Housebroken (39 page)

“It’s me, baby—don’t say my name. Make it seem like you’re talking to the police.”

Jenna closed her eyes, hoping the officer at her bedside would take the tear sliding down her face as fear or frustration, not joy.

“You saved us, sweetheart. Your call—it gave me the time to make my own move.”

“But why would my husband run away? I don’t understand,” she said.

“He’s got Adam,” Blake said, and Jenna could hear the tears in his voice. “The game’s over. He got what he wanted, and it wasn’t you or me or our money—it was our son!”

“No! The police will find him, right? Keep him safe?”

“They won’t be able to, but I know someone who can, someone who orchestrated my escape. But there’s something I need to do for him first.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, sniffling into the phone and not caring. “I just—I want this to be over.”

“It will be soon. I just, I wanted to call to tell you how much I love you and that no matter what happens, no matter what you hear about me, just know I’m doing everything I can to get our son back. To right a few wrongs.”

Jenna was moving into the boundaries of hysterics. This time she wasn’t sure she could pull herself back.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Your will, your belief, it’s what’s kept me going. It’s what I’m holding on to still. Now say ‘I’ll cooperate any way I can,’ and I’ll take it to mean you love me.”

Jenna wet her lips, tasting the salt from her tears. “I’ll cooperate any way I can,” she said. “Any way I can.”

She heard Blake exhale a short breath into the phone. “I love you too, baby. Love you too.” And with that he was gone, the sudden silence of the line worse than any gunshot in her ear.

Randall kept the engine running, Blake’s first clue his reluctant escort was terminating their relationship. They were parked outside a tall building on Alameda in downtown LA. Strangers passed by just outside Blake’s window, high-powered men and women in high-priced suits, their crisp haircuts and purposeful walks in contrast to the homeless men and women shuffling in their midst.

“That’s the Metrolink in there. There’s an envelope in the glove box with two hundred dollars. Buy yourself a ticket someplace and then go from that someplace to another place ’cause the next time we meet, it won’t be under friendly circumstances.”

“Two hundred bucks? How am I supposed to get my son back with that?” Blake asked.

“Not my problem,” Randall said.

“It is your problem. A family in the city you swore to protect was tortured and almost killed under your watch! We were set up for those murders and you know it. Now you tell me how that is not your problem.”

Randall turned to meet Blake’s glare. He no longer looked like the cop that wanted to be buddy-buddy. “I think we’ve gotten off to a misunderstanding. You are not my friend, you are not my problem. You are the lead suspect in a criminal investigation that involves the murder of three individuals so far. The only problem I face is finding you and bringing you to justice, and the only reason we’re sitting here in this car and I’m letting you walk out that door is because I had no choice. Now I’ll give you thirty minutes before I bring the manhunt here as a courtesy, but don’t for one minute mistake me as your friend.”

Blake punched Randall square in the jaw with a left hook, the unexpected blow landing with more force than he had anticipated. He kicked off the passenger door, launching himself into Randall to keep him from reaching for his gun. A finger jabbed into one of his eyes, another into his face, but Randall’s flails were all defensive, trying to allay the furious onslaught of Blake’s fists. He felt murderous, blood surging in his head, his chest, his limbs.

Randall lifted the handle of the door, angling to position himself out of Blake’s reach. Blake used his momentum to throw Randall out—he tumbled onto the street, rolling twice to shrieking brakes and blaring horns.

Blake slammed the car door closed, reaching for the gear shift when the front driver’s side mirror shattered, tiny shards of glass blown inward.

Randall’s feet were planted, his pistol drawn and aimed at Blake’s head. He had recovered quickly. “LAPD! Out of the car!”

“And here I thought we were friends,” Blake said.

“I’m taking you in right now,” Randall said. “Now put your hands on your head, slowly.”

“You’re not gonna shoot me.”

“I said—”

“I’m in your personal vehicle. How are you going to explain what I was doing in your car? Considering the amount of time I’ve been gone, they’ll know it was you who picked me up and got me out of there.”

“That won’t matter.”

“It does and you know it.”

