“Look, I know you and your mystery bulges are full of crap,” Mary said. “One of your boys practically ran me off the road, and I’m sure he already called you to let you know I was coming by to chat.”
He shook his head, the veins in his thick neck coiling and uncoiling with the movement.
“Wrong again,” he said.
Mary laughed.
“Okay, I believe you. I’ll let you get back to your overcompensating.”
She walked out past him.
34
Thirty-four
The door opened, and the bright light made Jake wince. He forced his eyes open, and through the water that filled his eyes, Jake could make out the shape of a man. He had on a white shirt and a blue baseball cap.
“Bring them,” the voice said. He had an accent.
Someone placed a blindfold on him and then grabbed Jake by the arm. He heard Nina cry out as she must have been jerked to her feet.
Jake was pushed forward hard, and he tripped over something, then landed hard on his chest.
“Get up, cop,” the voice said.
One of the others laughed.
Jake struggled back to his feet and allowed himself to be led forward. They walked through what Jake figured to be the same main warehouse in which they’d been working. He heard no sound, so assumed it was the middle of the night.
A door opened, and Jake felt the change in air. They were outside.
The rumble of engine was the only sound, and he smelled exhaust.
“There’s a step, cop,” the voice said. Jake felt with his foot until he detected the metal ledge, he stepped up, and then hands pushed him forward. He fell again, and this time he knew it was the back of a truck.
The girl landed next to him, and she whimpered. He could hear her crying.
“Don’t worry, Nina. We’ll get out of this,” he said. Jake had no idea how, but he tried to put as much assurance in his voice as he could.
It sounded hollow, even to him.
35
Thirty-five
Mary decided it was time to clamp down on Vince Buslipp, owner and Chief Executive Asshole of ExtReam Productions. She staked out the production company’s office starting just before five. She didn’t know where Buslipp lived, and she figured he was the kind of guy who would mostly be found at work anyway, playing with his dirty movies.
Mary waited until almost seven o’clock, and when there was no sign of anyone coming or going, she got out of her car and rang the bell at the door.
She waited, remembering the woman who’d answered last time. As Mary recalled, she’d been a big-boobed, big-lipped woman trying to look twenty years younger than she really was.
Mary checked her watch. She leaned against her car and waited. After ten minutes, she rang the buzzer again.
Nothing.
Just out of curiosity, she pulled on the door. It was locked.
Mary leaned in against the window. She saw a pair of leopard print shoes sticking out from behind the receptionist’s desk. She pulled out her lock picks, worked the door, and let herself in. Her gun was in her hand.
She walked down the hallway, glanced at the woman behind the receptionist’s desk. Her chest was a mess — bloody and torn to pieces, with a pool of blood spread out on the concrete floor behind her.
Mary reconnoitered the rest of the office space.
She got to Buslipp’s office and saw that papers were knocked off the desk and onto the floor, stacks of DVDs had been tossed around the room, and the furniture was slightly askew.
A struggle?
Mary went back to the receptionist’s desk.
No message slips.
No appointment book.
Nothing.
Mary glanced up at the ceiling above the front door.
No sign of any security cameras. Which also meant there would be no record of her visit to this shithole.
Mary let herself out of the building. It didn’t matter if there wasn’t a single clue pointing to who had done the murders here.
She already knew.
36
Thirty-six
All she really had was the Tahoe. Mary had jotted down the license plate before she’d attacked the gas guzzler with her golf club, figuring it might come in handy.
Now was the time to put it to use.
Back at her office, she used a program on her computer that matched license plates with addresses, via a highly questionable link-feed installed by a former client.
While she waited for the program to do its work, she thought about the scene at ExtReam.
Gruesome. A lot of dead bodies piling up around the disappearance of Nina Ramirez.
And Derek Jarvis. The guy stunk, even though Mary couldn’t pin anything on him just yet.
Jarvis was either getting frustrated at a lack of information, or he’d gotten the necessary insights and was now cleaning up any loose ends.
On cue, the computer dinged with its completion of the assigned task.
The address came back: 200 North Spring Street. Los Angeles.
Mary looked at the address. Why did it seem so familiar? She stared at it: 200 North Spring Street. It gave her the impression of being something very official.
It took her a minute, but eventually it came.
City Hall.
She leaned back in her office chair.
City Hall.
A black Tahoe.
A guy like Derek Jarvis.
It all came together with one giant, resounding rush.
Mary rocked forward in her chair.
37
Thirty-seven
How often does a mayor actually stay in his office? Mary had no idea. Most of the time, she figured, the mayor avoided his office, just like everyone else.
Besides, she’d seen plenty of pictures of Los Angeles’s current mayor, Thomas Baxter. The images captured the man at golf tournaments, expensive restaurants, and other charity-focused events around the city.
Mary thought about what she knew regarding Mayor Baxter.
He’d been a B-movie actor in the 1980s, mostly playing supporting roles as a quiet, peace-loving bystander. He was a teacher in an HBO series set in a high school. Another time, Mary seemed to recall he was a delicatessen owner, being shaken down by the Mob.
It was the look Baxter had — steadfast, reliable, sort of good-looking but not too much so — that had helped pave the way for his political career.
He was in his second term as mayor.
And like any mayor, he probably had a very vigorous security staff that most likely drove black Chevy Tahoes and felt, on a certain level, above the law.
Mary pulled into a parking structure a block from City Hall and walked to the building.
It was a classic, southern-California day: beautiful blue sky, no breeze, the faint tinge of smog like a smoky flavor on a set of ribs.
Mary went through security, then made her way to the mayor’s office.
It came as no surprise that the mayor’s office wasn’t really an office. It felt more like a library.
There was an anteroom, done all in natural wood with a large table and several people, including at least one cop, sitting facing the door.
When Mary entered, the cop looked up.
“May I help you?” he said.
“Yes, I’m looking for a member of the mayor’s security detail,” she said. “I’m not sure what his name is, but I can give you a description.”