Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Chapter 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
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Praise for L .A. Outlaws
“T. Jefferson Parker’s terrific L.A. Outlaws introduces one of the most enticing heroines in recent American crime fiction. Her name is Suzanne Jones, and she leads a double life. Most of the time, thirty-two-year-old Suzanne is an eighth-grade history teacher and loving mother. Now and then, however, she dons a mask and a wig and is reborn as Allison Murrieta, a sexy, sassy armed robber who has become a Los Angeles media sensation. All [Parker’s] skills are on display here: vivid writing, strong characters, clockwork plotting, agonizing suspense, and, finally, an ending that manages to be just right. L.A. Outlaws is popular entertainment at its most delicious.”
—The Washington Post
“L.A. Outlaws may be my favorite of T. Jefferson Parker’s thrillers, and that’s saying something about this gifted writer. With its propulsive prose, tightly wound plot, and vivid leading players, it’s a keeper. Front and center is an appealingly wicked bad girl: mild-mannered history teacher Suzanne Jones by day, high-end car thief Allison Murrieta by night. Think of Elmore Leonard’s Out of Sight with a gender twist . . . totally compulsive reading.”
—The Seattle Times
“L.A. Outlaws is hard, fast, and etched with characters so sharp they’ll leave you bleeding. This is the best T. Jefferson Parker novel yet.”
—Robert Crais
“Out of Sight meets Gone in 60 Seconds. Bottom Line: Parker can write a tense action sequence—and there’s a peach of a showdown.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Terrific. . . . Parker continues to lay claim to literary ownership of all things Southern California. But [his] story and themes . . . stretch way beyond that. L.A. Outlaws is the best book of its kind since No Country for Old Men, and Lupercio rivals Anton Chigurh as psychopath of the century. Simply stated, once again Parker has penned the best mystery of the year.”
—The Providence Journal-Bulletin
“At once a noir thriller and a Western ballad of desperadoes and doomed lovers. The book is both hard-boiled and heart-breaking, Ross Macdonald as sung by Marty Robbins. Parker also manages something rare in the noir genre. He writes a powerful woman . . . neither a man-eating sexual profligate nor an old-school femme fatale. She is another creature entirely, fierce and fallible. Like the laconic lawmen who populate his fiction, Parker rides easy in the saddle. His concise prose, at once low-key and lyrical, plays almost like cowboy poetry. . . . Casting Parker as a mere mystery writer is a little like writing off Graham Greene’s work as espionage fiction.”
—Los Angeles Times
“[A] marvelous love story wrapped around a rip-roaring plot. The characters make this novel even more exciting than the chase, and Allison Murietta is poised to become a pop hero. In L.A. Outlaws, Parker’s best work to date, you’ll enjoy mulling which actress to cast as Allison in the movie.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“T. Jefferson Parker evokes the spirit of outlaw heroes like Jesse James with his latest thriller, L.A. Outlaws. Parker’s protagonist this time is something different: a self-styled Robin Hood for the twenty-first century . . . a bandit for the media age, performing for the cell phone cameras of her victims. A suspenseful and original story, L.A. Outlaws . . . is a fun one to read.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Two-time Edgar winner Parker may find himself picking up more awards with L .A. Outlaws, a tightly plotted tale that surprises at each turn and excels with strong characters. [He] continues to be one of the genre’s most original authors, proven by his fresh approach with L .A. Outlaws.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“No one does tough like T. Jefferson Parker, and this time ‘tough’ equates to one Allison Murrieta, a combination of Robin Hood, Zorro, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Gloria Steinem. An amazing read.”
—Elizabeth George
“Two-time Edgar winner Parker . . . once again displays his knack for creating captivating characters and his unabashed passion for California lore. Only two other authors—Dick Francis and James Lee Burke—have won the Edgar for best novel twice. Don’t be surprised if Parker is on his way to a third.”
—Booklist
“[A] brilliant new thriller. . . . In a city full of gritty Los Angeles literati, Parker takes a seat at the head of the class next to Michael Connelly with L.A. Outlaws, a novel that just might garner him his third Edgar, which is street cred even Connelly can’t claim.”
