CHAPTER

30

Eric said, “Sure it could be an ambush.”

“I call for uniform backup at this hour,” said Petra, “everything goes crazy.”

“Maybe it needs to.”

He’d watched her get dressed, hadn’t commented until she asked him what he thought about the call. Now he got out of bed, limped to the chair, and reached for his own clothes.

“What are you doing?”

“Backing you up.”

“How long’s it been since you slept?”

“Once I’m up, I’m up.” He turned his dark eyes on her.

“It’s not necessary,” she said. “Mac Dilbeck’s the primary. I’ll call, let him decide.”

“You’re the one the guy’s expecting.”

“That’s only because my name was attached to the news story.” The story she’d provided.

Eric finished dressing. “Where’s your extra gun?”

“Stay here and rest. I can get plenty of backup.”

“Like who?”

“How about the Belgian?” she said.

He laughed. Headed for her closet. Knowing where she kept her spare nine millimeter.

She said, “I really am calling Mac.” Reached for the phone to prove it.

“Mac’s a good man.” He found the automatic on an upper shelf, nestled in its hard-shell case, between two black sweaters. Found the black nylon holster she favored, adjusted the strap and set himself up.

Petra said, “You really don’t need to do this.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun.”

She dialed Mac’s number.

Ventura Boulevard at five forty-three A.M. was a dark and ghostly stretch buzzed by intermittent traffic. The Jaguars and SUVs in the fenced lot were gray mounds. Some grace time until the sun rose, but not that much. Which could be good or bad, depending on how this shook out.

Mac Dilbeck arrived in his old Cadillac DeVille, parked two blocks west, as arranged, near a dormant medical building. He wore a navy sweatshirt, black slacks, dark shoes. First time Petra had seen him without a suit and tie. His hair was parted and brushed but white stubble clouded his chin. Luc Montoya arrived in a company car, an unmarked he’d taken home. Off the case, but this morning he was on it. Tense but smiling; this was more fun than yet another dummy-homicide.

Eric’s presence elicited raised eyebrows from the two of them but no comment.

Protocol called for blues, but this was the whole team. Four detectives, a quartet who rarely fired their weapons, filled their days mostly talking on the phone and filing paper. The Paradiso shooting had been a vicious drive-by. If this was a serious ambush, it could go beyond ugly.

But Petra, having cruised by the felafel stand twice from the north side of the boulevard, was feeling relaxed. Neither she nor Eric had spotted anyone at or near the little kiosk. And Eric was a spotter.

If the man claiming to be Lyle Leon was righteous and really scared, there’d be only one place to hide: behind the stand. No easy escape from there: a high block wall rose to the south, at least twelve feet of impediment. Beyond that, another half-acre of British car storage.

No cars parked nearby, so if Leon was waiting for her, he had no simple flight plan.

Mac reviewed strategy. Clipped, businesslike, that combat-sergeant manner of his. Petra would cross Ventura on rubber-soled shoes, approaching the stand from the north, her gun out but keeping it close to her body so as not to attract attention from the occasional motorist. Once at the building, she’d press herself up against the white stucco walls before announcing herself. Anyone behind the stand would have to slip around, show himself at least partially. The three other detectives, approaching simultaneously from east and west would be ready for trouble.

No rescue word. There’d be no time to scream.

The big question mark, as she saw it, was a drive-by from Ventura. Eric knew that and she could tell it bothered him. He kept quiet. She felt better knowing he’d be scoping out the boulevard.

“You okay?” Mac asked her.

“Let’s do it.”

Feeling cool and competent, she walked briskly toward the kiosk. Before she got there a man stepped out from behind the building, arms in the air, fingers wiggling. Spreading his legs, he leaned against an outdoor table.

Mac and Montoya swarmed him and Eric did the initial pat down.

The guy said “A welcoming party” in that same smooth phone voice. “It’s so nice to be appreciated.”

After the guy was cuffed, Eric patted him down again. That was Eric.

Same long, craggy face as the mug shot.

She said, “It’s him.”

Lyle Leon wore a maroon Jacquard silk shirt tucked into baggy, cinch-waisted, black nylon cargo pants and lace-up boots with healthy heels. Like pirates used to wear . . .

The eraserhead coif had been mowed down to a conservative bristle. No more soul patch and a little dark hole centered his right earlobe where the earring had once sparkled.

The shirt was a work of art. Petra checked the label. Stefano Ricci. She’d spotted one of those in a Melrose vintage boutique. Five hundred bucks used.

Leon smiled at her. Well-built and relatively clean cut. Bereft of cosmetic affectations, a good-looking guy.

Eric handed her the fat wallet he’d found in a pocket of the cargo pants. Inside was a Cal driver’s license that looked real and fifteen hundred dollars, in fifties and twenties. The address on the license was a Hollywood Boulevard number Petra knew to be a mail drop.

Leon said, “Can we talk now?”