“What?”
“I went up there to scout the area. Figured I would do the job myself. No more delegating. I hung out in a park across from her house. Nobody noticed me. I was wearing grungy clothes, looked like a homeless guy. I waited till after the TV assholes left.”
“And?”
“A little later I saw somebody go into the house next door to the target’s residence. It’s a house that’s supposed to be unoccupied. Abandoned. Windows boarded up. But people are in there. And there’s another thing. A van.”
“What kind of van?”
“Cargo type, no rear windows. Got the name of a plumbing company on it. Parked down the street. It’s been there all night.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I got close enough to see some light from the front compartment. There’s people inside the van. It’s a stakeout, Jack.”
“Who? Cops, feds?”
“I don’t know. Cops, I assume. Home invasion’s not a federal crime. Undercover cops are probably waiting to see if anybody comes back for a return visit.”
Reynolds gripped the phone too tightly. “Fuck it. Send them in anyway.”
“I can’t do that. The cops-”
“Get some backup. Three, four of your guys. Go in with shotguns. Kill the fucking cops. Blow them the fuck away. With enough firepower and the element of surprise, you can do it.”
There was another long silence. “I don’t think that’s too realistic, Jack.”
“Realistic? You don’t think it’s fucking realistic? How about your ass in a concrete drum? Is that realistic? How about what happened to Joe Ferris?”
“I’m just trying to look at the situation as it stands. I’m already on my way back to Santa Ana. I gave it my best shot, but for tonight, it’s a no-go.”
“Fuck that bullshit. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Jack, what can I tell you?”
“You can tell me you got results. That’s what the fuck I hired you for. I even gave you a second chance to make good. That’s not something I would offer to just anybody. Now you’re jerking me off and making excuses-”
“It’s not excuses. She’s under surveillance. She’s a hardened target. I can’t touch her.”
“God damn it, you listen to me. I want that woman dead. Now. Tonight. I don’t care what it takes, I want you to make it happen. You hear me, you dumb dogshit cocksucker? You hear me?”
“I hear you, Jack. But I can’t help you. Maybe in a day or two, if the heat’s off…”
“I ought to cut your fucking balls off. Except you don’t have any. No cojones, Ron. Even a damn lettuce picker has more guts than you.”
“Jack, we can work something out.”
“You’re a dead man,” Reynolds said, ending the call. “Fucking dead,” he added to the empty room.
He threw the phone away. It clattered in a corner. He took a step in one direction, then another, unable to select any course of action, even where he wanted to walk. Then he turned and moved behind his desk, threw a row of books off the shelf onto the floor, and exposed a wall safe. He dialed the combination, opened the safe. Inside, among other valuables and secrets, there was a handgun. He pulled it out. Fully loaded. Spare clips in the safe.
He could do the job himself. Take the gun, drive to San Fernando right now, sneak unseen into Andrea’s yard, get into her house. Shoot her dead. But the shot would draw the undercover cops. And he had no silencer. All right, so he would kill her some other way. Smother her, strangle her, drown her in the fucking toilet. A silent kill, then an escape into the shadows-
Bullshit.
He wasn’t going to do any goddamn thing like that. He didn’t even know how to do it. It wasn’t part of his- how would Stenzel say it? — his skills set. Not one of his core competencies.
“Fuck,” he snarled, tossing the gun back inside the safe and slamming the door. He left the books in disorder on the floor. He poured himself another Scotch from the minibar and downed it fast, hoping the burn of alcohol would calm him, but if anything, it made him hotter than before. The situation was insane. He knew her name and address. He ought to be able to stamp her out as casually as he would tread on a cigarette butt. Instead he couldn’t get to her. She was closed off from him, protected by an unbreachable barrier. She might as well be in hiding on another continent. Yet she was so close-
He punched the oak-paneled wall. Pain flashed through his hand. He thought he might have broken it, but no, he could flex his fingers. The raw pulse of pain in his knuckles felt good somehow. Better than the Scotch had tasted. He didn’t need Scotch. He needed pain.
Not his own pain, though. His own pain was never the answer.
He found his car keys and left through a side door, taking his Mustang coupe. He drove fast on the surface streets and reached Rebecca’s condo in Costa Mesa. It was past one o’clock by now, and she was asleep, of course. At the front gate he buzzed her unit until she answered.
“Me,” he said. “Open up.”
She did, but only after she hesitated. He made a mental note of that. She would pay for hesitating.
She met him at her door. He pushed her inside and shut the door behind him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing his face, and from her expression he knew he must look like a wild man.
He didn’t answer. He pushed her down, and she fell on the floor in a confusion of long limbs and the tissuey folds of her nightgown.
“You bitches,” he said.
She stared up, uncomprehending.
“Dumb fucking bitches, playing your games.” He thought of Andrea. And Abby Sinclair, who’d walked out on him.
“Jack?” Rebecca whispered.
He struck her in the face. Her head snapped sideways and she groaned and there was blood on her mouth, and it was all good.
25
Abby left the station house and caught the Hollywood Freeway, speeding south into Orange County. The day’s traffic had finally cleared, and the Mazda could go all out. Putting the pedal to the floor relieved some of her tension, but not much.
Along the way, she stopped first at a large discount drugstore, then spent ten minutes in the bathroom of a fast food joint. When she emerged, her hair had been moussed and slipped back, her pageboy ’do transformed into a tight skullcap. Tacky oversized earrings, maroon lipstick, and glue-on fingernail extensions completed her makeover.
She didn’t think the bad guys at Andrea’s house could have seen her. If they had, it couldn’t have been more than a glimpse. She looked sufficiently different to pass unrecognized now.
One thing was for sure. She could change her appearance a lot more easily than the man with the scorpion tattoo could change his.
At eleven thirty she arrived in Santa Ana and cruised down South Grande Avenue until she found Fast Eddie’s.
Wyatt’s info had been correct. The Scorpions did hang out here, or at least some biker club did. Choppers, all of them American-made and none boasting engines smaller than 900 cc’s, were parked out back in the deadpan glare of a mercury-vapor streetlight. The bikes were unguarded, their owners apparently known in the community-
