Sleepless (37 page)

He didn't care for golf particularly. He said, "Parker, there are some pursuits in life that one becomes proficient in for the sake of one's profession, and for no other reason." Golf was one of those pursuits. I think he appreciated the game itself; it was the gambling, cursing, and boozing that went along with it that he objected to.

I walked to the ninth green, to the strip of grass running between two large bunkers that protected the approach. I pointed the interrogator at one of the bunkers and pulled the trigger. It beeped and displayed a series of horizontal lines. I circled the bunker and pulled the trigger every two yards and got the same result. But the bunker was at least fifteen yards at its widest point. To be certain I hadn't missed anything, I walked to the middle, mentally quartered the trap, and pulled the trigger four times, one at a time, while aiming into each of the quarters.

Nothing.

I started over with the second hazard, got one negative, walked two yards, pulled the trigger again, and the screen flashed a positive result: ff688-6-2623-56.

I had to narrow it down, so I circled the trap, pulling the trigger every few steps. And found that just one-third of the bunker gave me a positive. I found a rake at the edge of the hazard, dug the tines in deep, and began to rake the sand east to west. I didn't find anything, so I began raking north to south, crossing the marks I had already left. Occasionally I took a read with the interrogator to make sure I hadn't moved anything without realizing it, but it remained consistent.

Finally I had to spin the head of the rake and use the little leveling plane to shave the sand away. I sank it to about an inch's depth and pushed the sand into a pile and took a reading from the interrogator on the pile, then went back and did it again, working across the area where I got my first positive result. It took almost two hours. It was buried slightly less than a foot deep. Zipped into a plastic bag that had been double sealed with duct tape. I sat at the edge of the hazard and brushed damp sand from the bag and read the label on the bottle inside.

Afronzo-New Day0R33M3R

There are hundreds of global coordinates in the Afronzo, Parsifal, K. Jr. file on Hydo's hard drive. Hundreds of bottles of Dreamer stashed from the Hollywood Hills down to Long Beach and from Santa Monica to Dodger Stadium.

Hydo said Dreamer was "in the air."

Getting caught with DR33M3R with intent to sell carries mandatory federal time.

Stashing the bottles minimizes the amount of time anyone has them in their possession. Risk reduction. Deals are made for the coordinates, not for the bottles themselves. It's safe. And like a game at the same time. Treasure hunting. Geo caching.

Busting anyone with this setup requires a snitch on the inside. Even then, you could only get a little. If Cager gave Hydo the franchise on selling the Dreamer, the arrests would stop with him and the guys at the farm, unless one of them talked.

And they were going to talk. Rose. They were killed because they were going to talk. Whoever was using me to make sure there were no leaks about this, they found out that Hydo was going to talk to someone or that he had threatened to talk to someone. Blackmail.

Or he might have been informing. He might have already been busted by the feds himself, may have started turning evidence. Whoever is protecting Cager, someone even higher up (national security?) could have arranged the attack on the gold farm. But they missed the drive. Or they didn't know about the drive. How could they know about everything else and not know about the drive?

Too much. It's too much for me. I'm not a detective. I never was. I'm a cop. I'm not supposed to be figuring out this kind of thing. I'm supposed to protect people. But something has happened. Afronzo-New Day has done something. People have been murdered.

No one will listen if I just try to tell them, no matter what evidence I have. I can only make them listen if they have no choice. If it's too big not to listen. I can only make them listen if I arrest Cager.

It will be too big then. Too much noise. They will have to listen to what I say. And someone will do something about it. Someone will stop what is happening to us. It's wrong. The world has gone wrong, Rose. Give me a little more time. I can do something to help. I can do something.

OUTSIDE OF THE LAPD self-defense classes, Park had studied at a tiny studio in South Gate. A strip mall storefront below a doughnut shop where old Thai men from the neighborhood hung out to play the lotto and buy strips of scratch tickets. It had been recommended to him by an older officer who had taken a look at his light build and suggested that he might want to heft up and get you to the Hurtin Man.

The Hurtin' Man had turned out to be a former Latin Kings chapter president who taught a form of martial arts that he described as what we do on the inside when shit goes down. The basic philosophy of the fighting style was concerned with ending any conflict in the swiftest possible manner. The Hurtin' Man exhorted his students to assess a given situation and place it into one of two categories: Is this a runnin scenario or a hurtin scenario? Indeed, a great deal of his training involved conditioning one to make that judgment as close to instantaneously as possible. So that action, whatever it might be, could be taken at once. This conditioning largely involved a stick that motivated pupils who found themselves frozen for the slightest moment. As far as actual methods of attack, the Hurtin' Man favored soft targets. Eyes, ears, nose, genitals, kidneys, throat, and solar plexus. All easily identified and struck in moments of extreme stress when adrenaline has a tendency to short-circuit training.

Once a situation was assessed, the course of action taken was never to be reversed unless there was literally no other choice. If one, for instance, ran oneself into a blind alley, one could turn and fight. If one, for another instance, found oneself suddenly outnumbered after beginning an attack on a single opponent, one could turn and run. Otherwise, one pressed the attack, always moving forward, always encroaching on the opponent's space and freedom of movement, always striking, until the opponent, or oneself, was disabled. Or one ran as fast as one could, as far as one could, and did not stop until it was physically impossible to run any farther, or one was caught.

