My body went nuclear and my heart bongoed against my chest. No way would I be able to get back downstairs and out the front door before the police cruiser pulled up in front of the house. Walking outside with my hands up and telling the cops the truth wasn’t an option. Not on LJPD’s turf. Neither was shooting it out over a crime I didn’t commit.
I jammed the gun in my coat pocket and spun my head looking for an escape route. I might have found one. The upstairs master bedroom must have been an addition to the house. A window looked out over the roof of the lower floor and probably had a tiny daytime view of the ocean miles away. I opened the window, removed the screen, leaned out and gently set it on the roof.
A loud triple knock on the front door echoed up the stairway. “La Jolla Police Department. Open the door.”
Had I locked the door? Couldn’t remember. Shit.
I slipped through the window onto the roof and closed it behind me. The roof sloped away from the window toward the next-door neighbor’s house. I could see the cruiser parked on the street, but not the police under the eaves of the front door. The car’s headlights were on but not the rainbow light bar on the roof. Good. Must not have been a “shots fired” radio call. Maybe the cops would just knock and walk. It was almost midnight. Near the end of the shift. I crouched down and waited.
Another triple knock. This one I heard from outside.
“La Jolla Police Department. We have a report of a disturbance. Please open the door.” Urgent, but not out of control.
If the cops barged through the door and found me on the roof, I’d be toast. If they found me with the murder weapon, I’d be burnt toast. If I threw the gun into the backyard or the yard of a neighbor, the cops might hear it thump down. I needed to hide it somewhere. Now. Not many options on a roof.
A small chimney vent stuck out of the roof about five feet away from me. Probably to the hood system from the stove in the kitchen. The beam of a flashlight strafed over the fence into the backyard below me. They weren’t giving up. I crawled down the slope to the chimney vent on my stomach, took the gun out of my pocket and wiped it down with the dish towel, then wrapped the towel around it. I eased the circular rain cover off the vent and wedged the gun down into the chimney vent. The towel muffled the sound of the gun rubbing against the vent. Quietly, I slid the rain cover back down onto the vent, then used the tail of my shirt to wipe off my prints.
I crawled up the sloped roof back to the edge of the master bedroom. My phone vibrated in my pants pocket. I put my hand over it to further muffle the faint sound. The beam of the flashlight pulled back over the fence to the front yard. Another three-bang knock on the front door and the cop demanding the door be opened.
A dog in the far side neighbor’s backyard barked. A barrel-chested woof. More dogs added on. Lights popped on in windows of the neighbors north and south. Then across the street.
The cops discussed something down below on the front porch. I couldn’t make out the words but it sounded like a disagreement. More windows lit up along the block. I scanned the roof, looking for the best escape. Sweat stung my eyes. The side yard had a concrete patio. A broken ankle and arrest waiting to happen. I hadn’t seen the backyard, but the front had a lawn. A softer landing and then outrace a cop car? Or bullets?
The cops were still arguing when a man walked across the street through the patrol car’s headlights toward the cops. I caught a flash of gray hair and a polo shirt. He walked with the confidence of a man used to being in control. Used to getting his way. I lost sight of him when he crossed under the eaves above the front porch.
Cops’ voices, then his. I could make out a few of his words, but not the cops. “Hawaii.” “Next month.” I guessed he told them that the owner was out of town. Good. Maybe no need to break in and investigate. A little more discussion and then the man strode back across the street. His life back in control. The cops appeared from under the eaves and walked back to their squad car. They got in and their radio squawked. One of them said something into it and they drove away.
A gust of breath erupted from my mouth and my body felt the cool December night for the first time since I’d been on the roof. It chilled the sweat along my forehead and down my neck. The chill felt good, like the first relief after fighting nausea and then vomiting. But more nausea always followed. I had to get off the roof and back to the car. I hoped Sierra hadn’t done what I told her to do and fled the area.
I checked my phone. The call had been from her. I listened to her voicemail, the volume turned low.
“Rick! Are you all right? Please call me. I’m still parked around the corner. Please call. I’m scared.”
I texted her to drive back up Candlelight past the house and circle around at the top of the hill. I’d meet her two houses below 5564 Candlelight. Ten seconds later she texted back, “Ok.”
