Eckhardt shrugs. 'I have now.' He fumbles for a cigarette.
'Wait,' says Koop. 'I'll do it.' Koop hates smoke but denying Eckhardt would be like depriving a diver of oxygen. And it'll help Eckhardt concentrate.
Koop lights up and coughs. He hands the cigarette to Eckhardt, who looks at the filter dubiously. 'Bit wet, isn't it?' Then he shrugs again and sticks it hungrily in his mouth.
It takes thirty-five minutes of stop-start driving before Noone gets off the freeway.
'Careful,' says Koop but there's no need; Eckhardt's smooth. He swings onto the down ramp and pulls in right behind the Toyota at the stoplight on the looped exit.
'What the fuck are you doing?' says Koop.
'Easy, chief.' Eckhardt blows a plume of smoke out of the window. 'If he's wondering about us this'll stop him. When did you ever see a tail pull up close like this? Besides, if I hadn't it would have looked weird. In this traffic you take your slot when it comes.'
Eckhardt's got a point. Avoiding the Toyota would have been strange.
Waiting for the lights they take the time to study the man following Noone. He's white, short-haired and with wide shoulders. His clothing is dark. There's nothing personal on show in the car and nothing on the outside that indicates where the vehicle's from, other than a generic California plate. No bumper stickers, no insignia. Koop writes down the tag.
'He's some sort of law,' says Eckhardt. 'Far as I can tell.'
'Maybe. Military?'
'Why the fuck would some military bloke be following our bloke?'
The lights change and the Toyota moves lanes to get a little nearer to Noone's jeep. The caterpillar of cars bends through the intersection and up onto La Cienega.
'How do you pronounce that?' says Eckhardt, glancing up at the green street sign. 'Hard "c"? Or "ch"?'
'Search me. Do you always discuss pronunciation during a tail?'
'What else are you going to do?' says Warren. 'It's a pretty long tail and you have to pass the time somehow. I haven't got a never-ending supply of snappy dialogue like you. Besides, I really want to know. Chee-enn-ah-gah. I reckon that's it.'
'Fuck off. Concentrate on the road.' Koop checks his watch. Almost twelve-thirty.
Noone drives north and after a couple of turns pulls into a quiet residential street off Sunset Boulevard. The place looks like it belongs somewhere else out in the Midwest. There are white picket fences and fresh-painted porches with double-seat swings on them. Koop remembers his surprise at the contrast between the main arteries and the side roads in LA from his first trip. For Eckhardt it's all new.
He rolls the van past the end of the street and stops out of sight of the side road on Sunset.
'We can't stop down there,' he says. 'Might as well be driving an ice-cream truck.'
'Wait here,' says Koop. He puts on a khaki cap and grabs a clipboard and tool belt. 'I'll call and let you know what's happening. For all we know he's taking a short cut.'
The tree-lined street, despite connecting Hollywood and Sunset, is almost eerily quiet. Koop, in his make-do uniform, feels exposed, fake. Looking north he can see the blue Toyota stationary on the right-hand side of the road. Noone's jeep is parked about eighty metres further on. Maybe two minutes have passed since Eckhardt stopped the van.
A nearby house has a Halloween pumpkin on the porch. There's something familiar about the place but Koop can't work out what and has no idea why there'd be a pumpkin there in July. It adds to his sense of unease as he tries to look convincing in his role as some kind of tradesman.
He's getting closer to the Toyota. He can see clearly the silhouette of the man in the front seat and Koop has no choice but to walk past. His phone vibrates in his pocket but he lets it go. He can't talk to Eckhardt now – he's three paces from the car and the driver's window is down.
Shit.
Drawing level, Koop tries to appear engrossed in something on his clipboard. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpses the driver's face.
He gives Koop a level glance and then turns back to the view through the windscreen. Up ahead, a white open-topped minibus with 'Starline' written on the side in red turns into the street. Packed with tourists holding cameras it passes Noone's jeep and drives slowly down the street. As it approaches the house that the blue Toyota is parked outside, the bus slows to a halt and Koop can hear the tour guide's excited commentary. The house is the one used in the horror movie Halloween.