Randall seemed to tally the same results in his head. “Fine. Now get in the Metro before another squad car drives by wondering what the hell is going on.”

Blake shook his head. “I’m not taking the Metro. Report this car stolen, and I’ll make sure you go down with me.”

Randall shifted his feet, gun arm going slack.

“Thanks for the help.” Blake hit the gas, pulling out into the lane and merging with traffic. The puzzled cop standing in the street, gun in hand, might have been flipping him off as he drove away. But Blake chose to believe Randall was wishing him luck, pointing him onward in the direction Blake was flying, a direct course to where every little choice he had taken in life was now about to collide.

Come and find me
, he thought, not knowing if he meant it for Joje, Rory, or the police, who had no doubt sent his name and face to every substation in all of Southern California. The wind whipped at him from the broken window, and for the first time in a long time, Blake felt he was back on top. When he later abandoned the car, the glove box was one envelope lighter and in the trunk a metal attaché case was popped open, the foam cutout empty where a gun should have been.

No stars could compete with the glowing billboards and spray of city lights below the hills of Hollywood. Blake stood in the shadows of a eucalyptus tree on Briar Knoll Drive, the road and landscape at such a steep pitch his left foot was almost two feet lower than his right. His breathing was as light as the evening breeze, a calm detachment having overtaken him.

He watched the last of the houseguests depart. They ambled toward a Porsche utility vehicle parked in front of the house. Husband and wife, or more likely executive and escort. They followed in similar footsteps as the previous guests who had left—drunken staggering with wild hoots and occasional pawing. They eventually found their way in, the Porsche’s engine singing as the couple coasted down the hill.

JT’s party was over, or so he thought. The real party, however, was just about to begin.

Blake drew back the top of the pistol he had taken from Officer Randall’s car, checking for the fiftieth time that a bullet was chambered. The gun was just a prop, something to show JT how serious he was, how desperately he needed his help. Blake allowed himself to believe that.

He stepped from behind the brush and tree where he had been stationed for the past several hours. It felt good to move. He hadn’t dared sit, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to stave off the sleep his body so desired.

Crossing the paved road, he stood in front of JT’s yard. The terrain was expansive, driveway circling around a large lighted pond. The front porch of the house extended out in an awning supported by large, elaborately carved marble pillars with almost the look of an entrance to a hotel where one might park their car when checking in. A high-end luxury hotel. Squared bushes were lined in front of the columns, retaining walls supporting the illusion that the yard and home were built on level ground. The large front entrance was an attempt to make up for the lack of a back yard, as JT’s home was one of those daring houses in Hollywood Hills clinging to life by mere timbers and creative engineering.

A light mounted on the corner of the house sprang to life, replacing shadows as Blake made his was across the driveway. He took care of it with an upward thrust of the gun, glass tinkling onto the stamped pavement. He thought about going around the side of the house, looking for a rear entrance or garage door, but dismissed the idea when the front door opened.

JT swung out, dressed in a tuxedo shirt, one side’s shirt tails untucked. “What’d jou forget?” he said, then blinked repeatedly. But Blake wasn’t disappearing.

Blake knew what he must look like—haggard, tired, bruised and broken, a gun held tightly in his hand. JT would come to the only conclusion that made any sense, that Blake was here to kill him.

Before Blake could shout out and tell JT his real intentions, JT beckoned him. “Damn, Bwake. Migh’ as well come in.”

Blake’s breath quickened at the pronunciation of his name before he remembered how tossed JT was. Still, as he stepped inside his former boss’s house, he couldn’t shake the mounting feeling of dread.

JT pressed the palm of one hand into his forehead, massaging it as he walked Blake down a narrow hall. The interior of JT’s home was all new age: sleek and uncomfortable furniture, odd wall hangings, and abstract sculptures. Yet another testament to the idea of artists being tortured souls.

Blake followed JT into a long but awkwardly narrow living room that connected with the open kitchen in back. Empty champagne bottles were scattered on the table and counters, glasses and dirty dishes piled high.

JT said, “Tabby, dim the lights, set the fire to four, and lock exterior doors.” The lights dimmed and fire came aglow as if a ghost had responded to his requests. “Excuse the mess. We were celebrating.”

