by Robert Crais
“What do you want me to do with them?”
As in, should he bury the bodies, or leave them?
“I don’t want you to do anything with them. They’re cops. I need to lose them.”
Losing a trail car was easy, but surveillance teams didn’t follow a target like ducklings. They surrounded their target in a loose and changing formation like a school of dolphins, tracking their target from positions ahead, behind, and on parallel streets. The only way to beat them was to force them into a group.
Pike said, “Kenter Canyon.”
I saw the plan the moment he said it.
“I’ll need wheels.”
“Give me an hour.”
Kenter Canyon was in the hills above Brentwood, not far from UCLA. I made two stops on the way, once for gas, and at a discount store known for home entertainment bargains. I bought a disposable phone with texting and voice mail features, and four hundred minutes of anonymous prepaid call time. I activated the minutes in the discount store’s restroom, and set my office and cell phones to forward my calls to the burner. I texted the new number to Pike as I walked to my car.
I called Meryl Lawrence next and got her voice mail. If callbacks were my business, business was good.
“This is a new number. Don’t use the old number. I’ll explain when you call.”
The burner rang thirty seconds later with a chirpy ring I didn’t like.
“Why do you have a new number?”
“The police are following me. They’re upping the heat.”
Her voice softened and she sounded afraid.
“Did they see us this morning? Did they follow you to her house?”
“I don’t think so. They probably picked me up at my office, after.”
“Wonderful. You don’t think so.”
“This is me protecting you, Meryl. If they grab my phone records, they’ll know we spoke when I was in Echo Park, and they’ll contact you to find out why. I don’t think they saw us, but if they did, they’ll find you through your license plate, and ask the same questions.”
“I cannot believe my life has come to this.”
“Tell them the truth or make up a cover story, but let me know so we tell the same story. Do you understand?”
She took a single breath.
“Here’s what I understand. My husband has a gambling problem. I found money missing from our retirement accounts and he gave me a bullshit story about investing the money. I hired you to find out. You followed him to those gambling clubs in Bellflower and that’s what we talked about. How’s that?”
“One more thing.”
“Can this get any better?”
“A man named Charles sent roses to Amy about ten days ago.”
Meryl Lawrence made a long I-told-you-so hiss.
“I knew it. I knew someone was using her.”
“Flowers don’t mean someone is using her. They may not mean anything. Does she work with a Charles?”
“No.”
“He could be someone who’s thanking her for business or a favor. What about an outside contractor?”
Meryl spoke quickly.
“If I knew who he was I wouldn’t need you. Find him.”
The line went dead as I checked the mirror. The blue Dodge was back, but didn’t stay long. It appeared twice more, never closer than three or four cars, and I never picked out the cars that replaced it. I wouldn’t have known the Dodge was following me if they hadn’t jumped the red. Jumping the red had cost them.
I passed UCLA and the National Cemetery in Westwood, and reached Brentwood when Pike texted.
HERE
Pike, saying he was ready.
12OUT
Me, saying I was twelve minutes away.
Kenter Canyon was a narrow box canyon in the foothills of Brentwood above Sunset. The canyon was dense with upscale homes, but higher, beyond the houses, the hills were undeveloped, and thick with scrub oak and brush. Unpaved roads and trails had been cut for fire crews, and were open to hikers and runners. Pike and I ran the trails often, and knew the canyon well.
A single, innocuous residential street led into the canyon, and appeared to be the only way to enter or leave. Smaller streets branched and re-branched from this larger street as it wound its way higher, but the smaller streets appeared trapped in the canyon. This wasn’t true, but the convoluted route using these smaller back streets wasn’t easily found. Pike and I knew this way, and another, but I was betting the tail cops behind me didn’t, and wouldn’t, until I was already gone.
I didn’t use my blinker, and gave them no warning. I turned abruptly, at the last second, onto the sole street into the canyon. The trail car was forced to turn with me, and the flankers had no choice but to fall into line. Just like that, they were bunched together, and behind me.
They’d feel a quick jolt of panic, worried that I could give them the slip, but they’d feel better when they checked their maps. They’d see only one way in or out of the canyon, so the lead car would fall back to give me plenty of room. One car would remain at the bottom to guard the exit, and the rest would follow, confident they had me trapped. I was counting on their confidence. They wouldn’t know they were wrong until I was gone.
I wound and twisted to the top of the canyon, where the street ended and the fire road began, at a heavy black gate. Cars belonging to hikers and dog walkers lined both sides of the street. Pike texted again as I parked.
GO
Pike was nearby, watching.
I gathered everything connected to Amy Breslyn, locked my car, and hurried around the gate. There was only one street in or out of the canyon but two ways to leave. I would be gone in fourteen minutes.
I tucked the yearbooks under my arm like a football and fell into an easy jog.
A quarter-mile in, Pike texted.
