Panther's Prey (13 page)

“Look, you need to rest. I'll have a talk with Car. Try not to worry. You need to get well again before you can even start to think about taking care of business.”

I gave Teddy all the information he needed, telling him where to find the contact information for the former client in the files in my storage unit in Berkeley. He carefully wrote down Roland McEwan's name, the number of the locker, and the combination for the lock.

Talking had worn me out. I kept flashing back to my hospitalization after the shooting last summer, when time itself had seemed to expand and contract with the cycles of pain and narcosis. I tried to keep my eyes open for Teddy's sake, wanting to show him I was still in control, but the next time they opened, he was gone.

I was released after two days. Still suffering bouts of dizziness, I wore a compression bandage around my ribs, had a sling over my shoulder, and was provided with a vial of Percocet. Somehow, armed in this manner, I was expected to face the world.

Look on the bright side,
I told myself.
No one's tried to kill you in the last twenty-four hours.

I took a cab to the Seward. When the weekend guy saw me his face lit up, seemingly as if in approval of my battered condition. Previously, he'd made it clear he viewed me as an unwelcome harbinger of gentrification—which, no doubt, I was.

On my floor, the hallway bulbs nearest my room were burned out, allowing me to see a glimmer of light beneath my door. I went rigid. It'd been three days since I was home. Maybe I'd left the light on and forgotten, I told myself, but I knew better.

I considered backing away and leaving, calling the police, but I suddenly felt so tired. If they wanted me, they were going to find me eventually. It might as well be here. Moving gingerly to spare my ribs, I fit the key into the lock and quickly turned it. I stepped to one side so I wouldn't be silhouetted in the door when it opened, then peeked around the jamb.

“Hey there, kid.” My father lay on my bed, hands behind his head, wide awake. Before I'd come in he must have been staring at the ceiling the way he'd spent innumerable long nights in prison. Now he'd turned and was gazing at me.

“So you're the reason the guy downstairs was smiling,” I said, trying not to breathe too hard because of my ribs. “How much did you give him to let you in here?”

“A hundred bucks.”

“I thought somebody was waiting up here to kick my ass.” I came in and closed the door. “How long have you been back?”

“A couple of hours.” He rose, seeming about to clasp me by the shoulder, then seemed to consider my damaged condition and held back. I stepped to the dresser to empty my pockets of keys and phone. Lawrence sat again on the bed.

“So at least the police didn't pick you up at the airport.”

“Maybe my return caught them by surprise. I came here because I heard you were in the hospital again. A motorcycle accident? I called Teddy as soon as I landed, and he said you were being released today. I figured I'd wait here instead of showing up at the hospital. Just in case the cops
are
looking for me.”

“Someone cut me off on the Golden Gate Bridge. I ended up in oncoming traffic.”

“A black SUV with dark windows, I hear.” He'd been studying me and now announced his verdict. “Recent injuries aside, you look
almost
yourself. A hell of a lot better than last time I saw you. Though that's not saying much.”

I'd still been fifteen pounds underweight when he left the country after the fire. Since then, I'd gained back ten. “I'm fine,” I told him. “We're all fine.” I was so glad to see him I could have wept, but my eyes were dry, as always. The many things that couldn't be said seemed to expand to fill the room, leaving not enough air.

“Look, I haven't been able to get in touch with Bo yet. Now that I'm back in the country, it shouldn't be so complicated. At least if I'm here I'm the one who'll be in danger—”

“I don't want you to get in touch with him on my behalf,” I said, cutting him off. “This wasn't about him. This is something else I'm mixed up in.”

“Something else,” my father repeated.

“A friend of mine was murdered.”

“I heard about that. By your client, I thought.”

I slowly shook my head. “Dad, it was a setup. I think Jordan was killed by a client, just not one from the public defender's office. You ever hear of a company called Kairos?”

Predictably, he hadn't. Realizing I had no choice but to talk about it, I told my father everything I knew, concluding with my suspicions regarding Jordan's death. I also told him about Cho going missing after the trial, evidently a suicide.

“Tomorrow I'm thinking about paying a visit to his wife.”

“If what you say is true, they'll likely be watching her. What can I do?”

