Killer in the Hills (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Half and hour later I pass a grimy little body shop. I turn around, then drive onto the lot and stop at the garage bay entrance. Two Latino men are in the garage, sanding Bondo patches on an 80’s-era Cadillac. One of the men is in his forties, wearing greasy coveralls. The other man is in his twenties, shirtless, wearing gang tattoos across his chest and an elaborate mural tattoo on his back that features a nude woman driving a fierce-looking ’64 Chevy that has shark’s teeth instead of a front grille. No one else is in the shop.

I tell Karen to stay in the car, then get out and enter the garage and speak to the men in Spanish.

“I’ll trade you the Beamer for any car you’ve got that runs well and has a tank of gas,” I say. “But we have to do it right now. No questions.”

The men stare at me, then at the car. I turn and walk back to the BMW and open the door and let them look at it. They murmur to each other. I hear the word
puerco
—Spanish for pig. The young man peers inside the car, then at Karen, then he shuts the door and speaks to me in English.

“Burns my fingers,
ese
,” he says.

I smile sheepishly.

“Alright,” I say in English. “Look, I’m not a cop, and the car’s not hot. I’m five months behind on my payments and the repo guys are after it. I’ve been moving it around, but they’re gonna find it eventually and I’d rather trade it to you guys for something with wheels than let those pricks have it. I’ll take any car you’ve got that’s working and I’ve never been here, okay?”

I stare the kid down with the kind of desperation an Anglo like me would have in a situation I’ve just described. It’s not hard. The hard part is holding back the
real desperation.

The two of them go back into the garage and talk quietly in Spanish. The older man is reluctant, but the young man is persistent. After a minute they come back. The older man takes his keys out of his pocket, removes a car key from the ring, and hands it to me. He points to a twenty year-old Toyota Corolla with dull maroon paint and bald tires. I take the BMW key off the ring and hand it to him, then open Karen’s door and she gets out. The man gets in the BMW and pulls it into the garage bay. The kid slides under the car and I hear the whine of a pneumatic drill in short, quick bursts as I gather Zach’s computer gear from the trunk.

The older man reaches up for the garage door as I turn to leave.

“Don’t come back here,” he says, as I head out with Karen.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You might want to disable the LoJack, or whatever’s in it. They keep finding it.”

The kid slides out from under the BMW, holding a small metal box with wires hanging out of it.

“Not a problem,” he says.

The older man rolls the garage door down with a slam and I lead Karen to the Corolla and we get inside. Karen has to move trash and fast food wrappers from her seat. The car smells like beer and stale French fries.

“You really know how to drive a bargain,” she says, as we pull out of the lot.

I head for the freeway and Karen pesters me with questions as I drive. I give vague answers, then finally tell her yet again to keep quiet so I can think. She slouches back in her seat and turns sullen. She chews her fingernails and squirms with restless energy.

I can’t wait any longer to bring her in. She is about to blow, or bolt. Daylight Saving Time began last weekend, so it will be dark in a few hours. I decide I will call Melvin as soon as I can find a place to meet him and cut a deal. But it has to happen right away. It’s entirely possible Melvin is closing in on us right now, and I can only protect Karen if I have some leverage. They’ve probably already lifted my prints at Zach’s, and once they ID them I’ll have no leverage at all. Erlacher said they had found Zach this morning, so he could have been killed any time after I left, just after midnight. Could we have been followed there? By who? If Sal and his crew were that close I’d be nailed to a floor somewhere, or worse—whatever “worse” might mean. My thoughts race around that possibility until I start feeling panicky and I force the panic back so I can focus on the problem at hand.

High ground. Darkness. A large, deserted, empty space…

I think about what I’m going to say to Melvin as I get on the freeway and join the tangle of traffic headed for downtown.

An hour and a half later I take the Orange Grove exit off the Pasadena freeway and drive through the residential streets I know well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

On the second Sunday of every month, the Rose Bowl hosts the busiest flea market in the world, in the main parking lot of the stadium. My fiancée Sara and I had furnished our first apartment in two or three visits there, in the months before we were to marry. Twice a month, the flea market takes up the entire parking lot—a huge space, surrounded by hills packed with luxurious homes.

