Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (36 page)

He listens to the silence coming over the phone and then says, “Just give me a hint as to where I can find it. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I can’t.”

“But you know where it is?”

“Actually I don’t.”

“But you have an educated guess. I can hear it in your voice. What are you afraid of?”

“That it disappears,” I tell him. “I need it, not because I want it. My client requires what I know for her defense. Can’t you understand?”

“We can work together.” When he says this, he sounds like the devil.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m not,” he says.

I can hear the desperation in his voice. For a man like Thorpe, who is always in control, in almost every situation, it’s not something I’ve ever heard before.

“I can’t discuss it. My lips are sealed,” I tell him. “I wish I could.”

“Then I guess it’s goodbye,” he says. “Until next time. Let’s hope it’s under better circumstances.”

“Zeb, listen.” I hear the click on the other end of the line as he hangs up. I sit there looking at the receiver. He’s gone.

FIFTY-ONE

S
o how is Jughead?” says Harry.

I catch him in his office as I’m headed for the door on my way home. It’s almost seven in the evening.

“How should I characterize it?” It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to talk since my telephone conversation with Zeb Thorpe yesterday morning. “He was disappointed. He was looking for information but I couldn’t help him.”

Harry is at his desk, his nose in a file as I stand in the open doorway to his office. “He wanted to know if I could tell him where to find the Blood Flag,” I tell him.

Harry lifts his eyes and looks at me.

“Apparently he’s in some difficulty,” I say. “He was thinking I could help him out.”

“He’s been reading the newspapers,” says Harry. “That the firm wasn’t mentioned in the stories, even as to Sofia’s murder, the fact that she worked for us wouldn’t slow Thorpe down,” says Harry. “His agents would have sniffed that tidbit out before the ink was dry on the newsprint. What did you tell him?”

“I told him you had it.”

Harry gives me a quizzical look, smiles, and says, “Come on, the truth. What did you two really talk about?” His eyes go back to the open file on his desk.

“I told you. The Blood Flag.”

He looks back at me.

“I told him I couldn’t help him.”

“You’re serious?”

I nod.

“That must have made him happy,” says Harry.

“Like I said, he was disappointed.”

“As I recall, the last time we disappointed him we ended up in isolation scratching our asses in a flea-bitten tenement the man called a ‘safe house.’ Safe from what, I’m not sure,” he says. “It took me a year to get the bedbugs out of my creases.”

“He offered to do it again, but I told him we weren’t interested.”

“Why would we need federal protection?” says Harry.

“Thorpe claims there’s some nasty people looking for the flag.”

“Yeah. He’s one of ’em,” says Harry. “What the hell would he want with the flag?”

“I’m not sure. But I don’t think he plans to run it up the pole out in front of FBI headquarters, if that’s what you’re thinking. I got the sense he was being motivated by outside forces.”

“You mean the dark side?” This is Harry’s term for politics and the people who practice the shady art. “Maybe they should fly the thing up top of the Capitol Building, put a hex on the people inside.”

“I’m only guessing, of course. Zeb didn’t identify the precise source of this inspiration. But he was adamant nonetheless. He wanted it, and in no uncertain terms. He offered to trade some information.”

“What?” says Harry.

“The identity of Sofia’s killer.”

He looks at me with large, round eyes. “What did you tell him?”

“What could I say? The only thing he wanted was information on the flag, the heart of our defense, Emma’s dilemma,” I tell him. “I pleaded with him and he said no. He threw me a couple of names.” I cross over to his desk and lay a handwritten note in front of Harry with the name of the murdered attaché and a news story out of L.A. that I found online.

“You think he actually knows?”

“Unless he’s lying.”

“Which is entirely possible, knowing Thorpe,” says Harry. “Especially if he’s desperate.”

“Are you working late tonight?” I ask.

“I’m waiting for a phone call.”

“I take it you and Gwyn are doing a late dinner.”

He looks at me. “Go ahead, put it on the social network.”

I smile. “Have a good evening. See you in the morning,” I head for the door.

