17
Dan Cobb, aka Mad Dog Dan, aka. “Hey You”-born and raised in Wichita, Kansas-ejected the tape that he had secretly recorded, jammed it into his pocket, and rushed out of the tech room. He would listen to it when he had more time and more privacy. Like tonight, when he went home. He’d listen to the tape he’d made and take notes.
His knees were shot. He sped across the section floor as best he could, tossing those horrible glasses on his desk. By the time he reached the windows, the world came back into focus and he could see Gamble crossing the lot toward a metallic green Crown Vic. She was carrying the murder book under her arm. The one he’d edited, rather than the one he kept at home. The one he’d put together for the day he knew someone would come.
Cobb understood with perfect clarity that everything was in jeopardy now. Everything was on the line. And he could see his life flashing before him.
It worked like a movie in his head-as clear and realistic as any of the new theaters in Hollywood. He tried to shut down the images as he exited the building through the rear doors and climbed into his Lincoln. He tried to switch channels but it was always the same scenes playing over and over again. Scenes that had begun haunting him about a year ago as he sat with Lily’s dead body in her bedroom. Scenes that picked up speed during the trial, then died off over the past six weeks. But the peace was gone now. After last night, the movie wormed its way back into his head so ultra vivid, he would have sworn before a judge and jury that the stupid thing was shot in 3-fucking-D.
He could see the dead bodies piling up. He could see their faces in the muted light. He could see them staring at him and taunting him.
One, two, three.
Cobb tried to get a grip on himself, idling through the lot until he caught a glimpse of the ass end of Gamble’s Crown Vic. The way the windows matched up at the corner of the building, he could look through the glass and see her standing beside the car. She was on her cell phone, jotting something down on a pad.
He hated the stupid bitch. The new fucking deal.
But he needed some sort of plan. A map that would show him the way through. Now more than ever-he’d already lost too much.
His house, his money, his retirement-everything he owned except for the car went through the greed machine on Wall Street. When it came out the other side, the big shots had moved to Easy City on the money they’d stolen while Cobb was sent back to the world of zeroes. He could see himself in his later years, his body hunched over, his knees locked up with bone chips, the arthritis already in his shoulders taking siege all over him. He could see himself working the door at Walmart with a smiley face pinned to his apron, nodding and waving at every shithead who grabbed a cart.
The stupid bitch started moving.
He must have blanked out. He hadn’t seen her get into the car.
She pulled out of the lot and made a right, heading east on Culver toward the 405 Freeway. Cobb swung his Lincoln around the building, counted to five, then eased onto the street. Traffic was lighter than usual-the Crown Vic visible one block up. He changed lanes, anticipating that she would drive north to catch the Santa Monica Freeway for the return trip downtown. But as he settled into his seat, Gamble hit the entrance ramp heading south toward the 105 and picked up speed.
He spotted her one lane over as he hit the ramp and slid onto the freeway. Weaving through a long line of trucks and SUVs, she was hard to keep up with. He pushed the accelerator into the floor, launching the Lincoln forward and slipping in behind a F-150 pickup that provided good cover. When she exited onto the 105 heading east, he slowed down some and followed her onto the ramp.
The ride on the 105 didn’t last long enough for Cobb to think about what he was doing. Within minutes they were back on surface streets, breezing past the airport in Hawthorne. Cobb glanced at the warehouses and small factories, but kept his eyes on Gamble hidden behind the darkened glass in her Crown Vic.
It seemed obvious that she was in a hurry to get somewhere. And somewhere wasn’t anywhere near Parker Center or downtown.
She made a right turn at the corner, then another at the end of the block. Cobb began to wonder if she hadn’t spotted him. A series of three right turns was standard operating procedure for anyone who suspected that they were being followed. Cobb could remember his instructor at the Academy grilling him on it as if it were yesterday.
Three right turns with three mirror checks. If you still see the son of a bitch back there, then it’s decision time. You need to get your ass in gear.
Instant Karma.
But Gamble’s third right turn never happened. Instead, she pulled down an alley and stopped in the rear lot of a nondescript building surrounded by razor wire and a twenty-foot security fence.
Cobb cruised past the alley to the end of the block, turned back, and found a decent place to stop. Through the buildings, he could see her getting out of the car and shaking someone’s hand. The guy seemed happy to see her. And he was an odd-looking guy, way too young to have white hair-probably a dye job from one of those places on Melrose.
Cobb flipped open his glove box and reached for the Tylenol. After dry-swallowing two caplets, he grabbed his binoculars and adjusted the focus. Behind Gamble he could see a double set of extra-wide bay doors. A small sign on the wall read SAMY, INC., but gave no indication of what kind of business it was.
At first glance, it looked like some sort of garage or auto repair shop. But as Cobb considered its location, the place was hard to find, didn’t offer a street entrance, and was surrounded by warehouses.
He took another look through the binoculars, steadying the image with his elbows pressed against the door. Gamble and the man with white hair were walking toward an Acura TSX parked in front of the loading dock. The car looked mint, a metallic version of gun-metal gray, but Cobb knew from the body style that the vehicle was two years old. He didn’t see any plates. When he spotted them on a black 911 Carrera parked by the entryway-the only other car he saw in the lot-he wrote down the number and pulled out his phone.
He’d seen enough to make a guess. But everything was on the table now and he needed more than a guess. He called central dispatch, identified himself to the woman who answered, and gave her the plate number. While he waited, he looked through the buildings at Lena Gamble and used the time to think things over.
He hadn’t been prepared for her. He hadn’t thought anyone would show up so soon after Jacob Gant’s death. He’d hoped to have more time to practice what he wanted to say, at least a couple more days to work on his performance. While he may have punched out one or two points, he knew in his gut that he’d blown it. That the way he’d acted meant more than what he’d actually said. That the dominoes were falling and could easily bring down his world and put him in the ground.
The dispatcher came back on the line. Cobb’s eyes stayed on Gamble.
“Samuel Trevor Beck,” the dispatcher said. “White male. Thirty-three years old. Lives in Manhattan Beach.”
“What’s it look like?”
“Clean for the last ten years,” the dispatcher said.
“And before that?”
“Grand theft auto. Two counts.”
“That’s what I figured. Thanks.”
Cobb slipped his phone into his pocket, giving Gamble a last look before driving off. He’d blown the interview with her. He couldn’t change that. Still, he hoped this wasn’t a new scene in the movie that kept playing in his head. A scene toward the end where he felt cornered and would be forced to rip her heart out of her chest.
18
Lena entered the Blackbird Cafe, ordering a large cup of the house blend and a toasted bagel with lox and cream cheese. Stepping around the bookcases, she passed a newly acquired photograph by Minor White and found a table on the far side of the room. It was late afternoon and the cafe was particularly quiet right now. If it had been an ordinary day, she would have called it soothing and spent a few minutes looking at the art on the walls and absorbing the atmosphere. Only a handful of people were here-two sat alone reading while the others sipped their drinks and gazed out the rear windows at the city. The view was magnificent: the sun passing through bands of carbon monoxide to the west, the tall buildings throbbing in a brilliant red light. If it had been any other day, she would have seen it and probably noticed the music in the background as well-soft and subdued and something she hadn’t listened to in a long time-Keith Jarrett playing part one from The Koln Concert.