—The Sunday Oregonian
“Compulsively readable. Parker operates at a high level of audacity. . . . He takes huge chances in characterization and plotting. He handles potential prose land mines with such assurance that he seems barely to acknowledge the presence of risk. In L.A. Outlaws, he sets up three principal characters—good guy, very bad guy, and . . . a woman who is somewhere in between—and turns them loose.”
—The Toronto Star
“[An] irresistible antihero . . . [an] outstanding thriller. This tour de force of plotting and characterization may well be Parker’s best book.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also by T. Jefferson Parker
Laguna Heat
Little Saigon
Pacific Beat
Summer of Fear
The Triggerman’s Dance
Where Serpents Lie
The Blue Hour
Red Light
Silent Joe
Black Water
Cold Pursuit
California Girl
The Fallen
Storm Runners
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Previously published in a Dutton edition.
First Signet Printing, February 2009
Copyright © T. Jefferson Parker, 2008
Excerpt from The Renegades copyright © T. Jefferson Parker, 2009
All rights reserved
eISBN : 978-1-101-05249-5
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For Rick and Debra
1
Here’s the deal: I am a direct descendant of the outlaw Joaquin Murrieta. He was a kick-ass horseman, gambler and marksman. He stole the best horses and robbed rich Anglos at gunpoint. He loved women and seduced more than a few during his twenty-three years. Some of his money he gave to the poor, but to be truthful most of it he spent on whiskey, guns, expensive tailored clothes and on the women and children he left behind.
I got Joaquin Murrieta’s good looks. I got his courage and sense of justice for the poor. I got his contempt for the rich and powerful. I got his love of seduction. Like Joaquin used to, I love a good, clean armed robbery. I steal beautiful cars instead of beautiful horses.
Right now I’m about to stick up a west-side dude for twenty-four thousand dollars in cash. He won’t be happy, but he’ll turn it over.
And I’ll be richer and more famous than I already am.
My name is Allison Murrieta.
Here’s how you get a mark to bring you that much in cash: you put an ad in the Auto Trader for a 2005 BMW 525, low mileage and mint condition, and you ask twenty-five thousand, which is three grand less than it’s worth. You get a lot of calls on that car. They know you should be asking twenty-eight, but you’re a woman and you don’t sound overly bright. You’ve got a soft voice. You talk up the Beemer’s options and upgrades. The creamy leather and all that, even though BMW leather isn’t creamy. You say you’re pretty sure it’s worth more but you’re willing to sell quick because there have been some disappointments lately and you really do need to get on with your life.
You can hear the excitement in the men’s voices. The women often say they understand the disappointment part. You set up a time and a location to meet and you forget about them.
You’re waiting for Greed to make its appearance. It always does. Guaranteed. In this scam it’s always a dude, because they smell a chick in distress and can’t pass up an opportunity to help her out and cheat her at the same time.
“Will you take twenty-four thousand in cash?” Greed asks.
You can hear the pride in his voice when he says the word. Cash. You try to sound firm. “I need twenty-five. I think that’s a pretty good deal for a 525 with twelve thousand miles, isn’t it?”
“You said LoJack and navigation?”
“Premium sound, too.”
“Twenty-four, cash.”
“Okay. I’m Allison.”
“Rex. What’s your address?”
Laurel Canyon. Dusk on an August Saturday, about eight P.M. The L.A. sky is orange and gray and the air smells like flowers and exhaust.
The lot is tree-shaded, surrounded by a wall heavy with nightshade. There’s a “For Sale” sign out front on the street. It took me weeks to find this place. The right place is everything.
I park down the street and wait outside the house, a swanko glass-and-steel job with big smoked windows. Nobody can see me from the street. I’ve got my back to the driveway. I’ve got my gloves on and my mask on and my hair under a wig and the wig in a ponytail. My leather satchel sits on the ground beside me.
