Web of Evil: A Novel of Suspense (24 page)

She turned back to Dave. “But how did you know…”

“Ask your son,” Dave said. “Once he realized you were in trouble, he punched his phone’s redial, and the last number dialed happened to be your folks’ phone back in Sedona. Fortunately Bob was there and answered. Chris was wearing his Bluetooth mini earplug. That allowed Bob to overhear everything that was going on in the vehicle without Jake having any idea anyone was listening in. Bob immediately put another call through to us—a conference call—so we could all monitor the situation.”

Ali remembered giving Chris a tough time when he had returned from a weekend skiing trip to Aspen with a telephone earpiece attached to his head. Now it appeared that an even smaller mini earplug might well have saved both their lives.

“And knowing what was up,” Dave added, “Easy was able to get one of his electronic techs working the Pink Swan warehouse scene to reinitiate your GPS.”

“So, from all that, you knew where we were the whole time,” Ali said.

Dave nodded. “Pretty much,” he said. “But none of that would have happened if Chris here hadn’t used his head.”

Flooded with relief and gratitude, Ali gave her son another hug. She and Chris had been in danger, all right, but not nearly as much as she had supposed.

“But you were here waiting for us,” Ali said a moment later. “How did you do that? You and Easy were still in Valencia when I left. I thought you were going to pick up my mother.”

“Fortunately, we were unavoidably delayed. And after that, it took some doing,” Dave said. “And some pretty amazing police car driving on Easy Washington’s part. Of course, it helps to have CHP cars clearing traffic ahead of us all along the way.”

“So that was you?” Ali asked. “The flashing lights I saw merging off the Sixty onto the Ten just as we got there?”

Dave nodded. “Our first intention was to do this in Beaumont when you stopped for gas. Then we decided there would be less risk to the general public if we did it here at a rest area instead, so we cleared out as many civilians as we could, and here we are. Which reminds me. You should probably give your dad a call and let him know you’re okay.”

But Ali’s phone had bounced out of her hand the moment the tires had gone flat. She had no idea where it was now—none.

“Let me use yours, Chris,” she said, holding out her hand.

He shook his head. “I was on the phone the whole way here,” he said. “I’m out of battery.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Dave said, taking out his own phone. “Here. Use mine.”

Bob was overjoyed to hear his daughter’s voice. “Does your mother know?” he asked. “She’s been worried sick and on the phone to the restaurant the whole time.”

Ali had reached Edie and was talking to her when Easy Washington came trotting around the corner of the building. “All clear,” he said. “Maxwell is in custody. Is everyone here okay?”

“Just my ankle,” Chris said, “but it’s nothing serious.”

“And you?” Easy asked Ali.

“I’m fine,” she said. “One hundred percent.”

“The Alero’s going to have to be towed,” Easy said. “And Dave’s car is still at the Claim Jumper. I’ll have one of my guys load you into a Suburban and take you back. The rest of us have one more stop before the evening is over.”

“What stop?” Ali asked.

“In the Old Las Palmas area of Palm Springs,” Easy replied. “That’s where Lucia Joaquin lives. She and her granddaughter, Amber, are the only ones still at large. We’ve had Lucia’s place under surveillance all night long. There’s been no unusual activity, so we’re hoping she has no idea we’ve managed to roll up her entire operation in the course of the last several hours. And now we’re going to nail her.”

“She’s the one who ordered Paul’s murder?” Ali asked.

Easy nodded. “I believe so.”

“Then I want to go, too,” Ali said. “I want to be there.”

“You can’t,” Easy objected. “It’s impossible. I’m not allowed to put civilians in danger. It’s absolutely against regulations.”

“I’ve been in danger all night,” Ali pointed out. “So has Dave. So has Chris.”

“Yes,” Easy agreed. “But that wasn’t my fault.”

“Please,” Ali said quietly. “After all we’ve been through tonight, shouldn’t I be able to be there to see her taken into custody?”

Easy Washington shook his head. At first Ali was convinced he was turning her down, then he called over his shoulder to one of his men.

“Hey, Sal. Does anyone here have a couple of extra Kevlar vests? A small and a large. We’ve got someone here who’s going to need one.”

T
he Kevlar jacket was bulkier than Ali could have imagined. And hotter, too. Minutes after donning it, she and Dave climbed into the backseat of Easy Washington’s black Suburban.

In the rush of donning the vest Ali had lost track of her son.

“Where’s Chris?” she asked. “I thought he was coming along.”

“He’s on his way to an ER in the ambulance,” Dave answered. “The EMT insisted his ankle has to be X-rayed and refused to take no for an answer. By the way,” Dave added, “did anyone ever tell you Chris is one hell of a kid? Really used his head tonight. He did a great job with your dad and us on the phone.”

“Yes,” Ali agreed. “He is one hell of a kid.”

In the front seat, Easy was on the radio and cell phone both, coordinating his troops. At the rest area Ali had caught sight of several officers she had met in the course of the previous several days, cops she knew from L.A. and Riverside, in addition to Easy’s own crew from the DEA. This was clearly a complicated, task-force-style operation with Ezekiel Washington calling the shots.

