Lena switched on the wipers and made a left at the end of the drive. The rain had picked up and the road felt slick.
Ramira had insisted on meeting in person and wouldn’t say anything over the phone. Wouldn’t even give her a hint. She finally agreed to see him-agreed to meet at the Blackbird-based on his word that whatever he had was worth a late-night trip downtown.
She checked the rearview mirror, the asphalt beginning to glisten behind her. Somewhere around the bend a car was on the move. Probably Klinger and his sidekick-the dynamic duo-heading out for coffee and donuts after a busy day wiring her home and breaking the law that was no longer a real law anymore.
She started down the hill, picking up speed and listening to the rain pound against the car. As she rolled into the next curve, she checked the mirror again and caught the headlights just rounding the bluff fifty yards back. Measuring the car’s speed, she watched the bright lights spread across the rear window as the glass fogged.
They were in a hurry-the distance closing fast.
It occurred to her that Klinger may have stepped up his demented surveillance efforts, deciding to keep closer tabs on her. But if he was following her, why would he be so obvious about it? Particularly on a Sunday night during a rainstorm when they were alone on the road. Why play it so close?
Her car filled with more bright light, the glare wiping out her mirrors. They were on top of her now, a few feet back on the slippery road.
For some reason she couldn’t explain, her thoughts turned to that pack of cigarettes Rhodes kept in his car. She had been thinking about them off and on for most of the day, but managed to beat back the urge and keep going.
She blew through the stop sign at Scenic Avenue, accelerating all the way down the hill to Franklin. Ignoring the freeway, she hit the overpass and raced down the street until she reached Gower Gulch. When the headlights kept up with her and actually followed her into the strip mall, her jittery nerves hit overtime. She found a place to park in front of the Rite Aid and got out. Hurrying through the rain, her eyes swept across the lot searching for the Caprice in the milieu of cars. But as she reached the sidewalk beneath the overhang, she couldn’t find it.
Instead, she watched a black Audi pull into an empty space across the lot in front of Denny’s restaurant. Two men got out in the rain. They glanced at her, a beat longer than maybe they should have, then turned away and headed into the diner.
Lena stood there until the door closed. Ironically, she knew who they were. Everybody did. Jack Dobbs and Phil Ragetti had been partners-two cops from the old school who were forced into early retirement after beating the life out of a murder suspect. Both detectives had advanced to the Robbery-Homicide Division before getting the boot and leaving the department in disgrace. Lena wondered how they had managed to escape jail time and keep their pensions. From where she stood, they looked more like a pair of middle-aged bruisers with chips on their shoulders. Ragetti lived in a house overlooking the reservoir in Hollywood Hills, a mile up the road from Lena. She had heard rumors that he lost everything in the wildfires last spring and had decided to rebuild.
She walked into the pharmacy and bought a pack of cigarettes. Stepping outside, she tore through the cellophane and lit one. Lena had never been a regular smoker. Half a pack eight months ago when things got really tough with her last case. She drew the smoke into her lungs and blew it out into the cold night air.
But her eyes were locked on that black Audi. Dobbs and Ragetti had burned down three years before she ever got near RHD. Yet the look they had given her was the same one she gave them. Recognition. They had read her as a cop the moment they saw her. The moment they got out of the car. It went with the job-something you learned on the beat wearing a uniform. Us and them.
She took another pull on the cigarette.
Seeing the two ex-cops felt like a bad omen capping off a rough day. A sign of what things could be like for her if she fucked up. Hitting a diner in Hollywood on a Sunday night. Landing hard after a long fall.
She took a last drag on the smoke, flicking it into the torrent of rain and watching the fire go out as she climbed into her car. Pulling out of the lot, she turned up Sunset heading for the freeway ramp to downtown.
The drive took twenty minutes. When she entered the cafe and didn’t see Ramira, she ordered a cup of the House Blend and found an empty table with a view of the door. Before leaving the house she had managed to reach Bobby Rathbone, who agreed to meet her at midnight. She had an hour to kill, and wanted to spend it reviewing her day and what it actually yielded.
She lifted the top away from the cup and held her face over the steam. As she took a short sip and felt the hot brew warm her stomach, she opened her notebook on the table and pulled out her pen.
Jane Doe, aka Jennifer McBride, had been abducted and murdered by the same man.
She knew this now and had the evidence to support it. A man calling himself Nathan Good. She knew what he looked like, had a rough idea of his age and build, and unless he ditched it, knew the make and model of his car. The condition of the woman’s body matched the horror found in the garage he rented on Barton Avenue. SID would probably confirm the match within the next twenty-four hours.
