U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

Traffic was slowed by road construction and it took longer than I’d anticipated before I reached Horton Ravine and passed between the stone pillars. My Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang was conspicuous under ordinary circumstances, even more so in this upscale neighborhood where most vehicles (except those of the hired help) were late-model luxury cars.

As I passed Corso’s house I was startled to see him emerge from the front door, a suitcase in each hand. The car sitting in his driveway was a sleek black Jaguar. I resisted the urge to stare, directing my attention instead to the road ahead. At the next corner I turned right and drove as far as the first estate entrance, where I did a quick turn and crept back toward Ocean. Jon had gone back for a briefcase. On the porch he took a moment to lock up and then returned to the car, where he arranged his bags. When he slid under the wheel, I was close enough to hear the faint slamming of his car door and the engine begin humming. He pulled out of the drive and headed right, toward Harley’s Beach, back along Palisade. I gave him a twenty-second head start and pulled out after him.

When he reached the intersection of Capillo and Palisade, I thought he’d turn right, but he continued on past City College, neatly avoiding Seashore Park. He caught the southbound freeway and I tucked in behind him, easing off the gas to allow another car between us. By the time he reached the Old Coast Road off-ramp, there were two cars between us and I felt I was sufficiently protected to avoid notice. He made a sedate left-hand turn and came up on the far side of the underpass. He had to be heading for the bank. I couldn’t guess his purpose unless Walker emerged with suitcases in hand, in which case I’d assume both were preparing to flee. Corso pulled into the bank parking lot and I drove by, making a mental note of his license plate:

THRILLR

I made a quick turn onto Center Road, reversed in a motel parking lot, and cut back, passing the bank again just as Walker ducked into the car. Corso pulled out of the lot. I kept him in sight as he crossed the intersection and eased from Old Coast Road onto the freeway, driving north. I wondered what they were up to. Did Walker know Michael Sutton was dead? Was that the arrangement they’d made? Corso would strike while Walker established an ironclad alibi? What about the risk to Jon, whose car had been spotted at the scene? It seemed clear Walker wasn’t leaving town, at least in the next half-hour, so perhaps the purpose of the meeting was to bring Walker up to speed before Jon disappeared on his own.

It all seemed so pointless. If Henry was right about the burial of the marked bills, I didn’t see how either one of them could feel endangered. The only trump out against them was the shaky report of a six-year-old boy, who’d seen nothing incriminating. If word of my queries had leaked back to Walker, he might have wondered about my interest, but it hardly merited radical action. Shooting Michael Sutton was a miscalculation, overkill, as it were. Perhaps they didn’t realize Sutton had no credibility and was therefore harmless.

My current course was set and I was stuck with it. If I hadn’t decided to cruise by Corso’s house, I wouldn’t be tailing the two of them now, engaging in all this endless speculation about why they were together and where they intended to go. Guess I’d find out. Ahead of me, Jon took the off-ramp at Little Pony Road and turned left. At the top of the rise, he was caught by a red light. I was three cars behind. If he’d spotted me, he gave no indication. His driving was circumspect as he turned left through the intersection and drove toward the beach.

Were they looking for a private spot? That was the only thing I could figure, given their route. Why did they need privacy at all when they could have chatted by phone? Surely they didn’t imagine the lines were tapped. How paranoid would that be? I saw the Jaguar slow and turn left again into an unmarked side road I knew from times past. They were heading for Passion Peak, the pocket park that had been closed for two years, after a wildfire swept through it.

Here’s what occurred to me: What if Jon was doing a quick mop-up campaign, eliminating anyone who posed a threat to him? He was set for an imminent departure, destination unknown. Now that Sutton was out of the way, was Walker next?

I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and got out, leaving my car running while I moved cautiously to the turnoff. A mass of bougain - villea obscured the entrance to the park. I lifted on my toes and peered. There was no sign of the Jaguar. The chain that had been strung across the road was now down, trailing from the post on the left. I returned to my car and waited. The road up to the parking area was barely two lanes wide, with sufficient turns to slow any vehicle winding up the hill. I couldn’t afford to round a bend and find myself smack up against Jon’s bumper. If the two intended to spend time up there, I had to give them the ten minutes it would take to park at the midpoint and climb the rest of the way to the top. If Jon intended to pop Walker in the head, I was the only one even remotely aware of it. I took advantage of the wait to open the trunk of my car and remove the Heckler & Koch from my locked briefcase.