We went over fences and through vegetable gardens and between houses. We checked each street for police, then crossed steadily and with purpose as if two white guys on foot were an everyday thing in South Central Los Angeles. Twice we had to pull back between houses for passing patrol units, and once we surprised an elderly woman coming out of her home with a basket of wet laundry. I gave her my best Dan Aykroyd. "Gas company. We've had reports of a leak." The Aykroyd works every time.
We moved from her yard to the next, and worked our way north.
More black-and-whites roared past, and sirens that started far away drew close. The cops knew that anybody who made it through the gates would be on foot, so they'd concentrate their people within a close radius. More and more cops would flood into the surrounding streets, and pretty soon there would be helicopters. Pike said, "We need wheels."
"They impounded my car. You think they got the Jeep?"
"I was on the next street over. They didn't know about it."
"That makes it, what, ten or twelve blocks from here? Might as well be in Fresno."
Pike said, "If we have limits, they are self-imposed." Always count on Pike for something like that.
Two black-and-whites sped east on Florence under the freeway. After they passed, we trotted west into an Arco station that had one of those little Minimart places. A couple of cars sat at the pumps, and a Hostess delivery van sat at the Minimart. A young black guy in his early twenties got out of the van with a box of baked goods and went into the Minimart. Pike said, "Wheels."
"Maybe he'll give us a ride."
Pike frowned.
The delivery guy came out of the Minimart, threw his box into the van, and climbed in after it. I went up to his window and said, "Excuse me. We need a lift about ten blocks west of here. Think you could help?"
The delivery guy said, "Hey, sure. No problem."
Only in L.A.
Maybe ten minutes later he dropped us off at Joe Pike's Cherokee. Joe keeps a spare key duct-taped to the inside of the front fender. He found it, unlocked the cab, and we climbed inside. Joe dug under the dash and came out with a plastic bag containing five hundred dollars in cash, a driver's license that said his name was Fred C. Larson, a Visa card in the same name, and a Walther TPH.22-caliber pocket gun. Be prepared.
I said, "Fred?"
Pike headed toward the freeway. "They'll cover our houses and our businesses."
"We don't go home. We try for Jennifer Sheridan. We've got to get her off the street before D'Muere finds her."
"Where does she live?"
I told him. Pike drove quickly, and neither of us spoke during the ride.
We parked in front of her building maybe forty minutes later and pressed her call button, but no one answered. We pressed more buttons until someone finally buzzed open the glass door and we went up to the third floor.
We were knocking on her door when a woman with two small children came out of the apartment across the hall. The woman was maybe in her forties and heavy across the hips. She made a tsking sound when she saw us and said, "I'd appreciate it if you ask her not to make so much noise tonight. All the hammering woke up Teddi."
I looked at her. "What hammering?"
She pulled the door shut and locked it. The two children ran down the hall. I guess one of them was Teddi. "Well, the knocking. It was so loud it woke Teddi and Teddi woke me and I had to look. It was after two." She squinted at Pike. "Was it you?"
Pike shook his head.
I said, "Someone was hammering at her door after two in the morning?"
The woman nodded, but now she wasn't interested in talking. Her children had disappeared around a corner and she wanted to go after them. "Yes, and someone got quite loud, too. It was very inconsiderate."
"More than one voice?" I was thinking D'Muere.
"I don't believe so." She glanced at Pike again. "Well, I thought it was him but I guess not. Her boyfriend. That big guy. I think he's a police officer."
"Mark Thurman?"
"I don't know his name. We just see him in the hall."
"He was here at two this morning?"
She nodded. "Making a terrible racket. Then they left together." Now she frowned at me and looked at my hair.
I said, "What?"
She gave embarrassed, and then she hurried away down the hall. "I've got to find those damn kids."
I looked at Pike. He said, "You've got something in your hair."
I touched my hair and felt something crusty. My fingers came away speckled red. James Edward Washington's blood. "If she's with Thurman, she's running. If she's running, that means she's safe."
"Until she gets found."
"Yeah."
Thirty minutes later we checked into a motel Pike knew two blocks from the beach in Santa Monica. It was called the Rising Star Motel. Fred C. Larson signed the register.
The room was simple, but functional, with two double beds and a bath and cheap wall paneling that had been scarred by years of transient use. There was a little round table and two chairs by the window, and a TV bolted to a dresser. The bolts looked thick and heavy enough to pin down a Saturn Five.
Pike left after a couple of minutes, and I went into the bathroom and inspected myself.
I went out to the ice machine, brought back a bucket of ice, then peeled off my shirt, put it in the sink, covered it with the ice, and ran in cold water. I wanted to call Mrs. Washington and tell her about James Edward, but I didn't. James Edward Washington's blood was on my shirt and in my hair. How could I tell her about that? When the shirt was soaking, I took off the rest of my clothes, went into the shower, and let the water beat into me. The water was hot. I used the little motel soap and a washcloth, and I scrubbed hard at my face and my neck and my hands and my hair, and then at the rest of me. I washed my hair twice. The police had let me wash off; but that had been with Handi Wipes and paper towels and Borax soap. There's only so much you can do with a Handi Wipe. I scrubbed until my skin was pink and my scalp stung with the hot water, and then I got out to see about the shirt. I rubbed the fabric as hard as I had rubbed my skin, but it was too late. The bloodstains were set, and would always be there. How could I tell Ida Leigh Washington about that?
Twenty minutes later there was a double rap at the door and Joe Pike let himself in. He was carrying an olive green Marine Corps duffel and a large grocery bag and he was wearing new sunglasses. The sunglasses would've been the first thing he bought. He put the grocery bag on the little round table and the duffel bag on the bed. He looked at me and nodded. "Better."
"You went by the gun shop?"
He took waist holsters and handguns from the duffel. "Called one of the guys and had him pick up some things. We met at the market."
"Have the cops been by your shop?"
Pike nodded. 'They've got an undercover van parked down the block. It'll be the same at your place, too."
Great.
Pike unwrapped the holsters and inspected them, and then tossed one to me. Clip holsters. We could snap them to our waistbands and wear our shirts out over them for that Miami thug look. Pike handed me a Smith.38. He counted four hundred dollars out of a plain white envelope, handed half to me. "There's food in the bags."
He'd bought soap and deodorant and toothbrushes and paste and razors and the things you need to keep yourself up. He'd also bought a six-pack of cold Thai beer. I put the toiletries in the bathroom, and then we ate. While we ate I called my office to check for messages, but there were none. I called my home next and there were two messages from Jennifer Sheridan. In the first message she identified herself and asked if I was there and, when I didn't answer, she hung up. In the second, she again asked if I was there, but this time when I didn't answer she said that she would call back later tonight. She said that it was very important that she speak with me. She was speaking softly and she didn't sound happy.
Pike watched me listen. "Jennifer?"
"She's going to call later tonight."
Pike stared at me.
"I've got to be there, Joe."
Pike's mouth twitched, and he stood up, ready to go. "If it were easy, it wouldn't be fun."