Phantom Instinct (9780698157132) (18 page)

P
hone pressed to her ear, breathing hard, Harper ran through the mall. “Detective?”

A woman emerged from Victoria's Secret, pink shopping bags in her hands. Harper dodged but sideswiped her. The bags went flying.

“Jesus, you crazy—”

“Sorry.”

Bras and panties spewed into the air and rained to the glossy tile floor. She kept running, toward the department store. Her heart was thudding, and a heavy rock seemed to sit in her stomach. Oscar had vanished.

Sorenstam said, “Ms. Flynn. Where are you?”

“We're not in L.A. County,” Harper said.

“Where, then?”

She ran into the department store. A young woman with a bottle of spray cologne stood at the entrance, wearing a white lab coat.

“Miss, would you like to try—”

“In hell.” Harper ran past. “Detective . . . what kind of assistance can you get in Ventura County, and how fast?”

“What's going on, Harper?”

The tone of Sorenstam's question sounded off, her voice too sharp. Harper's warning radar sparked to life.
Say nothing. If you have to say something, lie.
But without help, without getting Oscar to officials who would listen, she had zip.

“Lemon Tree Mall, Camarillo. I'm chasing Oscar into Macy's. Can you get a patrol unit here to help me?”

“Help you do what, exactly?”

She slowed near the escalator, looking around. Glitz and bling and displays of makeup and jewelry. She glanced up.

Saw the green shirttails disappear at the top of the escalator.

“Harper,” Sorenstam said. “Has Oscar Sierra committed a crime?”

“I don't judge.” She turned and ran up the escalator, legs heavy. “Detective, please.”

“Stay there. I'll see what I can do.”

Sorenstam hung up. Doubly uneasy, Harper reached the top of the escalator. Women's Clothing. She jogged around the escalators, looking for him.

Oscar, Oscar. Where would you go?

She jogged to the fire door. When she opened it, she heard nothing in the stairwell, no scuffling feet, no labored breathing or sniffling.

Online, Oscar was brilliant at covering his tracks. He could dip into a protected account, drain it, slash to the bone the information it contained, and slip away again without leaving anything but the slightest evidence there'd been an intrusion, much less his digital fingerprints. He knew how to plant bots deep in a system's code, curled up so tight they were nearly invisible, even when they activated and misbehaved. He was expert at inserting himself into a system and hiding there.

Not so good at running. Not so skillful in the physical world. Still, she couldn't find him.

She spun around. Women were browsing the racks. At a desk, a salesclerk pulled the security tag off a violet dress for a waiting customer. Harper hurried over.

“Seen a man come past here? Young guy, dark hair, green fatigue shirt?”

The clerk looked at her peculiarly. “You have a bra hooked on the back of your shirt.”

Harper grabbed the Victoria's Secret stowaway and tossed it aside.

The customer said, “He headed toward the dressing rooms.”

“Thanks.”

When she reached the dressing rooms, she paused. Carpeted, they were hushed. Most of the doors were closed.

She caught her breath and waited till she could proceed without panting. She walked down the row, glancing under each door. The fourth door was closed. She tried the lock. It wouldn't budge. Nobody complained when she rattled the lock. She checked again: no feet visible inside.

Checking that nobody was coming, she dropped to all fours and peered under the dressing room door.

On a stool, feet propped against the wall, a middle-aged woman was sleeping. She wore a store name tag.

“What the hell?”

The voice came from behind Harper. She retreated and stood up. A sales assistant stood at the end of the hallway, mouth gaping.

Harper pointed at the dressing room. “Heard moaning. Thought something bad was happening inside. Or really good.”

She speed-walked toward the young woman, hoping to get past.
Stay calm and don't admit anything.
Rule one of getting out of a store where you're suspected of wrongdoing.

The sales assistant braced herself, as though she might throw a low tackle.

Harper raised her hands. “I'm looking for this idiot friend who asked for a ride, then took off on me.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Your colleague's asleep inside, snoring.”

