“Satisfied?” Jeffery said.
“Oh no,” I said. “Sit facing me.”
He did. I put the flashlight on him again.
“Let me see your wallet,” I said.
“What?”
“Wallet. ID check.”
“I don’t have my wallet. You think I—”
“Then I pat search you. If I find that you do have your wallet, I break your arm.”
He gave me his wallet.
I checked the license. The name on it was Timothy Railsback.
“I thought your name was Jeffery,” I said.
“You called me that.”
“Why would you be using a fake name, Jeffery?”
He said nothing.
“I don’t like liars,” I said. “Do you want to know what I do with liars?”
“No,” he said.
“Tell me about Kalolo.”
“Who?”
“Kalolo Tuputala.”
“I don’t know anybody named that. What do you want from me?”
“The truth, Jeffery.”
“I’m not Jeffery!”
“Let’s go home and find out,” I said.
That’s when Jeffery made his last desperate move.
HE KICKED OUT at me, falling backward as he did.
He got the flashlight and it was solid enough to dislodge it from my hand. It was a lucky kick, but I should have been ready for it. He looked in pretty good shape.
And proved it by scampering fast off the foundation.
I grabbed the light and turned it back in time to see Jeffery’s behind duck around a big cat.
I picked up the night-vision goggles and put them on and took off after him.
By the sound of his steps I was able to get a direction, followed, then saw him as he jumped off the pad and into the darkness.
KIERKEGAARD WROTE ABOUT a leap from uncertainty to certainty, from unbelief to faith. Mine was the opposite. From solid ground to hillside, from footing to flight. But Kierkegaard only had oil lamps. What might he have seen with night specs?
I jumped over the side of the hill and landed with a skid. The scrub brush was heavy. I paused for a scan. It was not hard to pick him up. He was about twenty yards down from me, moving like a scared rabbit.
Looks like I was hunting again after all.
He went down, too.
I jumped and landed just above him. He was on his side, looking up at me.
I felt no remorse.
And put Jeffery to sleep.
GETTING HIM BACK up the hillside was another hassle. It’s one thing to carry an inert body over level ground, or in an octagon before you slam him to the canvas. It’s another to drag a worthless punk up a steep incline. But the legs did their duty. I reached the pad, walked across it, then went up another incline to where my car was.
It was actually a pretty good workout.
I opened the trunk. There were some lengths of nylon rope in there. I hog-tied Jeffery and with an oily rag I gagged him. Checked his pockets and pulled out a set of keys. Then I put him in the trunk and closed it.
Good old classic Mustang. No emergency release inside the trunk.
I went back down to the foundation and gathered the explosive device parts and the wallet. Back at Spinoza, I tossed my goggles in the back seat and put the bomb parts there, too. Got in behind the wheel and took another look at the license.
The address was in Agoura, California. I decided to find out if it was real.
THE HOUSE WAS at the end of a street in a high-end development.
I drove across the lawn and practically up to the front door.
Grabbed a pair of gloves, got out and unlocked the front door.
Stepped in and felt for a light switch.
I was in a nice-sized, home builder’s idea of a foyer.
No security keypad that I could see.
Which I thought was curious. For about four seconds.
Then I discovered a good reason why he didn’t need one.
The click-clacking of paws on tile got louder as a pit bull scampered into the hall.
We made eye contact.
And then the dog did what it had been trained to do.
NOW, I LOVE dogs. Except shelties. Shelties are the snooty neighbor of dog breeds, perpetually ticked off that they are not collies, with a loud, brain-scraping bark that goes off with the slightest provocation. Unless you are the loving owner, a sheltie will not give you the time of day unless you give it a Liv-a-Snap, and maybe not even then.
I’ll take a pit bull over a sheltie.
Or a German shepherd.
Unless it’s a German shepherd that has been trained to chew your face off.
Like this one.
Up to this moment I had never faced a dog in mortal combat. But I’d run a scenario through my mind on several occasions.
You’re not going to do much good standing still. You have to move at just the right moment, and hope you can grab a leg.
Oh yes, and keep your arm out of the jaws of death.
It would help to have pepper spray or a weapon, but I hadn’t brought either along. And there was nothing to grab.
All this flashed through my head in as the dog ran at me with its chompers.
I juked it. Like a running back I gave a quick move left just as the pitter prepared to leap.
It went for my fake and pushed right.
All of its legs were off the ground for half a second.
I made a grab for one of the hinds.
It slipped through my hand.
The dog hit the floor and skidded to the front door and didn’t waste any time getting up for another charge.
I ran into the living room, faintly lit by the light of the foyer, looking for a sofa pillow or small table or anything I could grab.
Turned out to be a floor lamp.
And just in time.
The incisors from hell jumped from the small step right at my chest.
Holding the lamp like Little John’s quarterstaff, I pushed it into the jaws.
Which clamped on the tube so hard, the thing snapped in two.
But the dog wanted flesh.
