Runaway Heart (27 page)

     
This is good detecting, Jack. Too bad you're not being paid.

     
He walked around the wall to get a closer look, knelt down, and
examined the footprints. The treads on the boot soles were identical. Crepe
soles in a zigzag pattern. Uniform boots—military issue, like the ones the
soldiers who had put him in the car were wearing. It was then that he noticed
the three holes punched into the damp sand. They were about two and a half feet
apart, at the angle of an isosceles triangle.

     
A tripod!

     
Somebody stood out here after the rain and took pictures.

     
Still shots?

     
A video transmission uplink?

     
So, what were CDF commandos doing out here taking pictures of
Susan?

     
He already knew the answer: They were doing surveillance, ready to
kidnap her if they thought it was going to be necessary. He was now pretty
certain the dreams he'd had were not dreams. He and Herman had been debriefed—
quizzed under drugs while a commando team waited here to be told whether or not
to seize Susan.

     
Had he and Herm "passed" the test? Is that why she had
been left alone ? Is that why they had been released?

     
Herman saw hybrid aliens, but Jack was trained to see evidence,
and these footprints under the wall were definitely evidence.

 
    
He turned and walked back inside. He sat
down on the sofa and listened to Herman's rant.

     
Herman was jazzed, talking about Area 51, Dreamland, The Ranch,
Aurora Whisperships, and a bunch of other Roswell nonsense. Jack listened, but
his mind drifted. Suddenly, Herman unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down.

     
Okay,
Jack thought.
I'm outta here.

     
Herman was showing Susan an abdominal surgical wound with four
stitches.

     
"What is it?" Susan asked.

     
"Somebody did some kinda operation on me."

     
Jack didn't like this. In fact, he hated it.

     
"I had an arrhythmia in the helicopter," Herman was
saying. "It was gone when I woke up."

     
"Dad, you've got to go get checked out."

     
"I will. But, honey, I've never felt better. I feel reborn,
like I'm ten years younger. Like this heart problem somehow got fixed."

     
Herman and Susan sat transfixed, but Jack needed air again, so he
told them what he had found under the wall. They all trooped outside and looked
at the footprints. Herman took photos.

Jack had another thought. "Herm,
did you have any dreams while you were asleep out there?"

     
"Yeah, I dreamed about some huge, winged bat-humanoids, and
some reptile men that my old clients, who once worked there—"

     
"Forget the Japanese animation," Jack interrupted.
"Was there anything else, more like memories of what you did over the last
few days?"

     
"Yeah. I had a strange kinda dream that was exactly like my
trip out to JPL. My talk with Dr. Zimbaldi."

     
"I think before we take you to the hospital we need to go
check on Zimbaldi."

     
"Why?"

     
"I don't think you were dreaming, Herm. I think we were both
spilling our guts. I think Zimmy is about to eat it."

Z
immy
wasn't at JPL, but Jack got
his home address
from the Security Office by flashing his fancy new
imitation ostrich P.I. license holder and saying: "Police."

     
The girl handed him a slip of paper and said, "Zimmy told me
yesterday they're painting his apartment. I think he's staying at his ex-wife's
place."

     
"Could I have her address, please?" Jack smiled, giving
her his best ten-megawatt meltdown.

     
"Montrose Apartments, 2300 Montrose Boulevard in Montrose.
Apartment ten."

     
He ran back to Barbra's Mercedes, where Herman and Susan were
waiting. He jumped in the car and headed west on the Foothill Freeway, hoping
Montrose was in that direction. He was lucky. Montrose Boulevard was a freeway
exit.

     
The apartment house was a two-story, sixties-type building: a gray
stucco box with white trim. He pulled past and parked across the street in
somebody's driveway.

     
Jack had grabbed his backup gun from the trunk of the Fairlane
before they left Malibu. It was an S&W Model 60, lightweight, three-inch
barrel, burnished finish, and it was under his coat, jammed in his belt
Billy-the-Kid style. "Okay . . . whatever you do, don't leave the car
until I get back."

     
Herman and Susan nodded grimly.

     
He walked to the corner and bought the
Los Angeles Times
from
a newspaper box, transferred the revolver from
his belt to the inside of the folded
newspaper, tucked it under his arm and crossed the street.

     
He entered the building courtyard, spotted apartment ten on the
second floor at the end of the corridor, then climbed the interior stairwell
and banged on the door. "Dr. Zimbaldi?"

     
Nothing.

     
He knocked again and tried the door. Locked. When he rattled the
knob, it felt like there was no deadbolt, just a button lock. Another job for
Wells Fargo Bank. Jack took out his credit card, slipped it into the space
between the door lock and the jamb, then pushed.

     
Credit approved.

     
It was a very ordinary, sparsely furnished apartment. He moved
quickly through the neat two-bedroom, one-bath layout, then ended up in the
small kitchen. There was no sign of Zimmy or his ex-wife.

     
He walked out onto the balcony, which offered a quasi-view of the
Valley. Jammed into that small space were a wooden chair, an orange Weber
barbecue, and a chest-style Amana freezer from the horse and buggy era. Jack
opened the freezer, praying that Zimmy wouldn't be inside curled up next to the
flank steak. The Amana was filled with ice cream. He snagged a container of
Rocky Road, pried it open, then went back inside to borrow a spoon from the
kitchen.

