“Yes, anything.”
“Can you, once again, drag Marcus over to the office?”
“I don’t know…”
“How about if it’s good enough to get you authorized to break into whatever’s showing during prime time.”
There was a half-second pause, then she said, “We’re coming.”
**
I filled them in and Emma showed she was a real pro. She had Marcus film her and kept me off camera. The Network’s source feed truck was outside and beaming the signal straight to all networks.
She said, “We have information from reliable sources that Private Investigator Ronald Baca, who was earlier this day involved in the horrific shootout in Culver City, has discovered a missing cache of top secret materials. These materials were initially hidden from criminals who wished to sell them to known enemies of the United States. Mr. Baca hopes to keep them safe until such time as he can turn them over to the proper authorities, thus preventing a terrorist attack.” She expounded for another two minutes, then signed off.
When she was through, I said, “Great job you two.”
Emma said, “Now what do we do?”
“You and Marcus can go back to the station.”
“What about you?”
“I expect to get a call here in a few minutes; meanwhile I need to keep moving so the authorities don’t find me too fast.”
They left and a minute later, as I pulled out on the street my phone rang. I said, “Military terrorist equipment for rent or trade.”
Berenko said, “Still the clown.”
“You ready to trade Jett for what I’ve got?”
“You’ll be happy to know I haven’t started working on her.”
“Keep her that way and let’s get this done.”
“If you try anything, she dies. Don’t bring anyone, don’t call anyone, understand.”
“Just you and me, cowboy,” I said.
Berenko said, “Continue driving the direction you are going. I’ll call you again in five minutes with further instructions.”
“Keep Jett safe,” I said.
“Do your part and she will be fine.” He hung up and I continued driving, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles were white.
Five minutes later, I stopped at a red light and the phone rang. Berenko said, “Make a U-turn and go the opposite way.” Click. So much for conversation. The U-turn was an easy way to see if I had any law enforcement help following me. I wasn’t risking Jett’s life, so he had no worry, but Berenko was thorough, so was taking no chances.
Half an hour and three more U-turns later, Berenko called again and said, “La Brea Tar Pits, at the mammoths.” Click.
“Oh heck yes,” I said out loud, “You bet, let’s meet at a place where killing’s been a regular occurrence for the last twenty frickin’ thousand years.”
CHAPTER 17
I parked along Wilshire and walked down so I could circle by the Page Museum and look things over as I went. The day was warm and the smell of asphalt from the tar pools carried over the area like it does on summer days when contractors re-tar roofs.
I entered Hancock Park and followed the pathway that snaked through the grounds, going by plants and small gooey seeps and finally along the border of the largest pool, where a layer of water hid the dark asphalt underneath. Bubbles worked to the surface, sending golf ball-sized, rainbow-colored domes floating across the water.
As I glanced over to one small inlet, I saw a dove struggling against the sticky trap that held it. That area had a dusting of leaves and dirt concealing the liquid asphalt, and that had been enough to fool the bird into landing. He would never get out. I hoped I’d have better luck.