KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (33 page)

Chapter 5

A Quick Drive

Normally, I don't
take Jazzy Brass when I leave the marina. But I felt uneasy about her being around a cop that was about to kick her. Generally, Jazzy's a lover, not a fighter. Besides, I would enjoy my companion's company on the forty-five minute trip toward the foothills.

Behind Smokey's Marina was a large four-car garage and utility shed. Few people knew it, unless they actually saw me pull my car in or out of that garage, but Smokey had let me rent one of the stalls.

At the outside walk-in, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Then I took a set of keys from my pocket and unlocked the padlocked door. Jazzy and I then slipped inside.

After turning on the garage bay light, I stepped to the muscle car, covered with a custom tarp, and I pulled it off, rolling it in my arms. Underneath was a bright red, 1968 Shelby Mustang convertible.

After taking the cover past my loyal companion, I laid it on the workbench in front of the car. I couldn't help but think about the three sets of SCUBA equipment, carefully bagged and hung on the wall above the bench. Smokey, her deceased husband and their son Rabbit had all been avid SCUBA divers — such a fun sport, especially if the whole family can enjoy it. I was pretty sure none of the equipment had even been touched since Smokey's husband died.

As Jazzy impatiently nuzzled my hand — reminding me that we should get going, I solemnly shook my head.

I opened the driver's side door of my sparkling red mustang and Jazzy jumped in. She immediately moved over to the passenger's side and sat there like the perfect little lady she was, leaning against the door, right front leg on the door armrest.

After starting up my vintage Mustang muscle car, I cranked the ragtop back. Still a beautiful California day for February, even the shit storm we'd been thrown into wouldn't take all the fun out of it. I pressed the garage door remote button, and we were off.

My Shelby was the GT 500KR model, and as we pulled out of the gravel parking lot and accelerated onto the street, the big 428 cubic inch engine with dual fours purred a low, throaty growl. I'd fallen in love with that sound the first time I'd heard it decades ago in my father's garage. The KR stood for King of the Road, and it felt like it. I could tell Jazzy loved it as well. She gave me one of those
yeah, uh-hu, that's-what-I'm-talking-about
looks.  I nodded back and yanked it into second. The tachometer needle flicked to the right as the wide back tires chirped — still keeping within the speed limit. I didn't need a ticket on top of my other troubles. I threw the shifter into third gear with another tire chirp.

But, when I checked the rearview mirror, I noticed a dark Nissan sedan pull out behind us from the parking lot across the street from the marina.

"Great!" I said, thinking it was an unmarked patrol car. The cop probably heard the tires chirp and was about to pull me over for drag racing, reckless driving or some other petty
crap
.

I made a few unnecessary turns, driving within the law, just to see for sure if the guy was tailing me. He was — he'd followed at every corner. By now, I was pretty sure it wasn't a cop car, and it looked like there were another couple of goons in with the driver.

If someone was trying to kill me, and they'd rigged Ol' Corky's boat to blow up thinking it was mine, I was lucky they hadn't found my car and planted a bomb in it. The tail could be the guys who roughed up Oz and See-Saw.  But those pricks didn't fit the profile of the kidnappers. The ones who leaned on Oz had probably done that kind of thing a few times before, but they weren't professionals. They were more likely wannabes, low-level mob at most — probably local yokels who were trying to make the transition to the big money fast.

I had three things in my favor against a car bomb: the perpetrators might not yet know they blew up the wrong boat; they probably didn't know where I kept my car; and, if they even put a scratch on my Shelby, I would have torn their arms off and shoved them up their asses after beating them to death with their own appendages.

Jazzy and I hadn't had our breakfast yet this morning, so we stopped by a neighborhood Starbucks Cafe. I ordered one venti Caramel Macchiato and an old fashion donut for me, as well as one bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for each of us, and a small cup of whipped cream they called a Puppy Latte for Jazzy. Some Starbucks attendants would give us the whipped cream, gratis, whenever I went through their drive-up with my puppy-dog girlfriend beside me. Jazzy
loves
her Starbucks.

