Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(40)

The Harley came to life with a visceral rumble. I rode out the open bay door. I had everything I needed in a backpack. Outside, I checked the iPad. Assuming she was in her car, the GPS tracker would tell me where to go.

It was time to find Karen Li. Time to find out what she had taken.





22


She was in San Francisco but heading north. Even as I watched, the dot edged up on the map. Toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the 101 freeway that ran all the way up to Seattle. That gave me a choice. I could loop around, follow, and try to catch up. Or gamble on where she’d end up. Not many choices immediately north of the city. If she wanted a freeway, the 101 was it.

I gambled. Worked my way around San Pablo Bay on the 37, riding fast, aiming to link up with the 101. It was a chilly, gray day. Light rain swept out of the sky and wind gusts rocked the big motorcycle. When I reached Novato I pulled over and checked the iPad. Karen Li was only a few miles north, still on the 101. I had guessed right. I moved faster, cutting through traffic until I saw the red Porsche. It was doing a steady eighty in the left-hand lane, the top up. I drifted closer until I could see Karen Li’s black hair in the little rear window. It was her.

Satisfied, I eased over a lane and dropped back a few cars.

We stayed on the 101 through the rolling hills of Petaluma and Santa Rosa, passing vineyards and pastures full of sheep and black cows standing with that angular flat shape, like cardboard cutouts. We continued north.

Then something interesting happened.

Without signaling, the little red convertible cut into the right-hand lane. I followed. Still a few cars behind, I saw the Boxster’s brake lights as it slowed onto an exit ramp. Then, very suddenly, it swerved back onto the freeway, cutting over the solid line and rumble strips. Cars honked. A trailer truck just missed the little roadster and its loud horn blared.

Already on the exit ramp, I didn’t bother to try to follow the Porsche back across the divider. Instead, at the intersection I took the entrance ramp straight back onto the freeway. Either I had seen a confused driver nearly take the wrong exit and catch herself just in time—or I had watched the fumbling, rookie maneuver of someone trying to ditch a tail. A basic trick. Like getting onto a subway car and jumping off before the doors closed. Counting on the fact that any pursuers would have to exit, or would make such a fuss trying to cut back over that they’d be spotted.

Interesting.

I caught sight of the Boxster as it turned off the freeway a second time, this time exiting. I followed, letting more space grow between us. Fewer cars meant it was easier to be spotted. Did Karen Li suspect she was being followed? She couldn’t have recognized me. Was she just generally cautious?

Or were other people following her?

We were on the 128, a narrow two-lane road that angled sharply up while curving back and forth in hairpin twists. I let the Porsche get still farther ahead, out of sight. There was nowhere for her to go except forward. It began to rain harder. Drops splattered off my helmet visor. The road descended sharply into Anderson Valley and I caught a glimpse of the red convertible on the flat road in front of me. We drove through several small towns, Yorkville, Boonville, Philo, passed meadows and vineyards and signs for wineries and farms, and then abruptly we were in a redwood forest, the high trees blocking what little light there was. The redwoods fell away as suddenly as they had appeared and we were on the coast, the choppy, gunmetal water of the Pacific stretching to the sky. The Boxster headed north on Highway 1. Out by the ocean it was windier. Sharp gusts rocked the Harley. A driving rain lashed into me.

We reached the town of Mendocino and the Boxster braked and turned in.

I continued until I was out of sight, then pulled an illegal U-turn. A minute later I was in Mendocino proper, in sight of the high bluffs looking over the Pacific. Little shops and restaurants and a two-story hotel stood along one side of the main street. The side closer to the sea was an expanse of flat, high grass, threaded with trails that led to the bluffs. On a sunny, warm day the trails were probably full of hikers and families. Today they were empty.

I could see Karen Li. She had parked by the hotel and stood in the rain. A long black raincoat over her slim figure. She unfurled a black umbrella and took a black handbag from her car. Oddly, she didn’t walk toward the town. She seemed oblivious to the cozy little cafés and pubs that any normal traveler would have hurried into after a long, wet drive. She set out in the opposite direction. I watched her figure diminish into a small black dot.

Moving toward the high bluffs and gray sea.



* * *



Most people tended to be better at remembering details than faces. A blue hat, a red T-shirt—these would wedge into memory far more than eye color or bone structure. The hotel on Main Street was furnished in a Victorian style—plush armchairs, rugs, a crackling fireplace. I found a restroom and changed hurriedly, pulling clothes from my backpack. When I emerged I had traded my boots for white sneakers and was dressed in blue running tights and a black athletic halter top. My hair now swept up in a ponytail under a cherry red 49ers cap, and a pair of white Apple earbuds in my ears. The unconnected cord tucked into a fanny pack on my waist.

I had pulled up on a Harley, in a leather motorcycle jacket. That was one person.

Now I was a jogger. Someone else.

I left the backpack under a couch in the lobby and headed out into the rain.

I ran slowly, feeling the wind raise pinpricks along my arms. Feet squelching into wet grass, white sneakers already muddied beyond repair. Not entirely sure if I was being watched. If Karen Li had wanted to choose the ideal place to spot someone following her, she couldn’t have picked a better setting than this flat, open landscape. I found a twisting path that wound toward the edge of the bluffs. Below, maybe fifty or sixty feet, the sea churned over craggy rocks, the water forming whirlpools, white patches of foam frothing up, swirling away, reappearing. I caught a glimpse of a black umbrella, far ahead. Behind me, the little town faded. The ocean swirled and foamed. As we drew closer to the edge of the bluffs, the ground became rocky and uneven.