“By the elementary school?”
“Yes.”
Voinovich sped along Ventura Place to the Boulevard, zigzagging in and out of the cars. He moved into the left-turn lane, then cut into the right and onto Carpenter. It was a narrow, quiet road where cars had to pull to the side to let each other pass, but he was going over fifty past the elementary school and through the stop sign at the intersection. Just past the school, the road turned and narrowed, and there was a high wooden fence to the right.
Just as the road curved to the right, Jerry hurled the first bundled pair of guns, then the second over the fence. He could see them fall, and then bounce down the hill twenty feet into a tree-lined chasm at the edge of a big estate, where a small, rocky stream bed meandered. He remembered the gun on his ankle, tore the Velcro fasteners of the holster, and threw them both and looked back.
Two seconds later, the police car appeared again, and it was coming close to the back of the SUV.
“Better stop now,” said Jerry. “He’s getting ready to hit us to spin us around.”
They made it around the last arc of the curve and saw there were already two police cars ahead, the officers sheltering at their sides, ready to shoot.
Voinovich stopped.
There was a swarm of angry policemen, dragging them out of three doors and onto their faces on the pavement. Cops knee-dropped onto their backs, twisted their arms behind them, and clicked handcuffs on their wrists.
“Lie still. You’re under arrest.”
“What for?”
“Stealing that SUV, for starters.”
Voinovich, a few feet off, yelled, “I didn’t steal it. It’s mine.”
“It was reported stolen early this morning, and the thieves are armed robbers. That got anything to do with you?”
“I reported it, and the Pasadena police found it and gave it back. I’m Vassily Voinovich.”
Jimmy Gaffney lay on his belly in silent rage. The cop who had handcuffed him said, “You want to tell me why you’re all wearing bulletproof vests?”
“Vassily and I were robbed last night. My brother was robbed two nights ago. It’s not safe around here.”
An older police officer who had not taken part in wrestling them to the pavement called, “All right. Get these guys ready for transport. Feldman, Gaithers, start back along the road on foot and see what they threw over the fence back there near the school.”
Kapak drove to Siren, went into the manager’s office, and asked if he could borrow his car.
He drove the manager’s car, parked it across the street from Sherri Wynn’s duplex, and climbed the exterior wooden steps to her apartment. He knocked, rang the bell, and waited. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 2:00 in the afternoon. He had been pretty sure that Sherri would have caught up on her sleep by now, and be up.
He took out his wallet to look for a business card, then any piece of paper. He wrote his cell phone number on a credit card receipt. His name was already on it. Then he hurried to the car to drive to the Bank of America. He pulled into the covered parking lot in the back of the building, so the car was difficult to see. He walked to the side door and went inside.
He withdrew twenty thousand dollars in cash. He got four electronic transfers made out to the four entities he owed money to—the Alcohol Control Board to keep his liquor licenses current, his credit card company, the liquor supply company, and the accounting firm that handled his business accounts.
The next banks were all along Ventura Boulevard. He went to Wells Fargo, City National, Citibank, and United California Bank. At each he withdrew thousands of dollars in cash, then ordered wire transfers to a company called Claudius Enterprises. At the last bank he sat in a quiet private office to prepare instructions for his attorney, Gerald Ospinsky, then called him and told him to get to work on certain arrangements.
Finally, he called Spence. “It’s me. I want you to get a clean rental car. Then I want you to drive it along Moorpark Street, past the public library. Park as close to the library as possible. Then walk to Ventura Boulevard, pick up Skelley’s blue car in the municipal lot behind the Bank of America, and drive it to Siren. Do not carry a gun or anything that’s illegal on you, because you might get stopped by the cops. My car is at Siren. When you go home, leave Skelley’s car and take mine. Do you have all that?”
Spence said, “Sure. Is something wrong that I don’t know about?”
That answered Kapak’s question. The man with the shotgun in Kapak’s backyard could not have been Spence. It must have been one of the gardeners. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think I needed to. Don’t go to my house today.”
“Okay.”
“If they do pull you in, just be careful and polite and don’t get involved.”
“All right. I’ll try to have the car at the library in an hour.”
“Good. Thanks.”
He hung up and took his briefcase full of money, left Skelley’s car on Ventura, and walked to the public library. He was glad to be in an air-conditioned building after the walk. He used a computer at the library to make some reservations for flights and hotels, e-mailed more instructions to his accountant and his lawyer, and then took a short afternoon catnap, resting his head on the briefcase full of money. When he awoke, it was 3:00, about an hour since he had talked to Spence.
He went into the men’s room, combed his hair and splashed water on his face, and went outside. He walked the block to the corner and found the car. It was a new Acura with the rental company’s perfect wax job on it. Kapak got in, reached behind the visor, and found the keys. He drove off down Moorpark, staring occasionally in the mirrors to see if he could spot a follower.
He made a series of quick turns in the maze of small residential blocks north of the library, then stopped in the middle of a row of cars in the lot beside the baseball field at Beeman Park, but nobody arrived to join him.
He turned the car north and drove up Fulton, feeling secure and anonymous behind the car’s tinted glass. When he reached Sherri’s duplex, he parked around the corner and came back on foot. He climbed the stairs, but before he got to the top, the door opened and Sherri stood waiting for him. She was wearing a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and some sneakers. It occurred to him that before last night he had never seen her when she wasn’t wearing her work clothes: high heels, stockings, the short black pants, and the white top. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been calling and calling.”
He took out his phone. “Oh. I guess I turned my phone off while I was at the bank and forgot to turn it back on.”
“How old are you again?”
“Not that old” Suddenly he felt as though that weren’t true. What was he doing? How could he imagine this was the sensible thing to do?
She took his arm and tugged it so he would come inside. She closed the door and kissed his lips. “So what’s going on?”
“I don’t have much time to tell you that. I guess you would say I’ve been having a bad month, and now this week seems to be turning out worse. The only good thing that happened lately is you.”
“What bullshit.” He could tell she was pleased. He could also tell that no matter how smart she was, she couldn’t be anticipating anything like what he was thinking.
He said, “I have to leave for good. Forever. I would like you to come with me. I’ll understand if you won’t. Here.” He searched the inside of his briefcase. “It’s an e-ticket.”
She looked at it. “Paris?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now. If you want, meet me at the airport at the Delta terminal at around five-thirty. Don’t call anybody before you leave, and don’t leave anything here that you care about.” He opened the door. “Do you even have a passport?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m sorry, Sherri. I’ll be there. If you aren’t, I’ll understand.” And he was gone. He hurried to his car, already dialing Spence’s cell phone.
