“I don’t think the show ended quite the way he expected it to.”
“Or anyone else,” Donovan said.
He hit the PgDn key and studied the list, running the possibilities through his mind, dismissing each name as he came to it. Gunderson’s man would have to have the freedom to move without fear of arrest. Contacts and money wouldn’t hurt either.
The image of Ski Mask continued to plague Donovan, but as he scrolled down to the R’s, a name jumped out at him like a slap to the face, and another image took center stage.
Reed. Tony Reed.
Sara’s brother. Part-time video director, full-time rich boy. Except for a minor pot bust when he was seventeen, Reed’s record was clean. Despite this, Donovan had managed to get warrants to search both of Reed’s houses, had even hauled him in for questioning, but came up empty each time.
Even though Reed was clearly distressed over the condition of his sister, he’d somehow managed to come across as a personable, even likable guy. Sure, he’d cop to occasional phone conversations with Sara-she was family, after all-but he claimed no knowledge of Gunderson’s activities.
“I like his politics even less than I like him,” Reed had said.
Still, Donovan had sensed a nervousness beneath the surface that reminded him of the hundreds of suspects he’d interviewed over the years. At the slightest provocation, this guy would bolt. No question about it. Politics or not, he knew a lot more than he was willing to say.
Donovan remembered standing in Reed’s living room a few days after the robbery, leg bandaged and throbbing like a mother, thinking, He’s been here.
Gunderson’s been here.
He’d just never been able to prove it. Two weeks’ worth of surveillance turned up nothing, and Donovan had reluctantly closed the book on Reed. But now, as he punched a button and Reed’s profile filled the screen, he wondered if he’d been too hasty.
A shot of Tony from Rolling Stone accompanied the profile. Rachel glanced at it skeptically. “Him again? He’s too good-looking to be a bad guy.”
“You’ve said that more than once.”
“It bears repeating.”
“Careful, Rache, your hormones are showing.”
Rachel gave him a good-natured scowl and returned her attention to the road. She did, however, have a point. With his wiry, rock-star good looks, Reed didn’t strike the casual observer as a threat, and he certainly didn’t fit the physical characteristics of Ski Mask. But what if Ski Mask was a red herring? Every case had its share of those.
“Got your cell phone handy?”
Rachel gestured to the floor near his feet. “Purse.”
Donovan snatched it up, dug around until he found the phone, then dialed Sidney’s number.
Waxman picked up after two rings.
“Hey, Sidney.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack, I just got a call from the hospital. What the hell are you up to?”
“I’m en route to Reed Communications. I want you to meet me there.”
“The brother? How many times have we talked to that idiot?”
“Doesn’t hurt to try again.”
“Come on, Jack, do you have any idea what’s going on out here? That little aquatics demonstration you pulled didn’t exactly convince the boys from D.C. you’re firing on all cylinders.”
“Fuck ’em,” Donovan said. “I don’t have time for their bullshit. Now get your ass in gear and meet me at Reed Communications.”
Waxman sighed. “You’re killing me, kemo sabe. Why the hell aren’t you still in bed?”
“Would you be?”
A momentary pause, then Waxman said, “Point taken,” and hung up.
Donovan snapped the cell phone shut, turned to Rachel. “Make a left at the signal.”
33
Reed Communications was housed in a large, weathered warehouse smack in the middle of an industrial side street. The front of the place was crowded with cars, equipment-laden pickup trucks, a catering van, and a big-rig tractor-trailer with the letters RC discreetly painted on the side.
Rachel and Donovan pulled to the curb directly across the street and waited a full ten minutes before Sidney showed up in his tan Buick. As Waxman pulled in behind them, Donovan popped the door, turned to Rachel.
“Go on home. I’ll catch a ride with Sidney.”
Rachel shook her head. “We came to the party together, we leave that way.”
“I’m fine, Rache. Go home.”
“You look like hell,” she said, and Donovan knew it was true. Rachel never pulled punches. “You go on in there, do your thing, and I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready to go back to the hospital.”
“That could be a long time.”
“I’m a patient woman. Don’t you know that by now?”
Donovan wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, so he just shrugged and started to climb out of the car. He was halfway to his feet when he realized he was still a little lightheaded.
Rachel grabbed his hand, squeezed it. “Careful,” she said.
He looked in at her, saw the concern in her dark eyes. Two years together and this woman was still a mystery. He promised himself that when all of this was over and done with, he’d take some time to explore that mystery.
He squeezed back, then got out and shut the door. He trudged toward Waxman’s car as Sidney climbed out and looked him over.
“Don’t say a word,” Donovan told him.
They heard the faint sound of music as they approached the warehouse. More of a vibration, actually. A deep bass. A driving beat.
Donovan felt naked without his Glock. He’d lost it to the river and hadn’t thought to have Sidney bring him a spare. There was no reason to think he’d need it here, but he felt vulnerable.
The guy posted at the side entrance wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, but there was no question that he was a guard. When he noticed Donovan and Waxman headed his way, he came to attention and ditched the cigarette he’d been sucking on. “Can I help you boys?”
Waxman showed him his badge. “We’re here to see Tony.”
The guard unclipped a radio from his belt and was about to flick the call button when Waxman grabbed his wrist.
“No need to announce us.” He twisted the radio out of the guard’s hand and dropped it in his pocket. “You’ll get it back when we leave.”
They pushed past him, pulled open a heavy, padded door, and were immediately buffeted by a dark wall of noise, an industrial-techno beat and gut-chugging guitars that, to Donovan, felt more like nails being pounded into his head than music. Unused theatrical flats formed a makeshift corridor just inside the doorway, flickering light playing at its far end. They navigated the narrow space and moved toward the light.
For a moment, Donovan was transported to another place and time, an odd sense of deja vu overcoming him. Vague images formed in a corner of his mind but refused to surface. A sickly sense of trepidation rolled over him.
Had he been here before?
He shook off the feeling and forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. The flats narrowed at the far end, and he and Sidney continued single file, Sidney in the lead. A moment later, they emerged to find — a vision of hell.
On a raised platform at the center of the cavernous warehouse was a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno: a network of shadowy caves, intermittent bursts of fire. Sweaty female bodies, in torn fishnet and skintight leather, shook and shimmied to the driving beat, as a guy strapped into a Steadicam rig lovingly recorded them with his Arriflex. Strobe lights flickered, giving the entire scene a kinetic hyperreality.
In the middle of it all, a bare-chested, leather-clad rocker with tousled dark hair-and horns-thrust his hips to the beat of the music as he mouthed the brutish and not particularly inspiring lyrics that played over a loudspeaker:
Give me what I want, baby
Give me what I need
Do it till we burn, baby