Hot Wire (19 page)

"Here it is," Brown called, kneeling down by a locker at the far end of the hall. He unlocked the door and pulled out a black leather briefcase and an old suitcase with duct tape on the handle. "Bingo."

"What’s in them?" I walked down to the locker and stood beside him, glancing over my shoulder at the door. I'd never really believed we would find anything, but now that we had, all I wanted to do was run.

"I don't know." He fumbled with the latch on the briefcase. "They're heavy enough..."

"Is it locked?"

"I don't think so."

The latch clicked and he reached inside, blocking my view with his shoulder. He didn't say anything, but I could see him clench up, stiffening like he'd just found a human head or something.

"So what is it?" I asked.

He looked up, studying me for a minute, then turned away again.

"Papers," he said, keeping his voice down. "Documents of some kind...lots of them..." He'd gone very pale.

"What kind of papers?"

"I don't know, but this isn't the place to find out." He closed the briefcase and latched it, his eyes spooked. "Chase was documenting the shell company for Matthews. Collecting evidence. We'll take everything back to my place and call Matthews from there, OK?" He glanced at me, checked the front door. "We need to get off the street as soon as we can. Right away. My place is safe enough, I think. Nobody gets in the building without a pass." He dragged a sleeve across his mouth. "We can't afford to get caught with this."

"I don't know," I said. "I've got to think about it."

"This stuff is toxic, Emma. Make up your mind."

"What's in the suitcase?"

He was really freaked by his discovery. He looked me over, his eyes kind of glazed, then he laid the suitcase on its side, unsnapped the hasps and opened the lid.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

Brown got to his feet and we both stood there for a minute, staring at the open suitcase. It was stuffed with money – bundles of cash neatly stacked and wrapped with rubber bands, the thick kind they use in banks. I'd never seen so much money before. Kneeling down, I picked up one of the bundles and flipped through the bills. They were all hundreds, fifty of them, five grand altogether, and there must've been fifty bundles at least. If the bills were all the same, there was a quarter of a million dollars in the suitcase.

"Chase was embezzling from Ligar Shipping," Brown said. "It was his insurance. His getaway money. He must've stashed it here when they discovered he was working for Matthews, but they caught up with him before he could pick it up."

Brown came off subdued. I put the money back in the suitcase and closed it again, getting to my feet and checking the door. My plans had suddenly changed and the last thing I needed was a bum wandering in to get out of the rain or some nobody stopping by to pick up his mail. I couldn't believe that anyone had followed us to Yah Joe.

"You knew we were going to find this," I said.

Brown shook his head.

"I knew what Chase was doing," he said, "but I never really thought we'd find his stash. Not here, anyway. Not this easily."

"I guess not." I pulled out the Glock, then reached down and picked up the heavy suitcase. "Just back off a couple steps. Back by the wall."

Brown didn't act surprised to see the gun.

"Don't do this, Emma," he said. "You know your only chance to help your partner is to turn yourself in." He shuffled backwards, hands raised at his sides. "Matthews can help you and they'll let your partner go when this goes public. But you've got to cooperate. Talk to Matthews. Make a deal with the Task Force."

"Arn's dead." I pointed the gun at his face. "You said so yourself."

"Nobody knows that," he said. "If you take off now, they'll kill him for sure. You've got to turn yourself in. It's your only chance."

"Not anymore," I said. "Grab the briefcase."

"You're just going to ditch your partner?"

"Just grab the briefcase."

He picked it up and stood there, looking kind of sick, his eyes darting from me to the door to the suitcase.

"Start walking," I said. "Back to the car."

I followed him past the lockers to the door, then I told him to stop and checked the window before we went outside. It was a waste of time. The rain had died down a little, but a thick fog was spreading through the city, leaving traffic lights and neon signs stranded in the dark. Blurred headlights passed on the street in a current of spray and hissing tires. If somebody was waiting for us to come out, I couldn't see them.

"Let's go," I said, opening the door. "You first."

He was carrying the briefcase, but I had the suitcase with all the money. I followed him down the sidewalk, checking my back and watching the traffic, the gun concealed in my coat. The cold drizzle trickled down my neck. A fog horn moaned on the Bay.

"I don't get it," Brown said. "You can't just walk away."

"Shut up." I prodded him with the gun. "You think I bought that stuff about Matthews and all the rest of that crap? Even if it's true, what do I care? There's no way he's going to cut a deal with me, but even if he would, I don't need him anymore. You've got your papers, so just keep walking or I'm going to blow your head off. That's a promise."

"You're not a killer," he said.

"Better check your facts."

"I told you the truth." We turned into the alley where I had parked the car. "You've got to believe it."

"That's a laugh." I scanned the shadows by the building, but I couldn't see jack. Rain fell through a circle of streetlight at the end of the alley. "I'd believe the worst scumbag pimp before any of you government clowns."

"I'm a journalist." He came off insulted. "I don't work for the government."

"Sure you do," I said. "You all work for the feds."

That's when Baldy jumped me.

I didn't know it was Baldy at first.

He came up from behind and knocked me down with a flashlight or something, and while I was rolling around on the blacktop, too stunned to react, he jammed a knee in my back and yanked the Glock out of my hand. Brown started shouting and I had this dizzy view of two or three shadows jumping all over him in the glare of the streetlight. They must have been waiting behind a dumpster.

Somebody grabbed the suitcase with the money and Baldy dragged me to my feet, getting me in a headlock and twisting one of my arms behind my back. Brown got loose somehow, swinging the briefcase around his head, but they knocked him down, ripped it out of his hand, pulled him to his feet and gave him a couple shots in the gut. Then they hustled us down the alley, past the station wagon and around a corner, two of them going ahead to check the street.

