Blind turn followed blind turn, and then finally, a sweep of headlights illuminated a thicket of chaparral on the left shoulder. I slowed, hugged the wall of the canyon, and two black Tahoes flew by, rocking my car. No time to see a license plate. The windows looked uniformly black.
I was almost around the curve when, in my rearview, I saw the back Tahoe's brake lights flare. My stomach surged.
Accelerating down the dangerous road, I said to Chic, 'They spotted me.'
'Okay. Keep me in your ear. Tell me where you are.'
I skidded onto Coldwater, sending a spray of rocks and gravel across the opposing lane, and rocketed up the hill, blowing the light to veer left onto Mulholland. 'I'm heading for home.'
'I'm right behind you.'
The lead Tahoe nosed into my mirror, but I lost it around a turn. The light at Benedict Canyon was yellow; I saw another dark SUV waiting at the intersection and hit the gas, squeezing through as it pulled forward to block me. Three cars in pursuit? The FBI? Gangsters? The mob? Maintaining a dangerously heavy foot, swerving into opposite lanes to shave turns, I kept my pursuers one bend of the road behind me.
Chic said, 'What's your cross street?'
Approaching Beverly Glen, Mulholland added a few more lanes, opening up for the intersection.
The wind brought me wisps of sound from a bullhorn: 'Your vehicle over now ' Hitting the brakes, I careened around the turn and saw the blockade ahead six police units parked nose to nose, lights strobing, doors open, firepower aimed at yours truly. A few confused drivers cluttered the intersection behind them, starting to reverse away from whatever was coming.
When the screech of my tires faded, I heard the sirens harmonizing behind me.
I said, 'It's the cops.'
Chic said, 'I'm gonna go home now.'
In my rearview I watched the distinctive cherry red pickup veer right and ease calmly down a side street. I turned on my dome light, placed both my hands on top of the steering wheel. One of the Tahoes pulled up next to me, the dark window sliding down.
I said, 'There's a loaded. 22 on the passenger seat.'
Over the aimed sights of his Glock, Bill Kaden said, 'Yes, I believe I'm familiar with it.'
Chapter 39
Resting my cuffed hands atop the interrogation table, I gazed around at the familiar yellowed walls, the one-way mirror flecked with rust. It was morning, but you wouldn't have known it.
Kaden and Delveckio had had me delivered by two gruff cops who smelled of cigarette smoke and refused to acknowledge me until they yanked me out of the backseat. A few reporters had been hanging around Parker Center on a rumor an indicted gangbanger was being moved downtown for a trial. In his absence they'd been happy to capture me doing the perp walk. Upstairs I'd been left to entertain myself for a few hours. Despite the cuffs, I tried to make hand-shadow animals on the far wall. Whoever said oppression breeds creativity was full of shit.
The door banged open, and Kaden ambled in. Cuffed sleeves, shoulder holster, smelling of chalk and coffee. Behind him Delveckio blew his nose into a handkerchief.
'We found Kasey Broach's shirt in the laundry-room sink of Genevieve Bertrand's house,' Kaden said.
The laundry room. I hadn't even been bright enough to stumble over evidence planted for me.
Delveckio added, 'And your prints all over the house.'
'Of course they are. I spent a lot of time there before we broke up.'
Kaden said, 'We have you on her street.'
'I was taking a drive.'
Kaden gripped the table, arms flexing. 'Are you denying that you broke in to her house a few hours ago?'
'I'm neither confirming nor denying anything until I talk to a lawyer.'
'So why don't you request one now?'
'Because we'd have to stop talking. I know you think you've got something on me. Probably something horrifying. And I want to know what it is.' I was sweating through my shirt. 'I can tell from the setup. Nine units pursuing me, handcuffs, the smug set of your mouth. So what do you got? My high-school prom date ten toes up beneath the bed of tulips in my front yard?'
'You don't have a bed of tulips in your front yard,' Delveckio said.
'I know, but 'hydrangeas' is a mouthful.' A loaded silence. I was too anxious to let it stretch on longer. 'Come on,' I said. 'Let's get it over with.'
Kaden said, 'We were on our way to arrest you when an anonymous call tipped us to a break-in at Ms. Bertrand's address.'
'Why were you on your way to arrest me?'
He threw down an evidence bag containing a familiar hair on the table in front of me. 'This hair matches several left behind by the Redondo Beach Rapist over the past three years.'
'I… what?'
'He wears a ski mask, so we've never been able to get a composite. Seven rapes and we've got nothing but the occasional strand of brown hair.' Kaden eyed me. 'Matchesyour hair color.'
'This is bullshit. By the time we're done, you're gonna have me toilet training the Lindbergh baby with Jimmy Hoffa.'
'You wanna tell me why the hell you were having our lab process a hair from a wanted rapist?'
'They made a match and Ordean spooked,' I said, more to myself than them.
'Of course he spooked. He's a fucking TV actor. The CSI clowns consulting on his show ran a microscopic hair comparison to play show-and-tell, put it against strands from high-profile outstanding cases. It hits the jackpot, they about swallowed their tongues. Ordean said you gave him this hair. Has no idea where you got it.'
'Where do you think I got it?'
Kaden reached over and pressed a thumb to the swelling around my eye. 'Morton Frankel.'
I jerked away, and they snickered at me.
Kaden asked, 'Why were you at Genevieve Bertrand's house?'
'Someone tried to break in to my house tonight, then run me over with a brown Volvo. He left this behind.' Cuffs jangling, I pulled the Baggie holding the matchbook from my pocket they'd missed it when patting me down for hardware and flung it on the table.
Delveckio examined the skull-and-crossbones matchbook sourly, or maybe that was just his face. The more I studied him, the less I could imagine him having anything to do with Adeline or any of the Bertrands, for that matter. Rather, the less I could imagine them having anything to do with him. Delveckio awkwardly manipulated the bag, showing his partner the address inside.
'Who tipped you?' I asked. 'That I was allegedly at Genevieve's?'
Kaden said, 'An anonymous caller.'
'Don't you trace incoming phone calls?'
'It came in to my private line. Not 911. Not dispatch.'
'That's a very anonymous anonymous call. When you go pick up Mort, why don't you see if he's got your digits written down somewhere?'
'We can't pick him up,' Delveckio said.
'The guy tried to make me Volvo meat.'
'Says you.'
'And the matchbook.'
'This evidence' he tapped the bag containing the hairs 'was illegally obtained.'
'But not by you,' I said. 'So you know you can use it for a warrant and to build a case. And I've been told that it's all about building a case.'
Kaden glared at me. 'You ever fucking relent?' He jerked his head at Delveckio, and they left me alone with my none-too-chipper reflection.