It is just before sundown when we weave down through quiet residential streets and reach the stadium. I slow as we pass the big parking lot. The vast asphalt expanse is dotted with groundskeeping vehicles parked in shallow ponds of recent rainwater. Other than that, the lot is deserted.

I turn the car around and head back up into the hills. I find a dark, lonely street that overlooks the stadium. I park and turn off the engine and Karen watches as I take out my phone and put the battery in and wait for it to power up. She hasn’t said a word since I told her to be quiet.

“So?” she says. “What are we doing now?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “I’m sick of driving around, not being allowed to talk, not knowing what the hell we’re doing
.
”

“You’ll know soon enough,” I say. The phone powers up and I open my door and get out.

“Stay in the car,” I say, and close my door before I can hear her response.

I hit Melvin’s number and he answers on the first ring.

“Where are you, Jack?” he says. Right to the point.

“I’ll tell you in a second, but first you have to agree to something,” I say.

Silence.

“I have Karen, and I have the security video from the Chateau Marmont, which proves she wasn’t there the night her mother was killed. I want you to bring her in quietly, and hold her until we’ve got a lawyer for her.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he says. “Where are you?”

“One more thing,” I say. “Come alone, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

“Can’t do it, Jack. You know that.”

“There are people who want to kill her, Melvin,” I say. “I won’t do this any other way.”

Silence again. I picture Investigator Wen frantically typing away at his command station, tracking the phone.

“I know it’s against regulation and every instinct you have, but it’s the only way to guarantee her safety. It’s me and a fifteen year-old girl and you know we won’t be any trouble.”

I wait. He says nothing. I can’t stay on the phone any longer. I have one last card to play—a tricky one, but it’s all I’ve got.
Hobson’s choice.

“I’m trying to save my daughter’s life, Melvin. Just like I saved yours once.”

Silence upon silence. I have broken an unspoken code. I have made it personal, and made Melvin appear the weaker player, which I know he cannot abide. When he finally speaks I can hear the restrained anger in his voice.

“Alright,” he says.

“Lot K at the Rose Bowl. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I hear the click as he hangs up. I pull the battery from the phone and get back in the car. Karen glares at me, furious.

“Who were you talking to?” she says.

“Someone who’s going to help us,” I say. “He’s a friend and I trust him.”

“Who, the FBI guy?” she says.

“He’s a friend.”

“He’s a cop,” she says. “You’re turning me in.”

“Look, you were right,” I say. “We can’t keep driving around with nowhere to go. I’ve done everything I can do, and now there’s no one who can help us but my friend. Yeah, he’ll take you to the cops eventually, but first I’m going to make sure they have the video from the hotel, which proves that you weren’t there the night your mother was killed; and second, I’m going to get you a good lawyer. It’s your best shot. It’s your only shot, in fact.”

“
Bullshit
,” she says, her voice rising an octave. “I’d be better off if you hadn’t fucking kidnapped me in the first place.”

“Really. You think Sal would have liked having you around with your face all over the news? I thought he was all about being under the radar. Unless you were lying to me.”

She looks away and chews on a thin strand of beads in her hair.

“Have you lied to me? About anything?”

“No,”
she says, but she doesn’t look at me when she says it.

I look at my watch—4:47. I open my door.

“Stay in the car,” I say. “I want to make sure he’s alone before I come for you. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

I get out and go to the trunk and grab Zach’s bag of computer gear and sling it over my shoulder. Karen gets out of the car and slams her door and walks down the dark street, away from me.

I catch up to her.

“Get back in the car,” I say.

“Fuck you,” she says, walking faster to get ahead of me.

I grab her wrist and she turns and punches me in the face with her free hand. I grab her fist and turn her around and hold her arms behind her as she struggles.

“Let me
go,
” she says.

“No.”

“You said I could leave anytime I wanted,” she says.

“Not anymore.”

I wrestle her back to the car and crowd her against the passenger door.

“You
bastard—
” She tries to kick me, but I stand to the side and step on her foot. She gives a short shriek and I gather both of her tiny wrists in one hand and take the handcuffs from my back pocket.

“Gonna cuff me to the car again—?” she yells, her voice choked off by a sob. A tear lands on the sooty roof of the Corolla.