I wanted my flesh to stay exactly where it was.
We were not communicating.
Jaws fell to the floor, and I dropped with him. It was instinct on my part. I thought of the dog as a very small cage opponent with a big mouth.
Looking back, it was a stupid thing to do. I was putting my neck down to his biting space.
But I managed a headlock and rolled so the dog’s feet were in the air.
The slow choking of his airways took the fight out of him.
I grabbed him by the back legs and walked, with him dangling, out of the living room.
In the hall was a closet. I opened the door and placed him on the floor and shut him in. I heard a whimper. That got to me. He was only doing what he’d been trained to do. He fought like a true champion.
I wished I could have told him that in dog language.
I FOUND MY way to an office. A desktop computer sat on the desk. Everything was neat and tidy. This looked like the house of a well-adjusted businessman, not a crazy, angel-believing bomber. If that’s what he truly believed. Who knew?
I looked on the desk for random papers. There weren’t any. I opened up the drawers and went through them. Nothing of interest. Office supplies, blank paper and envelopes, stickies, a drawer dedicated to candy, Lemonheads and M&Ms being prominent.
In the bottom drawer on the right, I found a small, glass enclosure. Like a little fish tank. Or greenhouse.
And I suddenly remembered where I had seen Jeffery before.
In a photo.
On the desk of UCLA professor Gary Pasfield.
His son, the All-American.
BRENTWOOD IS A fashionable district on the west side. This is where the successful sleep. At least according to the world’s standards. At four in the morning, in the darkest part of the night, you wonder just how many
alcoholics and wife beaters are snoozing behind impressive façades.
Because things aren’t always what they appear to be, as I was about to find out and confirm.
I parked Spinoza half a block away from the house. Jeffery was still in the trunk. I opened it and told him to sit tight and not flop around and use up his air. It was a snarky thing to say, but I enjoyed saying it. I closed the trunk again.
I walked up to the house. It was impressive. Tuscan-style. Neatly groomed yard illuminated by little lights strategically placed. A black Mercedes was parked in the circular driveway.
I rang the doorbell. Listened. Knocked loudly. Listened some more. Through the dappled glass on the upper part of the door a light flashed on. The sound of steps. The sound stopped and I knew someone was on the other side.
“It’s about your son,” I said through the door.
“Who are you?”
“We’ve met,” I said. “Your son Jeffery is in trouble. We need to talk.”
“I don’t know what this is all about. I need to call the police here.”
“You don’t want to do that, Dr. Pasfield. Because the whole bombing thing is going to come out. Your son is going to talk. I think you better open the door.”
IT TOOK ANOTHER couple of cajoles, but Pasfield opened the door. When he saw my face he tightened.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” I said.
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Pasfield was dressed in a bathrobe and slippers. He looked like any grandfather on Christmas morning. But he had been naughty.
“What’s this about my son?”
“Why does he use the name Timothy Railsback?” I said.
Rarely do you see someone’s face actually go white, like they do in ghost stories. But I saw it happen right there in the entryway of Dr. Gary Pasfield’s house.
Not only did the color drain away, but he looked like he couldn’t move. He shook a little. Rumbling around in his head was the question of what to do. There was no answer.
Finally he said, “What do you want from me?”
“I will make this very simple,” I said. “You are going to tell me where Brooklyn Christie is. If you don’t, harm is going to come to your son.”
Pasfield shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying.
I took out my phone and called up the picture I had recently taken. It showed Jeffery, gag on his mouth, looking at me wide-eyed.
I held the picture up to him.
Any color that was left in Pasfield’s face left for the Bahamas.
In a whisper, he said, “What do you want with her?”
“Then she’s alive.”
“What could you possibly want with her?”
“I was hired to find her,” I said.
“I can pay you more, much more, to leave this alone.”
“Not interested.”
“You don’t understand. I’m talking about real money. Big money.”
“Where is she, Doc?”
He raised his chin. “We can work something out.”
Disgust burned my throat. “I’m this close to working out on your face, Dr. Pasfield.”
“I can give her to you,” Pasfield said.
“Give her to me now.”
“I’m not talking about Brooklyn,” he said. His eyes were wide and spittle spray came out with the word. “I’m talking about Tanya. She’s the one you want! She’s the one who’s running all this. I have nothing to do with it. I can give her to you.”
“Brooklyn,” I said.
“I don’t know where she is,” Pasfield said.
“Then you’ll never see Jeffery again.”
His breathing got harder. He looked like a fifth grader trying to think up a lie to his teacher. I just stood there and waited.
He closed his eyes. “You’ve got to give me some assurances.”
“The only assurance I’m going to give you is that you get your son when I get Brooklyn.”
“But she’ll say things. You’ll say things. You can’t.”
“Do you want your son or don’t you?”
He actually appeared to be thinking this over.
Then, with a sigh, he said, “All right. But I want to know where he is right now.”
“We get Brooklyn first.”
