Total Immunity (16 page)

Sadler didn't miss a beat.

“I knew you'd be reasonable,” he laughed. Then he hung up.

Jack looked at Oscar and smiled.

“That was fucking Steinbach. I'm pretty sure.”

Oscar shook his head.

“I don't think so. Came from a cell phone, but not his. And that voice. It sounded sort of like Forrester to me.”

“Whoever it is, we're gonna find out tomorrow,” Jack said. “Maybe we can wrap this thing up. Meanwhile, you hear from Marshall today?”

“Yeah, he called me today. Looks like Forrester has a little bank account in the Cayman Islands. But, of course, it's untouchable.”

“Not if it turns out to be the result of a criminal activity.”

“Very hard to prove that, Jack.”

“Just the same, I'd like to find out how much dough he has in there, and the dates the deposits were made.”

“I already got Marshall working on that.”

“Good man!”

“Man, that's it for me tonight, bro. I'm wasted. Heading home.”

“You go ahead,” Jack said. “I'm so wired, I need a drink.”

“See you tomorrow, bro,” Oscar said.

He shambled out . . . Jack watched him go and felt a surge of camaraderie for his partner. Having never said a word about it, he knew that Oscar would lay down his life for him, and Jack would do the same.

It was an amazing bond, one neither of them ever had to mention. And yet it was more real than any other bond in his life, with the exception of his son.

The way things were right now, Jack realized that Oscar was the only sure thing he had in his life.

21

FROM THE MIRACLE MILE stakeout Jack drove his Mustang down Fairfax, hit the 10, and, speeding all the way, made it to Charlie's bar by 1:30 and was surprised to find it still packed.

He gave his car to Sergio, the valet, and went inside. Charlie was standing right by the door, pouring salt into his hand. Two good-looking women in their thirties, wearing hip-huggers and skimpy tank tops, looked on as Charlie made the salt disappear, then reappear.

The girls laughed and hugged Charlie, who turned and smiled at Jack.

“Hey, Jackie,” he said. “Just in time. I get you something?”

“How about a Harp?” Jack said.

Charlie nodded and waved to the bartender. The two girls smiled at Jack and then turned to talk to two surfer guys. Jack envied them their youthful freedom.

Charlie got the mug of beer and handed it to Jack.

“Here you go, Jackie,” he said. “Man, I haven't had a chance to talk to you about Zac and Ron. It just doesn't seem possible. I keep expecting them to walk through the door.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, not wanting to talk about it. “Hell of a thing.”

Charlie nodded, then drank his ginger ale.

“Hey, we got our first big game tomorrow night with the Palisades Angels,” he said.

Jack sighed.

“Oh, man, I'm sorry, Charlie. I'm going to be working tomorrow night.”

“Maybe Julie can bring him.”

Jack quickly looked down at the floor. Charlie, who never missed a thing, put a friendly hand on Jack's shoulder.

“What's going on, Jack?”

“Julie and me . . . we're taking a break from each other.”

“Oh, man, what happened?”

“It's a long, sad story, Charlie, and to tell you the truth, I'm too wasted to tell it right now.”

“That's tough,” Charlie said. “If you want to talk about it, I'm here for you.”

“Sure,” Jack said.

Charlie managed a smile.

“Look, we gotta get Kevin up there,” Charlie said. “He's turning into my best hitter. We need him out there. Tell you what: I'll pick him up and take care of him until you get back. I can let Bobby, the night manager, run the place for a few hours.”

“That's great,” Jack said, taking a swig of his Harp.

“Sure,” Charlie said. “Anything to accommodate my slugger.”

Jack smiled and slapped five with Charlie. This was a good thing . . . his son living a normal life. Baseball, surfing, school . . . like any other kid. Maybe he'd come around . . . maybe they'd seen the last of the teenage rebellions. If so, the bump on the head was a good thing.

