Survival of the Fittest (42 page)

“Such sacrifice.”

“Yeah, workmen’s comp time. When you left the restaurant, I followed you but when you turned up Lyric, I held back because it’s a quiet road and I didn’t want to be conspicuous.”

“Daniel supply the car?”

He nodded. “One of the things that smells bad, Alex, is the layout. In terms of maintaining a close watch. Too damn isolated, too damn quiet, and her house is at the top, no way to get above it.”

“So you did drive up there.”

“I waited a few minutes, drove to where Rondo Vista splits off from Lyric and stayed on Lyric, where I parked about a hundred feet down. Then I went on foot. I had on a uniform—gas company—and a stick-on gas-company sign for the car door. I was carrying one of those little meter gizmos, no reason for anyone to give me a second look. But there’s a limit to that kind of thing, Alex. Gas guys don’t show up often. I ambled from house to house, managed to catch you getting back in the Karmann Ghia.”

“Never spotted you.”

“I was two houses down, peeking around some plants. Zena’s body language was even better—big-time hots, so I figured you weren’t in any immediate danger, but I don’t like it.”

“It’s just a party,” I said. “The elite and me. The biggest threat will be her hormones.”

Chapter

49

Friday night; Daniel hated working on Sabbath.

Back in Israel, before joining the police force, he’d consulted his father, a learned man, about the issue. Abba Yehesqel had sought the counsel of Rav Yitzhak, a ninety-year-old Yemenite
hakham,
and received a quick answer.

The law was clear: Saving a life took precedence over
shabbat.
As with military duty, when police work involved a life-or-death situation, not only was Daniel permitted to work, he was obligated.

Over the years, he’d used the ruling sparingly, working extra hours on weekdays in order to free up Friday night and Saturday. Not hesitating, of course, to go full-force on things like the Butcher, rapists, suicide bombers. As he climbed the ranks and was given more administrative duties in lieu of streetwork, it became easier. The only advantage of becoming a pencil pusher.

Now, here he was, at the airport, sitting at the wheel of a yellow cab at the pickup-zone of the American Airlines terminal.

Back in Jerusalem, he’d be praying in the tiny, ancient Yemenite synagogue near the Old City. Even if he hadn’t been on the job, he’d have avoided group worship here, needing to maintain the lowest of profiles, not wanting to have to reject some well-meaning shul-goer who, learning he was an Israeli “software technician” consulting to some anonymous company out in the Valley, just
had
to have him over for shabbat.

Early this morning, he’d called Laura and the kids, telling them he’d be back as soon as possible but not knowing what that really meant.

His eldest, eighteen-year-old Shoshana, was home for the weekend, furloughed from national-service assignment up in Kiryat Shemona. Assigned to a mental-health clinic where she tried to comfort small children terrorized by Hezbollah bombs from Lebanon.

“I’ve been thinking, Abba. Maybe I’ll study psychology in university.”

“You’re well-suited for it,
motek.”

“The kids are so cute, Abba. I’m finding out that I like helping people.”

“You always had a talent for it.”

They talked a bit more, then she told him she loved him and missed him and went to get the boys. As he waited, he fantasized introducing her to Delaware someday, getting her some career guidance from the psychologist. Daddy arranging things for her, with his contacts. Delaware would be happy to help.   .   .   . The more he worked with the guy, the more he liked him, that intense drive and focus—

“Abba!” Mikey’s twelve-and-a-half-year-old voice, still unchanged, burst from the receiver. Six months away from bar mitzvah, a big party to be arranged, Laura’s parents wanted the Laromme Hotel. Then Benny’s bar mitzvah, a year after that. A busy period coming up for the Sharavis, something to look forward to.

“Hey, Mike. How’s the studying going?”

“It’s okay.” Suddenly downcast. Not the student his sister was, the boy would have preferred to be playing soccer all day, and Daniel felt bad for bringing it up. But the bar mitzvah meant memorizing a Torah portion to be read in synagogue. Too bad
his
father wouldn’t be there to see it.   .   .   .

“I’m sure you’re doing great, Mike.”

“I don’t know, Abba, just my luck to get the longest portion in the entire
chumash.”

