The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel (18 page)

P
RACTICING PHYSICIANS
were easier to find than DUI attorneys. Professional medical associations, hospitals, and medical schools posted licensing and staff information on their websites, as did networking sites, complain-about-your-doctor sites, and scores of pay-to-see-your-doctor’s-dirt sites. Thirty seconds after I tapped my phone, I knew where to find Jennifer Li.

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center was the largest nonprofit hospital in the western United States. With a thousand beds and a staff of twelve thousand, the hospital’s campus spanned several square blocks. I could leave a message easy enough, but this didn’t guarantee she would respond. I called an attorney named Ansel Rivera.

Civil and criminal firms often hired investigators to check the facts of a case, and sometimes for more personal reasons. Ansel was a labor lawyer who represented non-union workers in cases involving unsafe working conditions. A few years ago, Ansel’s fifteen-year-old daughter was abducted from a parking lot after a tennis lesson. Ansel
called the police and the FBI, and also called me. Three days later, Joe Pike and I found his daughter and the two men hired to kidnap her in an abandoned house in Mandeville Canyon. Since then, Ansel has offered much more work than I want or accept.

I texted his personal phone, and didn’t use the burner. I wanted his Caller ID to recognize my number.

911ELVIS

Ansel called back four minutes later.

First thing he said was “We’re paid up, right? I swear to God, if they didn’t send your check I’ll double whatever I owe you.”

“We’re paid. I need help with something.”

“Hang on—I can’t hear.”

He was in a room with other people.

“Okay, this is better. What?”

“Cedars-Sinai.”

“Did Margie tell you about the colonoscopy? It’s set up. I’m going.”

“This isn’t about you. I need to see one of their surgical residents, and I need to see her fast.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. This doctor, she’s busy. She doesn’t know me, and I don’t have a direct way to reach her. I need someone up the food chain to tell her to see me.”

“What’s she do?”

“Pediatric surgery. What I’m asking is, do you or someone at your firm have juice at Cedars?”

Ansel Rivera wasn’t only a labor lawyer. He was a founding partner in a firm employing over one hundred attorneys covering a dozen practice areas. Ansel was rich and connected.

“Hang on, lemme see. I’ll have Barry check—”

Ansel was with me again two minutes later.

“We handled a divorce last year, a big-shot surgeon at Cedars. A vice chair, whatever that means. In surgery, right? Barry, in surgery? Yeah, okay, the guy loves us, Barry says. We saved him a fortune.”

“I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

“What trouble? Is she doing something illegal?”

“It’s nothing like that. I need to see her about someone she knew in high school. Five minutes is all I need.”

“Don’t sweat it. She’ll be doing a personal favor for her boss, who’ll be doing a personal favor for me. When do you want to see her?”

“Now.”

“Give me her name. Go. We’ll take care of it.”

Barry called me with instructions before I reached the hospital. He gave me a phone number, told me to go to the admissions lobby of the South Tower, and text the number when I arrived. That’s what I did. Forty minutes later, Jennifer Li Tillman stepped off the elevator. She was small, slender, and prettier than she had been in high school. She wore dull blue surgical scrubs, and carried a cup of coffee. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled into a ponytail.

I introduced myself.

“Dr. Li? Elvis Cole. Thanks for seeing me.”

She looked harried and tired.

“I don’t know you and I don’t appreciate you involving the vice chair. This is my career.”

“The vice chair is doing a favor for a very close friend. You’re helping him help his friend. There’s no downside.”

She sipped the coffee. A wisp of steam touched her nose, but she didn’t seem any less upset.

“Did you speak with my mother?”

“Yes. I’m working with Jacob’s mom, Amy Breslyn.”

The stern tension melted. Dr. Tillman vanished, but Jennie remained.

2 Js today

2 Js tomorrow

2 Js forever

“I haven’t seen her since the memorial. I should’ve called. Is she doing okay? I should’ve called.”

I sidestepped her question.

“She still has the prom picture of you and Jacob.”

