One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (15 page)

We have to back up a few hours, to earlier that same morning, when I was being dragged to the Vegas airport for the flight back to Burbank. Here's what happened, as best I can reconstruct it. Off-duty cop Dave Lopez was guarding Bone's ex-girlfriend Brandi DeLillo from a discreet distance, just as I'd requested. Lopez had been working almost round the clock for a couple of days. In short, he was beat.

Dave Lopez was a good-looking guy gone to seed, a divorced cop hanging on by his fingernails for that holy twenty-year pension. He was a chain smoker, a quiet man given to stress headaches, a nice guy but completely burned out. He didn't know that his pals were already covering for him, looking the other way about his increased drinking and absent-minded mistakes. That made him the wrong guy for any really dangerous job.

Lopez had four months to go, and had no intention of signing up for more, but nobody wanted him to wash out. He'd been delighted to get the referral from Larry Donato to hang back and bodyguard. Hell, why not? Just follow a pretty girl around for twenty bucks an hour, with a shot at playing the hero one last time. How bad could that be?

Oh, man.

Jerry got bored with the enterprise after two shifts and handed it all back to Lopez, who had just come out of a four on, three off rotation. He'd already announced he was free to work through the start of next week, and needed money for that imminent retirement. He'd purchased some cheap land in a remote part of Mexico, near where his parents had been born, and wanted to build a small house. The construction expenses, not to mention the bribes, were breaking his back.

Brandi DeLillo had been in her apartment complex all night. That morning Lopez was nodding off a bit when the metal parking gate suddenly screeched and rolled back. Brandi drove up and out onto the street, rap music blaring. Lopez dropped sideways onto the seat and vanished from view just before she looked his way. He stared at the dashboard and waited for her engine to fade away, sat up and started his own car.

Brandi drove fast, but Lopez caught up with her near Wilshire and dropped back into traffic. She changed lanes a lot and took sharp turns, almost like someone who didn't want to be followed, but surveillance was one of the few job skills Lopez still possessed. He stayed with her every step of the way, and felt confident he hadn't been made. The day was turning hot, making Lopez grateful he wasn't stuck on the other side of the hill in the sweltering San Fernando Valley.

The girl moved down Wilshire, either heading for the San Diego Freeway or possibly the beach. Lopez was careful not to lose her near the freeway ramp, for fear of being left behind, but she sailed on by, maybe heading for Brentwood or Santa Monica. The traffic snarled and coiled and hissed.

Some high school boys in a new Ford Explorer honked and waved. Brandi did not respond, and that somehow made them bolder. They pulled up alongside her car and shouted something. She smiled brightly as one slender hand rose with the middle finger extended. They hooted and drove away with the rowdy faux courage of the desperately lonely adolescent.

Lopez trailed the girl all the way to Second Street in Santa Monica. When she pulled into one of the parking garages, he stopped with the turn signal blinking and pretended to search for something. Listened to her tires squeal up the ramp, then collected a ticket and entered the garage. Lopez lucked out just as someone was pulling out on a lower level. He beat an angry old man to the spot, locked his car, and jogged to the elevator. Then rode it in silence, wishing he'd brought sun lotion.

Brandi came out onto the sidewalk wearing a white sundress and a baseball cap. She paused and looked both ways. Lopez was already at the corner ordering a greasy hot dog from a street vendor.

The pretty girl donned an overlarge pair of black plastic sunglasses, spun around and marched east. She moved briskly, straw purse swinging, heading straight for the busy Third Street Promenade. Dave Lopez saw this new development as a decidedly mixed blessing. On the plus side, it would be easier to stay hidden in a large crowd. On the other hand, Lopez knew he could easily lose her there.

The Promenade is generally packed with street hustlers, trained pets, jugglers, musicians, rappers, hip hop dancers, caricature artists, poets, and oddball vendors. It's a fun spot for the beach crowd, tourists, and kids out on a cheap date. Brandi slowed down when she hit the back of the crowd, found an opening and slid into a group of couples watching an old man sing live opera accompanied by a scratchy cassette recording of an energetic orchestra.