The young woman's head swiveled toward the dressing room. Harper hurried past her.

Out on the sales floor, she looked around. Her stomach was cramping. Sorenstam was supposedly calling the local cops, but she didn't know how long that would take. And if they actually showed up, she'd better have Oscar with her, or she was screwed.

And she hadn't liked the pauses on Sorenstam's side of the conversation. The detective had been thinking—too much for Harper's comfort.

Behind her, the sales assistant said sharply, “Hey. Come out of there.”

With a click, a door opened. Harper looked over her shoulder.

The sales assistant stood outside the dressing room where the woman was asleep. The door was still closed. She rapped on it. “Lucy. Get off your ass.”

But two doors down, another door stood open, and in the doorway stood Oscar.

He saw her and jumped like a hamster. He started to close the door again, thought better of it, and bolted out. She was running at him.

He turned and ducked into the employees' stockroom. She followed. He cut between racks of clothing and out onto the sales floor through another door. She launched herself at him. They tangled at a display of short shorts and slid across the lacquered countertop like air hockey pucks.

They thudded to the carpet. Somebody nearby squealed.

Harper straddled him and pressed his shoulders to the floor. “Hold still. Stop behaving like a squirrel.”

He looked up at her, spent. “But I am a squirrel.”

Customers shied away from them. Peripherally, Harper saw a clerk with a headset, clicking her walkie-talkie.

Harper pressed her hands against Oscar's shoulders. “We're going to get up and walk out of here together.”

The walkie-talkie clerk said, “Miss, sir—get up. I've called security.”

Harper held Oscar down. “We're leaving.”

She swung to her feet, hauling him up by his lapels. He looked around with a gaze that could only be described as shifty.

The clerk said, “Security is going to escort you out of the mall.”

“No need,” Harper said. “My brother is getting back in my car and we're going to his dentist's appointment now.”

Oscar looked at her askance. She pulled him toward the exit. At the top of the escalator, a burly man appeared, lumbering toward them in a shiny blazer, his faux Secret Service earpiece twisting wormlike down his neck.

Harper tightened her grip on Oscar's sleeve. “Care to take it up with Mr. Muscle? Because he'll lock you in his office and fantasize about playing Jack Bauer with you until the local cops show up. You want that?”

Oscar stared at the floor. “No.”

The security guard raised a hand. “Hold on, folks.”

Harper slowed but nodded at the escalator. “Give us a hand? We need to get outside as soon as possible.”

“I need to see some ID,” the man said.

Harper didn't even dignify that with a raised eyebrow. “I need to get him into the open air even more than you need us to leave the premises. Come on.”

“What's the problem?” the security man said.

Oscar looked at her, too, curious.

She led him onto the escalator. He automatically stopped, but she pulled him down the stairs.

The security guard followed. “Ma'am? The problem?”

She tried to think of something, but all that came to her was
I am a squirrel
. Then they passed beneath the banners offering a chance to win a free car.

“Corvette's syndrome,” she said. “Similar to Tourette's, but the involuntary compulsive behavior isn't verbal. It's prey behavior. Begins with flight—hiding, then fleeing. You saw that.”

“Corvette's?” the guard said.

“It escalates rapidly if an episode occurs in a confined space with droning ambient noise. Such as Muzak, and, really—‘Love in an Elevator'? Come
on.”
She tugged Oscar down the stairs. “Once it reaches that stage, disrobing quickly follows. I need to get him to his doctor's office.”

“Dentist,” Oscar said.

She yanked on his sleeve. They reached the ground floor. Harper glared at him, pointedly.

He flinched. Then he began twitching his fingers, snapping them, flapping his hands.

The guard said, “This way.”

He led them toward a door to the parking lot.

Oscar twisted his head and pulled on the collar of his T-shirt. “Hot.”

Harper yanked. Hot didn't count.

“Tight,” Oscar said. “Too tight.” He scratched at his shirt.

“Oh, no, you don't,” the guard said.

“Faster,” Harper said.