     
The P.I. takes an ice cream break.

Two blocks away a windowless, brown
Econoline van pulled up and parked off Foothill Boulevard. Inside Vincent
Valdez watched a GPS monitor with a small locator light flashing on the LED map
screen, then said: "He's around the corner on Montrose."

     
Marine Captain Norm Pettis, who had flown in from D.C. with Valdez
on a private jet that morning, was seated next to the assistant director in a
little command chair bolted to the floor of the van.

   
  
"Strockmire should lead us to
Zimbaldi," Valdez continued. "We move in fast and take everybody.
But, whatever you do, make sure you get that encrypted file." It was hot
in the van and moisture was collecting under his armpits. He didn't want to
stain his Armani jacket, so he took it off. "Turn on the engine and get
the air going," he ordered the driver.

     
"Whatta you wanna do?" Captain Pettis asked. "Looks
like he's just parked over there."

     
"Take a walk down the street and hang an eyeball on them.
Lemme know what you see."

     
Pettis pushed a computerized receiver chip into his ear, fixed a
pin mike to his lapel, then opened the van doors. He was dressed in chinos and
a sport jacket. The only uniform issue he wore were his J-6 laced leather jump
boots. He liked them because they gave him good ankle support and had
reinforced metal toes. He jumped out of the van, then sauntered casually down
the block, turning the corner on Montrose Boulevard.

     
Almost immediately, he saw Herman Strockmire and his daughter,
Susan, sitting in a silver Mercedes.

     
"I have our people in sight," Pettis said into his lapel
mike. "Whatta you want me to do? They're just sitting in a Mercedes
looking across the street at the apartment house."

     
"Go check the mailboxes, see if anything over there lights
up."

     
Captain Pettis entered the Montrose Apartment courtyard and began
to quickly scan the mailboxes. On the second row, two from the end, a typed
face card read:
donna zimbaldi.

     
"Looks like a sister, or an ex-wife or somethin' lives here.
Donna Zimbaldi, apartment ten," he said into the pin mike.

     
"Go sell her some mags," Valdez instructed.

     
"Roger."

     
The mailboxes were locked, but bulk mail was in open trays under
each box. So Captain Pettis went magazine shopping. He picked out a
Vogue,
a
Redbook,
and a few
other women's magazines, then went upstairs and knocked on the
door of Donna Zimbaldi's apartment.

     
Jack heard the knock, set down the ice cream, and crossed to the
door, snapping up the newspaper off the kitchen counter as he passed. Holding
his gun in his left hand, he folded the paper over it, then opened the door
with his right.

     
"Hi," Norm Pettis said. "I'm with Helping Hands and
we're selling magazine subscriptions to benefit the Children's Cancer Center.
Is Mrs. Zimbaldi at home?" Pettis thought the guy in the apartment looked
familiar—like the P.I. in the briefing photos they'd taken at Area 51, but he
wasn't absolutely sure.

     
"There's no Zimbaldis live here. Just me and my brother,
Lonnie, but he ain't home." Jack smiled, then glanced down at the magazine
salesman's feet. Crepe soles on black leather jump boots.

     
"Maybe you should write your number on this newspaper, I
could have him call you. He's always giving to charities."

     
Jack pressed the paper at him until the man finally took it. Once
he did he was looking at the revolver.

     
"This is a big mistake," Pettis said.

     
"Why don't you come on in? We're having ice cream." Jack
yanked him through the door, then closed and bolted it. "You wired?"

     
Pettis didn't respond, but Jack spotted the pin mike on his lapel,
ripped it off, and stomped on it. Then he saw the earplug. "Get the
receiver out." Pettis dug it out with his thumb and index finger. It was a
microchip about the size of an eraser with no wire. "Nice," Jack
observed, dropping it into his pocket.

     
Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs, whistling. He
spun Pettis around and frisked him quickly, pulling a Glock 9 out of a waist
holster, a SIG P-232 off his leg, and a stun gun with two batteries out of his
coat. "You really came to party," Jack quipped as he pulled the clips
and both slides, then threw the guns across the room.

     
"You're just making things worse for yourself."

     
"You, too," Jack said, and clocked him hard on the head,
banging the side of the Smith & Wesson against the man's transverse
occipital bone—police academy combat tactics. Guaranteed to produce a snooze.

     
Pettis went down in a clutter of stolen magazines.

     
A key scraped in the lock.

     
Jack aimed his gun and waited.

     
When the door opened he was looking at a very intense, wirey man
wearing Bermuda shorts, grimy tennies with no socks, and a threadbare
red-checkered shirt, complete with pocket protector.

     
"Dr. Zimbaldi?"

     
"What are you doing in my wife's apartment?"

     
"Trying to save your life. I'm with Herman Strockmire. We've
gotta get you out of here."

     
"You're what?" Zimbaldi said.

     
Jack heard a car squeal to a halt in the parking lot below
followed by four doors slamming.
     
"Listen,
Doctor, we need to leave right now. Your life is in danger. It's about that
stuff Herman gave you—the fifty-page encryption."