The present
Jake thought he was going blind. He pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes and rubbed. No help. The computer screen was still blurry. He’d lost track of how many hours he’d worked at the computer trying to decipher “lion water.” Every directory, every database, every website with any potential had been researched. Nothing. Not a damn thing to show for his aching back, bloodshot eyes, and splitting headache.
He hadn’t left the Holiday Inn room since he’d checked in over twenty-four hours earlier. Even when the maid arrived to clean the room and politely suggested he leave, he had steadfastly kept his butt glued to the increasingly uncomfortable chair. Despite the long hours and his investigative expertise, the meaning or identity of “lion water” eluded him.
The knowledge that he was racing against time percolated in his gut. Frustration coiled inside his chest and tightened minute by minute, hour by hour. He was so tightly strung that his head snapped around at the sound of his cell phone.
“Morning, Stone,” Burke said in a voice that needed sleep.
“Damn, I hope you’ve got good news. I’m climbing the walls here.”
“Where’s ‘here,’ by the way?”
He frowned. “LA.”
“I mean what hotel…? Hell, you’re not going to tell me.”
“Sorry, buddy. I’m keeping a real low profile. Jake Stone isn’t even registered. Don’t you just love fake IDs?”
“I don’t wanna hear it. I got enough trouble at this end.” Burke swore under his breath.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. The shit’s hitting the fan. Even those of us not in Vice are ducking turds.”
Jake laughed. “What’s happening?”
“Word leaked out about J.J.’s murder. Some asshole in the media made the connection to the escort service. Now every reporter in town is calling City Hall, the police commissioners, and the chief of police demanding to know if the information obtained in connection with the murder investigation will be used to prosecute the escort service’s customers. A lot of scared johns are out there pissing in their pants. And some of them are bigwigs. I’d guarantee it.”
“Look, I don’t give a shit about the politics. I just want to know if ‘lion water’ was one of J.J.’s customers.”
“Back off, Stone. I’m doing the best I can. Vice is battening down the hatches before they get ripped to shreds from all sides.”
“Sorry.” Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you called to tell me you don’t have anything.”
“I’ve got a crumb, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Toss it to me anyway.”
“The Lionel that J.J. mentioned is actually another pimp. His full name is Lionel James Brown. No ‘water’ in his name. He talks a big game, but he’s really a small-time operator. He’s already been interrogated. Has a verified alibi.”
“Any homeys?”
“No.”
“Contract kill?” Jake cringed.
“Not likely. Vice doesn’t think Lionel was even after J.J.’s business. He just talked the talk to blow himself up in the hood. The cash for that sort of thing would probably have put a squeeze on him, too. He’s all mouth and no balls.”
“Well, shit, thanks for nothin’.”
“I warned ya.”
“Yeah. Any hope of getting my hands on the customer list?”
The detective laughed so loud Jake had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Not unless Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny gives it to you.”
“Damn.”
“Listen, Stone.” Burke’s voice lowered to a whisper. “My guy doesn’t give a horse’s ass about finding J.J.’s murderer, but he’s royally pissed the whole prostitution ring may get swept under the rug because of some whoring muckety-mucks.”
“So?”
“So he’s willing to put his ass on the line. Right now, he’s talking to the LA Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau about access to the evidence gathered at J.J.’s place. He’s afraid it’s going to disappear, and soon.”
“Smart guy.”
“Maybe. But not if he gets caught making a copy of the damn list.”
“Ballsy.”
“Or crazy. He wants to turn it over to the media.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, he’s liable to end up dead in a ditch if he’s not careful. Anyway, he said he’d check the list for anything like ‘lion water.’ If his plan works, he may let us see it.”
“What? So I can end up dead in a ditch with him?” Jake chuckled nervously. “You wouldn’t be setting me up, would you, buddy?”
“Who, me? Never. You just better hope the guy owns a red velvet suit or a bunny costume. Gotta go.”
Jake tapped his fingers on the table for several minutes, digesting Burke’s call. His stomach growled. He glanced at his watch. Noon. He ordered a pizza and Coke to be delivered.
Taking a break from his search, he reclined on the bed while he ate. He chewed with his eyes closed. He desperately needed eyedrops or sleep.
As he finished the last slice of pizza, his cell phone rang again. He scowled at the Virginia number and let the call transfer to voicemail. Another message from Maleena. Another joy to brighten his day.
“Mr. Stone, this is Maleena Reardon,” the recording began. “I left a message yesterday. Is everything all right? We need to talk about your investigation. Call me.” She mumbled something vulgar under her breath before ending the call.
He grinned. “The feeling’s mutual, lady, but it’s nice to know you’re worried about me.”
His stomach full, his eyes burning, he flopped onto his stomach and punched the pillow into comfortable fullness. Before five minutes passed, he was asleep.
