Prayers for the Dead (29 page)

“He mentioned something about buying politicians. Maybe he’s buying off cops to look the other way at his chop shop.”

“Why would Sparks give money to something like that?”

“Maybe the doctor didn’t really know where his bucks were going,” Webster said. “Maybe he thought he was giving money for environmental freedom.”

“Whatever that is.”

“Telling the government to piss off,” Webster said. “Strange as this may seem, I could see an independent thinker like Sparks getting caught up in a thing like that. Y’all talk to any doctors recently, Bert? They’re real upset ’bout government telling them how to run their practices. Maybe this environmental cause struck a nerve.”

“
What
cause are you talking about?”

“Getting rid of the left-wing regulation shit.”

“Meaning?”

“Grease Pit mentioned helmets,” Webster said. “Maybe they’re trying to repeal the helmet law.”

“And you see a man like Azor Sparks giving large sums of money to something like that?”

“Passions run high, Bert.” Webster shrugged. “You saw the card he printed for himself. Maybe he fancied himself a bad actor.”

“Don’t see it.”

Webster shrugged. “I’m just throwing out possibilities.”

In the distance, a two-year-old navy Lincoln with tinted windows was inching up the mountain road. It was heavy with poor traction, fishtailing as it maneuvered the curves.

“Odd car to drive up here.” Martinez spit his gum out the window. “Pull off, Tom.”

Webster slowed, swung the ’Cuda onto a small, rocky ledge, the tires churning up gravel. He killed the ignition. They both watched the Lincoln pass, chugging up the mountain at unimpressive speed.

Webster said, “Do it?”

“What the hell?”

Webster made a U-turn, keeping lots of distance between the ’Cuda and the Lincoln. Martinez wrote down the license plate, was about to call it in. Then he remembered they weren’t in the unmarked.

Webster said, “I’ve got a cellular in the glove compartment.”

Martinez opened the door, took out a compact phone, and pressed a couple of buttons. “What am I doing wrong?”

“No reception?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re probably too far out,” Webster said.

Martinez’s face was tight in concentration. Stuck in Lodi with no radio contact. Not good.

Slowly, the ’Cuda reclimbed the mountains, bucking at the reduced speed. No one spoke. Within minutes, the graded area appeared, followed by the two skeletal remains of ranch houses. Sure enough, the Lincoln had pulled off, was heading toward the motorcycle lot.

Which was now an empty field of scrub grass. Only the shed remained.

Webster sped up and passed the dirt clearing. “They’ve gone fishing.”

“Forever.” Martinez’s breath was shallow. “Turn around. Let’s get out of here.”

Webster reversed the ’Cuda, and they headed down the mountain at rapid speed. When they had reached the freeway, Martinez tried the cellular again. This time it connected through. He called in the license plate to the Radio Transmitting Officer and waited.

Webster said, “You know, if you come over Saturday, why don’t you bring the wife and kids. I’ll make a barbecue.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.”

“You eat red meat?”

“Yes.”

“Steak?”

“Perfect. I got a portable TV. I’ll bring it and a six-pack. We’ll watch the game while we work.”

“Great.”

The cellular phone rang. Martinez picked it up, wrote down the information, then pressed the end button.

Webster looked at Martinez. His face was tense. “Who?”

“Three guesses.”

“Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

“William Waterson — Sparks’s estate lawyer.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. Webster said, “Think we should go back up?”

“Yeah, turn around.”

Webster moved the ’Cuda into the right lane, preparing to exit at the next off-ramp and reverse directions. Martinez picked up the cordless.

Webster asked, “Who y’all calling now?”

“Decker.”

“No way you
two are doing a solo tail back into boony canyon—”

“Loo, it’s paved—”

“Martinez, listen to me,” Decker interrupted. “After what you told me about Sanchez, he’s going to be looking. He spots the ’Cuda, you’re roadkill. All he has to do is get a couple of friends to box you in — one car in front, one behind — and bump you on a hairpin turn, down a five-hundred-foot drop. I don’t turn women into widows, Detective.”

“If we wait for backup, we could miss him,” Martinez countered.

“Bert, Waterson’s a respected member of the community. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“What about Sanchez?” Webster piped in.

Decker barely heard the question through the ambient freeway noises. “What about Sanchez?”

