“Not because of you. Because of this Scott, the boyfriend. You’re just the victim who survived.”
If Till could take the name “Scott,” the description of the car, and the new information about Kit Stoddard, and develop them into a full identification, then Wendy’s six-year ordeal would end. Till knew that with the danger gone, things would look very different to her. He’d had clients infatuated with him before. Most likely she would have a gentle, quiet talk with him about how important he would always be to her, and how glad she was that they had met. And then she would get on the flight that would take her back to San Rafael.
Till kept watching the road, pushing his speed. He had taken the Golden State Freeway with the notion that any chasers would make assumptions: Because he had taken Highway 101 all the way from San Rafael, he would simply turn back onto it, or maybe because it was closer, he might take the Pacific Coast Highway out of Morro Bay and meet the 101 again at San Luis Obispo or Arroyo Grande or Orcutt. Instead, he had gone inland to the Golden State. It was a gamble because there was no way to change his course now if he was pursued.
Whenever he looked in the rearview mirror and saw a car that appeared to be gaining on him, he sped up enough to give himself time to study it. Each time, he saw something that persuaded him that the car was just a speeder: the wrong kind of car, the wrong kind of face behind the windshield.
He kept on past the Bakersfield exits. As he drove, he thought as far ahead as he could. In his memory, he studied the rest of the highway, the city streets beyond, and picked a route that would bring Wendy safely to the end of the trip. He drove with his left hand, and then felt her slip her small hand into his right and hold it. The feeling made him think about Holly. She was at work now, and probably by the time Till reached Los Angeles, she would be on her afternoon break. Maybe he would call her then.
“I’m scared,” Wendy said.
“Don’t be ashamed of it. I’ll do my best to be sure nothing bad happens to you.”
“Maybe it’s better this way. Dying might be better than hiding someplace, living an imitation of a life with a false identity.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Not day to day. That was part of the problem. After a year, my biggest fear was not that I’d get caught. It was that I wouldn’t. I’d live to be sixty or so, and suddenly realize that I’d thrown away my chance for a real life. I would be perfectly safe. I would just have let my life go by, waiting for somebody to tell me I could come out.”
“Wendy…”
“I know. After this, I’ll have to go into hiding again. This is only one day, but it’s my day. I get to do something.”
He kept up his speed, and welcomed the approach of the Grapevine, the long climb up to Tejon Pass at over four thousand feet. His rental Cadillac had a big overpowered engine that could do it without slowing, and he hoped that any chasers would not be as fast.
Till kept rehearsing the route ahead, driving it once in his mind and then doing it again as he came to it. He left the Golden State Freeway for the Hollywood Freeway just past Osborne Street, got off at Victory, took Laurel Canyon Boulevard to Burbank Boulevard, turned right and came to Woodman Avenue, and took it down into Sherman Oaks. Till turned onto a quiet street lined by houses.
Wendy said, “What’s this? What are we doing here?”
Till pointed at a house. “That’s where we’re going.” The house was a small pale yellow colonial with clapboards and shutters in a neighborhood full of neat, pleasant-looking houses with carefully tended yards. He drove past slowly to read the house number, then kept going around the block, and pulled to the curb in the shade of a purple-blooming jacaranda tree.
“Be patient. I just have to make a couple of quick calls.” He dialed his cell phone. “Hi. It’s me. Where we agreed. Yes. I’d appreciate it if you could get here right away. Thanks, Max.” He disconnected and called another number. “Jay? It’s me. I’m there. You ready? Good.” He put the telephone away.
“Now what?”
“Now we move again and come back in half an hour. If anything in this neighborhood looks different, we keep going. If it doesn’t, we get this business over with.”
“You mean we’re meeting here?”
“That’s right. After those two men attacked the car in front of the DA’s office, I managed to get them to agree to a different plan. That little yellow house with the shutters back there belongs to Linda Gordon.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Assistant DA who’s prosecuting Eric Fuller for killing you.”
“I can hardly wait to meet her.”
Till drove out of the tangle of shady residential streets to Ventura Boulevard and cruised to the east from stoplight to stoplight.
Wendy said, “Ventura Boulevard. In the old days, I always planned that we would open a second location of Banque in the Valley, along Ventura.”
“What stopped you?”
“At first, it was the obvious thing. We didn’t have the money. By the time it might have been feasible, we weren’t building anything anymore. We were breaking up, and taking money out of the business instead of plowing it back in. It’s sad when things end, isn’t it?”
“Not everything is pleasant.”
“No, but even when something is mostly bad, when it ends you think, ‘Well, that’s that. I’ll never be here again.’ That part of your life is over, and can’t be gotten back. There are no do-overs.”
“I guess not.” He saw a Starbucks in Studio City, turned off Ventura, and parked the car on a side street. They went inside, bought cups of coffee, and then walked back to the car. Till kept scanning though the whole process, but the tables outside the coffee shop were inhabited only by a group of young people slouching over their coffee and talking while their lazy dogs slept at their feet. The pedestrians on the street were mothers and nannies with strollers, joggers, shoppers.
Till drove back along Ventura, studying the mirrors to be sure there was nobody he had missed following him, and returned to Sherman Oaks. “Look around,” he said. “Anything that’s different is important.”
When they approached Linda Gordon’s house, Wendy said, “There’s a car in the driveway. And I see a car in front of the house that wasn’t there before. See? It looks like a cop car.”
“That’s Poliakoff. And across the street, that red Saab is Jay Chernoff’s. It looks as though everybody is already inside.” He drove around the block once, but saw no other signs of change. When he came around again, he parked, and they walked together to the front door. Till stayed close to shield Wendy with his body. Poliakoff opened the door for them, his eyes scanning the street. He closed the door as soon as they were inside, and went to the front window to check for any activity on the block.
Jack Till said, “If there was ever a time for introductions, I think it’s come. The lady with me is Wendy Harper.”
Poliakoff moved from the window, and shook Wendy’s hand. “I’m Sergeant Max Poliakoff. I’m pleased to meet you. Thanks for coming out for this.” Then he shook Till’s, much harder. “Hi, Jack.” He turned and pointed to a man in his early thirties with light hair. “This is Officer Tim Fallon, from Forensics.”
Fallon muttered something to Wendy about it being a pleasure as Jack saw Jay Chernoff standing in the entrance to the kitchen with Linda Gordon.
Till said, “This is Jay Chernoff, Eric’s lawyer, and the lady is our hostess, Assistant District Attorney Linda Gordon.”
Linda Gordon had been staring intently at Wendy since she came in the door. Now she nodded, but did not smile. “Good afternoon.”
“Good to see you, Jack.” Chernoff came forward to shake Wendy’s hand. “And Miss Harper. I’m honored to meet you.”
Linda Gordon’s eyes narrowed. She turned to Chernoff. “Shall we get on with this?”
Chernoff raised his voice. “Let’s get started, if we may. Miss Harper, what we need is to ask your cooperation so that we can establish positively and officially that you are who Jack says you are.”
“I’m willing,” she said. “What do I do?”
“Officer Fallon is here because he’s an expert in collecting and interpreting evidence. He’ll take over the next phase of this.”
Fallon stepped to the end of the living room, where he had a big briefcase and a metal toolbox. He opened
