She checked the monitors until she found an angle on the hallway. She saw him exit the basement. The night scope image was grainy, but she could make out his general appearance. White male, tall, dark jacket, button-down shirt open at the collar. Sharp, angular face.
The gun was in his hand, and she wondered if he had the nerve to hunt her down and engage in an exchange of fire. Even as she asked the question she saw him turn to the left, the wrong direction if he meant to come after her. A moment later another camera showed him leaving by a rear door. Its slam echoed through the house. He knew she must have recovered her weapon, and he wouldn’t risk combat.
Another screen offered an angle on the backyard, a glimpse of a fleeing figure disappearing through the hedges.
She couldn’t catch up with him on foot, but in her car—maybe. She exited the house via the front door and ran to her Jag. Jumped in, started the engine. Took the next corner, flicking on her brights, scanning the shrubbery. She circled the block three times, then tried the adjacent blocks without success.
He’d gotten away.
She stopped the car and sat there, and suddenly she realized she was shaking all over.
It hit her now—only now—the full aftereffects of her encounter. How close she’d come. How incredible that she’d made it out alive.
Through it all, she’d been focused only on survival. Her only objective had been to draw another breath and another. Pure animal instinct. She’d had no thoughts of Chelsea’s safety, or Grange’s.
And, of course, no thought whatsoever of God. But that fact didn’t surprise her. She would have expected nothing else.
She headed in the direction of the Brewers’ house in the Hollywood Hills. En route she speed-dialed Alan. He must be out of the office by now, but the call would be forwarded to his cell. He answered at once.
“Chief, what’s up?”
“Slater sent me to the location where the bet was placed. I got into a situation.”
“What kind of situation? Why do you sound so frazzled?”
“I got jumped, but I’m okay. Contact Di Milo at home and send him to the address I just left. It’s 24012 Cressley in Westwood. I left the front door unlocked. Have Di Milo check the surveillance system, see if there are tapes showing the gunman’s face.”
“The guy was armed?”
“Like I said, I’m okay. He wasn’t a pro. The way he talked, I’d say he’s a businessman. He said something about his family being involved. I don’t know what that means or who he was. Maybe we can identify him through the address.”
“I’m on it.”
“Listen, the anonymous call that tipped us off about Chelsea—can you trace it?”
“No can do. The guy used a prepaid phone card, so the call was routed through the provider. What showed up on the caller ID was a generic eight-hundred number for AT&T. Anybody could have made the call, from any area code. Why the sudden interest?”
“I think Swann was the caller.”
“Yeah? Well, if he uses the same phone card when he makes the ransom call, there’s no way we can trace it. All we’ll get is the AT&T routing number.”
“We have to try anyway. Have you got the…uh…Ampersand box?”
“It’s an Asterisk box, and I’m working on it.”
“Work fast. Swann will be calling in an hour.” There was so little time.
The last thing she asked for was Skip Slater’s phone number. She reached him on the first ring.
“Your bettor is definitely mixed up in this. And guess what, Mr. Slater? That means you’re involved, too.”
“Hey, I want Chelsea back as much as you do.”
“Prove it. I want you to go to the Westwood address. One of my men will be there reviewing the security system. You can search the computer’s hard drive, see if there’s any information that might help us.”
“What kind of info?”
“Any kind. Will you do it?”
“I guess, but…isn’t this a job for the police?”
“You’re the anarcho-libertarian, aren’t you? The one who doesn’t cooperate with agents of the established social order?”
“True.” He didn’t seem to catch her irony. “So this is a civilian black op? We’re off the grid, running below the radar?”
She rolled her eyes. “Roger that.”
When she was done with Slater, she scrolled through her cell phone directory and found the Brewers’ home number. She didn’t want to say much over the phone, but she could at least confirm that Sam knew Swann.
It took Victoria six rings to pick up. She sounded sleepy and irritated.
“I need to talk to your husband,” Kate said.
“At this hour? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s important.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight.”
“Just put him on, please.”
“He’s not even here.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Where he always goes to blow off steam. The Ninth Circle.”
“What’s that? Strip club?”
“It’s a video arcade. Hollywood and Western. He’ll be easy to spot—the only person over forty.”
“Right.”
“You know, I wasn’t joking about my glassware. That was a very expensive piece, and it’s coming directly out of your fee—”
Kate clicked off and drove east, toward Hollywood.
HOLLYWOOD and Western was a dicey neighborhood at the intersection of different ethnic territories—Asians to the east, Hispanics to the north, Armenians to the south—a tangle of suspicions and hatreds, pornographic bookstores and loan shark parlors, taquerias and fast-food joints that sold drugs on the side.
Kate eased past a double-parked panel truck whose owner appeared to be burglarizing a TV repair shop. Just beyond the truck was an island of lurid light and animated neon. The Ninth Circle. She found a space at the curb.
She would have loved to carry her Glock, especially after what she’d just been through, but there was a security guard at the arcade entrance and she didn’t want him to spot the gun and turn her away. She left the gun in the glove box, trusting the car’s customized alarm system to deter all miscreants.
