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  The dark sedan was gaining steadily. He concentrated on keeping his own car on the road. He took a skidding turn to the right and gained ground. This street was wider; the sedan closed rapidly. As it pulled even with his back fender, he saw what he badly needed, a narrow alley ahead on the left.

  Locking four wheels, the rear end of his car drifted slightly toward the sedan, which was also braking. When his car slid into it, the sound of wrenching, screaming metal filled his ears. He yanked the wheel hard to the left as the windshield exploded; he hadn’t heard the shots. With tires squealing, he made it into the alley. Two more rounds slammed into the back of the car. He hadn’t seen or heard a weapon fire. Without options now, the sedan charged on down the street.

  Brad fought for control of the car, his vision hampered by the shattered windshield. Despite his efforts, he bounced two trash cans high in the air and tore out a dozen feet of grape-stake fencing before he could center the rushing car in the alley.

  A dozen turns later, he pulled to a stop on a quiet residential street. In the dark shadow of a giant elm tree, he killed his lights, but kept the engine running. He was careful to keep his foot off the brake while watching to his right and in his rearview mirror. He dropped his hands to his lap in an effort to reduce the shaking. This reflex action was automatic now, learned long ago. Slow, deep breaths were his answer to the tremble in his legs and the ache in his kidneys.

  Within minutes, only the ache in his kidneys remained and it had diminished. His hands were steady when he returned them to the wheel. The fear in his gut was a living thing. He did not take his eyes from the street.

  His thoughts raced wildly in a variety of directions. If someone wanted him dead, he was a threat. Maybe there was something he could find. Maybe he’d already found it and didn’t know it. Hank’s place was out; too many people might look for him there. What next? Josie?

  He searched deeply and found her address buried beneath growing frustration that could easily convert to anger. He waited another five minutes, watching the empty street, then slipped from the car and opened the trunk.

  Using the lug wrench, he knocked out the rest of the windshield with four quick strokes. He tossed the wrench to the floor, brushed shattered glass off the seat, and drove quietly away. Freeways were out. He didn’t want to answer any police questions just now. Avoiding even major surface streets, he drifted south and west toward the Hollywood Hills. It was slow going, but he wasn’t in a hurry.

  * * *

  Josie’s apartment was in a large, three-story complex two blocks west of Haskel. He drove into the underground garage and parked in a back corner. A few yards from the car, he turned and looked at it. Even in the dimly lit garage, the shattered windshield was clearly visible. And the two bullet holes in the rear were at least holes that shouldn’t be there. Even more obvious was the torn rear fender; the dark blue streaks of paint on the light beige screamed for attention.

  He noticed a car to his left, draped with a cover. He moved closer; it was coated with dust. Gambling the owner would not need the car for awhile, he grabbed the cover and draped it neatly over the rental. Satisfied, he moved up the stairs to the lobby.

  From the directory, he got Josie’s apartment number. The access ways were open balconies. The view of the valley to the north was magnificent, but he took little notice. He rang the bell several times. There was no answer. Despite the heavy drapes, he could see the switch of an alarm system beside the door. The window was also wired.

  Back down in the underground garage, he searched for the power box. He found it underneath the bottom of the stairs. As a convenience for tenants, no doubt, the padlock meant to secure the box was locked with the panel open. Each switch was labeled with the apartment number. He threw the switch to Josie’s apartment, cutting off all power.

  Back at her apartment window, he slipped out of his jacket, draped it over his hands and drove both fists through the edge of the glass. There was surprisingly little sound as broken shreds of glass fell to the inside onto the carpeted floor.

  He waited, motionless for several seconds. A good alarm system has battery backup, but all was quiet. He reached quickly inside and unlatched the bolt. Within moments he was in the apartment, the door closed behind him. He waited by the broken window, listening for any indication he’d been seen or heard.

  Satisfied, he turned his attention to the broken alarm system. He moved silently to the kitchen and rummaged about. He found a kitchen knife, extension cord, and a roll of scotch tape.

