"Something unbelievably heavy, Chris."
"Right."
"Think I'm kidding you, Chris? How else would I know what he looks like? Why do you think I'm here at his house?"
Soames gave another abbreviated shrug.
"Accessory to murder, Chris," said Milo.
"Right."
"Hundred percent right. This guy likes to kill people. Likes to make it hurt."
"Bullshit."
"Why would I bullshit you, Chris?"
Soames said, "You-he-You better be bullshitting."
"I'm not."
Soames's eyes had turned wet. His lip was shaking.
"You know something, Chris?"
"You better be bullshitting," Soames whined. "I let him take Suzy."
Susanna Galvez. Female Hispanic, black and brown, five-two, 116. A DOB that made her fourteen years and seven months old. Missing-persons report filed eighteen months ago at the Bellflower substation.
"Parents suspect she's with her boyfriend," said Milo, pocketing his phone. "Male
Caucasian, blond and blue, six to six-two, a hundred forty-five, goes by the name of
Chris. No last name."
To Soames: "So, Mr. No Last Name, she ran away with you when she was twelve?"
"She's fourteen now."
Milo grabbed his collar. "You want her to make fifteen, tell me the rest of it,
Chris. Now, you stupid little shit."
"Okay, yeah, yeah, I've seen the guy before, but I don' know him, that's the truth, man. Not a John, that was true, he just usually cruises. No name, he never told me no name."
"No name and he cruises Hollywood in the 'Vette," said Milo.
"No, no," Soames said impatiently. "Not the 'Vette, never saw the 'Vette before, the other car, this black Jeep. Suzy and I used to call him Marilyn, like Marilyn
Manson, 'cause he's tall and weird-looking like Marilyn Manson."
"What's he cruise for?"
Soames's nose bubbled. Milo pulled out a handkerchief, wiped it, took hold of
Soames's face again and stared into the boy's eyes. "What's his business, Chris?"
"Sometimes people-not me-score dope from him. Pills.
He's got boocoo pills, prescription shit. Not for me, Suzy either. I just seen him sell pills to other dudes. He has this girlfriend, white hair, all punked up, they
both sell pills-"
"What happened tonight?"
"Me and Suzy were hangin' out, what time I don't know, we don't have watches, don't give a shit about time, had a couple burgers at Go-Ji's, we were headed back to this place where we camp-no B&E, it's like an empty squat, we camp there all the time, this guy Marilyn comes up and says he needs me to drive the 'Vette to his house, he knows I'm straight he can trust me, he just wants me to drive it there, put the keys in the mailbox, and take the bus back to 'Wood. Twenty bucks now and fifty more when he sees me tomorrow morning at Go-Ji's."
"What time tomorrow morning?"
"Ten. He's gonna meet me in the parking lot and give me the fifty and also give Suzy back."
"Give her back from where?" said Milo.
"I don't know," said Soames. He whimpered.
"He just took her and didn't tell you where or why?"
"He borrowed her, man."
"To make a movie, right? Guess what kind of movies he makes?"
Soames's shaking knee locked. He began to cry. Milo shook him out of it. "What else,
Chris?"
"Nothing, that's it-you think he really could hurt her?"
"Oh, yeah," said Milo. "So think back, genius. Where did he say he was taking her?"
"I don't know! Oh, man!" said Soames. "Oh man, oh man-after we arranged about the
'Vette, he looked at Suzy and said she was real pretty and he could use her in this movie he was making, he's a producer. He didn't say nothing about where, I thought,
Oh, man, her dad's gonna kill me."
"Why?"
"'Cause a the movie-you know."
"You assumed he was making a fuck film," said Milo.
"No," said Soames. "I wouldn'ta- He said, 'Don't worry, no one's gonna mess with her, it's just a movie.' "
"What kind of movie? You handed her over and didn't ask him anything?"
"I- He- I think he said it was a thriller, she was gonna be like a main character, he needed to film her at night. 'Cause it was a thriller. He was gonna give us-her-a hundred bucks."
"In addition to the fifty?"
"Yeah."
"Generous."
"He said it was a big part."
"And he said he'd give you every penny of it, right?"
"It was for both of us, man. We hang together, but Suzy don't hold no money, I'm more responsible."
The deputies finally arrived. Milo let them take custody of Soames, and he and I hurried to the unmarked.
He pulled away fast, sped north.
"Two cars means two drivers," I said. "Before the escape, Crimmins and Heidi arranged a meet. Somewhere in Hollywood. But Crimmins knew Heidi wouldn't live out the evening, and with her out of the way, he needed someone to drive the second car.
Most Hollywood streets have parking regulations; he couldn't risk a ticket. Also, the 'Vette's conspicuous."
"Why would he trust an idiot like Soames to transport it?"
"The idiot followed through, didn't he? Like I said, Crimmins is good at reading people. Or maybe he didn't care- was finished with the 'Vette."
"Just like that? He walks away from a car? And why would he be finished with it?"
"Because tonight marks a new stage in his life," I said. "And money's not his thing, it never was. The moment he has any, he lets it slip through his fingers. He grew up with fast toys, easy come, easy go. Easy to replace, too. He steals movie equipment, boosting another car's no big deal. The Jeep's not registered under any of the names we know about, either. For all we know, he's got a fleet stashed somewhere."
"Supercriminal. Daredevil Avenger."
"Let's face it, Milo, you don't have to be a genius to get away with felonies in
L.A."
He growled, raced to Sunset, turned right. I closed my eyes and sat back, knowing exactly where he was headed. Moments later, I felt the car swerve, opened my eyes to see a freeway signpost. The 101 North. Very little traffic this late, and the I-5 interchange was only minutes away. He pushed the unmarked up to ninety, a hundred.
