“Thanks.” He tucked the phone in his waistband and then checked the safety on the Beretta and placed the holster on the floor. Scrubs didn’t give a man a lot of cargo options. He wondered briefly what doctors did with their loose change.
“And there’s one other disturbing development. A mine on a horse trail in Griffith Park - the rider was a thirteen-year-old girl…she actually wasn’t hurt, but the horse died. Had to be moved off the trail with a forklift. Press has that image playing constantly and now everyone knows Valentino, the Arabian gelding. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the area, but it’s not far from Forest Lawn.”
Lane wondered about that one. It seemed crude in comparison, without a message. Perhaps there was an inland operative working at the same time, just getting started. Lane closed his burned eyes as a Lincoln Navigator passed them- thumping with reverberating beat.
“And we received this, sent to the L.A. Times:”
She handed him a piece of paper. Lane opened his eyes and quickly scanned Huay’s proclamation.
“This is in the paper?”
“No, the Times came to us first.”
“They didn’t publish it?”
“We asked them not to. But it’s irrelevant, because it was also sent to Le Monde and they did publish it. Almost instantly. On-line. The original is in the lab. Hopefully we’ll get something from it. But I thought you’d be interested in the content.”
Lane reread the demands and said. “Jesus.” And then he read them again. Joel Lane couldn’t believe it. It took a moment for it to sink in. It all made sense now. His instincts had been right. This wasn’t just terrorism with landmines, it was terrorism about landmines.
“So, in your expert opinion, what do you think we should do?”
As they merged onto the ten, Lane saw that there were National Guard Humvees on the freeway. All headed west.
Lane leaned his head back against the supple leather headrest and said,
“I don’t know. Pray for an earthquake.”
THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY, WOODLAND HILLS – 7:44 PM
Catherine exited the freeway, turned right and cut a quick left into the Warner Center Trillium complex. She drove over a speed bump and past the Woodland Hills Hilton. For a moment Lane wondered if she was dropping him off at the hotel. But she stopped the car outside the restaurant’s valet space.
“We have to eat.” She said, slamming the transmission into P.
After Lane watched Catherine hand over her key-ring to the eighteen-year-old valet, he asked, “Aren’t you worried about giving your car keys to a complete stranger?”
“Life’s too short.”
Lane nodded, but it was hard to understand the logic of that. Who would be more desperate to change their position in life than a valet? Mystifying.
“I’ve never had a problem,” she said. Lane decided that the valets in Los Angeles were thought of as the modern equivalent of stable boys. Humans so far down the ladder, so down-trodden, that they would never consider stealing. But he knew if he had their job he’d at least think about it.
Inside the bustling restaurant they stood near the glass refrigerator case that held the cheesecakes, waiting in a short line to see the hostess. Who was spectacular, breathtakingly beautiful. Lane found it difficult not to stare. Shimmering and supple with breasts like a naughty cartoon. She made every woman in the restaurant look plain by comparison. She was also the distributor of the beepers that the Cheesecake Factory used to signal people when their table was ready. With perfectly manicured French nails she handed the long-handled device to Catherine and said, “Five minutes.”
* * *
They stood on the edge of the bar. It didn’t feel private enough to discuss the events of the day, and Lane’s head hurt too much to make small talk. He also felt as though people were covertly watching him. Lane was familiar with the feeling from often being the only white face in small villages around the world, but he was used to people just staring, not caring if they were caught looking. He kept his medical sunglasses on.
Catherine could feel the eyes too. The peripheral surveillance. The celebrity-look-away, a practiced art in Los Angeles. But she couldn’t decide if she was truly being recognized or if people were checking out her strange-looking date. She’d broken her nose in a car accident once (rear-ending someone on San Vicente) and later attended a gallery opening with the exotic purple thunder-bolts in her eyes that were caused by broken blood vessels. She’d never been more popular at a party. She didn’t think she could be so easily identified now, but she also knew not to under-estimate the amount of television people watched. She’d once gone to a development meeting at ABC in Burbank to discuss creating a show about the FBI’s most wanted list. She had been authorized to explore it due to the success of “America’s Most Wanted” on Fox. “America’s Most Wanted” had captured literally hundreds of fugitives (some of the worst ones too), and it wasn’t even very highly rated. Between cell phones and television it was amazing anyone could get away with anything. The problem was volume, there were just too many criminals.
What Catherine really wanted to do, after eating (she was famished) was to go to the shooting range. She could picture herself cycling through pistol – from the hip, from the shoulder, right-hand, left-hand, quick-draw from three positions, then sub-machine gun, assault rifle and shotgun, although the twelve gauge usually left her feeling slightly sore. She smiled to herself, she was having a common reaction. Whenever an officer went down the law enforcement shooting ranges were filled to capacity. It was unwritten standard procedure that they would stay open late. Gunshots as therapy.
