The Lost Witness
Page 35
“Figured what out?”
“I know how you found me.”
“I thought you said that you weren’t hiding.”
“I wasn’t. But I needed to know and now I do. Someone gave you my name. And I found out who.”
Lena glanced at the chief, then leaned closer to the phone. “Do you know where he is?”
Cava laughed again. “In a small bungalow on a hill facing the beach. He thinks he’s found paradise. In a few minutes he’ll probably change his mind, though.”
“This isn’t the way to handle it, Cava. You need to turn yourself in.”
“A guy like me needs to do a lot of things,” he said. “And you were wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
“Killing,” he said. “When we met, you said I liked it. Maybe we’ll talk about it someday.”
The phone clicked off. Lena stared at the snowflakes drifting down onto Hollywood, then turned to the chief as he filled her glass.
“You were right,” she said. “The world isn’t as big as it used to be.”
54
Cava slipped Vinny Bing’s cell into his pocket and glanced at the two bodyguards. They were sitting on the floor in West’s bedroom, their oversized bodies propped up against the wall on either side of the bathroom door. Their head wounds had stopped bleeding while he was on the phone. Still, the wall would need to be wiped down before he left. And something would have to be done about the stain on the carpet.
Only Alan West would think that paradise came with wall-to-wall carpeting.
Cava looked at the clothes laid out on the bed as he listened through the door to West taking a shower. He had forgotten to pop a Flomax this morning and needed to take a leak. The sound of the senator soaping it up in all that water wasn’t helping much. At the same time, life had its rewards. Within the next few minutes all business would be concluded. In another day, Cava would be a thousand miles away picking out his chaise longue in Coronaville.
In another day he would be invisible.
The two bodyguards had gone down as easy as a couple of dead trees, and this surprised Cava. When he saw them in LA. they looked so rough and tough in their black suits. Each one of them had to weigh in at over two-hundred and fifty pounds. Maybe it was the change to Tommy Bahama sportswear that weakened them. Maybe the flowers on their shirts lowered their guard. Or maybe it had something to do with the suntan lotion on their meaty white legs and their big red noses.
Cava didn’t really give a shit what it was. He had been watching the house for a day and a half and the only thing that mattered was that it had been easy. One round each from a .22 pistol stuffed inside an empty half-gallon Pepsi bottle to dampen the noise. They never did see the gun. Just the Pepsi bottle. Just Cava’s friendly smile and wave.
But even better, Cava was certain that West didn’t remember that he had actually talked about this place six months ago when they discussed what might happen if things went wrong. West had talked it up and even pointed it out on a map. An oasis, he called it. A safe haven with maid service, satellite TV, access to the Internet, and all of the amenities a U.S. senator in hiding might require.
Cava lifted the KitchenAid Pro mixer out of the box and set it down on the table. Attaching the meat grinder, he estimated that he would be working with more than seven hundred pounds of raw product and hoped that the 325-watt motor was up to the job.
He could hear the senator singing a show tune now. West seemed to know all the words to “Singing in the Rain,” but couldn’t quite manage to stay in key. Cava shook it off, setting a box of butcher’s paper beside the meat grinder and laying out a fresh roll of masking tape.
He was ready. Everything he needed was here. And the senator sounded like he was in a good mood.
He looked down at his lucky shoes. The cheap pair of sneakers that Lena Gamble had given him not knowing that they would play a crucial role in his escape. He wiggled his toes and smiled.
He wouldn’t be using the .22 this time. It wasn’t tactile enough and the moment had too much meaning. West had needed him and lied to him about everything. After the good senator killed that reporter and his little dog, he turned on him and gave him up. When that didn’t work, he made a run for it.
Alan West was a worm.
Cava thought about what he had just said to Lena Gamble on the phone. That he didn’t like killing. He knew in his heart that his words rang true. But maybe not this time. Not when it came down to Alan West. He wouldn’t even be using a knife because the moment was so special. So important to his psychological recovery.
The senator finally stopped singing and turned off the water. Cava pulled out his razor-sharp scalpel and wiped it on his shirt sleeve. Satisfied that the instrument was nearly sterile, and if not sterile, clean to anyone who might be observing, he glanced at the two dead guys on the floor and pushed open the bathroom door. He could see the senator through the steam. His hair matted down and his loose body dripping wet. He could see the man’s beady eyes on him penetrating the tempered glass. The shock and awe on his face. The fear and loathing. Although Cava had only been here for a short time, the people living in town looked hungry. Beef tacos were everywhere, but he noticed many people eating cheeseburgers as well… .
Also by Robert Ellis
City of Fire
The Dead Room
Access to Power
Acknowledgments
This novel could not have been written without the help and guidance of LAPD detectives Mitzi Roberts from the Robbery-Homicide Division, Rick Jackson from the Robbery-Homicide Division, Cold Case Homicide Unit, and Harry Klann Jr. from the Scientific Investigation Division. The author would also like to express a great debt of thanks to Arthur J. Belanger from the Department of Pathology at Yale University School of Medicine, and H. Donald Widdoes, for his work in firearms and ballistics. Although this story may have been inspired by real events, it is a complete work of fiction. Any technical deviations, exaggerations, or errors are the author’s responsibility alone.
A very special thanks must also go to my editor, Kelley Ragland, for her contribution to this novel. But also for her patience and enthusiasm and keen insights. To my publisher, Andrew Martin, for his belief in the Lena Gamble series and his unyielding support. To Christina Harcar and Kerry Nordling, who introduced this series to the rest of the world. To Matthew Martz for his attention to detail, Ronni Stolzenberg for her marketing wizardry, and Helen Chin, my copy editor, for her special care. David Rotstein for his moody jacket design, To my UK editor at Pan Macmillan, Stefanie Bierwerth, for her contribution to the story and her encouragement and kindness. To everyone at Brilliance Audio, including Bill Weideman for his direction, and Renee Raudman for her wonderful interpretation and read. And to Emma Higgs at Issis Publishing, and Regina Reagan, for another remarkable performance. To Sarah Melnyk for beating the streets and getting the word out, and Pat Schrevelius for managing the Web site so well. And to my agent, Scott Miller, a very special thanks for making all this happen.
The author is also deeply grateful to John Truby for his contribution to this story. But also to Joe Drabyak, Barry Martin and Mary Riley, Mark Moskowitz, Neil Oxman and Jean Utley. And to Nelson and Sharon Rising, who gave the author the experience and knowledge to keep this story balanced. Thanks to all for your advice and guidance and good friendship.
The author would like to thank Rayna Favinger, Kym Kegler, Naveen Mallikarjuna, S. Damon Sinclair, and Thomas “Doc” Sweitzer and Tam Heckel for their assistance and generosity during the writing of this work as well.
Contributions were also made by JJ Balaban, Marc Berzenski, Ezra Billinkoff, Lisa Cabanel, Jeffrey Confer, Michael Conway and Meghan Sadler-Conway, Peter B. Crabb, Peter and Terry Ellis, Chris Mottola, John Nelson, Raymond C. Noll and Deb Marciano, Bert Schrevelius, Jessica Shamash, Elaine Shocas, Jeremy Sykes, Rick and Michele Torres, Bill Wachob, and Kent Weber.
Last but really first, the author wishes to thank Charlotte Conway for her
grace and understanding. Without her help and support, this novel would only be a dream.
First published 2009 by St. Martin’s Press, New York
First published in Great Britain 2009 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2010 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-230-74134-8 PDF
ISBN 978-0-230-74133-1 EPUB
Copyright © Robert Ellis 2009
The right of Robert Ellis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases