This is good detecting, Jack. Too bad you're not being paid.
He walked around the wall to get a closer look, knelt down, and examined the footprints. The treads on the boot soles were identical. Crepe soles in a zigzag pattern. Uniform boots military issue, like the ones the soldiers who had put him in the car were wearing. It was then that he noticed the three holes punched into the damp sand. They were about two and a half feet apart, at the angle of an isosceles triangle.
A tripod!
Somebody stood out here after the rain and took pictures.
Still shots?
A video transmission uplink ?
So, what were CDF commandos doing out here taking pictures of Susan?
He already knew the answer: They were doing surveillance, ready to kidnap her if they thought it was going to be necessary. He was now pretty certain the dreams he'd had were not dreams. He and Herman had been debriefed quizzed under drugs while a commando team waited here to be told whether or not to seize Susan.
Had he and Herm "passed " the test? Is that why she had been left alone? Is that why they had been released?
Herman saw hybrid aliens, but Jack was trained to see evidence, and these footprints under the wall were definitely evidence.
He turned and walked back inside. He sat down on the sofa and listened to Herman's rant.
Herman was jazzed, talking about Area 51, Dreamland, The Ranch, Aurora Whisperships, and a bunch of other Roswell nonsense. Jack listened, but his mind drifted. Suddenly, Herman unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down.
Okay, Jack thought. I'm outta here.
Herman was showing Susan an abdominal surgical wound with four stitches.
"What is it?" Susan asked.
"Somebody did some kinda operation on me."
Jack didn't like this. In fact, he hated it.
"I had an arrhythmia in the helicopter," Herman was saying. "It was gone when I woke up."
"Dad, you've got to go get checked out."
"I will. But, honey, I've never felt better. I feel reborn, like I'm ten years younger. Like this heart problem somehow got fixed."
Herman and Susan sat transfixed, but Jack needed air again, so he told them what he had found under the wall. Thev all
trooped outside and looked at the footprints. Herman took photos.
Jack had another thought. "Herm, did you have any dreams while you were asleep out there?"
"Yeah, I dreamed about some huge, winged bat-humanoids, and some reptile men that my old clients, who once worked there "
"Forget the Japanese animation," Jack interrupted. "Was there anything else, more like memories of what you did over the last few days?"
"Yeah. I had a strange kinda dream that was exactly like my trip out to JPL. My talk with Dr. Zimbaldi."
"I think before we take you to the hospital we need to go check on Zimbaldi."
"Why?"
"I don't think you were dreaming, Herm. I think we were both spilling our guts. I think Zimmy is about to eat it."
Chapter Twenty-Six.
Zimmy wasn't at JPL, but Jack got his home address from the Security Office by flashing his fancy new imitation ostrich P.I. license holder and saying: "Police."
The girl handed him a slip of paper and said, "Zimmy told me yesterday they're painting his apartment. I think he's staying at his ex-wife's place."
"Could I have her address, please?" Jack smiled, giving her his best ten-megawatt meltdown.
"Montrose Apartments, 2300 Montrose Boulevard in Montrose. Apartment ten."
He ran back to Barbra's Mercedes, where Herman and Susan were waiting. He jumped in the car and headed west on the Foothill Freeway, hoping
Montrose was in that direction. He was lucky. Montrose Boulevard was a freeway exit.
The apartment house was a two-story, sixties-type building: a gray stucco box with white trim. He pulled past and parked across the street in somebody's driveway.
Jack had grabbed his backup gun from the trunk of the Fairlane before they left Malibu. It was an S&W Model 60, lightweight, three-inch barrel, burnished finish, and it was under his coat, jammed in his belt Billy-the-Kid style. "Okay . . . whatever you do, don't leave the car until I get back."
Herman and Susan nodded grimly.
He walked to the corner and bought the Los Angeles Times from a newspaper box, transferred the revolver from his belt to the inside of the folded newspaper, tucked it under his arm and crossed the street.
He entered the building courtyard, spotted apartment ten on the second floor at the end of the corridor, then climbed the interior stairwell and banged on the door. "Dr. Zimbaldi?"
Nothing.
He knocked again and tried the door. Locked. When he rattled the knob, it felt like there was no deadbolt, just a button lock. Another job for Wells Fargo Bank. Jack took out his credit card, slipped it into the space between the door lock and the jamb, then pushed.
Credit approved.
It was a very ordinary, sparsely furnished apartment. He moved quickly through the neat two-bedroom, one-bath layout, then ended up in the small kitchen. There was no sign of Zimmy or his ex-wife.
He walked out onto the balcony, which offered a quasi-view of the Valley. Jammed into that small space were a wooden chair, an orange Webber barbecue, and a chest-style Amana freezer from the horse and buggy era. Jack opened the freezer, praying that Zimmy wouldn't be inside curled up next to the flank steak.
The Amana was filled with ice cream. He snagged a container of Rocky Road, pried it open, then went back inside to borrow a spoon from the kitchen.
The P.I. takes an ice cream break.
Two blocks away a windowless, brown Econoline van pulled up and parked off Foothill Boulevard. Inside Vincent Valdez watched a GPS monitor with a small locator light flashing on the LED map screen, then said: "He's around the corner on Montrose."
Marine Captain Norm Pettis, who had flown in from D.C. with Valdez on a private jet that morning, was seated next to the assistant director in a little command chair bolted to the floor of the van.
"Strockmire should lead us to Zimbaldi," Valdez continued. "We move in fast and take everybody. But, whatever you do, make sure you get that encrypted file." It was hot in the van and moisture was collecting under his armpits. He didn't want to stain his Armani jacket, so he took it off. "Turn on the engine and get the air going," he ordered the driver.
"Whatta you wanna do?" Captain Pettis asked. "Looks like he's just parked over there.
"Take a walk down the street and hang an eyeball on them. Lemme know what you see."
Pettis pushed a computerized receiver chip into his ear, fixed a pin mike to his lapel, then opened the van doors. He was dressed in chinos and a sport jacket. The only uniform issue he wore were his J-6 laced leather jump boots. He liked them because they gave him good ankle support and had reinforced metal toes. He jumped out of the van, then sauntered casually down the block, turning the corner on Montrose Boulevard.
Almost immediately, he saw Herman Strockmire and his daughter, Susan, sitting in a silver Mercedes.
"I have our people in sight," Pettis said into his lapel mike. "Whatta you want me to do? They're just sitting in a Mercedes looking across the street at the apartment house."
"Go check the mailboxes, see if anything over there lights up."
Captain Pettis entered the Montrose Apartment courtyard and began to quickly scan the mailboxes. On the second row, two from the end, a typed face card read: DONNA ZIMBALDI.
"Looks like a sister, or an ex-wife or somethin' lives here. Donna Zimbaldi, apartment ten," he said into the pin mike.
"Go sell her some mags," Valdez instructed.
"Roger."
The mailboxes were locked, but bulk mail was in open trays under each box. So Captain Pettis went magazine shopping. He picked out a Vogue, a Redbook, and a few other women's magazines, then went upstairs and knocked on the door of Donna Zimbaldi's apartment.
Jack heard the knock, set d
own the ice cream, and crossed to the door, snapping up the newspaper off the kitchen counter as he passed. Holding his gun in his left hand, he folded the paper over it, then opened the door with his right.
"Hi," Norm Pettis said. "I'm with Helping Hands and we're selling magazine subscriptions to benefit the Children's Cancer Center. Is Mrs. Zimbaldi at home?" Pettis thought the guy in the apartment looked familiar like the P.I. in the briefing photos they'd taken at Area 51, but he wasn't absolutely sure.
"There's no Zimbaldis live here. Just me and my brother, Lonnie, but he ain't home." Jack smiled, then glanced down at the magazine salesman's feet. Crepe soles on black leather jump boots.
"Maybe you should write your number on this newspaper, I could have him call you. He's always giving to charities."
Jack pressed the paper at him until the man finally took it. Once he did he was looking at the revolver.
"This is a big mistake," Pettis said.
"Why don't you come on in? We're having ice cream." Jack yanked him through the door, then closed and bolted it. "You wired?"
Pettis didn't respond, but Jack spotted the pin mike on his lapel, ripped it off, and stomped on it. Then he saw the earplug. "Get the receiver out." Pettis dug it out with his thumb and index finger. It was a microchip about the size of an eraser with no wire. "Nice," Jack observed, dropping it into his pocket.
Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs, whistling. He spun Pettis around and frisked him quickly, pulling a Clock 9 out of a waist holster, a SIG P-232 off his leg, and a stun gun with two batteries out of his coat. "You really came to party," Jack quipped as he pulled the clips and both slides, then threw the guns across the room.
"You're just making things worse for yourself."
"You, too," Jack said, and clocked him hard on the head, banging the side of the Smith and Wesson against the man's transverse occipital bone police academy combat tactics. Guaranteed to produce a snooze.
Pettis went down in a clutter of stolen magazines.
A key scraped in the lock.
Jack aimed his gun and waited.
When the door opened he was looking at a very intense, wirey man wearing Bermuda shorts, grimy tennies with no socks, and a threadbare red-checkered shirt, complete with pocket protector.
"Dr. Zimbaldi?"
"What are you doing in my wife's apartment?"
"Trying to save your life. I'm with Herman Strockmire. We've gotta get you out of here."
"You're what?" Zimbaldi said.
Jack heard a car squeal to a halt in the parking lot below followed by four doors slamming. "Listen, Doctor, we need to leave right now. Your life is in danger. It's about that stuff Herman gave you the fifty-page encryption."
"That's silly."
Jack didn't have time to discuss it, so he turned and pulled the confused Dr. Zimbaldi out of the apartment and into the corridor.
"Where's the service elevator?"
"There isn't one."
Just then the doorway to the staircase flew open and two men in jeans, combat boots, and windbreakers appeared. Both were holding guns that were unlike anything Jack had ever seen long elliptical shapes with narrow frames and breeches, laser sights, and banana grips deadly looking two-handed ordnance.
Jack jumped back inside the apartment, pulling Zimmy with him just as the men fired. Two laser beams of light zapped ominously, ripping holes into the door frame.
He slammed the door shut. "Is there a back way outta here?"
"This way." The doctor led Jack into the bedroom. Zimmy dug under the bed and came out with a rope ladder. "Fire ladder," he explained.
They opened a window, hooking the rope ladder to the sill, then throwing it down. Jack helped Dr. Zimbaldi out, then climbed after him. In seconds they were standing in the carport.
"You got a car?" Jack asked urgently.
"Yeah, the white Nissan." Zimmy pointed to it.
A Nissan Sentra. Shit, Jack thought. A roller skate with seat belts.
"Okay, I'm going across the street," Jack told him. "Hopefully, Herman and his daughter are in a silver Mercedes over there. After I leave, count to ten and get moving. We're using your wheels. Pick us up. You with me?"
"Yeah."
Jack ran to the corner and looked across the street. He could see Herman and Susan, but they had ignored his instructions and gotten out of the car. They stood looking right at the apartment building across the street, like gawkers in Times Square. They might as well have been holding a neon sign over their heads with an arrow pointing down.
Jack crossed Montrose Boulevard, threading his way through traffic, and as soon as he got to the car he grabbed Susan's arm.
"You're both leaving in a white Nissan. Here it comes now. Leave the rear, right side door open for me. Go."
A gray sedan Jack had never seen before skidded around the corner at the other end of the street. There were four men inside.
Jack pushed Herman and Susan toward the Nissan, shouting at them to get in. Then he jumped behind the wheel of Barbra's Mercedes, gunned it, and shot backwards out of the driveway, right into the path of the fast-approaching government sedan.
A symphony of tortured rubber, crashing metal, and broken glass filled his ears as the sedan plowed right into the driver's side, knocking Barbra's little silver jewel halfway up the block and Jack halfway down into the knee well. He didn't have time to worry about whiplash.
Jack rolled out of the passenger side and started sprinting. He ran straight at the Sentra, then dove headfirst through the open rear door into the backseat, landing right in Susan's lap. "Go, go, go, go!" he yelled.
Zimmy floored it, but not much happened. The car choked and wheezed, whirred, and woofed, and then, as fast as you could say, "This car really sucks," they were slowly moving up the street.
