26 

DAX BAXTER SLAMMED his Porsche 969 into gear, pointed it at the Centurion main gate and floored it. The car’s 600-horsepower engine had it through sixty mph in two and a half seconds, and the guard only barely got the barrier up in time.

His boss came out of the glass booth. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

“That was Dax Baxter,” his friend said weakly.

His boss picked up the phone in his office and dialed 911.

“This is nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“This is the gate guard at Centurion Studios. A sports car has just left our lot at a high rate of speed and turned left toward the Valley. The license plate number is DAX—Delta Alpha X-ray. He’s gotta be traveling at more than a hundred miles an hour on city streets.”

“We’re on it,” the operator said.

•   •   •

BAXTER WAS WEAVING in and out of three lanes of traffic, narrowly missing other vehicles and pedestrians, one of whom was a Beverly Hills nanny pushing a baby carriage. He blew through a light just turning red and made a hard left turn against the oncoming traffic. In his rearview mirror, at a distance, blue lights began to flash, and some tiny part of his brain registered a whooping noise. He made a hard right turn, went to the middle of the block, slammed on his brakes and turned into a car wash, skirting a line of waiting cars and coming to a stop just as the conveyor belt began to move the vehicle into the sprayer.

He got out, walked into the cashier’s office, and threw a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter. “The works for the Porsche, and keep the change,” he said, taking his cell phone from its holster on his belt. He pressed a speed dial button, and a voice answered. “Send somebody to pick me up,” he said, and gave the address. “Then get a flatbed truck and a car cover here, pick up my Porsche, take it to the studio, and garage it.” He hung up and turned to the cashier. “I’ve got a problem with my Porsche,” he said, “and the dealer is sending a flatbed to pick it up. The keys are in it.”

“Yessir,” the young man said, pocketing the hundred and ringing up sixty dollars.

Dax sat down in a waiting room chair and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a stolen car,” he said, speaking slowly and coherently. When he had made the report he picked up a magazine and pretended to read it. He was seething inside, and it wasn’t going away soon. Fifteen minutes later his Bentley Mulsanne with his driver at the wheel pulled up outside. He watched the car wash crew push the Porsche around a corner, then went and sat in the Bentley until a flatbed truck pulled in and began to load it. When the cover was on the car and the truck had left, he spoke to his driver, giving him an address in the Hollywood Hills. “Take me there and obey the speed limits all the way.”

He pressed the button that raised the soundproof glass panel between the front and rear seats, then took another cell phone from the armrest compartment and made a call.

A man with a thick Russian accent answered.

“Do you know who this is?” Dax asked.

“Yessir, I do,” the man replied.

“I’ll be at the last place where we met in half an hour. You be there, too.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

The cell phone in his pocket rang. “Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Dax Baxter?” a male voice asked.

“It is. Who’s this, and how did you get this number?”

“This is Sergeant Rivera, with the car theft squad at the Beverly Hills Police Department. We’ve got everybody’s number.”

“How can I help you?”

“Did you report a stolen car a few minutes ago?”

“I did.”

“A Porsche 969?”

“Yes.”

“What is a 969? Is that like a 911?”

“Faster and much, much more expensive.”

“Did you see the car taken?”

“I did. I had lunch at Centurion Studios, and as I came out of the commissary I saw the car drive away very fast. I didn’t get a look at the driver. I could hear the car turn onto the city streets—it has a very distinctive sound—and then I called nine-one-one and reported it stolen.”

“What is the value of the car?”

“Eight hundred thousand dollars, give or take.”

“Did you say, eight hundred thousand dollars?”

“I did. I told you it was very, very expensive.”

“What color is it?”

“Silver.”

“Any other distinguishing signs?”

“Google it, you’ll see a very good photograph.” Baxter hung up.

•   •   •

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER the Mulsanne turned into a driveway in the Hollywood Hills. The driver opened the garage door remotely and pulled inside, then closed the door. Dax pressed the button to retract the glass panel, then got out. “Wait here,” he said to the driver, “and open the other garage door. Another car will come in.”

Dax went inside the house. It was still furnished as he had left it seven years before, and it had been regularly cleaned and restocked. He used it for meetings where he didn’t want to be seen. He went to the bar, got some ice from the machine, and poured himself a stiff Macallan 18, a single-malt scotch whiskey, then went and took a chair before the fireplace. His hands were trembling, and he took a big swig of the whiskey.

Shortly, he heard a door open and an irregular footstep. He turned to see the Russian swing into the room on crutches.

“You want a drink?” Dax asked.

“I already had drink,” the man replied, lowering himself into the facing chair.

“So, when are you going to be walking without crutches?”

“Some few days, doctor says.”

“I want you to finish the job you started in Santa Fe.”

The man shook his head vehemently. “I will be off crutches, but it will be long time before I can deal with him.”

“I figured that, so I want you to hire some help, whatever you need.”

“What kind of help?”

“That sex maniac friend of yours—the one my lawyer got off the charges?”

“Bear.”

“That’s right, Igor. I want you to take the woman and give her to Bear. I want you to take the man, too, and make him watch.”

“What you want Bear to do?”

“Whatever takes his fancy,” Dax said. “And I want it to hurt. When he’s done, kill them both.”

“How fast you want this?”

“Take enough time to do it carefully. Follow them, establish their routine, then when you’re ready, call me, and I’ll give you the go-ahead. Then take them somewhere. Here would do, in the garage. Clean up after yourself.”

“I got it,” the Russian said.