An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out. The guard, engaged in an in-depth exploration of one nostril, didn’t glance at her as she went in.
The crowded arcade was a wall of sound. She threaded her way among the game kiosks, reviewing Sam’s history. Two juvenile convictions: auto theft and assault. The records were sealed, but people talked. Two felony convictions as an adult and a string of misdemeanors, some pled down from felonies. Burglary, drugs, weapons violations, brawls. He was currently being sued by a paparazzo for breaking the man’s jaw.
She passed teenagers jerking joysticks and pumping quarters into slots. A young crowd, Salvadorans mostly. Hard Aztec faces, sullen glares, Gothic letters tattooed on their foreheads, marking them as MS-13 gangstas.
And there was Chelsea’s dad, fifty years old, bumping and grinding a video pinball game like he was having rough sex with it.
She waited until the computer-graphics ball dropped through the simulated flippers and out of play. Before he could launch a new ball she thrust an arm across the front of the machine, blocking his view. He pivoted, shoulders hunched in a belligerent stance. His posture didn’t relax even after he recognized her.
“What the fuck you doing here?”
She didn’t have to look far to see where Chelsea had picked up her potty mouth. “I need to talk to you.”
He straightened. A bulge under his vinyl jacket printed like a handgun. “About what?”
She flipped open her phone and showed him Swann’s photo. “You know this man. Your daughter told me he used to hang with you.”
He glanced at the photo, and she saw the heavy swallowing motion of his throat. “Why’re you talking to Chelsea about this?”
“Just tell me everything you know about
Jack Swann.”
He hesitated. “Okay. But not in here. It’s too noisy, and this isn’t something I want to shout about. Lemme finish my game.”
“You’re finished.”
“Got one round left.”
She leaned past him, launched the electronic ball, then delivered a kick to the machine with the side of her foot. The TILT sign lit up, immobilizing the controls. Sam watched helplessly as the ball skipped from one bumper to another in a convincing simulation of gravity before dropping out of sight.
“Shit, lady. Costs a buck fucking fifty per game.”
She followed him out of the arcade. Sam had worked with Swann before. There was a chance the two of them had hooked up again, even conspired to pull off the abduction. He could be leading her into a trap.
“Where are we going?” she asked when they stepped onto the sidewalk, past the useless security guard.
Sam pointed to a Lexus RX 330, black and sleek. “My ride.”
He unlocked the doors with the remote and got in on the driver’s side, letting her climb into the passenger seat. The key, she noted, was jammed in the ignition, and though he hadn’t started the engine, he could turn it over in less than a second. If he took off without warning, she might not have time to jump out.
“Tell me about Swann,” she said. “Friend of yours?”
He rasped a chuckle. “Friend of nobody.”
The Lexus’s interior lights dimmed, leaving her and Sam Brewer in the dark. “But you hung out,” she said.
“We never hung out. Swann never came by on any social calls.”
“Why did he come by?”
His hand moved, and she thought he might be reaching for the gun under his jacket. But he only scratched his chin. “How tight are you with the cops?”
“I have contacts in the LAPD and the sheriff’s department.”
“They help you out, you help them out?”
“Mostly they help me.”
“It always goes both ways.” Spoken with the weary cynicism of a man who knew only how to use people or be used by them.
“Sometimes they ask me to keep an eye open. Why are we talking about this?”
“If a client of yours—or someone related to a client—admits to a crime,” he said slowly, his voice drifting lower, “you’ll tell the police.”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“How serious the crime is. How long ago it happened.”
Sam thought about that. “It’s not murder or anything.”
“Okay.”
“It was ten years ago.”
“Did anyone get hurt?”
“Not in any significant way.”
She wasn’t sure what this meant. “And Swann was involved?”
“Swann was more than involved. It was his thing. I was just along for the ride.” He turned toward her. “If you’re recording this conversation, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m not recording anything.”
“Maybe I should frisk you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
He snorted a laugh, then looked away as if satisfied. “It was good, what you did at the house.”
“What I did?”
“That glass shit Vicki’s always buying. I liked seeing you break it. I’d like to smash all that shit.”
“I didn’t do it for fun. I did it to make a point.”
“Thing is, you did it. I like that.” He relaxed a little. “Look, the details don’t matter, okay? Swann and me pulled off a heist. His plan. I was just the second pair of eyes. We split the take—well, not split, exactly. It was thirty/seventy. You can guess who got the short end of the stick.”
“He ripped you off?”
“No, it was our agreement all along.”
“Why’d you work for thirty percent?”
“Whole job was his idea.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“You want a reason. Okay, here’s a reason. Nobody bargains with Swann. You do what you’re told; you take what you get. And you hope he moves out of your life ASAP.” He pronounced the acronym one letter at a time, with strange formality.
“And that’s why Swann used to visit? So you could do jobs with him?”
“Not jobs. Just one job. He stopped by a few times to go over the plan. Then it was done, and he never came back.” She saw it again—that slow, viscid swallowing motion of his throat. “Until now.”