But she also knew that Nathan Good was profoundly twisted. And everything that she had seen today indicated that Art Madina was right to conclude that he had a medical background. Everything she saw pointed to a depraved individual. A motherfucker with brains.
She checked the door. When she still didn’t see Ramira, she turned back to her pad and skimmed through the notes she had made last night after meeting Justin Tremell and his father.
People with money pay other people to do the heavy lifting. There was no doubt in her mind that for everything Nathan Good had done, he was a paid player.
This was about Justin Tremell. The rich bad boy trying to right the wrongs of his past. The kid who got married, had a son, and didn’t want his father or anyone else to find out that he was still a piece of shit and doing a young prostitute. The kid under fire with the unusually steady hands who claimed that he didn’t know Jennifer McBride. That the witnesses who saw him with her were mistaken because he spent the entire night with his wife and son at home.
She thought about those steady hands. Nathan Good’s depravity cut against the way Justin Tremell handled himself during their interview. She thought about both of them for a long time. Tremell and Good were approximately the same age. Paying Good whatever he asked for wouldn’t have been an issue in his life.
But this was also about the woman who cast spells. The woman calling herself Jennifer McBride, who met Tremell, knew exactly who he was, and probably figured that she could make some real money. Maybe enough to get out of bed. And the fifty grand in her checking account wouldn’t accomplish that goal. It wouldn’t come close.
As Lena tossed it over, she realized that no matter how much progress she was beginning to make, her questions still outweighed her answers. And no matter how much time she’d given it, she still didn’t understand how Joseph Fontaine fit in. The Beverly Hills doctor had known McBride was dead before they even told him about the murder. When asked about his relationship with the young prostitute, he hid behind his assistant, lied, and threatened to call his attorney.
Fontaine was involved. She just couldn’t see it yet. Couldn’t put it together.
She checked her watch and looked up. Ramira was walking through the front door. Actually, it was more of a breeze than a walk. And as he spotted her and approached the table, she knew in an instant that her drive downtown would bear little fruit. Forty-five minutes ago, the crime beat reporter had sounded panic stricken. All that appeared gone now.
“What do you have to say, Denny? Why are we here?”
“Let me order a cup of coffee.”
He was stalling. Trying to come up with an excuse and save himself. She didn’t know who was worse, Ramira or Klinger. Both were chewing up time she couldn’t afford to lose.
“You can have mine,” she said.
“It looks cold.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “You said you were in trouble. It’s a Sunday night, and it’s been a real long day. Tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Ramira’s face reddened and he finally sat down. “I’m sorry, Lena. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
She gave him a long look. “You said we needed to talk. You said that you had information about the murder. You were specific. That’s why I came.”
“I didn’t say anything over the phone. All I said was that I wanted to meet.”
“That’s right. And you were talking about the victim. The woman in the trash. This is a murder investigation, Denny. It’s more important than your next story. If you’re holding something back, then you’re committing-”
“I’m a reporter, for Christ’s sake. Back off, Lena.”
“I don’t care who you are. If you’re holding out and you print the story, I’ll bust you.”
“I don’t know anything,” he said.
She pushed her coffee across the table. He stared at it for a while, thinking something over. Something that appeared deep and troubling enough to cloud his eyes.
“You’re fucking up, Denny.”
“When I called I thought that I knew something. But since then I found out that I don’t.”
“Knew what?” she said.
“Nothing. I was on the wrong track.”
“About what?”
He paused a moment-the clouds back in his eyes.
“About what?” she repeated.
“Who she was,” he said. “I thought I knew, but I didn’t.”
“Who did you talk to? Who said you were wrong? Who knew enough about it to say that you were wrong?”
He shook his head and remained silent.
“Does this have anything to do with that book you’re working on? Who’s feeding you information? Is it Klinger? What about Senator West on the commission?”
Ramira seemed surprised. “What about him?”
“Is he your source?”
“Source for what? West gets along with the chief about as well as you do. You should know that better than anyone over there. Listen to me: I made a mistake and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you out tonight.”
He pulled the cup of coffee closer and took a long swig as if he needed it. As if the brew was strong enough to bring the sun out in the dark of night. Lena watched him lower the cup, then remove his glasses and wipe the lenses with a napkin.
“You said your life was in the balance,” she whispered.
He shot a blind gaze her way before slipping his glasses back on. He looked tired. Road weary. After another hit of coffee, he reached into his pocket for his pad and pen.
“I was wrong,” he said. “But as long as we’re here, is there anything you can tell me about what happened today on Barton Avenue? Anything on the record I can use? We saw that piece of plywood come out of the garage. Paladino won’t let anyone get near his clients. He took them away and said they don’t live there anymore.”