He dreamed of Angela. The image was not the woman in the red dress or the multitude in the mirrors, but his gorgeous girlfriend strolling across his bedroom wearing a pink silk nightgown. When she reached the bed where he lay, she seductively slid the straps of the gown down her arms until he was staring at her inviting tits. With a wiggle of her hips, the silk slithered to the floor, revealing a voluptuous body. He crawled across the bed and pulled her onto the sheets. She stroked his hardened dick until he spread her legs and moved between them. Smiling, she opened herself to him. Poised to thrust, his body suddenly, inexplicably, froze.
Why? the dream Angela asked.
I don’t know, the dream Jake replied.
The real Jake woke up, grimacing with a hard-on from Hell.
Cursing fluently, he rolled off the bed and walked stiffly to the bathroom. This is worse than the nightmare.
A few minutes later, he tugged at his zipper as he burst out of the bathroom to grab his ringing cell phone.
“Where have you been?” Burke snapped. “I called an hour ago.”
“Shit, I fell asleep. I can’t believe I didn’t hear the phone. What’s up?”
“We got the fucking bastard, Stone!”
“Who is it?”
“Leonard Waterton. Name sound close enough to ‘lion water’ to you?”
“Damn straight. He was on the list?”
“With two stars after his name. Must be a valued customer.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
Burke snorted. “He’s an LA city councilman.”
* * *
Jake dialed the number for Councilman Leonard Waterton’s LA City Hall office on the untraceable, disposable cell phone he’d bought with cash at a convenience store a short time earlier.
“Good afternoon. Councilman Waterton’s office. This is Ms. Jacobs. How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon. My name is Bob Smith, and I’m an old high school buddy of Leonard’s. I’m in LA for a sales meeting, but I’m flying out at six. I decided to call on the spur of the moment to find out if I could pop in and see him for a few minutes if he’s in the office and available this afternoon.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Smith, but Councilman Waterton is booked with meetings in his office until six thirty. I’ll tell him you called, and I’m sure he’ll be sorry he missed you. Would you like to leave a number where he can reach you?”
“No, I’ll try him the next time I’m in town. Thanks, ma’am.”
Jake ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat of the rented white Ford Explorer. Good, the bastard was in the office. Now all he had to do was wait for the councilman to pull out of the City Hall parking lot in his dark blue Lincoln Navigator.
Using the zoom on his surveillance camera, he scrutinized the area for anything of concern, especially familiar SUVs. No Land Rovers. But he spotted two black Suburbans. The license plate of the one parked on the street wasn’t visible. The one in the parking lot had California tags and a parking permit. Of course, removing or switching license plates was easy. Physical damage on a vehicle was a much better method of identification.
His eyes narrowed, and he rubbed the prickly heat on the back of his neck. The Suburban parked at the curb two blocks behind him warranted watching even though the constant flow of patrol cars to and from City Hall provided a cushion of security.
With another glance at the Suburban, he grabbed a manila folder off the floor and opened it. After Burke had called with the astonishing news, they’d worked together to compile a dossier on Leonard Waterton. They had gathered a wealth of information in a couple of hours. The file wasn’t complete by any measure, but it was enough for Jake to start stalking.
He flipped through the pages. Recent photographs. Information on two vehicles. Driver’s license. Principal residence address and property description. Bank accounts. Credit cards. College degrees. Marriage and divorce records. News headlines. Biographical articles. Tabloid gossip.
He peered at the photographs. Tall, blond, medium-build white man. Waterton definitely fit the Smelter sisters’ description of the man leaving with Angela on the night of the rape. The pictures also revealed a sophisticated, reserved appearance and a strong but not handsome face. He appeared slightly older than the forty years documented on his driver’s license. The close-up portrait exposed signs of heavy drinking and/or drug use. The man’s financial information confirmed abundant money to enjoy vices lavishly. And according to the tabloid articles, Waterton was no stranger to vices. Gambling. Drinking. Womanizing.
Jake sneered. If he and Burke were right, the esteemed councilman had another vice: a darker, nastier, illegal one.
He surveyed the landscape again. No change in the Suburban. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic increased as 5:00 p.m. passed.
After finishing another water, he returned to studying the file, but it was difficult to focus. Pumping adrenaline made him tense, edgy. His body didn’t want paperwork; it craved action, violence. The predator was poised to rip apart its prey.
His gaze darted to the side-view mirror. A nicely dressed, middle-aged woman climbed into the Suburban. He observed until the vehicle drove past and disappeared into the busy intersection ahead. Relief registered.
Thirty minutes later, he gave up trying to memorize Waterton’s information. Instead, he trained his gaze on the stream of vehicles leaving City Hall. The blue Navigator didn’t appear until shortly after 6:30 p.m. Jake lifted the camera to his eye, confirmed the license plate and driver, and snapped a picture.
