Mission Canyon (34 page)

I cocked my free leg and kicked. I knocked the dog’s mouth loose from my jeans and scrambled for the Explorer. The teeth clamped again, around my foot. I pulled. The dog pulled back, yanking the shoe off. I scrambled onto the hood of the car, my hands clawing at the metal, legs slipping.

Two feet swung down from the roof, and a hand reached out for me.

‘‘Grab hold,’’ Jax said.

She pulled me onto the roof of the car next to her. We looked down at the dog, thrashing my shoe back and forth in its mouth.

She said, ‘‘That dingo’s got your baby, mate.’’

My jeans were soaked with drool. I stuck my fingers through the rips and was astonished to find my skin intact underneath.

The dog dropped the shoe and began sniffing the bumper.

I said, ‘‘Figure five seconds before it jumps up here. Any suggestions?’’

‘‘Make it two seconds.’’ Putting two fingers in her mouth, she whistled.

The dog reared and leaped onto the hood. I jerked my feet up, horrified. Jax held up a little canister and sprayed the dog in the face. It squealed and tumbled off the car.

‘‘Pepper spray,’’ she said.

We jumped down and got in the car. The dog was on the ground, rubbing its face in the dirt, whimpering. I started the car and went backing down the trail, fast. I bounced out onto the road, spun the car around, and stopped.

I looked at Jax. ‘‘Out.’’

‘‘You’re welcome,’’ she said.

‘‘Thanks. Out.’’

She opened the door. ‘‘Tim’s up there, and he’s going to find out what you saw.’’

‘‘Great. Call me. We’ll do lunch.’’

I left her by the roadside and went tearing toward my house. I hoped Dale Van Heusen would still be alive when I got there.

I ran along the flagstone path toward my cottage. The lights were off in my living room, and the front door was closed. There were no sirens or flashing lights, no neighbors crowding the lawn. So at least there hadn’t been gunshots.

I opened the door, stopped, and listened. The house was silent. The living room showed no signs of a struggle. I headed to the mantel and picked up a vase. The video bug was stuck to the front. I threw it on the sofa and went to the bedroom door. From the other side came thumping sounds. God, was Ed Eugene in there beating Van Heusen to death? I opened it.

Inside, the FBI agent was alone, spread-eagled, arms and feet bound to the four posts of the bed. He was sawing back and forth, trying to break the restraints, but Countess Zara had defeated him. He had merely marched the bed away from the wall.

He saw me and snapped still. His eyes shrank with relief and horror. I grabbed the bedsheet and covered him up. He mumbled through the bit in his teeth, shaking his head back and forth on the pillow. I put a finger to my lips.

Setting a chair beneath the smoke detector, I climbed up and removed the cover. Inside, I found the tiny fiber-optic video cable. I yanked on it, pulling two feet of it out of the ceiling. Van Heusen lay frozen on the bed, staring, his chest starting to heave. Jumping down, I went to the kitchen and got a pair of garden shears. I came back and cut the cable.

I found the third bug in the bathroom, above the medicine cabinet. I pulled it out of the wall and cut it. When had Kenny’s henchpuppets wired the house, when I was in Las Vegas? Walking back into the bedroom, I took the bit out of Van Heusen’s mouth.

I said, ‘‘What happened to Taylor? Did Ed Eugene drag her away by the hair?’’

‘‘They argued, and then they left.’’ He pulled against the restraints. ‘‘Untie me.’’

‘‘He didn’t come in here? Didn’t even open the door?’’

‘‘No. Release me this instant.’’

‘‘How on earth did she dissuade him?’’

‘‘She told him you were in the tub with me. Now let me loose.’’

I almost laughed. Taylor was smarter than I’d thought.

‘‘How did she justify being in the bedroom herself?’’ I said.

‘‘She took the quilt. She told him she came here to get it without you knowing.’’

I shook my head. ‘‘You just dodged a bullet or six.’’

He was breathing with the rapidity of a small mammal. I turned on a lamp, pulled the chair to the bedside, and sat down. I flexed my hand, opening and closing the blades of the shears.

‘‘Let’s chat,’’ I said.

He thrashed. ‘‘Untie me or this will go down as a hostage situation.’’

I sighed. ‘‘Right. Let’s call in the Hostage Rescue Team. I can see them now, rappelling down from the chopper, kicking through the window, radioing headquarters. ‘Quantico, we have a problem. Dale’s been a bad horsey.’ ’’

He closed his eyes, grimacing.