She thought Lane might someday enjoy a shooting range and ballgame date. She looked up at him. “Do you like baseball?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“Do you play golf?”
“No.” she said.
And their beeper began to vibrate and flash red.
Lane followed Catherine through a small forest of unlit propane heaters. The inside of the restaurant was an open-air courtyard. There seemed to be no plan at all for rain. People enjoyed eating outside in Cambodia too, but there was always the threat of tropical precipitation.
As the hostess led them to a fountain-side table, Lane decided that he might not be the only one in the Cheesecake Factory who wasn’t wearing underwear.
NORWALK – 7:54 P.M.
Napolion sat unreclined in his recliner and listened to the jet rattle his windows. Only the older ones did that, usually a Mexicana 727 or a Colombian DC-9. The newer planes, even the biggest ones, were quieter. He lived beneath the final approach to LAX’s right-hand runway, 21R, the one that serviced the Bradley International terminal.
Jets flying into Los Angeles airspace flew an intricate path along the mountains and freeways to avoid flying over the wealthier residential areas before turning and lowering their landing gear directly over his apartment. It would be quietest if they approached over the Ocean, but the wind always blew in, providing lift for take-offs. And take-offs were louder than landings anyway. Napolion didn’t care that much about the noise, he was just happy that his rent was less than what some people paid to keep their pools cleaned.
He’d moved into the tiny 1BR after separating from the kids’ mother. That hadn’t worked out, but they still occasionally slept together, neither of them ever finding anybody as familiar or as convenient. And not living together had seemed to vent a lot of the hostility and pressure that had been an everyday ordeal when they lived under the same roof. There was no pressure on him to improve now, even though he kept the pressure on himself.
Napolion’s heart was racing, and it wasn’t from the jets or the seven Vivarin in his system. The vision of the dead family was on a continuous loop in his brain. And always accompanied by one thought – if it hadn’t been them, it would have been his kids.
And somehow his tip to the FBI had gotten a cop killed. A federal cop. What if the FBI wanted to talk to him? Record his voice? He wa
s sure the FBI taped all their calls. Now he was scared to even answer his phone. Shit. It wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out who called in the tip - Trevor probably didn’t know very many black folks. He’d just deny it. Why did he feel guilty? He had only been reporting a criminal. He wasn’t asking for a reward. Maybe he needed an attorney. What the hell blew up in Trevor’s house? Napolion didn’t even allow himself to have a gun in his apartment, not with the kids, it was just too risky. A Louisville Slugger was his only home defense. Which was just as well, since maybe the FBI would be coming through his windows next.
He should have turned him in a different way, the phone call had been a big mistake. He should have used a fake voice. Or sent an anonymous letter. Like the real landmine character. Christ, the whole city was going crazy. Helen freaking out every-time they showed the picture of that stupid horse. Or half a horse really. His favorite Shuggie Otis song ruined forever.
The only good thing had been when his supervisor had called to tell him his shift was cancelled. The supervisor was an asshole too. “Looks like Trevor’s gonna be out for awhile. We’ll try to get you back on the schedule as soon as we can…”
Napolion was most worried about his kids. After leaving a half-dozen messages for their mom, he’d set them up in the bedroom with his laptop, watching a dvd. They had gone out to Dr. Video’s and gotten a new movie, “D4 – The Mighty Ducks Quake the Case.” The kids seemed mesmerized by it. Napolion generally didn’t go to Dr. Video’s, he could never remember when they were due back and was always getting hit with late fees. He had a friend who got all his movies for free from the library, but that seemed complicated, and Napolion never knew when the library was open. He had pirated basic cable and the kids were usually happy to watch Spongebob Squarepants and Squigman.
Napolion knew he would have to have a serious talk with them about what they had seen at the beach. Only he wasn’t sure what to say. He’d seen his first dead body in the street when he was about their age, could still remember the swollen face and open staring eyes. It was nothing like going to a funeral. But no one had ever talked to him about it, and he’d never told his Mama he’d seen it. Napolion didn’t know what he was going to say to anybody. For now, he thought, he would continue to exercise his right to remain silent.
CHEESECAKE FACTORY –8:05 P.M.
“What are you going to have?” Catherine was flipping the pages of the substantial menu. A book really, a laminated catalog of food. It actually took Lane a minute to realize it was a menu. There were tabs on the side that separated each section and opposite the descriptions of the food were full-color photos. Only they weren’t pictures of the food (something Lane had seen many times) these pictures were advertisements. And Lane noticed many of the ads featured photographs of brides. An ad for the Woodland Hilton Wedding Coordination Team said “Trust Us with the Most Important Day of Your Life.” Did eating cheesecake make you want to get married?
“You should think about what kind of cheesecake you want now. I’m always too full to actually order it. I think just the idea of it is what keeps me coming back.” Catherine said.