It’s a moonless night, and dark in the parking area behind the office. A single streetlamp lights part of the alley that runs behind the office bungalows. I can hear the salsa music coming from Miguel’s Cocina as I slide behind the wheel of my old Jeep, buckle up, and close the door. I start the engine, back out into the alley, and head for home.

I turn right onto Adella and as soon as I do, I see the old-model muscle car, all rusted out, parked along the curb. You can’t miss it. The rust is palpable, the texture of barnacles growing on a pier. The second I pass it the twin headlights of the old Chevelle flash on behind me and the car pulls away from the curb.

I stop for the light at the intersection and it pulls right up behind me. I lock my doors and glance at the car in my rearview mirror. It stays just far enough back so that the bright beams from the old muscle car blind me. I can’t see the face of the driver or whether he’s carrying any passengers.

The light at the intersection changes. I turn north onto Orange and punch the gas just long enough to put some distance between us. I can’t see facial features, but I can now make out two silhouettes in the front seat. The second I ease off the accelerator they close the distance.

I certainly don’t want to lead them home, not with Joselyn sitting there alone. Whoever it is, they aren’t being subtle. At the moment I’d feel a lot safer if I had a pistol.

The best I can do is a cell phone. Harry is the closest, but in a situation like this, the go-to guy is Herman. I light up the phone, find his name, and punch it. I hold my speed down and hit the speaker button.

Herman’s usual answer. “What’s up, Paul?”

“I’ve got a problem. Remember the muscle car, the one with the missing plates?”

“You mean the rusted-out Chevelle? What about it?”

“I’m traveling north on Orange just past the Del and at the moment it’s right behind me. Two guys in the front seat. They picked me up when I left the office.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I was headed home, but not with them on my tail.”

He thinks for a moment, then says, “Lead ’em to the PD. It’s only a few blocks north.”

Herman is thinking that if I can make it to the Coronado Police Department the driver of the Chevelle will cut and run. The problem is, he’s not seeing what I am.

“Nice thought, but I don’t think it’ll work. Whoever they are, they’re not shy. Looks like they want to play bumper cars,” I tell him. “If I stop or even slow down I get the feeling they’re gonna grab me.”

“Give me a second.” Herman goes offline.

“Damn it!” I look down at the phone in my lap thinking he’s dropped the call. But he’s still there. A few seconds later he comes back on the line. “You there?”

“Yes.”

“You know where I live. Do you got enough gas to make it over here, across the bridge to my house?”

I look at the gauge. “Plenty,” I tell him.

“Good. Listen, don’t try to outrun ’em,” says Herman. “Just keep a constant speed and stay out ahead of them. Pretend you don’t see them and come directly here. When you get here, pull into the driveway. There’ll be plenty of support. Let ’em look down the business end of a couple of twelve-gauge pumps and we’ll see if that changes their minds. Get over here quick, but don’t race.”

“Got it.”

He hangs up.

I slip the phone back in my pocket, put both hands on the wheel, and head for the Coronado Bridge. The second I hit the gas they fall into line behind me. Through town, up onto the bridge, and over it they maintain an even distance until we reach the other side. As soon as I clear the bridge on the San Diego side, I look in the mirror and suddenly they’re gone. I take a deep breath until I look to my left and see them next to me. Two skinheads, tattooed and pierced; the guy in the passenger seat is holding a pistol-gripped sawed-off shotgun. He motions for me to take the next exit. I see the sign and hold my ground. He points the gun at me. I wait until the last second.

They bump the side of my car. I try to fight them off, but the Jeep is no match for the heavier Chevelle. If they get underneath me they’ll flip the Jeep. We ride side to side over the gore point headed for the V-shaped steel railing that separates National Avenue from the downtown freeway. At the last second I veer to the right and take the off-ramp. I hit the gas, slide into the far right lane, and take the corkscrew turn all the way down onto the surface street below.

When I reach the cross traffic at National Avenue I don’t even slow down. Instead I steal a quick glance to my left, rocket past the stop sign and out into the intersection, then hang a left. When I glance in my mirror I don’t see their headlights. I head south on National and take a quick right at the next intersection. Immediately I turn off my lights, pull in between two cars, and park at the curb. I take a good look in the mirrors. When I do, the twin headlights of the Chevelle are gone. I watch to see if the rusted-out hulk drives past the intersection behind cruising by on National. But I don’t see them. Somehow I’ve lost them.