I told him the most helpful thing would be for him to assist Car in finding Roland McEwan. His agenda in providing me with the gun hadn't occurred to me at the time, and now it was too late. Still, it was a piece of the puzzle I needed to have.

“Is Dot with you?” I asked, changing the subject.

“She's back on home soil, yes,” he replied tersely. Then, himself switching subjects, said, “Buy you a drink?”

His tone made clear that he didn't want to talk about it. I swallowed a Percocet and we went out for beers.

Lawrence's Harley, kept in storage during his absence and now retrieved, was the tangible symbol of his freedom. After we'd had a few drinks he talked me into accompanying him to the garage where he'd left the bike for the evening, on the pretext that I was newly in need of a replacement and ought to consider springing for a hog like his. After he gunned it down the ramp, leaving me to hobble home alone, I went back up to my room and spent a long night lying with gritted teeth, the bands of pain tightening around me every time I breathed, fire spreading from my battered ribs and abraded skin.

I spent the next two days mostly in bed washing Percocets down with beer. Still, I had time to make a few calls. My first was to Rebecca at the PD's office, letting her know what I'd learned from Walter Hayes. I asked her to check around, to see if any public defenders had cases out of Double Rock involving private security guards. She also promised to check with a few housing attorneys she knew.

The next morning Rebecca called me back. In a tone of surprise, she told me that the story I'd heard appeared to check out. She'd talked to two lawyers handling felony charges for clients who claimed to have been attacked by private security guards who'd shot first, engaging them in gun battles before the SFPD showed up. She'd also managed to confirm that in the housing projects scheduled for demolition, evictions and citations were through the roof.

I called Hayes and reported what I'd learned, passing on the names of the defendants and the phone numbers of the PDs handling their cases.

The following morning, I flushed the rest of the Percocets down the toilet and resolved to make contact with Cho's wife.

A woman's voice answered when I tried the number I'd managed to unearth. She was breathless, as if she'd run to grab the phone.

“This is Leo Maxwell,” I said.

“What! Don't ever call this number again.”

The line went dead.

The database where I'd found her gave me a Portola Valley address. It's a mountainside community on the peninsula, per capita one of the richest places around. I'd often ridden my road bike along the byways that wound across and along the peninsula's spine: Skyline Boulevard, Alpine Road. Many of the most scenic segments were through Portola Valley and its environs. After my wreck I was in no shape to ride my bicycle, which would have been my preferred means of approach—spandex being a universal badge of harmlessness—so I had no choice but to rent a car if I wanted a closer look.

I picked up a Ford Focus, the cheapest no-frills option at any of the rental agencies near the Seward. One of these days soon I'd have to settle on a new set of wheels, and also a real apartment. On the other hand, I saw no point in forking over first and last
months' rent until I was reasonably certain of living through a one-year lease.

When I reached Portola Valley, forty minutes south of San Francisco, I located the Cho house without much trouble. Lydia had declared bankruptcy, and the house was on the market, I knew from my research, though no realtor's sign marred the view. Above its flat roof the wooded foothills rose to gentle heights. It was Thursday afternoon, and there didn't seem to be anyone around other than the perennial landscape crews.

I couldn't expect to sit for any length of time in such a neighborhood without attracting unwanted attention. In addition to Lydia's phone number and addresses, LexisNexis had given me the make and license numbers of the couple's vehicles—a BMW 5 Series sedan and a Volvo station wagon. I made one slow pass around the cul-de-sac, saw the carport with only one car, the Volvo, sitting in it, and drove back out the way I'd come.

On the way in I'd noticed that a hiking trail crossed the hillside just above the road where the Chos' house was. I parked my car at the Portola Café Deli and hiked back to a spot with the right vantage point. Lounging on the path like a hiker taking a rest, I didn't have to wait long before a BMW with the correct license number appeared, a woman at the wheel.

I didn't immediately get up. I didn't want to frighten her or put her on the defensive, at least no more than was necessary. Rather, I wanted her to talk to me about what she really believed had happened to her husband. As I'd mentioned to Benton, the news stories I'd read had reported that in the week after Cho's disappearance, she'd told the police and anyone else who'd listen that Gary couldn't have committed suicide, that he wouldn't have voluntarily written the note found in his abandoned car. Within a few short weeks, however, she'd changed her tune and begun pressing for a court ruling declaring her husband legally dead.

