They clinked glasses and sipped while Lars wondered if Chase had just delivered a message. At worst, this opportunity was a great stepping stone. “So what’s next? Your résumé must be killer. Pun intended,” he added with a wink.
Chase didn’t chuckle. “I really don’t know. Something very different. You still have the place near Venice Beach?”
Lars had a rent-controlled apartment two blocks from the sand. It was small and old, but the location was prime and the rent was less than half the true market price. He wouldn’t give it up until he hit Hollywood’s A list. Or at least the B. “I sure do. Why?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m seriously considering renting a Harley and riding the Pacific Coast Highway. The idea has been in the back of my mind for years. Thought I’d crash on your couch for a few days before heading out. Would that be okay?”
“You, on a Harley?” Lars had trouble picturing that scene. Chase was as straitlaced and clean-cut as they came. A star rower who skipped the parties to study and went to church on Sundays.
“As I said, I want to try something very different. Might even let my hair grow longer than an inch if it still can.”
Lars had always worn his hair long, Chase always short. “I gotta see that.”
“Well, all right then. I’ll text you when I have my ticket. You still have the 7007 number?”
Lars thought about his phone’s current whereabouts, and his pending disappearance. For a moment he wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. Then he realized that he wouldn’t have to. Chase wasn’t really coming. This whole run-in was an acting for espionage lesson. An excellent lesson. “I sure do.”
11
Missing Person
One week later
Venice Beach, California
MY KNOCKING TURNED TO POUNDING as my frustration grew. Lars wasn’t answering his phone. Not my calls, not my texts. I wasn’t sure what I should do now that he wasn’t answering his door either. Should I try to sweet-talk the landlord into letting me in? Should I camp out on the doorstep and wait? Or should I give up and go to a hotel?
I could pick my way into his apartment, of course, but then I’d be a sitting duck if someone spotted me and called the police.
This sucked! I wanted to see my buddy and I needed to save cash. I also preferred not to begin my great getaway in jail.
I decided to start with a note. I’d leave it on the door, then take the Harley on a tour of Venice Beach. If Lars hadn’t returned by the time I got back, I’d settle down across the street at his favorite bar and grill to wait. If Lars still wasn’t back by the time it got dark, then I’d pick his lock.
But first, I’d stop by the landlord’s office and hope to get lucky. I could show the picture from Berret's that was still on my phone and offer a driver’s license and credit card as collateral in exchange for a key.
I pulled a pen from my backpack and wrote a note on my used boarding pass. I’m here with the Harley! Tried texting and calling, but -7007 appears to be an old number. Give me a call or come find me at Foxy’s. Chase.
I wondered if Lars would do a double take, finding me in biker boots and a black leather jacket rather than my habitual polo shirt and sneakers. The image brought a smile to my face.
Free from government service, I’d decided to stretch my boundaries and expand my horizons. Escape myself as much as my old world. Now I understood why Harley-Davidson’s marketing focused on finding freedom.
While crossing the courtyard, I spotted Lars leaving the apartment office. Thank goodness! Spreading my arms in a welcoming gesture that would turn into a hug, I said, “It’s about time!”
Lars didn’t react.
At least not as expected.
As we closed the gap, I detected panic on my friend’s face. Once that distance dropped to a few paces, I saw that it wasn’t Lars—just someone with a very similar face, hairstyle, and build. He was even wearing a faded funky-logo T-shirt and old jeans, as was Lars’s predilection.
I dropped my arms.
The doppelgänger walked past with an obvious effort not to look me in the eye. They have all types out here on the fruity fringe.
I continued to the apartment office, where I found a twenty-something employee stapling papers. “I’m looking for Lars de Kock.”
The young manager looked up. “You just missed him.”
“That wasn’t him. Did look like him though. I’m supposed to be staying with Lars for a few days but haven’t been able to contact him. Was hoping you might let me in. I’ve got pictures and ID.”
The manager looked left, then right, a promising start. Apparently satisfied that they were unobserved, he rotated his freshly stapled stack of papers around so I could read the header. “No, that was him. I saw his ID. Mr. de Kock just surrendered his apartment.”
“Lars wouldn’t do that. It’s rent controlled, right?”
The manager smiled. “It was. The next guy will be paying three times the price.”
I focused on the signature. It sure looked like Lars’, with the framing L and violent Ks. This was one slick impersonation.
I immediately understood the scam. The landlord had figured out how to repossess his rent-controlled units and was using his minimum-wage employees as unwilling accomplices. Shameless bastard. “Do you happen to know where Lars went?”
“I know he didn’t go to his room. I’ve got the keys, and the movers have come and gone.”
Of course they had. Lars was in for one hell of a surprise when he returned from whatever acting gig was keeping him away. It couldn’t be the CIA. Could it? No way. Their recruiting process took months, and it had only been days.
I sprinted for my Harley.
Given the price of real estate, resident parking in this neighborhood was almost always underground in tight, assigned spaces you needed a key card to access. Like most, Lars’s place also had limited visitor parking at the top of the ramp. I had successfully snagged a spot there, given that my vehicle only had two wheels.
The first car exiting as I approached my ride was a BMW i8, the German automaker’s $150,000 luxury plug-in hybrid. I would have ignored it had there been movement elsewhere, knowing that neither Lars nor anyone hired for an impersonation gig could afford such a ride. But the driver’s nervous sideways glances attracted my attention, and I met his eye.
It was the impostor.
He immediately turned onto the side street and accelerated with a tire screech.
I hopped on the Harley and slammed on my helmet. Ignoring both my bent ears and the dangling chin straps, I hit the keyless ignition, grabbed the handlebars, and screeched out in pursuit.
As the rental company’s advertisements had described, the Harley-Davidson Iron 883 was an appealing amalgam of old and new. The poster bike of the anti-chrome movement, it had a black-powder-coated 883cc engine, with chopped fenders and a short suspension. The low seat was tuck and roll and the handlebars drag-style. Even though I was still getting a feel for the beast, I doubted there was a production car on the planet that could outrun me. Certainly, there’d be no escape in L.A. traffic.
The BMW headed north on Pacific toward Santa Monica. I started off three cars behind but split the lane and soon eliminated the gap. I figured it was best to put the pressure on and eliminate any chance of red-light interference.
I had no way to force the impostor off the road. Not with only two wheels and no weapons at my command. But I could stay on his bumper for the next 170 miles or so. My Harley had a full tank of gas.
I used a red light to adjust my helmet and snug the chinstrap. Adding to the mystery, the impostor made quick use of his cell phone to snap my picture while my helmet was off—as if I were the one committing the crime.