The Rescue(37)

“Maybe we should skip lunch,” said Frist. “This is going to take every available moment from here on forward.”

Frist’s words were music to his ears. He couldn’t wait to get out of this office, and the entire building.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Decker followed Harlow into the third-floor apartment, hauling two paper grocery bags by their strained handles. As he carefully lifted the bags onto the kitchen counter, Harlow left two carry-on–size backpacks on the tile floor next to a distressed-wood dining room set and disappeared into a dark hallway to clear the bedrooms.

Beyond the spacious wood table sat a leather sectional couch; two comfortable-looking, cushioned basket chairs; and a rustic, square coffee table. The furniture faced wide slider doors, which opened to wavering palm fronds and occasional glimpses of sparkling water. Not a bad place to hide out for a few days.

Returning to the front door, he engaged the dead bolt and swung both of the door guards into place, one at eye level, the other a foot below the doorknob. He studied the door for a moment, thinking the doorframe would splinter inward after a few well-placed kicks or a single strike from a handheld battering ram.

“You’ll find an industrial-strength security doorjamb in the closet next to the door,” said Harlow, who had reappeared in the dining room. “And one in each bedroom and bathroom. The idea is for the front door to hold long enough for the occupants to retreat into one of the bedrooms and deploy the next set of locks. The bedroom door should slow down an intruder long enough to barricade the bathroom door, where they hide until the police arrive.”

“LAPD knows about this place?” said Decker, heading back to the kitchen to unload the groceries.

“No. But the apartment’s security system is equipped with a panic button linked to the LAPD dispatch system. Dispatchers get the location when the panic button is triggered, and the call gets priority handling. The organization that runs this network of safe houses has a nice arrangement with the LAPD.”

“And deep pockets, I’m guessing,” said Decker, digging through one of the bags for the beer. “I was expecting something a little more tucked away.”

“And cheap?”

“I wasn’t expecting three blocks from the beach with a partial ocean view.”

“It’s an apartment in LA,” said Harlow. “Just happens to be more expensive than most. The organization’s benefactors have been very generous. They own dozens of less impressive safe locations, but they wanted a few places to be special.”

“I wasn’t implying that the apartment is excessive. Just surprised. God knows the women they help deserve something like this.”

“They’re just relieved to be somewhere safe. Doesn’t matter where it is,” said Harlow. “But yeah, this is a nice treat when you’ve hit rock bottom.”

“Please tell me they didn’t move anybody on my account.”

“No. We got lucky. They transitioned the woman staying here into her own apartment yesterday,” said Harlow. “But don’t get comfortable. We’ll more than likely have to relocate tomorrow.”

“The more we move around, the better.” He lifted a cold bottle of craft beer from the six-pack. “Beer?”

“Please,” she said, taking off her Dodgers ball cap and tossing it on the table.

“Bottle opener?”

“Somewhere,” she said, shrugging.

He searched the drawers while she unloaded the rest of the groceries. They’d bought mostly breakfast food, a few snacks, fresh fruits, and beer. Dozens of restaurants sat within easy walking distance of the apartment building, most of them offering delivery or takeout, so they hadn’t overbought. Keeping his hands on the shopping cart hadn’t been easy. Decker could have filled several bags with the snacks and foods he’d missed over the last nineteen months.

“No opener?” she said.

“I really can’t find one.”

“Follow me,” she said, grabbing both beers.

Harlow led him onto the small private balcony, handing him one of the beers. She placed the bottle cap against the thick wood balcony railing and hit the top of the bottle, loosening the cap enough to twist away. He handed her the second beer and watched her repeat the process.

“Impressive,” he said.

She grinned and had just lifted her bottle to his when a sharp knock at the apartment door set her in motion. She rushed inside, setting her bottle down on the coffee table before drawing her pistol from a concealed holster on her right hip.

Decker set his beer next to hers and brushed past her to get a knife from the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Grabbing a knife,” he whispered. “Unless you have another gun.”

“I don’t,” she said. “And you won’t find anything sharp in the kitchen. Part of the rules.”

“Rolling pin?”

“Not a lot of baking goes on here,” she said, stopping at the touch-screen alarm panel just inside the hallway.

She pressed the screen, activating the interface and displaying the peephole camera feed. Decker moved next to her in the hallway, taking a close look at the image. He recognized the razor-bald black man immediately.

“Unbelievable,” muttered Harlow, apparently recognizing him, too. “What do we do?”