He pulled the Explorer away from the curb and followed the Navigator, eventually merging onto the freeway. Jake had already mapped out the most likely routes Waterton would take from City Hall to his house in Brentwood. This knowledge would allow Jake to anticipate moves and decrease the likelihood of losing his target in the horrendous LA traffic.
As expected, Waterton exited onto a second freeway. Jake followed at a discreet distance. When a black Suburban suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror, Jake tensed. At the first opportunity, the Suburban pulled into the next lane and crept past. Fully tinted windows, bent rear California license plate. He memorized the number as he watched it slide in behind the blue Navigator like a panther stalking dinner.
Only briefly unlocking his gaze from the two SUVs, Jake shifted to the right when the next freeway exit appeared on the overhead signs. He waited patiently for Waterton to make a move toward the off-ramp, but the Navigator with its black tail continued straight ahead.
“Damn.”
He racked his brain for anything in the dossier that would give a clue to another destination. Nothing surfaced. He could either follow blindly or circle back and lie in wait at Waterton’s home. Since at this point he was primarily in surveillance mode, getting a sense of the target’s behavior, he decided to tag along and to consider staking out the councilman’s house as a backup plan. Jake accelerated and jumped into the lane to the right of his target.
He swung the sun visor around to partially cover the side window before pulling even with Waterton and sneaking a backward look in the side mirror at the occupants of the Suburban. Two men, one black, one white, both wearing baseball caps and large sunglasses. Grim expressions. No conversation.
Jake frowned as he eased off the gas and let both vehicles pull ahead. God, he wished he knew if those were the goons who’d shot at him and J.J. If so, they didn’t seem to recognize him in the rented Explorer. Their attention was clearly focused on Waterton.
Was that attention friendly or unfriendly?
Enveloped by hundreds of vehicles, the three SUVs sped onward while Jake wrestled with his analysis. His theory was based on the buyer of Angela’s contract being the rapist. That person would also have been motivated to arrange for J.J.’s murder. If Waterton was the buyer/rapist/murderer, why were the goons following him? Were the same guys now operating as his bodyguards? If the Contractor had tipped off the buyer as threatened, Waterton might have hired them to stay around as protection.
The scenario seemed logical. The Contractor must not have identified Jake by name or sold a contract on him. Therefore, Waterton knew simply that the hitman who had been hired to do his dirty work was on the warpath. Did the councilman understand that Jake’s warpath would only end when he was dead? Definitely not. If he did, he would have known bodyguards were useless, and he would have bought a contract to kill the anonymous assassin.
Sucks for you, bastard. Your goons are a waste of money. I’m still going to kill you.
Jake felt primed to explode and knew that was a dangerous condition. Adrenaline overload. Following several deep, cleansing breaths, he guzzled a bottle of water as he drove. Still, his heart pounded like a ticking time bomb.
Waterton signaled and swung into the far right lane. Jake followed immediately, ending up sandwiched between the Navigator and the Suburban as the caravan exited onto yet another freeway. He recalled that this one ran through Southeast LA and Watts. Before Jake could get his bearings, though, Waterton swerved onto a surface street off-ramp. Jake cut off a small pickup in order to follow.
Feeling trapped, he changed lanes and braked abruptly as though preparing to turn. The other two SUVs continued without hesitation. He sighed with relief, slowed until three more vehicles passed, and then swung in behind them.
A few blocks later, Waterton turned into a residential neighborhood of older homes. The houses were generally small and run-down with yards in dire need of care.
More exposed now with the lack of traffic, Jake stayed farther back even though he risked losing his target. Two blocks ahead, the Navigator hung a right. The Suburban followed.
“Shit,” he muttered, speeding to catch up before they disappeared.
He whipped around the corner so fast he almost passed Waterton before noticing him parked at the curb. Resisting the urge to slam on the brakes, he drove to the next cross street. The bodyguards were pulling a U-turn, and Jake lowered his head as he swerved around them.
Putting some space and time between him, Waterton, and the goons after the nerve-racking trip from City Hall seemed a good idea. Praying Leonard wouldn’t be leaving too soon, Jake zigzagged through the neighborhood until he reappeared on the original street five minutes later. He squeezed the Explorer into an opening between two trucks, facing the Navigator on the opposite side of the street. No sign of the Suburban. Probably hanging out on a side street.
After killing the engine, he peered through the camera, expecting to see an empty Navigator. To his surprise, someone was climbing out of the car.
“What the hell?”
He squinted at the transformed figure and snapped a picture.
During Jake’s brief absence, Leonard had shed his suit coat, tie, and dress shirt. The man now wore a baggy, red and white football jersey, a worn Dodgers baseball cap pulled down low, and oversized sunglasses as he hurried toward the nearest little house. Most miraculous was the full beard he’d grown in the past few minutes. Waterton unlocked the front door and rushed inside.
