Webster moved the ’Cuda into the right lane, preparing to exit at the next off-ramp and reverse directions. Martinez picked up the cordless.
Webster asked, “Who y’all calling now?”
“Decker.”
19
“No way you two are doing a solo tail back into boony canyon-”
“Loo, it’s paved-”
“Martinez, listen to me,” Decker interrupted. “After what you told me about Sanchez, he’s going to be looking. He spots the ’Cuda, you’re roadkill. All he has to do is get a couple of friends to box you in-one car in front, one behind-and bump you on a hairpin turn, down a five-hundred-foot drop. I don’t turn women into widows, Detective.”
“If we wait for backup, we could miss him,” Martinez countered.
“Bert, Waterson’s a respected member of the community. He isn’t going anywhere.”
“What about Sanchez?” Webster piped in.
Decker barely heard the question through the ambient freeway noises. “What about Sanchez?”
Martinez said, “Don’t you want to find out what he’s up to, Loo?”
“Bert, we know what he’s up to. He’s running a chop shop. First, even if we wanted him, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Second, even if it was our jurisdiction, we’re not going to find him. He’s picked a perfect area for cover. Miles of isolated canyon roadway with outlets leading to God knows where. He’s gone. Forget about him.”
“Semi’d be easy to spot, Loo.”
“The hills are heavily wooded. You could easily hide the truck, yea, even an eighteen-wheeler, off-road. Only possible way to find it would be with a low-flying chopper. Not a good use of time or money right now because we don’t know who we’re dealing with. For all we know, Sanchez might be armed with Uzis. Send in a copter, Grease Pit might do some target practice with the pilot. Turn around and come home.”
Martinez swore silently. Webster took the phone. He said, “How ’bout this, Loo? We wait at the mouth of the canyon for Waterson. If he should hop on the freeway, we follow. Plain and simple and very, very visible.”
“Let me reiterate, Tom. Waterson isn’t going anywhere. What purpose would it serve to follow him into the city?”
“Bert and I are just a mite curious to see where he winds up after his clandestine meeting with Sanchez.”
There was a long pause over the line. Decker said, “Pinpoint where you want to wait.”
“The Placerita on-ramp to the 14 West,” Webster said. “It’s a stone’s throw from the Sierra Highway. Very well trafficked. Give us an hour, Loo. What could it hurt?”
Decker paused again. “The cell phone you’re on. Will it maintain contact up there?”
“Probably not,” Webster admitted.
Decker waited a beat, then said, “All right. Wait at the Placerita entrance. But I’m telling you right now. If Waterson doesn’t come down through Placerita, you have direct orders not to go looking for him in the canyon. Stay away from anything that even hints of ambush, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Decker said, “If I don’t hear from you after one hour, I send a posse out. If I send a posse out, you’re both in deep shit. Get it?”
“Got it. Over and out.” Webster smiled. “Now that wasn’t so hard.” He gunned the engine, edging the speedometer to ninety.
“Why don’t you just put wings on the sucker and get a pilot’s license.” Martinez crossed himself. “Next time, I drive.”
“I’m just hurrying things ’cause I don’t want to miss Waterson.”
“Be nice if we got there in one piece.”
“You worry too much.” Webster raced onto the 14.
“You got binoculars?” Martinez asked.
“In the trunk.”
Within minutes, the ’Cuda neared the Placerita exit. Just as Webster edged the car onto the eastbound off-ramp, Martinez spotted a midnight blue Lincoln entering the westbound on-ramp in the opposite direction.
“Shit!” he said. “The Lincoln just got on the freeway going back toward L.A.”
“Fuck!” Webster depressed the accelerator and the ’Cuda thrusted forward. The off-ramp led to a near-empty intersection. Webster shot a red light with a left turn, narrowly missing an oncoming Toyota. The shaken driver let go with a long honk and a series of lost curses. Webster floored the ’Cuda, catapulting it back onto the freeway. “See the Lincoln?”
“No.”
“Fuck!”
A Cutlass cut in front him. Webster braked hard, throwing them both backward. He rolled down the window and screamed. “You fuckin’ asshole! I’m gonna kill you!”
The Cutlass quickly moved out of the lane and dropped back into traffic. Martinez was ashen.
“That son of a bitch!” Webster muttered.
Patiently, Martinez said, “Slow down, Tom. Now!”
Finally, Webster braked. Breathing hard, he said, “Spot the Lincoln?”
“No.” Martinez’s heart was pounding at his breastbone. His eyes moved like radar, scanning through the traffic in front of him. Then he looked out at the side mirror. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He jerked his head around. “It’s behind us.”
“Where?” Webster said.
“Right-hand lane, about…six, seven car lengths behind.”
Webster’s eyes went to his rearview mirror, then slowed the ’Cuda to a speed less than the flow of traffic. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s there, take my word for it.”
Webster braked again. Within moments, the Lincoln came into view. He grinned. “Gotcha, baby!”
Martinez sat back, let out a deep breath. “You almost got us killed.”
Webster said nothing. Then he started to laugh. A moment later, so did Martinez. He hit his partner’s shoulder. “Son of a bitch! Drive like that again, you’ll never father another child.”
The ’Cuda cruised at a safe speed, allowing the Lincoln to gain distance until they were neck-and-neck. Martinez gave Waterson a quick once-over through the luxury sedan’s rolled-up window. Dark jacket, tie, and sunglasses. Stubby fingers gripped onto the wheel. Full cheeks, white hair, liver lips.
Martinez said, “Drop back about a hundred feet. Not too quickly. Move nice and easy. We don’t want him to suspect anything.”
Webster did as told. “Why would Waterson suspect anything, let alone a tail?”
“Because guilty people always suspect something. Mark my word, Tommy. Hanging around Sanchez, Waterson’s hiding something. I believe in guilt by association.”
“Hang around scum, you become scum.” Webster thought about the statement. “Sort of a social Lamarckian concept, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Maybe he’s only doing his duty as executor of Sparks’s estate.”
“What duty?”
Webster said, “Maybe Sparks left Sanchez money for the cause. Waterson could just be the delivery boy.”
“Waterson as Sanchez’s delivery boy?” Martinez smiled. “Remind me never to hire you as a chauffeur or a casting director.”
“You put it that way, it don’t make much sense.” Webster paused. “Did the family read the will yet?”
“I don’t know.”
From the 5 South, Webster hooked back on the 405 South. As he tailed the Lincoln, he suddenly noticed the flash of Waterson’s right-hand blinker.
Martinez said, “He’s getting off at Devonshire.”
“I see it.”
“Not so close.”
“I know, I know. Take it easy.”
“Sorry. I just don’t want to mess up at this point.”
Webster laughed. “We’re proceeding ’bout as fast as the infamous white Bronco.”
“Son of a bitch should have shot himself,” Martinez groused. “Saved us all a shitload of money. Millions of dollars flushed down the crapper and for what? He’s turning right, Tom.”
“I see him. He’s heading west.”
The Lincoln moved swiftly down the broad, pine-lined boulevard, past small, worn ranch houses resting on an area rug’s worth of land. The neighborhood had hosted thousands of citrus trees with their sweet blossoms and succulent fruit. Not many had survived the transition from agriculture to suburbia. Only a couple hundred stalwarts favored the land with their aromatic perfume, sweet edibles, and delectable shade during the sweltering West Valley summers.