The bus is temporarily blocking the road.
Noone's jeep pulls out and turns into Selma Avenue. As he does, the blue Toyota, frustrated by the bus, blares his horn. The bus driver holds up an apologetic palm, puts the bus into gear and moves forward. By the time a gap has opened up, Noone and the jeep are gone.
Smooth, thinks Koop, as the blue Toyota accelerates towards the intersection.
Koop walks away from the tour bus, takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Warren. There's no answer.
Koop walks around the block and comes out onto Sunset. After the shade of the side streets the sun is blinding. There's no sign of Warren.
'Shit,' mutters Koop.
Nine
At the cafe Noone finally gets what he wanted from Angie.
The guest list for the Fundraiser.
The Fundraiser. Always with a capital 'F'. Angie is sleeping with one of the lawyers on the fundraising committee. It's all she's been talking about for days.
Noone's given Angie a good Hollywood reason for the guest list: he wants to network. A lot of names at the party. His status as a new arrival, and his story to Angie about the unlucky end to his big break on The Tunnels, rings true. Noone doesn't have to lay anything on too thick; Angie believes him. And, since he's exactly the sort of moneyed contributor the party machine is interested in, she hands the guest list over without a murmur. Ben had explained his need for the list to her; there's no way he's going to stump up a wad for the ticket – thirty grand – without knowing who he's rubbing shoulders with. He tells her it's just between the two of them. He doesn't want every fundraising body in town chasing him. When Leon goes to the bathroom, Angie slips Noone the list.
As they're leaving Grind, Noone makes the guy following him. He glances across towards Starbucks in the reflection in a dry-cleaning store and sees the blue Toyota move off.
So fucking obvious.
A black curtain descends. Noone's had enough of this shit. If someone's going to follow him at least make a show of being professional. Who sits in a car outside a coffee shop for that length of time? Go inside and order coffee. Make it look respectable. He'd clocked the car earlier as well as the tall guy with the laptop. Since laptop boy didn't make a move Noone figures he got that one wrong.
Noone fingers the short-bladed knife he carries inside his jacket. He's got plans today that don't involve being tailed.
By the time he's in West Hollywood the Toyota's still there. Noone gets to North Orange Grove Avenue, turns in and accelerates hard for the intersection with Selma. He'd had a thing with a girl here when he was twenty and knows the area well. He parks close to the corner with Selma, leaving the jeep in full view. As expected the Toyota pulls into North Orange Grove behind him and parks at the lower end of the street when he sees Noone's jeep at the kerb up ahead. The driver's hoping that Noone hasn't seen him. He pulls in on the left-hand side so as to remain half-hidden by the two vehicles between his car and Noone's jeep.
Noone's prepared to wait twenty minutes but he's in luck. To his right, one of the tourist buses that plague the area dawdles slowly down Selma Avenue and turns into North Orange Grove. Noone turns away from the camera-happy tourists as the bus passes. In the rear-view he watches it reach the Halloween house, blocking the Toyota, and pulls out quickly into Selma. He makes a right and then another and pops back out onto Sunset heading west towards I-10 and Palm Springs, confident he's not being watched.
Ten
'Fucking piece of shit!'
Warren throws the prepaid mobile onto the passen
ger seat in disgust. Noone's jeep is back on Sunset. It just popped out right in front of him and accelerated west. The sudden appearance of the car causes Warren to drop the lit stub of his cigarette onto his lap. By the time he's found the thing and burnt his fingers, Noone's almost out of sight.
'Shit.'
Warren looks around but there's no sign of Koop or the blue Toyota. From the speed Noone's going, Warren's guessing that he's slipped the tail.
There's nothing for it. Warren pulls out and follows. Conscious of driving in foreign traffic, he tries to call Koop again but there's nothing. He can't work out if it's the signal, the battery, or some other thing. One-handed there's not much he can do except stay with Noone. Koop will just have to work it out for himself.
Now Noone's really moving through the traffic and Warren has trouble keeping pace. There's a dizzying rush of freeway entrances and exits and then they're on I-10 burning through what looks like the outer suburbs. Pomona, Ontario, Colton. The names blow past like leaves in the wind.
