We Know

I said, "Wait until morning. Then page him to call you back. Tell him you gave me the necklace, but I told you I left it in my truck when I moved parking spaces. I had you follow me to the beach, but I lost you on the way. You spent a while looking for me, then went back to your place for the night. When you came back to the vacant apartment, you saw I'd broken in and gone through your stuff. I might've gotten his pager number, which you kept written down on the back of a business card in your overnight bag."

"What if he hurts me anyways?"

"You don't know anything. You're as useless alive as you are dead."

"Thanks."

"If you cross me on this," I said, "I'll make sure he knows you told me everything."

The fear in her eyes confirmed she'd been telling the truth, at least about some of it.

I stuck out my hand, and we shook.

Trust no one.

The dark palm trunks rose, breaking up the distant lights of downtown like the bars of a cell. Lotuses floated, black latticework along the lake edges. Toward the middle the fountain spouted, misting and slapping water. Bedded down in a scratchy stand of bushes, I swept my night-vision binoculars again past the garbage can next to the pretzel stand. A drug deal seemed to be going down by the Oriental bridge, but that's Echo Park for you. A homeless woman lay on her substantial stomach at the lake's brink, letting her tangled hair dangle in the water. A black teenager wheeled by on a dirt bike so small that his knees rose to his chest when he pedaled. Aside from an elderly man dumping a lemonade, no one had gone near the garbage can, despite the fact that I'd paged Kim Kendall's employer to the drop two hours ago.

My excitement was palpable as I hid there in the pseudobrush, waiting to see who would stroll up and check behind that trash-can lid. Sever? The agent I'd met at Caruthers's? Charlie, back from the dead again? Or, more likely, a perfect stranger, like Slim, who was no more to me than a windshield was to a bug.

I thought about how Kim Kendall's employer had kept her waiting twenty minutes in her car on Runyon Canyon while he got the lay of the surrounding darkness, and my mind flipped to Liffman's shaggy beard and eye patch and another of his countless rules: Even when you're spying on them, they could be spying on you.

I widened my search to see if I could spot another watcher. The park, rendered video-game green through my binocs, seemed to flicker with hidden life. Druggies. Stray cats. I traced the rim of the lake, rechecking the nighttime loungers, then explored the tree trunks and the shadows around the stairs. When I swung the lenses south up the concrete embankment, at first I was unsure what I was seeing by the bushes at the base of the fence. The image resolved swiftly, causing me to tighten my hands around the binoculars.

A sniper sitting, partially obscured by branches, peering through a scope directly at me. He tensed, surprised to find me looking back, and pulled his head away from the eye guard. I stared with panicked horror at the face of my mother's latest husband.

Chapter 25

I drew my hand across the nape of my neck, and it came away with blood. Branches had whipped my skin as I'd flung myself back into the bushes at Echo Park. I'd sprinted away in a stooped combat run, doing my best to get tree trunks and outcroppings between me and the sniper rifle. Now, crouched in the darkness along Callie's big white house, I waited and watched for headlights. They came, boring into the night, and then an Explorer turned in to the driveway.

I'd raced to Pasadena, figuring that Steve would spend at least a little time trying to track me down at the park. He wouldn't expect me to hurry back to the snake's nest. Through my jittery drive, the ramifications had begun to settle in. A conspiracy so serious they'd had someone marry Callie just to keep an eye on her.

Steve parked the big SUV in the driveway and hopped out, brazenly carrying his rifle case with him. He had his handgun in a hip holster, as I hoped he would. As he headed for the door, I sneaked up behind and, unsnapping the thumb break, tugged the Glock from his holster. I pressed the barrel to the back of his head. Satisfying.

He dropped the rifle and raised his hands.

I could barely hear my voice over the blood rushing my ears. "Not an inch."

"Nick? You gonna shoot me?" "Should I?"

"What are you into?"

"You tell me. Is Emily home?"

"She's at her mother's. Why the hell do you-" He jerked around, so I hit him on the side of the head with a stock-enforced fist. He reeled but didn't go down, and then he put his hands on his knees and coughed. A spot of drool hit the pavement.

"Because she doesn't deserve to see you like this," I said.