L. A. Heat (35 page)

“Would Tom have known about this?”

“He might have. Chris made no bones about not
liking the guy. We all knew he was a phony.”

“Who’s the uncle?”

Silence. “Geez, you’d think I’d remember...Ruben.
Paul, no, Saul Ruben.”

“Check DMV on a Saul Ruben, too,” David said to
Martinez. “See what they got on him.” To Becky, “Find me an address on this
guy. Please.”

“He lives in Brentwood,” she said and rattled off
an address in the upscale side of town. “Pretty snazzy for someone just out of
school.”

David thought of Tom Clarke, who had to be on the
other side of thirty. “He’s a little old to be just graduating, isn’t he?”

“Maybe he needed uncle’s help getting into school.
Hmm, this is interesting.”

“What?”

“Chris really did some digging for just idle
curiosity. The man’s good. Looks like Ruben’s got two places, one in Beverly
Hills and another one up in Topanga Canyon. I always wanted a place out there.
So rustic, you can hear the grass grow.”

David and Martinez had always figured the doer had
a hiding hole he took his victims to. Someplace isolated. In L.A. it didn’t get
much more isolated than Topanga Canyon. The entire area northwest of Los
Angeles—a rugged, series of winding canyons that had resisted development for
years—was riddled with barely traveled roads that at certain times of the year
you needed an SUV to traverse. Was Saul Ruben’s place on one of those?

“What can you tell me about the place in Topanga?
Any information at all?”

“Just an address—Blackridge Road.”

David took it, thanked her and hung up, glad he
hadn’t had to reveal just how much danger Chris was in. He clutched the
notebook with the two addresses and caught Martinez’s eye.

“Let’s move.”

“I’ll check out his home address,” Martinez said
as they hurried through the concourse. “And call in some backup to meet me
there.”

“Think you can rustle up some warrants?”

“
No es problema
, we got more than enough
juice.” Martinez’s eyes narrowed. “You got something in mind?”

“I want to check out the uncle’s place. Get
anything on him through DMV?”

“Address, phone, he’s got two vehicles registered
to him. A BMW 330Ci coupe and a Ford Explorer—”

“Let’s roll,” David said. Martinez eyed him
circumspectly. “Go nail this bastard, partner.”

“Let’s roll together,” Martinez said. “This is no
time for heroics, partner.”

“Nothing heroic about talking to a man’s uncle.
We’re not talking crime family here. I just need to know if Tommy’s been
keeping time with uncle lately. See if he’s noticed anything hinky. I’ll alert
the sheriff’s people I’m coming. They can meet me there.”

“Keep me in the loop. Tight. You’re in enough
trouble without doing something really stupid.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” David slapped the hood of
his Chevy and unlocked the driver’s side door. “Let’s go.”

He peeled out, the bubble light and siren on again
to clear the way. Behind him he watched Martinez scramble to get into his own
car and play catch-up. Flipping open his cell phone he dialed the Blackridge
Road number first. No answer. Then he dialed the Rubens’ Beverly Hills number.

A woman answered his call. Her voice was sharp and
abrupt.

“Yes?”

“Is this the Ruben residence? Saul Ruben?”

“Yes, it is. Who is this?”

“This is Detective David Eric Laine, with the Los
Angeles Police—”

“Oh dear God, did you find him?” The voice no
longer sounded sharp. Now it sounded scared.

“Find who, ma’am?”

“My husband, Saul Ruben. We had a dinner
appointment with friends but he never showed up. That’s not like Saul—”

“Ma’am, did he say where he was going?”

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out.
“To our place up in the canyon. One of our neighbors up there told him he’d
seen someone on the property recently. He wanted to check and see if anyone had
broken in...We’ve had break-ins before, you know. That place is so isolated.”

“What time was this, ma’am?”

“He left here about one-thirty this afternoon.”
Her voice rose in fear again. “That’s nearly twelve hours. I’ve called but all
I get is voice mail. He would have called by now, I know he would have. Saul
never just goes off—”

“Ma’am, I’m heading up that way. Would you like me
to check out your place? I could look and see if anyone has been by the
premises lately, maybe check with that neighbor.”