"Susanna Galvez," he said. "That Hatzler woman told you Derrick and his brother had a thing for Mexican girls."
"Nostalgia," I said. "Exactly. This whole thing's about reliving the good old days."
38.
THE SPOT WHERE Heidi Ott had been executed wasn't hard to find.
The rosy incandescence of Highway Patrol flares was visible half a mile away, starbursts fallen to the horizon.
As we got closer, a tapering row of red cones cordoned off the right-hand lane. Milo drove between them, showed his badge to a uniformed officer, received a wary appraisal. Two CHP cruisers, a CHP bike, and a sleek, nonregulation Harley-Davidson were parked on the turnoff.
The officer said, "Okay."
"MikeWhitworth?"
"There." A thumb indicated a huge man in his thirties standing near an embankment.
Several arc lights cast focused glare on a taped-off area. The white body outline was at the far edge of the turnoff, inches from the merging of asphalt and dirt embankment. Full-scale version of the morgue gift-shop logo; life imitates art.
Whitworth stood just outside the cones. Young and in good shape, but he looked tired. His ruddy baby-face was centered by a small, blond mustache. His hair was buzzed so short the color was hard to determine. He wore a peanut-butter-colored leather jacket, white shirt, dark tie, gray slacks, and black boots, and he carried a motorcycle helmet.
Milo introduced himself.
Whitworth shook his hand, then mine. He pointed at the ground. Several ruby blotches, the largest over a foot wide. "We found some bone bits and cartilage, too.
Probably part of her nose bone. We get gore all the time, plenty of bad stuff in garbage bags, but this kind of damage..." He shook his head.
Milo said, "I think the guys who did her are about to do another one." He gave
Whitworth a breakneck account of Derek Crimmins's history, Peake's escape, Heidi's possible involvement, ended with Christopher Soames's account. The recruitment of
Suzy Galvez.
"Out in the Tehachapis?" said Whitworth.
"Best guess. The Tehachapis behind his hometown. It's a place called Fairway Ranch, now. Know it?"
"Never heard of it," said Whitworth. "I live in Altadena, do most of my work closer to the city. Before Grapevine or past?"
"Right there," I said.
"Crimmins probably has some climbing experience," said Milo, "but Peake doesn't, and if they've got the girl with them, it's not gonna be any Everest thing. They could even be right on the development-commandeering someone's house. The private cops who patrol Fairway say no, but that doesn't convince me. If they are in the mountains,
I'm figuring right at the base, maybe some kind of sheltered spot-a cave, an outcropping. Either way, we've got to take a look."
"Who're the private cops and what's their problem?" said Whitworth.
"Bunker Protection, out of Chicago. Every time I try to convince them there's something to worry about, they don't wanna know. Keep handing me this public relations crap- 'Nothing ever goes wrong here.' "
"Till it does," said Whitworth, massaging his belt buckle. "Okay, let's get going. I don't know about the jurisdictional aspect, but to hell with all that." He glanced back at the body outline. "We're just about wrapped up, so I can get you these four troopers right now, call for more with ETA's of less than half an hour. I'm on my bike-I was going off duty when the call came in; I'll ride solo, meet you there. If the Bunker yahoos give you a hard time, we'll bulk-intimidate them. What about choppers?"
Milo turned to me. "What do you think? Would noise and lights stop him or egg him on?"
"Depends what's in the script," I said.
"The script?" said Whitworth.
"He's following some sort of story line. In terms of how he'll react to a direct threat, the problem is we don't know enough about his arousal level to predict safely."
"Arousal? This is a sex thing?"
"His general physiological state," I said. "Psychopaths tend to function at a quieter level than the rest of us-low pulse rates and skin conductance, high pain thresholds- except when tension builds up. Then they can be extremely explosive. If we confront Crimmins when he's still relatively calm-scheming, planning, taking control-it's possible he'll fold his tents and run, or just give up. But if we catch him at a peak moment, he might just go for the big ending."
"Pull a Koresh," said Whitworth. "How old's that girl?"
"Fourteen."
"Course, there's nothing to say he hasn't already done her."
Milo said, "Put the choppers on standby. Get me two, three more cars. Along the same lines, we drive into Fairway quietly, no lights, no sirens." To me: "Where do the
Bunker people hang out?"
"There's a guardhouse right past the entrance."
"Okay," he said to Whitworth. "Meet you at the main entrance. Alex, give him directions. You're the only one who's actually been there."
39.
THE MEN IN the powder-blue shirts weren't happy.
Three guards, surprised as they sat in the mock-Spanish guardhouse. Soft music on stereo. The shirts freshly pressed.
Neat, clean building, outside and in, cozy interior: spotless kitchenette, oak table set with four matching chairs, blue hats on a rack. On the table were the remains of takeout Mexican food. Taco Fiesta, Valencia address. Next to a half-eaten bur-rito, a Trivial Pursuit board. Three little plastic pies, blue, orange, brown, the last half-filled with tiny plastic wedges.
The door had been unlocked. When Milo and Mike Whit-worth and I entered, all three guards had stood up, grabbed for guns that weren't there. Across the room, a metal locker said WEAPON DEPOSITORY. Next to it was a plaque with the crossed-rifles logo of Bunker Protection.
Now we were all outside in the peach-scented air, under a sky surprisingly deprived of stars. The Bunker guards kept their eyes on the CHP cruisers that blocked the entrance to Fairway Ranch. Inside the cars, the barest outline of men behind night-darkened windshields.
