The morning commute was far from subsiding. The Pacific Coast Highway was still creeping along and even the majors like Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards were heavy with solo drivers hoping to get somewhere on time. With all their clamoring for liberal causes L.A. residents never quite caught the concept of carpooling. Even the carpool lanes on the freeways required only two people. Traffic jams in L.A. began decades ago and would dissipate when the oil ran out. It was usually a nightmare regardless of the hour and this morning was no exception.
Actually the traffic made Jake’s objective a little easier. He checked his mirrors as he took a circuitous route through the residential streets of Santa Monica. A left, two quick rights, even turning left well after the light was red. He was looking for a tail but saw none. Surveillance wasn’t as easy as they made it look on TV. Trying to follow someone, either on foot or in a car, was seldom a one-man show, especially in a city as congested as Los Angeles. If Reid hired a PI or had a gangbanger or two following, Jake was confident he would spot it.
He doubted the attorney or his stooges were shadowing him, but since Jake was wasting Bureau gas and not his own he didn’t mind taking the long way to the Brentwood coffee shop.
The meet at the pier had gone a little too easy. This wasn’t Jake’s first dance recital, so maybe it was an undercover agent’s paranoia. Reid seemed too eager to employ a man he just met while standing at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. You play to emotions but you live by logic. Cautious optimism would prevail.
Jake’s vehicle, a 2013 Range Rover HSE, was his most recent reward for a short-term undercover assignment in San Diego. Jake did a quick hit on a cartel meth dealer who delivered ten kilos of the powder in his brand-new, paid-for-in-cash, luxury off-road SUV . . . Oh, the joy of dealing with really stupid criminals who get to forfeit any property used to “facilitate” a narcotics transaction!
He remained married to his rearview mirrors, making sure he wasn’t being followed. A tail might even be another law enforcement agency. Jake couldn’t be certain Reid wasn’t setting up the entire scenario to avoid a prison vacation. The odds of that seemed remote, but when dealing with sleaze even the unlikely can become real. So far, the trip from the pier to the coffee shop appeared surveillance-free.
Jake pulled into the Chevron station at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Bundy. He really didn’t need to fill up but decided to top off. It provided one more opportunity to scour the landscape and see if anyone was on the high ground preparing an attack.