Lane flipped to the dessert tab and found thirty-three different kinds of cheesecake listed. Non-alphabetically. The ad across from the cheesecake was for a local scuba shop. It offered "honey-moon training.” He flipped back, it was too overwhelming to contemplate.
Catherine, still perusing the list, said, “Chocolate chip cookie dough, definitely.”
“Sure.” Lane said.
It only took Lane two more minutes to settle on
BANG-BANG CHICKEN AND SHRIMP
A Spicy Thai Dish with the Flavors of Curry, Peanut, Chile and Coconut. Sauteed with Vegetables and Served over Rice
Their WAITER, who had an annoying triangular soul patch under his bottom lip, showed up to take their order. Catherine ordered a
MOJITO
Bacardi Limón Rum, Fresh Mint and Lime On the Rocks
- A Cuban Favorite!
And then the
PETITE FILET
A Smaller Version of Our Most Tender Steak
Served with French Fries and Onion Rings
Lane thought about beer, there were sixteen different choices, but decided on iced tea instead, “a refreshing herbal blend.” The waiter, who wrote nothing down, thanked them and left.
A young-looking man in green scrubs (almost identical to Lane’s) walked by the table. His pants fit much better, and he wore the clogs that prevented the cuffs from dragging on the ground. The man didn’t meet Lane’s gaze, but glanced down dismissively at Lane’s combat boots.
Lane tugged at his admissions bracelet. He didn’t like being labeled. He automatically reached for his buck knife and realized he didn’t have it. He’d lost it somewhere on his journey to the hospital. Maybe somebody thought it was one of Trevor’s knives from the closet door and seized it as evidence.
The waiter with the soul patch returned and put a serrated steak knife next to Catherine’s plate. Lane thought about asking to borrow it so that he could cut off the bracelet, but decided it might be a faux pas, he didn’t know her well enough. And apparently there was no special cutlery provided for the Bang Bang Chicken.
The Mojito and iced tea arrived and Catherine and Lane both began drinking without a toast.
“This tastes kind of like whiskey,” Lane said.
Catherine nodded. “It’s probably the apricot.”
Tugging at the admissions bracelet again, Lane wondered if the hospital had found his health insurance card in his wallet. There had been no paperwork. Did Catherine take care of it? Maybe they had just gotten the information off his dog tag. He couldn’t imagine where they would send his bill – perhaps to the DOD. He was definitely in the line of duty.
The hostess sauntered by and Lane made a conscious effort not to stare. But he saw Catherine scrutinize her with a cop-like thoroughness.
Lane said, “You know cosmetic surgery is free in the army.”
Catherine looked at him. “I’ve heard that.”
“But you have to supply your own implants.”
“Huh.”
“In the Israeli Defense Force you can’t get plastic surgery, but you get free education. Every citizen has to serve and if you can’t read when you go in you don’t get any other training until you master that.”
“What do they do in our army if you can’t read?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s probably not very fun. But I know that if you can’t do math they send you to the Pentagon.” Catherine smiled politely at his joke.
“Anyway, I’ve been seriously considering doing something about my webbed toes.”
Catherine stared.
“I’m just kidding.”
Lane felt a stray drop from the fountain land on his cheek. He scratched the gun in his boot. “Does it ever rain?”
“In the winter, for about two weeks.”
“You know that land mine treaty has affected our policy. An example is how we pulled all our mines out of Guantanamo. It might seem like an empty gesture since the only people who ever stepped on the mines were Cuban defectors, but it was still a start. And we didn’t suffer a single casualty removing them either, the maps were very accurate. We didn’t sign the treaty mostly because of the situation on the 38th Parallel. And the army also had an issue with getting rid of claymores. It’s hard to get much sleep in a foxhole without a claymore pointed toward the enemy. Which isn’t really a mine, because you detonate it yourself, usually.”
“Hm.”
A heavy-set young woman they hadn’t seen before brought their food. She wasn’t wearing make-up. The staff seemed to be getting progressively less attractive. Lane scratched one of the band-aids on his face and wondered where they hid the dishwashers.
Major Joel Lane took one bite from the massive platter of Bang Bang Chicken and Shrimp and felt instantly full. Almost nauseas. He remembered a Buddhist telling him the first bite of anything is the best. He put his fork
down and watched Catherine. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she needed to eat. She tore into the Petite Filet like a wolverine with table manners. Although Lane noted that she avoided the onion rings.
A strawberry daiquiri interrupted her feast.
The soul-patched waiter set the drink down and cleared Catherine’s empty Mojito glass.
“What’s this?”
“From an admirer.” The Waiter motioned with his head at a middle-aged woman standing two tables away. She waved and approached. She had a nine-year-old girl with her who wore a pink tank top that said “Princess in Training” in a bubble-lettered font.
“You’re her, aren’t you?” The woman said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the FBI woman. From the news,”
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