  Back at the window, he cut wire as needed from the extension cord. He used tape to insulate the twisted connections he made. He yanked the wires from the switch on the doorjamb. With more wire and tape, he created a closed circuit. He left the door latched, but unlocked, and returned to the basement garage. He reset power to the apartment, listening for any sign of alarm. There was none.

  Back inside her apartment, he turned on a light and made a quick tour. It was neat and clean, expensively furnished. Creative good taste and style were evidenced throughout. There was an authoritative feel to it. The little knickknacks often found in a woman’s place were markedly absent.

  He found the phone and dialed Hank. He wasn’t in. He left a message, saying only he wouldn’t be able to see him tonight, that he was with a lady. He hoped Hank would understand.

  A different reaction began to take hold, a feeling of lethargy enveloped him. For now, he didn’t care who’d killed whom, only that he be left out of it. He located the Toshiba tuner. At the low end of the dial, he found what he wanted. Brubeck laid mellow sound into every corner of the room. He set the volume low, turned out the lights and lay down on the couch to listen, to quiet his racing thoughts. The couch was comfortable.

  * * *

  The slam of the apartment door woke Brad with a start. Josie, her .357 clenched in her right hand, towered over him. “What in the hell is this?” There was no sympathy or understanding that Brad could see. He’d forgotten she was so tall and wondered how he could have.

  “Well?” she snapped.

  He tried fire against fire. “You wouldn’t call so—”

  “Crap! Your money doesn’t give you the right to break in here.” She stalked to the stereo and snapped it off.

  “How’d you beat the alarm?” she demanded.

  He told her. She threw her hands toward the ceiling. Whether she was asking for guidance or silently screaming, Brad couldn’t tell. “Someone tried to kill me,” he said evenly into the brief silence.

  “Dark sedan?”

  He nodded, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “Later.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Where’s your car?”

  “Downstairs. It’s beat up some.”

  “Terrific. The police will have it before morning.”

  He explained about the car cover. She looked at him oddly. A small frown creased her forehead. “That ought to work. Belongs to the Brandasens. They won’t be back for a week or so.” She studied him intently for several moments. “You bother me, Brad Ashton. You really do.” She took another deep breath. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Moments later, the bedroom door closed firmly behind her.

  He listened to faint sounds from behind the door fade into silence. Sleep escaped him. Too many notions whirled and scrambled through his head. He sketched light fantasies of opening her door, of her arms inviting him into her bed. This ended abruptly, blasted by the memory of bullets and his lucky dash down the alley.

  * * *

  Roberto Sanchez was nervous. He wondered what Brad Ashton had concluded about what he had seen. But it was the names of Gates and Talbert that were uppermost in his mind. Was he next?

  He paced the living room of the expensive apartment, trying to think it through. He knew he was important to the operation, third in command, actually. He knew all the players; he’d insisted on that. Certainly there’d never been any slips, unless Ashton’s interruption counted. He knew Sam Gates could easily be replaced;
couriers were always available. And Jason Talbert had done his job; they could use the fake parts he’d made indefinitely.

  His thoughts turned to the woman, and he felt himself growing, remembering the night he’d been introduced to her. Lydia Allison was special. The way she could use her tongue to tease, to pleasure and to tease further, nearly beyond endurance. Then to take all of him deeply. Never had he known such as she.

  He stopped pacing, remembering Lydia’s hard refusals to further meetings, his unanswered calls. It had been difficult, but he’d come to understand he was not important to her. And she was dead.

  That decided it. Importance was a fleeting thing. If she was of so little importance she was dead, he was not really important at all. It was past time.

  Hastily he gathered what he needed and stuffed it into a travel-all bag. He closed the door behind him and started toward the parking area.

  A man walked toward him; light flickered briefly in the red stone of his ring. Sanchez knew it was too late, but he wheeled and ran. He heard a soft thud. He didn’t know it, but it was his kidney exploding that dashed him with cold piercing pain. He remembered falling, tumbling, then nothing. He did not hear the second shot fired into the top of his head.