Jack took another swig and set the mug down half filled. Time was he would have knocked back two or three, but he suddenly felt tired; it was all he could do to stand up. Charlie smiled and talked to two customers who were leaving, and Jack chatted briefly with a trooper he knew from a murder case in Solvang. He was about to call it a night when he saw him. The same scarred and bearded man he'd seen at the Little League field. This time there was no doubt. The guy was over in the corner, looking directly at him. Jack watched as the man picked up a shot glass, knocked back what looked like whiskey, and then walked toward him. Jack felt for his shoulder holster and steadied himself. But there was no need. The scarred man walked right by him, out the front door.

Jack ran his hand through his hair. Maybe he was just jumpy after what had happened to Zac and Ron. Maybe the guy wasn't looking at him at all. But why was he both here and at the ballpark?

Jack thought about asking Charlie, but he bagged the idea because he already knew what Charlie was going to say: “Hey, the guy likes baseball and hanging out at the beach, like a million other guys. He looks scary because of the scar, but you can't hold that against him.”

Yeah, Charlie would think Jack was losing it, and maybe he was right. Seeing ghosts, hearing voices. Now his head felt like hell, and he decided that he'd had enough. Time to pack it in and go home.

Jack walked by the little cluster of smokers who huddled together like lepers outside the bar. He took the keys from Sergio and walked toward his car. It was going to be good to get home now . . . fall asleep for six hours, then deal with Sadler, maybe nail Steinbach for good.

He was about five feet away from his car when it happened.

A car with its headlights turned off roared toward him. Jack was unable to move. He saw the car bearing down on him, and then — as quickly as it happened — it was over. Someone had tackled him from the side, and both of them were rolling over the hood of his car to safety.

Jack's head smashed into his fender, and he fell headfirst into the hard gravel of the parking lot.

He saw little blue lights, and then the world went black.

Three minutes later, he came to and saw Charlie looking down at him with concern.

“Jackie, you okay?”

Jack tried to push himself off the ground, but he was groggy and there was a searing pain in his forehead.

“I'm fine, except I'm gonna look like a unicorn tomorrow morning.” Jack gently touched the bump in the middle of his head. “Thanks, Charlie. Where'd he come from?”

“I don't know. I was just saying good night to two other people and I saw you. You were walking toward your car, and then he just came from back there . . . He musta been out of it. Man, I just went into linebacker mode.”

“Thank Christ you did, or I'd be with Zac and Ronnie.”

Sergio came running back from the curb.

“Mr. Jack, are you all right?”

“Yeah, Serg. You see which way he went?”

“Yessir, he turned left, headed south.”

“You know the car?”

“Yessir. It was a silver Porsche.”

“Either of you know who it was?”

Sergio nodded.

“Yessir, I saw him pretty good, Mr. Jack. He real ugly with scar on his face, like this.”

He drew an imaginary scar down his right cheek.

Jack looked at Charlie and shook his head.

“That's the same guy who was at the ballpark, Charlie. We gotta find somebody around here who knows him.”

“Sure thing, Jack. You really think it was from that guy you busted?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “I do.”

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed for LAPD dispatch. Within thirty seconds, he had three cars headed for the 405, looking for a silver Porsche and a man with a long scar across his right cheek.

Only minutes later, Jack came out of Charlie's parking lot and headed south. Once he got down to Main Street in Santa Monica, there were any number of turnoffs the guy could have taken. Jack roared down the freeway, then made a systematic search of the side streets running into the city. But there was no sign of the silver Porsche. After an hour, he gave up. After all, the scarred man could already have parked his car in any of the countless garages around the area. Or maybe they'd find the car abandoned while the driver was already home, snug in bed.

Jack turned up Pico and headed east. He had just gone by McCabe's Guitar Store, where he'd bought Kevin his Strat, when his cell phone beeped.

He assumed it was one of the other agents who were helping in the search, but when he looked at the display, he was surprised to see Michelle Wu's number.

“Hey, Jackie . . . You still up? What are you doing, you bad boy?”

“Nothing, baby. Just defending the public from late-night predators and other scum.”

Michelle laughed and Jack immediately felt aroused.

“You going to owe me some serious fun,” she said. “Dinner, drinks, and maybe a night in a first-class hotel.”

