2

THE SCENE AT Charlie Breen’s Deckhouse Restaurant was always rocking at happy hour. Bikers, surfers, beach bunnies, local businessmen, and cops all hung out there in rough harmony. And all of them were always greeted with the same laughter and pat on the back from Charlie himself. Now in his late fifties, Charlie was a living legend in Santa Monica. After a nomadic life of doing business and traveling in Europe, South America, and China, Charlie had come home and taken a ramshackle, falling- down druggie hangout, bought it twenty years ago for a comparative song and largely on the force of his personality — open, friendly, and caring — and made it into one of the most successful beach bars in Los Angeles. Jack had known him for close to ten years, and whenever he and Oscar finished working a case, Charlie’s was the first place they headed.

This night was special, however. Jack and Oscar had been working the Karl Steinbach case for close to a year. There had been many times when the two partners despaired of ever catching him. So tonight was party time, drinking, laughing, and sitting around the big circular bar, looking out on the lights of Santa Monica Bay. The two backup cops, Zac Blakely and Ron Hughes, were with them, as was big, silver-haired Charlie Breen himself, who kept the laughs and liquor flowing.

In front and above them was Charlie’s new fifty-inch plasma screen television set, with its endless games, CNN, and the local news feeds. Jack was feeling no pain as he downed his third Wild Turkey, with Hefeweizen and lemon back. Next to him, Oscar tossed back a shot of Herradura Gold Tequila. He couldn’t remember which shot it was, but he was pretty sure that number five had been some time ago.

“Hey, hey, hey, wait . . . there it is,” Ron Hughes said.

He pointed at the TV, where newscaster Trisha Toyota began her nightly news report.

“In Hollywood,” she chirped, “we’re used to seeing shoot-outs and robberies on the city streets, most of them staged for the studio cameras. But today in the Echo Park neighborhood, local residents were horrified to see the real thing unfold. In a sting operation, four FBI undercover agents took down a vicious gang of diamond smugglers.”

The whole bar had stopped talking now as Charlie signaled for them to check out the TV.

“Oh, yeah!” Blakely said.

He was referring to Jack, who was now being interviewed by Toyota, his facial features digitally blacked out.

There was a loud hoot from the denizens of the bar.

“Quiet, people,” Charlie said. “Our star is going to speak!”

Trisha Toyota smiled and turned to Jack:

“I have with me here the leader of the FBI operation, a man we’ll call Bill Kelley. I understand you chased the suspect all the way to Echo Lake.”

“That’s right, Trish,” Jack said.

“And all the while he was shooting at you,” she said in her breathless way.

“Yeah, but the only thing he hit was Mister Softee,” Jack said.

That got a big laugh at the bar.

“And he ended up in the lake,” Trish said.

“Yeah, but he was a little too late for the pedal boats, so he ended up getting all wet.”

Another roar from the drunken eager bar mates.

“But I understand that the suspect threatened to kill all of you. Doesn’t that worry you?”

There was a brief hesitation, and then Jack gave her the line:

“Yeah, Trish, my partners and I are flat-out terrified. I doubt any of us will sleep a wink tonight.”

Toyota cracked up, as did the patrons of Charlie Breen’s bar. Charlie reached over, grabbed Jack’s right arm, and held it above his head.

“The winner and still champion, Agent Jack Harper! Though I gotta tell you, you look a lot better with your face blacked out.”

There were cheers and laughs throughout the bar. Oscar held up his tequila and toasted Jack.

“To Karl Steinbach, may his punk ass rot in prison for the rest of his life!”

Hughes and his partner, a tired and curiously quiet Zac Blakely, joined in the toast. Jack felt a shot of warmth zap through him. It was great being here . . . with Charlie, with his guys . . . successful on a case. One good one made up for all the ones that got away, and during the last few years, there had more than a few of those. Ever since 9/11 there had been just about nothing but bad news for the Bureau. Leaks to the press, moles like the traitor, Robert Hansen, a guy with whom Jack had played on the Agency basketball team for three years. A guy he thought he knew. So tonight was a bit more than an arrest party, it was a comeback celebration for Jack, his guys, and the Bureau.