“Nope,” I say, and slap one cuff over her right wrist and ratchet it tight, then snap the other cuff to my left wrist. Then I wrap my free arm around her waist and carry her toward the steep hillside that leads down to the Bowl.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I have never surfed a mudslide while handcuffed to an angry badger but now I know what it would be like, so I don’t have to.

We stumble and slide and Karen falls twice, taking me down with her once. It takes us about fifteen minutes to skid down the steep incline, grabbing at brush and bush to slow our descent. By the time we reach the bottom we are muddy, scratched, bruised, and our wrists are bleeding from the cuffs. I am also bleeding from her nails and her teeth, where she bit my free wrist after we fell. She has cursed me completely, colorfully—a rainbow of rage that would blanch a merchant marine—but by the time we reach the bottom of the hillside she no longer has breath to speak. We stand behind an enormous sage bush, sucking damp air into our lungs, about twenty feet from the edge of the parking lot. I wipe the mud from my watch crystal—nineteen minutes since I called Melvin.

I look at the parking lot from behind the bush. It is empty and feebly lighted with a dozen or so mercury vapor streetlights. Tactically, it’s not a bad spot—a large, wide-open space, surrounded by ample cover. The sun is a fading pink glow behind the western hills and in a minute or two it will be dark. I believe Melvin will come alone, but just in case he doesn’t I’ll know it before he sees us. Hopefully.

“What’s gonna happen?” Karen says, when she catches enough breath to speak. “When he gets here—what are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to show him the security video and get you a lawyer.”

“Is he gonna arrest me?” she says. Her voice is small and tight and I can feel her starting to tremble.

“That’s up to him.”

“What if he does?” she says, her voice rising. “What if—”

“Stop wondering about what if,” I say. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Lean over, focus on your breathing. Try not to think about what ifs.”

“How am I supposed to do
that?”
she says.

“Negative capability,” I say.

“What’s that mean?”

“Means being able to live with a bad situation—where you don’t know the outcome and things are uncertain—without worrying about making sense of it. It’s from the poet Keats.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“Not a big Keats fan?”

“You bastard.”

“Stop talking. Breathe.”

A minute later a black Crown Vic pulls into the lot and circles the perimeter slowly. When it passes us I see Melvin at the wheel, alone—assuming there are no snipers coiled in the trunk. I look around the lot, then scan the residential streets around the stadium. I see no other cars. I hear no aircraft. Melvin parks under a streetlight near the center of the lot, then gets out of the car and stands next to it, facing us directly.

Karen stares at him through the spray of sage and says nothing.

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

She trails out behind me on stiff legs, still breathless, but now more from fear than exertion, I think. Her eyes never leave Melvin, and as we near him and he grows larger she grabs my hand.

Melvin stands still, watching us approach. His jacket is open, his hands free at his sides. As we near him he sees us more clearly and his eyes narrow—his most vivid expression of surprise. He looks at the cuffs, then at Karen’s desperate face. He looks at my filthy, torn clothes, bloody scratches, and both of my bleeding wrists. A crown of thorns would complete me.

We stop about five feet in front of him.

“Karen, this is Melvin. Melvin, Karen.”

No one says anything. Melvin rests his eyes on mine for a moment. He shows no affect whatsoever, which means he is furious. I turn slowly, guiding Karen around, offering Zach’s bag toward him, over my shoulder.

“In the bag is security video from the Chateau Marmont,” I say. “On the laptop. You’ll see Penelope’s killer, and it’s clearly not Karen.”

I wait. After a moment he comes up behind me, wipes the mud off the top of the bag, and pulls out the laptop.

“Stupid,” he says, so low I can barely hear his voice. But his disgust is loud and clear.

He puts the laptop on the hood of the car. Then he searches the empty bag and me, finding the key to the cuffs in my pocket. He unlocks our cuffs, pats Karen down, then takes out his own cuffs and begins to handcuff her and she starts to cry and I hear the Hummer behind us.

We all turn, Melvin drawing his 500. He aims at the car, which is speeding at us from the entrance to the parking lot. I see a flash from the Hummer’s passenger window and hear POP-POP and Melvin’s head snaps back and blood sprays into my eyes and Melvin is thrown backward onto us and I hear the Hummer skid to a stop just before my head hits the wet pavement.