Crush - Alan Jacobson [99]
Vail to Ortiz: “We just want to talk!”
But he didn’t stop.
A child ran out in front of him. Ortiz skirted the boy, who covered his face and ran back toward his mother, but Dixon was not so lucky—she shifted right, into the child’s path—and went tumbling. She landed on her side amidst scattered sand and hard-packed dirt—narrowly avoiding a collision with a brick water fountain.
“Got him,” Vail shouted, as she passed Dixon.
Dixon got back on her feet and slanted across the grass, taking an angle on Ortiz as he cut right onto the asphalt road that encircled the historic, stone-walled City Hall building. He ran past the structure into the front parking lot, then angled left, back into the park and across the grass.
He’s not going anywhere, Vail realized. He’s just trying to get away. He’s either our UNSUB . . . or he’s done something wrong and does not want to face charges.
Ortiz crossed East Napa Street—eliciting a blown car horn as he skirted by an Infiniti FX’s hood—and ran straight into a narrow alley. No, not an alley—a covered sidewalk. A covered sidewalk that fed storefront shops.
Great. Stores—and who knew what else. Is he cutting through here en route to a hiding place—or does he have a friend in a storefront who’ll take him in and run interference?
“Miguel,” Vail yelled, “we just have some questions! You’re not in any trouble—”
Ortiz ran underneath the ivy-covered archways. Vail followed—but there were no longer footsteps behind her. Where’s Roxxann?
Vail passed beneath a sign that read, 42 Unique Shops & Services, slipped on the slick terracotta tile, then scampered past Chico’s, an assortment of other stores, spas, and boutiques—thinking, That blouse in the window would look good on me. I should come back here someday and browse, get a massage . . .
Actually, Vail was thinking about her knee, which was beginning to balk. She heard her surgeon reminding her she wasn’t supposed to be behaving like Lara Croft for at least another few weeks.
She passed a bubbling fountain, which tinkled splattered water on the slick tile, and she had to catch herself to keep from falling. I’m sure the architect thought that was a nice touch, but he clearly didn’t consider the danger it presented to a cop chasing a suspect on wet tile through an alley—
The walkway dead-ended at a ramp, a salmon-and-pistachio tinted two-story stucco building directly ahead—and an oblong court that spread into a maze of more shops and buildings.
And more fountains. Jeez, this architect is into water. What does that say about his childhood?
Ortiz cut right, around a myriad of square columns that supported the various storefront overhangs, then ran into the two-story building’s stairwell.
Stairs, just what I need. Before I just wanted to question Ortiz. Now I’m not so sure. And where the hell is Roxxann?
Vail followed him up and reached the second floor as her knee began throbbing. The staircase spilled out onto a covered outdoor veranda with doors that led to other shops and offices. He could’ve cut left or right, but he chose to go upstairs. He must know something—or someone. Her footsteps on the hollow flooring reverberated. If she had any thoughts of a stealth approach, it clearly wouldn’t fly up here.
As she turned right, Vail saw Ortiz up ahead, grabbing a doorknob and pulling on it, then slapping the door. “Enrique, abre la puerta!” Open the door!
This is where it stops getting interesting. She pulled her Glock—she had no idea who Enrique was or what he had behind that door. Ortiz glanced back at her and his eyes found her pistol. If he wasn’t scared before, his blood pressure must’ve just climbed a few dozen points . . . which was fine, because hers had now risen well above normal, as well.
But Ortiz abandoned his efforts to enter the store and continued on. Vail passed Enrique’s door—marked Private—and watched as Ortiz turned right again and headed down the stairwell. Vail gave pursuit—and then heard shouting.
“Get down. Down on the ground!”
Dixon’s voice. And she wasn’t very happy.
Vail made it down the