“Hey, Jackie,” Oscar said. “I gotta go . . . tomorrow’s another bitch of a day, huh?”

“Yeah,” Hughes said. “Getting late.”

“Come on, O,” Jack said. “Don’t wimp out on us.”

He reached over and hugged his partner of ten years. And added a kiss on the forehead.

“Jesus, Jackie,” Oscar said. “Cut that shit out, maricón.”

Jack laughed and kissed him again. Oscar pretended to fight back, then kissed Jack, too.

“Hey, Oscar,” Ron Hughes said. “You be careful on the way home, babe. Steinbach’s boys might be waiting for you.”

“Fuck him,” Oscar said. “As my old grandmother used to say, ‘El dia de las brujas en Hollywood asusta más que ese malparido tonto.’ Which means, ‘Halloween in Hollywood is scarier than that fucking mope.’”

“You got it, Osc,” Jack said. “See you in the A.M.”

The partners slapped five, and Oscar gave a quick hug to Charlie as he headed out to the parking lot.

A second later, as Jack downed his next beer, Zac Blakely signaled to him with his eyes: He wanted to have a private talk. The two men drifted over to the corner and sat down in a vacant booth.

“Forrester is starting again,” Blakely said as he sipped his beer. He rolled his brown eyes in disgust.

Forrester was Supervisory Agent William Forrester, the bane of both Jack’s and Blakely’s existence. Their immediate supervisor, Forrester was a Harvard graduate, who never tired of saying, “When I was back at Cambridge, we did things this way . . .” In addition to being a first-class snob, Forrester was also convinced that Blakely and Hughes and maybe even Jack himself were rogue agents who had their eye on stealing valuable evidence, whether it be money or jewels. It didn’t help that the last bust Blakely and Hughes had led (and in which Jack and Oscar had served as their backups), a major robbery at City National Bank in North Hollywood, had ended up with $200,000 of unaccounted-for money.

“Guy has some kind of major hard-on for you,” Jack said.

“I know,” Blakely said. “But Ron and I didn’t take the money. We caught Miller and his crew at the track, where they were going to lay the money off . Nailed them and brought the money to the office, processed it with Garrett in Evidence. And never saw it again. Then, when we’re going to re-count it for Miller’s trial, we find that two hundred grand is gone.”

Jack nodded his head, then sipped his drink.

“I know, Zac. You don’t have to convince me. What’s Forrester saying to you now?”

“He’s not saying anything,” Blakely said. “But he’s got guys tailing us night and day. And he’s intimated a couple of times, Jackie, that you were probably involved as a criminal accessory.”

“I know. He’s tried to rattle my cage a few times. But fuck him,” Jack said. “He’s got nothing on any of us.”

“Yeah,” Blakely said. “But it gets a little old being tailed all the time.”

He indicated a bearded man with a scar under his right eye across the room.

“Check out that fuck.”

Jack casually turned and looked over the guy, who was pretending to be looking at one of the ski bunnies who’d just rolled in.

“That guy was sent by Forrester?” Jack said. “You sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. But he’s been watching us all night.”

Jack looked over at the big man’s hollow eyes, which seemed to stare right through him.

“This the first time you’ve seen him?”

“Yeah, I think so. But there have been other guys, too. You recognize him, Jack?”

“No,” Jack said. “I don’t. But I did notice him about a half hour ago, and it occurred to me that he could have been sent by Steinbach.”

“But we just arrested him,” Blakely said. “How could Stein- bach move that fast?”

“Marvels of technology,” Jack said. “With an instant message, he can set up an instant tail. The guy has that kind of operation. He could have done it while he was running for the lake.”

“That sounds a little paranoid to me, Jack,” Blakely countered. “Yeah, well, it probably is,” Jack said. “But maybe we’re both

being a little crazy. Look, I know and you know you that Ron and I didn’t steal the City National dough. Forrester is worried about how the Director sees him. He’s going to hassle you for a while, then, when we make another good bust, he’ll give it up.”