Back on the street, my focus was more on my drink and sandwich than on the pricks in the Nissan. Jazzy had already finished her sandwich and was licking her Puppy Latte from a plastic cup holder I had hanging from the passenger side door. Still, I noticed the Nissan pull out from the curb about hundred yards behind me. While finishing our breakfasts, we led them around by the nose.

After the last sip of Macchiato, I gave my detective friend a call to let her know about the tail. Harp insisted I do nothing rash — told me she'd dispatch a couple of black and whites to apprehend the bad boys in the Nissan for questioning.

At that very second, the goon on the Nissan's passenger side leaned out his window and took a pot shot at me. He was lucky he'd missed my car.

"Sorry, Harp," I told her. "Looks like
rash
is going to be the order of the day."

I pushed the
End
button
and dropped the phone into the console.

Staring into the rearview mirror, I decided these goombas weren't going to ruin my day any more than they already had.

*  *  *

"Hold on, Jazzy Brass," I tell her, and she hunkers down as I bring the seatbelt through her collar and across her body, while hoping it might do some good and not strangle her if things get rough. "We're about to have a little fun."

I pull out an ancient eight-track tape from a plastic case and shove it into an even more ancient tape player. At the next corner, I shift back from third to second and take the turn with my foot half-way down on the accelerator. As Steppenwolf blares out "Magic Carpet Ride," the ass end catches fire, tires smoking, fishtailing. Then I floor it, and follow up with a throw into third.

In the rearview, I see the goofballs tailing me slide sideways at the corner, hit the curb and have to back away from a street sign. Still, the driver punches it, and gets a little smoke from his front wheels.

Traffic is light, but the Nissan has a close call at the next intersection and runs up onto the sidewalk. I'm pulling away from him fast, although I'm watchful at the cross streets.

We're a block from the South Coast Highway ramp at Dana Point, and the sedan is a tiny spot in my mirror. I let off the gas some. We're going 85 in third gear when I look over at Jazzy Brass. Her lips are stretched by the wind, her nose high and ears flying, loving every minute.

 Even though the goofs tailing us are a good four blocks behind, I don't want to take any chances. And, as far as the cops go, I'll push my luck a little longer.

I'll take Interstate 5 North, toward San Juan Capistrano, where we'll head east on Highway 74, a.k.a. Ortega Highway, into the mountains. It's one of those twisty-winding roads that motorcyclists love, and where the driving really gets fun.

As we take the ramp, I put the
pedal to the metal
and get some real mean rubber. At 6000 rpms, I yank the shifter back into fourth gear, and we're screaming. As the speedometer pegs past 135, I double check the rearview and see nothing but empty pavement. Even at well over 140 mph, my old Shelby still has some pedal and a whole lot of tachometer left.

So, I lost the goombas this time. But will they be back? If so, maybe they'll have something a little faster, more competitive.
Bring it on, boys!

"Ha-ha," I say, and push it to the floor. "Color me gone, baby!"

Jazzy Brass is smiling.

*  *  *

We were cruising along at the speed limit, after my brief reenactment of the 1971 classic movie "Two Lane Blacktop." The fools in the Nissan sedan were only a memory. I had twenty minutes before my meeting with Jason, and it looked like we'd be right on time. We were starting to get into the hilly, winding roadway, where you see more of nature's life-filled green than man's lifeless concrete, steel and paint. Jazzy had her nose out the side of the car about as far as it could go, enjoying the breeze coming down from the mountains. It was time for me to puzzle a few things out.

First off, I believe in coincidences, but what had been going on today stretched that belief about as far as the elastic in Colonel Sander's shorts.

It seemed there were two separate concerns, but somehow related. One was the kidnappers who didn't want money; wanting me, instead. They seemed like professionals — not only able to make an explosive vest with what looked like Semtex, but disable the very robust security system of a well-known celebrity, as well.

The second was a bunch of misfit-mobster wannabes, deadly and just as dangerous because of their unpredictability. They used silencers, which meant they went to some effort to gain the tools of their craft, and they had at least a basic understanding of how to make a boat blow up. They hadn't killed anyone yet, but it wasn't because they weren't trying.

