15th Affair (Women's Murder Club #15)(29)

That made all of us.





CHAPTER 45


I HAD TOLD Conklin that I was just fine after my beating last night, that I was cleared by the hospital and fit for duty. But even the pressure of buckling my seat belt caused a starburst of pain to radiate out from my ribs, wrap around my back, and shoot up to the top of my head.

I did my best not to wince. Or scream.

We were heading north on Ocean View Boulevard, Conklin saying we should stop off somewhere and grab something to eat.

I said, “Fine,” but I was preoccupied.

I was looking into the side-view mirror, seeing a black BMW crossover holding steady a few car lengths behind us. I thought I’d seen that car parked across the street from the Muller-Khan house through the bedroom windows. And now I was thinking I’d glimpsed it peripherally when I was watching Caroline Khan return to her home.

“Rich, the BMW behind us. The Asian guys who got into my face outside Claire’s office the other night. They were driving a vehicle like that.”

Conklin flicked his eyes to the mirror and said, “OK, we’ll keep our eyes on it,” adding that there might be a few thousand identical cars in this town.

I tried to relax.

Monterey Bay was on our left, with gorgeous houses along the right, as we headed in the direction of downtown Monterey. The view was a fine backdrop for my roiling mind. I was thinking about Ali Muller, wondering where the hell my husband was and what made Joe any different than Ali Muller. I didn’t like where my thoughts were going, so I glanced into the side-view mirror again.

The BMW had dropped back behind a panel van, but it was still keeping up with us when we passed Lovers Point Park and veered right onto the arterial.

“It’s still on our tail,” I said to my partner when we stopped at a light in downtown Pacific Grove. We took a right down a street lined with shops and restaurants, most of them closed on a Sunday, and yes, there it was. The black BMW was two cars behind our taillights.

The Pacific Grove post office was ahead on our right.

“Rich. Pull up over there.”

Conklin braked at the curb, and while the SUV had time and distance enough to slow and cruise past, the driver freaked. He jerked the wheel hard, then hit the gas and shot through the stop sign at the corner.

“Go,” I said to my partner.

As we tore up the asphalt, I radioed dispatch, saying to notify Monterey PD that we were in pursuit of a suspicious vehicle. I gave them the make, the model, and the two numbers I’d been able to grab off the plate.

Conklin switched on the lights and siren and I gripped the armrest. We flew along Lighthouse Avenue, following the BMW onto a residential block called Ridge Road. Ridge T’d into another block of homey houses with front yards, and as Conklin took a two-wheeled turn, I prayed that no dogs, cars, or children would get between us and the SUV.

I switched the mic to bullhorn mode, leaned out the window, and shouted, “This is the police! Pull over. Now.”

The BMW kept on going.





CHAPTER 46


THE DRIVER OF the BMW had the bit in his teeth, and also a solid lead. He sped past the gate in the residents’ lane and switched around on the winding roads, taking us out to 17 Mile Drive, the scenic route that goes around the peninsula and through Carmel.

I was beat up again from the chase, slammed from side to side against the straps, feeling like I’d been thrown into a commercial-grade clothes dryer.

But as soon as we hit the divided two-lane drive, our speed was cut in half. Traffic filled in between the treed divider on our left and the vegetation and backyard fencing on our right.

Our lights and sirens flashed and screamed, and as cars scrambled to get out of our way, we passed Rip Van Winkle Open Space at a jerky forty miles per hour. Conklin was doing a fine job under the circumstances, weaving around the balky cars and the ones that were hugging the edge of the golf course on our right.

It was clear to me that the guy we were chasing knew his way around this town when he pulled hard to the right, cut across scrub terrain, and skirted the Pacific shoreline before clipping a pickup truck at a stop sign and making a breathtaking and hazardous left onto Ocean Road.

Horns blew. Brakes squealed and pileups ensued. I radioed dispatch again, reporting that we were still in pursuit and needed assistance. Forthwith.

The driver of the black BMW took Bird Rock Road, a narrow and winding road that passed through a forested stretch of yet another golf course, and he did it at seventy. Then he broke from the road and cut across the links.

We followed into chaos and panic as golf carts tipped and golfers scattered. Flags were mown down and sand sprayed out from under tires before the BMW got back onto Bird Rock Road, taking a wide loop toward 17 Mile Drive again.

We lost ground on the links.

Our well-used Ford was a repurposed drug dealer’s ride that had been ridden hard for three hundred thousand miles. It was no match for the spanking-new four-wheel-drive crossover. By the time we got out to the drive, there were dozens of cars between us, but I spotted our BMW stuck in the same traffic up ahead.

My partner focused on the road and the BMW buried inside a pack of other vehicles a hundred fifty feet in front of us. We passed Pebble Beach at a crawl, then merged onto Highway 1 heading north.

And now the traffic was so thick that our bleating sirens couldn’t budge it.

Where were the patrol cars we needed to assist us?