I’m in an area of low-income apartments, light industry, and small warehouses. Behind me, elevated overhead, is I-5 running north and south. To my right a block away are the highway spans connecting the freeway to the Coronado Bridge. I reach for my phone and call Herman.

Two rings and he answers. “Where are ya?”

“Somewhere off National Avenue, just south of the bridge access. I can see it overhead. They forced me off. But I think I lost them.”

“Stay there, we’ll come to you,” says Herman.

“I think it’s all right.” Just as I say the words I look up and see the bounding twin headlights of the Chevelle as it turns through an intersection across a deep swale two blocks ahead. They’re coming straight at me. “I was wrong. They’re back,” I tell him. I duck down below the window and pray they’ll drive by without noticing the Jeep. “If you’re gonna come you better get here fast because I’m trapped.”

“We’re coming,” says Herman. “Don’t hang up. I need to know where you are.”

“I’ll try.” I leave the keys in the ignition and slide across the seat toward the passenger side, keeping low beneath the windows. I unlatch the door on that side and open it a crack in case I have to jump out and run. Once they pass by, even if they should turn and see the Jeep, if I move fast enough I could start the engine and pull out. By the time they turned around I might be able to lose myself again in the rabbit warren of streets under the intersecting highways. If I have to run I don’t know the area, and if I stay to the streets they’ll hunt me down with the car.

I see the glare of the bright headlights hitting my windshield and flashing overhead as the Chevelle crosses the intersection a hundred feet away. They’re moving slowly, I can tell. Looking for my car. My knuckles turn white as I grip the worn upholstery on the passenger seat. As they come closer I can hear their tires gripping the asphalt as they pull slowly forward. I expect them to cruise on past. Instead they’re slowing down. It’s as if they know where I am.

“Paul, can you hear me?”

It’s Herman on the phone. I hang up and pray he doesn’t call back. I hit the two buttons and try to power it down. Just as I do the lights from the Chevelle pull even with my driver’s-side window. My phone rings, the blaring sound of an old car horn. The skinheads hit the brakes. The Jeep is blocked. I raise my head a few inches to sneak a peek. When I do I see them both sitting there looking at me with sinister smiles.

I push the door open, jump out, and run toward the front of the Jeep, west toward the bay. The second I do it, I can hear screeching tires as the driver throws the Chevy into reverse and guns it. The smell of burning rubber fills the night air as the car hesitates, building inertia, and suddenly begins to peel backward.

I run as fast as my feet can carry me toward the intersection. I know I’ll never make it. Then I see something, the entrance to a narrow alley twenty feet ahead. I race for it, turn, and run into the alley. Suddenly I’m hemmed in by buildings on both sides, high fences and cars parked along the sides with only enough room for a single vehicle to pass.

I want to stop and turn to look, but there is no need. I see the glare and feel the heat of their headlights on my back, like glowing coals as they bear down on me.

FIFTY-TWO

H
arry turned off the lights and locked the front door to the office as he chatted on the phone. “Where do you want to do dinner?”

Gwyn gave him a choice of three restaurants as Harry walked down the path toward the lot where his car was parked.

“Why don’t you make the pick,” said Harry. “You know I’m not good at decisions. That’s your turf.”

“You do this every time,” she told him.

“I picked the last time,” said Harry.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did, and you didn’t care for it, remember? The place with the Thai name, the one over by Old Town.”

“That didn’t count,” said Riggins.

“Why not?” Harry reached the car, set his briefcase on the ground, and fished in his pocket for his keys.

“What do you expect from a Thai restaurant serving Mexican food?” said Riggins. She sat in her well-lighted courtroom chambers on the other side of the bay, and smiled as she rocked just a little in her executive leather-tufted swivel chair. It was one of her growing joys: Harry on the phone after work.

“I’m tired,” said Harry. “The little gray cells are all burned out.”

“If you’re that tired maybe we should just do the drive-through at McDonald’s. And we can get you some Viagra on the way home. Or perhaps it would be best if we pitched it in, went our separate ways, and got some sleep tonight.”