Nica of Los Angeles Page 20

  "This gig is important to me, too. Anya and Anwyl must succeed. The alternatives are ridiculous. You sure you're ready to do this thing?"

  "I am."

  "Then I reckon I am too."

  We stared at our reason to be in Hancock Park, a Spanish revival gem behind chain link fence with a ten-foot sign. Digby Construction. Specialists in historic restorations. Since 1952. I thought I recognized the house as the home of a former governor - or maybe the actor who played him in a movie.

  Digby Construction had also built the Henrietta's penthouse floor, and the extra stairs that access the roof. The work was done a decade ago and if there had been other bids for the job, no record of them had been saved. I learned that by nosing through files in the Henrietta's office. Some of them, I even had permission to read.

  We stared at the site, or what we could see of it. Green cloth covered the fencing and blocked our view, except where the gate was open and a quartet of workers unloaded oak plank flooring from a flatbed and carried it inside. Just inside the gate was a one-room trailer that had to be the construction office. For the last half hour, we had tossed around excuses - pardon moi, reasons - for us to walk into that office. They were as convincing as a second-hand toupee.

  "Let's just do it. I'll think of something when I have to." I grabbed the door handle, but before I could let myself out, Hernandez yanked me into his lap. My smartass reaction got buried in his thigh. My memory of what I said got lost in whiteout fear when he whispered, "The Cobra."

  I didn't collapse on the floor. I slid to the floor, the better to turn and ever so slowly peek over the bottom of the window. The Cobra stood at the door of the trailer with a clipboard, then walked to the truck and climbed into the driver's seat.

  The truck would go right by us and rode higher than us. We had nowhere to hide from his view.

  Hernandez started his pickup and drove away from the gate, then turned on the first, narrow cross street. A truck as wide as the flatbed could not turn until it got to the street with the signal, two blocks up.

  It was a what if scene I couldn't chase out of my head. Had we headed for the construction office a few seconds earlier, we would have walked right into him. I got the shivering and babbling under control and pulled myself onto my seat. "Follow his truck."

  Hernandez looked at me. "We need back-up."

  "No way will we engage, but let's get the license plate number and see where he's going."

  Hernandez kept far back. We followed the flatbed southeast to University of Southern California, where it pulled into a gate off Vermont and disappeared on campus. Near the gate was a construction site. "Looks like the Cobra is remodeling those dorms."

  We had been near the Cobra about as much as I could handle. Hernandez must have felt similarly, because without discussion he headed us back to Hancock Park.

  While the flatbed had waited its turn to enter the gate at USC, we got close enough to snare all but the last number of the license plate. En route to Hancock Park, through the magic of mobile banking and internet databasing, I used my favorite disreputable enterprise to query Department of Motor Vehicle records ten times, for each of the last digit options. It was skill I'd learned during my short career as the brains of a repo team.

  "There is only one truck among the candidate license plates. The last digit is a seven and the truck belongs to Digby Construction."

  We parked across and down the street, then walked onto the construction site together. I headed up the ramp to the trailer that served as office; Hernandez hung around outside, seemingly engrossed in texting while he watched for flatbed trucks and other dangers.

  Hernandez was nervous about who or what we would encounter at the construction site. I wasn't nervous. I was terrified. Halfway up the ramp, I froze. Every time I turned my head, just outside my periphery I saw the Cobra. The Cysts. Jackhammers inside the garage mimicked the lockstep march of the Entourage. To unfreeze, I thought of the dangers facing Miles and strode forward to open the door to the trailer.

  File cabinets, copier, water cooler, fridge. None of them leaped out to grab me. At the far end of the trailer, two hardhats leaned on a table, discussing an unrolled blueprint and a laptop screen. They looked up when the door opened, returned to their blueprint when they didn't recognize me. At the desk just inside the door, a woman wore a TMI summer frock that showcased the articulated hams she used as arms. She stopped punching a number into her desk phone and a sausage finger hovered over the number pad. "Help you?" Her voice was gruff yet not unfriendly.

