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I WAS BACK IN the hallway outside the still-turbulent courtroom when Joe and the rest of my US Marshal bodyguards rushed over.
“Looks like the stooges outside on the plaza are going wild after the verdict, Mike,” Big Joe said with concern. “I already radioed down to Larry Burns. We’re going to take you out back through the prisoner paddock.”
“Sounds good, Joe,” I said, walking past him toward the corner of the hallway. “Just let me hit the boys’ room and I’ll be right with you.”
Actually, I didn’t need to use the restroom. I was still massively keyed up after sitting across from Tara’s killers and the last thing I needed was to get back into the coffin of the SUV, no matter how safe it was.
That was why I decided to do what I did next. It was time to cut the apron strings and leave the prisoner entrances to the prisoners from here on out.
I passed right by the bathroom and found the stairwell door and used it and headed down.
Joe was right, I saw immediately when I approached the main entrance in the downstairs lobby. The quote unquote protesters seemed spitting mad where they milled around behind the aluminum sidewalk barricades at the bottom of the courthouse steps. I was just in time to see the action begin. One of the gangbangers knocked one of the barricades over and then there were several loud bangs as the LA riot cops broke out the tear gas. The crowd scattered like leaves on the business end of an air rake, running back out into North Spring Street and the corporate plaza on its opposite side.
“Hey, buddy, you know there’s a side entrance you can use,” one of the court officers manning the metal detectors said to me as I picked up my gun and headed for the front door. “Looks a little hairy out there.”
“That’s OK, friend,” I said, winking as I flashed my shield. “I’m a barber.”
Coming down the steps, I smiled as the LA cops pushed the punks back farther into the corporate park. You could see from the signs lying in the gutter that the protest was pretty much over. The crowd was already breaking up into little groups and going home.
Evildoers had been brought to justice upstairs, and now order had been restored down here. Score one for the good guys. It looked like we’d won. Well, today’s battle, at least.
I walked up Temple Street behind the courthouse. It really was a nice day, temperate, not a hint of a breeze, the intense California light bright and unmoving on the bleached-looking white buildings. My native New Yorker’s impression of LA was that it was beautiful, even perfect in some ways, yet slightly off-putting, like an austere, alluring blonde wearing a slightly strange expression that makes you suddenly wonder if maybe she might be completely out of her mind.
My cell phone went off as I made the corner. It was my US Marshal buddy Joe Kelly. I was about to pick it up, but then I decided to text him back instead.
I’m fine, Joe. I decided I’m going to get back home on my own. If I need you I’ll call.
SEVEN
I FLAGGED DOWN A gypsy cab and headed home.
The whole way back up the 101 to Laurel Canyon, I listened to the Mexican driver behind the wheel play a type of music called narcocorrido. Having become familiar with it in my recent investigations into the cartels, I knew the traditional-sounding Mexican cou
ntry music had gangster-rap-style lyrics about moving dope and taking out your enemies with AK-47s.
Though it had a nice, sad sort of rhythm, considering the fact that the story of my life had recently pretty much become a narcocorrido, I didn’t think I’d be adding it to my iPod playlist anytime soon.
Finally standing in the street out in front of the safe house thirty minutes later, paying the driver, I heard a sudden shriek of rubber. Just south down the curving slope of Kirkwood, I stood and watched as a white Euro-style work van fishtailed off the shoulder and barreled straight toward me.
No, was my weary thought as I watched it come. This couldn’t be happening. The van shrieked again as it came around the closest curve and hit its brakes.
Forgetting the cabdriver, I palmed the stippled grip of my Glock and drew as I hit the driveway, ducked my head, and ran up the steps of the house two at a time.
“Mary Catherine! Seamus!” I yelled as I pounded on the screen door with the pistol barrel.
My shocked-looking nanny, Mary Catherine, had just opened the front door when I heard the rattling metal roll of the van door opening at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mike, Mike! It’s OK! Stand down! It’s OK. It’s me!” came a yell.
I turned. Down the stairs, a large bald guy with a gun was standing over my taxi driver, now lying facedown on the street. Also standing now in the open side doors of the white van was a woman. A very pretty woman in blue fatigues with copper-colored hair.
“Agent Parker. Long time no see. Are you out of your mind?” I screamed.
I should have known, I thought. It was a friend of mine. Emily Parker, special agent of the FBI. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Emily and I had taken down Perrine together less than a month before, and I knew she was still working in LA. I just didn’t know I was her work.
I racked my weapon to make it safe as I came back down the stairs.
“I mean, Emily, you of all people should understand how paranoid I am these days about things like, I don’t know, mysterious vans racing up on me. Is this some kind of practical joke? Why didn’t you tell me you and the FBI were watching my house?”
