Т Паркер - The Fallen

McKenzie nodded but said nothing for a long moment. “That’s ugly stuff, Robbie.”

“Very.”

“Okay, if you want to do ugly, then what about his dear brother, Sam?” asked McKenzie. “You told me he was the one who discovered Stella. Then Garrett took his big find away from him. The blonde finally ditched him. Samuel was at the party when Samantha drowned. He was probably also at lots of other Asplundh family events. So every time Garrett or Stella turned around, there was Samuel, too. He lives close enough to drive down and stalk her around town. He’s a Bureau guy, so, hell, he could have her apartment bugged with hidden cameras, right?”

“I thought of that,” I said. “But a brother? No. My blood won’t let me believe it.”

“I don’t believe it for a second either, Robbie. I’m still thinking business. Business, dollars, and the people who run this city. I’m thinking that Garrett had the videos and they couldn’t let him act on them. That would ruin everything, from City Hall to Wall Street. The rulers can’t let it happen.”

“Okay,” I said, “Tell me who and how.”

“Kaven,” she said. “If you stuff all that hair up under a Chargers cap and put on a pair of shades, you got Hummer Man. He wouldn’t even need to fake the mustache.”

“Why shoot Garrett?”

“Garrett’s set to spill to the attorney general. He’s holding out on his own director, because Garrett thought Kaven was too friendly with Sarvonola — even Stella knew that. If you can’t see Kaven pulling the trigger, then try this: Maybe he and Sarvonola dumped the job on Fellowes, who got Mincher to do the dirty work. Both Fellowes and Mincher got caught on tape with the Squeaky Cleans, and Sarvonola had seen it, right? So he’s got plenty of leverage. And Mincher’s got no alibi for that night.”

“But Cass at Dream Wheels made Hummer Man for mid-forties. Mincher’s twenty-six.”

“Age is tough to estimate, Robbie, when a face is covered up like that.”

Everything she said was welcomed by my head but rejected by my guts.

“I like Van Flyke best,” I said.

“You’ve got some dark spots inside, for being such a nice guy.”

I shrugged and gunned the Chevy down the on-ramp.

Van Flyke wasn’t at Sushi on the Rock. I checked the men’s room then asked the hostess about him. He had left shortly after taking a brief phone call — about one o’clock. He paid with cash for a mixed sushi platter and three martinis. There was no woman seated near him. He was serious and unfriendly and she had seen him furtively inspecting what appeared to be a small vial, which she assumed to be insulin because she was a type 1 diabetic who still injected herself manually.

When we stepped back outside into the mild March sun, I called Van Flyke’s cell and got a recording. I had just clipped the phone back on my belt when I felt it agitating my side again.

“Detective Brownlaw? This is Miranda at Higher Grounds Coffee Pub. The man who bought the coffee from me that night in the rain? He just walked past our window here and got into a big white car with an antenna on the roof. I was right — I’ve seen him in here several times without the shades, the mustache, or the hat. That’s why he looked so familiar but so different that night. Because he usually wears a suit, and that’s what he had on just now. He had one arm around this pretty woman, a brunette. She was a little wobbly — drunk, maybe. He kind of helped her into the car. I’ve seen her around here a bunch of times, too. I couldn’t tell if she was struggling or if he was keeping her on her feet.”

My heart dropped. Stella.

“You’re positive it’s him?”

“Positive.”

“Did you get the car plates?”

“I couldn’t get close enough without calling attention to myself. I’m pretty sure it was a Ford.”

“Which direction did they go?”

“North on Fourth Avenue.”

“Give me your phone numbers, please.”

She gave me her work, home, and mobile numbers.

I punched off and looked at McKenzie. “Hummer Man and Stella just got into a white car with an antenna on the roof, then headed north on Fourth. Try to get Stella on her cell.”

We scrambled into the car and I hooked a U-turn on Girard against the traffic. While McKenzie tried to get through to Stella, I got Dispatch to issue a computer alert for a white sedan with a roof antenna, possibly a Ford, last seen headed north on Fourth Avenue toward Broadway. I gave a description of the driver and identified his companion as Stella Asplundh. I said that she may have been abducted. I requested that officers stop and hold the man for questioning.

“Consider him armed and dangerous. I think he killed Garrett Asplundh,” I said.

“Copy, Robbie. You want SWAT and ABLE?”

“ABLE” stands for Airborne Law Enforcement — we’ve got four choppers and one fixed-wing aircraft in our department. The choppers have scopes on board that can read a license-plate number from the sky and infrared sensors that can see the body heat of runaway suspects and locate them for officers on the ground. They’re awesome tools for us.

I told dispatch to get SWAT assembled and ready to roll on a code eleven and all four of the choppers into the air as soon as possible.

“You mean both choppers,” she said.

“I said all four.”

“Only two of them work. Sarvonola and the budget crunch, you know.”

“Christ. Over and out.”

I gunned the Chevy through posh La Jolla, back toward Stella’s apartment in the Gaslamp Quarter.

The landlord let us in. Nothing looked unusual. No sign of a struggle. No sign of anything at all.

“Let’s see if our sharp-eyed friend at Higher Grounds recognizes a mug of John Van Flyke,” I said.

“I’ll call sweet Arliss,” said McKenzie.

Ten minutes later I stood at Arliss Buntz’s desk, looking down at a blown-up print of the picture used on John Van Flyke’s city-issued photo ID. Arliss also gave me the license-plate numbers for his white Ford Crown Victoria and his home address on Coronado.

“Is Mr. Van Flyke diabetic?” I asked.

“If he is, he kept it from his employers,” said Arliss.

I handed the photograph to Miranda at Higher Grounds.

She looked at it and nodded. “It’s him.”

We continued north on Fourth, just as Van Flyke had done. I saw four patrol units still slowly cruising the area. And I spotted two unmarked detective Delta units, drifting like sated sharks, but I knew these guys would be quick to depart at the next hot call. Both of our ABLE choppers were in the air. I saw one stream across my windshield toward the ocean as I continued north and another hovering over the 163 where it spills into downtown. I knew that their best chance of spotting the car was already gone. I cursed unskillfully. McKenzie glowered out the window.

I drove past McGinty’s on India Street where Garrett sometimes drank. Then I passed through the intersection of Hawthorn and Kettner where the festive St. Patrick’s Day marbles had spilled in time to get into the tire of Garrett’s Explorer. Then I drove down Kettner past the Ethics Authority Enforcement Unit, where Garrett had been employed. Then back onto Hawthorn and past the shining vehicles of Dream Wheels. Finally back to Higher Grounds in the Gaslamp Quarter.

I knew it was illogical to cruise the area again, but it was the only thing I could think to do while my mind tried to spin a web of comprehension around what was happening.

What was Van Flyke going to do with her?

I called Coronado PD for backup.

Van Flyke’s house was tucked away on Astrid Court in Coronado. The neighborhood was older, with tree-lined streets, neat lawns, and a quiet blush of afternoon sunlight on it.