1W2M
The first car had arrived with two male occupants. I picked up my pace.
At the half-mile mark, a second text arrived.
2W2MW
A second car had arrived, this one with a male and female team.
I slowed at the mile marker to shoot Pike a text. I was almost gone. Half a mile to go.
CALL?
The burner chirped. I hated the chirp.
I said, “What’s happening?”
“Two men in a light blue Dodge two-door. White guy with long blond hair. Latin guy driving, high and tight.”
“That’s them. What about the second car?”
“Gray Sentra. Man and a woman. The woman is driving.”
The Sentra meant there would be a third car. They wouldn’t leave the exit unguarded.
“What are they doing?”
“The Latin dude walked up past the gate, but he’s already back. No way he saw you.”
“Tell me if they leave.”
I picked up my pace again. I didn’t want them to leave. I wanted them to waste time trying to figure out why I came to this place, and whether they should hike in after me, or hang back and wait. The more they talked, the better. Each minute they yakked brought me a minute closer to gone.
The burner chirped again.
“Sentra leaving.”
I jogged faster, and saw gated homes ahead. Three minutes to go. Maybe four.
“The Dodge?”
“Still here. The blond is on the phone.”
Sooner or later, they would bring up a map and study the area at the mouth of the fire road. They’d eventually expand the map, and trace the fire road to a housing development separate from the canyon to which I led them. And this was when they’d realize I’d lost them.
Pike said, “The Dodge is rolling. They’re coming your way.”
“Hundred yards.”
A bright yellow gate at the top of a cul-de-sac marked the end of the
fire road.
Pike said, “Green Lexus. Key behind the left rear. Tank’s full.”
I squeezed around the gate, and felt for the key. The Lexus was ten years old, but purred in a flash.
Halfway down to the freeway, a gray Sentra blew past going uphill, but the man and woman inside didn’t see me. The light blue Dodge turned in front of me as I reached the bottom, and powered up the hill. The men in the Dodge didn’t see me, either.
Slipping their tail was what we in the trade called ‘suspicious behavior.’ Carter would react fast, and come down hard, but Amy and Meryl were covered.
I picked up the freeway, and headed for Everett’s Natural Creations.
15
EVERETT’S NATURAL CREATIONS was on a hip street in Los Feliz lined with music conservatories, purveyors of artisanal coffees, and taquerías selling ‘hand-crafted’ tacos for eight bucks a pop. Hipness came with a price.
I parked around the corner but didn’t get out of the car. The police would be all over whoever owned Lerner’s house, but the current owner might not have been Lerner’s landlord. Rental applications were gold mines, and often contained contact information for employers, personal references, and relatives. I called a real estate agent I knew named Laura Freeman.
Laura and I went on one date eleven years ago and had a great time, but the next day she met the man she would marry. Her husband was a real estate agent, too, back when they met, and a struggling developer. He was smart, he worked hard, and together they built his business from single-family spec homes to shopping centers. My loss, her gain. Laura answered on the first ring.
I said, “Do me a favor and you can tell everyone I’m your boyfriend.”
“Who is this?”
Humor.
“I need the title history of a property in Echo Park.”
“Single family or commercial?”
“Single family.”
I gave her the address along with the burner’s number.
“We miss you. When are you coming for dinner?”
“When’s Donald out of town?”
More humor. Kinda.
She called me a horrible flirt, told me she’d phone when she had the information, and hung up. It wasn’t the first time.
I slid out of the car and was halfway to Everett’s when the burner chirped. Pike.
“The Dodge came back with a dark blue Ford.”
The Ford made three cars.
“Are they watching my car?”
“The Ford is watching. The Dodge crew hiked up the fire road twenty minutes ago. My guess, the Sentra is hiking down. They’re looking for you.”
“They’re going to be disappointed.”
Pike was silent for a moment, then simply hung up. To expect more was to be disappointed.
Everett’s was a world exploding with color. Arrangements of cut flowers and potted plants were displayed on tables and pedestals and hung from the ceiling. Buckets containing yet more flowers mazed the floor and filled cases lining the walls. The flowers were vibrant with life and color but absent of scent. The little shop smelled like plants, but not like flowers.
A young woman with heavy frame glasses and short dark hair was taking a phone order behind a counter. A second woman and a man in his forties were arranging flowers on a workbench behind her. The second woman wore a white tank top to show an enormous peacock tattooed on her shoulder. The man was bunching violet and pink roses in a heavy glass bowl. The roses were so densely packed they looked like a rose balloon.
I smiled at the girl taking the order. She held up a finger, asking me to wait. She finished scribbling, slapped the order on the workbench, and hurried back.
“Sorry. I hope you don’t need anything delivered today. We’re crushing to make the last truck.”
The man arranging the roses sang out over his shoulder.
