“Now?”
“You nearly killed me.”
“You sound pretty alive to me, sir.”
“I’m not kidding,” said Leon. “You don’t understand.”
“Educate me.”
“I know who killed Marcella. Killed everyone.”
He wouldn’t give details, insisted on a face-to-face, got progressively edgier as the conversation stretched. She told him to meet her at the station in an hour.
“No way, too public. I can’t take the chance.”
“Of what?”
“Being the next victim.”
“Of who?”
“It’s complicated. Now that they know who I am, I’m a target. I’m scared shitless, not ashamed to admit it. I’ve done some things in my life but this… it’s a whole new game. I’ll meet you somewhere off the beaten path. With lots of space all around- how about a park?”
“Oh, sure,” said Petra. “I just waltz into some dark park at this hour because you claim to be someone with information.”
“I’ve got more than information, Detective. I’ve got all the answers.”
“Give me a hint.”
“I can’t risk that. I need to know you’ll protect me.”
“From who?”
Long pause. “Detective, I can solve your case, but we have to do this my way. How about Rancho Park- a relatively open area, right off Motor- ”
“Not possible, sir.”
“Okay, okay,” said Leon. “Somewhere else, then. You make a suggestion. Bring other detectives with you, I don’t care about that. I just don’t want to be seen at the Wilcox station because for all I know they’re watching the place.”
“Who’s they, sir?”
Silence.
“Your fellow Players?” said Petra.
Laughter. “I wish. Them I could deal with.”
“Who, then?”
“Okay, not a park. But nowhere in Hollywood or in Venice.”
“Why not Venice?”
Leon ignored the question. “Would the Valley be okay?”
“There’s an all-night coffee shop at Ventura near Lankershim.”
“Too public… how about Encino?”
“If you told me exactly what you are afraid of, sir, I could- ”
“You were there. In the parking lot, after the shooting. All those bodies. And you’re asking me that?”
“Give me a name, sir. I’ll make sure that whoever- ”
“This is my final offer: There’s a Jaguar-Land Rover dealer in Encino, on Ventura, west of Sepulveda. Nearby is a felafel joint. It’s closed right now but they keep their benches out, chained to the ground. The car lot keeps its lights on so some of the benches are illuminated. I’ll wait on a dark one. When I see you approach I’ll step out with my arms up, so you can make sure this isn’t an ambush.”
“Sounds pretty theatrical,” said Petra.
“Life is theater, Detective. Say in an hour?”
Petra knew the exact spot, she’d eaten there. No back alley approach, even with backup there’d be limits to how careful she could be.
Sidewalk café. The similarities to Tel Aviv were creepy. But this was too good to lose. She’d figure out a way.
She said, “An hour it is.”
CHAPTER 30
Eric said, “Sure it could be an ambush.”
“I call for uniform backup at this hour,” said Petra, “everything goes crazy.”
“Maybe it needs to.”
He’d watched her get dressed, hadn’t commented until she asked him what he thought about the call. Now he got out of bed, limped to the chair, and reached for his own clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“Backing you up.”
“How long’s it been since you slept?”
“Once I’m up, I’m up.” He turned his dark eyes on her.
“It’s not necessary,” she said. “Mac Dilbeck’s the primary. I’ll call, let him decide.”
“You’re the one the guy’s expecting.”
“That’s only because my name was attached to the news story.” The story she’d provided.
Eric finished dressing. “Where’s your extra gun?”
“Stay here and rest. I can get plenty of backup.”
“Like who?”
“How about the Belgian?” she said.
He laughed. Headed for her closet. Knowing where she kept her spare nine millimeter.
She said, “I really am calling Mac.” Reached for the phone to prove it.
“Mac’s a good man.” He found the automatic on an upper shelf, nestled in its hard-shell case, between two black sweaters. Found the black nylon holster she favored, adjusted the strap and set himself up.
Petra said, “You really don’t need to do this.”
“Yeah, but it’s fun.”
She dialed Mac’s number.
Ventura Boulevard at five forty-three A.M. was a dark and ghostly stretch buzzed by intermittent traffic. The Jaguars and SUVs in the fenced lot were gray mounds. Some grace time until the sun rose, but not that much. Which could be good or bad, depending on how this shook out.
Mac Dilbeck arrived in his old Cadillac DeVille, parked two blocks west, as arranged, near a dormant medical building. He wore a navy sweatshirt, black slacks, dark shoes. First time Petra had seen him without a suit and tie. His hair was parted and brushed but white stubble clouded his chin. Luc Montoya arrived in a company car, an unmarked he’d taken home. Off the case, but this morning he was on it. Tense but smiling; this was more fun than yet another dummy-homicide.
Eric’s presence elicited raised eyebrows from the two of them but no comment.
Protocol called for blues, but this was the whole team. Four detectives, a quartet who rarely fired their weapons, filled their days mostly talking on the phone and filing paper. The Paradiso shooting had been a vicious drive-by. If this was a serious ambush, it could go beyond ugly.
But Petra, having cruised by the felafel stand twice from the north side of the boulevard, was feeling relaxed. Neither she nor Eric had spotted anyone at or near the little kiosk. And Eric was a spotter.
If the man claiming to be Lyle Leon was righteous and really scared, there’d be only one place to hide: behind the stand. No easy escape from there: a high block wall rose to the south, at least twelve feet of impediment. Beyond that, another half-acre of British car storage.
No cars parked nearby, so if Leon was waiting for her, he had no simple flight plan.
Mac reviewed strategy. Clipped, businesslike, that combat-sergeant manner of his. Petra would cross Ventura on rubber-soled shoes, approaching the stand from the north, her gun out but keeping it close to her body so as not to attract attention from the occasional motorist. Once at the building, she’d press herself up against the white stucco walls before announcing herself. Anyone behind the stand would have to slip around, show himself at least partially. The three other detectives, approaching simultaneously from east and west would be ready for trouble.
No rescue word. There’d be no time to scream.
The big question mark, as she saw it, was a drive-by from Ventura. Eric knew that and she could tell it bothered him. He kept quiet. She felt better knowing he’d be scoping out the boulevard.
“You okay?” Mac asked her.
“Let’s do it.”
Feeling cool and competent, she walked briskly toward the kiosk. Before she got there a man stepped out from behind the building, arms in the air, fingers wiggling. Spreading his legs, he leaned against an outdoor table.
Mac and Montoya swarmed him and Eric did the initial pat down.
The guy said “A welcoming party” in that same smooth phone voice. “It’s so nice to be appreciated.”
After the guy was cuffed, Eric patted him down again. That was Eric.
Same long, craggy face as the mug shot.
She said, “It’s him.”
Lyle Leon wore a maroon Jacquard silk shirt tucked into baggy, cinch-waisted, black nylon cargo pants and lace-up boots with healthy heels. Like pirates used to wear…
The eraserhead coif had been mowed down to a conservative bristle. No more soul patch and a little dark hole centered his right earlobe where the earring had once sparkled.