  "Hi, yes, I just happened to drive by and noticed you specialize in historic renovations. I wanted to get your number for my condo association."

  She hung up the phone, reluctantly but not resentfully.

  "And if you have any kind of brochure, or reference list of satisfied customers - anything to reassure my Association. The work is overdue, but they are so afraid of a botched job. How long have you been in the business, by the way?"

  Outside, Hernandez was right where I'd left him, seemingly absorbed in an exchange of texts. Which meant that he watched every corner of the site and the street.

  "And?" he greeted me. We strolled to the truck at a quicker pace than we had entered. The door locks engaged with clicks louder than gunshots.

  "I haven't been in many construction offices but that one seemed normal."

  "I saw two guys who felt out of Frame, but not on the crew. They walked through the site and down the street." As Hernandez jammed the truck into gear, he handed me his phone, queued to blurry photos of the two guys.

  I couldn't decide whether I detected Other Framedness. "Maybe there's a Connector nearby."

  "Could be. We aren't looking for it without backup."

  "Agreed."

  Back at the Henrietta, we snooped on-line and came up with eleven addresses of renovations by Digby Construction. The USC dorm was not among them. The company had a web site that hadn't been altered since it was launched three years before, but that wasn't unusual for a small business. The web pages boasted that Digby had decades of experience, but all the work we could find had been done in the last three years. The Henrietta was the earliest renovation we knew about, and it wasn't listed on line. So we had found some info, of uncertain value and unclear point.

  We drove to the renovation addresses and we made it to five of the eleven before it got too dark to see the buildings. The sites were all over the damned place. Apparently Digby worked all over Los Angeles County.

  "I see nothing untoward," I said, after we scrutinized each building.

  "You like that word, don't you?" Hernandez said at the fifth untoward.

  "Who could not?"

  "I'm ready to call it a night. How about you?"

  I nodded needlessly; the truck was already headed back to the Henrietta. "Yeah, visits to the other six will have to wait until we get back." Tomorrow morning was when we would transport Ziti and Zasu to safety.

  I put my feet up on the dash, which exposed my new bangle, the ankle observer. A bike lock for my body. "When I get back from our next trip, as soon as they revoke my bail, I want you to visit me in jail."

  Hernandez studied the steel cable and electronics encased in flexible clear plastic. "That's got to be the antenna. We can cut it right here to terminate the signal."

  "Can we adjust it to pick up Sirius?"

  "You don't like my music?"

  "I love your music," I said, heartfelt, which interfered with our banter. Hernandez continued to examine the ankle bracelet or my ankle.

  "Tell me again what was funky when they locked this thing on you."

  "I met my lawyer at one of the government buildings downtown, but the office was plainwrap, no visible affiliations. No logos, no acronyms. No cops there, either, just me and my lawyer. Some faceless bureaucrat straps this on and answers 'I don't know' to every question I ask, then interrupts me with 'Next!' and I'm outta there and they're pulling the next anklet from a big box of anklets. The next person i
s strapped and I'm hearing another 'Next!' by the time we walk back to the hall. With that size box, half the residents in L.A. County must be wearing these things."

  "That works in your favor. They won't have the staff to monitor that many people. With so many signals, they might not notice when yours shuts off. And remember, we don't know what the ankle GPS will do when you leave this Frame."

  "Do you think it will function out of this Frame?"

  "No. But there's no point worrying about what we can't control."

  "Words to live by." I got out and shut the door, leaned in the window. We studied each other's faces for a time. "See you at dawn."

  26. The Future I'd Dreaded For Years

  Anwyl and Hernandez arrived the next morning on the same elevator. I was ready to go. "Beautiful day," I greeted them, pointing to my patch of sunrise through the skylight.

  "All days are beautiful." Anwyl did not look up. He was in a hurry and swept us out of my office, down to the garage, and into the truck. He pulled a densely packed knapsack from under his tunic and set it in the truck bed. Supplies, I reckoned.

