Chapter Ten

Jarvis clicked a document dated a couple months ago. It opened on a page with half a dozen lines of notes. Brin was as meticulous in his electronic record-keeping as he was in stalking a target. Despite the fact the words were standard fonts appearing on a computer screen, they seemed to carry his concise, tight handwriting. Jarvis read short, functional sentences: where Brin had been, who he had seen, why he’d been following them. As he scrolled through the half dozen pages, he began to formulate a picture of the life Brin had been leading. There was no mention of where he lived, or shopped, or what he ate. It was all business. But from his description of tailing a motorcycle through city streets, to staking out a restaurant downtown for three straight nights, to being paid in tobacco and raw steaks by a client, Jarvis imagined his friend moving through life. Zig-zagging, never in one place too long, but always with the same theme. He was like Jarvis, helping people in tough spots, only he didn’t have a license or live in a place with an address. Or get paid in American currency.

 

Jarvis closed the document and opened another. Same rhythm. He read quickly through the half dozen pages covering a week, then opened another. Nothing interesting, nothing relevant. Another, and another. Finally he clicked on the document dated one week earlier. This was a long entry, written all on the same day. Brin was following someone, a young man. There was no mention of why he was pursuing him. There was a log of the man’s daily activities. Home, work, gym. How fast he drove, what route he took. If Jarvis didn’t know better he’d think this was prep work for an assassination. But something was different. Brin made reference to his tours in the Middle East. The young man reminded him of soldiers he’d seen or killed. Brin was cautious but fascinated by his quarry. The final entry on the last page made Jarvis shiver. It was just two words: Made contact.

 

He went back and re-read the entire document, word for word, looking for clues. He moved to the bed and jotted down notes on a white legal pad. Opened the document dated just prior to the last one and searched for any other tidbits. After half an hour he had one page of writing. There was a story there, but it didn’t jump out at him. Not yet. What he had was a location, a description of a young man, some odd behavior by Brin and the man he followed, and a poisoning. Good thing he was a detective. Jarvis rubbed his eyes and looked out the bedroom window to the ocean. It was mid-day and the waves were too gentle for the real surfers. Just a few kids wading in the breakers. He went into the kitchen and made the breakfast he’d skipped when the call had come from the cop Rayford. He absently downed the eggs, cheese, onions and capers and stood at the sink drinking strong black tea while he washed the frying pan. His mind was playing out the last couple days, but from Brin’s perspective. Something had to have been off for him to be the victim instead of the hunter. Something had distracted him, or convinced him to let down his guard. Jarvis went to the hall closet and took out the Glock he used for serious business. It cut into his hip when he drove, but he ignored the twinge as he headed out onto PCH and toward the suburbs of the San Fernando Valley where Brin had started to follow his target.

 

Jarvis got halfway up the 405 freeway to Mulholland when his phone rang. He ignored the California law and put the cell against his ear.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Rayford skipped the pleasantries. “Find anything?”

 

“Nothing,” Jarvis lied. The bimmer picked up speed as the road steepened and other cars were slowed by gravity. “You?”

 

The detective sighed audibly despite the lousy signal. “I suppose. Some old woman at the grocery store tipped over and now she’s in a coma.” He paused. “Kinda like your friend.”

 

Jarvis cut across three lanes of traffic and was on the Getty Center off ramp before the yelling from the other cars had died down. “Where are you?”

 

“The Ralph’s at Pico and Century City.”

 

He didn’t have to ask where it was or why a major crimes detective had been called in for a slip-and-fall in the produce section. Brin’s condition was no accident and the cops had their eyes peeled. They’d been right to do so. Jarvis was in the parking lot in ten minutes, clocking an average speed of 83 mph and instigating a lot of raised middle fingers.

 

Rayford must have gotten to the scene within minutes of the woman collapsing and called Jarvis as he was walking in the door because Jarvis passed the gurney being wheeled out by paramedics. The old lady must’ve been in her 70s but looked as if she hadn’t missed a meal in any of those years. There was a smear of something yellow and sticky on her face and it bubbled slightly with her shallow breaths. She looked like she’d fallen asleep while eating a bowl of scalloped potatoes and fallen face-first into it. She also looked like she probably wouldn’t be waking up soon. Jarvis followed the line of gawkers to the spot where a couple of uniformed cops were putting up a barrier of yellow tape, brighter than the smears of food on the woman’s face. They wrapped it around a stand with loaves of fresh bread and then across twenty feet of linoleum to hook on a stand holding bottles of wine, eventually creating a hexagon around an area that included a row of hot-food trays protected by a massive sneeze guard, a cheese sample stand, and a rotating display of sunglasses. Jarvis could see a mess on the floor near the ready-to-eat stand. Scalloped potatoes, heavy on the cheese. He’d guessed right.

 

A guy wearing a white button-up shirt and sporting an ID card clipped to the pocket was obviously the store manager. He was gesticulating to Rayford, who didn’t bother pretending to write down the tirade. As Jarvis got closer he picked up the gist. Sales were being lost, customers leaving, flow to the aisles disrupted. Rayford kept a dead look on his face and waited for the manager to take a breath.

 

“Would you like me to shut the place down for a week while we do a full investigation?”

 

The manager’s mouth opened and then stopped. He wasn’t dumb, just limited.

 

Rayford turned to Jarvis and ducked under the freshly-wrapped tape to meet him near an open olive bar with a much smaller sneeze guard.

 

“I’m guessing she didn’t slip on the potatoes and break a hip?”

 

Rayford wasn’t in the mood for repartee. “Pupils dilated, breathing shallow, and pulse thready. Looks a lot like your buddy Brin and she didn’t have a stroke either.” He looked around at the crowd. “The woman’s a regular, roams around the store leaning on a cart like it’s a walker. Puts a few things in the basket, but mostly grazes.”

 

He looked through a few pages on his notebook. “Half a dozen people saw her fall, like a sack of potatoes, then convulse a little. No one wanted to do mouth-to-mouth. We tracked her path through the store. Some grapes in produce, free sample of pizza down aisle four, couple of cheese squares over there,” he pointed with the notebook, “and then the main course at the hot food bar.”

 

The cart the woman had been pushing was still there, angled into the long trough of food. Main dishes, vegetables, desserts, all separated into metal bins and all with some variation of coagulation covering them. A plastic container with half a spoonful of three or four undistinguishable foodstuffs rested in the front of her cart. A spoon was on the floor next to the cart.

 

“She’d been working her way down the line, smorgasbord style.”

 

A tech arrived from behind them. He had half a dozen plastic evidence bags containing grapes, cheese cubes, and something that might have been bits of microwaved pizza.

 

“Brin wouldn’t have hung around if he’d been feeling like crap. Whatever it is works fast. Probably in the hot food.”

 

Rayford nodded. “Probably, but can’t take any chances. We’ll have to shut down the place until we’ve run tests.” He said it loudly enough for the manager to hear and the reaction was an audible, unintelligible choking sound. Rayford gave a barely perceptible shake of the head to Jarvis – they’d only need to confiscate the areas the woman had used as a movable feast.

 

“You know the shit storm this is going to cause?”

 

This time Rayford closed his eyes and shook his head. “Serial poisoner? Yeah, a lot of paperwork.”

 

Jarvis laughed and pointed to the floor. “Stay away from the scalloped potatoes. I’ll give you a ring later to hear what you found.”

 

“Really? Sure you don’t just want me to send you a copy of the report?”

 

Jarvis turned to head back out. “Don’t worry, it’ll be a trade. I should know something by then.”

 

He pushed past the gathering crowd and headed to the parking lot to resume his trip to a house in the San Fernando Valley.