I clearly remember what you said to me about death once: that you weren’t afraid of dying, only of being forgotten. Rest assured — smart, funny, courageous, skeptical, sweet, lovely woman — you are not forgotten. I’ll carry you as long as I live.
Want out? Sure you do. Here you come. There you are. I’ve missed you.
Later that morning, as I looked out my window to the first chill light of five o’clock, it came to me. Knocked right on my front door and introduced itself.
A way to Caliphornia. Not through Raqqa 9. Not through the Warrior of Allah. Rather, through someone who had recently done some work for Caliphornia. A licensed professional. A man who once told me he wanted to wake up and feel blameless for a day.
I found the contact and dialed.
“Ford,” said Bayless. “Can you believe that shit?”
“This is important, Jason,” I said. “I want you to Telegram Hector Padilla.”
He chuckled sleepily. “I doubt he’ll answer.”
“I’m hoping his boss will,” I said.
“Explain.”
“Were your Telegrams with Hector group-messaged?”
Bayless was quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah. Someone calling himself Andrews was in the chain but he never participated. Why?”
“Hector wanted very specific information about Lindsey for his boss, right? Not just her address, but the layout of my place, which rooms were hers. Who the other tenants were. When she might come and go. Hector said she might not need a place to live for very much longer.”
“That’s when I pulled the plug,” said Bayless.
“Plug back in,” I said. “Because you have that information now. It took you some time and it will be expensive, but you’ve got it and it’s for sale.”
“To his boss. Andrews.”
“Andrews wants it for something evil that we can prevent,” I said. “Interested?”
“Is he part of the attack last night?” he asked.
My turn for a moment of consideration. Sometimes the most persuasive thing you can offer is trust. “You bet he is.”
“Then I’m more than interested.”
“Can you be in my Main Street office in two hours?”
Next I called the number that Frank Salvano, special director of the Western Region JTTF, had given out. Got put on hold for half an hour. Told Agent Camille Rodriguez that I had specific information about the San Diego terrorist Caliphornia that I would give only to Frank Salvano.
Salvano was on the line within half a minute.
Three hours later, Taucher, Salvano, Jason, and I were anxiously loitering in my Main Street office, each of us lost to the private thoughts and uneasy tedium that cops and PIs come to know so well.
It had taken us only minutes to compose and send Jason’s Telegram solicitation to the deceased Hector Padilla. The Telegram had been received. Now we could do nothing but hope that Caliphornia, emboldened by a night of bloodshed and terror, would answer Bayless soon.
Another hour crept by. The manager of the Dublin Pub sent us up some breakfast, two plastic bags’ worth, coffee and flatware, too. I always pay cash and tip heavily.
I was halfway through the egg-and-corned-beef scramble when Jason dropped his fork to his plate, stood up, phone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Telegram from Andrews.”
Taucher pumped a fist.
Salvano raised an eyebrow.
I felt a wave of relief wash over me, followed by a wave of dread.
“‘I am Hector’s employer,’” said Jason, reading off of the screen. “‘Need photos of property and house where Lindsey is staying. Not macro Google Earth but detailed close-up photos, TWO OF WHICH must contain Lindsey. Need view from road, entrance, gate, fences. Need gate code. How many residents/tenants? Landlord is still PI Roland Ford? Does he live there? What security company? Alarms? Neighbors near? Dogs? How much money for this? Need all by five thirty p.m. today or no deal.’”
Jason lowered the phone. “Son of a bitch,” he said, as if baffled. “It worked. And he’s in a hurry.”
All eyes on me. Salvano and Taucher already on their phones.
“Tell him no problem,” I said. “And charge him a lot.”
Over the next hour we helped Jason photograph Rancho de los Robles on his phone. I kept the Irregulars out of the shots, causing them concern and curiosity. Told them I’d explain all of this later. Jason photographed Lindsey coming out of her casita and playing Ping-Pong against an unpictured opponent. She seemed anxious and uncertain. We left Zeno out of the frame. Jason shot the road and the gate and the keypad. I helped him write up a brief paragraph about the tenants and landlord, keeping us as vague and inconsequential as possible. No, landlord Roland Ford no longer lives on the property. No, the other four tenants have no firm schedules and are often gone. None are apparently employed. Lindsey Rakes almost never leaves the compound. No alarm system, no dog, neighbors not a factor. Charge: fifteen hundred dollars. Photos and gate code to come, will accept cash, credit card, or PayPal. Andrews said he would have cash delivered after receiving the images. Bayless accepted, based on Hector’s record of prompt payments in the past.
Such a strange thing to be luring terror into your home, as if it was something you couldn’t say no to.
It was just after three o’clock when Jason hit send.
43
I called a meeting of the Irregulars. Taucher, Salvano, Jason, and I waited at the picnic table under the palapa, overlooking the pond.
Burt sat right down and asked us what the plan was and how he could help.
“We won’t be needing any help,” said Salvano. “But you’ll all need to be out of here in the next couple of hours.”
Burt shook his head. “I’d reconsider that if I were you.”
Salvano looked ready to say something, but Grandpa Dick and Grandma Liz arrived, each holding the other’s hand and a large cordial glass filled to the salted brim with red liquid, sprouting a celery stick and a lemon wedge. Liz introduced herself and husband to my guests and offered to make them one of her “military-grade Bloody Marys.”
No takers. So she and Dick sat down with us, Dick noting that he could spot federal employees “from miles downwind.” No one had said anything about federal employees, so I had to take him at his word.
“What a gift that must be,” noted Taucher.
Dick gave her a wry smile.
Next came Clevenger, recently awakened for the day. His hair was a mess and his face looked weighted. He plopped down across from Burt. “Another long night chasing coyotes,” he explained. “Never even heard one.”
“Any sign of Oxley?” asked Liz.
“No Oxley today,” said Clevenger, rubbing his forehead. “The Oxster is a goner, Liz. We all know that.”
“I choose hope over defeat,” she said.
The agents and Jason looked at one another like this must be code for something, plainly puzzled by the Irregulars.
Lindsey came down last, Zeno plodding along big-footed beside her, ears up for all the new faces. She wore one of her cowgirl uniforms: Ariats and pressed jeans, a blue yoked satin blouse with white piping and mother-of-pearl snaps, a belt like a boxing champ would hold over his head.
Taucher stood and offered her hand. “I’m Joan Taucher. Nice to finally meet you.”
Lindsey smiled apologetically. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”