  CHAPTER 9

  Friday

  The slap of the cast iron frying pan on the stove woke him. Groggy, Brad crawled up the back of the couch to see into the kitchen.

  “You’re difficult to wake up,” Josie said brightly.

  “Only in the middle of the night,” he mumbled, wondering if she was still angry.

  “It’s seven.” The drapes were open and sunlight flooded the room. Brad glanced at the gaping hole in the window and felt a hard twinge of guilt.

  “Fix it,” she said. “Find some wood.” She had laid a hammer and nails on the window sill. “Try out back of the building.”

  Dutifully, still groggy from ragged sleep, he struggled up from the couch. Once upright, his head began to clear. Awed by the rush of sounds from the kitchen, he left the apartment. Behind the building, he found a sheet of plywood, four-foot square. He returned to the window and nailed the wood in place. Back inside, he turned cautiously toward the kitchen, carrying the hammer and remaining nails.

  “Still mad?” he asked.

  “Yes. But mostly at myself. I know better than to forget to check the battery in the backup system.”

  “Maybe a key lock on the inside?” he asked, testing.

  “I should have thought of it myself. Here.” She handed him a plate. “Eat.”

  The ham and eggs disappeared quickly. The coffee was strong and hot.

  “Have you any idea who tried to kill you?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied. Whatever lightness had existed was gone. “Didn’t get a look. Was a little busy staying on the road.”

  “I looked at the car this morning,” she said. “You were fortunate.”

  He nodded acceptance, knowing she was right. “You were following me, too?”

  She nodded. “Sgt. Walters suggested it. I was a little too close. I almost ran into a pole myself. But it worked out. When the police arrived, I stayed close. Feldersen and his partner are federal agents, but they’re DEA, not CIA.”

  “Why would they say CIA?”

  “That puzzles me, too.” She laughed lightly. “Perhaps it’s that precious image the CIA has of being a bunch of foul-ups. They may feel to call themselves CIA is good cover.”

  “Doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Perhaps it does. When they told you they were CIA, they kept you from thinking of narcotics. Right?”

  “I wouldn’t have known what to think anyway,” he replied disgustedly. He thought a moment, grasping for any kind of straw. “Feldersen and Cogswell were interested in Tuckman. Maybe he’s smuggling.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Maybe he wants Overnite Air to expand his operation. Maybe he killed Gerald because he couldn’t make a deal. If Lydia dead made it easier, maybe he killed her. When I didn’t run, he tried to kill me, too. With me gone or dead, he could leave me with both murders.”

  “That seems unlikely,” she said with a sigh. “But I would like to know how Tuckman’s case changed with each death.” Mentally she drifted off as if reviewing her thoughts.

  Brad took advantage of the moment to study the way the early sun highlighted her hair. She caught him at it and came back with a start. “Take care. I’m in no mood . . .”

  “The light from the window is doing real trick things with your hair. There’s more red than I thought.” The minute he said it, he wished he hadn’t. He could feel the blush on his face.

  “It’s dirty and ratty. I haven’t washed it in over a week,” she said softly. “Let’s keep our mind on business, shall we?”

  Brad nodded, still blushing.

  “Tell me about Overnite Air,” she said.

  He related in detail everything he’d seen or heard. “Since they’re losing money, I can’t see why Tuckman wants it. And Talbert dead may mean something. But I don’t see a good idea in any of this.”

  “It’s too soon to tell,” she commented. “Any little thing could be vital.” She paused, then continued, “I’ve been checking with Lydia’s neighbors. I’ve started on her acquaintances. All I found was what we already knew; your ex-wife was not a very nice woman.

