Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(24)

“On the contrary. He always flies corporate. Except on these trips.”

“Why?”

“Look at the destinations.”

“I did.”

“A lot easier for people to know where you’re going if you’re in a company jet.”

“So what was he doing?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you take a guess?”

Oliver gave me a sour look. “I thought that was your job, Detective.”

“You think Karen Li is part of this? Or knows something about it?”

“No idea. And I’m not about to get involved.”

“Then why talk to me now?”

Even the question seemed to make him nervous. “I’m not a hero, but I don’t plan to end up in prison, either. If my company is doing something wrong I don’t want to be complicit.”

“Why not go to the police?”

“To report a travel itinerary?” He slid his sandaled toe around the dusty paving and watched little tracks form. “Look—just take my advice and walk away. I’m sure there are a million people out there who will pay you to follow someone or snap pictures or whatever you do. Don’t get involved in this. It’s not worth it, I mean it.”

“Thanks for the advice. To be continued.”

He didn’t like that. “No! Not to be continued! This was a one-time favor. Don’t think we’re getting into a whole … arrangement.”

I didn’t bother to answer that. Putting my helmet on, I tried once more. “No guesses? Why your CEO would want to visit those countries? He doesn’t seem the type to be into the whole extreme tourism thing, but maybe I’m wrong.”

Oliver started to say something, then stopped. “No idea whatsoever.”

“Nice to meet you, Oliver.”

I rode away, thinking about the destinations, what they had in common.

Wondering what a tech CEO was doing visiting the world’s hotbeds for extremism.





15


There might have been worse parts of Oakland than Castlemount, but I didn’t know about them. I parked on the sidewalk, right by the door of the six-story apartment building I was headed into. In addition to breathtaking coastline and sweeping redwood forests, the Bay Area also had the distinction of being statistically the best place in the country to have a car stolen. Something like fifty thousand vehicles gone each year. I wanted to come back to a motorcycle that was still there. Across from me was a small white house. A rusted car sat in the front yard on tireless rims. Two young men sat on the porch, staring openly, passing a bottle in a paper bag. A dog barked somewhere down the street. I took grocery bags out of the lockable metal storage cases on either side of the motorcycle.

Inside, what passed for the lobby smelled like cigarettes and stale vomit. The stained tile floor was sticky against my shoes. I pushed the button for the elevator. Nothing. I pushed the button again, then gave up and started up the staircase. On the fourth floor, I used my key, knowing the door would be locked. “Hey,” I called out. “It’s me.”

“Nik?”

The apartment was dark. Heavy blinds hung over the windows, no lights on. Instead of a sunny afternoon it could have been the middle of the night. The furniture would have gone on the Free section of Craigslist and then waited a couple of years for someone to pick it up. A beat-up red couch, pockmarked with cigarette burns; a couple of chairs that looked like they were biodegrading right into the floor. Pizza boxes and random clothing were strewn around, along with empty cans, crumpled cigarette packs, and liquor bottles like something out of a Bukowski story. Cigarette butts, some in ashtrays, plenty not. A cheap red plastic bong on the coffee table. I tried not to see the syringe next to it. The air stunk of smoke and sweat and bong water. I set down the shopping bags and turned on the overhead light.

Brandon was lying on the couch. A shirtless man of about my age slumped in an armchair, asleep. He had a green Mohawk and a face full of piercings. A girl sat on the floor, slouched against a wall. She smoked a cigarette and looked at me dully. Her hair was peroxide blond with darkening roots. She could have been sixteen or twenty-six. “Who’re you?” she slurred. Her pupils were bright and tiny. She wore torn black jeans and a stained gray T-shirt with pink BeDazzling spelling out the word PRINCESS.

I looked at her. Thinking that she and Mohawk could probably go on the Free section right along with the furniture. They’d probably have to wait a lot longer to get picked up. “You should leave.” I jerked my head over to Mohawk. “Both of you. Now.”

“Hey, c’mon, Nik,” Brandon said. “What’re you doing? I invited them. They’re my guests.” His words dripped out of his mouth.

“Who’re you?” the girl said again. Insistent. She fumbled for words. “You can’t just barge … just barge in here. Tell us what to do. What gives you the right…?”

I went over to Mohawk. He’d been smoking a cigarette and it had fallen out of his mouth or hand. It lay on the floor, steadily burning into the wood.

I stomped it out. Shook his shoulder. “Hey. Get up.”

There was no response. I shook harder. Still no response. I took one of his earrings in my fingers. The upper lobe. More sensitive. I tugged the earring sharply. Once, then again. Like ringing a doorbell. His eyes slowly opened. “What the fuck?”