Martinez said, “Don’t you want to find out what he’s up to, Loo?”

“Bert, we know what he’s up to. He’s running a chop shop. First, even if we wanted him, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Second, even if it was our jurisdiction, we’re not going to find him. He’s picked a perfect area for cover. Miles of isolated canyon roadway with outlets leading to God knows where. He’s gone. Forget about him.”

“Semi’d be easy to spot, Loo.”

“The hills are heavily wooded. You could easily hide the truck, yea, even an eighteen-wheeler, off-road. Only possible way to find it would be with a low-flying chopper. Not a good use of time or money right now because we don’t know who we’re dealing with. For all we know, Sanchez might be armed with Uzis. Send in a copter, Grease Pit might do some target practice with the pilot. Turn around and come home.”

Martinez swore silently. Webster took the phone. He said, “How ’bout this, Loo? We wait at the mouth of the canyon for Waterson. If he should hop on the freeway, we follow. Plain and simple and very, very visible.”

“Let me reiterate, Tom. Waterson isn’t going anywhere. What purpose would it serve to follow him into the city?”

“Bert and I are just a mite curious to see where he winds up after his clandestine meeting with Sanchez.”

There was a long pause over the line. Decker said, “Pinpoint where you want to wait.”

“The Placerita on-ramp to the 14 West,” Webster said. “It’s a stone’s throw from the Sierra Highway. Very well trafficked. Give us an hour, Loo. What could it hurt?”

Decker paused again. “The cell phone you’re on. Will it maintain contact up there?”

“Probably not,” Webster admitted.

Decker waited a beat, then said, “All right. Wait at the Placerita entrance. But I’m telling you right now. If Waterson doesn’t come down through Placerita, you have direct orders
not
to go looking for him in the canyon. Stay away from anything that even hints of ambush, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Decker said, “If I don’t hear from you after one hour, I send a posse out. If I send a posse out, you’re both in deep shit. Get it?”

“Got it. Over and out.” Webster smiled. “Now that wasn’t so hard.” He gunned the engine, edging the speedometer to ninety.

“Why don’t you just put wings on the sucker and get a pilot’s license.” Martinez crossed himself. “Next time, I drive.”

“I’m just hurrying things ’cause I don’t want to miss Waterson.”

“Be nice if we got there in one piece.”

“You worry too much.” Webster raced onto the 14.

“You got binoculars?” Martinez asked.

“In the trunk.”

Within minutes, the ’Cuda neared the Placerita exit. Just as Webster edged the car onto the eastbound off-ramp, Martinez spotted a midnight blue Lincoln entering the westbound on-ramp in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” he said. “The Lincoln just got on the freeway going back toward L.A.”

“Fuck!” Webster depressed the accelerator and the ’Cuda thrusted forward. The off-ramp led to a near-empty intersection. Webster shot a red light with a left turn, narrowly missing an oncoming Toyota. The shaken driver let go with a long honk and a series of lost curses. Webster floored the ’Cuda, catapulting it back onto the freeway. “See the Lincoln?”

“No.”

“Fuck!”

A Cutlass cut in front him. Webster braked hard, throwing them both backward. He rolled down the window and screamed. “You fuckin’
asshole
! I’m gonna
kill
you!”

The Cutlass quickly moved out of the lane and dropped back into traffic. Martinez was ashen.

“That son of a bitch!” Webster muttered.

Patiently, Martinez said, “Slow down, Tom.
Now!
”

Finally, Webster braked. Breathing hard, he said, “Spot the Lincoln?”

“No.” Martinez’s heart was pounding at his breastbone. His eyes moved like radar, scanning through the traffic in front of him. Then he looked out at the side mirror. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He jerked his head around. “It’s behind us.”

“Where?” Webster said.

“Right-hand lane, about… six, seven car lengths behind.”

Webster’s eyes went to his rearview mirror, then slowed the ’Cuda to a speed less than the flow of traffic. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s there, take my word for it.”

Webster braked again. Within moments, the Lincoln came into view. He grinned. “Gotcha, baby!”

Martinez sat back, let out a deep breath. “You almost got us killed.”

Webster said nothing. Then he started to laugh. A moment later, so did Martinez. He hit his partner’s shoulder. “Son of a
bitch
! Drive like that again, you’ll never father another child.”