She smiled. It was sweet and fond, and sad.

“We went together for almost three years. He was such a great guy, and Ms. B couldn’t have been any sweeter. It’s so awful, what happened. Crazy. Is there anything I can do for her?”

“Amy’s trying to find Thomas Lerner. Do you know how to reach him?”

She shook her head, and sipped the coffee.

“Sorry. I don’t know him.”

Her answer caught me off guard.

“Jacob’s best friend. Thomas Lerner.”

Jennie shrugged, her eyes oblivious.

“Maybe from college. Dave and Jake were besties in high school. Jacob was the Best Man at our wedding.”

“This was before college. Maybe Lerner went to a different school. Amy loves him like a second son.”

Jennie seemed more awkward than confused.

“I’m not saying he wasn’t. It’s just kinda weird, not remembering. Maybe Dave knew him.”

She fished a cell phone from her scrubs, and called her husband.

“Hey, babe. I’m here with a friend of Amy Breslyn’s. Yeah, Jake’s mom. Do you know Thomas Lerner? He was a friend of Jake’s.”

She looked at me while she listened.

“Jake’s mom says they were best friends.”

She listened some more, then offered the phone.

“Here. This is Dave.”

Dave Tillman sounded like a nice guy. I identified myself, and told him I was trying to find Thomas Lerner for Jacob’s mother, who described Lerner as Jacob’s best friend.

“Ms. B must be talking about someone Jake met at college.”

“This was before college. Jacob went away to school, but Lerner stayed here. Amy stayed in touch with him. A writer.”

“I’m drawing a blank. Jake was my boy since junior high, but I don’t remember a Lerner. I’ll call Ms. B.”

I began to feel uncertain, as if the rules were changing.

“Is there someone else I could call? Another friend from those days?”

David Tillman gave me two names and numbers, but I returned to my car with little faith they would help. I got in behind the wheel and dutifully made the calls. One friend had known Jake since preschool, and the other since fourth grade, but, like Jennie and Dave, neither one knew Thomas Lerner, or had heard of him.

I sat in my car like an astronaut trapped in a capsule, directed by forces I could not see and did not control.

Everything I knew about Meryl Lawrence and Amy Breslyn, and why Meryl Lawrence wanted to find Amy Breslyn, came from Meryl Lawrence. Here’s some money, please find my friend. Here’s the story, but don’t ask, don’t tell. No one must know. Promise you won’t tell. Promise.

Woodson Energy Solutions was listed with Information. A young woman’s voice answered when I called.

“Meryl Lawrence, please.”

“I’ll connect you to her office.”

A young male voice answered the ring.

“Meryl Lawrence’s office.”

“Hey, Ed Sikes for Meryl. She back yet?”

“She isn’t available. May I take a message?”

“Tell you what, when would be a good time for me to call back?”

“She’s unavailable, Mr. Sikes. Would you like to leave a message?”

I hung up, and called a friend at the DMV named Ruth Jordan. Ruth found four Meryl Lawrences in California, but only one showed an address near Los Angeles. Meryl Denise Lawrence lived on Bellefontaine Street in Pasadena. Two vehicles were registered in her name, a Cadillac Sport Wagon and a Porsche Carrera.

“Does the same address show on the vehicles?”

“Same. Bellefontaine.”

I copied the tag numbers and drove to Pasadena. I took my time. I stopped for a kalbi burger in K-Town. It was delicious. Traffic was terrible, but the urgency I felt earlier was gone.

The night was cool when I found her address. I timed it that way. I wanted the darkness.

Her street was quiet and lovely. The houses were set back on deep lots with generous driveways, secure in their permanence amid long-standing oaks and elms and magnolias. Towering palms stood peaceful sentry along the sidewalks, and porch lights glowed with warmth, not to defend but to welcome. I parked at the curb, shut the engine, and rolled down the window. The scent of jasmine was strong.

