“You bet.”
“All night?”
“Sort of. Simon and Teru stood in for a while.”
“I love your friends.”
“They seem to think you’re okay, too.”
“I’m making blueberry pancakes. Want some?”
“Just you try to stop me.”
That day went pretty much the same way as the day before. I followed her to the Montes’s place and parked under the same tree. The oak kept a lot of the drizzle off the car, but enough of it came dripping down through the leaves and branches to make me leave the windows up. Maids and gardeners came and went up and down the road. The exact same model and color of Bentley drove by again. I thought it might have been Jack Nicholson behind the wheel, but the beads of water on the side window made it hard to tell.
I had come prepared this time with a sack lunch from Olivia’s apartment. A banana, potato chips, and a ham and Gouda sandwich on sourdough, with sprouts. Also, a cold Coca-Cola. She had packed everything in a small plastic cooler. I answered the call of nature behind some bushes. It was good to be out of the car. I decided to stand beside the tree trunk and count birds. There seemed to be more crows that day. Maybe the drizzle brought them out. I watched them carefully, saw no trails of ashes, and decided my doctors would have been pleased. Every day, in every way, I was getting better and better.
At 5:05, Olivia came through the gate again, waved, and turned right, toward the canyon road. I kept her in sight all the way to Venice. We met at her gate again, and as before, I went inside first, with the M11 ready in my hand. All was clear. She came in and changed clothes. She emerged from her bedroom wearing full-length jeans this time. The rain had dropped the temperature. It was too cool for shorts.
In spite of the drizzle, we went for another walk, following the same route. I hung back again, although I didn’t like it. Across the neighborhood to Venice Boulevard, to the beach, to the pavilion, back up into the neighborhood, across the canals on Dell, then back to her apartment. If she wanted them to get to her, following exactly the same routine every day was certainly the way to do it.
After dinner I checked all of her windows again. I made sure her portable phone was charged and all set to speed-dial me. I reminded her to keep it within reach no matter where she was in the apartment. I also reminded her not to answer the intercom or a knock at the door unless she was certain it was me.
“They could pretend to be anyone,” I said. “Even the police.”
“I remember what you said last night. Don’t worry.”
There had been a break in the drizzle while we had dinner. The street was still shiny underneath the streetlight, but I could make out the moon overhead, so it looked like the clouds had blown on inland. I had managed to park in almost the same location, facing her apartment. Hopefully, if they had noticed the Bentley the night before, they would assume it belonged to a resident. The houses and apartment buildings in that area looked kind of seedy to me, but because of the location, they were selling in the low two millions, so a Bentley at the curb wasn’t completely out of the question.
Fifteen minutes after I got in the car, a black Lincoln Navigator rolled slowly by. I sank down in the seat. Although the moon was out again, the Navigator’s windows were darkly tinted. There was no way to see the passengers.
When it passed under the streetlight, I saw a lot of reddish mud along the sides. That was unusual in LA. The mud obscured the rear license plate, so I couldn’t get a number, but it reminded me of a mad fantasy, a river of blood seeping into the soil. I was pretty sure I knew where the Navigator had been. I removed the M11, checked the safety on the gun, put a round in the chamber, and sat there with it in my hand.
It was an hour before they came again, from the opposite direction. I thought they might stop this time, but they were more careful than that. They rolled slowly past without a pause. I got a good look at the vehicle as it approached and made a note of the first part of the number on the front license plate. The second part was covered by the red mud.
Chances were the third pass would be the one. I reached into the duffel bag Simon had brought to me the night before and removed two plastic twist ties. I got out of the car and hurried to her gate. I wrapped the twist ties around the leading edge of the gate and the adjacent steel post at the top and the bottom, effectively locking it down. I wanted to make sure they couldn’t get into the courtyard before I got to them, and I wanted to create a moment of distraction while I came.
I went back to the Bentley, got in, and took out the M11 again. In case they had noticed me before, I slid low in the seat so they couldn’t put a round in the back of my head. I adjusted the rearview mirrors to let me keep watch from that position.
Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Half an hour. The black reflection of a car appeared in my rear view mirror. It came very slowly. I wondered if they had been smart enough to change vehicles. Probably. With the M11 in my right hand, I put my left hand on the door handle and waited.
The car pulled to the curb behind me. I saw lights across the top and realized it was a patrol car. A cop got out of the driver’s side. A cop got out of the passenger side. I could only see their silhouettes in the mirror, but both of them obviously held sidearms. They advanced to my four o’clock and eight o’clock, stopped, and leveled their weapons.
One of them shined a flashlight on my side of the car and said, “Police. Put both of your hands out through the side window where I can see them. And they’d better be empty.”
I dropped the M11 into the space between the seat and the center console, twisted to the left, and showed him my hands. He approached carefully. “With your left hand only, open the door. Then get out. Leave the right hand where I can see it, and move very slowly, or I will fire.”
I did exactly as he said. Once I was standing by the car, his partner came around to cover me while he told me to assume the position and frisked me. Three minutes later I was cuffed and sitting on the curb between their car and mine while they searched the Bentley. One of them walked past me carrying the M9 and the duffel bag. He got in their car and made a call on the radio. The other one came to stand beside me.
“Officer,” I said. “I have a concealed-carry license. I’m in the personal-protection business. A woman named Olivia Soto lives in that building, and she hired me to keep watch out here tonight. She was attacked a few days ago and believes the same men might come back.”
“I know who you are,” he said. “And I know who she is. Stand up and walk to the patrol car.”
“You’ve got to listen to me. The men who attacked her have passed by twice in the last hour and a half. They’re driving a muddy late model black Lincoln Navigator. I didn’t get the full plate number, but it starts with 5DB. They’ll be back any minute now. This time they’ll probably break into her apartment and attack her. They’re armed, and they have military training. You guys need to get ready.”
“Just get in the car,” he said, opening the rear driver’s-side door.
“You’ve got to call for backup.”
“Oh, we do, huh?” Gripping the chain between my wrists, he lifted it, putting strain on my shoulders. “Get in the car.”
I got in. He left the door open. He said, “Malcolm Cutter, you’re under arrest for violating the conditions of your bail by carrying a concealed weapon and leaving the country, and for violation of a restraining order by approaching within one hundred yards of Hector and Doña Elena Montes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?”
“Listen, why don’t you just go over there with me and talk to Olivia Soto? She’ll back up everything I’ve said.”