The newsstand was outside an abandoned supermarket. The faded old sign said Tucker’s, and it was easy to see why the independent store hadn’t been replaced by Ralphs or one of the other big SoCal chains. The building was in a run-down part of the City of Industry, an east LA neighborhood devoted to manufacturing and commerce. Old empty warehouses spread out in every direction, blown clean by the cruel wind of recession. The whole block was ripe for redevelopment, but until then no one would revive the market, which would have once relied on trade from local workers. It was approaching 10:00 p.m., and the streets were deserted.
The newsstand itself was one of the old vend-yourself up-and-over glass-fronted boxes that opened and closed for a quarter. The LA Times masthead was just about visible at the top of the box. The mechanism was broken and the money safe long gone. The main cabinet now rose with a gentle pull.
I set up three motion-activated cameras around the newsstand. One was mounted on a streetlamp, another on the cracked wall that stood at the edge of the old supermarket parking lot. The third was placed in the entrance of the warehouse opposite, and I concealed the wireless recorder in a broken mailbox next to it.
Sam Larabee, the private detective I’d hired, returned my call when I was making final checks on the system.
“Mr. Collard, sorry for the late call, I was at dinner and only just got the message from Otis,” he said when I answered. “What can I do for you?”
“Can you trace a cell number?” I asked.
“More trouble with your ex-wife?” he suggested.
“Yeah. I went to see Jessica Yallop, and she says she’s being paid to harass my ex-wife. Doesn’t know who the money’s coming from.”
A partial truth is always stronger than a total lie.
“Once I have a name, I can go to the police,” I said.
He hesitated.
“I just need a name,” I pressed.
“Send me the number,” he replied. “Same as before: Otis will email our bill. Once it’s been paid, I’ll get started.”
“I appreciate it,” I replied before he hung up.
I checked the small screen on the hard drive and cycled through the three cameras to ensure I had a good view of the newsstand and the street and sidewalk around it. Satisfied with my work, I switched off the screen and put the drive on motion-active mode before placing it back into the broken mailbox. It wasn’t a floating bridge across a contested river, but it was battlefield engineering of sorts, and it felt good to exercise long-dormant habits. I used a padlock to secure the metal cover, picked up my tools, and returned to the Range Rover, which was parked in the otherwise empty supermarket lot.
The scorings on the side of my car were ugly, but I had bigger things to worry about, so I tried to ignore them as I climbed into my once-beautiful machine and started the engine. As the air-conditioning kicked in and an ice-cold artificial breeze hit me, I reflected on what had brought me here.
Murder, Walter’s ghost said.
Greed, Farah’s spirit added.
Stupidity, Gibson’s specter joined in.
They were all right, and it was this evil that would free me. My patron had followed a pattern. A package naming the target and a down payment, and a second package with the bounty for the hit. In order to draw my mysterious employer to this newsstand, I’d have to kill the next target.
Alice Polmar—sweet grandmother of nine, pillar of the Sedona community, kindly old lady—had to die.