Oscar tried to wriggle out of his fatigue jacket. “Need to lighten the load.”

Together, Harper and the guard rushed him out the door into the sunlight, the guard chugging intensely, as if Oscar might detonate.

“Where's your car?” the guard said.

“Thanks,” Harper said. “I can take it from here.”

“He ain't gonna strip on mall property. Get him onto the public sidewalk.”

Oscar was pulling his T-shirt over his head. Harper said, “Gas station.”

The guard held tight to Oscar's arm and together they got to the gas pump. Harper nudged Oscar into the passenger seat. While the guard stood watch, she ran around and got behind the wheel.

“Will you be okay?” the guard said. He looked half serious, half dubious. But at this point, it didn't matter.

“I'll be fine. I have a fifty-thousand-volt stun gun under my seat for when he gets too hard to handle. It'll put him right out until I can get him tied down.”

She started the engine. “Thank you.”

The wheels chirped as she pulled away.

H
arper overrevved the car up the on-ramp onto the 101. Oscar said, “Stun gun. Very funny.”

“Don't try me. You want to get hit with it?”

He cut a look at her. “You were never this mean.”

“You never tried to leave me high and dry.”

“You're the one who called the cops.”

“I wasn't going to turn you in,” she said. “I need the lead detective on the case to know there's evidence pointing to Zero. It's how we protect ourselves.”

She took out her phone to redial Sorenstam.

Oscar pushed her hand down and turned sideways in his seat to face her. “You don't get it.”

She accelerated into traffic. A gasoline tanker passed them, the sun glaring off its curved silver flanks.

“What don't I get?” she said.

“If the cops knew about me being with you, they'd take us both in.”

“That's off the wall.”

“When did you get so naive?”

“Oscar, stop it. You came to me for help because you're in danger. And you're part of an ongoing shitstorm. We need to protect ourselves.”

“I thought going to Santa Barbara was protecting ourselves.”

Harper flushed. Her phone felt heavy in her hand. Aiden still hadn't returned her call. Maybe this was a wild-goose chase.

“Harper, you need to think on this. I ran last night. I took off with just the clothes I'm wearing and the phone in my pocket. If I didn't know the backcountry near my trailer, Zero would have caught me for sure.”

“You were lucky. Be grateful.”

“But after I got away from him, what do you think he did?”

She watched the road. Malls and car dealerships alternated with strawberry fields and windbreaks of eucalyptus trees.

Her stomach knotted. “He went back to your place.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And . . . damn.”

“He would have messed the place up. He probably ruined everything I have there. Stole as much of my shit as he could carry.” He shook his head and put a hand to his forehead. “My stash.”

“Forget your stash. What would he have done?”

“You know him.”

Her phone rang.
Erika Sorenstam
.

Oscar peered at the display, shook his head, and made a slashing motion across his throat. Anxious, Harper let the phone ring. Finally, it stopped.

She drove for a minute, thinking. Then she punched the voice-to-text command on her phone. “Text Detective Erika Sorenstam.” After a second, the phone pinged. Harper dictated. “Found Oscar Sierra. All under control. Don't need police assistance. Will come to you.”

She sent the message. Oscar looked at her expectantly.

“I didn't say when we'll go to Sorenstam,” Harper said. “I'm not going to dump you in the sheriff's station parking lot. Chill.” But the knot in her stomach tightened. “Zero. What's at your trailer that he can use against you? And against me?”

“Lots. Listen. Last year, Zero paid me to clone your swipe card—to forge a new one.”

“You're saying that he wanted
my
card specifically. He wanted to plant evidence against me.”

“And he didn't succeed. Not a year ago.”

“So he came to you trying to kill you?”

“I was one of those loose ends, you know. Like you always see on TV.”

She drove, frustrated, the engine revving. “Something doesn't make sense.”

“All I know is, I did the card thing for him. Heard nothing for a year. Then last night he shows up at my place, asking all kinds of questions, and getting ready to—” He shut his eyes. “I don't like thinking about this. It hella scares me.”