  He paused his forward momentum and waited until I met his gaze. "Your body will suffer today, Nica, as we must traverse many Frames. I can hold you just shy of permanent damage but can do no better. It is yours to decide whether that is sufficient. I need you with me to retrieve our witnesses, but thereafter, I see no shame, should you decide to remain here."

  "Are you kidding?"

  "I do not kid."

  "That was a rhetorical - never mind. No. I'm not staying home. I'm in all the way. It's too late to stop now."

  He nodded and grimaced a smile. A solemn silence filled the truck as we headed out. I was surprised that Hernandez hadn't chimed an agreement.

  On the way to Edith's hideout to fetch Zasu, Anwyl asked about our efforts related to Digby Construction. He wanted to know more - lots more than we knew.

  "I've done construction," Hernandez volunteered. "They need masons and I've done masonry. I talked with a guy yesterday who said to stop by tomorrow. I can get on the crew there."

  Anwyl nodded. "A valuable contribution. Watch carefully when there and take no unnecessary risks."

  "But we might not be back by tomorrow." Why did it feel like they were having a different conversation than the one I was in?

  Hernandez replied, "Of that I am aware. We do not know how long you will be out of Frame, so I cannot participate in this part of the adventure."

  "You aren't coming." I was the only one surprised, which meant Hernandez must have discussed this with Anwyl before they got to my office. Of all the times for petty kneejerk, I felt jealous that Hernandez had talked to Anwyl without me. But I got myself over it. Jealousy is one of the most worthless forms of worry.

  "As you know, I regret when I cannot participate. I will still help on this end, by putting eyes on Digby."

  "But what if the Cobra recognizes you?"

  "I must not let that happen. Anwyl, can the Cobra read thoughts? Is that why Nica heard him inside her head?"

  "I do not know. It is always safest to keep a blank mind."

  A few miles elapsed as I thought that one over. On other days, it would have conjured jokes aplenty, but Anwyl's mood cast solemnity over this day. I searched for a topic everyday enough to lighten the sense of import.

  "Hey Anwyl, we've started but never finished discussing this. In my Frame, people need something called money in order to live."

  "I am familiar with the concept of money."

  "If Hernandez is snooping at Digby, he'll lose hours at the Henrietta. He needs to be paid. We don't know that he'll ever see money from Digby."

  I think this embarrassed Hernandez, because he tweaked the subject away from himself. "Do other Frames have money?"

  "Everything exists somewhere," Anwyl replied. "As to your compensation, Anya has already paid two installments of ten thousand to each of you."

  Holy shit. Those were the same amounts as the two mystery deposits that the cops held against me. "She did not give me any money."

  "No, she arranged for deposits to your banks." He recited the words as though they were terms from another language, which I suppose they were. Well, that explained that. At some point it might be worthwhile to try to explain how much grief the deposits had caused me.

  Hernandez looked like he needed time to finish his reaction to the news that he had earned an unexpected $20k, so I joked, "A deposit from Anya comes from a very offshore account."

  On another morning this might have earned a laugh, but there were no laughs in any of us. The closer Zasu and Ziti got to safety, the tenser I became. If the Cysts were going to show up, they would have to do it soon, which meant each moment could be my last without them. The cruel menace underlying our last encounter had become more evident upon reflection. While I was with them, I had been so focused on having no thoughts worth reading that I was oblivious to their malice until later. I hated to succumb to fear but there it was. The Cysts made me afraid.

  I had texted Detective Patti Henson before breakfast, and when we arrived, Zasu was ready to leave. She and Edith sat on the couch, sharing a blanket and watching Grey's Anatomy. They had the tousled, droop-eyed look of girls on the far end of a slumber party. Their good-byes included extensive hugs, whispers, and giggles.

  "Thanks again for taking her in," I said.

  "She's a sweetie," Henson replied. "I hear you might buy her a cell phone. Edith will want the number."

  "Okay," I smiled, with a fantasy flash image of Edith and Zasu Skyping across Frames.

  "Court hearing's tomorrow," Henson said to Hernandez. "Okay for Karina to stay here tonight?"

