Майкл Коннелли - The Best American Mystery Stories 2008

Clewiston headed west on Mulholland from the crash site. He planned to take Coldwater Canyon down into the Valley and over to the Traffic Division office. He waited until the flashing blue and red lights were small in his rearview mirror before flipping open his phone. He hoped he could get a signal on the cheap throwaway. Mulholland Drive wasn’t always cooperative with cellular service.

He had a signal. He pulled to the side while he attached the digital recorder, then turned it on and made the call. She answered after one ring, as he was pulling back onto the road and up to speed.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“The apartment.”

“They’re looking for you. You’re sure his attorney knows where you are?”

“He knows. Why? What’s going on?”

“They want to tell you he’s dead.”

He heard her voice catch. He took the phone away from his ear so he could hold the wheel with two hands on one of the deep curves. He then brought it back.

“You there?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m here. I just can’t believe it, that’s all. I’m speechless. I didn’t think it would really happen.”

You may be speechless, but you’re talking, Clewiston thought. Keep it up.

“You wanted it to happen, so it happened,” he said. “I told you I would take care of it.”

“What happened?”

“He went off the road on Mulholland. It’s an accident and you’re a rich lady now.”

She said nothing.

“What else do you want to know?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t know anything. It will be better when they come here.”

“You’re an actress. You can handle it.”

“Okay.”

He waited for her to say more, glancing down at the recorder on the center console to see the red light still glowing. He was good.

“Was he in pain?” she asked.

“Hard to say. He was probably dead when they pried him out. From what I hear, it will be a closed casket. Why do you care?”

“I guess I don’t. It’s just sort of surreal that this is happening. Sometimes I wish you never came to me with the whole idea.”

“You rather go back to being trailer park trash while he lives up on the hill?”

“No, it wouldn’t be like that. My attorney says the prenup has holes in it.”

Clewiston shook his head. Second guessers. They hire his services and then can’t live with the consequences.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “This will be the last time we talk. When you get the chance, throw the phone you’re talking on away like I told you.”

“There won’t be any records?”

“It’s a throwaway. Like all the drug dealers use. Open it up, smash the chip, and throw it all away the next time you go to McDonald’s.”

“I don’t go to McDonald’s.”

“Then throw it away at The Ivy. I don’t give a shit. Just not at your house. Let things run their course. Soon you’ll have all his money. And you double dip on the insurance because of the accident. You can thank me for that.”

He was coming up to the hairpin turn that offered the best view of the Valley.

“How do we know that they think it was an accident?”

“Because I made them think that. I told you, I have Mulholland wired. That’s what you paid for. Nobody is going to second guess a goddamn thing. His insurance company will come in and sniff around, but they won’t be able to change things. Just sit tight and stay cool. Say nothing. Offer nothing. Just like I told you.”

The lights of the Valley spread out in front of him before the turn. He saw a car pulled over at the unofficial overlook. On any other night he’d stop and roust them — probably teenagers getting it on in the backseat. But not tonight. He had to get down to the traffic office and write up his report.

“This is the last time we talk,” he said to her.

He looked down at the recorder. He knew it would be the last time they talked — until he needed more money from her.

“How did you get him to go off the road?” she asked.

He smiled. They always ask that. “My friend Arty did it.”

“You brought a third party into this. Don’t you see that—”

“Relax. Arty doesn’t talk.”

He started into the turn. He realized the phone had gone dead.

“Hello?” he said. “Hello?”

He looked at the screen. No signal. These cheap throwaways were about as reliable as the weather.

He felt his tires catch the edge of the roadway and looked up in time to pull the car back onto the road. As he came out of the turn, he checked the phone’s screen one more time for the signal. He needed to call her back, let her know how it was going to be.

There was still no signal.

“Goddamnit!”

He slapped the phone closed on his thigh, then peered back at the road and froze as his eyes caught and held on two glowing eyes in the headlights. In a moment he broke free and jerked the wheel right to avoid the coyote. He corrected, but the wheels caught on the deep edge of the asphalt. He jerked harder and the front wheel broke free and back up on the road. But the back wheel slipped out and the car went into a slide.

Clewiston had an almost clinical knowledge of what was happening. It was as if he was watching one of the accident recreations he had prepared a hundred times for court hearings and prosecutions.

The car went into a sideways slide toward the precipice. He knew he would hit the wooden fence — chosen by the city for aesthetic reasons over function and safety — and that he would crash through. He knew at that moment that he was probably a dead man.

The car turned 180 degrees before blowing backwards through the safety fence. It then went airborne and arced down, trunk first. Clewiston gripped the steering wheel as if it was still the instrument of his control and destiny. But he knew there was nothing that could help him now. There was no control.

Looking through the windshield, he saw the beams of his headlights pointing into the night sky. Out loud, he said, “I’m dead.”

The car plunged through a stand of trees, branches shearing off with a noise as loud as firecrackers. Clewiston closed his eyes for the final impact. There was a sharp roaring sound and a jarring crash. The airbag exploded from the steering wheel and snapped his neck back against his seat.

Clewiston opened his eyes and felt liquid surrounding him and rising up his chest. He thought he had momentarily blacked out or was hallucinating. But then the water reached his neck and it was cold and real. He could see only darkness. He was in black water and it was filling the car.

He reached down to the door and pulled on a handle but he couldn’t get the door to open. He guessed the power locks had shorted out. He tried to bring his legs up so he could kick out one of the shattered windows but his seat belt held him in place. The water was up to his chin now and rising. He quickly unsnapped his belt and tried to move again but realized it hadn’t been the impediment. His legs — both of them — were somehow pinned beneath the steering column, which had dropped down during the impact. He tried to raise it but couldn’t get it to move an inch. He tried to squeeze out from beneath the weight but he was thoroughly pinned.

The water was over his mouth now. By leaning his head back and raising his chin up, he gained an inch, but that was rapidly erased by the rising tide. In less than thirty seconds the water was over him and he was holding his last breath.

He thought about the coyote that had sent him over the side. It didn’t seem possible that what had happened had happened. A reverse cascade of bubbles leaked from his mouth and traveled upward as he cursed.

Suddenly everything was illuminated. A bright light glowed in front of him. He leaned forward and looked out through the windshield. He saw a robed figure above the light, arms at his side.