The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel (22 page)

T
HE
L
OS
A
NGELES
R
IVER
flowed southeast across the bottom of the San Fernando Valley to Griffith Park, where it made a hard right turn past Dodger Stadium, Chinatown, and Downtown L.A. to the Long Beach Freeway like a fated lover anxious to find her mate. The river and the LBF dropped straight through the heart of the city to Long Beach, where the river ended its forty-eight-mile trek to the Port of Los Angeles. There, at the end of its journey, the
Queen Mary
and the Aquarium of the Pacific flanked the river’s mouth. The L.A. Field Office of Homeland Security waited across the street.

“She went to Long Beach?”

“Yes. The SAC. Want me to stay on her?”

“No. This changes things.”

“Thought it might.”

“We have to talk to Jon. Come to Silver Lake, and we’ll figure out what to do.”

I pulled into traffic, but stopped two blocks later, and Googled her
name. Her official DHS portrait was easy to find. Janet Hess looked a couple of years younger than the woman I knew as Meryl Lawrence, but Meryl was Hess, and her CV was impressive.

Janet Hess currently serves as Special Agent in Charge (SAC)/Director of Intelligence, Homeland Security Investigations, U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Los Angeles, California. Ms. Hess is responsible for all aspects of the ICE/HSI investigative mission in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, Las Vegas, and southern Nevada. Prior to her current appointment, she served as ASAC/Field Intelligence Director of the Los Angeles Human Smuggling and Trafficking Unit (HSTU), and as Supervisory Special Agent/Group Supervisor of the Orange County National Security Group and Anti-smuggling Investigations Unit. Prior to working with DHS, Ms. Hess served with the Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service (DOJ/INS) as a Special Agent with the National Security Investigations Unit and Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF).

Hess had the full force, authority, and resources of her agency at her disposal, yet she hired a civilian under false pretenses, and exposed herself and her agency to a liability nightmare. She must have expected to gain something by using me she felt she couldn’t get from her agents, and this was likely a secret thing she wanted no one else to know.

I took out the Amy file, and studied the sketch. Scott felt it was a good likeness of the man in the sport coat, but Hector Pedroia couldn’t pin the tail on Royal Colinski.

I put the sketch aside, steered back into traffic, and phoned Scott as I drove.

“You still at Major Crimes?”

“Yeah.”

The low voice.

“I need two things. Can you talk?”

“Not really. Stiles is close.”

“The surveillance teams went away. Did you know?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Try to find out why. Be subtle, but try to find out.”

“Okay. She’s gone. Now we can talk.”

“I need you to run a name.”

“Running a name isn’t as easy as it sounds. Who is it?”

“Thing is, whoever this turns out to be, you can’t tell Carter or anyone else. You have to sit on it until I give the word. Agreed?”

“This sounds shifty, Cole. I don’t like shifty.”

“He might be the man in the sport coat.”

Scott was silent, but I heard him breathe.

“I’m not saying it’s him, but it’s possible. He’s the true owner of the house.”

“I’ll run it.”

“This stays between us?”

“Yes. Give me the name.”

“First name Royal, R-O-Y-A-L. Last name Colinski.”

I spelled Colinski.

“He’ll be in the system. Print his full sheet and his mug shot. We’ll need it.”

I reached Silver Lake a few minutes later, and found Jon’s Rover above the construction site. I parked uphill around the curve, walked down, and climbed in. Jon had the driver’s seat pushed back, and his laptop propped on the console.

I said, “Did you get to her car?”

“Negative. She hasn’t budged.”

Amy was stretched on the couch, reading a magazine. Her computer and phone were on the coffee table. She was motionless. Jon stared at the screen, just as still.

I watched Jon watch Amy. Jon Stone had been cooped in the Rover for twenty-eight hours, but he appeared sharp, alert, and freshly shaved. If he could lie on rocks above the tree line in the Hindu Kush for a couple of weeks, I guess spending the night in a Range Rover wasn’t so bad.

“This spook of yours, the one who told you the Internet chatter led nowhere, do you trust him?”

Jon glanced at me, curious.

“Yeah. Why?”

“He told you Homeland couldn’t ID the person making the posts, so they kicked it back to Washington.”

Now he frowned.

“Yeah.”

“The woman who hired me is a federal agent with Homeland Security. She is, in fact, the Special Agent in Charge of the L.A. Field Office, Janet Hess.”

Jon shifted for the first time.

“You know this for a fact?”

“Pike followed her to the Field Office.”

I brought up her image from the Homeland Security website, and showed him.

“Hess.”

“The Special Agent in Charge.”

“That’s what it says. The highest-ranking officer in the Los Angeles Field Office.”

Jon settled back.

“And why would the SAC want you involved in her case?”

“Why would your spook tell you their case was closed?”