When I hear the car coming up the drive behind me, I hold Cañonita up next to my ear. Cañonita is a .40-caliber, two-shot, over-and-under, ivory-handled derringer that fits in the palm of my hand and from any distance at all looks like a cell phone. It will blow a big hole in you but is accurate only to about ten feet. Maybe. I continue to stand in front of the window with my back to the driveway.
In the smoked glass I watch Greed come up the drive in an old BMW 535, probably a ’92; he’s got it washed and waxed and the “For Sale” sign taped inside a window. He’s five minutes early. I leave my back to him, and my head cocked toward Cañonita.
Greed parks and gets out. He’s forty and fit, wavy gray hair. I see his reflection as he walks up, and I’m careful to keep my back to him. He smiles small, trying to keep his good luck under wraps and not tip me to my own stupidity. He approaches, checking out my butt, his smile tight and dry.
“Allison. Rex.”
I impatiently wave him toward me but I don’t turn around. I can’t allow a mere person to interrupt a cell call.
Rex walks obediently toward me, stops, looks around. “Where’s the car?”
I can’t let him come any closer or he’ll make me. Or at least he should.
In the window, reflected Rex looks oddly hopeful, then I turn, take a quick step up to him and place Cañonita right in front of his eyes. The two barrels must look gigantic to him at this range. Tunnels to hell.
“Fuck,” he says quietly. “You.”
Rex backpedals off-balance, falls but gets up and backpedals again. Two seconds later I’ve got him over the hood of his ancient sedan, gun pressed up nice and snug to his forehead. I’m physically strong, have a black belt in hapkido, and I’m swearing at him in a very calm voice. Through the windshield I see the envelope on the passenger seat and think to myself, Mother of God, people do the dumbest things, which is exactly why I do so well in my business.
“Is that my money, shithead? That better be my money I see in there.”
Of course I talk like this because I’m half terrified that something might go wrong. Terrified I’ll have to shoot this guy—there’s a first time for everything. The words are just weapons, something I can use to hurt and scare him.
He picks this moment to try to turn things around. Almost every guy will try to fight you. Most dudes just cannot get jacked at gunpoint by a woman without putting up a fight—they’re incapable of it. I feel his body tighten and hear him holding his breath, and I know he’s about to explode on me, so I blast him with the full-strength pepper spray I have ready in my left hand, and he writhes away and slides down to the driveway with an agonized moan.
I get the envelope and make sure it’s my money.
He’s on his elbows and knees now, his face buried in his hands, breathing fast and whining quietly with each exhale. He peeks up at me, eyes flooded. I rock him over with one steel-toed construction boot and zap him again. Then I ci
nch his wrists and ankles with plastic ties from my pants pocket, tight but not tight enough to cut him unless he struggles.
“The car’s worth thirty, dumb-ass,” I say. “You get what you pay for.”
I get my satchel and drop one of my cards beside him. He’s crying. I walk away while into the satchel goes Caño nita, my mask, my money and my black wig. I shake out my own light brown hair and slide the pepper spray into its little holster on my belt.
I round the nightshade-covered wall.
Then I stride—don’t hurry, don’t hustle, don’t trot—toward my car. It’s parked one house away, facing downhill toward Sunset.
What a nice evening. Some frat boys in a ragtop Mustang check me out on their way up the hill, hoot and holler. Nice to be appreciated.
I’ve got a little swagger to my step, and I’m tapping the mask and envelope against my left thigh with each stride toward my Corvette Z06—505 big-block horses, all mine. They whinny as I get in.
2
Home for tonight is the Luxe Summit Hotel up Sunset—big rooms, you can park yourself and you’re right on the freeway. I let myself in, shower off the fear, break up my cell phone on the cool bathroom tile and flush the pieces down the toilet. I’ve got three more cells, the ones you load with prepaid minutes and toss before the number gets hot.
I lie down on the bed and picture Rex coming toward me, checking me out. Then his eyes, bloodshot and dripping tears. I sleep hard for an hour, dream I’m riding a horse along a beach where I hold up a good-looking buck with a saddlebag full of gold bars then we make love in a sand dune on the beach and I steal both horses and ride away while he sleeps.
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