  "I'll drop her by after school."

  "Thanks. See you later."

  "Okay. Catch you then."

  There was no mistaking the chemistry between them. Before I'd come on the scene, they'd been working toward deciding whether to give it a go. Unawares, I'd started my own dabbling with the Hernandez concept. I needed to take a knee and let them play through. I wasn't looking for the real thing; maybe they could find it if I didn't get in the way.

  "Zasu, we need to go," I terminated my musings and the hugs when Anwyl loomed at the door. I couldn't meet his eye. His gaze was skittish today and I wondered what was new that he hadn't shared.

  Henson still didn't like Anwyl. She watched him with a cop's suspicion and flinched when he touched Zasu's shoulder to guide the girl out the door.

  He had all four of us get in the truck cab. I hoped Henson wouldn't report us for seat belt infraction. As soon as we were out of sight around a corner, Anwyl said, "Zasu, this Neutral Frame limits my ability to protect you, and when you can be seen with me it draws attention that we do not desire. We will transport you from this Frame as quickly as possible. Until then, you must become small." He showed her that his boots had a flapped compartment at the top that might hold a matchbook. Or Zasu.

  She studied the pouch then nodded, then inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. With each breath, she halved her volume. Finally she rolled and folded herself, feet first, and there she was in the seat, the dimensions of matchbook. With grave gentleness, Anwyl slipped her inside the flap on his right boot. "Well done, Zasu."

  "Dude, you ran a red light," I advised Hernandez, without recrimination. Who could drive well while that was happening beside you?

  My own wonder was tempered by the edginess coming from Anwyl. "Something troubles you," I observed. "Have you seen the Cysts?"

  "Not as yet, but my arrival today was oddly watched," he said. "We must away."

  Situations that tensed Anwyl were situations I wished to avoid.

  I gave Benny another call, which made the total two voice mails and three texts, sent and ignored, last night and this morning. He did that regularly, and it was always annoying. Just because you're ready to talk doesn't mean I am, he justified it. Today it guaranteed that when we arrived, he would not have Ziti ready to walk out the door.

  The s
un peeked above the San Gabriel Mountains and the temperature shot up 15 degrees. Today would be a scorcher. It was still early enough that traffic was light, so we reached Ben's Hollywood neighborhood within 20 minutes. Hernandez slowed, searching a parking place. No parking was open the whole length of Ben's block.

  I did a triple take at a late model silver sedan, parked near the corner. As Hernandez made a quasi-legal U-turn, I looked through the sedan's windshield. Inside, Aurelio and Norma Garcia sat stiff, wide-eyed, and staring. They looked horrified, confused, and dead.

  Before I could point them out, Anwyl tensed and his head jerked toward Ben's complex. He growled and bolted from the truck. I ran after him. Hernandez double-parked and kept the engine idling.

  The courtyard was empty at this time of day. The fountain had malfunctioned and the courtyard echoed with the water's erratic burble, like gas released from a tar pit.

  Ben's door was closed but not locked. Inside his apartment, the only light came from the open oven, which cast long thick shadows into the living room.

  Inside was the future I'd dreaded for years. Ben slumped on the floor in his living room, his legs splayed and tangled with those of the coffee table, which was on its side. His eyes not entirely closed, his mouth open, his head too heavy for his neck to hold upright.

  I ran to him, pushed him, shook him, yelled his name. His head lolled forth and back with a different rhythm than his shoulders as I snapped them. I jammed my fingers on his throat, shoved my ear against his nose. Maybe a pulse. Maybe an exhale. Skin cold and sticky. This had to be an OD.

  Did he have a landline phone? I needed to call 911. I stumbled over to the wall switch, and even before I flipped the light switch I became aware. That Anwyl ran from one spot to another, searching. That there was no sign of Ziti. That there were signs of struggle in a chair overturned, a painting tilted, a shelf of LPs and CDs collapsed and scattered, a computer monitor on its back. At each struggle point were brown smears.