, a detective out of the Robbery-Homicide Division. She’d closed a big case last year—two prosecutors in the district attorney’s office had turned, and she put one of them down. The case made headlines for six months.
He knew her. He’d met her.
He gave her a long look.
She seemed so far away. He could barely see her. He could barely hear her. He felt his head drop back. Images began flashing through his mind. The moments he had spent sitting on his mother’s lap before she died. The relief he had felt when his aunt welcomed him into her home. A day he spent with Hughes in Afghanistan when they didn’t hear a single gunshot. Just the sounds of the people, the stillness of the mountains and plains. The last time he and Laura kissed—the good-bye kiss he had given her in the study when he realized what had to happen and why.
He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
He guessed that he was losing it. He could feel a hard wind churning up all the dust from the dirt road. He could see Gamble shielding her eyes and face, the dust cloud so dense that she almost disappeared. Even more, there was this roaring noise, this rushing noise, the sound of rotors—all of it becoming louder and louder, until he couldn’t hear Gamble’s voice anymore.
He looked up at the sky. A bird flew by. The sun seemed so bright.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks go to my editors, Kjersti Egerdahl, Charlotte Herscher, and Marcus Trower, and to the entire team at Thomas & Mercer and Amazon. I’d also like to thank my agent, Scott Miller, for his advice and support. This novel wouldn’t feel authentic and true without the help of many good friends. Much thanks go to LAPD detectives Mitzi Roberts and Rick Jackson (retired) from the Robbery-Homicide Division, Cold Case Special Section. And to Charlotte Conway, Peter Ellis, Neil Oxman, Mark Moskowitz, and “Wild” Bill Carey. In the end, this is a work of fiction. Any technical deviation from facts or procedures is my responsibility alone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Charlotte Conway
Robert Ellis is the international bestselling author of Access to Power, The Dead Room, and the critically acclaimed Lena Gamble Novels. His books have been translated into more than ten languages and selected as top reads by Booklist, Publishers Weekly, National Public Radio, the Chicago Tribune, the Toronto Sun, the Guardian (UK), the Evening Telegraph (UK), People magazine, USA Today, and the New York Times. Born in Philadelphia, Ellis moved to Los Angeles to work as a writer, producer, and director in film, television, and advertising.
For more information about Robert Ellis, visit him online at www.robertellis.net.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CONTENTS
START READING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHA
PTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR