I told Alexa what was up, grabbed a jacket, and headed out. Roger and Emdee were waiting in a motor pool Navigator with smoked windows. I climbed in the backseat and Roger steered the black SUV up Ocean Avenue to the 10 freeway. Once we were heading east, Perry turned and handed me the transmitter Roger and I had taken off the Fairlane.
'ESD found out who made that little pastry,' he said. 'Designed by a private firm here in L. A. name of Americypher Technologies.'
'Never heard of them.'
'It was founded in 'ninety-three by a Jewish cat named Calvin Lerner,' Roger said. 'Man's got an interesting history. In 'ninety-five Lerner gave up his Israeli passport and became a naturalized U. S. citizen. This was very good news because Americypher specializes in state-of-the-art listening devices and transmitters. It turns out Uncle Sam is one of their biggest customers.'
'We don't make our own surveillance equipment?' I was a little surprised that we would subcontract out work like that.
'It all comes down to horseshit and gun smoke in field operations,' Emdee drawled.
Roger picked up the story again. 'About two years ago Calvin Lerner, who still owned controlling interest in Americypher, went missing on the Stanislaus River in Central California during a trout fishing trip. Wandered off up the river alone, and did a Beam me up, Scottie. Never found any trace of him. No tracks, no blood, no body. His widow took over running the company. Americypher is still going strong.'
'Americypher sounds like it should be a good American outfit,' I said.
Emdee smiled. 'One a the things ya learn working this beat is the more American a company sounds, the less Americans are probably involved with it.
'The bugs Americypher makes are years ahead of the curve. That's one of them,' Broadway said, pointing to the tiny transmitter in Emdee's hand. 'They're designed to use miniature low-volt batteries with twenty-year lives, but apparently because of the low voltage they're a bitch to install. The way we hear it, the engineers from Americypher go out on black-bag installations to help their customers plant these things.'
Now I saw where this was going. 'And you think since Americypher knows where the bugs are located, they could sell that information.'
Broadway said, 'Counter-intelligence plays a big part in world politics.'
'But would Americypher double-cross big federal clients like Homeland Security and the FBI?'
'The old team put together by Calvin Lerner probably wouldn't,' Roger said. 'But nobody knows much about his widow. She's still an Israeli. Never took the pledge of allegiance. We just cranked up a new investigation on Americypher. The dicks in Financial Crimes are gonna hit that pinata and see if it spits out any candy.'
We pulled into VIP parking at the Staples Center and ten minutes later I was sitting in the best seat I'd ever had at that arena. Nine rows up, center court. The tip-off was at eight o'clock sharp.
While I watched the game, Broadway and Perry took turns getting up and going to the bathroom, or out to buy beers. Something was definitely up, but when I asked them what, they waved it off. I decided to just wait them out. Whatever we were doing here, it had nothing to do with the Lakers.
At the half the home team was only up by three points. Fans were stretching and going out to the concession stands. Broadway said he wanted another hotdog and headed toward the exit.
Ten minutes later, Perry grabbed my arm. 'We're leaving,' he announced.
'We need to wait for Roger,' I said. 'He's getting food.'
'Roger's in the car. Come on.'
We hurried up the steps through the midlevel tunnel. As we joined the crowd milling toward the food courts I caught a glimpse of the same bald-headed man in the blue blazer who had come to my phony funeral. He was now wearing a Lakers jacket and was about twenty people ahead of us, moving toward the exit.
'Isn't that Eddie Ringerman?' I asked.
'Small fucking world,' Emdee said as he pulled me along.
'Why don't you spit it out? What's going on?'
He hesitated, then said, 'We got direct orders from the chief not to confide in the competition, but he didn't say we couldn't follow 'em. Ringerman's a rabid Lakers fan, but if our boy gets up to leave with the game in doubt, something's goin' down. So we follow Ringerman, see if we can catch him in politicus flagrante. Then we'll jerk a knot in his tail and make the boy give up something.'
Ringerman headed out the main entrance onto the street, then crossed with the light to the east parking lot and got into a gray Lincoln.
Perry still had my arm, pulling me along. 'Hustle up,' he said. 'Game's on.'
Chapter 37
Broadway drove the Navigator out of Staples VIP parking and onto the city streets. I couldn't see the gray Lincoln Town Car that Ringerman was driving. We'd only been following it for three minutes and already we'd lost sight of him.
'I like a nice, loose tail,' I said, 'but isn't it usually a good idea to keep the target in sight?'
Broadway opened the glove compartment revealing an LD screen. He turned it on and a city map came up displaying a two-mile moving grid. I could see a red light flashing down Fourth Street towards the freeway.
'Satellite tracking,' Broadway explained. 'The feds aren't the only ones with goodies. While you and Perry were watching the game, I hung a pill on Eddie's ride. We're following him from outer space.'
We followed the embassy car from a mile back as it turned off the Hollywood Freeway at Highland, then shot across Fountain and down the hill on Fairfax. We turned on Melrose and were right back where Yuri's market had once stood. The center of Russian Town.
This three-block area was the L. A. version of New York's Brighton Beach. Russian liquor stores featuring signs advertising expensive brands of Yuri Dolgoruki and Charodei vodka. Restaurants with names like Sergi's and Shura's dotted the landscape. Posters were plastered everywhere advertising an upcoming Svetlana Vetrova concert.
Roger finally pulled up across the street from a restaurant called the Russian Roulette. It was on Melrose at the west end of Russian Town, nestled close to the boundary of Beverly Hills. The building was stucco, but had a slanted roof with fancy trim. I spotted Ringerman's gray Lincoln in a jammed-to-overflowing parking lot.
'Unfortunately, as it turns out, this ain't the best place for me and Afro-Boy t'attempt a covert surveillance,' Emdee said once we were parked.
'Shane, you're gonna have to go in there and check it out for us,' Broadway added.
'Me?'
'We're unwelcome personages in there,' Broadway said. 'A month ago, donkey brain over there, attempted to end the criminal career of one Boris Zikofsky, a known L. A. hitter and Odessa shit ball.'
'The man deserved the bust,' Emdee protested.
'Instead of following this hat basher into the parking lot and cuffing him out there like he's supposed to, the Hillbilly Prince badges the motherfucker right in the restaurant without backup, and starts World War Three. My man ended up by dancing Boris through a pricey pastry cart from fifteen hundred Czarist Russia. Cost the department seven grand. The Loot shit a blintz.'
'Not my best polka,' Emdee admitted.
'So if we go in there, we're gonna get made, turned around, and run right back out, then reported to the lieutenant.' Broadway handed me an old, taped together digital camera. 'Take lots of pictures.'
'I don't even know who the players are. Who do I take pictures of?'
'Everybody.' Broadway reached into the glove box and retrieved a big, clunky tape recorder with a directional mike that was about the size of a Kleenex box.
'What happened to all our miniaturized, state-of-the-art goodies?' I said.
Broadway handed the recorder to me and said, 'If you can find the complaint box up on five, slip it in as the saying goes.'
Then he pointed at the camera. 'No flash. It's digital, but just barely,' he smiled. 'Directional mike on this
