"This could be huge, man. We gotta drop everything and go see Jamie right now."
"What about that other thing?"
"What other thing?"
"Our case, dipshit. The twenty-five-year-old gold heist with five corpses. You do remember that, don't you?"
"Of course."
"It's picking up speed. We don't have time this morning to be messing with your movie-star friend."
"Listen, dawg "
"I'm a lot of things, but not a dawg," I interrupted. "I'm sometimes a jerk, even an asshole, but I'm not a fucking dawg."
"If that's your call, fine. But here's the 411. Jamie is headed off to London on a European promotional tour for his new flick that's just coming out. Then he's in Prague for six months on the new Michael Mann film. He's leaving at noon from Van Nuys Airport on his G-5."
"So what?"
"Right now, this morning, he happens to be in Malibu looking at some property he wants to buy. He happens to want to talk to us about Prostitutes Ball. If we get our asses up there, he'll hear me out, but it's kinda time sensitive. We blow this meet, unless we wanta spend a fortune to go to Prague, we lose our chance at getting any face-time with him for half a year."
I remained silent. Or maybe I just groaned slightly.
"Okay, okay. So I'll say no. I just had to check with you, dawg I mean, Shane. Because, like it or not, I've become sort of fond of you. I'm trying to keep my partner from throwing away a bloody fortune so you and Alexa won't get stuck eating dog food after you've pulled the pin and shot through your measly police pension."
I suddenly realized I was so distracted by this conversation I was driving erratically and straddling two lanes. Cars behind me on Sixth Street started honking. I corrected and felt myself caving in to this new lust for money.
The canal house was nice, but beachfront would be better. Instead of taking our retirement sitting on lawn chairs in some public campground, wouldn't Alexa and I be happier on a sleek sixty-foot sailboat with silk spinnakers, cruising the California coast?
"I'll call him and tell him no." He paused. "So that's the decision. That's what you want, right?"
"Uhhh, well…" I was vapor locking.
"Good. I hear indecision in your voice. You're finally coming to your senses. Listen, I got directions here. It's off Trancas Canyon, but it's a little confusing. Meet me at Moonshadows restaurant on the Coast Highway out by Malibu in half an hour. Can you make that?" "I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure we should be doing this." "Its a lousy two hours out of your life, get a grip, Scully." "Okay, okay. I'll see you there."
Chapter 49.
I turned around, headed the other way, and got on the Santa Monica Freeway to the Coast Highway. All the way, I kept wondering who I was turning into. Was I now just a Donald Trump wannabe with a badge?
Hitch was waiting in the restaurant parking lot with the top down, looking like a GQ photo spread in his tan suit, pink shirt, and matching tie. I pulled in and he shouted.
"Park over there. We'll take my ride."
I parked and got in the Porsche. We buzzed out onto PCH heading farther up the coast toward Trancas Canyon. As we drove, I told him I'd set up a second gold assay test at the Latimer Commodities Exchange. He didn't seem too interested. He was deep in movie producer mode.
"Okay, look, when we get there let me do the talking," he said.
"Jamie doesn't like a hard sell, but he's got a shrewd eye for a hit. He also knows what works for him. This is right in his sweet spot, so he's gonna know it without us overdoing the whole story pitch. Sometimes less is more."
"We can't tell him the whole story. Remember, the gold bullion thing is still off-limits."
"Shit, he's gonna be in Prague. Who's he gonna tell in East Europe? We can trust him."
"It's off-limits. We can only pitch Vulcuna, not the Brinks truck." I was hanging on to this slender distinction as if it was some sort of important moral distinction. "You tell him about the gold bullion, I'll put you under arrest right in front of him," I said hotly.
"Okay, okay. Don't go all Dirty Harry on me." Hitch downshifted as he made the turn away from the ocean onto Trancas Canyon Drive.
"So how's this?" he said. "We use the fact that we can't tell him anything to tease him. Y'know, like, 'We can't tell you everything, J, because it is so fucking hot, we've been sworn to secrecy by the LAPD, FBI, and the entire Department of Homeland Security. But it's huge and involves over thirty million in liquid assets. And once it goes public it's gonna be on the cover of Time and People magazine.' How's that?"
"Nothing about money," I said, my neck bowing.
"A liquid asset isn't money. It could be stocks or even real estate priced to sell. Come on. If we get Jamie to do this, we just doubled our back end in one hour."
"No," I said. I had my teeth clenched as I spit that one word through them.
I felt ridiculous having this argument. After all, selling out was selling out. The only thing we were arguing about was degree. I was so far out of character, I was afraid I would meet myself coming the other way down Trancas Canyon Road.
At the top of the hill, the landscape was rolling grass and majestic rocks. The view was spectacular up here. The ocean stretched out two thousand feet below us, blue as sapphire and just as ageless.
"Jamie's assistant said Canyon Ridge Drive." Hitch was looking at his scribbled directions. "He's buying twenty acres up here as an investment. Fuck if I can find it." Then he put the car in gear and pulled farther up the road to read a sign.
"Ah, there it is."
He downshifted again and turned onto a small unpaved feeder road. After we were about two hundred yards in, we were forced to stop because a large pile of boulders blocked the way.
"Fucking rock slide," Hitch said. "Even God has turned against me."
"Hitch."
He didn't answer.
"Hitch."
"What is it?" he snapped. "We're running out of time. We gotta get around this rock slide."
"I don't think it's a rock slide. There are no loose rocks or boulders up there." I pointed up at the grassy hillside above us.
"If it's not a rock slide, what is it?"
"A barricade."
As soon as I said this, the first rifle shot rang out.
The windshield on the Carrera shattered right by Hitch's head, but the tempered glass saved his life because it ricocheted the bullet.
That shot was followed by two more. I felt the wind from the second one as it whizzed by my cheek and hit the headrest behind Hitch. It was almost a full second before I heard the retort. From that one-second sound delay, I knew whoever was shooting at us was a long way off using a scoped rifle.
Hitch ducked low, threw the car in reverse, and roared out of there, churning up dust and gravel.
The fourth and fifth shots slammed the front of the sports car, blowing furrows into the hood. Fortunately, on a Porsche, the engine is over the rear wheels so nothing vital was hit and we kept going.
"Hold on!" Hitch screamed. Then he put the Porsche into a smoking one-eighty bootlegger's turn and we were back on Trancas Canyon, burning rubber from all four tires. Two more shots followed, but they were wild and missed.
We were finally out of range. Hitch pulled over at the first turnout while I snatched up the radio.
"This is Delta-28. LAPD officers need help on Trancas Canyon Road in Malibu. Cross street Ocean View. Shots fired. Were in the county. Notify the sheriffs substation in Malibu."
"Roger that. LAPD D-28 needs help on Trancas Canyon Road and Ocean View. Shots fired. Contacting LASD. Stand by."
"We can't run away. We gotta go back up there and catch that shooter," I said.
Just then a red and white Bell Jet Ranger rose up from the hilltop behind us. The helicopter hovered for a moment before it headed north, speeding away.