The word seemed so foreign to Blake, the idea of not having to worry every second of every day, whether you and your family would live or die.

“Mind setting the gun down?” JT asked. “’Less you really are here to kill me.”

Blake hesitated. “I’d rather keep it.”

JT picked up a wineglass from the array of dishes on the counter. Its coppery liquid gleamed as he put the glass to his lips. Blake noticed a smudge of lipstick on the other side of the glass; if it hadn’t been JT’s before, he didn’t seem to mind.

“Shouldn’t you be incarcerarated right now?” JT asked, struggling on the word. “Holding me hostage won’t win any favors with a jury.”

“You invited me in.”

“So I did.”

JT crossed in front of Blake, with no acknowledgement of the gun gripped tightly in Blake’s hands. He fell into a black leather chair, his head leaning against one armrest, legs hanging over the other side.

“Help yourself to a drink. If you can find any liquor left.”

“This isn’t a social visit,” Blake said. “I need your help.”

“The great Blake Crochet, consulting practitioner for the common business cold needs my help? You know what everyone calls you, don’t you? In the fortune community?” JT pantomimed quotation marks around the word
fortune
. “Crotch consulting. Where you’re better off paying for a blowjob. Though both come with hot air, only one leaves you with a happy ending.”

Blake gritted his teeth, ignoring JT’s smile. How had he ever put up with this nasty little man? “I’m not asking for my job back. My son’s been kidnapped, and I need your help with the ransom. I’m also not asking.”

“Aw, come on, Blake. Didn’t your mother teach you how to ask nicely?”

“Where’s your Liberty nickel?”

JT righted himself in the chair. He seemed to be looking at Blake differently.

“One way or another I’m leaving with it,” Blake said. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s not here. I know you keep it close.”

“Do you know what dollar value is ascribed to the average American teen? Their net worth?” JT asked.

“He’s not an average teen. He’s my son.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a
negative
number. So with all your consulting expertise, would you suggest a client steal an investment worth upward of five million, valued at potentially ten times that, in exchange for an asset with a negative net worth?”

Blake cocked back the hammer. “If you value your life, you’ll take me to where you store that nickel. Now.”

JT stood, teetering only slightly. “Well, come on.”

Back out in the hall, JT opened a door to a cast iron spiral staircase leading down. “Watch your head,” he said as he began his descent. Blake followed. JT spoke to Tabatha, and the room came aglow from the canned lights in the ceiling above.

Blake’s arm wrapped around a spoke of the staircase as he stared down at the drop below him. The room had no floor—just a staircase extending down to a forty-foot drop to the tumbling mountainside, another fifty feet at least before the hillside was lost to the tops of trees and brush. Then Blake noticed the pool table levitating in the air.

JT stepped from the ladder to a see-through floor—whether glass or some other composite material, Blake didn’t know.

“It’s quite safe,” JT said, meandering over to a wet bar against the far wall and uncorking a bottle of bourbon. “Low-iron glass, seven and a half feet thick. Same engineering firm that did that Skywalk in the Grand Canyon.”

He poured two glasses, then, almost as an afterthought, picked up a third. “Did you want one?”

“No. Thank you.”

Blake stepped tentatively onto the floor. Trusses and steel beams barely visible extended out of the darkness below, reaching toward him like claws.

“Tabatha, set temp to seventy-four. Always gets a little cold in here,” JT said. “Didju know we took the company public?”

“What?”

JT slammed the first glass of bourbon back without even a hint of a grimace. “You should drink. You were integral to the launch.”

“It would take months to plan, execute . . .” Blake’s words trailed off, thoughts spinning recklessly forward.

“A business is as fragile as a house built over a hill. At first, at least. But erect enough support, you no longer need the foundation. You outgrow it. You’re suddenly just . . . hovering.” He refilled the empty glass. “Ever seen a floating building, Blake? You’d know if you had. The whole world would know, because you can’t see a building float without telling the world about it. Google was the first floating building I ever saw. And that’s when I knew. I had to have one.”