By the time she was back in her car and calling in, she expected Stahl and Shull to be miles away. But Stahl said, “I’m on Fountain near Vermont.”
“He stopped somewhere?”
“He drove straight to Fountain, has cruised up and down three times. Past the Snake Pit.”
“Revisiting the scene,” she said. “Memory trophy. Has he gone into the alley where he did Baby Boy?”
“Not yet,” said Stahl. “He just drives by, does a three-point, heads up the block, drives by again. The street’s dead, I can’t get that close.”
“Where are you?”
Stahl pinpointed his location.
Petra said, “I’ll come in from the west end, cruise through at a moderate speed. If he leaves before I get there, let me know.”
She drove to Western, turned left on Fountain. The street was empty, dark, eerie. When she was three blocks from the Snake Pit, Stahl called. “He’s finished. Heading your way.”
Petra spotted two sets of headlights. Not Stahl, no way would he be following that obviously. She maintained her speed as her windshield whitened.
A pickup truck, then the Cadillac.
In her rearview, she watched Shull continue to Western, catch an amber light, and sail through the intersection.
Moments later, the rental Bronco sped by.
Petra hung a U, followed at a safe distance.
They picked up the Cadillac on Wilton heading south. Moderate traffic made their life easier, and they alternated positions: first the Bronco would lag three or four cars behind, then Stahl would slow and Petra’s Accord would fill in.
We’re dancing, she thought. This was as intimate as she ever wanted to get with Stahl.
Shull drove to Wilshire, turned right, continued west. Maintaining a nice steady pace within ten miles of the speed limit.
Driving as recreation.
When Petra was the primary tag, she got close enough to notice that the Cadillac’s windows had been tinted nearly black. She couldn’t see an old guy from Pasadena doing that. Shull had customized the car.
The Sedan DeVille drove through Beverly Hills and veered right at the junction of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Staying on Wilshire, Shull continued into Westwood, then headed north on San Vicente, hugging the western perimeter of the Veterans Administration grounds. Passing the cemetery studded with white crosses and Stars of David. Then: the boutique/latte jungle that made up lower Brentwood.
Shull took another northern turn on Bundy, followed by a left on Sunset. Too few cars for cover, now. Stahl was in front, and he took his time before following. Took so long Petra was certain they’d lost sight of the Caddy.
She called in. “Any idea where he is?”
“Nope.”
Great.
“But I can guess,” said Stahl.
He sped ahead of her, drove a while, turned right.
Onto Bristol. The site of the Levitch murder.
Petra entered the lush street very slowly. Looked for the Bronco and spotted it parked a half block up, lights off. She killed her beams, rolled several yards up, pulled to the curb.
Stahl said, “Don’t know if he’s here.”
So what, we just wait? Petra kept her mouth shut. Looked around, admired the mansions, the massive deodar cedars, the grassy, tree-shrouded turnarounds that slowed traffic and gave the neighborhood character. Your perfect upper-crust suburban scene. If you had a seven-figure income.
Lights glimmered in some of the big houses. She caught glimpses of crystal chandeliers, rich paintings, crown moldings. Outside: Herds of sleek cars luxuriated in commodious driveways.
Then: lights in the distance. Moving, enlarging. Maybe two blocks up. Could be anyone.
It was Shull. Heading their way, pausing at the turnaround. Making an easy slow circle and retracing northward.
Back and forth, back and forth. Drinking in the scenes of his crimes. There was a sexual nature to it, and she wondered if the fool was playing with himself.
“Should we get closer?” said Petra. Annoyed with herself for consulting Stahl. She was the senior partner.
But Stahl had been the one who’d figured out Shull’s intentions.
“It’s a risk,” he said.
“Still, if he doesn’t return within five, I’m going to have a look.”
“Okay.”
Four minutes later, the Cadillac reappeared, passed the turnaround, continued to Sunset and made a quick right turn.
Stahl’s lights switched on. She followed him, and they both put on speed and spotted the Cadillac as it continued into the Palisades.
Back to the beach? Shull had taken a girl to a motel in Malibu, but as far as they knew he’d never killed anyone there.
As far as they knew.
At Pacific Coast Highway, Shull reversed direction again, turning left- south- away from Malibu and toward the lights of the Santa Monica pier.
Zig and zag, up and down.
They followed him up the drive to Ocean Avenue. When Shull got to Colorado, he drove east, past the noise and activity of the Promenade and over to Lincoln, where he headed south again.
Toward the airport. The route he’d taken when he stashed Kevin Drummond’s car.
If he’d stashed Kevin, too, maybe this would tell them where.
At Rose, Shull surprised her, yet again. Turning back toward the ocean and driving all the way to the Venice Walkway, where he pulled toward the right side of the street but didn’t park.
Idling. Lights on.
She hung back at Pacific, maintained her distance. Stahl dimmed his lights and got within a block of the Cadillac.
The Caddy made a ponderous three-point turn, sped back toward them. By the time they were in gear, all three vehicles were back on Lincoln.
For this guy, driving was something way beyond getting from one place to another.
Shull drove past the Marina and Playa del Rey, not far from where he’d dumped Armand Mehrabian, then into the bleak, industrial wasteland on the outskirts of El Segundo.
Great dump ground, and the isolation made it terrible for a tail. Both detectives had switched their lights off a half mile back.
Shull lowered his speed as he glided past empty fields, oil derricks, marshland.
Kevin’s final resting spot? Nope, here Shull was, again, speeding. Continuing another mile, then east to Sepulveda. Another right turn.
Driving rapidly into Inglewood. Definitely LAX.