“You’re afraid of him.” She expected a denial.
“Goddamn right I am.”
“Why? Does he hold some kind of grudge against you?”
“He don’t need a grudge.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he don’t always have a, you know, rational basis for the shit he does.”
“Sam, it’s not you he’s after. It’s Chelsea.”
“What makes you think so?”
“This may be hard for you to hear.”
“Just say it.”
“Swann has your daughter. He abducted her an hour ago. He’s already spoken to me on the phone, told me to keep the law out of it. I assume he’ll be making a ransom demand when he calls again.”
“Huh.” The word was flat, toneless. “Does Vicki know?”
“I haven’t told her yet. It’s the kind of news that has to be delivered face-to-face.”
“So…it’s got nothing to do with me at all.”
In the furtive flicker of his eyes she read relief. “Try not to look so happy about it.”
“I’m not happy. Hey, she’s my kid.”
“She’s a meal ticket. That’s the only reason you’re in her life. That’s all she means to you.”
“You been listening to Vicki.”
“Vicki’s the same way. Your daughter’s been killing herself and you don’t give a damn as long as the checks keep clearing. Now she’s been abducted by a psychopath, and you’re relieved it’s her instead of you.”
“I care about Chelsea,” he muttered.
“If you do, then help her. Tell me about Swann. Anything that might help me understand him.”
“Understand him? You want to understand him?”
“Is that so hard?”
“Impossible is what it is. There’s nobody like Swann.”
“You’ve known your share of hard cases. What makes this guy so special?”
“I told you. He’s not rational. Not right.”
“Not right, how?”
He sat silently, breathing, breathing.
“He’s polite,” Sam said finally.
“What?” Kate thought she hadn’t heard correctly.
“It’s what makes him…different. He’s always polite. Talks real soft. Says please and thank you.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Yeah, it’s a problem. Because you never know what’s going on inside him. He can be smiling and shaking your hand, calling you his good buddy, and the next thing you know, he’s got a knife at your throat. It’s just how he is. All charm on the surface, but underneath there’s something crazy, and you can’t predict it. Because there’s nothing he won’t do. No kind of pain he won’t dish out.” He sat quietly. The long speech had exhausted him.
“You’re saying he’s a sadist,” Kate said, thinking of Chelsea.
Sam’s mouth twisted. “That’s too nice a word. Too civilized for him, for what he does…what he’s capable of…”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t. But I can show you—if you really want to know.”
“Of course I do.”
“Strap yourself in.”
He cranked the ignition key. She made no move to flee. She was no longer afraid of going with him. She was no longer afraid at all.
It was Sam Brewer who was afraid.
SAM picked up the eastbound Hollywood Freeway, gliding fast through quicksilver currents of headlights, exiting south of downtown. He parked on a side street in an industrial district, got out of the Lexus, and started walking. Kate fol
lowed.
Big warehouses lined the roadside, fed by railroad spurs. Boxcars loomed outside loading bays. A Doberman growled behind a hurricane fence placarded with NO TRESPASSING signs.
“Not a great place to be in the middle of the night,” Kate said. “Now I’m actually glad you’re carrying.”
Sam’s eyes ticked toward her. “You saw the piece under my jacket and you still came out here with me?”
“Sure did.”
“Balls of steel, lady.”
Yards behind them, the Doberman let out a volley of barks. Kate paused, looking back.
“What?” Sam asked.
“I thought I heard footsteps.”
They listened. Silence.
“Paranoid,” he said, moving on.
——
The goddamned dog nearly gave him away. He bent low in the shadows, breathing slowly, calming himself.
He ought to kill the animal. He had a gun with him, an untraceable black market gun. But it wasn’t silenced. Even if it had been, they would hear. The report, though muffled, would carry on a still night.
Anyway, it wasn’t the dog he wanted dead. It was Kate.
She was more active than usual tonight. Earlier, she broke into a house in Westwood and a few minutes later came running out, carrying her gun. Then she hooked up with a man he recognized as Chelsea Brewer’s deadbeat father, and now they were on a mission together in an industrial wasteland.
But she wouldn’t be active much longer.
All he needed was one shot. A clear opportunity. But Westwood had been too quiet, too many people in the houses, and it would take only one night owl to look out a window and identify him. The arcade was too crowded; no way he could maneuver in there.
Now she was in the emptiest part of LA he’d ever seen, a part of town he’d barely even known existed, and it should have been perfect. But Brewer was with her, and the man was a career criminal. Kate was probably still carrying concealed, and Brewer might be, too.
He couldn’t chance it. He was a fair shot, but he had no experience hitting live targets. He needed to get close, but the risk was too great.
Hard not to make the move, though. At this distance, he might be able to pull it off. It took all his self-control not to squeeze off four rounds, a double tap on each target from behind. He could picture it: the clouds of blood, the jerking collapse, the shuddering piles of limbs. Maybe Kate would live long enough for him to approach her, show himself. I warned you, he would say. On the phone, remember? I warned you to look out for your own security for a change.
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