“Oh, Lord,” Elmer said.
Caleb said, “That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid.”
Luke’s first instinct was to ignore the ring of his cell phone, but when he saw his father’s office number on the display, he took the call.
It turned out that his first instinct had been right.
Luke took slow deep breaths as his father, Ben, and Caleb recounted Barnesdale’s manipulation of the DCFS investigation.
But when Caleb said, “From DCFS’s perspective, I guess it’s a losing proposition,” Luke’s temper boiled over.
“Next time,” he said, “when Erickson’s daughter comes in with a crushed skull, someone will just have to explain to her that she was a losing proposition.”
There was a long silence before Caleb said, “There’s one more thing. The attorney told us that Erickson would probably still file a lawsuit against you as an individual. You’re not included in the deal they struck.”
Ben jumped in to state the obvious: “Barnesdale and his weasely attorney are hanging you out to dry.”
“If you haven’t already done it,” Caleb said, “find yourself a lawyer.”
23
It was just after three-thirty when Luke finally pulled out of his driveway and headed down the hill. He had allowed just enough time to get to Kolter’s.
His father and Ben had called back minutes after his discussion with Caleb. When the first words out of Ben’s mouth were, “We need to talk about Zenavax and Guatemala,” Luke had cut him off and suggested a four o’clock meeting at the deli.
He hadn’t wanted to have that discussion while searching for listening devices in his apartment.
Luke’s knowledge of listening devices was limited, and more than a decade old. His only advantage was that any potential adversary would likely assume him ignorant of such methods. He had first searched his apartment for signs of tampering — dust layers missing from the upper edges of wall-mounted electrical plates and picture frames, scuff marks and nicks on the screws that held together his phones and appliances, and indentations in the carpets where table legs had been moved.
After completing his visual inspection, he turned over every piece of furniture, pulled out every drawer, examined every light fixture, unscrewed every wall-mounted plate, ran his hands over the trim of each door, and removed the covers from both phones.
He had found nothing.
As he turned onto Los Feliz Boulevard, Luke was wondering if the turmoil in his life had stirred his suspicions to an unhealthy level. It was then that he spotted the vintage blue Ford Mustang in his rearview mirror. It was three cars behind him, in the right-hand lane.
Luke immediately called his father and, without giving a reason, postponed their meeting until five-thirty. Ben was grumbling in the background when Luke thumbed the END CALL button.
If Erickson’s P.I. wanted something to put on film, he was going to give him an eyeful.
When Luke walked into the tae kwon do studio ten minutes later, Grand Master Kim and two other black belt instructors were stretching on the mat. After coming to America fifteen years ago, Kim had established his studio in L.A.’s Koreatown. He had come with a reputation for unforgiving standards and debilitating workouts, qualities that contributed to his coaching Korea’s national team to three consecutive world titles.
Luke was a regular at the studio, training there no less than once a week. He had never bothered to test beyond a second-degree black belt, but after almost twenty-five years of martial arts, he could hold his own against any of the instructors and had a standing invitation to train with them.
The stale odor of dried sweat, an olfactory signature that he had acclimated to long ago, filled his nostrils as he walked through the rear entrance. He bowed to Grand Master Kim, receiving a curt nod in return. It was as enthusiastic a welcome as anyone ever received from the man.
Luke took his place on the canvas mat and began contorting his body into peculiar postures that most people could achieve only with the help of equipment found in a medieval prison. While stretching, he spotted the Mustang through the floor-to-ceiling glass window. It was parked halfway up the block on the opposite side of the street.
Fifteen minutes later he was several minutes into a sparring match with the younger and burlier of two instructors. Luke executed a spinning crescent kick after blocking a jab — a centrifugal spray of sweat launched from his head like water from a blowhole. A volley of kicks and punches ensued, but none landed. Both combatants backed off and eyed each other, looking for an opening between feints.
When Luke determined that he’d given the P.I. sufficient time to capture the action through a telephoto lens, he lowered his guard just long enough for the other black belt to catch the side of his head with a glancing blow.
Luke held up his hand to acknowledge the hit and bowed to his sparring partner, then lifted a cupped hand to his mouth and pointed to the back of the studio — an exaggerated thirst gesture meant for the miscreant across the street. Once in back, he tore off his sparring uniform, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and ran out the rear door. He worked his way around the perimeter of the studio and scouted the street from behind the corner of the adjacent building. The Mustang was parked ahead of four other cars on the other side of the street.
A UPS truck drove up the street. As it passed, Luke bounded across the road, using the truck to conceal himself. He crouched behind a parked car.
He advanced one car at a time, straddling the curb, hoping the Mustang’s driver didn’t bother to check his passenger side mirror. He didn’t.
When Luke reached the rear of the Mustang, he stood upright. The thick-necked P.I. twitched at the sudden apparition, threw his camera on the passenger seat and grabbed for the ignition.
But Luke was already there. He reached across and grabbed the man’s right wrist, twisting and flexing it in one violent motion. The man yelped, his ruddy complexion reddening like a beet.
“Ahh, shit! You’re breaking my goddamn wrist.”
“Tell your client that I don’t like being followed.”
“What the hell are you talking—”
“I don’t like having to explain myself either.” Luke twisted the man’s wrist again, to the accompaniment of a high-pitched scream. “Just so we can move this discussion along, let’s assume that you know what I’m talking about now. Okay?”
The man grimaced. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell him.”
“Tell Erickson, if he has business with me, he knows where I live.” Luke’s rage swelled like a tidal surge. “If I see you again, I may have to break your neck, and then I just might break your client’s neck. Who knows? I’m unpredictable.”
Luke reached in with his free hand and patted the man’s coat. He felt the bulge and removed a 9mm Glock. He popped the magazine, racked the slide, and checked the chamber to confirm that it was empty. Then he threw the gun onto the passenger seat.
Next, he lifted a single-lens-reflex camera with an enormous telephoto lens from the man’s lap. He let go of the man’s wrist and fiddled with the camera until he found a button that opened a side panel. He popped out a digital memory card, then dropped the camera back onto the man’s lap.
“Get out of here,” Luke said.
The P.I. picked his keys off the floor with his left hand while nursing his right arm. In a clumsy motion, he placed the key into the ignition and started the engine.
Luke stepped back, tapping the palm of his hand with the 9mm cartridge.
The man gunned the engine and used his left hand to work the gears. “You’re nuts, pal. Erickson’s right about you. You’re a lunatic.” He ground the gears a few times, then peeled away.