Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(55)

He ducked.

Jared clenched his eyes, held his breath, and prayed to the Lord God above.

Doors slammed.

An engine started. Gravel crunched.

Jared slowly raised his head.

The little red truck pulled away. Jared watched its lights until they disappeared.

Jared gave a big sigh and stood.

“How ’bout them apples, Genghis Khan?”

Jared spread his sleeping bag, settled himself, and felt the slow touch of sleep.

Jared said, “Thank you, Lord.”

The Lord said, “Anytime.”

Jared lurched awake. His heart pounded and he thought for sure the men were back, but he heard no voices. Jared scrambled to his feet and peeked at the road, but the truck and the men were gone.

“False alarm, Red Ryder.”

Jared made an exaggerated sigh and returned to his sleeping bag. Sleep did not come easy this time. These weren’t the same people who disposed of the girl’s body, but they shouldn’t have been here in the dead of night and Jared didn’t like the way they’d been searching the slope. It was as if they were searching for him.

Jared closed his eyes.

“Dearest Lord, please don’t let them return.”

This time the Lord did not answer.





PART FOUR


        “They tell me you are a man with true grit.”

    —Mattie Ross

    from the novel True Grit by Charles Portis





37





Elvis Cole



I drove away as the first kiss of dawn purpled the eastern horizon. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Joe and Jon Stone were on it. They would follow the sedan, position themselves for clear and revealing pictures, and see where the meatball led them. If he led them to China they’d be gone a long time.

I wanted to go home. Lucy was probably still asleep. I didn’t like the idea of her waking to the note I’d left. Better she should wake to me. Better we should deal with this square up and face-to-face.

I headed toward Laurel Canyon but ended up circling through Hollywood. Portrait of the tough guy detective, sick to his stomach.

Canter’s Deli on Fairfax was open twenty-four hours and made the best New York cheesecake in Los Angeles. I parked out front and bought a small cup of coffee, a cheesecake, a dozen plain bagels, and cream cheese. Anxiety made one hungry. I ordered a pound of hand-sliced lox and sipped the coffee while I waited.

It was still early but full-on day when I reached home. Lucy’s rental car was gone.

Maybe she ran out for Starbucks.

Maybe she had a craving for donuts.

Maybe they were heading back to LAX and I’d never see Lucy and Ben again.

The maybes rained down like hellfire.

I let myself in and called from the kitchen.

“Hello? Ben? You home?”

If Lucy ran out for coffee, Ben might be home, but nobody answered. The note I’d left was on the counter. It was not crumpled, torn, or defaced, and she hadn’t written anything on it. The note was simply there.

I placed the bagels and cheesecake beside it and hurried to the guest room. I expected to find their bags gone, but their clothes still hung in the closet and their bags stood against the wall.

I wandered back to the kitchen, put away the food, and checked for a note. Nothing was stuck to the fridge or oven or microwave. I wandered through the living room to the guest room, but found nothing. I checked my bedroom, thinking she might have left a note on my mirror or bed or the stairs, but she hadn’t. No “be back later.” No “we need to talk.” No “you’re an asshole.” Nothing.

I wandered back to the kitchen and looked in the freezer. Nothing.

I took out my phone and called. Voice mail.

“Hey, Luce, it’s me. I’m home for a bit, but I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Call.”

I cradled the phone in my hands. Thinking.

I decided to text. I tapped out the first word of a message, told myself I was being stupid, and deleted it. She would call or she wouldn’t. I put away the phone and ate a bagel with lox and cream cheese. I was still eating when Lou Poitras called.

He said, “Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what we have.”

I took the phone to the couch as I listened.

Bonnie Newberg and Dana Ito caught the case. They were both Detective-2s at Central Bureau. Lou knew Ito well and considered her a fine detective.

Rachel Bohlen’s body had been wrapped in black sixty-five-gallon trash bags made from one-point-five mil-linear low-density resin. This was a heavy-duty, stretchable plastic ideal for heavy trash, yard waste, sticks, and sharp objects. Each bag measured fifty inches by forty-eight inches. Ms. Bohlen could have easily fit inside a single bag, but the killer or persons associated with the killer had wrapped her body using five bags, and secured the wrapping with a common black plastic duct tape. They had not taped the wrapping well. At some point, her right arm slipped free. She was found in an area of coastal sage scrub and chaparral on a south-facing slope thirty-two feet downhill from a street in Griffith Park.

Lou spoke as if reading from notes.

“She was murdered elsewhere and left in repose between twenty-four and thirty-six hours before she was moved. No indications of rape. No semen. Multiple DNA and fibers, but so far they’re nothing. No suspects as yet, but a wit claims he saw the dump.”