When the bastards holding my goddaughter decided to kill, I feared they wouldn't prove as inept as the goombas.

Chapter
6

Everybody Wants to Get Even

When I arrived
at Devil's Horn, I found two cars parked off the road. Jason stood by himself near the cliff's edge. He waited in that same spot when I came out to California to live, about a year ago.

I thought it'd be different, then. I thought we were meeting as two old friends who'd been through Hell together, hooking back up after several years. He had Sophie with him at the time. And she called me Uncle E Z. That was nice. She was cute — almost as cute as my own daughter. But that meeting had lasted only ten minutes, and I talked with Sophie more than Jason. He seemed in such a strange mood that, after that meeting, I honestly didn't think we'd see each other again.

I pulled in between a black Mercedes limousine and Jason's aqua blue metallic 911 Porsche convertible. Both had their front windows down. In the limo was a man I recognized as Jason's driver — Andre, I believe. An old-school chauffer, he was uniformed and very proper. He faced forward and paid no attention to me, his eyes on his boss at all times.

Inside the little Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet was the cute Russian gal who'd given me the photo and warning this morning. Her bright-red lips turned up into a smile, and then puckered as she blew me a kiss.

That, I didn't acknowledge.

Jazzy and I got out, and she ran up to Jason immediately.

"Careful, girl," I called out. "Don't knock him off the cliff!"

Jason turned, and with a quick grin, he bent down and patted Jazzy on the head. "Thanks for coming, E Z. I'm really sorry to get you involved."

"You didn't — the kidnappers did. No reason to be sorry. You know I'd do anything to get Sophie back safe and sound.
Anything
."

"Thanks, E Z. And I know you mean it." Jason stared out at the rolling hills and mountains from the edge of the cliff.

I stayed back a couple feet and restrained Jazzy. "Go back to the car, girl," I told her.

She glanced at me to see the seriousness in my eyes, and then reluctantly trotted back to the Shelby.

Now Jason was looking down the side of the sheer, three-hundred-foot drop-off to the bottom of the rocky ravine below. His eyes watered.

I had an uneasy feeling about this.

He edged even closer, leaning out even farther.

"Jason," I said. "Let's get back a few feet."

"She's all I have, you know," he said.

That didn't make sense to me on several accounts.

"Jason, we'll get her back. We need to see this thing out, but we'll get her back — I promise."

"You promise?"

"Yes, Jason. I promise — and I make good on all my promises."

"I just don't know, E Z," he said, and he leaned ever so more — too far.

"Damn it, Jason!" I told him. "Get back!" And I reached out for his arm.

The edge crumbled under his feet.

"Jason! Grab my arm!"

He fell.

I had a good grip, but it wouldn't be enough.

He twisted and reached back to get a hold as he went. His knees caught solid on the edge.

I gave a sigh of relief as I pulled him to me.

But then, the ground gave way under me, this time.

I lost my hold on his arm and slid fast.

Jason found firmer ground and laid out flat on the landing, still gripping my forearm.

Dangling, nothing under my feet but air, I held with both hands, slipping down to his wrist.

He was struggling to hold on, face wrenched. Then, his expression went blank, and his mind seemed to go someplace far away.

He said something really strange: "
You promise?
"

How else could I answer? "I promise, Jason!
  Pull me up!"

Rocks were breaking loose from the edge and falling past me.

"You always follow through...?"

I considered options. I had none. "Yes, Jason, pull me the hell up!"

A long moment passed before he came back from that unknown place, his face straining again. He pulled.

By this time, the Russian girl, Jason's chauffer and Jazzy were all behind him. The driver got down on his knees and reached, then so did the girl. Jazzy was going nuts, pacing and whining.

I got a foot hold and climbed over Jason. At that instant, I had a flashback. On a training mission along a cliff in Sardinia over a decade ago: Jason, knee badly ripped open, climbing over
me
, to safety.