Meryl Lawrence lived in a very nice brick home with latticed windows and redwood trim. Her drapes were closed, but the rooms
behind them were lit. The Cadillac wagon was parked in the drive. Its tag matched the number Ruth gave me.

I walked up the drive, and circled the Caddie. A sticker on the driver’s side of the windshield showed a reserved parking space at Woodson Energy Solutions.

I photographed the parking sticker and the license plate, and walked down the drive to her backyard.

The drapes in back were open. A woman and a man who was probably her husband were in a family room, watching college football on a large flat-screen TV. The man was balding, thin, and enjoying a glass of wine from the comfort of a recliner. The woman sat in the crook of an L-shaped couch with her legs crossed, and a small, raggedy dog in her lap. She shook her fist at the TV as if the game upset her.

This Meryl Lawrence was not my Meryl Lawrence.

This Meryl Lawrence was older, had upswept gray hair, and was thirty pounds heavier than my Meryl Lawrence. This Meryl Lawrence was the real Meryl Lawrence, and my Meryl Lawrence wasn’t.

I took a picture of the people inside the house, and walked back to my car.

The woman I knew as Meryl Lawrence answered my call, exactly as I expected she would.

“Did you find her? Tell me you found her.”

“I can’t talk now, but I need to see you. Can we meet in the morning?”

The woman who wasn’t Meryl Lawrence agreed.

Jon Stone

J
ON SET THE MOTION DETECTO
R
to ping through his phone and laptop. He checked the audio/video link, confirmed the system was golden, and went to his Rover. He could now keep an eye on the house from anywhere on the planet.

Overkill.

Jon found a good place to park uphill from the woman’s house, and across from the construction site. Nice little eyes-forward view, couple of upscale cars nearby so the Rover wasn’t out of place. Jon booted his rig, locked on a satellite, and re-checked the links. Bedroom. Living room. Empty.

He considered running downhill to grab some chow, but decided against it. Going home didn’t occur to him.

Staying close felt right, even though the house was empty.

The sky over the lake deepened. Twilight glowed with orange flame, and slowly purpled to black. Stars appeared one by one, then
by twos and threes. Jon cracked the windows. Otherwise, he rarely moved.

One hour and forty-two minutes after sunset, lights coming uphill flashed across Ms. Breslyn’s house. They grew brighter, and the garage door began to rise.

A Volvo sedan appeared, and stopped with its turn signal blinking. When the garage was open, the Volvo maneuvered inside. The lights went off. A few seconds later Amy Breslyn came out, and waited as the door rattled down. She wore a fringed leather jacket and carried a white paper bag. Jon couldn’t tell if the jacket was black or dark brown. When the garage was secure, she climbed the steps to the house. Jon’s laptop and phone simultaneously chimed when she opened the door.

The cam’s high angle and fish-eye lens made her shorter and rounder, but the woman was Amy Breslyn. She locked the door, and crossed the frame to the kitchen with the white paper bag. The inside lighting was better. The fringed leather jacket was brown.

Jon called Elvis Cole.

“Mom’s home. What do you want to do?”

Jon felt better, being so close.

Elvis Cole

M
Y
A-
FRAME WAS
QUIET
. I locked myself in, and walked through the house, turning on lights. Amy and Jacob Breslyn were real. I had searched Amy’s home, touched their belongings, and read news reports about Jacob’s death. This was called evidence. Since the faux Meryl had lied about herself and Thomas Lerner, everything else was suspect.

An email from Eddie Ditko was waiting, along with rap sheets for Juan Medillo and Walter Jacobi. I read them, printed them, and tucked them into the file. Jacobi had been in his sixties, with a lifelong history of drug and fraud convictions. Medillo was half his age, with a similar history of drug busts, capped by auto theft, residential burglary, and other nonviolent crimes. The Solano officials were probably right—he wasn’t a banger, and wasn’t the type for a gang fight.

I showered, put on fresh clothes, and returned to the kitchen. The cat was by his bowl.

“We’re having lamb. Sound good?”