She gave him the neighbor’s address and phone
number, someone named Chickie.

David thanked her and hung up. He tried Chickie’s
number. No one home. He drove north as fast as he could, his mind racing along
with the car. Could Ruben have met up with Tom earlier today? Tom was clearly
decompensating—no longer covering his tracks, no longer showing the care he
took before to hide his actions. Did he know that he was at the end of his
reign of terror and was setting it up to go out with one final, hated victim?
Chris didn’t fit the profile of his normal victims—the others were all
dark-haired and butch—so David knew this one was personal.

Personal and up close.

His last call was to the sheriff’s substation—only
to be told a gas tanker had gone off the road in Malibu. The road was
impassable and all units were tied up. Someone would be sent out to Blackridge
as soon as a unit was available.

David snapped, “They better. This is urgent.”

“So is a major fire in Malibu, sir,” the
dispatcher said coolly before disconnecting. David jammed his foot down on the
gas pedal. The car lurched forward as the engine roared.

Well, he could make it personal too.

Monday,
1:20 am, Fernwood Pacific Drive, Santa Monica Mountains

Topanga Canyon Road was a
civilized stretch of paved roadway that cut a path from Pacific Coast Highway
to the San Fernando Valley. Fernwood Pacific Drive, on the other hand was
largely a series of switchbacks. Mud and rock slides frequently shut the road down
even to SUVs.

Fortunately there hadn’t been any rain for nearly
seven months, and the road was dry and clear.

Except for the odd house light still burning at
the end of half-hidden driveways, everything lay shrouded in darkness. House
numbers were often obscured by bracken fern and scrub oak. He was glad for the
thick vegetation around—it muffled his approach. He crawled along, taking the
switchbacks with caution, since an approaching car might easily catch them both
unaware. He turned on the high beams, trying to see a few feet farther down the
winding road. Then he saw his turnoff ahead and turned into Blackridge Road.

The engine labored as he ascended the unpaved
road. A flash of color marked another roadside house number. He slammed on the
brakes and skidded sideways, canting his high beams into a thicket of heavy
brush.

The driveway was nearly as hidden as the wooden
sign painted with something reflective. Saul Ruben must like his privacy. David
turned on his overhead light long enough to double-check the number Ruben’s
wife had given him, then he backed up.

Flipping off his high beams he swung the nose of
the Chevy down what was little more than a goat path, hemmed in by more bracken
and thick, dust-choked brush. Farther in, the trunks of sycamores and live oaks
danced furtively in his headlights.

The track switched back and forth past dense
undergrowth thick with tree trunks. David wished he could turn his lights off
but knew he’d be off the road in two seconds if he tried. He just had to hope
no one in the house was watching.

If anyone was in the house.

If he was wrong about Tom bringing Chris here,
then Chris was dead. He had no other means of guessing where Tom might have
stashed his victims. He thought of calling the sheriff again, but didn’t feel
like dealing with the officious prick.

He edged past a border of untrimmed boxwood.
Something glinted in his headlights and he made out the bumper of a car. A dark
BMW was parked behind a light-colored Explorer. In the wan light it was hard to
tell, but David knew without looking closer that the SUV was yellow.

Killing his lights David edged a few feet closer
to the barely visible BMW. Gravel and dirt crunched under his tired Chevy as he
glided to a stop.

He eased the window down and listened. The soft tick
of his cooling engine was barely audible above the sighing of tree branches
overhead. Close by an owl called; farther away another one answered.

The door clicked softly when he pushed it open. He
fumbled for his cell phone, wondering if he’d get a connection, glad he was
near the top of the canyon rather than down below.

The phone rang at the other end.

She answered on the second ring; David knew then
she’d been waiting by the phone.

“Y-yes,” she said.

“Mrs. Ruben?”

“Yes. Is this Detective Laine? Did you find my
husband?”

“Ma’am, I just arrived,” David said. “Could you
tell me what kind of vehicle your husband was driving?”

“He drove the BMW. I told him he should use the
four-wheel truck—what’s happened to him, detective?” Her voice rose. “Where is
my husband?”

“What four-wheel truck is that, ma’am?”

