There was no sound at all now, not even the television. Decker waited, then whipped round as he heard the sounds of running feet in the next-door yard. The young man had run out the back of the house, leaped over the fence and headed into the street.
Decker started to run after him, then returned to his car. The man had set off at high speed along the sidewalk, but he kept him in sight. Decker backed out into the road and followed him: his bright red windcheater and sneakers made him easy to spot, and although he was moving fast, he didn’t duck into any of the driveways but headed for Adams Boulevard.
Decker still had Lee Judd in his sights as he stopped at traffic-lights. He saw the boy cross the main drag and turn into an alley about twenty yards up ahead on the left, between a dance rehearsal studio, exhibiting all the thinly cheerful signs of an attempt at urban renewal, and a boarded-up building, which still bore the ominous smoke stains of the riots. As soon as the lights changed, he pulled over and indicated left, turned into the alley and slowed down. It ran along the back of the other stores that fronted the boulevard — a liquor store, an exotic-looking hair-and-beauty salon and a Mexican music outlet. Piles of garbage overflowed from huge battered plastic bins, and a number of abandoned-looking vehicles and a couple of narrow passages led to any number of places for the youth to hide. Decker slowed to walking pace, but he knew he had lost him.
The alley ran straight through to a side street off Adams, so Decker had to drive on through. He was swinging out of the alley, preparing to head back the way he had come, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Lee Judd again. He was walking now, shoulders hunched and head bent low, keeping close to the façade of rundown shops. Decker had to drive on: the traffic was so heavy that there was no way he could stop quickly.
He was just dialling the office to see if Lorraine was there when he noticed a green pick-up truck career out of a side street, and slot into the traffic close behind him as he turned onto La Brea. He accelerated, but the pickup came even closer, almost hitting his bumper. He accelerated again, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. He was about to put his foot down when the pickup rammed him so hard that his car spun through a hundred and eighty degrees, almost into the path of an oncoming vehicle. The driver screamed and blasted the horn as Decker righted the car and now hit the gas pedal hard. His heart was thumping. These guys behind were trying to run him off the road, and his mind raced as he tried to remember when the next set of traffic lights came up. He checked that his door was locked, and overtook a car in front, but the truck did the same, its cabin so high above its customized, extended wheel-base that Decker couldn’t get a clear look at the driver. All he knew for certain was that this was for real, and he started to sweat with fear, wondering whether he should take a side turning. He decided against it, hoping he would have more opportunity to outrun the truck when they had passed under the Santa Monica freeway. He hoped and prayed that there were no signals ahead, because he would be forced to jump the lights or stop.
The truck edged out to his right, and Decker was sweating freely. His hands clutched the wheel and his back arched with fear, then terror, as the truck swiped his car from the side. He screeched over to the kerb but managed to turn out of the tail spin. Now, his accelerator pressed flat to the floor, he screamed forward, burning rubber, the needle of the speedometer moving higher and higher. He was nudging eighty, with the truck still close on his tail. Suddenly up ahead were the traffic lights on Washington, at yellow turning to red. There was no way Decker could pull up in time. He gritted his teeth, accelerated harder, and crossed the traffic lights at eighty-five miles per hour.
The garbage truck had only just moved out from the left-turn lane at the intersection as Decker’s car shot the lights. It was impossible to avoid collision. Decker’s car left the ground and somersaulted in the air before landing on its crushed bonnet in the centre of the junction. The pick-up truck did a U-turn, and disappeared as the garbage collectors ran to Decker’s crushed, smouldering car. Blood smothered the windscreen, but they could see Decker’s lifeless body still strapped into his safety belt, hanging upside down as glossy art brochures tumbled around it.
Jake’s condominium was in a quiet street near Pico, within ten minutes’ drive of the police department, a late seventies Cape-Cod-style construction with a lot of shingled-wood facings, gables and white-painted wood on the exterior. It was simple, neat and orderly inside. A small kitchen led off the dining room, which in turn led off an equally compact lounge. There was one bedroom with bathroom en suite, and the entire apartment was carpeted in a drab grey, with featureless furnishing and bland landscape prints on the walls.
‘It’s rented,’ he said apologetically.
‘I should hope so. It’s — well, a bit characterless,’ Lorraine said.
‘Yeah, I guess it is, but I never intended staying here. At least not permanently.’
Tiger sniffed around the room, and lay down on a white rug in front of a fireplace containing a gas fire burning round fake logs.
Burton went into the kitchen: he’d already bought the groceries, which were still in their bags on the kitchen table. ‘You watch TV, or whatever, and I’ll cook.’ Jake began to unpack the food and set out the things he would need, and Lorraine noticed a number of small deli items — exotic mushrooms, purple basil and an hors d’oeuvre of ready-cooked stone crab, which Jake had clearly picked up to impress her.
‘You want me to set the table or anything?’ Lorraine asked.
‘Nope, I’ll do it. It’s just crab, steak and salad,’ he said, opening one cupboard after the next as he searched for plates and bowls.
Lorraine opened her briefcase and called the office on her mobile to replay her messages, but there were none. She called her apartment next, but there were no messages there either. She looked at her watch. After eight o’clock. She took out her notebook and looked for Decker’s home number, only to find she hadn’t brought it with her. ‘It’s odd he hasn’t checked in,’ Lorraine said, crossing to the kitchen. Oil was burning in a pan, and a bluish pall of smoke spiralled to the air-conditioner. ‘Oil’s a bit hot,’ she remarked, and Jake whipped round to take the pan off. He had assembled the salad and was now rubbing garlic over the steaks.
‘He usually calls in, or leaves a message for me at home.’ Lorraine picked up a carrot and munched it.
‘Who you talking about?’ Jake asked.
‘Decker — he’s been out all day, checking art galleries.’ Lorraine reached for another carrot, as the steaks sizzled and spat in the pan. ‘I don’t have his home number with me, or I’d call.’
‘Is he in the directory?’ He pointed with a fork to a side table. Lorraine walked over to it. Then she frowned — she couldn’t remember Decker’s boyfriend’s name, so she looked up Decker. She knew the phone wouldn’t be in his name and shut the book. ‘I’ll do it later when I get home.’
Jake carried out glasses, wine and a corkscrew, and set them down on the table with a clatter. He opened the wine, filled a glass and drank, then dived back into the kitchen. A few moments later he reappeared. ‘I got some of that alcohol-free lager for you. It’s on the side table.’
He leaped back into the kitchen, and she could hear him cursing. Then there was a hissing sound as he immersed the burning pan in water.
‘Do you want me to make a dressing?’ Lorraine asked, carrying the bottle of lager into the kitchen.
‘No, I’m almost ready. I made it earlier.’ He was pouring a sachet of raspberry vinegar dressing over the salad.