“I’ve gotten word you’ve been in the vicinity of several homicides recently,” the Shark said. “It would be interesting to hear your explanation.”
“Several?” Mary said. “Try one.”
“Misinformation, your stock-in-trade,” Davies said. “I wonder why there’s a perception that you’ve been involved in at least one other murder? Are you once again keeping information from the police?”
“I’m surprised such a silly question merits a personal visit from a rising star in the LAPD,” Mary said. “Unless you’re here to talk to me about something else. Or just harass me enough to merit a call to my attorney.”
The Shark seemed to assess Mary for a moment.
“Have you heard recently from Jacob Cornell?” she said.
Now Mary was surprised by that question.
She narrowed her eyes at the Shark, and then she realized what the question meant.
“You’ve fucking lost him, haven’t you?” Mary said. “Why the hell did you send him undercover? He’s all wrong for that kind of thing. Of course, most men who’ve slept with you probably look for the most dangerous activity they can find immediately after. To banish the memories.”
“Have you heard from him?” Davies repeated.
“He called awhile back complaining about crabs. I told him to smear some cocktail sauce on his crotch and give you a call,” Mary said.
Davies held out her card.
“Always so pleasant, Cooper. If you do hear from him or learn anything about his current whereabouts, have someone call me immediately,” she said.
Mary watched in disbelief as her own hand reached out and accepted the lieutenant’s card. She briefly thought of setting it on fire, but she didn’t have a lighter.
Besides, the woman was worried about Jake too. She should respect that, right?
Mary watched as Davies got back in her car.
32
Thirty-two
Mary turned to go into her office, but a vague shape caught her eye.
She turned and caught a glimpse of the black Tahoe behind her.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.
Mary went and got back into her car. This was too much. Following her to her office, to Alice’s, probably all over Los Angeles?
No, that wasn’t going to work for Mary.
She pulled out, drove into the heart of Venice, then turned onto Ocean Park. Mary took a right on Lincoln, then goosed her car to put a few extra cars between herself and the Tahoe.
When the opportunity presented itself, she shot off Lincoln onto a side street then ducked and threw it into reverse, backing into a driveway that was across from an alley.
The Tahoe roared down the street, and Mary shot out into its path.
The big SUV had no choice but to veer into the alley, where it crashed into a pile of garbage cans.
Mary pinned the nose of her car against the Tahoe’s rear bumper and shut off the car.
She popped the trunk and took out a seven iron.
She didn’t golf, but a club in the trunk occasionally came in handy.
Like now.
Mary went to the side of the Tahoe and swung the club into the tinted window. It shattered. She pulled the club out, taking chunks of glass with it.
A man threw the driver’s door open and got out. He was a big guy, with close-cropped dark hair and aviator sunglasses.
“What the fuck?” he said. He had on dark slacks, a black T-shirt, and a black sport coat.
Mary saw him slip a hand inside his sport coat toward the area where a shoulder holster might be located.
She swung again, the club cracking his forearm with an audible thunk.
“Fore,” she said.
The man clutched his forearm, his face turned red. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I don’t think so,” Mary said. “I don’t see you reporting me. What kind of story would you tell? That the woman you’ve been following all day got scared after you tried to run her off the road?”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he said.
Mary waggled her fingers at him. “Oooooohhhh, scary,” she said.
The man produced a cell phone in his good hand and dialed a number.
Mary swung the seven iron upward, like an uppercut. It hit the man’s elbow and the cell phone shot into the air.
“Oh, sliced it a bit,” she said. “I’ve got to remember to follow through.”
Mary caught the phone and glanced at the screen.
The man had dialed a name that was familiar to Mary.
Derek Jarvis.
33
Thirty-three
Mary punched the number for Derek Jarvis into her phone and when he answered, she asked if they could meet. He gave her the address of his gym, where he said he was currently working out.
It was off of Abbott-Kinney, just a few minutes from her current location.
She left the man with the Tahoe, throwing the seven iron into her backseat.
Minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot in front of the building bearing the address Jarvis had given her. It was a nondescript steel shed, with a glass door and a security keypad.
Mary pressed the button.
“Yes,” said a voice through the speaker.
“Bruce Willis here,” Mary said.
The door buzzed and Mary opened it, then went inside.
The sound of metal clacking together, the faint drone of heavy metal music, and a combined odor of Febreze and sweat assailed Mary.
She spotted Jarvis among a stack of weights and bars. He had on workout shorts and a muscleman shirt.
His arms and shoulders were impressive, Mary had to admit. But she still didn’t like the guy.
Jarvis spotted her, and he walked over.
“Let’s chat over there,” he said, pointing to a small room with a hardwood floor and a bunch of exercise balls.
Mary went inside and leaned against a stack of plastic platform risers used in step aerobics.
“So did you change your mind?” Jarvis said. He squatted on one of the exercise balls. Mary noted how his thigh muscles bulged as he steadied himself. He probably thought he was turning Mary on, but the effect was quite the opposite. She wished she could drape a serape over him while they talked.
“The only thing that changed was my opinion of you. It got worse,” Mary said.
Jarvis seemed not to hear her.
“Oh that’s good,” he said.
“Why are you following me around?” Mary said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Bullshit, Muscle Boy. Either you or one of your boyfriends paid a visit to Trey Williams in the restroom at Styx. It doesn’t surprise me; you seem like the kind of guy who hangs out a lot in mens bathrooms.”
Jarvis rolled back and forth on the ball, seemingly transfixed by his own thigh muscles.
“I have no idea who Trey Williams is. Besides, you give me too much credit, Miss Cooper,” he said. “I don’t have those kinds of resources. I’m just a freelancer, like you,” he said.
Mary shook her head.
“Look, asshole,” she said. “Back off. I’m not cooperating with you on my investigation. I’m not sharing. I am, however, sick of seeing your people following me. Call them off. Or I’ll start seriously fucking them up, not just their vehicles. Got it?”
He got to his feet.
“Your information is wrong, Cooper. I haven’t been following you. And I don’t have ‘people.’ It’s just me and a cell phone.”