About an hour in and the smog lifts like a theatre curtain rising. There's a clarity and sparkle to the air here that makes Warren feel he's just cleaned his sunglasses. To either side of the road scrubby desert starts to dominate between the industrial units.
Warren checks his fuel. Half-full. On the GPS he presses through the menu to give him a high view of the map. The only place he can see up ahead is a place called Palm Springs. Today's not working out exactly as expected.
On the side of the road giant white wind turbines sprout like alien wildflowers; thousands of them. To Warren's right, a mountain range with snow clinging to the clefts at the ridge. The temperature gauge has been climbing for thirty minutes: 69 in LA, it's 112 now. Warren takes a minute to work it out and then turns the aircon higher. Whatever it is, it's fucking hot out there. The Sonny Bono Memorial Freeway. Jesus. Warren only knows the name because of that one song: 'I Got You Babe'. Is that all it takes to get a freeway named after you?
Warren squints into the distance. It's hard keeping track of Noone but he's pretty sure he's still got him in sight. There's an exit coming up and Noone takes it. Warren eases back and waits until he sees Noone loop around and back over the freeway, heading north on something called Twentynine Palms Highway. After a few minutes the road starts to climb, and in the more powerful vehicle, Noone pulls ahead. By the time Warren gets to somewhere called Morongo, Noone's gone.
Warren tries Koop again on the phone but this time it's definitely a signal problem. He pushes on another five minutes but it's useless. Warren pulls into a gas station outside Twentynine Palms – which turns out to be a town – and refuels. He buys a pack of cigarettes and uses the payphone inside to call Koop and leave a message.
'I lost him,' says Warren. 'I'm at somewhere called Twentynine Palms, wherever that is. No idea if he's gone further or turned off so I'm heading back. I'll see you at the apartment. Call me if you get this message before then.'
Warren hangs up and stretches. Outside, the air is dry and hot, but pleasant in a way. Better than the humidity back home, anyway. Warren walks off the station forecourt and onto a patch of scrub. He takes a cigarette from the fresh pack and lights up. Warren stands looking at the distant mountain range while he smokes. When he's finished he grinds the butt underfoot, taking care that it's dead. This country looks like it could burn easy.
He sees a sign for the bathroom and follows the building to a back lot that faces a section of rising scrub. Drain the snake before the slog back.
He's at the urinal when the door opens behind him.
Warren glances over his shoulder.
It's Noone.
The man looks at Warren, a neutral expression on his face.
Warren nods affably and turns his back.
In a long career, not without incident, it's one of the hardest things he's ever done. It's like turning his back on a Bengal tiger. For a second or two Warren looks at the white tile of the restroom wall and wonders if it will be the last thing he sees. Wouldn't be a great way to bow out.
And then Noone takes his place at a stall two down. Neither man speaks.
Warren finishes, forces himself to move slowly, and washes his hands. His back itches in anticipation of the knife but it doesn't come. He dries his hands under the blower, the noise from the motor filling the restroom. As Noone moves to the washbasins, Warren leaves and walks out into the heat. Everything looks better than when he went inside. He can almost hear the angels singing.
Hall-e-fucking-lujah!
Warren walks to the van and climbs inside. As he starts the engine, he looks in the wing mirror and sees Noone leaving the restroom. Warren pulls out and joins the traffic on the highway. He points the van back towards Los Angeles, fumbling a cigarette from his pack, and lights up, his fingers trembling. Drawing the smoke down deep, he feels his overworked heart thumping in his chest.
A few minutes later, Warren sees Noone's jeep blow past as the road winds down the mountain pass towards the desert plain and the freeway beyond. He doesn't give chase. If Noone sees the white van tailing him his cover is gone. Now that Noone's seen it, they'll have to change the vehicle for something else.
Besides, Warren thinks he might be about to have a heart attack.
Eleven
Frank wakes from a dreamless sleep at 4 am with a jolt of fear. He has a feeling he shouted something in the moment before waking but what it is he can't remember.