Jake jotted the address on the folder. Scooting down in the seat, he panned the neighborhood. Poorly maintained, nondescript houses and yards. Shabby, but not trashy. Older vehicles in the driveways. Quiet. No one outside.
Odd place for the councilman to visit. Alone. At night.
Why the disguise? And where were his bodyguards? They sure weren’t sticking close enough to do any good.
Jake grinned, thinking how easy it would be to take down Leonard if his sniper rifle were handy. But he didn’t want to kill the bastard that way. He wanted to grip the man’s neck, look into his eyes, and tell him why he was dying. He needed to hear Leonard confess and apologize for what he had done to Angela.
The door of the house opened, and Jake jerked upright. Barely ten minutes had passed. After yanking the door shut, Leonard trotted across the yard, clutching the handles of two department store shopping bags.
When the Navigator executed a U-turn and headed back the way they’d come, the Suburban shot out of a side street. Jake would have preferred to wait, but he jumped in line for fear of losing them if he missed the light.
Once the caravan was on the main avenue, he dropped back, hiding behind a van and a small pickup. After several turns, he was uncertain whether they were still in Southeast LA or whether they had crossed into Watts. The surroundings supported the latter.
Small shops with boarded up or barred windows lined the streets of the commercial district around him. Dozens of homeless people camped in abandoned doorways. Rap music blared from groups loitering on street corners. Graffiti scrawled everywhere was the dominant advertisement.
At a stoplight, Jake leaned over, pulled his Glock from the glove compartment, and stuck it in the front of his waistband.
Approximately ten miles from the little house, the Navigator stopped suddenly at the entrance to an alley. The Suburban passed by and turned at the next corner. His Explorer cut in behind a delivery truck and parked in a yellow loading zone half a block away.
Waterton popped out of the car with both shopping bags and glanced around nervously. He locked the door and hurried toward the alley.
While he quickly surveyed the scene, Jake slipped the camera into his shirt pocket and patted the gun at his waist. What the hell was this guy doing? God, he hated not understanding what was happening.
He jumped out of the car and skirted the row of vacant shops. His gaze darted to the alley, to the street, to the sidewalks. Disaster could come from anywhere.
He reached the entrance safely. No sign of the bodyguards or Leonard. The odors emanating from the alley made him gag. He scanned again before peeking around the corner.
Fifty feet away, Waterton stood in the shadows next to a large, overflowing dumpster. His head swiveled constantly; he seemed to be searching for something or someone. When Leonard bent to set the shopping bags on the ground, Jake identified a small gun in the man’s free hand. Shit.
Waterton shattered the silence of the smelly alley with a shrill whistle. Then a second whistle. He cupped a hand to his ear. A full minute passed before a pair of whistles answered. Immediately, the man spun around and ran back toward the street.
Jake had only seconds to hide.
He sprinted to the recessed doorway of the first closed shop, dropped to the ground, and curled up in a ball with his head against the boarded-up door and his feet sticking out onto the sidewalk. With his face and head hidden by his arms, he heard footsteps, a car door slam, and an engine growl before driving away.
He waited, his chest heaving against the concrete.
Damn. He’d never catch up with Waterton now. And where the hell were the man’s bodyguards?
Jake rolled over and peeked between his arms at three passing vehicles. Then tires squealed nearby. Leaping to his feet, he spotted the Suburban barreling down the street in the opposite direction.
He patted the Glock and exhaled. Too close.
Voices drifted out of the alley.
Curious, he followed the sound and cautiously peered around the corner.
Two women stood over the shopping bags, rummaging through the contents.
“What’s this shit?” one said, lifting a blond wig from the bag.
The other woman pulled a blond wig from her bag, too. She picked up a white top and red skirt and showed them to her companion. “Hey, don’t complain. Looks like nice stuff to me.” Then she bent over again to examine the remaining items.
“Nice, but weird,” the first woman said, plucking a red skirt and a piece of paper from her bag. “Check this out.”
They leaned together to read something on the paper.
“I’ll be damned.”
The pair laughed and stuffed everything into the bags.
When they glanced toward the street, Jake yanked his head back. Then he heard footsteps jogging away.
He shook his head in disbelief. Waterton had a charitable streak? Hard to believe.
Something didn’t smell right, and it wasn’t the noxious fumes from the alley. The disguise. The location. The entire scenario.
Back behind the wheel of the Explorer, Jake considered his next move. One option was to stake out the councilman’s Brentwood house. He sighed.
It was almost 9:00 p.m. He was tired and starving. The little house in Southeast LA had to be researched. Burke deserved an update and needed to run the plate number from the goon’s Suburban. What would be gained from sitting outside Waterton’s home for hours anyway?
Speeding back to the hotel, Jake pondered a strategy.
He knew his prey. He knew his goal. He knew what he had to do.
Now he had to plan how to do it.
And how to keep Detective Sean Burke from getting in the way.