Something or someone had changed her mind, and I didn't believe it was the Kübler-Ross model I'd learned in Psych 101, i.e., denial transformed into acceptance. If there was bargaining involved, it wasn't of the metaphysical kind. It seemed to me, rather, that a very real person had either made her a threat or a promise she'd had no choice but to accept.

These were the thoughts running through my mind as I pondered how to make my approach. Then another car turned in to the cul-de-sac after Lydia's BMW—a black SUV with tinted windows. Just like the one that had run me down. A wave of fear ran through my guts as I remembered my all-too-recent terrifying encounter on the bridge.

I couldn't be sure it was the same car. There's probably no more common or nondescript vehicle in America than the armored tanks half the populace outside urban centers like San Francisco prefers to ride around in. There was an oddness about this one, though. Maybe the way its dark paint shone without a trace of dust or wear, or the utter blackness of its windows, which gave no glimpse even in silhouette of the occupants inside.

My mind replayed the sound of fear in Lydia's voice when I'd spoken my name.

I took off running down the grassy slope, this movement delivering jarring pain. I landed on my heels in the ditch beside the road, sending a concussion through bones that deserved no further battering. Still, I managed to keep going, across the road and down the middle of the street into the peaceful neighborhood Lydia Cho had just returned to.

I could see the black SUV at the curb in front of her house, pointed back in the direction it'd come. It was a Yukon, I saw. I faltered as I came into view of it, wondering if from inside it or the house I was being watched. I slowed to a walk, keeping to the other side of the street, ready to run if any of the windows started inching down.

With no sign of life from the Yukon, I cautiously cut across the street toward the house. Because it was uphill from the road and surrounded by scrub oak and cypress, I couldn't see inside. The BMW was parked next to the Volvo in the carport. Keeping one eye on the windows, I went up the drive. I reached the safety of the carport and paused there, out of view of anyone in the house. I still saw no movement or other sign of observation. I listened and heard nothing, scanned the street, and was reassured to see that my prowling hadn't been noticed by any of the neighbors. Or not that I could tell. Finally I gathered myself, ducked behind the bushes at the front of the house, and eased along beneath the windows.

The visitor, or visitors, had come in an SUV like a million others, I told myself again. They might not even be in this house, where nothing seemed amiss. I kept going, even at the risk of being picked up as a vagrant who had no business there.

The rooms I could peer into—a study and a formal living area—were empty. I kept going around the corner, following the slope up half a level. Now what I was seeing undoubtedly was the master bedroom. It was ringed by a deck that extended along the back of the house, with a massive buckeye growing through a hole. Wide picture windows provided a multimillion-dollar view. In a corner, a Jacuzzi was barely shielded by a partial screen. I stared in shock at what I now saw: a kneeling man trying to drown a woman in it.

He had her wrists pinned behind her. Catching a glint of metal, I realized she was handcuffed. Using the cuffs to control her, he was, with his other hand, pressing her head under the surface as she kicked and struggled. The attacker was tall and lean, with a military-style haircut, short on top and even shorter on the sides. His wide brow narrowed to a tapering chin, giving his face a wedgelike appearance. Dressed in a clean white T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, he had a handgun secured beneath one arm in a shoulder holster.

I circled the deck, fumbling in my pocket for my cell phone, then realized I'd left it in the car. Suddenly the man let go of her head and yanked her from the water by her hair. She seemed to get her feet underneath her but lost her balance, gasping and choking. Then he grabbed her under the arm before she could slip beneath the surface again, a great wave washing over the edge of the tub and splashing beneath the deck.

The woman was shivering, coughing and retching, her workout clothes stuck to her body, water streaming down her head. She sagged over weak knees, held up by her tormentor. She was slight of build, and at around thirty or thirty-five years old, a good deal younger than her husband must have been.

Finally he decided to speak. “What was that lawyer doing calling your number?” His voice was calm, completely detached.