He licked his lips. Lamb was one of his favorites.

A seven-rib rack of lamb was waiting in the fridge. I turned on the oven to heat, and rubbed the lamb with olive oil, salt, pepper, Iranian sumac, and a spice I liked called
za’atar
. It was possible the fake Meryl worked for Amy’s company. She had pressed me to find Amy before her company found out, but maybe her company knew. Security would be an issue for their contracts with the government, so they might be trying to hide Amy’s embezzlement and attempts to contact anti-American extremists. This would explain why the fake Meryl hadn’t gone to the police, but not why she was pretending to be someone else.

I seared the rack in a skillet until it had a nice crust, and put the skillet into the oven.

I said, “Twelve minutes, tops.”

The cat sat, and stared at his bowl. Hinting.

The hard sell about Thomas Lerner was telling, especially since Lerner didn’t exist. The make-believe Meryl had created a make-believe clue, and used it to send me to Echo Park. She couldn’t have known I would go to the house on that particular night, but she had known or suspected something, and sent me. I wondered what she knew, and how she had known it. I thought I might ask her, eventually.

I mixed two chopped tomatoes, some cilantro, and half a jalapeño with a box of couscous, and tossed the mix with lemon juice and a little olive oil. I threw caution to the wind, and added a handful of raisins. Daring. I checked the lamb, decided it was perfect, and took it out of the oven.

“Five minutes. It has to rest.”

Jon Stone called while we were waiting.

“Mom’s home. What do you want to do?”

“Amy?”

“She’s here. What do you want me to do?”

I didn’t know what to do. Learning Meryl Lawrence wasn’t Meryl Lawrence left me short on trust, and uncertain.

“Cole?”

“What’s she doing?”

“Eating. Looks like noodles. She got back maybe two minutes ago.”

I pictured Amy, eating her noodles. A woman I had been searching for, but not seen. The hour was early. Amy might leave. Charles might drop by.

“I’m coming.”

I carved the rack into seven equal chops, and put one aside. I carved the meat off the singleton, chopped it, and put it in a bowl for the cat. I split the remaining chops and the couscous into two plastic containers, and bagged them with napkins, plastic forks, and four bottles of water. I threw a fresh shirt and a razor into a second bag, and drove back to Silver Lake. No one followed me down off the hill, and no one watched my house. The surveillance units had vanished. Interesting.

Jon’s Rover sat across from the construction site, facing downhill. I parked two houses above him, walked down, and climbed in the passenger’s side. The interior lights didn’t come on when I opened the door. Jon’s seat was back and a laptop was balanced on the console.

I gave him the bag of food.

“What did I miss?”

He opened the bag as he answered.

“Nada. She ate, hit the potty, and now she’s reading. No calls in or out. No visitors.”

He popped off a lid.

“Dude, what is this, lamb? I’m starving.”

He dived on a rib, and sucked the meat from the bone.

I angled the laptop for a better view. Amy Breslyn was seated on the living room couch, almost dead-center at the top of the frame. The wide-angle lens gave the image a fish-eye bend, but the distortion wasn’t bad. Her feet were bare, and flat on the floor. A computer sat on her lap, and a smartphone lay by her leg, handy in case someone called. She seemed smaller and heavier than the woman in the brochure, but she was Amy.

I said, “We have a problem.”

“I’m not gonna bill you. Don’t sweat it.”

“The woman who hired me isn’t who she claims. She lied when she hired me, and she’s still lying. I don’t know who she is, or why she wants Amy, or what she intends. Nothing she’s told me is real.”

Jon took a second rib.

“You should look into that.”

I nodded.

Jon pointed the chop at Amy.

“She’s Amy Breslyn. Her boy is still dead. We’re gonna do what we do.”

I nodded again.

“You want my chops, you can have them.”

“Groovy.”

The way Amy sat, upright with her feet on the floor, didn’t look comfortable. She had eaten and now she was reading, but she didn’t look relaxed.

“Her car in the garage?”