“Will you let me get dressed?”
“No, Doc. I’m going to stay with you every step of the way. And if you make any move that I don’t like, I’m going to be very upset.”
“You have no idea the damage you’re doing.”
“Now.”
He turned and started walking.
I followed.
MOST SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA homes don’t have basements. But some of the higher-end homes do. Because of building restrictions, homeowners who reach a limit on the ground above can only add on by digging down. Basements, extra bedrooms, wine cellars.
Pasfield had one of these. I kept right on his heels as he went to a door off the laundry room. The door had a keypad lock. Pasfield entered the code and the door clicked open.
I took hold of the back of his robe. “We go in easy,” I said.
We did.
Pasfield flicked on light. We went down a set of stairs.
At the bottom he turned on another light. We were in a bedroom. It was carpeted, windowless, and cold.
There was a king bed in the corner. It had an ornate headboard and bedposts, something out of Charles Dickens.
It also had Brooklyn Christie on top of it.
Her eyes were closed. She had no clothes. Her right wrist was handcuffed to a bedpost.
Dr. Gary Pasfield shot forward. I was left holding his robe.
I went after him.
Pasfield jumped at the wall. His right hand grabbed some sort of fixture. He pulled it.
There was a crackling noise, then an explosion.
And the walls lit up with fire.
NO THOUGHTS, JUST action.
I reached Pasfield who had turned to face me. He smiled at me like a skull. With one vicious right I took off the smile and sent him to floor.
I turned to the bed where flames were starting to lick the blanket.
Brooklyn’s arm was cuffed to the narrow part of the lathed bedpost. I grabbed the post with both hands and pulled.
It moved a little.
I put my foot on the bed frame and pulled again.
The post ripped free.
I scooped up Brooklyn, post and all.
As I made for the stairs I looked back at Pasfield. He was on the floor. He was no longer dressed in pajamas. He was wearing fire.
And screaming.
I GOT BROOKLYN outside and put her on the grass. She was breathing slowly. She looked drugged. I ran back inside to see about Pasfield. But the basement was blocked by a solid wall of flame.
Outside again. Like the first time I saw her on the beach, I put Brooklyn Christie over my shoulder. Only this time with a dangling bedpost.
Which must have looked just a tad funny to the old man in khakis and an undershirt coming up the driveway.
“What is this?” he said.
“Call 911,” I said. “There’s a man inside.”
“Who are you?”
“Hurry.”
I got Brooklyn to Spinoza, put her in the back seat.
Then drove out of Brentwood. Out of the darkness.
By the time I reached the Cove, the sun was about to come up.
I PARKED IN front of Artra’s. Knocked on the door.
It took her a minute, but she appeared, belting her robe.
“Now what’s happened?” she said.
“Brooklyn. She needs you. I don’t want her in the hospital.”
“Why not?”
“I want her safe. Keep her with you until I give the okay. Will you do that for me, Artra?”
“Only for you. Where is she?”
“I’ll bring her in.”
I used my lock-pick kit to get the handcuffs off Brooklyn.
She moaned as I put her on Artra’s sofa.
But she opened her eyes.
Then her mouth, as if to scream.
I touched her lips with my finger.
“It’s okay now,” I said. “You’re safe.”
I TOLD ARTRA what I could. Then drove to Ira’s and knocked on his door.
Ira opened the door and said, “You’re out and about early, my friend.”
“I may need a lawyer,” I said.
“Before morning coffee? Come in and—”
“Yes, before morning coffee.”
“What is this about, Michael?”
“I have somebody tied up in the trunk of my car,” I said.
Ira nodded. “Yes, you need a lawyer.”
AS WE WAITED for the police to arrive, Ira had a go at Claude’s computer. He was able, in just a few minutes, to unlock files that had pictures and videos of men and women in, let us say, compromising positions. The videos and pictures looked as if they’d been from hidden cameras.
Prominent in the pictures were Dr. Gary Pasfield, Jeffery, Jon-Scott Morrow, and others. A nice cache of blackmail waiting for the right moment. But for Claude, that moment would never come.
And he had set something else up, too. Ira and I were discussing it when the police arrived. I went outside, popped Spinoza’s trunk, and handed over a screaming and unhinged Jeffery Pasfield.
The cops mentioned the word kidnapping.
Ira mentioned the California statute that permits a citizen’s arrest in the case of a felony. He then showed them some of the evidence on the laptop.
One of the uniformed officers told us to “sit tight.”
Half-an-hour later, the detective team of Vic Baker and Soledad Molina arrived. I had not treated them with much deference the last time they were here. Their expressions told me they remembered it well.
Ira suggested we all sit down with some tea.
Baker and Molina agreed only to sit down.
Ira said, “We’ve been piecing together a rather complex web of activity. But if you’ve ever wanted one of those sensational cases that make careers, this would be the one.”
The detectives tried to look objective, even skeptical. But Ira’s soothing, authoritative voice had made a dent.
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