"Can't it go any faster?" Susan yelled in dismay. And then it finally picked up speed. Jack sat up and looked out the back window. Montrose Boulevard was a mess. The government sedan and the silver Mercedes were crumpled up in the middle of the street,
twisted together and blocking both lanes. Traffic art. Other cars had skidded to a halt behind, completing the ugly sculpture.
"My God, what the hell will I tell Barbra?" Herman said, looking back at the wrecked Mercedes as the Nissan rounded a corner and took the horrible vision away.
"Tell her the airbags didn't deploy," Jack answered.
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
When Jack called Miro, Jackson Mississippi answered: "Reflections. We mirror your fantasies." So that's what it meant. "It's Jack." "Jack with the nipple pierce, or Jack with the fox terriers?"
"Jack with the gun."
"Oh. Hi." Not too enthusiastic about it either. "Is Miro around?" Jack said. "Uh . . . yes." "Could I speak to him?" "Uh ... I guess." Then Jack was put on hold. Barry Manilow was halfway through "I Write the Songs" before Miro picked up. "Hi, big guy. How's my trifle who's an eyeful?"
Jack let it go. "Miro, look, I got a little problem and I need a quiet place to hang for a while. I pissed
some guys off and I can't go home, can't go to my office. I was wondering if we could use the little side office you rent, the one next door to mine."
"The Lipstick Lounge?" Miro said. "The what?"
"We have a few cross-dressers."
"Great," Jack sighed. "Can I borrow it for an hour?"
"Bring it on, sugar."
"And Miro? Don't send anybody down to answer my phone. My office isn't safe."
"Don't worry. You cured us of that. Come ahead."
Jack had Zimmy drop him on the corner, then jogged past another fishing party while he scoped out the building. He was looking for a gray sedan with four guys with muscles and crew-cuts. Of course, everybody looked like that in Boys' Town, but there were always the telltale jump boots.
The building lobby looked clean so he went upstairs and checked his office. He hoped nobody had kicked the door this time, but the lock was still busted, so it was moot. If these g
uys from Montrose were the same ones who broke in earlier, they'd be showing up soon. By using the office next door Jack hoped he could get a visual ID when they rolled in. It's always nice to be able to recognize the assholes who are trying to kill you.
He went back downstairs and waited while Zimmy parked the Sentra, then led the three of them up the stairs toward Reflections. He heard some male giggling in the escort service waiting room. As soon as Jack opened the door the laughing stopped.
Sprawled on a couch across from a desk were four young men. "Meet Chip and Jeff, Steven and Mark," Miro announced to Jack, pointing a ringed index finger at each one as he ticked off their names. The escorts all smiled and gave Jack a quick visual frisk.
"Come on." Miro picked up a ring of keys and led the fugitives up the hall and opened the door to the office that adjoined Jack's. It was empty, but there was a wall-to-ceiling mirror, a sofa, a folding clothes rack with gowns, Spandex dresses, and hats. A shelf on one wall contained boxes for wigs and a huge shoe rack filled with stiletto heels and clear plastic mules in large sizes.
Miro didn't seem to want to leave, so Jack did the introductions: "Casimiro Roca, this is Herman Strockmire. You met Susan, I think, and this is Dr. Gino Zimbaldi."
Miro lowered his eyes demurely and extended his hand palm down to each of them.
Jack said, "We're being chased by thugs and I don't want something ugly to happen. You'd be much safer in your office down the hall."
"Don't worry about Miro. Miro has his green belt in tae kwan do and a certificate from the Royal Academy of Dance. The boy can kick ass," he replied. "And after all, this is Miro's office and Miro's dying to know what private eyes do when they're not drinking coffee and taking infrared pictures." Jack looked at the others for approval. They all shrugged.
"Okay, but it's gotta stay between us."
"Stop teasing," Miro gushed.
Jack smiled in spite of himself, then turned to the Strockmires. "Herm, we've gotta go over some things. We need to figure this out fast, because I think we have some big gaps in logic that need to be discussed before we make a mistake that kills us."
"I agree," Herman said as Miro sat.
Runaway Heart (2003) Page 17