Jonathan Kellerman - Monster

"He lives here?"

"Right over in Jersey." I pointed south. "Charing Cross Road."

Whitworth said to Eugene Cliff, "Get me the exact address-no, take me there personally."

Cliff jabbed his own chest. "What about me? No protection?"

Whitworth looked ready to pound him into the ground. "Take me within fifty yards and scram."

"All of a sudden I work for_yow?"

Whitworth's arm shot up and for a second I thought he'd hit Cliff. Cliff believed it, too. He recoiled, raised his own arm protectively. Whitworth's arm kept going. Smoothing his buzz cut. He jogged to his bike, pulled another vest out of the storage box, and slipped it on.

Cliff's mouth was still trembling. He forced it back into smirk mode. "Big-time SWAT attack."

"You find this funny?" said Milo.

"I find it a waste of time. And I'm calling Chicago, now." He took a step, waited for debate, got none, and walked away. The remaining guard followed. Ten steps later, Cliff stopped and looked back. "Remember: these are seniors. Try not to give anyone a heart attack. They pay a lot to live here."

"And look where it gets them," said Milo. "Just a little mindless violence, and gracious living bites the dust."

The Samurai was open-roofed, powder blue, and noisy. An after-market roll bar arced over the front seats. Bonaface left the motor chugging and got out. "It's got half a tank. But hell if I'd use it out there. Makes a shitload of noise, and your lights'll be spotted a mile away."

Milo checked the tires.

"Those are okay," said Bonaface. He had a smooth pink face, blond hair, monkey features, big blue eyes. "Wouldn't use that buggy out there: too easy to spot."

Milo straightened. "You know the area?"

"Not this exact area. Grew up in Piru, but out to the mountains it's the same thing all over. Full of rocks and pits. Plenty of shit to tear up the undercarriage."

"Any caves at the base of the mountains?"

"Never been out there, but why not? So who are these guys, and why would they be here?"

"It's a long story," said Milo, getting behind the wheel and adjusting the driver's seat. I climbed in next to him.

Bonaface looked miffed. "You're using headlights?" He turned at the sound of his name. Cliff barking from the doorway of the guardhouse.

"Asshole," muttered Bonaface. He stared at the vest. Smiled at me. "That thing's way too big for you."

We drove through the center of the development, passing the gentle swell of Balmoral, the northern golf course, behind twelve-foot chain link. Moving slowly while trying to keep the Samurai as quiet as possible. Tricky, because low gear was the loudest.

I could hear the low hum of the golf carts, but the vehicles were invisible, except for an occasional suggestion of shadows shifting on the green. Headlights off. Same for the Samurai. The Victorian streetlights glowed a strange, muddy tangerine color, barely rescuing us from depthless black.

We reached the end of the road: the pepper trees that rimmed Reflection Lake. The growth here was luxuriant, fed by moist earth. Miserly light from a distant quarter-moon turned the foliage into gray lace. In the empty spaces, the water was still and black and glossy, a giant sunglass lens.

Milo stopped, told me to stay put, took his nine-millimeter in one hand and his flashlight in the other, and climbed out. He walked to the trees, looked around, parted a branch, and peered through, finally disappeared into the gray fringe. I sat there, absently rubbing one thumb against the warm wooden stock of the rifle he'd placed in my lap. No animal sounds. No air movement. The place felt vacuum sealed. Maybe another time I'd have found it peaceful. Tonight it seemed dead.

I was alone for what seemed like a long time. Then scraping sounds from behind the trees tightened my throat. Before I could move, Milo emerged, bolstering his gun.

"If anyone's out there, I can't see them." He looked at the rifle. Unconsciously, I'd raised the weapon and pointed it in his direction.

I relaxed my hands. The rifle sank. He got behind the wheel.

When we were rolling again, he said, "It's pretty open once you get past the trees, just some reeds and other low stuff on the other side. No Jeep or any other car in sight; no one's filming." Grim smile. "Unless it's an underwater shoot-new twist on Creature from the Black Lagoon… For all we know, they've already been here and gone, did what they wanted to do, dumped the girl in the water. Or they never came here in the first place."

"I think they did," I said. "No other reason to kill Heidi on the route that leads straight up to Fairway. And Crimmins paid the Soames kid to take the Corvette home-just a mile or two from Hollywood. If he was in the city, he could Ve driven the Jeep home himself, walked back in half an hour, and gotten the' Vette. Why bother with Soames unless he was planning to be far away?"

"Because he has plans for Soames? Nice little screen test?"

"That, too. Tomorrow morning. But there'd be no reason to entrust him with the car."

"Why'd he kill Heidi?"

"Because he had no more use for her," I said. "And because he could."

He chewed his lip, squinted, lowered his speed to ten miles per. The map had indicated a service road that hugged the southern end of the White Oak golf course and led to the rear of the development. The streetlamps were less frequent now, visibility reduced to maddeningly subtle shades of gray.

Milo missed the road, and we found ourselves at the sign marking the entrance to Jersey. Lights out in all the mobile homes. I remembered the street bisecting the subdivision as freshly asphalted. In the darkness, it stretched empty and smooth, so perfectly drafted it appeared computer generated. Resumption of the tangerine light. Deep orange on black; every night was Halloween.

"This is where Haas lives?" he said.

"First street to the right. I can show you the trailer."

He cruised past the trailers.

"Up there is parking for visitors," I said. "No visitors tonight… There's Charing Cross. Haas's place is four units in. Look for a cement porch, a Buick Skylark, and a Datsun truck."

He stopped two houses away. Only the truck was parked in front, backed by Mike Whitworth's Harley.

Lights out. No sign of Whitworth, and I saw Milo's face tighten up. Then the Highway Patrol man came out from behind the trailer and headed for the bike.

Milo stage-whispered, "Mike? It's Milo."

Whitworth stopped. Turned toward us, focused, came over.

"In the neighborhood," said Milo, "so we dropped by."

If Whitworth was offended by being second-guessed he didn't show it. "No one home, nothing funny. I spotted some unopened mail on the table-a day's worth, maybe two."

"One of their cars is gone," I said. "They have family in Bakersfield. Probably traveling."

"You see any justification for breaking in?" said Whitworth.

Milo shook his head.

"I'm not comfortable with it either. Okay, let me go see if any of my guys hit a hole in one. You ready for the mountains yet?"

"On our way," said Milo.

Whitworth looked out at the black peaks, barely discernible against the onyx sky. Country skies were supposed to be crammed with stars. Why not tonight?

"Must be pretty during the day," said Whitworth, kick-starting the Harley. "Sure you want to go it alone?"

"I'd better," said Milo. "Gonna be hard enough to avoid being spotted with one vehicle." He brandished his cell phone. "I'll keep in touch."

Whitworth nodded, took another glance at the Tehachapis. Keeping his engine low, he rolled away.

Turning the Samurai around, Milo drove back through Jersey. Lights went on in one of the mobiles as we passed, but so far we'd avoided attracting undue attention. Milo coasted without gas, looking for the service strip. Almost missing it again. Unmarked, just a car-wide break in the peppers, topped by arcing branches.