Blakely looked tired. “He threatened my pension, Jack. I swear, if he does anything to fuck that up, I’m going to bull- whip his ass down Wilshire Boulevard, then torch him.”

Jack laughed. It was good to hear the Blakely of old, the angry, funny badass who had taught him much of what he knew.

“He’s not going to touch your pension, Zac. He’s got nothing.”

“I know that and you know that,” Zac said. “But to cover his own ass, he could invent a few facts. After all, in a few months, I’m retired. Might serve him very well to pin something on me.”

Jack shook his head. “He’s not that nuts. He tried anything like that, we’d nail him to the cross.”

Zac nodded and managed a tired smile.

“Glad you’re with me, Jack.”

“Always. You’re my main man.”

They smiled and headed back to the bar. The bearded man watched them go, then slipped out the front door.

Jack, Blakely, and Hughes watched him go.

“Heading back to make his report to Forrester?” Hughes said.

Jack laughed. “Forget that germ,” he said. “Could just be watching us because he thinks we’re movie stars.”

“Yeah,” Hughes said. “The Three Fucking Stooges.”

A few minutes later, a DEA agent named Tommy Wilson came in. Jack and Tommy had some bad blood between them over a shared case a few years back, so Jack tried to ignore him, but red-faced Wilson, already half in the bag, greeted him effusively anyway.

“Ah,” he said. “Look who it is. The highly sung heroes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Heard you brought in the Kraut.”

Jack didn’t bother to reply, still hoping he could avoid talking to Tommy but, on his left, Blakely took the bait.

“Whoa, Fast Tommy of the DEA. We’re looking forward to the day when we can wrap your humble little agency up with ours.”

“Yeah,” Hughes said. “Then we can teach you how to be real police.”

Tommy waited until the three Feds had stopped laughing at him, then sprang his surprise.

“You boys are a little behind the curve. This humble servant of the people is now working for the new superstar agency, the Department of Homeland Security.”

“Jumped ship, huh, Tommy?” Hughes said.

Wilson laughed and looked at Jack.

“Just went where my services are needed by my country. And the way I hear it, we might roll you guys up into our agency, given all the tragic mistakes you’ve made of late.”

Hughes started to get off the bar stool, but Blakely held him back.

“Not funny, Tommy.”

“Then why am I laughing so hard?” Wilson smiled wickedly at the three FBI agents and walked around to the other side of the bar, where three other agents greeted him.

“I oughta kick that arrogant dickhead’s ass,” Hughes said.

“Aw, fuck him,” Blakely said. “They’re still the new kids on the block.”

Hughes shook his head, said, “I just hope Congress doesn’t give them the whole block.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “They grabbed off eight of our agents in the last six months. Man, it’s getting thin out there.”

“Fuck ’em and the horse they rode in on,” Blakely said.

“Eloquently put, Zac,” Jack said. “You are a master of the English language.”

“Fuckin’ A, I am,” a somewhat renewed Blakely said. “I am the king of wit and hyperbole. And I taught you all you know, young Jackie.”

“That you did,” Jack said. “The man was my first partner, Charlie.”

“Really?” Charlie said. “And you didn’t shoot him for insubordination?”

“Tried to several times,” Blakely said. “But he moved too fast. He doesn’t need my help anymore. He’s his own man out there. That was good work today, Jackie. I never knew you could run like that.”

“Always been fast,” Jack said. “Speed of foot makes up for my slow mental capacities.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hughes said.

Hughes and Blakely clicked glasses, said their good-byes, and headed for the door.

“Keep what I told you in mind,” Blakely said. “Slick Billy would like to bring us all down.”

“Got it,” Jack said.

“Drive safe,” Charlie said. “They got traffic cops out there.” The two Feds waved as they headed out the door. Jack looked

out at the Pacific, saw the moon gleaming off the waves. Seeing and hearing the roar of the surf settled him, made his blood pressure drop, and took away the violent images and feelings that warred inside of him.

He thought of the bearded man, wondered if he was a spy and, if so, was he working for Forrester or Karl Steinbach? Or if he was just some poor beach bum who they’d only imagined was part of their little paranoid party?