“Not the longest, he-man, but definitely long. Maybe God gave you that birthdate because he knew you could handle it.”

“I doubt it. I’ve got a brain made out of marble.”

“Your brain is fantastic, Mikey. So’s your heart—and your muscles. How’s soccer?”

“Great! We won!” The boy’s tone lifted and they stayed on sports til it was Benny’s turn. The little one, once wild as an Old City cat, was now studious like Shoshi. Math was his thing. A gentle voice.

Talking to his family gentled Daniel’s soul.

The arrangement with Petra Connor was clear: The female detective, dressed in an Alaskan Airlines flight-attendant’s uniform and equipped with a carry-on suitcase with push-me handle, was to hang around the terminal, read a paperback, and keep her eyes out for the New York lawyer.

In the suitcase, among other things, was a cellular phone preset to the one in Daniel’s taxi.

Once Sanger/Galton deplaned, she was to stick with him. Once she became aware of his luggage status—carry-on versus checked-through—she was to phone Daniel.

If Sanger/Galton picked up a rental car, she’d notify Daniel of the company, make, model, and license number, and try to reach her borrowed car—a dark green Ford Escort—in time to join in and create a two-person tail.

Likewise if some friend was there to greet the attorney.

If Sanger/Galton needed a taxi and Daniel ended up being his driver, Daniel would call Petra and report his destination, pretending to be contacting the dispatcher. If some other driver snagged the fare, Daniel’s tail would be hampered and Petra would have to take the lead and wait til Daniel avoided another fare and made it out of the airport.

One way or another, the would-be eugenicist was covered.

Nothing from Petra, yet.

She seemed good. Quiet, serious, all business. So far all the L.A. people he’d met were good, Zev’s experience notwithstanding.

Shabbat   .   .   . still, he was happy to be doing something. Especially after the wasted afternoon at Melvin Myers’s trade school.

Nothing strange about the place, they truly did seem to be training handicapped people to get jobs. He hadn’t been able to get to Darlene Grosperrin, settling for a brief interview with a young social-work assistant named Veronica Yee.

Each of them thinking the other was the subject.

Smiling, courteous, Ms. Yee had taken a brief history and told him the school was well-established, twenty years old, funded mostly by government money, offering a full range of educational services, including job and psychological counseling. And yes, they would probably have something for him but not until the new term began in two months. He was welcome to fill out the application and get back to them.

Handing him a sheaf of papers—the application, government pamphlets on rights of the handicapped, availability of educational grants, public-relations stuff on the school.

He’d looked for some sign that Melvin Myers’s death had caused an impact—a funeral notice, memorial service, anything, and had found only an announcement on the bulletin board. “We regret to announce   .   .   .” Letters and braille.

It had given him the opportunity to work Myers into the conversation with Ms. Yee.

She’d said, “Yes, he was murdered downtown. Terrible. I have to be honest with you, it is a tough neighborhood, Mr. Cohen.”

Honest, open.

Nothing to report.

The taxi in front of him edged up the line and he rolled forward.

He’d waited until the queue stretched beyond the pickup area before taking a position at the back. Hoping things stayed slow and he wouldn’t reach the front before Sanger arrived, then be forced to zoom past a fare, attracting attention.

The phone rang.

“He’s here, the plane arrived early,” said Petra. “No one met him at the gate. A briefcase, a carry-on, and a wardrobe, so he probably didn’t check anything through—I’ll make sure.   .   .   . He’s getting on the moving sidewalk, I’m thirty feet in back of him. He’s big, about Milo’s size, wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons, khaki slacks, dark blue polo shirt. Dark hair slicked back, tortoiseshell glasses, heavy face. The carry-on and briefcase are olive green and the wardrobe’s black.   .   .   . Okay, we’re at the end now—he’s definitely bypassing the carousel   .   .   . heading for   .   .   . Avis. Looks like he’s got paperwork already prepared.”

Something else Daniel’s sources hadn’t come up with. Maybe Sanger had used one of those Airfones, set up the car rental while in flight.

“He’s filling out an express form,” said Petra. “I’m pretending to be using a pay phone across the hall, will let you know when he heads for the Avis lot.”

Sanger’s car was a brown Oldsmobile Cutlass and as it headed east on Century Boulevard, Daniel’s taxi was just ahead.

