Cava needed reasons to do the things he did. The more personal, the better. And if he couldn’t be given a reason, he needed to find one on his own. Something with more resonance than money. Something more real and less tarnished than For God and Country. Sometimes, he found the reason the moment he looked at a person. But usually it took a couple of days to smoke out and feel true. It was part of the creative process. The thing that kept him sane in a world that had stopped spinning eight years ago. The thing that protected his core deep inside. The core no one could get to, that no one could catch or reach or run a jetliner through.
His mind surfaced and he lowered the binoculars. A double-decker bus filled with smiling tourists pulled to a stop in front of the Playboy Mansion at the end of the block. After everyone got their pictures, the bus would stop before the house they’d used to shoot the movie Scarface. Five mansions up the yellow brick road and they would make a third stop in front of Humphrey Bogart’s old house. The place where Sam Spade hung his hat and played with Lauren Bacall’s tits in bed.
Cava knew the route because he’d taken the tour yesterday, shooting pictures like a dumb ass from the upper deck as he tried to get a better feel for the neighborhood. It had been worth the hassle-a reconnaissance mission wearing light touristy clothes purchased directly from Tommy Bahama’s store at the Grove on Third Street earlier that morning. Despite freezing his ass off, he seemed to fit in and managed to get a good first look at Fontaine’s house. The property may have been the smallest on South Mapleton Drive, but still included a pool, tennis courts, a guest house, and a garage big enough to get lost in. But unlike his neighbors, Fontaine only had two cars. This surprised Cava-not ten cars, just a pair of Mercedes. And the convertible looked a little old, like maybe the Beverly Hills doctor was living beyond his means, trying to hold on in a neighborhood where everyone else had enough cash to let go. Still, the house was perfectly placed, the backyard opening like a gate to the Los Angeles Country Club. It seemed to meet Cava’s every need. Getting to Fontaine would be easy when the time came, especially at night.
The tour bus lumbered by, spewing a thick blue cloud of diesel exhaust into air that already smelled like a truck stop. Cava recognized the driver from yesterday and lowered his head, thinking about the growing list of potential witnesses and those two bodyguards.
He had followed Fontaine and his girlfriend home from the office last night. Kept an eye on them until midnight before driving across town to his apartment on Barham Boulevard overlooking Universal Studios and the Warner Brothers lot. When he returned this morning, he noticed the Ford Explorer leading the way to a 7:00 a.m. breakfast at Nate’n Al’s in Beverly Hills. Although he didn’t enter the deli, he glanced through the window in passing and saw Fontaine and the blonde seated with the two men. Probably working out terms and doing the deal.
Cava checked on the tour bus again, watching it wheeze slowly up the hill. Raising the binoculars, he took a last look at Fontaine’s house and wondered if the bodyguards were smart enough to ask for their money up front.
Probably not.
He grinned a little as he kicked the idea around and watched someone lowering the blinds on the first floor. It was beginning to feel right. Beginning to feel true. But first he needed to get rid of his car. He checked his watch. He wanted to hit the dealership before nine.
15
She was standing by the window in the second-floor bedroom and could see the left front fender of the Caprice over the crest of the hill. At some point during the night Klinger’s friends from Internal Affairs had moved their car farther down the road. They may have been anticipating daylight, but they were still there. And when Lena checked the utility box this morning, the tap and wireless transmitter were still in place as well. They were listening, or at least trying to. After returning to the house, Lena had programmed the phone to forward incoming calls to her cell. The tap on the outside lines would no longer be able to pick up a signal, just the initial ring before the phone company’s computers rerouted the call. It would be a series of long, cold nights for both detectives from Internal Affairs, nights spent in futility and silence. She wished she could see Klinger’s face when they called in their report.
Her cell phone vibrated and she glanced at the LCD screen. It was Steve Avadar from Wells Fargo Bank, calling at 8:30 a.m.
“Lena, when was the woman calling herself Jennifer McBride murdered?”
His voice was quiet. Maybe too quiet.
“Wednesday night,” she said. “Why?”
“Because the account’s still active. Her ATM card has been used every day since the murder to get cash.”
“How much has been taken?”
She could hear papers rustling in the background-Avadar cupping the phone and saying something to someone in his office. After a moment, he was back.
“Whoever’s using the card is pulling her daily limit. Five hundred a day. Two thousand so far. Someone used the card at seven-twenty-three this morning.”
Lena turned away from the window, thinking about the witness. She had received the victim’s driver’s license and the video clip of the abduction, but the witness had kept the victim’s purse and everything inside it, including the ATM card.
“How much is in the account?” she asked.
“More than fifty thousand dollars.”
It hung there. The weight and breadth of the money. Along with the reason why the witness wanted to remain hidden.
“That’s serious money,” she said.
“You bet it’s serious.”
“Where was the withdrawal made this morning?”
“On Fourth Street in Santa Monica.”
“I know it’s Saturday,” she said, “but is there any chance we could meet there instead of downtown?”
“I’ve already made the arrangements. The ATM’s been shut down and we’re pulling the video.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Five minutes later she was easing her car out of the drive and checking the road to her right. The Caprice remained hidden around the bend. As she made a left and hit the accelerator, she rolled down the windows and kept her eyes pinned to the rearview mirror. She could feel the cold air beating against her face, the heat in her blood, but the road behind remained empty.
The bank was at Fourth and Arizona, one block north of Santa Monica Boulevard. Lena entered the lobby and found Steve Avadar in the manager’s office combing through a stack of papers.
She tapped the door on her way in. Avadar was alone and grinned as he rose from the chair.
“We’re still working on the ATM video,” he said. “We’re pulling the first three withdrawals. They’re from local branches, so it should only take another ten minutes.”
“Thanks for doing this, Steve. Let’s start with the victim’s account.”
“I’ve been going through her monthly statements,” he said. “I think we’ve got something.”
“Show me.”
Steve Avadar may have been a vice president directing fraud investigations and risk management for the bank, but today he looked anything but corporate. His dark brown hair was longer than she remembered. And he’d left his suit behind for a pair of jeans and a fleece pullover. Although his appearance was young and athletic, casual and laid-back, she remembered his mind being tack sharp. And when he quickly arranged the statements in chronological order, she could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn’t driven by worry. It was all about discovery now-a certain fascination for what they might find underneath the next rock.