Cobb was nowhere to be found.
She heard her cell phone begin ringing from its charging base inside the house. She was assuming that Hu’s next call would be the one where she learned that Cobb’s body had finally been located and her new friend was dead. She wasn’t exactly rushing inside to hear the news.
By the time she reached the phone, the call had been picked up by her service. She read the caller ID. It looked like a wrong number. Someone from a place called
“Is this Lena Gamble?”
It was a man’s voice and he sounded extremely tentative.
“This is Lena Gamble,” she said carefully. “Whom am I speaking with?”
“You’re a homicide detective? You work for the Los Angeles Police Department?”
She tried to keep cool. “Yes,” she said. “Now whom am I speaking with?”
“It’s a long story,” the man said. “And I’m not sure there’s enough time left to tell it.”
“Does this have anything to do with someone named Dan Cobb?”
He paused a moment. “Yes,” he said. “It has everything to do with someone named Dan Cobb.”
Lena pushed the stool aside and grabbed a pad and pen off the counter. The man called himself Dr. Frank and claimed to be a veterinarian in Santa Monica. He gave her his address and told her to hurry.
The drive west seemed to last a lifetime. She spent most of it wrestling with an internal dialogue that had begun when Cobb handed her Lily Hight’s boot and she realized that he had seen something no one else had. That the murder of a teenage girl and a trial that had captivated a city and worked its way across the digital universe, had been completely staged by a killer no one was even looking for. A killer who had been standing right beside them. A killer who hadn’t stopped killing and was still loose.
She spotted L.A. Dog and Cat on the right, saw Cobb’s Lincoln up on the curb, and struggled to maintain her composure. As she parked she noticed a dent in the Lincoln’s front fender and a mailbox that had been knocked over on the sidewalk. When she climbed the steps and pushed open the front door, a man in a white lab coat looked up at her from behind the desk.
“Lena Gamble?” he said.
She nodded. “Where is he?”
“Back here.”
He led her into an operating room. Cobb was lying on a stainless steel table, wrapped in sheets and blankets and pointing his gun at the ceiling. Rushing over to him, she got a look at his face, his blank stare, and thought that he was dead.
“I’m too late.”
Dr. Frank checked Cobb’s neck for a pulse. “He’s close, but he’s still here.”
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
“He wouldn’t let me. He had the gun. He said he’d blow my head off.”
Lena’s eyes danced over Cobb’s body as she took in the incredulous shock and tried to understand. She smoothed her hand over his scalp. Dr. Frank seemed just as distressed, his voice shaky and worn out from the ordeal.
“He told me he’d lost his phone, but I found it in his pocket this morning. I saw your number and called. He talked about you a lot. He’d drift in and out. Most of the time I couldn’t understand what he was saying. But he trusts you … I got that much. And he’s worried about you. Who’s Steven Bennett?”
“Why?”
“He said that Bennett tricked him.”
“Did he say how?”
“No, but I’m guessing that it has something to do with the fact that he was shot in the back.”
The words hung there. The gristle on the bone. Bennett had shot Cobb in the back.
She watched Dr. Frank move to the other side of the table. He was pulling the sheets away from Cobb’s chest. He was showing her the exit wounds.
“Two slugs passed through and out,” he said. “But there’s one left in his shoulder. I stopped the bleeding, but we really need to get him to a hospital.”
“Help me get him into my car.”
Lena wrapped one hand around Cobb’s pistol and pulled with the other. His fierce resistance to let go of his weapon surprised her. Still, she managed to pry the gun away and slip it into her jacket. Dr. Frank rolled a small steel table on wheels over and gave Lena a look like that’s all he had. Once they made the transfer, they pushed Cobb out the back door and into the parking lot. Lena swung her car around, and with considerable effort they managed to get Cobb strapped into the passenger seat. Cobb groaned several times. And as Lena climbed in behind the wheel, he reached out for her hand and held it as tight as he had held his gun.
St. John’s Medical Center was twenty-two blocks east on Santa Monica Boulevard. It would be a grind, stop- and-go traffic with signal lights on every corner. But Lena would never get past the first mile on the Pacific Coast Highway. That’s when Cobb let go of her hand. That’s when she looked over at her new friend, saw him take his last breath, and knew.
She slowed the car down, tried to get a grip on herself.
She saw Temescal Canyon Road ahead and made a left turn. There was a park on top of the hill. Pulling into the lot, she found the only spot with a view of the ocean that included palm trees. It was a beautiful view-maybe not quite the one Cobb had photographed in Hawaii … but close enough. She opened the windows to let in the smell of the ocean. When she noticed the pack of Camel Lights on the dash, she lit one and drew the nicotine into her lungs. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t really thinking anymore.
She wished Cobb could have lasted long enough to see the palm trees.
She felt his Sig Sauer in her jacket and pulled it out. Ejecting the mag, she realized that Cobb had held the vet at bay with an empty gun. She smiled-not where it shows, but underneath where it counts. As she smoothed her hand over his forehead, she noticed that the radio was playing softly in the background. The music seemed familiar and she turned up the volume. It was Miles Davis, and she hadn’t heard the cut for a long time.
“My Funny Valentine.”
55
Lena had called Vaughan and given him the news. She had called Clayton Hu as well. In spite of the fact that Bennett was wanted for the murders of six people-a killing spree that until last night began with Lily Hight and ended with Debi Watson-it was his seventh victim that would burn through the system like rocket fuel.
Bennett was a cop killer now. Even worse, he’d put three rounds into Cobb’s back. No one carrying a badge would show the piece of shit any mercy.
Lena wanted a look at the spot where Cobb had been shot in daylight. Both Vaughan and Hu agreed to meet her there. She was driving from St. John’s where she’d left Cobb behind. And she was carrying his Sig Sauer, the gun locked up in her glove box for safekeeping.
The radio had been switched off ever since she left Temescal Canyon Park. All she wanted to listen to was the sound of the engine under the hood. The sound of the machine grinding forward.
She was heading north on Twenty-sixth Street with the Riviera Country Club on her left. She could see people driving golf carts and hitting little white balls on manicured lawns as if this Saturday was like every other Saturday in sunny L.A. She turned back to the road and lit another cigarette. She wasn’t sure why, but something about seeing those people playing golf fed the rage and only made the day darker than it already was.
She wanted to hit something. Kick something. Kill it.
When she reached Sunset, she made a right, rolled through the horseshoe curve and up the hill, then made the left onto Rockingham. The patrol units were gone, a woman in a Land Rover packed with kids drove by-the events of last night seemingly forgotten, or even more likely, entirely missed by all. Although it didn’t look like