“I’ve never been to Palm Springs,” Dave said, studying a map Easy had handed him. “We’re going to a street called Via Hermosa.”

Via Hermosa was a name-brand Palm Springs address, and Ali remembered visiting several of the venerable old mansions there years earlier as part of various charitable functions. She took the map from Dave long enough to point to the general area.

“Old Las Palmas is part of old Palm Springs,” Ali explained. “Big houses. Big lots.”

“Big bucks?” Dave asked.

“That, too, but I would guess Lucia Joaquin can afford pretty much anything she wants.”

Ali thought about the other massive old places she had seen in old Las Palmas—the eight-or nine-bedroom luxury homes with their many-car garages, their lush furnishings and equally lush grounds. She didn’t know which house Lucia lived in, but it had to be one like that.

And the more Ali thought about it, the more the whole idea of Lucia Joaquin offended her. She resented the idea that a woman, clad in pink from head to toe and closeted in absolute luxury, could sit at home in total comfort and safety while sending her minions off to do her bidding—up to and including committing acts of cold-blooded murder. While one of her worker bees had left a trussed and helpless Paul Grayson—who she merely suspected might go to the cops—to die on the train tracks, Lucia had been a few miles away, probably sleeping peacefully in her bed.

“Where do people like Lucia come from?” Ali asked Dave finally.

He shook his head. “They’re vermin,” he said. “They crawl out from under rocks.”

They had turned off I-10 and onto Highway 111. As they sped through the night with the blue and red lights pulsing overhead but with no siren, Ali tried not to look at that particular part of the desert, but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes were drawn to the black pool of unrelieved darkness where she knew the train track ran. What a desolate place it was—what an awful place to die.

Easy returned his radio to its holder. “Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. We have yet to locate Amber, the granddaughter, but we’re pretty sure Lucia is inside the Palm Springs house. It’s possible she’s there alone, but it’s also possible there’s a caregiver with her. The place sits on an acre and a half, and the whole thing is surrounded by a twelve-foot rock wall with only one gate. Since Lucia isn’t in the best of health these days, she’s not going to be climbing over that fence. As long as we control the gate—which we do—we also control access.”

Dave nodded. Ali said nothing.

“I’ve got a trained tactical team in place and primed to do the heavy lifting,” Easy continued. “These are guys who know what they’re about and we’re going to let them do it. I’ve put my second in command in charge. Since the two of you are here on my say-so, I’m not letting either one of you out of my sight for even so much as a minute. And you’re not going any closer to the action than I say, got it?”

“Got it,” Dave said at once.

“Ms. Reynolds?” Easy asked. “I don’t believe I heard a response from you.”

“Got it,” Ali said.

“Good. I know you’re anxious to see the takedown. Considering the circumstances, I can’t say that I blame you, but you’re not to go near that woman until my guys have the situation under control.”

“Yes,” Ali said. “I understand.”

She looked at Dave. He sat there alert but seemingly at ease, with the palms of his hands resting squarely on his knees. If he was concerned about the coming confrontation, his impassive face betrayed none of it. But then, Ali realized, he was a Marine. Clearly he would be accustomed to going into potentially dangerous combat situations. She was not. Her heart pounded in her chest. Sweat dribbled down the back of her neck and soaked her shirt under the arms. Despite the fact that she had said she wanted to be here and see Lucia taken into custody, it was clear to Ali that she wasn’t ready at all—and probably never would be. And she missed having her Glock, missed it more than she could have imagined.

“How long before it all starts?” she asked.

She had aimed her question at Dave, but Easy Washington was the one who answered. “Depends on how long it takes us to get there,” he said.

Ali had always been under the impression that it took approximately forever to drive from the Palm Springs turnoff on I-10 into the city itself. Tonight it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Long before Ali had managed to prepare herself, Easy was already turning off Palm Canyon and headed toward Old Las Palmas. Ali closed her fists and let her fingernails dig into the flesh at the base of her palms. She may have been petrified about whatever was coming, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to show it.

As they approached Via Hermosa, cop cars and roadblocks seemed to be everywhere—all kinds of cop cars from all kinds of jurisdictions. But Easy and his Suburban had the secret code or maybe it was a magic charm. Every time the Suburban came close to stopping, they were waved on through the barricade.

When they finally came to a stop, it was on the far side of a wrought-iron gate with a massive wall on either side that seemed to stretch out of sight in both directions. The sky was starting to brighten almost imperceptibly on the far horizon while the view in through the gate was nothing short of idyllic. A lit fountain, spilling water, was the centerpiece of a bricked courtyard. Curtains of blooming bougainvillea framed a pillared front porch. The massive double doors, made of some kind of metal, gleamed in the light of equally massive sconces. It was an impressive entryway, one that made a statement. It also looked like a fortress.

Motioning for Dave and Ali to stay inside, Easy stepped out of the vehicle. Once again he had a phone clapped to one ear and an earpiece in the other. “Okay,” Ali heard him say. “We’re in place now. If everyone’s ready, it’s a go. On your say-so. Right.”