Jack sighed, tried to clear his mind. He looked at Charlie, his gray swept-back hair, his broad football player’s chest . . . There was something solid about Charlie, he thought, something stable, unlike himself. He was mercurial, always had been. Which was why he was attracted to undercover work. There were times when he came down off being one of the bad guys when he didn’t know who he was anymore. There would be a two- or three-day period when he would look at his son, Kevin, or his girlfriend, Julie, and feel emotionally dead to them. It was like they were strangers, yet worse than that, because with a stranger he might want to make an effort to impress or at least be civil. With his own friends and family, even Kevin, he would feel as though he had blown down to zero, maybe beyond. What was real and what was false had become so twisted in his mind that his ordinary human affections seemed to go into hiding. And he secretly feared that one day they might not return.

“Hey,” Charlie said, “how about one for the road?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why not?”

Charlie motioned to Sam, the Italian barmaid, and she picked up the shot glass and filled it with Jack Daniel’s.

“You and Julie doing good, Jackie?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Pretty good, anyway.”

“Wedding bells?”

“Nah, not yet, Charlie. You know how it is. I’m already zero for one on that score. ’Sides, I haven’t known her long enough.”

“She living with you now?”

“Part-time,” Jack said. “She’s keeping her own apartment until . . . you know, we’re sure.”

“Know what you mean,” Charlie said. “Hey, you gonna bring your son up to the Brentwood League this year?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “He’s got so many things going already. Plays guitar in his rock group, and he’s taking AP classes.”

What he didn’t say was that Kevin had been rebellious lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, he’d lied about going to the library, and stayed out late, behavior which sent Julie into a panic. Jack had done much the same kinds of things as a kid, so he wasn’t that worried. Not yet, anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” Charlie said. “But you gotta get the kid outdoors a little. We’re talking baseball, the greatest sport of all time.”

“I’m a little busy right now, Charlie. I don’t know if I can coach.”

“Who says you gotta? I’m up there. Kev can play on my team. The mighty Brentwood Dodgers.”

Charlie assumed a catcher’s pose, and Jack laughed and punched him in the arm.

“All right. Maybe. When’s sign-up?”

“Saturday at eleven,” Charlie said. “Bring him up. I remember he can really pound the ball.”

“Yeah, no doubt about it. He’s got a good eye and real good bat speed. I’ll talk to him about it.”

Charlie smiled happily and nodded his head.

“Man,” Jack said. “The way you are . . . you shoulda had kids, Charlie.”

Charlie sighed and shook his head.

“Tried, man. Wasn’t in the cards. Tried the normal way, and then we did the in vitro thing. Now lemme tell you, Jackie, that’s a lot of fun. You go into some little room and they got porno DVDs in there and some lesbian mags, and you jerk off into a cup, and have to come out into the hallway afterward carrying the fucking thing and you run into all these other cats who are also carrying their cups around. Oh, man, it’s Loser Land.”

Charlie limped around with an imaginary cup in his hand as Jack smiled sympathetically.

“And after all that, and the ten grand it costs you, the shit doesn’t even work. It’s 12 percent or something. We did it three times, too . . . and that was enough ’cause not only did I not have the kid, but I lost my wife. You try fucking on schedule for two and a half years . . . giving her injections at night, waking up at three A.M. to crying jags. No, man, that was the end for me. But it’s okay. This way I get to coach the kids when they’re sweet and young. Later, when they become car thieves and teenage crackheads, I don’t have to be involved.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. That must have been rough.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “It sucked. But that’s long ago and far away, my friend. Look at that ocean, listen to that surf. That’s what we’re living for nowadays. Let the past go, Jackie. That’s what you gotta learn.”

Jack looked at him and smiled.

“Get out there with your kid,” Charlie said. “’Cause in a few years he’ll have a girlfriend, and then it’ll be bye-bye, Daddy.”

“I hear you, Charlie,” Jack said. “Thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow, coach.”

Charlie smiled and hugged Jack and Jack felt a bolt of affection for him. Something surprising and tender that he had rarely felt for his own dad.

He was glad he could feel something for his friend, glad he wasn’t just a shadow self, faking it here, faking it there, as he lured scumbags like Steinbach into his trap.