My stomach fell as I again remembered the fear I'd heard in her voice over the phone. Suddenly a radio crackled with a disembodied voice. He immediately silenced it, but, upon hearing the sound, my view of the situation hideously shifted, a single word reverberating in my mind.

Cop.

“What lawyer?” she gasped, and, as fast as a stone dropping, she went down again, her feet kicking wildly until he got one hand around both her wrists and used the other like a boat hook to sweep her legs completely out of the water, plunging her head beneath it.

I began to move away from the more private bedroom section of the deck. Moments later, I came to four wide steps not visible from the hot tub nook, concealed from this vantage point by the living room's protruding angle. I crossed the five feet of open space and reached the cover of the Jacuzzi's privacy screen. Once there, I eased along the wall, my heart racing as the splashes continued for longer than it seemed anyone could hold her breath. Then all was still, followed by a momentous thrash as, presumably, she was again yanked from the water.

With my back to a picture window, I inched toward the screen and peered through the lattice just as Lydia Cho, once more being held above the surface only by the hands that had been forcing her down, gave a retching cough. She appeared unconscious, her eyes rolled back.

“Where's your husband?” he asked.

“He's dead,” she gasped, in a voice so hoarse the words were hardly intelligible.

“Too bad.” Her attacker hooked the neck of her shirt with one finger and pulled it away from her chest. As he ogled her, I rushed around the screen and grabbed for the gun holstered beneath his arm. If it'd been loose in the holster I would've had it, but it was fastened down.

In an instant his hand was locked around my wrist, his eyes inches from mine, filled with outrage and surprise. I tightened my hand around the gun and with a tremendous heave used the shoulder holster to lift him and shove him backward over the rim of the hot tub. He held on to me as he fell, sending us both over into the water. I had to keep my hand around the gun—and the gun in its holster—or I was a dead man.

The water was cold. He was beneath me, but the tub was deep and for a moment my hand slipped and I thought I was going to lose him. Then I lunged and closed my hand over the gun again, finding my feet. He came up and tried to roll me over but suddenly Lydia was behind him.

Deftly, she'd flipped her legs through the loop of arms and handcuffs, wrapped the chain around his neck and pulled it taut under his chin, simultaneously strangling him and forcing his head underwater. He kicked and flailed, his neck muscles straining as he tried to free himself, raise his head, and breathe. He had a choice. Either he could let go my wrists and grab her arms, or he could win the struggle for the gun. He chose to continue fighting. The trouble was, I had both hands on the weapon now. His fingernails
clawed more and more desperately at my wrists, his legs kicking, knees bucking. I was practically kneeling on top of him, my own face just inches from the water.

His hands flew up to Lydia's wrists. I found the snap and was about to yank the weapon from its holster when he let go of her wrists and went for the gun again, but she was quicker than he was, reaching down and taking the weapon from me as I tugged it from the holster.

“Move,” she said, pointing it.

As I fell back, I heard a muffled thump and saw bubbles surface. A pink stain billowed in the water. Waves lapped the sides of the tub.

For a shocked moment, we sat facing each other, Lydia's hair streamed down either side of her face. One cowboy boot surfaced. She pushed it aside and fished underwater, ransacking the man's pockets until she came out with a set of keys, which she used to unlock the cuffs. She dropped them in the water, keeping the gun and keys. Then, holding the weapon down at her hip, she went like a sleepwalker across the deck and through the sliding glass door without a word to me.

As the adrenaline trickled out, pain set in, the muscles tightening over my wounded, now reinjured ribs. Each intake of breath brought tears to my eyes and sent spasms shooting through me. I was afraid for a moment that I wouldn't be able to climb out of the tub unassisted, but finally I managed it by rolling over the edge. I lay on my back for a few moments, then maneuvered onto my side and got to my knees, then at last to my feet.

I followed the trail of drips, including spots of blood, and found Lydia in the bedroom. She crouched there, filling a large suitcase from the bureau drawers, wincing in pain as she moved. A bruise was forming on her jaw. A clump of her hair had been torn out, I saw, and blood dripped from the raw patch on her scalp.

“There's an SUV out front. I didn't see anyone in it but couldn't be sure.”