Park had discovered many things about himself in the studio. Not the least of which was that he didn't mind being hit all that much. He didn't enjoy it, but he was more than willing to accept a few blows if it allowed him to deliver at least one blow more than he received. He also discovered that he didn't mind hitting other people. Again, he didn't enjoy it, but in the context of training or actual combat, it didn't bother him at all to find that he had hurt someone.

He was quite good at it, though his talent lay more in the purely martial side of the class than in the speed with which he made his decision to run or attack. Always, it seemed, there was a blip of hesitation before he took action. His attitude toward combat revealing his inner philosopher. Inquiry was not a light issue for Park, even when the answers had been reduced to fight or flight. Once decided, he would run until his lungs burst, or advance relentlessly on his opponent, but either course was often preceded by a sharp blow from the Hurtin' Man's stick.

Jumping down from the fence outside the golf course after he'd made the notes in his journal, he was only slightly surprised by the appearance of the men emerging from the shadows of the trees. It wasn't the fact of armed men waiting for him that was the slight surprise, but the fact that he'd never seen them before. Three tan men in khaki pants and what he took for dark guayabera shirts. He'd have expected Hounds.

Faced with three well-armed men who carried themselves with the same air of prowess as Cager's bodyguards, Park was able to choose his course of action before his feet had landed on the ground outside the fence. Action so suddenly committed to that he had cut between two of them and had a five-yard head start before they began pursuit.

None of which changed the fact that they were simply faster than he was. In fact, they caught up and overwhelmed him so quickly, he never had a chance to change his mode of action and begin an offensive. Instead he found himself rapidly disarmed, divested of all possessions upon his person, and tumbled into the backseat of an obligatorily black SUV, where he was comfortably ensconced in supple leather, offered a beverage, and driven, sans restraints, to the Afronzo family estate well inside the gates of Bel Air.

Chapter 22.

MY NATIONAL ID CARD WAS A MARVELOUSLY HACKED BIT OF the counterfeiter's art that took full advantage of the many loopholes that popped up when Patriot II dictated. We all walk about with cards broadcasting our personal data hither and yon. With the software that had come included in the mind-numbing cost of the card, I could, as often as I liked, log on to my cardholder's account, input my password, place my card on an RFID read/write/rewriter USBed to my computer, and have my card's RFID chip updated with all the latest travel clearances. Guaranteed to be current within five hours of any changes to local, state, and federal security. On any given day I would make a point of updating my clearance before leaving the house, thus ensuring that I might pass easily through the most stringent checkpoints and roadblocks. Even in a rapidly evolving security environment such as the one emerging outside, it saved me no end of trouble. Unfortunately, the card did not create an identity from scratch when it was updated; it simply altered one's clearance for sensitive and hazardous areas. Assuming that anyone was actively looking for the identity radioed from that tiny chip, it would appear on a number of data logs and registries every time it was scanned and cleared, leaving a trail of electronic bread crumbs to be followed wherever I should go.

In normal circumstances it would be an unthinkable breach of personal security to travel with that card after repulsing an attack. But it seemed that I had passed beyond the realm of normal circumstances, even for myself.

Having insinuated myself into a stream of events, I would have preferred to tack between obstacles until my goal was within range, only then snatching it from the current and veering unnoticed to a hidden tributary to observe until I was certain that I had left no trace. Clearly I had already failed. Speed was now more urgent than subtlety. Whatever cross-purposes the Afronzo family retainers might have to my own, they'd certainly be headed toward the same destination.

I'd bandaged my wounds, dressed, and taken from the dead a few items that I wished to add to the travel kit I always kept in my garage for an occasion such as this. I'd experienced them before. That I was being driven from my home so late in life seemed indisputable evidence that my life would soon be ending.

A conclusion that caused me some great confusion as it was difficult from my perspective in the moment to see how the shape of my life could resolve itself after being so thoroughly bent from the form I had crafted. It wasn't that I doubted a violent end was my due, but something about the nature of the assault I had endured had knocked a great many elements out of balance. Not the least of which was the hard-earned harmony I'd built into my home. It was, there are no other words, a mess. And I had no time to put it into any kind of order. Let alone deal with the bloodstains.

Aging, wounded to an extent I'd not been in many years, my painstakingly crafted home in shambles, the world rising on a tide of its own madness and a plague of unrest, I found it impossible to envision the grace notes that would allow the composition of my life to be completed upon my death. Yet it could not help but be imminent.

But the world, as it often has for me, provided some slight evidence that there was a pattern to events. Revealed in the ringing of a phone. Or, rather, in the tune this particular phone played when it was called. "Welcome to My Nightmare." A call that provided an improbably timed touchstone of purpose.

I did not keep Lady Chizu waiting any longer than the moments it took to find the phone in the knapsack where it had been stowed by my attackers.

"Yes?"

"I would like a progress report."

I looked at the bodies strewn about.