It takes him a few minutes to focus on where he is before he gets out of the hotel bed. The view through the window looks like something from a 'Batman' movie. Gotham's dark but there's activity everywhere.
So it's true. This city doesn't sleep.
Frank takes a long shower and gets dressed and spends a couple of hours going over the case notes. It's not until he turns on his laptop that he finds the email from Koop.
'Problems,' it says, cryptically. 'Call me when you get this. Whatever the time is. Your phone's not working. Urgent.' The email has the numbers for Koop and Eckhardt's new prepaids.
Frank picks up his mobile and checks it. It seems like it's fine but when he tries to dial Koop there's nothing there. Frank picks up the receiver by his bed and presses for an outside line. He starts to dial before hesitating and replaces the receiver.
There are things happening that are worrying him. Dark shapes drift beneath the waiting surfer. Maybe using the hotel phone isn't such a good idea.
Frank emails Koop to say he'll be travelling to LA later once he's heard from Lopez.
At seven, Lopez calls and asks him to meet downstairs in the hotel bar.
'I thought I was going to call you?' says Frank.
'Does it matter?'
She's drinking coffee when Frank gets there. There's no sign of Monroe and Lopez doesn't offer an explanation.
Frank orders coffee and sits down.
'Did you find anything?' he says. He already knows the answer by looking at Lopez.
The agent hands Frank a padded envelope. Inside is a DVD.
'The footage from JFK,' says Lopez.
'The same as yesterday?' says Frank. 'Or is this the full director's cut?'
Lopez shakes her head. 'There's nothing more on there than you've already seen.'
'This is crap,' says Frank. He moves to stand but Lopez puts a hand on his wrist. Frank sits back in the chair.
'There's no more footage,' says Lopez. 'Believe me, I looked.'
'But someone wiped it?'
'That's not what I'm saying. I have no evidence of that.'
Frank waves the padded envelope. 'There's this.'
'It's not good, I'll give you that.'
'So what am I still sitting down for?'
Lopez looks around the room. There are about ten other tables occupied from maybe fifty. 'I'm here alone.'
Frank doesn't say anything.
'Monroe wouldn't come,' says Lopez in a low voice. 'Do you know what I'm saying?'
Frank raises an eyebrow. 'No,' he says. 'I do
n't.'
'He's ambitious,' continues Lopez. 'Being seen with you isn't good.'
'I'm not sure . . .'
'You should be careful, DCI Keane.'
'Is that a threat?'
Lopez digs a nail into Frank's hand and he flinches. 'I'm taking a risk coming today, asshole. Our advice was to leave you alone. Not do anything, just leave you alone. The agent who told me to do that is my boss. He looked scared and he's not a guy who I've ever seen look like that before.' Lopez moves her hand away and then gets to her feet. 'But just letting you ride doesn't feel right to me, so I thought I could come along and at least make you aware of the field you're playing on. Someone big enough to scare my boss is a truly frightening concept.
'Be careful,' she says and leaves Frank sitting at the table alone.
Twelve
Koop crosses Sunset and walks towards a main intersection. At a cafe he sits at the counter, orders orange juice – he's caffeined to the gills after the stint at Starbucks this morning – and gets the number of a cab company from the waitress. As he waits for the cab he calls Eckhardt but the phone rings out.
Back at the apartment Koop calls Frank. It's just after two in Los Angeles, three hours behind New York.
'Koop,' says Frank. He's at the departure gates waiting for the flight to LA. 'I called earlier but there was no reply.'
'Yes, we're having some trouble with these prepaids. Listen, can you talk? I mean, are you alone?'
'Yes. I'm on my way to Los Angeles.'
'CCTV no good?'
'It's been erased. Lopez – she's the FBI field agent here – says it's "unfortunate". Says she's sure it's coincidental. She said it in a voice that might have been sarcastic.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Well, right, exactly. We have him on tape but not calling. It's not a massive thing; his lawyer would still say that doesn't prove he was using Peters' phone but it means we can't triangulate the times. Anyway, what's your news?'
Down Among the Dead Men Page 28