“The Explorer.” She took a deep breath. “After Tom
started driving it, my husband was only too happy to have his BMW. He just
about gave the boy that thing.”

“Do you mean Tom Clarke?”

“Yes.” Disapproval thickened her voice, driving
out the fear. “He spoiled that boy something fierce.”

“Do you know where Tom is now, ma’am?”

“Tom? No. Why on earth would you be interested in
Tom, Detective? Is he in some kind of trouble again?”

Monday,
1:30 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

Chris skidded backward, tangling
in Saul Ruben’s outstretched legs. He fell, rolled, and scrambled to his knees.
Praying the darkness would cover him, Chris half ran, half crawled toward a
dark rectangle he hoped was a door. He had a brief glimpse of Tom framed
against the kitchen door, moonlight dappling his hunched figure, then he dove
through the doorway.

The darkness lay like thick velvet, cloaking
sounds as well as vision. Behind him Tom muttered in a pain-soaked voice. “Get
you, motherfucker.”

Chris’s eyes had adjusted to the wavering
darkness. Even when the moon moved behind a frieze of clouds there was still
enough light to give shape to forms and keep him from a fatal, noisy blunder.

This time he was in a bedroom. A tall armoire
filled one narrow wall; a single bed was positioned under a small curtained
window.

He crouched and sidled from the armoire to the
foot of the bed. He’d have to stand on it to reach the window. He would be a
target when he tried to climb out the window if Tom entered the room.

Chris clenched his jaws to keep them from chattering.
In shock from fear and pain, his entire body was covered with goose bumps.

Shuffling feet. The wheeze of harsh breathing, or
was it only the far-off creak of an old building settling into its foundation?
Every sound made him jump, magnified by the smothering silence all around.
Adrenaline helped keep him preternaturally alert and even made him feel warmer,
but how much could his body produce before it crashed in shock? His muscles
were already growing stiff from oxygen depletion.

He slid toward the door, the pool cue raised. He
poised on the balls of his feet, the wooden floor cold underneath his toes.

He didn’t have a clue how long he’d been
unconscious in Tom’s car. Thirty minutes, an hour? Two? They could be anywhere
between Antelope Valley and Santa Barbara, or beyond.

At the door, he held his breath, listened.
Silence. Was Tom on the other side of the half-closed door, waiting? Or had he
missed Chris entering the room and moved on to other parts of the house?

Chris waited for the telltale creak of the floor
or Tom’s stuttering, injured breathing.

Monday,
1:40 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

David slid out of his car and
approached the BMW. A hand on the hood told him the car had been there a while.
It was cold. “Do I still have permission to enter the house, Mrs. Ruben? I’d
like to check it out, make sure everything is okay.”

“Of course, detective. The key is under a loose
stone by the back door.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you call me back, detective? Will you let me
know what has happened to my husband?” “I’ll do that, ma’am.”

David immediately dialed Martinez.

“
Hola, amigo
, what’s up?”

“How fast can you get to Topanga Canyon?”

“Topanga—how fast do you need me there?”

“Yesterday. The damn sheriff’s caught in some
highway accident.”

“You found him?”

“I found him.”

“Give me an address.”

David did, then Martinez said, “I’ll contact the
sheriff’s department again.”

“Just tell them to make their approach low-key. I
don’t want some blue flamer spooking this guy.”

“Gotcha,” Martinez said and hung up.

David turned the cell off, not wanting its ring to
give him away. He eased his Glock out of its holster and made his way around
the parked vehicles, keeping them between him and the house.

The house was dark. Not even an outside light. The
side of the house was covered in beds of trimmed ficus, evening primrose, and
other bedding plants. The air was heavy with their perfume.

Suddenly a light appeared to his right. It
flickered in and out of the bush as he moved, and David realized it was a
neighboring property.

Should he check in and see what the man might have
heard? Or should he try to enter the house with the key?

He was breaking regs by not waiting for backup but
every nerve in his body screamed at him to do something. Chris was in that
house.

He compromised by deciding he would walk the
perimeter. Cop instincts told him to wait for backup. Safety lay in numbers.
Fear drove him on. Chris might not have time to wait.