Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [15]
“Have you any references, Mr. Johnson? You see, as a woman alone . . .”
“I don’t have any, no. I never thought I’d need any,” Rollo said. “See, I was planning to stay at a residence hotel. Then I saw your ad. I’ll leave now, if you want.”
Rollo waited for her answer. There would be consequences if she said he had to leave. He looked inward, listening for the voices, waiting for possible instruction.
Agatha Miller considered the prospect of giving up the only rental opportunity that had, to date, presented itself.
In the end, she overcame her reservations and surrendered to commerce. She needed the money.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Johnson. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Relieved, Rollo said, “That’s good.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Johnson.”
“Call me Donnie,” Rollo said.
15
Molly left the Civic in roughly the same spot. Peter Perkins sat in his Chevy. Jesse was in his Explorer.
The time passed slowly. Jesse was forced to consider the possibility that the parking-lot murder had caused the crime ring to go to ground.
Then he became aware of the presence of a black BMW sedan. It had already circled the parking lot once and was in the process of doing so again.
Jesse noticed Perkins slide lower in his seat.
In the Explorer, Jesse picked up a newspaper and held it as though he was reading.
The BMW circled the lot for a third time, then slowly descended on the Civic. It pulled to a stop. After several moments, the passenger door opened and a smallish, wiry-looking man got out. The BMW drove away.
The wiry man produced a thin plastic sleeve, which he inserted between the window and the door frame on the driver’s side of the Civic. Within seconds the door was unlocked and the wiry man was inside the car.
He took a pair of screwdrivers from his tool kit. He used them to remove the center console. He leaned over and reached inside with both hands. He fidgeted for several seconds. The Civic roared to life.
The man readjusted himself in the driver’s seat. He looked around to make certain no one was watching. Then he pulled out and drove away.
Peter Perkins took up his position as the lead pursuit vehicle. After allowing the Civic a brief head start, he followed.
After several moments, Jesse pulled the Explorer into the traffic flow. He was a dozen car lengths behind Perkins, who was perhaps six or seven lengths behind the Civic.
The Civic drove east on Paradise Boulevard. At Beach Road, it turned left, heading away from town. Merging with other traffic, Perkins lagged far enough behind so as not to alert the driver to the fact he was being followed.
Jesse lagged even farther behind. He called Perkins.
“That you, Jesse?”
“Yes. Make the turnoff as we planned. Did you call in the BMW?”
“I did.”
“That’s good police work, Pete.”
“Thanks, Jesse. Go get ’em.”
About a mile up the road, Perkins turned left and abandoned the pursuit. Jesse continued to follow the BMW.
When it reached Paradise Highway, the Civic transitioned onto it, heading north. Jesse slowed and made the same transition.
Fewer cars were now on the road. Instinctively, Jesse dropped farther back so as to barely appear in the Civic’s rearview mirror.
They drove like this for twenty or so miles. Then the Civic turned onto Orchard Road with Jesse a safe distance behind.
Orchard was a rural two-lane highway. It ran through a heavily wooded area that was home to a number of farms that were set far back from the road.
Jesse lost sight of the Civic. He slowed and paid particular attention to each driveway he passed. He spotted the tail end of the Civic only moments before it disappeared around the bend of a rutted pathway. He kept going.
He pulled the Explorer to the side of the road about threetenths of a mile farther on. There was no other traffic. He turned off the engine and called Perkins.
“Track me, Pete,” Jesse said. “The device is activated. When you find the Explorer, park behind it. Alert the troops, as we discussed. If I don’t turn up before winter,