Jon moved like a panther leaving his bed, and took out his phone.

“Let’s find out.”

Jon tapped a button, and held the phone to his ear. After a moment, he spoke.

“Obadete mi se vednaga, vuv vrusca c posledniat ni razgovor. Predishnata vi informatcia se okaza pulna glupost.”

Jon put his phone away and saw me staring.

“Sorry, dude. Security. He’ll get back to me.”

I stared, and he shrugged again.

“What, you don’t speak Bulgarian?”

Amazing.

Amy sat up, put aside the magazine, and went into the bedroom. Jon noted the time.

“Read nonstop one hour forty-one minutes.”

He brought up the bedroom camera. Amy appeared in the upper corner of the image and went into the bathroom. We could see the open door, but not Amy.

“Can we hear if she makes a call?”

“Maybe. Shh.”

He ramped up the audio. We heard silence, followed by the tinkle of water.

The toilet flushed, water ran, and Amy went into the closet. She backed out a few seconds later with the fringed jacket and a large, bright-colored purse. I remembered the jacket from the night before, but didn’t recall the purse. I wondered if the Ruger was in it. She tucked her phone into the purse, followed it with the picture of Jacob, and left the bedroom. Jon changed cameras as she entered the living room, and started the Rover.

“She’s leaving. You want out, go now.”

Amy added her computer to the purse, and put on the jacket. The layers of long, dangling fringe swayed like hair in water. She hung the purse on her shoulder, adjusted its weight, and went to the door.

“In or out, dude. I’m staying with her.”

I buckled the seat belt.

“I’m in.”

We watched as she let herself out.

A
MY LOCKED THE DOOR
and made her way down the steps. She held tight to the rail, as if she were afraid of falling. A certified terrorist threat.

We called Pike to fill him in. Jon used the Rover’s speakerphone so all three of us were on the call.

Pike said, “I’m twenty out. Does she have the explosives?”

Jon answered.

“Don’t know. I couldn’t reach her vehicle.”

Amy backed out in fits and starts, inching her way into the street.

Jon said, “This is excruciating.”

She finally made it into the street, and waited for the door to close. Four cars stacked up behind her, and we were the fifth.

Jon said, “This isn’t starting well.”

When we stacked up again at the bottom of the hill, we were so far behind we wouldn’t be able to see which way she turned. I jumped
out and ran past the line of cars in time to see her turn. I ran hard back to the Rover.

“Left. She turned left.”

Jon jerked the Rover into the oncoming lane, powered past the cars ahead, and pushed through the turn. I rolled down the window, and stood tall in the wind.

“I don’t see her, Jon. I can’t see her.”

Jon muscled around cars, and the Rover’s turbocharged mill screamed. The blue water blurred as we raced up the edge of the lake. I glimpsed her Volvo, climbing into the hills.

“Got her! She’s leaving the lake.”

Jon pressed, and closed the gap.

The streets north of the reservoir led through the hills to the Golden State Freeway and a pleasant community called Atwater Village. I felt better as we approached Atwater. It was a lovely spot for lunch.

I said, “Lunch.”

Jon said, “Lunch.”

Then Amy turned away from Atwater, got on the freeway, and once again pulled ahead.

Jon powered forward, and I called Pike.

“She’s on the 5, northbound at Atwater.”

“Twelve minutes behind you.”

We clawed through sluggish, late-morning congestion, glimpsing the Volvo, and losing it.

Pike’s voice came from the speaker, quiet and calm.

“I’m on the 5.”

“She’s approaching the Ventura.”

Jon jockeyed us closer.

“Crossing the Ventura. Burbank.”

Pike said nothing, but Jon cursed.

“Bob Hope Airport. She’s going to the airport.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s the airport.”

“Get closer.”

We could ride Amy’s tail all the way to Seattle on the 5, but if she had a boarding pass and photo ID, Amy Breslyn could board the next jet out, and leave us at the security gate.

We were six cars behind when Amy left the freeway and turned toward Bob Hope Airport.

“Closer, Jon. Tighten.”

Pike’s voice: “Eight minutes.”

Pike was pushing it, too.

I sat taller, using the Rover’s height to see past the cars ahead.

She was four cars away when her blinker flashed and she turned toward the airport.

“Joe?”

“I’m here.”

“We’re not letting her get on a plane. Jon?”

“Say it.”

“Drop me at the terminal. Follow her to the parking structure, but don’t park. Text me when she gets out, and circle back. She might be picking up someone. I’ll walk in with her, but if she flashes a boarding pass or joins a security line, I’m pulling her out.”

“What will you do if she screams?”

“Pull faster.”

“Meaning I should wait outside for you and the kidnap victim.”

“Yes.”

We were three cars behind when Amy passed the airport, and continued higher into the Valley.

Jon grinned.

