property. They were denying him access and it wasn't hard to figure out what he was saying. His arms were flapping. He was bobbing his head as he shouted at them. It was the same sort of behavior he'd displayed less than an hour ago when he was shouting at me.
His dialogue had to be something like, 'Have you any idea who you're dealing with?' Punctuated with words like 'outlandish,' 'outrageous,' and 'preposterous.' He seemed to be very frustrated with all us little people who for some reason were being uncharacteristically disrespectful tonight.
He got back into his car and burned rubber to display his anger to the cops. He flashed right by me going downhill without so much as a glance in my direction. He was having a bad night.
I jumped back into the MDX and followed. In the next few minutes I almost lost him because I'd assumed he would turn left on Mulholland and head back toward Bel Air. Because of that assumption I turned in the wrong direction, but fortunately caught a glimpse of the distinctive taillights on his Mercedes in my rearview mirror. He was going the other way on Mulholland, toward Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I backed up, swung around, and followed him. He took a left on Laurel, heading down the hill into the Valley.
He was on a mission, running yellow lights, occasionally leaving me stuck at intersections behind a line of traffic. Just past Moorpark Avenue I thought I was going to lose him so I took a big chance and put on my hidden flashers in the grille, growled the siren, and broke through a red light. Despite my light show, I somehow remained undetected.
I followed him onto the 101 North heading toward Ventura. I kept several car lengths back. Once on the freeway, he was a little easier to follow.
I had put Hitchs number on my cell phone's speed dial so I jammed the Bluetooth into my ear and hit Send. No answer. I left a voice message for him to call back ASAP.
I kept driving, trying Hitch every ten minutes or so. He was either out of cell range or had turned his phone off while he was interviewing Meeks. The fifth time I called, I was deep into the West Valley.
This time Hitch answered on the first ring. 'Whatup, dawg?'
I told him briefly about my meeting with Stender Sheedy and that I was tailing Sheedy, Devine amp; Lipscomb's senior partner on the 101, heading toward Santa Barbara.
'I'm liking this,' Hitch said. 'This is all great Third Act stuff.'
'I'm trying to stay on this guy, but he's going fast and once he gets back on city streets my single-car tail is gonna be tough. I could use some help. I just passed Thousand Oaks. You still anywhere out here?'
'Yeah. What's your next exit?'
I saw it coming up on my right. 'Royal Oaks.'
'Okay, I'm not that far. Let me know when he turns off.'
Sheedy exited on Lynn Road, turned left, and headed toward the ocean, which lay on the other side of a chain of low hills about ten miles to the southwest. I stayed on the phone with Hitch, giving him my changing location as I kept driving.
Finally, I followed the Mercedes into a green valley that was home to some big, lush horse-breeding ranches with expensive-sounding names like Arabian Acres and Kensington Farms. The properties stretched out magnificently on both sides of the road. Huge ranch houses and miles of lush grass were bordered by white slat fences.
Sheedy kept going straight until he turned onto a road marked W. Potrero. Half a mile farther on the Mercedes slowed and pulled up to a large arched gate with a white security shack.
I saw it just in time to shut off my headlights as I approached, rolling to a stop off the road about a quarter mile back. Hopefully I had remained out of sight of the guard shack that protected the drive. Sheedy spoke with the uniformed security cop for a moment before he was passed through.
The Santa Anas had by now cleared L. A.'s night sky of its normal brew of hazy pollutants, and a bright three-quarter moon was putting a soft silver glow on everything. I took a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and panned the huge, meticulously maintained ranch before me.
Arabian horses stood in the fenced fields, some with their beautiful shiny necks arched gracefully down to graze. A large racetrack outlined by white-painted rails could be seen in the distance. On the top of the hill the sloping roof of a magnificent old Spanish-style ranch house was silhouetted in the moonlight.
Then I panned over to the white arch spanning the light brown two-lane granite driveway. There was something spelled out on the arch in gold letters. I worked the binoculars until
the words came into sharper focus and I could read the sign. RANCHO SAN DIEGO
Chapter 46
Ten minutes later Hitch's Porsche flew by the spot where I was parked, his headlights off as I'd instructed. I flashed mine and the Carrera squealed to a stop fifteen yards beyond. He backed up and parked behind me. A minute later he climbed into my passenger seat.
'What's this?' Hitch looked at the ranch protected by the guard shack and arched gate that spanned the lane at the end of the road about three-tenths of a mile up ahead.
I handed him the binoculars. First he panned the farm with the grazing thoroughbreds, then the house on the hill before he focused on the archway over the gate.
'Rancho San Diego,' he read aloud.
'I wonder if the guy who owns this place has any Italian poetry in his library,' I said.
'You're right. 'San Diego' was written in pencil on the inside cover of The Divine Comedy.'
I filled Hitch in on the rest of what had happened at Sheedy's house and how I'd tailed him to Skyline Drive and then here. After I finished, he was silent, a pensive look on his face, chewing it.
'He's worried we found that truck,' Hitch said. 'That means he was probably in on the gold heist.'
'Maybe.'
'My money says Sheedy Sr. was the tall, pale, black-haired guy in the Chief of D's office when McKnight and Norris were yanked off the Vulcuna case in eighty-one.'
I nodded. 'I've been meaning to get a photo six-pack together and have McKnight take a look. See if he can pick Sheedy out. We better get that done now. I'll have somebody downtown to go on the company Web site and download a current picture.'
We both pondered it for a moment. Then I turned to face him. 'You get anything worthwhile from Russell Meeks?'
'A few things.'
Hitch opened his red journal to a page but didn't look down at it. 'Meeks is real young for a CEO, only about forty, so he obviously wasn't at Axeis Cargo Insurance in eighty-three. He had to make a phone call to find out about that Brinks truck. He got some guy who lived near the office to go down there and log on the computer. Unlike the department, they actually put their old paper files on disks. He accessed the old insurance report on that stolen Brinks shipment. Apparently, the Latimer Commodities Exchange wasn't the owner of the bullion.'
'Then who owned it?'
'Latimer was transporting it on contract for an outfit called.. ' He consulted his notes. 'Farvagny-le-Grand Jewelry Consortium. Back in eighty-three they were a big manufacturer of expensive jewelry located in Switzerland. Apparently, Farvagny-le-Grand traded in large amounts of gold and platinum as well as gemstones. That bullion was heading to the L. A. airport for a transfer flight to their jewelry manufacturing plant outside of Geneva.'
'Fifteen million in bullion?' I said. 'Thats a hell of a lot of watches and rings.'
'Sounded like a lot to Russ Meeks, too. But apparently, this outfit supplied retailers throughout the world with product. Had offices in South Africa, London, Singapore, and Cartagena.'
'Cartagena?' I said, looking over at him sharply.
'Looks like some cocaine cowboys just galloped into our movie.' Hitch was smiling. 'A drug angle could be very cool. Figures too, cause it was snowing pretty good in this town back in the eighties.'
'Who at that jewelry manufacturer paid the premium on the insurance and then collected the payment after the truck was lost did you get that?'
'I get everything, dawg. I'm the Roto-Rooter of crime.' He thumbed through his notes. 'The guy on the