The ’Cuda cruised at a safe speed, allowing the Lincoln to gain distance until they were neck-and-neck. Martinez gave Waterson a quick once-over through the luxury sedan’s rolled-up window. Dark jacket, tie, and sunglasses. Stubby fingers gripped onto the wheel. Full cheeks, white hair, liver lips.

Martinez said, “Drop back about a hundred feet. Not too quickly. Move nice and easy. We don’t want him to suspect anything.”

Webster did as told. “Why would Waterson suspect anything, let alone a tail?”

“Because guilty people always suspect something. Mark my word, Tommy. Hanging around Sanchez, Waterson’s hiding something. I believe in guilt by association.”

“Hang around scum, you become scum.” Webster thought about the statement. “Sort of a social Lamarckian concept, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Maybe he’s only doing his duty as executor of Sparks’s estate.”

“What duty?”

Webster said, “Maybe Sparks left Sanchez money for the cause. Waterson could just be the delivery boy.”

“Waterson as Sanchez’s
delivery boy
?” Martinez smiled. “Remind me never to hire you as a chauffeur
or
a casting director.”

“You put it that way, it don’t make much sense.” Webster paused. “Did the family read the will yet?”

“I don’t know.”

From the 5 South, Webster hooked back on the 405 South. As he tailed the Lincoln, he suddenly noticed the flash of Waterson’s right-hand blinker.

Martinez said, “He’s getting off at Devonshire.”

“I see it.”

“Not so close.”

“I know, I know. Take it easy.”

“Sorry. I just don’t want to mess up at this point.”

Webster laughed. “We’re proceeding ’bout as fast as the infamous white Bronco.”

“Son of a bitch should have shot himself,” Martinez groused. “Saved us all a shitload of money. Millions of dollars flushed down the crapper and for
what
? He’s turning right, Tom.”

“I see him. He’s heading west.”

The Lincoln moved swiftly down the broad, pine-lined boulevard, past small, worn ranch houses resting on an area rug’s worth of land. The neighborhood had hosted thousands of citrus trees with their sweet blossoms and succulent fruit. Not many had survived the transition from agriculture to suburbia. Only a couple hundred stalwarts favored the land with their aromatic perfume, sweet edibles, and delectable shade during the sweltering West Valley summers.

As the road stretched westward, the homes gave way to apartment buildings, factory showrooms, and lots of corner gas stations and strip malls. Farther west, the area once again became open space as the boulevard neared the foothills.

Martinez said, “He’s going toward the Santa Susanas.”

“From one mountain range to another.” Webster pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe Waterson and Sanchez are partners in a chain of chop shops. Sanchez does the dirty work, Waterson does the finances. An interesting albeit farfetched concept. But whoda thought Sparks would involve himself with a bunch of bikers.”

Waterson entered the West Hills area, slowed, then turned on his left-hand blinker, heading straight into a tree-lined residential area.

Martinez said, “Pass him up.”

“Why?”

“Because the ’Cuda doesn’t have enough cover in such a quiet neighborhood. Pass him up.”

Webster kept the ’Cuda going straight, watching the Lincoln turn in his rearview mirror. “Now what?”

“Turn left at the next opportunity.”

Webster did as told. “Backtrack?”

“You know what? I think I know where he’s headed.” Martinez punched open the glove compartment, pulled out a street map. “We’re about a mile away from Sparks’s house. Go straight about… half a mile, then turn right on Orchard, left on Vine, then left on Alta Vista. Betcha we’ll find the car there.”

Webster raised his brow. “You sure you want to lose him at this point?”

“We’re too visible to follow him, Tom. After what happened to Sparks, he may even think that someone’s out to get him. Just trust me on this.”

They rode the next few minutes in tense silence. As Webster neared the Sparks house, he slowed the ’Cuda, took in the neighborhood. Large two-story homes on what seemed like big parcels of land. But the construction was only serviceable at best. Composite wood-sided housing or thin, textured stucco jobs. All of the homes were roofed in adobe-colored Spanish tile, giving the blocks uniformity. Giant carob trees shaded the streets. Dirt sidewalks.

Fancy area for a guy like Webster. But he couldn’t help wondering why a guy as rich as Sparks would have chosen this over Beverly Hills or Malibu, or at the very least, one of the million-dollar developments in Granada Hills.