A few dogs continued to bark and most of the windows in the neighborhood still burned light. I didn’t have time to wait until everybody went back to bed. If there were eyes in those windows looking at the house, I figured most of them would be targeting the front door. That wouldn’t be my exit. I stood up, hunched over, and Quasimodoed to the front of the house. The wooden fence that I’d peeked through two nights ago stood an inch-and-a-half wide and four feet below the roof.
Sierra drove past up the hill in the Mustang. She’d be back down in less than twenty seconds. I didn’t want to make her wait and have my car sitting on the street two houses down from where the police had answered a call.
I got down on my belly and shimmied blindly backwards down the roof, my legs dangling in midair. I clutched the bottom on the eaves below me with my left hand and splayed my right against the roof as I inched further down. My ribs cried out, but I didn’t listen. Finally, my shoes caught the top of the fence, and I balanced myself holding onto the roof.
Sierra drove past and the brake lights flashed as she pulled to a stop below. No time to scale the fence. I jumped down onto the front lawn, hit, and rolled to my feet. I hustled down to the Mustang and whipped open the door. I peeked over the roof of the car as I got in and saw the man in the polo shirt standing in his driveway.
If he caught a glimpse of the Mustang’s license plate I might have two BOLOs out on it from two different police departments.
“Drive.”
Sierra pulled away from the curb and let the clutch out too fast. The car bucked and almost stalled, but she finally smoothed it out.
“Make a right at the first street and then another right up the hill.”
“What happened with the police?” Panic. “You didn’t find Trey, did you?”
“Trey’s not there.” I didn’t tell her that one of his associates was. Facedown. She was scared enough already. “I avoided the police. Everything’s okay.”
Not even close.
“Where are we going?”
I had no idea, but we had to keep moving. Wherever we went, there’d still be a dead body that someone would discover sooner or later. When it was, Trey Fellows would be in even deeper shit, and the chance for a new trial for Randall Eddington would follow him right down the shit hole.
“Just stay on this road for a while.”
Sierra’s phone rang before we hit the top of La Jolla Mesa. The ring startled her so much that she jerked the steering wheel and almost hit a parked car.
She pulled out her phone and almost hit another one.
“Pull over.”
She did and let out the clutch and the car lurched to a stop. I’d do the driving for the rest of the night.
Sierra looked at the phone.
“The number’s blocked.”
“Answer it.” I turned off the police scanner to cut the background noise.
She answered. “Trey! Yes, I’m fine. Where are you?”
I grabbed the phone from Sierra’s hand and put it on speaker.
“I’m on my way to LA. I need to hide out up there for a while. I’ll call you when I’ve settled somewhere. You be careful.”
I mouthed to Sierra to tell Trey that I wanted to talk to him. I figured if he heard my voice or anyone else’s without introduction, he’d hang up.
“Trey, Rick wants to talk to you.”
“The PI? No!”
“He wants to help. He saved me from those biker guys. Please talk to him.”
“No. I gotta go.”
No time left for niceties. “Trey, it’s Rick. Listen. Pull over somewhere and we’ll meet you. Let’s be smart about this.”
“I am being smart. I’m getting the hell outta town. Those… they…they killed Smitty, man!”
Sierra sucked in a huge gust of air and her eyes went giant. I took the phone off speaker and put it up to my ear.
“Look. We’ll hide you in a hotel tonight and then get you under protective custody.” Wasn’t sure how I could do that, but I thought Buckley would be able to figure something out. When he did, I’d also find out Trey’s connection to the dead Raptor and the lawyer. “If you run, you’ll look guilty.”
“Those fuckers want to kill me, man!”
“That’s why you have to let me protect you. Tell me where to meet you.”
I put the phone back on speaker and handed it to Sierra.
“I’m here, Trey,” she said.
“Do whatever Rick tells you to do to stay safe. I’ll call you tomorrow from another phone. I love you.” The line went dead.
Sierra stared down at the phone. A tear ran down her nose and splashed down onto the screen of her iPhone. More followed. I didn’t give her a hug and I didn’t tell her that everything was going to be all right. I didn’t believe it and I didn’t have the time.
I had to get Sierra somewhere safe and get rid of my car.