grabbed the bag and moved to the door. When his eyes zeroed in on Gamble, she was just switching on her headlights and looked ready to roll.
It was okay, he told himself. As long as his knees didn’t lock up, he had plenty of time.
He waited for her to pull into the street, then walked as fast as he could manage over to his Lincoln parked two cars back. Before jumping inside, he gazed down the street and found her car in traffic. West Fifth was a one- way street with access to the 110 Freeway. She was shifting lanes and heading for the entrance about four blocks ahead. He could see the white van just pulling in behind her.
Cobb tossed the bag of tacos on the passenger seat, jerked his car into traffic and made the green light at Broadway. Within a few minutes he was cruising three cars behind the white van on the 110, traveling south. Traffic was heavy and tight, no one moving over 50 mph. Gamble had remained in the right lane and was making the transition to the Santa Monica Freeway for a return trip to the Westside. Cobb settled back in his seat, keeping his eyes on them and trying not to let his mind wander.
But he couldn’t pull it off. He couldn’t get Buddy Paladino out of his head. Gamble had spent the better part of two hours in his office. Why? What could they have said to each other that took so much time?
He played through a list of possibilities in his head. None of them worked in his favor. He wolfed down those tacos, thinking everything over from different angles and breaking into a sweat. Images of his own demise surfaced-some of them violent and bloody. Images of being tortured flashed though his mind as well-accompanied by mass quantities of pain. By the time he came out of his trance, he could see Gamble and Loser No. 2 peel off the freeway, heading north on the Pacific Coast Highway. He slowed some, giving them room as they passed through a number of signal lights. But then the road cleared, and Gamble picked up speed. It was a sudden burst of motion, like a jet at the end of a runway thrusting forward to reach air speed.
The white van dropped back and finally pulled over and gave up. Cobb tried to keep his eye on her taillights, but she was stretching the car out-a V6 with 280 horses and 254 pounds of torque-he’d looked it up.
She must have spotted them. She must have known that they were there. She must have decided to end it once she found enough road.
Cobb checked his speedometer. He was doing ninety and still couldn’t carry her bags. He wanted to hit something. Smash something. When he looked back at the road, her taillights had vanished into the night. She was gone.
33
Johnny Bosco’s house in Malibu was on the 29000 block of Cliffside Drive overlooking Dume Cove. It was a big modern job on a narrow lot, the rooms put together like blocks, the exterior painted three or four shades darker than the sand the blocks sat on. As Lena made her approach, she noticed a gold Chrysler 300 in the drive and passed the house by.
She had expected Bosco’s place to be empty. She wasn’t sure why because it made more sense that someone would be here. Still, it threw her.
She turned the car around and kept things slow, taking another look. The lights were on in the room closest to the water, and she could see the flicker from a television in the same room. But that was about it. The rest of the house remained dark, and no one had bothered to turn on the exterior lights.
Lena pulled into the drive and got out. She could smell the ocean in the cooler air and was grateful for the breeze. As she walked up the steps, she noticed that the front door had been left partly open. The door was made of glass, the view limited to the foyer. But she could hear two men talking over the sound of the TV, and rang the doorbell.
She waited a good ten seconds. When no one responded, she opened the door and noticed that the men had stopped talking and the TV had been turned off. She called out in a firm voice, identifying herself as a police officer. When the men inside switched off the lights, she backed out and returned to her car.
She moved with determination and purpose.
She grabbed the flashlight out of her briefcase, and wrote down the plate number on the Chrysler. But when it came to making a call for officer assistance, she hesitated. Malibu was serviced by the Sheriff’s Department, not the LAPD. The station was a long way off in Agoura Hills. If their response began from there, it would take them too long to get here. She thought it over for all of about five seconds. Then she made the call and gave the deputy Bosco’s address.
After that, it was play as you go.
She jacked the slide back on the.45, moved up the steps, and entered the house. For several moments she didn’t move, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness and trying to quiet her rapid breathing. Once she settled down, she listened to the house and concentrated on the silence. Her flashlight was small enough that she could hold it against the grip of her gun. She switched it on, moving through the foyer quickly.
When she hit the corner, she noted the open floor plan and realized that Bosco’s house had been ransacked. She could see CDs and DVDs strewn all over the couch and coffee table. While the kitchen remained undisturbed, the contents of a closet beside a large flat panel television had been dumped on the floor.
The two rooms took up most of the first floor, faced the ocean, and included a massive fireplace. Lena worked her way through the darkness. The silence remained steady and true. But when she reached the staircase, she sensed something had changed, and stopped.
She could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below the cliffs. The sound seemed too loud and too clear.
She turned around, bolting through the living room. One of the sliders was cracked open. Switching off the flashlight, she looked outside and saw two men running across the lawn. The property extended all the way to the edge of the cliffs and was fenced in.
Lena raced off the terrace into the yard. Both men were peeking over their shoulders and appeared panic- stricken. She could hear their deep and rough breathing. She could see their short and choppy steps. When they finally reached the wooden fence, they made a leap for the top and used their feet to help push them over. Unfortunately for both, they were big men-too big for the climb.
Lena switched on the flashlight and raised her gun.
“Stop,” she said, “or I’ll shoot.”
The two men froze-still hanging from the top of the fence with their feet dangling above the ground. It was dark and windy. A dog was barking from somewhere in the neighborhood. Lena moved closer, shining the flashlight on them and measuring them. Several moments passed before one of the men finally spoke, his voice strained.
“I can’t hold on any longer,” he said. “I need to drop down.”
“Me, too,” the other one said.
“Then drop,” she said. “Drop and turn around with your hands raised. And think real hard about what you’re doing. You guys pull anything, you’re both dead.”
She stepped back far enough to give herself room if she needed to fire her weapon. She hoped that they weren’t stupid. Hoped that they wouldn’t force her to do something she didn’t want to do tonight. She watched them drop to the ground. It was all of about two feet, but they had to steady themselves against the fence. And they were taking too much time doing it.
“Turn around,” she said. “And raise those hands.”
They hesitated. Lena could feel her heart pounding.
“I said, raise those hands.”
Time ticked by. She couldn’t see their hands. They were stupid. They were fucking around. She pulled the trigger, driving a.45 slug into the fence one foot above their heads. Both men almost leaped out of their skins. Then slowly, as the sound of the gunshot faded over the ocean, both men raised their hands and turned around.
Lena’s heart almost stopped.
It was the district attorney of Los Angeles standing beside that goon he’d brought back from the dead. Jimmy J. Higgins and Jerry Spadell. And the ocean breezes hadn’t been very kind to Spadell. That bad dye job turned out to be a cheap toupee after all, and it was flapping up and down on his buffed head like a bird with a broken wing.
Higgins took a step toward her. “Lower your gun, Detective. This farce is over.”