She bit her lip, staring at the man. “This is about more than who the victim was,” she said. “More than thinking you know something and finding out that you don’t. How did you put it on the phone, Denny? I’m in trouble, you said. Big trouble. I’m trying to save my life. I’ve got information about that body you found in Hollywood. Only now you don’t have the information. Now you’re making excuses and hoping I won’t see through your smoke.”
Ramira lowered his pen. Lena checked her watch and got up from the table.
“You gave me your word,” she said.
“I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
“But I won’t be there, Denny. Never again.”
She walked out, bristling with anger and disappointment and thinking about the clouds she had seen in the reporter’s eyes. Something had happened. Something Ramira now wanted to hide.
As she drove home, she couldn’t help thinking that Ramira was just as pressed for time as she was. The reporter was too smart to call her out for a meeting this late unless he had a good reason. Too smart not to cancel if his reason dried up. Too smart to jeopardize his relationship with her and burn everything down over a hunch, a guess, or even a maybe that wasn’t pinned down. By the time she reached Hollywood Hills she became convinced that Ramira had been telling her the truth over the phone. He knew something about the murder. And he was in trouble.
She pulled into her drive and spotted a silver 911 Carrera parked in front of her brother’s recording studio. Skidding to a stop, she ripped open the door and saw Bobby Rathbone walk out from the porch behind the house.
“What’s got you so lit up?” he said.
She shrugged off the question, the two of them standing in the rain. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”
“No problem,” he said. “What do I need to know before we get started?”
“They left a couple of hours ago. They would have had all day to do whatever they’ve done.”
“Pros?”
She shook her head. “It’s not the Special Investigation Section. These guys are from Internal Affairs.”
“What’s with the music?”
She paused a beat, the sound bleeding through the house. She recognized the song by Megadeth and hoped Klinger was enjoying it.
Killing Is My Business. . and Business Is Good.
“I thought I’d give them something to listen to,” she said.
Rathbone laughed. They had met at her brother’s record company and known each other for almost a decade. Rathbone owned a counter surveillance business that dealt exclusively with the music industry. Sweeping a recording studio for bugs had become common practice as corporations bought smaller labels out, left the music behind, and sought an edge that might translate into higher returns for their stockholders. Rathbone was only thirty years old, but had earned a reputation as one of the best techs around. He worked in Los Angeles and Seattle. The last time she saw him he was opening a branch office in Nashville. Lena knew that he planted as many bugs as he found, and that this was part of the business, too. That he was living off the grid and making a fortune doing it.
“Let’s get started,” he said.
He walked over to the Carrera, disabled the alarm and pulled out a black aluminum attache case. She looked at his long dirty blond hair and blue eyes. His jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket. The scarf around his neck and his thin frame. No matter how shady his business, he brought back good memories and she was glad to see him.
“Open up the house,” he said. “Keep the music on. I’ll meet you around back.”
As Rathbone headed for the porch, Lena unlocked the front door, walked through the living room and threw the latch on the slider. By the time she got the door open, Rathbone was already strapping a small electronic device to his chest. He reached inside the attache case for a pair of headphones. Slipping them over his head, he motioned her outside. Then he grabbed a screwdriver and a flashlight, and entered the house.
He started in the kitchen. As he reached the telephone, she noticed the LEDs on the device blinking in sequence. Once he disassembled the handset, he glanced at the contents and moved on. He worked slowly and methodically, paying special attention to her audio equipment and the way the components were cabled. Every so often he would stop at an electrical outlet, remove the face plate, and examine the receptacle and box inside the wall. He made two passes through the living room before disappearing into her bedroom. She couldn’t see what he was doing from her position outside the slider. But after ten minutes he walked out and headed upstairs. Five minutes later he returned to the first floor and stepped outside onto the porch.
He smiled at her, brought his mouth up to her ear, and whispered under the music. “I need to get something out of my car. Do me a favor and turn off all the lights on the first floor.”
She watched him remove the device from his chest and run down the steps through the rain. Then she walked inside and switched off the lights. When she returned, Rathbone tossed another aluminum case on the chaise longue and flipped the locks to reveal several pairs of night vision goggles.
He pulled a set out, switched on the power, and handed them to her.
“You’ll want to see this,” he whispered. “We’ll talk after we come out, but this was done by a rat, Lena. Total garbage.”
