He set his holstered Glock.40-caliber on the seat next to him, then drove down the long compound driveway toward the road. His dogs bounded along with him, twelve in all. Bradley looked out the side window and smiled. The dogs might eat him out of house and home but watching them run alongside his vehicles was worth it. He reached up and pressed the controller button. Erin had strung the gate with cardboard witches that flew along as the gate rolled open. Bradley barreled through with a nod to Call, as the dogs skidded and eddied and howled at this, the received boundary of their world. In the rearview he saw the gate slide shut and Divot, the small Jack Russell terrier, leaping straight up and down and barking with the utter abandon of being abandoned.
Bradley drove through the hills of Valley Center, enjoying as always the native oaks and the riotous bougainvillea and the liquidambars and sycamores and flame trees all blushing with reds and oranges and yellows. He followed Interstate 15 north of L.A. and into the desert toward Lancaster. This was unincorporated L.A. County desert, Bradley knew, patrolled by his brethren LASD out of the Lancaster substation, formerly Charlie Hood's turf.
Bradley thought about Hood and the strange convolutions of will and circumstance that had brought together his mother and Hood and himself. He remembered clearly the day that Hood had walked into their lives. Bradley was sixteen and had disliked him on sight. He had disliked the way his mother looked at the detective and the small change of inflection in her voice. He had disliked Hood's clean-cut good looks, the odd combination of hope and skepticism on his face, his unhurried eyes. He had disliked Hood's pride in being LASD and his questioning of his mother. True, Hood had encouraged Bradley to consider law enforcement one day, and told Bradley that LASD pay was "fair" and it was a good place to work. Bradley had bragged about being good with a handgun, which he now remembered had brought a look of concern to Charlie Hood's annoying, freshly shaven face. The only thing that Bradley had liked about Hood was his IROC Camaro, beautifully maintained. But Suzanne had liked the whole package, or fallen for it, or fallen for her version of what he was. Back then Bradley had believed that Hood was her cause of death, and he still believed it now. For this he could not forgive him. He could respect him. He could admire him. He could even see something of what his mother had seen in him-decency, strength, humility. He could befriend him. He could use him. But not forgive.
Bradley continued west now on Highway 138. Mateo had given him an address and a time and Bradley had called Commander Dez immediately. Dez would have her undercover team in place and some cruiser teams ready for backup and a helo in the air but out of sight and earshot. Gravas and Herredia's low-level couriers, whom Bradley had told Dez were in the employ of the Gulf Cartel, wouldn't have a chance.
For the deal, El Tigre had chosen a busy avenue in a newly developed part of Lancaster. Bradley was familiar enough with it-a shopping center anchored by a Ralph's and a Target, ringed by every fast-food franchise in the West and the usual corporate suspects: Blockbuster, CVS, Verizon, Baskin-Robbins, Hallmark Gifts, Super-cuts, Mobil Gas and Wash, and a huge parking lot shared by all of the stores. It was a busy place, Bradley knew. Hide in plain sight, he thought: Ninety neat little machine pistols and seventy-five grand in cash wouldn't be noticed in the consumer chaos. The Mobil Gas and Wash was ground zero, in the back, where the condensed air and radiator water were dispensed.
By his own design Bradley himself would not participate in the bust. Too much suspicion would come his way. He told nobody of the intel he gave to Dez that Sunday and he was confident that Dez had kept his name far removed from her operation. But naturally he couldn't resist watching it all go down, thus this voyeur's journey to the desert to watch crazy Sean Gravas and Herredia's lambs be sacrificed to the beautiful and courageous Commander Miranda Dez. She had called him into her office just yesterday to ask about his life, his job, his wife-and to thank him again for bringing the Gravas bust to her. She couldn't wait to take down the Flying-Fabio-Hell's Angel-Jesus Wannabe. At the bust of Gravas and the Gulf men, she would have an undercover deputy get video and stills for the department and of course the media. One of her sergeants had been in touch with Theresa Brewer at FOX, and Dez had thanked Bradley for that contact, too. The magic hour was to be eight o'clock, and by then Bradley was sitting in his Cayenne in the parking lot, right up close to the Mobil Gas and Wash. He had a good view of the rear part of the station, where the deal was set to go down. He also had a good view of the fourteen pumps, the mini-mart and the drive-through wash. Even at eight P.M. the station was busy, though the wash was being only lightly used. A van disgorged a band of vampires and goblins and a tiny Darth Vader who were led toward the restrooms by a woman while a man swiped his card at the pump. The shopping center and the parking lot were all overrun with customers, Antelope Valley having no antelopes and far more people than services.
He could see Miranda Dez, dressed in jeans and athletic shoes and a black thigh-length leather jacket, leaning against her red Corvette while the gas pumped in, a wireless headset on her ear, her head tilted to one side as if in casual conversation. He saw two scruffy undercover deputies posing as customers in the mini-mart, an older pickup truck with two more UCs getting gas from pump eleven, a Ford 500 freshly out of the wash with two more plainclothes deputies-a man and an attractive woman-wiping it down. Bradley watched a uniformed gas station attendant slip an OUT OF ORDER cover over the car wash control panel, then stand in the middle of the wash entrance with his arms crossed, as if daring anyone to defy the sign. Strange, Bradley thought. Unless…
A silver Mercury sedan bounced into the station and Bradley caught a glimpse of Sean Gravas's blond mane and pale face and the dark insect lenses of his sunglasses. Gravas proceeded across the station as if headed to an empty pump but he drove past the pumps and back onto the avenue and Bradley watched the Mercury join the traffic. Darth and company were marched from the mini-mart back toward the van. Then Gravas was back, entering where he'd exited this time, and crossing the lot again before driving back to where the air and water were dispensed.
A moment later came the vehicle that Mateo had told him to watch for, a white, late-model Denali XL, the four men inside just barely visible behind the smoked windows. Bradley noted the California plates and the BAJA JOE'S decal on the back bumper, just over the trailer hitch. Just as Gravas had done, the Denali crossed the station and exited on the boulevard, only to reappear a few minutes later.
But instead of heading for the darkened back portion of the lot where Gravas now waited, the Denali proceeded to the car-wash entry, where the attendant stepped aside and waved it into the wash. Suddenly the Mercury reversed in a nifty highway-patrol turn and shot forward to the car-wash entry and followed the Denali inside.
Not bad, thought Bradley-a little cave of privacy in the middle of this public place. They could transfer the guns and weigh out the money in less than five minutes, while the "attendant" kept any innocent bystanders from joining the party.
He saw Dez get into her Corvette and pull toward the car-wash entry. The attendant waved his arms and shook his head and Dez began arguing with him. She got out and left her lights aimed into the car-wash tunnel and she must have called in the cavalry, too, because as Bradley watched, the two undercover deputies in the mini-mart and the couple polishing up their 500 and the two more UC men gassing the pickup truck all drew their weapons and broke for the car wash.