“Negative airport. Northbound to nowhere.”

Pike’s voice: “Off the 5. I’m close.”

We dropped back again, and followed her to a low-end industrial area at the eastern edge of the Valley, where strip malls and mobile-home parks cowered beneath gang tags. Hancock Park was a world away. We were close, and we sensed it. Jon marveled at the surroundings.

“She isn’t coming up here for lunch, dude.”

“Blinker. She’s turning.”

Jon eased off the gas.

Two blocks ahead, Amy turned across traffic into a sprawling, drive-in storage operation called Safety Plus Self-Storage. A billboard on the corner read HOME BOAT RV—24 HR SECURE—100+ UNITS. Jon’s grin flashed from the far side of the Rover.

“Ground zero, brother. The Death Star.”

“Catch up. Go.”

Safety Plus was serious about security. A cinder-block wall topped with spirals of concertina wire protected the storage units. All we saw were the roofs of long metal sheds, the tops of shrink-wrapped RVs, and CCTV cameras atop stout metal poles. East Valley taggers had Kryloned the wall so often, their paint looked like urban camouflage.

We roared forward, braked hard, and stopped outside a nursery across the street to peer through the entrance. Inside, we could see a rental office with a glass front and a small parking area, but that was about all. A chain-link fence crowned by more razor wire barred the public from the RVs and sheds. An automated gate in the fence let customers with key cards drive to their units. The parking lot was empty except for a shiny blue pickup and a golf cart beside the office. Amy would have had a key card. She and her Volvo had disappeared
into a maze of all-weather sheds and plastic-wrapped motor homes. Charles could be inside. The man in the sport coat might be with him. The place could be crawling with lunatic terrorists, but we saw nothing but wall.

“Tell Pike where we are. I’ll try to find her.”

I slid from the Rover, jogged across the street, and walked past the office to the gate. I was hoping to see Amy’s car, but didn’t.

“Excuse me! You can’t go in there!”

A beefy woman with a belt bulge and surly eyes stood in the office door. She pointed at a sign on the fence.

“Tenants only.”

I gave her a disarming smile and turned away. Mr. Friendly.

“Just looking. Sorry.”

The woman went back into the office. A CCTV camera sprouted from the roof, giving her a view of the parking area. Another camera covered the gate. Safety Plus had cameras everywhere, and the cameras would feed to a monitor in the office.

I walked over and went in.

The woman was watching a movie at her desk behind the counter. Boxes, bubble wrap, padlocks, and packing supplies filled shelves, available for purchase. A sign on the counter said FRIENDLY SERVICE—REASONABLE PRICES.

“I’m moving, and I need to store some furniture. Could I take a look around?”

The CCTV monitor sat on her desk, but she had pushed it aside to watch the movie on her laptop. I couldn’t see the screen, which meant I couldn’t see Amy or Amy’s unit.

She pointed at a stack of brochures.

“Prices are in the brochure. Help yourself.”

I took a brochure.

“I need a pretty big space, but I can’t say how big is big enough. I should take a look, so I’ll get an idea if my stuff will fit.”

She waved toward the brochure without looking up.

“Tells you the sizes.”

I unfolded the brochure and pretended to look.

“I’d rather see the units. So I can visualize. How about a quick tour?”

She paused her movie as if I had asked for a kidney.

“Ronnie gets here at two. I can’t leave the desk.”

“Oh, sure, I understand. No worries. I can take a peek by myself.”

“Against the rules. Liability.”

She un-paused her movie, and resumed watching. I heard gunfire and screeching tires.

I pointed at the security monitor.

“How about this? Could I take a quick peek at the video feed? So I can see what the inside looks like.”

“Two. Ronnie will take you around.”

She turned up the movie’s volume.

“What happened to friendly service?”

“Two.”

“What if I told you this was a matter of national security?”

She paused the movie again and picked up her phone.

“I’d tell you to leave, or I’m calling the cops.”

“The woman who just drove in is storing explosives on your premises. Which is her unit?”

She punched 9-1-1.

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. The cops are coming.”

I was fighting the urge to pistol-whip her when the automated
gate opened and Amy’s Volvo nosed to the street. Amy was behind the wheel and appeared to be alone. I left the office as she turned, and ran to the street.

Joe and his Jeep were outside the nursery when I reached the entrance. The Rover screamed through a tight turn, and Jon shouted.

“Did you find it?”

“No. Stay with her. Go. I’ll find it.”

Jon powered away, and I ran to Pike.

“It’s here. This is as far from her life as she could get. It has to be here.”

I studied the walled fortress across the street. 24 HR SECURE—100+ UNITS. And an eight-cubic-foot box of plastic explosives could be in any of them.

Pike said, “How will we find it?”

“Magic.”

I took out my phone, and called Scott James.