The whole thing took a couple seconds.

"Just keep walking," Baldy hissed in my ear, his breath like an ashtray. I recognized his voice and started thrashing around, but he twisted my arm a notch and laughed. "You did pretty good, squirt, but you really fucked up this afternoon. Again. You're a real screw-up, aren't you?"

"You killed Vincent," I gasped.

"That crazy old geezer?" He snickered, forcing my head back. "Hold it right there. Don't even twitch."

Two thugs in slickers walked up and the three of them had a conference while I tried to breathe through Baldy's headlock. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but they acted jumpy, glancing over their shoulders, checking the street for cars. They must've been talking to somebody up ahead because one of them had a walkie-talkie and I heard a voice crackling through bursts of static. Then a no-neck goon dragged Brown over and propped him up with his arms pinned behind his back. Brown just stared at me, boot marks on his face, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. He'd lost his glasses in the alley.

"It's clear," somebody said. "They must've turned off down the street."

"OK." Baldy tightened his grip on my arm. "They'll probably sit on her car for a while, so you go ahead and we'll meet you at the warehouse."

The two thugs walked off and we started down the sidewalk again, Brown stumbling like a drunk, Baldy marching me along with his hand clamped on the back of my neck. The neighborhood was dark, porchlights glowing in the trees, drizzle floating across the street. I could hear Brown wheezing as they walked us down another alley.

"You're like a goddamn parade." Baldy hurried me along. "You got any idea how many cops and greaseball scumbags are on your ass right now?"

"Step it up," the other guy said.

A white van with two whip antennae glistened under a streetlight in the alley. The minute I saw it, I knew it was the same van I'd seen go by the Quick Trip and Brennan's parking lot when I met Brown that afternoon. They must've had a couple teams on me the whole time, one in the van, the other in a car that picked me up when I left Vincent's. So much for my evasion tactics.

"Spread your arms and legs." They shoved us against the van and Baldy poked a gun in my ear. "Don't make a fucking sound."

The passenger door opened and I heard a scanner chattering inside the van. Crewcut got out with a walkie-talkie in his hand and closed the door behind him, checking the alley in both directions. He was wearing a trench coat with the collar turned up and he looked wasted under the streetlight, his eyes shadowed and baggy. Scratching his stubbled chin, he mumbled into his walkie-talkie, listened for a minute, then walked over to Baldy and No-Neck.

"Good work," he said. "The truck went around again and the unmarked's still sitting on University." He looked at Brown. "Is this the guy she met in the parking lot?"

"That's him." Baldy patted me down while No-Neck went through Brown's pockets and pulled out his wallet. "His car's still parked at the restaurant, but we didn't have time to run his plates."

Brown started coughing.

"My name's Adam Brown," he said, spitting on the pavement. "I'm a reporter for the Berkeley NewsWire."

They looked at each other.

"Shit," Crewcut said, going through Brown's wallet. "It's true. He's fucking media."

Baldy laughed. "You're a pain in the ass," he said to me, grabbing my hair and banging my head against the van. "You know that, squirt?"

"What now?" the other guy asked.

"Bring him along." Crewcut checked his watch. "We don't have any choice."

My head was ringing and Baldy had to latch onto my collar to keep me on my feet. Just then, I saw the Deacon tow truck go by on the street at the far end of the alley. They were almost a block away, but I caught the logo on the side panel when they passed under a streetlight.

"Fuck." Baldy had seen them, too. "There's the spics again. They must've gone around the other way." He unlatched the side door and slid it open, grabbing me by the collar. "The cops picked you up at the geezer's and so did your pals, moron. They been circling around ever since you got here and the cops got a car on the street, just waiting for you to drive away." He shoved me at the door. "Stupid little twat."

Crewcut huddled with his walkie-talkie.

"You got them?" he asked. "Yeah...they probably made the corner by now..."

The radio hissed – gabble and white noise.

"Are you sure?" He caught Baldy's eye, nodding at the van. "OK. If they move, let me know. Give it ten minutes, then clear the area."

"What's up?" Baldy asked him.

"More company," Crewcut said, opening the passenger door. "The truck met another car and we've got a black SUV two blocks over – government issue, most likely."

"Matthew's guys?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Crewcut climbed into the van and stuck his head out the door. "Let's go while they're still sitting on her car. We can straighten this out at the warehouse."

#

They shoved us into the back of the van and Baldy got in beside me, closing the door and sitting down with his gun in my face. Crewcut slouched in the passenger seat, talking to his outside team while No-Neck climbed behind the wheel and backed us out of the alley. The van was crammed with electronics: receivers, tape decks, blinking LEDs. They had a police scanner up front and I could hear a dispatcher chattering through the static.

"Nice and easy," Crewcut told the driver. "Take a left at the corner."

The overheated van reeked of smoke and damp cotton. No-Neck drove us away, turning on his headlights after a couple blocks and circling through the streets for a while, Crewcut whispering instructions. I started to space out on the rain and clacking wipers, the green panel lights and static full of voices. Baldy lit a cigarette and his flame left these blobs throbbing in my eyes. Brown coughed beside me, head dangling on his chest.

"Say again?" Crewcut listened on his walkie-talkie, then turned to No-Neck. "Two more blocks and hang a right."

I lost track of where we were after ten or fifteen minutes, but I figured they were trying to get back to the highway. At one point, No-Neck pulled over and parked under a tree, Baldy warning us to keep our mouths shut. They turned off the radios and lights and we sat there for a couple years while the rain pattered on the roof, the sound rising and falling with the wind. Then a car went by, its headlights sweeping the beaded windows and gliding over the seats and dashboard. Baldy leered at me over the muzzle of his gun.