Ellis thought for a moment. A plan was forming. A shortterm plan. He needed Long to come back. While he was working it out, Long broke the silence.
“I got his ID.”
“How? Who is he?”
“There was another car but I checked it and it’s got a law enforcement block on it too. But tomorrow’s trash pickup. I grabbed a couple bags out of the bin on the street, then drove away and looked through the shit. I found some mail. The guy’s name — not sure how to pronounce it — is Hermonius Bosch or something. All the mail was addressed to him.”
“Spell it. First and last.”
“H-I-E-R-O-N-Y-M-U-S and B-O-S-C-H.”
“Hieronymus, like the painter.”
“What painter?”
“Never mind. Just get back here. I have a plan to slow our guy here down.”
“Give me fifteen.”
“Make it ten. I think he’s about to split.”
Ellis disconnected, picked up his beer, and went back to the bar in the old room. Haller was still in place but the woman he had been working was gone and had been replaced by a man in a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt. Haller was holding a silver credit card up and trying to get the bartender’s attention with it. He was ready to leave.
Ellis squeezed between two patrons and put his bottle up on the bar. He then went up the steps and out of the restaurant. Walking back out to Las Palmas, he saw a shadowed recess beside the pedestrian entrance of a public parking garage. From there, he would have a line of sight to Musso’s parking lot while he waited for Long.
As he moved into the shadows, he nearly tripped over something in the darkness. There was a rustling sound followed by a groan and a complaint.
“What the fuck, man. You’re in my space.”
Ellis reached into his pocket for his phone. He engaged the screen and turned it so that dim light washed across the concrete floor. There was a man clawing his way out of a dirty sleeping bag, his belongings in plastic bags lined against the wall. Ellis glanced behind him and saw no one in the street and no sign of Haller walking to his car in the lot. He turned back to the homeless man and made a decision. He kicked the man in the ribs as he moved on all fours. Ellis felt the impact of the kick through his whole leg and knew he had broken bone. The man flipped onto his back and released the sound of a wounded animal. Before he could scream Ellis stomped down on the man’s throat with all of his weight, crushing the air passage. He then backed off and came right back with a heel to the bridge of the man’s nose. The man was silent and unmoving after that.
Ellis returned his phone to his pocket and took a position in the alcove where he could watch for Haller. Soon enough he saw the lawyer emerge from the restaurant’s back steps.
“Shit,” Ellis whispered.
He noticed that Haller showed no signs of alcohol impairment as he paid the attendant and retrieved his keys. Ellis called Long.
“The fuck are you?”
“Two minutes. Just turned onto Hollywood.”
“I’ll be at the same spot. Put on the radio.”
“Okay. Why?”
Ellis disconnected without answering. He noticed that Haller was talking on his cell phone as he walked to his Lincoln. Ellis reached into another pocket and pulled out a second phone and turned it on. He always carried a burner. While he waited for it to boot up he heard a gurgling sound from behind him. In the enclosed concrete space it echoed. He turned and drove his foot, heel first, into the darkness where he knew the homeless man lay. He connected with solid mass. The gurgling sound stopped.
Once the burner was ready he dialed 911 and pulled the sleeve of his jacket out over his hand to muffle his voice. The call was answered by an operator that Ellis identified as female and black. She sounded calm and efficient.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“There’s a man, he’s driving drunk, and he’s going to kill somebody.”
“What is your location, sir?”
“Hollywood Boulevard and Las Palmas. He just pulled right out in front of me on Hollywood.”
“Is he traveling eastbound or westbound?”
“Westbound right now.”
“And can you describe the vehicle?”
“Black Lincoln Town Car. The license plate is I WALK ’EM.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“It’s a personal plate. I-W-A-L-K-E-M. I walk ’em — he must be a lawyer or something.”
“Hold a moment, sir.”
Ellis knew the operator would now send a hot shot to dispatch. She would then get back to him to request his name and details. He closed the phone, ending the call. He watched as Haller’s Lincoln pulled out of the parking lot onto Las Palmas and headed the short distance to Hollywood Boulevard. The Lincoln passed the Challenger that Long was driving.
Ellis stepped out of the alcove and into the street to rendezvous. Just as the Challenger pulled up he bent down and put the burner in front of the back tire so it would be crushed. He opened the door and got into the passenger seat, telling Long to turn the car around. The broadcast on the possible DUI was already going out on the police radio.
“Any Hollywood unit: Citizen reports a DUI driver going westbound on Hollywood Boulevard at Las Palmas. Suspect driving black late-model Lincoln Town Car, California license plate Ida-William-Adam-Lincoln-King-Edward-Mary.”
The microphone cord was draped over the rearview mirror, its once tight rubber coils stretched straight by time. Ellis looped it off and brought the microphone to his mouth.
“Six-Victor-fifty-five, we are westbound Hollywood Boulevard and are one minute away from that location.”
He took his finger off the send button and turned to Long.
“Go west on Hollywood. He’s probably heading home.”
Long gunned the engine and proceeded to the end of the block, where he turned around in the intersection and then headed back down to Hollywood Boulevard. Ellis glanced toward the darkened entrance of the parking garage as they went by.
“What are we doing?” Long asked.
“We’re going to pull him over and book him for DUI. That ought to slow him down a little bit.”
“What if he isn’t drunk?”
“Doesn’t matter, he’s a lawyer. He’ll refuse to take the test or a Breathalyzer and we’ll get to draw blood. We’ll end up booking him. I want to look in his trunk.”
Long nodded and drove in silence. They caught up with Haller at a red light at La Brea.
“Now?” Long asked.
“No,” Ellis said. “Stay with him. Wait till he crosses La Brea and we’re in residential. Less people around. Less cameras.”
Ellis raised the microphone to his mouth.
“Six-Victor-fifty-five, show us on a traffic stop Hollywood and Camino Palmero possible DUI driver, license Ida-William-Adam-Lincoln-King-Edward-Mary. Request any A unit for backup.”
When the light changed, Long jockeyed back and forth between lanes until he got into position behind the Lincoln. He hit the flashers and Haller pulled to the curb in front of a two-story apartment building.
“Okay, I’ll take lead,” Ellis said.
He opened the glove box to get out a plastic snap tie. He didn’t want to use his cuffs because his intention was to hand off Haller to a patrol unit so he and Long could search the Lincoln.
“He’s getting out,” Long said.
Ellis looked up and through the windshield. Haller had already gotten out of the Lincoln. He was talking on his cell phone. He finished the call and threw the phone into his car. He hit the lock button and closed the door. He then put his hands on the roof of his car and waited.
“He just locked the car,” Long said. “Keys are probably in it.”
“Asshole,” Ellis said. “He thinks he’ll keep us out of it.”