“Nothing I'd like more, babe,” Jack said. “But it all depends on the quality of the information.”

“You think I give you anything but the best, Jackie?”

“I don't doubt you one bit, baby,” Jack said. “You are the info queen. Now what you got?”

“Well,” she said. “I was thinking and thinking about that friend of yours, Zac Blakely. Like where I heard his name before. And then I was at the Valentine Room the other night, you know the place over on Ventura Boulevard, and it comes to me.”

Now Jack was fully awake.

“
What
came to you, Michelle?”

“Where I heard the name. Your man Zac Blakely . . . I had heard his name before. He wasn't just an agent, baby. He had another side. The man was a serious player.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I'm saying that he and his partner, Hughes, they had a thing going with Timmy Andreen. They was doing deals with him, baby.”

“Bullshit!” Jack said. “Who told you this shit?”

“Nobody had to tell me, Jackie. I play around with those boys sometimes. They let me sing at their club. You should come hear me, Jackie. Anyway, I met this guy there . . . said his name was Jay Richards. After you left the other night, I looked up Blakely's obit in the
Times.
The picture there? That's the same guy I met.”

“You sure, baby?” Jack felt something in his chest sag.

“I never forget nobody, baby,” Michelle said. “Is why I am so successful.”

“But how'd you know he was an agent?” Jack said.

“'Cause Andreen told me he was. Said he had him in his pocket. Him and his partner did favors for the boys so he could get a nice fat retirement fund.”

Jack said nothing. The mere thought of it . . . Zac Blakely, his mentor and friend . . . it made him sick. A bitter taste came up in the back of his throat, like three-day-old coffee.

“Hey, Jackie, you still with me?”

“Yeah, Michelle . . . Yeah, I'm here.”

Jack was no longer driving. He'd pulled his car over in front of the Apple Pan on Pico, and was staring at the green letters in a daze. They looked too bright, as if they were exploding on him.

“Thanks, Michelle,” he said. “I'm going to look into this.”

“Sorry to tell you about your friend, Jackie,” she said. “You should know better than to trust peoples.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack said. “But how the fuck do you live if you can't?”

There was a long silence from Michelle Wu, and then she gave an odd little laugh.

“You don't count on them, Jackie, you just learn to be amused by them. If they amuse you, then they are good company. That is my number-one belief. Keep Miss Michelle laughing, and every thing will be fine. Trust is for the dead. They got nothing to lose.”

“I'll try and remember that,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” Michelle said. “Lighten up, Jackie. People ain't so bad. Long as you keep real low expectations. Love you, baby.”

Then she hung up the phone.

Jack sat there staring at the green neon sign, his head aching and spinning.
Are Zac Blakely and Ron Hughes bad cops?
He would have bet his life against it. Jack felt dizzy, lost. He had known Blakely for . . . twenty years. It
couldn't
be true.

And yet more than one cop had wanted to pad his savings when he was staring at retirement and living on a fixed income.

But not Zac . . . not his mentor. He knew the guy like a brother. It just couldn't be . . .

The only problem was that Michelle Wu was rarely wrong about people. If she said she met him there, hanging with the Valley Boys, then it was true. But maybe there was more to the story than she knew. Blakely could have been down there setting them up for a bust . . . Maybe Jay Richards was just his cover name.

And maybe not, too. Now he had to make an audit of all of Blakely's computers. That would be easy . . . unless his wife had already cleaned them. And did she know, too? No, probably not. Zac was always secretive and would have wanted his crimes known by as few people as possible.

Jack turned the engine back on, feeling the bitter taste in his mouth and a pain in his temples. Forrester was right: the two of them were crooked. But where did that leave Forrester himself? Was he involved? Had he killed them for double-crossing him?

Jack felt like a man sinking into quicksand.

Then he remembered. Steinbach had once mentioned Timmy Andreen, too.

Was it possible that Steinbach and Andreen were in business?

How did Blakely and Hughes fit in with them?

And the bearded man who had just tried to run him down?

Did he come from Steinbach, Andreen, Forrester?