Both vehicles eased into the traffic and Daniel switched to the left lane and slowed, allowing Sanger to get ahead, managing to get a look at the lawyer through the driver’s window.

Sanger
looked
big, sitting high in the seat. Serious expression; smooth, ruddy cheeks well into the jowl stage. Soft around the jowls. A thick, rosy nose. A cigarette dangled from his lips, already half-smoked. He drove quickly, inattentively, flicking ashes out the window.

Daniel followed him toward the airport’s outer reaches, passing freight depots, commercial hangars, commuter hotels, import-export sheds, nudie bars.

“I’m on Century approaching Aviation,” said Petra. “How far ahead are you?”

“Approaching the 5 Freeway,” Daniel told her. “We’re making good time. He’s getting on the freeway, headed for—looks like North—yes, North. We’re on the freeway now, merging.”

Sanger stayed in the slow lane for a couple of minutes, then shifted one lane over and maintained a steady speed of sixty.

From Daniel’s perspective, traffic was ideal: light enough for movement, no jam-ups with the unpredictability that could bring, yet sufficiently dense to give him three car-lengths’ cover. Who’d notice a taxi?

Sanger went past the Santa Monica Freeway interchange and exited shortly after on Santa Monica Boulevard, east. He took the lightly traveled street past Century City into Beverly Hills, turned left on Beverly Drive, and drove north through the wide, residential street lined with mansions.

Trailing him here was a little trickier and Daniel had to work a bit to keep a Jaguar and a Mercedes between the taxi and the brown Cutlass. Petra had just called in; she was a half-mile back, stopped at the Beverly–Santa Monica light.

Sanger crossed Sunset and drove straight into the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel, refurbished recently by some oil sultan, reputed to be the richest man in the world. Years ago, during his Olympic assignment, Daniel had done some security work at the hotel, guarding a cabinet minister’s wife in a bungalow, finding the place amazingly pink, somewhat decrepit.

Still pink, even brighter. The Israeli Consulate threw no parties here because the sultan was anti-Israel. Plenty of bar and bat mitzvahs, though.

Pink and shiny. Sanger had stayed here last time, but he’d have thought an East Coast corporate lawyer would have chosen something quieter.

Maybe when he came here, he went Hollywood.

The no-tie look for Sanger supported that theory. Preparing for Zena Lambert’s casual-dress party?

Without telling Milo, Daniel had driven up Zena’s street this morning, early, before the trade school opened. Hoping for a look at this strange-sounding woman as she left the small white house with the blue trim, maybe with one of her guests. Maybe the garage door would be open and he could copy down a license-plate number.

No such luck. But it was good that he’d seen the site firsthand, verifying what Milo had said about a tough surveillance situation.

He’d been driving a pickup truck at the time, a lawn mower and other gardening equipment in the bed. With his dark skin he’d be pegged as a Mexican gardener and rendered, for all intents, invisible.

Not a long-term solution because there wasn’t much gardening to do up there, mostly concrete pads like Zena’s instead of lawns, and the sloping hillside lots in back were untendable.

He sped away, mentally rationing his time, thinking about when and how to return to Rondo Vista. Wondering about the boundaries of loyalty.

Parking the cab at the mouth of the sloping hotel driveway, he climbed toward the entrance just in time to see a bellman hold the brown Cutlass’s door open for Sanger, then open the trunk and take out the two pieces of luggage.

Sanger breezed through the main entrance, seemingly unaware as the doorman held the door open for him.

Accustomed to being served.

The luggage followed moments later.

Daniel retreated down the drive, walked to Sunset and, when the light turned green, crossed the boulevard by foot. On the south side, Beverly and Crescent and Canon met in a confusing intersection. The hub was a park where Daniel had once taken his children to see the Florentine fountain spouting into a pond full of Japanese carp—fish like Delaware’s. Now, however, the fountain was dry and most of the flowers he remembered were gone. He waited at the south edge until Petra arrived.

Petra entered the hotel.

Her flight-attendant’s uniform minus wings and insignia was just another tailored suit, and with her short dark hair, fine-featured face, and discreet makeup, she looked like just another Beverly Hills working woman.