the other, she wrote down what she didn’t want to become and the reasons for that as well. As she looked at Cobb’s weather-beaten face, his crude, even violent manner, his inability to control himself, she realized that he embodied everything she’d listed on the other side of that sheet of paper. Although there was some truth to what he’d been saying, the gist reeked of bitterness, incompetence, and self-posturing.
Lena gave him another look, hoping that he would succeed at reading her mind again. She wanted him to know what she thought of him but was too much a professional to say. She tried to adjust her seat but remembered that it was bolted to the floor. Glancing about the small room, she noticed a wave of perspiration in the stale air.
“Why are we meeting in here, Cobb? Why did you pick an interrogation room instead of a conference room?”
He shrugged like he didn’t give a shit.
“It’s all about power, isn’t it?” she said. “Power and intimidation. It’s your blowback pitch. You think it gives you the upper hand. Is this how you treated Jacob Gant? Did you hit him? Did you hurt him?”
His eyeballs flicked at her from behind those glasses. She could see them still swimming around behind the tinted lenses. She could see a glint breaking through-a stray spark hitting the water and fizzing out.
But he didn’t say anything. And when a quarter fell out of his pocket and rolled across the floor, he didn’t move.
Lena got up and yanked open the door. “Get me the murder book, Cobb. It’s late and I want to get out of here.”
Several moments passed before he finally pried his stiff body out of the chair and rose to his feet. He was dogging it again, moving toward her at a tortured pace. But he was brimming with anger, too. When he finally reached the door, he grimaced at her and showed her his clenched teeth as he passed by.
17
Dan Cobb, aka Mad Dog Dan, aka. “Hey You”-born and raised in Wichita, Kansas-ejected the tape that he had secretly recorded, jammed it into his pocket, and rushed out of the tech room. He would listen to it when he had more time and more privacy. Like tonight, when he went home. He’d listen to the tape he’d made and take notes.
His knees were shot. He sped across the section floor as best he could, tossing those horrible glasses on his desk. By the time he reached the windows, the world came back into focus and he could see Gamble crossing the lot toward a metallic green Crown Vic. She was carrying the murder book under her arm. The one he’d edited, rather than the one he kept at home. The one he’d put together for the day he knew someone would come.
Cobb understood with perfect clarity that everything was in jeopardy now. Everything was on the line. And he could see his life flashing before him.
It worked like a movie in his head-as clear and realistic as any of the new theaters in Hollywood. He tried to shut down the images as he exited the building through the rear doors and climbed into his Lincoln. He tried to switch channels but it was always the same scenes playing over and over again. Scenes that had begun haunting him about a year ago as he sat with Lily’s dead body in her bedroom. Scenes that picked up speed during the trial, then died off over the past six weeks. But the peace was gone now. After last night, the movie wormed its way back into his head so ultra vivid, he would have sworn before a judge and jury that the stupid thing was shot in 3- fucking-D.
He could see the dead bodies piling up. He could see their faces in the muted light. He could see them staring at him and taunting him.
One, two, three.
Cobb tried to get a grip on himself, idling through the lot until he caught a glimpse of the ass end of Gamble’s Crown Vic. The way the windows matched up at the corner of the building, he could look through the glass and see her standing beside the car. She was on her cell phone, jotting something down on a pad.
He hated the stupid bitch. The new fucking deal.
But he needed some sort of plan. A map that would show him the way through. Now more than ever-he’d already lost too much.
His house, his money, his retirement-everything he owned except for the car went through the greed machine on Wall Street. When it came out the other side, the big shots had moved to Easy City on the money they’d stolen while Cobb was sent back to the world of zeroes. He could see himself in his later years, his body hunched over, his knees locked up with bone chips, the arthritis already in his shoulders taking siege all over him. He could see himself working the door at Walmart with a smiley face pinned to his apron, nodding and waving at every shithead who grabbed a cart.
The stupid bitch started moving.
He must have blanked out. He hadn’t seen her get into the car.
She pulled out of the lot and made a right, heading east on Culver toward the 405 Freeway. Cobb swung his Lincoln around the building, counted to five, then eased onto the street. Traffic was lighter than usual-the Crown Vic visible one block up. He changed lanes, anticipating that she would drive north to catch the Santa Monica Freeway for the return trip downtown. But as he settled into his seat, Gamble hit the entrance ramp heading south toward the 105 and picked up speed.
He spotted her one lane over as he hit the ramp and slid onto the freeway. Weaving through a long line of trucks and SUVs, she was hard to keep up with. He pushed the accelerator into the floor, launching the Lincoln forward and slipping in behind a F-150 pickup that provided good cover. When she exited onto the 105 heading east, he slowed down some and followed her onto the ramp.
The ride on the 105 didn’t last long enough for Cobb to think about what he was doing. Within minutes they were back on surface streets, breezing past the airport in Hawthorne. Cobb glanced at the warehouses and small factories, but kept his eyes on Gamble hidden behind the darkened glass in her Crown Vic.
It seemed obvious that she was in a hurry to get somewhere. And
She made a right turn at the corner, then another at the end of the block. Cobb began to wonder if she hadn’t spotted him. A series of three right turns was standard operating procedure for anyone who suspected that they were being followed. Cobb could remember his instructor at the Academy grilling him on it as if it were yesterday.
Instant Karma.
But Gamble’s third right turn never happened. Instead, she pulled down an alley and stopped in the rear lot of a nondescript building surrounded by razor wire and a twenty-foot security fence.
Cobb cruised past the alley to the end of the block, turned back, and found a decent place to stop. Through the buildings, he could see her getting out of the car and shaking someone’s hand. The guy seemed happy to see her. And he was an odd-looking guy, way too young to have white hair-probably a dye job from one of those places on Melrose.
Cobb flipped open his glove box and reached for the Tylenol. After dry-swallowing two caplets, he grabbed his binoculars and adjusted the focus. Behind Gamble he could see a double set of extra-wide bay doors. A small sign on the wall read SAMY, INC., but gave no indication of what kind of business it was.
At first glance, it looked like some sort of garage or auto repair shop. But as Cobb considered its location, the place was hard to find, didn’t offer a street entrance, and was surrounded by warehouses.
He took another look through the binoculars, steadying the image with his elbows pressed against the door. Gamble and the man with white hair were walking toward an Acura TSX parked in front of the loading dock. The car looked mint, a metallic version of gun-metal gray, but Cobb knew from the body style that the vehicle was two years old. He didn’t see any plates. When he spotted them on a black 911 Carrera parked by the entryway-the only other car he saw in the lot-he wrote down the number and pulled out his phone.
He’d seen enough to make a guess. But everything was on the table now and he needed more than a guess.