He helped her get the goggles on, adjusting the lenses in front of her eyes. Grabbing the second set, he slipped them over his head and led the way into her bedroom. They were walking in total darkness, yet the room had every appearance of being filled with light. An eerie green light. She could see Rathbone in front of her, vanishing around the corner as if a ghost, then reappearing in front of her closet. She could see him waving at her, working his way toward the bathroom. They stepped inside and her friend pointed to the electrical outlet by the sink. He unplugged her hair dryer, and used his screwdriver to remove the face plate. Waving her closer, he loosened the screws on the receptacle and pulled it away from the wall as far as the live wires would stretch. Then he pointed at a small black square set between the two receptacles. It was about the size of a thumbnail and exceedingly thin.
Lena stared at it for a moment, her heart pounding as she finally picked out the microscopic lens.
Rathbone met her goggled eyes and shook his head. Then he turned his back to the outlet and extended his arms out from his body like a film director. Her friend was giving her a rough idea of the view. Lena didn’t need to look, but watched just the same. The view from the camera hidden in her electrical outlet hit all the sweet spots. Her changing area. Her shower and bath.
She followed him out of the house. But as he pulled the slider closed-as if on cue-the music stopped inside the house and the night suddenly turned all too quiet.
They yanked their goggles off, Rathbone staring at her. “What just happened?”
Lena didn’t reply, looking over the hill in amazement. The lights to the entire city were shutting down. One block after the next like a set of dominoes heading for the skyscrapers downtown. When the Library Tower went dark, she listened to the silence for a moment, then counted the seconds before the first siren broke into the night. The first burglar alarm running on auxiliary power in Hollywood.
It was a rolling blackout, the second in as many weeks. According to the power company, the strain on the grid came down to Christmas lights. But the excuse was more lame than real because no one was using their air conditioners this time of year. The system overload was just another ruse. Another way of tapping people for more cash.
Lena turned and watched Rathbone light a cigarette and look out over the basin. The only lights left in the city came from the cars on the roads. The life force of Los Angeles. And the result looked like eye candy. Red and white lights glittering in the blackness as they flowed through the streets and freeways like blood rolling through a human body.
Rathbone tapped the ash of his smoke in the air, then sat on the wall by the chaise longue and looked at her. “We need to keep our voices down,” he said. “Half of what they’ve added to the house runs on batteries.”
Lena understood and stepped closer.
“You moved your brother’s stuff upstairs,” he said.
“A while ago.”
“The upstairs is clean, Lena. The bedroom. The bath. There’s nothing there. You can talk all you want with the door closed and they’ll never hear you.”
“Thanks for doing this, Bobby. What about downstairs?”
He took another drag on his smoke. “They may not be pros, but they’re using good equipment. All high-frequency stuff. Everything well over the FM band. The only loser is the one in your telephone. If you made your own sweep, that’s the one you’d find.”
“I already did,” she whispered. “That’s why I called.”
“I’m glad you did because they’ve made some additions. Your phone’s plugged into an outlet over the counter, and you’ve got a three-way adapter feeding the lamp and your cell charger. There’s a bug in the outlet, Lena. And there’s another one in the three-way adapter. Both are good enough to cover anything anyone says in the kitchen or living room. Even out here if the slider was open.”
Lena slipped her hands inside her jacket pockets, feeling the bite in the moist night air. Perhaps because of the late hour, perhaps because of the way she had spent her day, her emotions remained in check. It was enough to know what Klinger had actually done. Enough to have someone she trusted like Rathbone gather the information for her. The why would come later.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“I’m good,” she said. “Keep going.”
“They covered the other side of the living room the same way. Your audio gear and computer are plugged into a surge protector.”
“There’s a bug inside.”
He nodded. “And in the outlet as well. The same thing’s going on in your bedroom. There’s an outlet behind the dresser and another one by your bed where the clock radio’s plugged in.”
“So, I should assume they can hear everything.”
“It’s not an assumption, Lena. It’s as true as a straight line. They can hear everything you say or do on the first floor. A pin could drop and they’d know which side of the room it fell on.”
“What about the bathroom?”
He paused a moment and gave her a look. “You saw the camera. It’s a TVC–X9 with a transmitter onboard. Full color. The signal’s strong enough to cut through ceilings and walls up to five hundred feet. Fifteen hundred if they had a clear shot. It’s the only camera in the house. And it’s working on a private frequency. That’s why I called whoever did this a rat. The camera’s not there for business. It’s there because one of your friends is a perv. Probably watching on his laptop while he beats the fuck off.”
It hung there. An image of Klinger watching her and beating off.
When she turned away from the house, the image finally began to dissipate. The city below Hollywood Hills was still cloaked in darkness. She could see the headlights and brake lights congealing into rivers and streams and flowing all the way to the horizon. All the way into the black.
“Why are they doing this to you?” Rathbone whispered.
She glanced back at her friend and caught the worry in his eyes. The questions were all there. She just didn’t have the answers yet.