"There have been complications."

"Not insurmountable, I hope."

I stepped to the glass wall that overlooked the basin, gazing at the view that had convinced me years before to embrace the instability of hillside living in Los Angeles.

"Not at all."

"There is tension in your voice."

I looked down at my legs. I'd put on black slacks against any seepage through my bandages.

"Yes, I've been wounded."

There was a slight pause. I became aware of a rhythmic clicking that had accompanied our conversation to this point, as if Lady Chizu were repeatedly tapping the same key on one of her typewriters. The noise ceased in her own silence, started again as she spoke.

"Do you require assistance?"

I smiled at my reflection in the glass wall.

"No. Your wonderful sense of humor is an elixir in and of itself."

The tapping of the key hesitated, as if interrupted by silent amusement.

"Jasper."

I frowned now at my reflection, the sound of my name in her mouth troublesome.

"Lady Chizu."

"When may I expect my property to be returned?"

I made a mental calculation that took into account the best- and worst-case scenarios involved in crossing to Culver City, what obstacles might be thrown up against me by Officer Haas, how quickly he would capitulate when he realized the nature of the man he was dealing with, the possibility of further interference by Afronzo mercenaries, and additional travel to Century City.

"Some hours after dawn, I expect."

The key she was striking tapped three more times, and a chime rang as the carriage traversed to the end of its rail.

"I will delay my breakfast, then, in anticipation of you joining me."

The Century Plaza Towers were illuminated; I could see them, albeit dimly, through the smoke. I nodded, focusing my attention on what I took as the fortieth floor of the north tower, imagining Lady Chizu seated on her folded legs at her desk, assessing the function of one of the items in her collection, pondering what might have been communicated in the final note it had been used to write.

"I will bring a flower for the table."

A firm ratcheting as she returned the platen to its top position, ready to be struck again.

"Bring my property. Though the flower will be appreciated as well."

She hung up.

I pocketed the phone. Leaving behind the rest of my work phones. I didn't expect that I'd be doing business in the manner I had pursued it in the past. Should I need to contact any former clients, I had their numbers safely tucked in my head.

Standing one last moment at the glass, I realized that I'd reached a point of self-indulgence. There was nothing to be gained by staying any longer, nothing but increased risk. So I left.

In the garage I placed my travel kit in the trunk of the Cadillac. I no longer had the Land Rover I'd used years ago for a similar exodus, but the Cadillac was quite possibly more durable. The travel kit itself consisted of a Metolius Durathane mountaineering haul bag filled with various pieces of survival equipment, some of it lethal, most of it mundane, and a black canvas T Anthony duffel filled with clean underwear, socks, a few of Mr. Lee's irreplaceable shirts, a spare laptop, phone, universal current adapter kit, an unopened deck of playing cards, a shaving case, two blank five-by-eight sketchbooks, a pencil box, a sweater with a hole worn under the right arm that I'd never mended because I was inexplicably attached to the garment and refused to remove it from the kit for fear I might have to run of a sudden and leave it behind, wool slacks in gray and navy, a black alligator belt, a crumple-resistant poly-blend black sport jacket made from, of all things, recycled plastic bottles, the front door key to the house I grew up in, and, a recent addition, the soldering iron that had been used on me. For which I expected I might have some need myself.

I opened the garage door, drove the Cadillac onto the driveway, and put it in park with the engine running while I climbed out and dug at the roots in a small bed of lamb's-tongue that bordered the walkway up to the entry. Before exiting the house I'd spent several minutes passing a degaussing wand over the computers and drives the men had piled in the living room. I didn't have time to ensure all data would be unrecoverable, but between my primary and secondary measures I felt I could afford a high level of confidence.

A few inches deep in the soil, I uncovered a plastic box and the capped end of a PVC pipe that ran toward the house. I twisted the cap from the pipe and freed the bare ends of two wires taped just inside its mouth. Black friction tape sealed the plastic box. I unwrapped it, opened the box, and took out a DELTADET 4 industrial detonator. I pressed the test button to be certain the batteries were charged, received a green light, clipped the two wires into a slot at the top of the detonator, flicked the arming switch, and pushed the red button that gave me a fifteen-second delay to leave the scene.

Leave I did, climbing through the open door of the Cadillac and accelerating away without buckling my seat belt, letting momentum close the door for me. There wasn't anything to be heard; the Thermate TH3 packs planted about the house would quickly incinerate my personal records, the accumulations of DNA I'd sloughed off in my bed and bathroom, and perhaps burn long enough to create difficulties in identifying the men I'd killed. But I doubted that last possibility. The charges were specifically sized and placed to erase as many of my traces as possible, but not to rage so thoroughly that the sprinkler system could not extinguish the blaze before the concrete, glass, and steel structure was burned through and the surrounding hills and homes put at risk. It was not sentiment. It was practicality. Enduring pursuit and notoriety being the inevitable rewards for starting wildfires in the Hollywood Hills. Should anyone investigate the smoke drifting from the sodden interior ruins of my home, they might be shocked to find the corpses, but that shock would be far outpaced by the relief that the fire was contained.