“Yeah. The Volvo.”

“Can you put something on it?”

“The door’s a screamer. I can open it, but she’ll hear. It’s under the bedroom.”

We finished the food in silence, then bagged our trash and put it aside. The occasional car passed, but we were low in the seats, and motionless. A man in a light jacket walked by with a boxer dog on a leash. They stopped at the Rover’s front end. The boxer dog peed on the tire, but Jon made no comment. We didn’t tell war stories, or jokes, or make conversation. We sat without moving, watching a motionless woman.

Amy’s phone rang at seven minutes after ten. It was abrupt, and surprisingly loud.

Jon turned up the audio.

I said, “You recording this?”

“Yeah. Shh.”

Amy didn’t jump on the call. She watched the phone ring five times before she answered. Her voice was calm and crisp.

“Hello.”

We heard only Amy’s side of the conversation.

“All right. Good. Yes, the day after tomorrow is fine. Will Mr. Rollins be there?”

Rollins. A new player entered the game.

“I don’t care if he comes, so long as I meet the principals. Tell him—”

The caller must have interrupted. She listened for almost two minutes, and her face grew pinched with irritation.

“No,
you
listen, Charles—”

Charles. The man with the flowers, who Meryl pressed me to find. I wondered what Meryl knew about Charles.

“The funds have to be deposited prior to delivery. We’re not taking cash, credit cards, or a personal check. When I confirm the transfer, and
only
when the transfer is confirmed, I’ll take you to pick up the material, or we can meet them, whatever—”

She listened again.

“Plastic containers, like the sample. Two hundred kilograms less the weight of the sample.”

She listened some more, nodding along with whatever was being said.

“You do that. Call me.”

Amy hung up, and sat holding the phone. She swayed, so slightly she barely moved. Then she gathered the paper plate and take-out carton, and carried the trash to the kitchen.

I stared at Jon.

“Did you hear what I heard?”

Jon grinned. He seemed delighted.

“Yeah. She’s selling two hundred kilos of plastic explosives.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“Think she really has it?”

I remembered what Scott James told us. The plastic explosive found in the bomb on his car was the same material found in the house.

“Yes.”

The imitation Meryl had made a big deal out of embezzled money, but she’d said nothing about missing explosives. Losing two hundred kilograms of military explosives would jeopardize their position with the government far more than embezzled money.

I watched the screen, waiting for Amy to return.

Jon said, “It’s not here, and you searched the other place, right? Maybe it’s in her car.”

I shook my head, thinking.

Jon said, “Two hundred kilograms is four hundred forty pounds. That much C-4 takes up about eight cubic feet, which is your basic cardboard box.”

Amy returned from the kitchen. She made sure the front door was locked, gathered her phone and computer, and turned off the living room lamp.

Jon brought up the bedroom camera. The high-angle view looked across the bed through the length of the room. The desk, the closet, and the bath were on the right of the frame. Amy put her phone and laptop on the bed, and pulled off her top. She was fleshy and white, with folds in her skin. I felt bad for invading her privacy. When she took off her bra, I looked away.

A brown fringed jacket lay on her bed. She hung the jacket and her slacks in the closet, took pajamas from the chest of drawers, and went into the bathroom. We heard the toilet and running water. A few minutes later, Amy turned off the bathroom light, and climbed into bed.

At ten forty-two, Amy got out of bed, and touched a framed photograph that stood on the chest.

I said, “The picture. It wasn’t there earlier.”

“It was in her purse. She put it there when she got home.”

Jacob.

Her touch was loving, but did not linger.

She went back to bed, and turned off the lamp. The video image went dark. Her house went dark.

Seven minutes later, we heard a soft rasp. Sleep.

I said, “You’ve been here a long time. Take off. I got it.”

“I’m good.”

I lowered the seat, and settled back.

Jon and I sat in the Rover all night. I stayed until the next morning, when I left to meet the fake Meryl. I left, but Jon stayed. Jon didn’t leave, and he never complained.