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THE THREE MEN walked to the Honda and climbed in—one of them sat behind Bobby, who was in the front passenger seat, and the other drove. The taillights blinked on, and the Civic backed down the driveway. Tires chirped on the pavement, spitting rocks as the low profile hot rod zoomed away.
I quickly stashed the mic and called Sam to give him the plate number as I followed at a discreet distance. The Honda sped along surface streets, heading toward the highway. Luckily, traffic was light and I was able to stay behind a couple of cars while at the same time keeping them in view. I had no idea if any of them were trained in spotting tails. Like Sam always said, never underestimate the target.
My guess was that both of Bobby’s “friends” were packing. In the cartel world weapons were the first items on a wannabee’s list of must-haves. One-upmanship between rival factions was the norm, and it often devolved into a pissing match over whose gun was bigger.
The Honda turned south on the highway heading toward Tacoma. I kept a couple of car lengths back, but from what I could see the occupants weren’t especially concerned with the vehicles around them. Not once did either of the gangbangers turn in his seat to check behind them, and the driver wasn’t overly enamored of the rearview mirror.
I followed them across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and merged south onto I-5. Traffic was uncharacteristically light, so I could still hang back far enough that they’d never suspect they were being followed. The sun had set and the shadows worked in my favor.
A few minutes later, Sam called back with information on the car. I fed the call through the car’s speakers.
“Your Civic belongs to a John Hastings of Lacey, Washington.”
“Is there anything in the database?” I asked.
“Nope. He’s clean. You want his info?”
“Sure. Text it to me.”
Sam sent John Hastings’s address, birthdate, and other particulars to my phone. Having contacts with access to the Department of Motor Vehicles was helpful in our line of work.
“Got anything else on him?”
“I did a search, but there’s more than one John Hastings. None of them fit what you’re looking for. It’s like the guy doesn’t exist.”
“What about Kitsap County civil and criminal cases?”
There was a pause while Sam looked up the information. “Nada. And I checked surrounding counties. Want me to keep going?”
“No reason. There probably isn’t anything to find.”
The Honda continued on the interstate past Tacoma. A few miles out from the city of Olympia, they exited the freeway and took a left, headed toward a rest area at the top of a hill.
“Hey, looks like they’re pulling off. I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Be careful, Kate.”
“Will do.” I ended the call and followed them to the rest stop.
A number of big rigs took up space in the truck lot, acting as a temporary hotel for long-haul drivers. There weren’t many vehicles in the car lot.
The Honda continued past the building that housed the restrooms to the back of the truck lot where shadow overruled light. Only a couple of semis had opted for the dark side of the rest area. I assumed load safety took precedence over sleeping in total darkness for most.
The Civic rolled up to a white van parked at the far end. The doors to the Civic opened and the three men got out. The driver walked to the van and knocked on the side door. I cut the lights and parked next to an idling semi.
A short time later, the door slid open and a dark-haired man who looked like he’d just woken up climbed out. In his hand was a hood, which he pulled over Bobby’s head. Bobby didn’t struggle, which led me to believe he expected it. Then the guy with the tattoo on his neck zip-tied Bobby’s wrists together behind him and helped him into the back of the van before the driver rolled the door shut.
One of the men from the Honda handed the driver an envelope. He opened it, glanced at the contents, and slid it into his back pocket with a nod. Then he circled the van to the drivers’ side and got in.
Was there money in the envelope? I couldn’t be sure, even with the camera’s long lens. Bobby didn’t act scared, so I doubted the driver was being paid to kill him. Assuming the envelope contained cash, it was possible they were delivering a payment for something else.
I decided to follow Bobby and let the two in the Civic go. Something told me Bruce Wayne and The Terminator were minor players. The van driver struck me as a pro. I’d have to be more careful tailing him.
The two gangbangers got into the Honda and sped off, while the van waited a few minutes before hooking a U-turn and heading for the on-ramp to the freeway. I pulled out and followed at a healthy distance.
Half an hour later, the white van exited and drove through a residential area. The homes in the neighborhood were larger than average, and the lawns looked finely manicured, as though a service handled the upkeep. Here and there a higher-end car or SUV was parked in the driveway.
A block ahead, brake lights flashed and the van slowed, pulling into the driveway of one of the houses. I continued past and turned left at the next intersection, then circled back from the opposite direction. Slowing, I doused the headlights and pulled to the curb across the street and slightly down from the house.
The van was no longer in the driveway. My first thought was that the driver had spotted me and used the house as a decoy, but after checking, I noticed a detached garage. The back of a white van was visible on the far side. I breathed a sigh of relief.
It took less time to set up the mic since I’d left things partially intact from surveilling Dora’s place, and I pointed the beam at the large picture window near the front. The receiver picked up some ambient noise but no vocals. I repositioned the transmitter, targeting another window, but didn’t have any luck there, either.
If I wanted to find out what was happening to Bobby, I had to get closer. I quickly broke down the mic and put it in the case before grabbing my semiauto from the console. Scanning for a better place to set up, I zeroed in on a thin stream of light coming from a window on the far side of the house. A hedge of hydrangea bushes marked the edge of the lot, providing good cover, though I’d have to leave the safety of the Tahoe in order to get in position.
What if there are dogs?
Being mauled by a pack of angry pit bulls was not my idea of fun. Even a yappy Chihuahua could spell trouble if the neighbors investigated. If the owners had dogs, wouldn’t they be outside by now? Or at least barking their heads off? I decided to chance it.
I parked the SUV in the driveway of a darkened, uninhabited-looking residence on the opposite side of the street. Grabbing two tripods and the case with the mic, I scanned the street for cars. The neighborhood was quiet. It was late enough that most folks had settled in for the evening.
A few minutes later, I was in position behind a massive hydrangea bush and had the equipment set up with the beam pointed at a window on the side of the house. Luckily, there were no dogs in sight. I zipped my jacket closed against the cool spring evening, glad that rain wasn’t in the forecast.
The mic picked up a faint murmur that resembled conversation, but it wasn’t clear. I adjusted the beam, moving it back and forth across the window surface like I was tuning a radio station until I could make out the words. A man whose voice I didn’t recognize was speaking.
“I hear a PI came to visit you today. Is that right, Bobby?” The question was followed by the sound of ice clinking in a glass.
“I told them I didn’t know anything.”
“Of course. But still the woman found you. How do you think she managed to do that?” More ice clinking.
There was a brief pause. “I think she logged into Jason’s online accounts and was following up with his friends. Look.” Bobby’s voice held a hint of desperation. “It’s nothing. I was just one of a bunch of Jason’s contacts. He had, like, thousands of online friends.”
“Yes, but how many of them went to prison for robbing a bar?” Another pause. “Or have a connection to us?”
Who is this guy?
“Like I told you, the bar thing was a mistake. One I promised to never make again.” Bobby’s voice had gone into pleading mode.
“I think that’s wise.” The man paused. In the background, a door opened and closed. “I also think it’s wise that you are no longer part of our operation.”
“What’re you doing here?” Bobby’s voice wavered. He sounded surprised.
Instead of an answer, two thuds burst in rapid succession followed by the sound of something falling to the floor. Pulse racing, I froze.
“Get him out of here. And clean this mess up,” the man said. There was a deep sigh and another clink of ice cubes hitting the sides of a glass. “This doesn’t make me happy.”
“What should I do with the body?” a third voice grumbled.
“I don’t care, but take him far away where no one will be able to connect us to his death.”
I’d heard enough. I yanked off my headphones, grabbed the equipment, and ran.