‘‘Let’s review the evening’s discoveries.’’ I picked up the severed fiber-optic cable and started cutting bits off the end. ‘‘I learned that my house was bugged with surveillance cameras. And that a federal agent was using my bed to reenact the Calgary Stampede. This agent has questioned me, and insinuates that my boyfriend is involved in the criminal matter he is investigating. I find him out of uniform, having placed his weapon beyond his control and available to others.’’

‘‘You can’t—’’

I leaned toward the bed and nickered. His lips quivered.

‘‘Moreover’’—I whacked another inch off the cable— ‘‘the surveillance cameras, it turns out, were transmitting this agent’s rodeo performance to the computer system of another suspect in the investigation.’’

‘‘Oh, Lord. Who?’’ he said. ‘‘Who installed the bugs?’’

I leaned toward him. ‘‘Stop threatening Jesse.’’

‘‘But he’s a person of interest in the investigation.’’

‘‘You know he’s innocent of all allegations.’’

‘‘I can’t just—’’

‘‘What is wrong with you? You’re in my bed, uninvited, boinking a married woman, and it hasn’t even occurred to you to say, ‘
sorry
.’ ’’ I rested my hand on the bed next to him, with the shears pointing toward his armpit. ‘‘What were you doing, using my house for your tryst?’’

‘‘Taylor said we couldn’t go to her place; her husband would know.’’

‘‘Does the word
motel
ring any bells?’’

‘‘I’m on Bureau business; I couldn’t possibly submit a motel bill in an expense report. . . .’’

I exhaled and dropped my head. ‘‘Back off. Stop threatening to seize Jesse’s assets. Start protecting him from these thugs who are after him.’’

He looked at the ceiling. From the way his nostrils were flaring, I guessed that he didn’t want to admit defeat. I guessed that he was trying to think of a way to screw me the minute he walked out of my house.

‘‘Dale?’’

‘‘Fine. Blackburn gets a pass.’’

‘‘You’ll call it all off.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Truly call it off. No screwing around, no trying to turn this around on me once you leave here.’’

‘‘Why would I do that?’’ he said.

‘‘Because you’re a power-tripper and a bully. But you won’t do it this time, because you not only owe me. You need me.’’

‘‘After tonight, we’re done. I never want to see you again.’’

‘‘No. I can direct you to evidence against i-heist. And I can tie it to Mako.’’

Now he looked at me, his eyes sharp. ‘‘How?’’

‘‘Keep your word to stop harassing Jesse, and I’ll tell you.’’

He blinked. ‘‘Yes. Yes. Okay.’’

‘‘Bottom line, Dale. I watched the video on a computer screen. And I captured the image, and e-mailed it to several people for safekeeping. They’ll sit on it unless I ask them to forward it to your boss. Their e-mail addresses end in things like navy-dot-mil, cia-dot-gov. . . .’’

‘‘You didn’t.’’

I didn’t. But I didn’t tell Van Heusen that.

‘‘And don’t forget that at any time of the day or night, I can send it to others as easy as typing the name Ed Eugene Boggs.’’

I gave him a long, sour smile and watched him bite his lip.

‘‘Yippie-i-yay, Dale.’’

I cut him loose.

When Van Heusen shot his cuffs and straightened his tie and scurried out my door, I dropped onto the sofa, drained. Waiting. I was counting boomerangs. How many things had I thrown out that might come back to hit me?

Start with my intrusion into the Mako computer system. My foray into Kenny’s house. I knew his secrets now. Don’t forget Mari Diamond, who had sworn to ruin me. And her Doberman, who may at that moment have been trotting the streets of Santa Barbara with my shoe in its mouth, hunting for the foot it came from, to give me an ending from the anti-Cinderella story. Jax and Tim? I didn’t know where they fit, except that they crawled out of every crack.

And I was looking in the wrong direction.

The message light was blinking on my answering machine. Adam had called twice.

‘‘Evan, please, it’s urgent. I need . . . just please call. I’ll try your cell phone.’’

My cell had run down again, but when I plugged it into the charger and checked my messages, I felt a sharp twang of alarm.

‘‘Evan, I would never ask this except in an emergency. I need to borrow some money. Please, please, phone me the instant you get this message.’’

What the hell was going on? I phoned him back. No answer at home or his office. I tried his physics lab and reached one of his colleagues.