She walked. Lopez moved a bit ahead of her, and stayed on the other side of the street. He ordered shaved ice and faced the window of a Greek restaurant. He could see Brandi reflected in the dusty glass.

The girl checked her watch and slid sideways out of the mob. She moved further east. Lopez stayed ahead of her for a while. When it felt right to change up again he stopped by a man selling liberal bumper stickers and allowed her to pass him by, so that he was behind her. Lopez was kind of enjoying himself by this point, feeling on top of his game.

Brandi enjoyed a kid doing magic tricks with helium balloons and left him a decent tip in his coffee can. She had to freeze out a couple of men who approached her. The cats doing circus tricks made her laugh out loud. Eventually the girl chose a restaurant, sat down at a glass table, and ordered a light salad and coffee. Relieved, Lopez went into an alley a bit west of her and smoked a cigarette. He opened his cell phone and called Jerry.

"It's me. We're in Santa Monica at the Promenade, doing the tourist thing all by our lonesome."

"Oh," Jerry answered. He sounded like he'd been napping. "Want me to pick it up again this afternoon?"

"I'll keep going, unless you're running out of budget. No problem."

"We have the cash. Enjoy the view, Dave."

"Later."

Lopez closed his cell phone, glanced up and saw two cops coming so he stomped out the cigarette. The cops hurried into a coffee place without spotting him. Lopez peeked around the corner.

Brandi was gone.

Lopez felt his heart jump. He looked again. The chair and food were still there, half the salad uneaten. He told himself that she'd gone to the ladies' room, but his instincts were saying something else.
Damn. Damn.

Lopez sighed, stepped out into the sunlight and risked walking directly by the restaurant. He peered through the glass, and saw a woman exiting the small toilet. No one else seemed to be inside.

He swivelled, eyes darting here and there. Where could she have gone? He glanced back at the table. The waiter was cleaning up with a very sour expression. Brandi had apparently walked out on her check. She'd been generous with the street vendors, and had flashed an okay roll, so why stiff the waiter? Was she forced to leave? Had someone gotten by him?

Continuing on, Lopez swept the street as efficiently as he could. Brandi was not in any of the shops, and there was no way she'd returned to the parking garage. She would have had to have been in plain view for a lot longer if she'd tried. Lopez was certain he hadn't been spotted. Someone must have taken her.
Christ, one lousy cigarette and it all comes crashing down. What the fuck do I do now? What if she gets killed? How am I going to explain this?

He considered going back to the restaurant and asking the cops for help, but on what basis? He wasn't on the job, and had no specific evidence.

Lopez was packing a .38, but knew if he shot a man while moonlighting his pension would be gravely endangered. Still, he fingered the weapon as he spun in a circle. The question was, did she shake him, or was she kidnapped? He had to bet on the worst alternative, that someone had snatched the girl. Who or how or why, Lopez hadn't a clue.

One thing he was reasonably confident about. Whoever did it was unlikely to know Brandi was being tailed by someone else, so if he could find her in time, Lopez figured he still had a decent shot at saving the day. But where should he start looking? Which way should he go?

He had no choice but to gamble, so Lopez chose the most likely exit route, a wide alley behind a Starbucks. He slipped past a bearded homeless guy who stood muttering to a cigar butt like it was his therapist. Lopez went into the alley. The reeking trash containers offered some cover. If the girl was taken by force, there was a very private parking lot at the end that was cool, dark, and likely to be deserted unless someone from the high-end company just happened to be coming or going. He palmed the weapon, feeling rather foolish, and slipped along the brick wall. He knelt down, looked at the alley floor, and saw what appeared to be drag marks. He pictured her being dragged by the shoulders, legs limp.

Lopez got to the end of the alley and paused where the drag marks stopped to examine the large metal door to the private parking area. It was closed. Lopez tried the handle. It wasn't locked. The door swung open and he stepped into the cool, shadowy cement garage. Everything seemed too loud, even his breathing. He closed the door to keep the sunlight from giving him away and moved into the gloom. Lopez paused to listen and thought he heard muffled voices down below. His palms were wet.