• • •

The Santa Monica Freeway was lit with a strange neon glow, and there was only one other car on the road. A black sedan somewhere behind him . . . maybe a hundred yards away. What was it, a Lincoln Town Car? A Caddy? He couldn’t tell.

Ah, what the hell, why should he worry?

It was just some other guy like him, heading home after too many drinks. Nothing to get buzzed about.

Still, when he thought of the old woman, the way she looked at him. The evil eye. He give you the evil eye, señor. Like something out of a werewolf movie from long ago. What was that woman’s name? Maria Ouspenskaya. When the wolfbane blooms and the moon is full . . . Christ, that was just a lot of Hollywood bullshit.

Just the same, it had scared the living shit out of him when he was nine or ten.

And now the car was getting closer . . . really speeding up, and just to be safe, Jack reached into his coat . . . felt the grip of his .38.

Not that he was worried or anything . . .

Now the other car was really closing on him.

It was a Lincoln.

Jack squinted into the rearview. Jesus, it was the bearded guy, no doubt about it. He was following him. But who had sent him: Forrester or Steinbach?

Up ahead was Jack’s exit . . . five or ten more feet.

He had to slow down a little to make the turn. The Lincoln pulled alongside him. Jack turned and looked at the guy. The scar seemed to glow off his face.

He looked directly at Jack and gave him a superior little sneer as the Lincoln rushed by.

Jack headed down the ramp, his heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.

Maybe Blakely was right, after all. Forrester was trying to build some kind of case against all of them.

Ever since the Hansen betrayal, the service had become wired, as if they’d ingested a ton of meth and were all having multiple hallucinations and massive paranoia.

Looking for moles, criminals, bad agents . . .

Forrester, like some kind of Stalinist enforcer trying to find the mole.

Jack felt his skin crawl. What had started out as a celebration had turned into something creepy, another bad vibe.

The thought infuriated him.

Being spied on by Forrester. If it was Forrester.

Once again, he thought of the old woman. “Malo, señor. He give you the evil eye.” And a chill ran down his back.

A few minutes later, Jack pulled into the driveway of his modest bungalow in Culver City. He walked up the path and saw his son’s lacrosse stick lying in a bush. When he reached down to pick it up, he felt a twinge in his left knee. A sharp little pain that caught him up short.

Maybe from running today . . . he thought . . . maybe for that and from all his own years of lacrosse at the University of Maryland. Maybe in a few years he’d have to get it scoped out . . . and if it didn’t work, they’d move him to a desk job.

Fuck that . . . he’d quit the Agency first.

He stuck the key in the door and went inside.

Walked through the living-room shadows and down the hallway to Kevin’s room. He looked inside, put the lacrosse stick gently up against the wall, and walked over to his sleeping fourteen-year- old son.

How he loved him. The overwhelming emotions he felt for him were like nothing he had ever experienced before. A feeling of awe swept over him. His son, his flesh and blood . . . he would do anything in the world to protect him. Give his own life in a flash. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his son’s brown hair, looked down at his long lashes, his beautiful mouth . . . He leaned down and kissed him on the head. Kevin stirred slightly and Jack cradled his head with his arms. But a second later, Kevin awakened and looked up at him angrily.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Sneaked in a hug. Sorry,” Jack said, remembering the days when he had snuggled with his son. There were no happier moments.

“Come on, Dad. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I know,” Jack said, looking at his perfect skin, his bright brown eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Kevin said. “Just fine. Dad, look, I gotta get back to sleep.”

“Right,” Jack said. The coldness in his son’s voice was like a knife through his chest. He patted him on the arm and then slid out of the room as Kevin turned over and went back to sleep.

As he walked softly in the hallway, he had a thought . . . that if Steinbach really wanted to get him he might come after Kevin. The thought was so grave — so unsettling — that he couldn’t bear it.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Late-night jitters, that was all. Fucking Steinbach wasn’t going to come after anybody. He was in the can and would be for a long time. All the bad guys made those kinds of threats, but Jack had never known even one of them to carry them out.