Jason said it under his breath. He didn't want anyone to hear except me: "We're even."

As I brushed off, I felt the coldest chill I'd ever had race up my backbone.

After the obligatory
thanks
, the driver, the girl and Jazzy all went back to the cars, leaving Jason and I to talk business.

I tried to compose myself, still a little more than a whole lot pissed at what had just happened and wondering what the hell had a hold of my former comrade in arms, Jason Ryder. He'd acted strange with me a year ago, and it seemed the strangeness was getting worse. Whatever had a grip on my friend's psyche hadn't let up — it was squeezing tighter. Whether it was the pressure of being the huge personality he'd become, his marriage with Stella falling apart — yet again — I had no idea.

I refocused and asked, "Any word from the kidnappers?"

"None. I've got my entire staff on alert. They're good people. I'd trust any of them with my life. They're watching for anything out of the ordinary."

"How'd all this come about? No ideas who might be behind it? Any shady characters hanging around, business deals that have gone bad, big money prospects in the works, somebody you really pissed off lately?"

"Yes...and no," Jason said. "You know how it is as a celebrity. You're involved in all that kind of stuff every day. But no one person sticks out and none of my dealings do either."

That was the second time in the past couple of hours that Jason had referred to his celebrity status as a negative. Something was happening that I doubted I'd be able to easily pry out of him.

"What about Stella? Did she get involved in anything — maybe do something she wished she hadn't? Had an affair when the marriage started going sour?"

"E Z, you know our relationship started
going sour
a long time ago. It was either melting hot, or frigid and bitter — and it changed by the minute. I think we fed off it, subconsciously starting nearly unrecoverable arguments and fights, just so we could make up with even more heat than before. But this time is it, E Z. We've finally burned out. There's no fuel left in that furnace." He shook his head. "But I don't know anything she's involved in that could be relevant."

"There must be something Jason. Give me a place to start."

"I've been racking my brain ever since I got the photo. I'm telling you, E Z — there's nothing. It's gotta be gold-diggers of some kind, punks or professionals, I don't know."

"These are professionals, Jason, no doubt." I sighed. "I think it's time we bring in the cops."

He glared at me. "No, E Z. We can't do that. You saw what the note said:
No cops.
They'll kill her if the police get involved."

"We can be discrete. I have a few connections."

"We can't risk that, E Z. Besides..."

I knew what was coming, and I'd been concerned about it all along, as well.

He finished, "...what if it's about
you
?"

With trouble at the marina last night and this morning, this mess did seem to somehow point to me. But I couldn't figure out how the two incidents were connected.

He asked, "How about Judge Hammer?"

"You know I've completely severed my relationship with him. I don't want him involved now or ever again. I'm not going back to that kind of lifestyle."

"I don't blame you, E Z. That's why I got out long ago. There's a whole lot better things in life than killing, even if that killing is for the
broader good
. But it's too late. He's already involved."

I thought of Ol' Corky, my seventy-something
guardian angel
.

He nodded to his metallic blue Porsche. "My new
personal assistant
, Zoya. Complements of Judge Hammer. I think she's supposed to be more like a bodyguard. I don't know where the Judge is recruiting his people these days."

I glanced over to the girl and then frowned at him. "Good God! I'll trade you — mine is seventy-five if she's a day."

It was good to hear him chuckle. He said, "This one's probably a better fit with the circles I'm in."

"All right," I told him. "I'm going to contact my resources and do a little snoop and poop. You go on about business, and if they contact you again or you come up with any thoughts, see any connections — no matter how small, you call me. Agreed?"

"Agreed. And thanks again, E Z. I can't lose her. She's all I have."

Again, I found this as a negative jab at Jason's celebrity status. He had everything. But perhaps he was meaning emotionally, even spiritually.

I watched his eyes. This was the same guy who'd nearly jumped from a cliff — came close to dropping me from the same — and now he seemed back to normal. I had no doubt there were some heavy-duty undercurrents just below his smooth surface.

"We'll get her, buddy. And we'll make them pay — big time."