He said, ‘‘If you can tell me what’s going on with Adam, I’d be grateful. He was here earlier, asking to borrow money.’’

I hung up. I heard my heartbeat pounding in my temples.

I phoned Jesse. The coolness in his voice killed me, but I pushed through the brambles.

I said, ‘‘Have you seen Adam in the past few hours?’’

‘‘No. What’s the matter?’’

‘‘I think i-heist is making a move on him.’’

I told him about the autopsy photos, and my phone messages.

‘‘Jesus,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m going over to his place.’’

‘‘I’ll meet you there.’’

It was dark when I got to Adam’s house. His truck wasn’t in the driveway. He didn’t answer the door, and the house was locked. I walked around to the patio, tried that door as well. The curtains were open and the living room was empty. I went from window to window, standing on tiptoe and peering into various rooms. I heard a car door slam and headed out front. Jesse was coming up the driveway. Under a streetlight, his face looked severe.

I said, ‘‘House is locked. No sign of him.’’

‘‘The spare key should be under that planter by the kitchen window.’’

I found the key and unlocked the door. We went in, calling Adam’s name. He wasn’t there. I let my gaze wander across the house. A bowl of soup sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten. The phone was in its cradle.

The message light was flashing on the answering machine. I pushed
play
.

‘‘Dr. Sandoval, we’ve never spoken, but I know you’ve had a truckload of shit dumped on you. I want to tell you it’s gotten too heavy, and—’’

‘‘Who is this?’’

The hairs on my arms started rising. It was Cherry Lopez. I listened, and said, ‘‘Jesse.’’ He came into the kitchen, heard Lopez’s voice.

‘‘You want to have a crack at him? Do tell. What’s it worth to you?’’

A long pause, and then Adam sounded as if he were walking onto shifting ice.

‘‘Tell me what you want. Tell me what I have to do. Do you want money?’’

‘‘Five thousand.’’

‘‘Dollars?’’

‘‘Cash, baby.’’

He breathed heavily into the phone. ‘‘My bank opens at nine thirty tomorrow—’’

‘‘I won’t be here tomorrow.’’

Another heavy pause. ‘‘I can get a thousand. Tonight.’’ I felt watery. Jesse’s hands were knotted in his half-fingered gloves.

Adam’s voice again. ‘‘Where?’’

‘‘Downtown, there’s this place near the train station.’’ Lopez described a chancy part of town.

‘‘When?’’ Adam said.

‘‘Couple hours. Say eleven thirty.’’

Jesse spun toward the door. I was close behind him. It was eleven twenty-five.

‘‘The address sounds familiar.’’ He stopped. ‘‘Suck.’’

He was looking at the hall closet. It was open, and inside it I saw sports equipment neatly lined up. Scuba tank, fins, and, next to a tennis racket, an empty space.

I said, ‘‘What’s missing? Did he take the baseball bat?’’

‘‘No. He took the spear gun.’’

We barreled down the hill on Cliff Drive. Jesse pushed the Audi up to seventy.

‘‘A thousand bucks,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s loose change to i-heist. Why would Lopez try to wring that money out of Adam?’’

My stomach tightened. ‘‘It’s a setup.’’

The road curved, the car slewing, rubber whining.

He said, ‘‘Setting Adam up.’’

‘‘They’ve driven him to the edge and now they’re pushing him over by making him think he can get Brand.’’

What was waiting for Adam downtown—a beating, or worse? Or even a confrontation with Brand—who might be armed as well? I got out my cell phone and Dale Van Heusen’s business card, and started punching numbers.

‘‘Who are you calling?’’ Jesse said.

‘‘The FBI.’’

‘‘The hell you are.’’

‘‘Adam could need serious help.’’

‘‘Van Heusen—are you nuts? No.’’

He reached out to grab the phone. I tried to stop him. The headlights swept over the hillside dead ahead. I jammed my hands on the dash, feet against the floorboards. He jerked the wheel. We swerved, straightened, kept going. Fast.

‘‘Slow down,’’ I said.

‘‘Hang up the phone.’’

‘‘Ease off the damned gas. Adam needs real backup.’’

‘‘And if we find Brand shot with a spear gun? You want the FBI to take Adam down?’’

We hit the bottom of the hill and screeched around the corner onto Castillo, heading toward the beach.

‘‘You don’t know what’s happened tonight. You’re off the hook with Van Heusen,’’ I said. ‘‘And he owes me. His career, and possibly his genitalia.’’