Nah, he was just tired, a little drunk . . . stressed.

Still, who was the bearded man, and how come he’d followed Jack on the freeway? Or was that, too, just coincidence?

He opened the bedroom door and saw Julie sleeping in the barred moonlight.

She was young, beautiful. In bed they were so right for one another. But they hadn’t known each other all that long. Eight months. They’d met online: Match.com . . . Oscar had talked him into joining. Jesus, he’d had some weird dates at first. A woman who had an amazing picture in a bikini, but who, when she showed up, was twenty-five years older, and so drunk Jack was tempted to arrest her for DUI. Instead, he had one drink with her, drove her home himself, then took a thirty-dollar cab ride back to his car. Another woman, who looked fine, but had Tourette’s syndrome, and cursed him under her breath as they had lattes at Starbucks. Then there was the woman who had said she was “curvy” in her online profile and weighed in at about three-ten. She had a wild, cackling laugh, and talked all about “changing her meds,” the mere thought of which made her want to eat an entire pizza at lunch.

Jack was about to give up the whole thing when he met Julie Wade. A teacher, beautiful, kind, and in touch with both him and his son . . . she seemed too good to be true.

They had clicked from the first night . . . though they didn’t sleep together until the fourth date.

Now, eight months later, Julie slept at Jack’s a couple of nights a week . . . using the excuse that she had to get to work early in the morning and her own apartment was closer to her school, The Willows, in Culver City.

But Jack knew that wasn’t the whole story. Julie said her last boyfriend, a Marine who’d come back from Iraq, had burned her and gone nuts with stress syndrome. She was gun-shy, something Jack understood only too well. He didn’t want to get caught up with another wrong choice, either. His divorce was tough on him, but really murder on Kevin, who still couldn’t understand why his mother, Linda, had left him and moved back East to Baltimore. Jack didn’t want to tell him that his mother had turned out to be an alcoholic, failed actress, the kind of beautiful girl who gets off the bus in Hollywood filled with hopes and dreams of stardom, only to end up working as an assistant to a guy who makes low-budget thrillers for a while, until the day he gives that up, and starts doing porno movies down in the San Fernando Valley. Linda hadn’t made that trek, the last stop for a flunked-out actress . . . but couldn’t find any legitimate work, and soon lost her agent.

When Jack met her, she was waitressing at Dantana’s. They had a whirlwind love affair. She was still beautiful and fun, and at the restaurant she was a star. Jack wanted her more than anyone he’d ever met . . . and when they’d fallen in love there was no doubt about it. He was whacked out on love.

He wanted her so much that he’d barely noticed her drinking being out of control. After all, that was another time, a time when everyone he knew drank a little too much, partied a little too hard.

Then came the marriage — and her downfall . . . having a child. She was an erratic mother. A week of loving their son more than the earth and moon would be followed by a week when she “had to get out,” she was “being smothered” by Jack’s late hours, staying at home by herself . . . She hated her life . . . began to drink all day and night, and on top of it started hitting the Vicodin.

Two years into the marriage, it was all over. The fight, the screaming matches, the furniture throwing.

And then one night, when he got home, Jack found Kevin asleep in an empty house and a note on the kitchen table. She’d cleaned out the checking account and left for Baltimore.

Jack stared down at Julie. She looked . . . what was the word . . . beatific? Yeah, that was it. He knew that any attractive woman could look like an angel when sleeping, but in this case he felt that maybe this time . . . he really had gotten lucky.

But even so . . . even now he felt that there was something waiting, something that could come and wipe out his dreams. And the worst thing was that maybe it was Kevin. Kevin, who didn’t trust any woman right now. Kevin, who disappeared until four in the morning, two weeks ago, a feat which nearly sent Julie around the bend.

Maybe Julie wasn’t ready to handle a volatile teenager.

Jack felt his head bursting with negative thoughts.

He had to get some sleep. Clear his mind. Things were okay. He’d nailed Steinbach . . . everything was good.

Even so, after he finally took a quick shower and hopped into bed, he couldn’t sleep, but watched and waited for something to happen . . . something really bad. He could almost feel it as it edged toward his house.