A rustle of clothing, feet crossing cement. Lopez jumped back. A portly man in jeans wheezed by, searching for his keys. He went off into the shadows and started trudging up to the next floor.

A woman said something in what seemed to be an angry voice. A man barked a response. Two car doors slammed shut. Someone gunned an engine.

Lopez broke into a jog. He moved hunched over with the gun pointing straight ahead. He had cement above and below. Lopez knew he'd likely kill himself if the weapon accidentally discharged a round that went anywhere but toward the far off staircase. He moved down into the lower part of the garage.

The ramp split, and through metal bars painted a sickening green he spotted a silver Lexus backing out of a parking spot. Lopez caught the flash of blonde hair, perhaps from a woman thrashing about in the backseat. He aimed his gun, knowing he'd be a fool to shoot. The car backed up, Lopez knelt on the cold cement and aimed for the driver, but didn't know if he could pull the trigger.

Just then a tall woman in a red dress and florid costume jewelry got out of the elevator and beeped her car. Lopez grunted. He couldn't safely fire a round anyway but that really tore it.

The car was coming. Lopez ducked. He didn't want to be spotted. He got most of the license number of the Lexus, hunched forward and repeated it to himself as he backed into the stairwell.

The big car came around the corner with a harsh squeal of tires and sped up the ramp. Lopez watched as it went to the mouth of the garage and drove out into the sunlight.

There were two men in the front seat, Caucasians wearing sunglasses. If Brandi was in there with them, she was lying down on the seat or locked away in the trunk.

Bone was also on that side of the hill that morning. Not at the Promenade, but outside of Brandi's apartment. He pulled up before dawn and parked a ways off. He had some old military binoculars and used those rather than get too close. Bud knew I'd have someone on her and it didn't take long for him to spot Lopez. He was pleased, and found the man's presence reassuring. He kept those glasses handy for hours, staying way down the block, hoping for a glimpse of Brandi. Bud was exhausted and hungry and more than a little hung over.

He had spent most of his time in the car, his third vehicle in as many days. He didn't want to talk to Brandi; he was just making sure she was okay.

When she came out of the apartment building, his face lit up.

He watched how Lopez stayed back and got to work and mentally thanked me for knowing people who know people. She appeared to be in safe hands, and his wife was out of the state, so despite the complications, maybe things were working out okay. Brandi disappeared, Lopez a safe distance behind, and Bone started his own car and eased down the street.

When the light changed Bone turned left and drove away. The air-conditioning didn't work and the heat was rising as he found Coldwater and headed back over the hill. Traffic was bad but lightened up after Sunset.

As he came down into the valley, Bud turned on the news for the first time that day. What he heard made him stomp on the gas and almost rear-end the car in front of him. He yanked the wheel, passed on the right, and sped up, feeling both furious and more than a little scared. Gordo. Damn. The fucker was dead?

Traffic was light along Ventura. Bud moved up north of Victory, turned left. He drove north rapidly, up into Van Nuys, and cruised through a barrio neighborhood. Eventually he found an old car up on blocks out behind a bar that sported a CLOSED sign. He got out and rapidly switched plates with his own vehicle, just to be on the safe side. No one saw him.

Bone drove away and found a convenience store a couple of miles west. He stopped there to grab some coffee, a donut, hair dye, and some paper toweling. He sipped brew and carefully read the directions twice.

Finally he went to a full-serve gas station, grabbed his travel kit, and got the key to the men's room. Inside, he managed to clean up. Bud shaved but kept the burgeoning moustache, dyed the grey out of his hair and shortened it a bit. He straightened up the mess, wrapped the dye package in paper towels and stuffed them down into the oversized trash container. He let himself out, left the key in the lock, walked briskly to his car and drove away.

He parked on a side street and listened for the news again as he finished the coffee. It took a while, but the story popped up again. Bone pondered the mess he was in, a mess he'd now dragged me into as well.