“Not crushing, crushed! We are crushed! The pressure to create beauty has crushed us!”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“He loves it.”
The man sang out again.
“Oh, you wish!”
The girl had a nice smile.
“Okay, so, how can I help you now that you know we can’t help you?”
The man glanced from his roses.
“Speak for yourself, honey. Some of us here would love to help him.”
The girl giggled again.
I said, “You guys should take it on the road. You’re funny.”
The man fluffed at the roses.
“Some of us have many talents.”
The girl rolled her eyes again.
“He’s incorrigible. What can I do for you?”
I showed her the picture I took of the card delivered with Amy Breslyn’s flowers.
“You delivered flowers to us, but we don’t know who sent them.”
“It says Charles.”
“It says Charles, but there’s no last name. We know five Charleses. Could you please look up who sent them? We want to send a thank-you.”
The man with the roses made a swooning noise.
“He said please. OhmyGod, you must help this poor man, he said PLEASE!”
Her face grew serious, as if researching the order required great concentration.
“What was the name on the delivery?”
“Amy Breslyn.”
I spelled Breslyn.
The man eyed me while the girl went to a computer. His hands didn’t stop moving the roses.
“You don’t look like an Amy. Are you a Dorothy?”
“My wife.”
“Crushed!”
The peacock woman bumped him with her hip.
“Don’t you ever stop?”
“Not until everyone’s HAPPY!”
The counter girl typed Amy’s name into the computer and made a sad face.
“I’m so sorry. They were really nice, but it was a cash sale. There’s no purchaser information.”
Screwed. If Charles used a credit card I would have been golden, but Charles had paid cash. I stared at her, thinking about the cash, then checked the ceiling, looking for a security camera. The ceiling was bare.
“Do you have a security camera?”
The man hooted.
“Everett’s too cheap. If we had sex in here he might spring for a camera, but otherwise, oh please!”
“Maybe whoever helped him remembers what he looked like. I might recognize him if you describe him.”
The girl looked exasperated.
“We must get a hundred people in here every day.”
The man glanced at her.
“How much was the arrangement?”
“Jared!”
“You said it was nice. I’m trying to help the gentleman.”
“Three-sixty plus tax. A dozen Pink Finesse gardens.”
Jared smiled broadly.
“Someone wanted to impress. When was the purchase?”
The girl read from the card.
“Nine days ago. One dozen Pink Finesse garden roses. Thirty a stem including the vase. Three-sixty plus tax total.”
He thought for a moment.
“I was here, but it wasn’t me. I would remember.”
The peacock florist spoke as she worked.
“Wasn’t me. I did the peach and the yellows.”
I smiled at them. Their shop was filled with hundreds of roses in every possible color.
“With all the arrangements you guys make, you’d remember these particular roses?”
Jared said, “Of course! Garden roses have fragrance. Standard roses like these last so much longer, but have no fragrance. A rose without fragrance is like unrequited love, don’t you think?”
“I had that very thought this morning.”
“We orde
r only a few at a time because they fail so quickly. This is why they’re so expensive. Can you imagine anything more tragic? The greater the beauty, the more fleeting the life.”
Jared was something.
“Maybe Everett took the order.”
Jared hooted again.
“Everett’s a lox. Let’s see, nine days ago was week before last. Stacey was probably here. Stacey and maybe Ilan.”
I wrote my name and the new number on one of their cards.
“Would you ask them? Maybe Stacey or Ilan got his last name. It would mean a lot.”
The girl blinked at the card as if she didn’t know what to do with it and Jared finally turned from his arrangement. He studied me, thoughtful and curious.
“My. I think we have a story here.”
Now the peacock woman and the counter girl stared at me, too.
I said, “What?”
Jared smiled sadly.
“So much trouble to send a simple thank-you?”
I glanced away. I tried to look embarrassed and made my voice hoarse.
“Amy says he’s just a friend, but I found the card and I don’t know what to believe. I just want someone to tell me the truth.”
Jared considered me for a moment and picked up the card.
“I’ll check with the others.”
The counter girl adjusted her glasses. Nervous.
“I don’t think Everett would like this, Jared.”
“Everett knows nothing.”
He sounded bitter.
Jared tucked the card into his pocket and turned to his arrangement.
I said, “Thank you, Jared.”
“Everett’s a damned fool.”
I wasn’t the only one with a story.
The burner chirped as I left. I hoped it was the Lerners or Jennifer Li, but it was the phone letting me know I had a message. Laura Freeman returned my call.
“Check your email. The property is owned by a Juan Medillo. The tax records are attached. Am I not amazing? Any questions, just call. Or just call. Donnie hates it when you flirt with me.”
Her laughter sounded like chimes and made me feel better.
Amazing.
I was still smiling when I climbed into the Lexus, but when I saw Amy’s purchase receipt from the X-Spot my smile went away.