What followed seemed to Ali like a moment of anticipatory silence. Then, as if on cue, all the officers standing outside the Suburban—all the ones she could see, Easy included—seemed to glance in the same direction at the same time, looking off over their shoulders, back toward downtown. And then, through the open car door, Ali heard the sound that had obviously captured their attention—the distinctive
rat-ta-tat-tat
of an approaching helicopter.

Ali’s first assumption was that the aircraft was some kind of support vehicle brought in to serve as backup for the officers on the scene, but as it flew directly overhead, it laid down what sounded like a spray of automatic gunfire. At the sound of it, the officers on the ground all dove for cover.

“Holy shit!” Dave exclaimed. “We’re taking fire.”

The helicopter dropped to the ground on the far side of the gate, easing down beside the lighted fountain. Behind it, one of the massive double doors flew open and two women emerged—Amber and a white-haired woman, dressed all in pink and leaning on a cane. Amber hurried her forward. The two of them walked under the churning helicopter blades without ducking their heads, as though they were totally accustomed to them. As they approached the cockpit, Amber pulled herself inside and then reached back to help the older woman.

By then Easy’s assault team was moving forward. Weapons at the ready, they crouched behind a growling Hummer that paused for only a moment before ripping the gate off its hinges and clearing the way for the team to spill inside the compound. As they surged forward, though, the helicopter had collected its passengers and was already lifting off. As it rose from the ground, another spray of bullets came through the craft’s open door.

Instinctively, Ali and Dave ducked as bullets smashed into the front of the Suburban and whined past them in the empty air. The windshield splintered. And then there was another sound—an ugly, guttural groan of pain—the sound of someone hit and badly hurt. Outside the open front door, Easy Washington seemed to spin in place. Then, slowly, he fell backward.

Over the roar of the helicopter engine, Ali heard a group of shouted commands followed by yet another blast of gunfire, this one from the officers on the ground. At first it seemed as though it made no difference. For a time the helicopter continued to rise unimpeded. Then it seemed to hesitate slightly. The blades stopped spinning abruptly as the craft tilted drunkenly over to one side. Then, slowly to Ali’s fear-fueled mind, it began to fall to earth.

Ali saw two somethings, one pink and one not, spill out onto the ground and land, like limp rag dolls, on the hard brick of the courtyard. And then the helicopter crashed down there as well—smashing almost silently and eerily in the exact same spot. Immediately it burst into flames.

As the flames rose in the air, Dave vaulted out of the Suburban with Ali right behind him. By the time Ali reached the ground, Dave was on his knees lifting his friend’s dreadfully limp body. Already drenched in Easy’s bright red blood, Dave was cradling the man and doing his best to apply pressure to a wound at the base of Easy’s chin.

“Find a phone!” Dave yelled at Ali. “Call nine-one-one. Hurry!”

Without knowing how she found it, Ali’s fingers closed around the telephone Easy Washington had dropped when he fell.

“Nine-one-one,” the operator said. “What are you reporting?”

“A man’s been shot,” Ali shouted into the phone. “A man’s been shot and there’s been a helicopter crash.”

“What is your location?” the woman wanted to know. “You’re calling on a cell phone. I need the exact address.”

“Somewhere on Via Hermosa in Palm Springs,” Ali returned. “Right next to the burning helicopter.”

It was almost noon that same day when Ali looked up from reading the online news report and considered those words, the understated and dispassionate journalese that toned down the very real drama of the story.

“One was slightly injured.” That would have been Chris and his sprained ankle. The one who was released “unharmed” was Ali herself. And the “critically injured” officer was Dave’s friend Easy Washington, who had been struck in the neck by a stray bullet. The theory was that one of the bullets fired from the helicopter had ricocheted off the Suburban’s engine block. It had glanced off Easy’s Kevlar vest and had slammed into his inferior thyroid artery.

The other thing the words didn’t do justice to was the frantic lifesaving effort that had ensued. Dave had been in the thick of the action and only his knowledgeable application of pressure to the wound had saved his gravely injured friend’s life. Ali’s last glimpse of a blood-spattered Dave had been as the EMTs helped him into the waiting ambulance along with Easy.

A little past noon Edie Larson emerged from the pool house. Carrying a cup of coffee, she set it on the patio table next to Ali’s computer and then she sat down next to her daughter.

“How are things?” Edie asked. “Any word about Dave’s friend?”

“No,” Ali said. “At least they’re not updating his condition anywhere here.”

“And you haven’t heard from Dave?”

“Not so far.”

“You will,” Edie said confidently.

Ali studied her mother. Edie’s face looked far more worn than usual. “You never let on that you knew about the whole thing when I was talking to you on the phone,” Ali observed.

“No, I didn’t,” Edie agreed. “I was afraid I might give something away. I knew Dave and the others were working hard with Dad and Chris to get the two of you out of there, but I wanted you to hear the sound of my voice. I wanted you to know that you weren’t all alone out there.”

Ali had pictured her mother standing outside the gate of Robert Lane during what she had thought might be their last-ever phone call. Now she knew that, in actual fact, Edie had placed the call from the safety of an LAPD squad car.