“Me, too.” She tried to keep her voice measured. “What do you think he did at your place?”

“Besides search for clues that would help him hunt me down?” He raked his hair back. “He could plant evidence. Papers, notes, something with your name on it.”

“Messages. E-mails.”

“Texts.”

“You have your phone in your pocket.”

He looked at her. “I have
a
phone.”

“Crap.”

She thought about it. The road scrolled beneath the car, tires droning.

She found Aiden's number. Hit it and put the phone on speaker.

A second later, they heard a busy signal.

Harper said, “I have a bad feeling about that.”

Aiden cautiously put the phone to his ear. “Erika?”

The boat was about a mile offshore, angling toward the harbor. Briefly, Kieran glanced out the window of the wheelhouse. His expression was unreadable.

“Aiden,” she said. “Have you heard from Harper Flynn today?”

That was not what he was expecting. He had presumed she was calling because she'd heard that he'd been arrested.

“What's up, Erika?”

“Some sketchy things. Possibly criminal and related to people from her past.”

“Could you be more vague, please? I can still see through the fog.”

“She's playing games with me. I think she's trying to cover her tracks about her involvement in the attack on Xenon. It's not working.”

“Playing what kind of games?”

“Trying to alibi herself.”

“For what?”

“A missing persons case in Kern County. China Lake.”

Aiden held on to the port railing as the boat rose, plowing through the swell. His leg ached beyond pain, but he didn't want to sit down, didn't want to let Kieran see him hurting.

“Who's missing, and for how long?” he said.

“Guy named Oscar Lamont Sierra. Report was filed with Kern County last night. Harper called me an hour ago and said she has Sierra with her right now.”

“I don't get the twist you're putting on it,” he said. “Or why you're calling me.”

“It's extremely convenient that Harper called. The Kern deputies found her name on some incriminating evidence at Sierra's residence.”

Shit.

“And?” Aiden said.

“And as far as I can determine, nobody except Harper Flynn has actually seen Oscar Sierra. It's all smoke and mirrors.”

“Again—why are you calling me?” he said.

“When she phoned me, Flynn said she was in Ventura County heading north on 101. Why might that be?”

“You think she's coming to see me?”

“Is she?”

“I haven't spoken to her.”
And I hate the accusatory tone in your voice.

Sorenstam waited, almost as though hoping he would confess. He felt a free-floating sense of shame and anger. Sorenstam didn't believe in him anymore. The woman he had been closest too for the longest time in his life had given up on him. Even worse, she now seemed to view him through a heavy pane of glass, as if he were an animal to be kept penned, or a suspect to be observed and monitored with disdain. And Harper . . . she had literally turned away from him. If she was coming his way, he didn't know what to think.

The spray off the bow wave shimmered in the air and cooled his face. But the heat of his confusion and anger seemed to turn the view red.

Finally, Sorenstam said, “Aiden?”

“What do you want, Erika?”

“If Flynn contacts you, or shows up, would you let me know?”

“You'll be the first.”

“Great. Thanks.”

He ended the call without saying good-bye. As soon as he lowered his hand, the phone rang again.

Harper Flynn
.

After a long moment, he answered it. “I'm aboard the
Carolina Gail
. And if you're on your way to Santa Barbara, turn around and go home.”

He heard road noise on her end and hard silence. Then she said, “I'll be there in half an hour. I have somebody with me who is going to confirm everything you've been saying about the involvement of Eddie Azerov.”

“Who's that? Oscar Sierra? Put him on.”

A second later, a man's voice came over the phone. “This is Oscar.”

“Good try. I have work to do. I'll talk to you another time, Harper. And whoever you have in the car with you.”

He hung up. The phone rang again, and he silenced it. He made his way to the wheelhouse.

“Kieran. What's that lawyer's phone number? I've been an asshole. I'm sorry. I'll call and tell him I'll plead to whatever the cops want.”

Kieran eyed him from behind his Oakleys. “Thanks. We'll give him a call as soon as we dock.”