  “Yesterday I checked with people who serviced her place. I learned a lot more about her, but only one item may help. The man who took care of her pool had orders not to enter the yard if there was a car parked in front. From the leer he gave me, I knew he understood why. Lydia hadn’t wanted any interruptions to fun and games. Monday at 3:35, he stopped by, but drove on because of a parked car. He has it logged with his other calls.”

  “That’s about the right time.”

  She nodded. “He didn’t see anyone. The car was backed up to the front door on the grass. He was puzzled about that. So am I.”

  “The way the yard is landscaped,” Brad said, “with that mound beside the front walk, it would be tricky getting a car backed up to the door.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I’m certain he saw the car the murderer drove, but that’s all there is. He wasn’t even sure of the color. A light blue or perhaps green.” She was silent a moment. “I’ll try to find out what cars Tuckman has available and where he was at the time.”

  “It’d be nice if he owned a dark blue sedan streaked with beige paint,” Brad said, with a hint of longing. He stood up and stretched.

  “If you want to shave, there’s a razor in the shower.”

  “Prepared?”

  “Go jump,” she said. “I use it on my legs.”

  He showered quickly. The razor blade wasn’t up to the task; it pulled out more whiskers than it cut. When he returned to the kitchen, Josie was looking out the window, her forehead furrowed in thought. When he sat back down at the table, she rose. He watched as she poured him a cup of coffee, then sat back down and handed it across the table.

  “Brad, about the money.” She hesitated.

  “Need more?”

  “What if I did? Can you afford it? I’ve got this feeling you gave me everything you had.”

  He smiled. “I’ve more.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  “In that case, I need more. I’ve got to buy some information and possibly help as well.” She watched him speculatively.

  “My credit’s no good?”

  “It has dropped considerably since I looked at your car.”

  He lifted his shirt, unbuckled the money belt and tossed it onto the table.

  She looked at it thoughtfully, picked a pocket, opened it and thumbed through the bills it contained. She re-snapped the pocket and counted the number of pockets with her eyes. “If I have this your credit is excellent. Have you more?” she asked softly.

  “I’ve a couple thou in my wallet. But I can get more if we need it.”

  She lifted the belt as if weighing it,
then let it fall back to the table. “That’s a lot of money.” Her face showed suspicion.

  “It’s legit. You know I play poker,” he added as explanation.

  “How much is there?”

  “About sixty thou.”

  “Either you are very good or you cheat.”

  “I’m better than most. Got a place for that?”

  “How about a bank?”

  “Rather you had it in case something goes wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to find the killer even if I’m not around.”

  She returned his hard look with a hardness of her own. Finally she picked up the belt and walked into the bedroom. Brad followed. She sat on her heels in a corner of the closet. He watched the play of muscles across her shoulders and the way she brushed her hair out of her eyes. He could see the safe as she leaned forward and tucked the belt inside.

  Satisfied, he returned to the living room. Maybe two good men could carry the safe a short way, but first they’d have to break it loose from concrete. And there weren’t many who could open it. Having inherited the couch, in a way, he sat at one end, leaning back against the armrest. The air was clear; he could see through the window across the valley to the mountains.

  “When Josie returned, he asked, “Use the phone?” She picked it up and brought it to him, untangling the long cord. When she sat down, he could see her suspicion had been replaced by puzzlement. He dialed.

  “Detectives. Sgt. Walters.”

  “Ashton.”

  “You where I think you are?”

  “Expect so.” Brad could picture Hank’s lazy smile changing into a grin. And he could see the hardness take over the dark eyes as he related last night’s chase.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Nervous, is all.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “None.”

  Hank was silent for a long while. “There’s more news. A guy by the name of Roberto Sanchez was gunned down last night. He worked for Overnite Air. Know him?”

  “Met him.” He could see Sanchez scowling at him from the service platform under the wing of the C47.

  “It makes things kinda interesting. That’s two mechanics in two nights, both workin’ at Overnite. And there’s a third body; Sam Gates was killed Tuesday night with the same .38. You may get nothin’ working there, but your hunch about that airline looks real good right now. What’s the plan?”