twenty-seven

Turning a Kia Soul 180 degrees on the shoulder of a crowded highway with concrete barriers to my right was not easy. Mike had offered to perform the maneuver but we decided he would get out of the vehicle and direct my efforts. Within a minute the Kia Soul was pointed in the other direction and I was following quickly behind the California Highway Patrol cruiser, which the officer was driving back toward the ramp that led to the nearest freeway entrance.

Mimicking his every move we were bypassing traffic in the oncoming direction, but driving against the traffic was fraying my nerves. I heard myself breathing more heavily than usual. I felt perspiration streaming down my cheeks. That was partially due to my inability to move my left hand off the steering wheel to raise the window and fully utilize the vehicle’s air conditioning.

“Take it easy, Samuel.” Mike could no doubt sense my tension. “The cop isn’t going to let you get into an accident. Just do whatever he does.”

I did not speak. I do not speak when driving unless it is unavoidable.

The officer in the California Highway Patrol vehicle must have communicated with his base. Two other cars from the same agency met him at the top of the ramp when he had cleared away oncoming cars and ushered the Kia Soul back onto the city streets. One fell into formation behind me and the other took a position to my left.

“They’re protecting us the whole way,” Mike said. “We’ll get there for sure now.”

But I was aware of the sixteen minutes that had passed since the last time I had checked our progress. “How much time does the Global Positioning System device indicate we will need to arrive at the address in Burbank?” I asked Mike.

I barely saw his head movement because I was attending to the road but he looked down at the instrument in his hand. “Fourteen minutes,” Mike said.

He was lying. I was certain of it but had no doubt Mike knew he was underestimating the remaining time because it would upset me to know we would not hit George Kaplan’s deadline for no harm to come to Ms. Washburn. I asked Mike to call Kaplan on my phone and put the call on the speaker feature because it was not connected to the Bluetooth system in the Kia Soul.

“You have eleven minutes.” Kaplan wasted no time with niceties.

“We are in heavy traffic,” I said. “We will be there but we will not be there in time.”

“That’s too bad for you. It’s too bad for your friend, too.”

I felt bile rise in my throat. “Mr. Kaplan, you must understand the kind of obstacles that Los Angeles traffic represents. I should not be talking to you at all now but I am because I want you to understand that we are on our way and will be only a few minutes late.”

“Get here on time,” he said. “That’s the deal. Now—”

There was a commotion I could not decipher and then the call was disconnected. That was the last thing I had hoped to hear.

Shaking with frustration and fear I pressed harder on the accelerator. The California Highway Patrol vehicles had already been moving at a speed higher than the posted limit and I had reluctantly kept pace because they were officers of the law and had no doubt sanctioned my violation. But now we needed to go faster and I was going to take control of our speed.

The police officers did not hesitate; they matched my pace but continued to lead the vehicles. Within seven minutes we had passed the posted Burbank city limit. My mind racing, I noted the sirens and flashing lights of the California Highway Patrol vehicles. If George Kaplan knew I had brought the authorities with me, Ms. Washburn would undoubtedly be in considerably more danger.

But I did not have a telephone number for any of the officers in the other vehicles so I could not discuss the situation with them. I bit my lips as I considered options.

“You have to pull over, Samuel.” Mike clearly knew what I was thinking about. “Stop on the side of the street and they’ll stop and you can talk to them then. Hurry.”

His analysis was perceptive; there was no other efficient way to complete the task. I very carefully moved the Kia Soul to the curb and slowed it to a stop. The first California Highway Patrol officer, the one who had approached us on Highway 101, immediately drove far ahead of the Kia Soul, not anticipating my maneuver. Once I had stopped, however, he had realized what I was doing and both escort vehicles came to a halt near me, lights still flashing.

The officer walked to my side of the vehicle. “What are you doing?” he asked. “We only have a couple of minutes to get there.”

“Your sirens, your flashing lights,” I noted. “If the man in the office building hears or sees you, my associate will be in greater danger.”

He half smiled. “We’re aware of that,” he said. “We were going to cut the sirens and lights when we were close. Come on. We’ll turn them off now unless we hit traffic. Let’s get you there.” He turned and ran back to his vehicle.

“California police officers are very polite,” I noted as we started moving, even more swiftly than before.

“Most of the time,” Mike said. I did not ask him what that observation meant.

We arrived at the building on Magnolia Boulevard with one minute to spare. Three other cars, not marked with insignia but clearly belonging to law enforcement agencies, were parked in front of the building. Three men and a woman in business clothing, but with visible weapons inside their jackets, approached the lead officer as we exited our vehicles.

I headed directly for the building entrance, knowing I would have to climb stairs to the second floor and had only seconds left. But one of the men in business clothing stopped me at the door.

“You’re not authorized to go in there,” he said.

My iPhone rang. George Kaplan’s number was showing in the Caller ID display. I needed to be in his office right now.

“I don’t care,” I said and pushed my way through the door.

Behind me I heard Mike protesting but the door did not open again and I did not wait. I found the staircase and ran up, three stairs at a time, until I reached the second floor. Once there I searched for the proper suite number and found a door marked Kaplan Enterprises LLC.

I stood momentarily at the door and considered my options. The counterfeit money was in a pocket of my cargo shorts. I could easily hand it over to Kaplan, but I had severe reservations that he would honor our agreement, largely because he had been given many opportunities to do so and had refused each time. I still needed to talk to Reuben Hoenig in order to complete my business in Southern California, and had no assurance he would even be present in the room once I opened that door.

None of that seemed important, even as the iPhone in my pocket continued to vibrate with Kaplan’s call. At least his attempt to contact me could be seen as a sign that he was not in some way mistreating Ms. Washburn yet.

That was the only thing that mattered. I needed to envision myself bursting through the door and readying myself for any possibility that would protect Ms. Washburn, even if it meant placing myself in some peril. Ms. Washburn’s welfare was obviously more important than my own now.

It was the first time I had ever truly believed that about anyone.

There was no time to consider any implications of that thought. Kaplan had set the deadline and it was passing at exactly this second.

Visualizing myself as confident and triumphant I banished any thoughts of Ms. Washburn in peril. The iPhone in my pocket buzzed once again but I could talk to Kaplan right now, I decided. I turned the knob on the office door and pushed it into the room hard to create a forceful entrance.

“I am—” was as far as I got.

I had been entirely unprepared for the scene that met my eyes as I entered the office, which was actually an empty space with one desk in the far left corner, a dropped ceiling with some water damage, exposed wires in some areas and threadbare brown carpet from wall to wall. This space clearly had not been used for an active business. Its actual purpose was impossible to discern immediately.

Part of the reason I could not adequately discuss the surroundings was my surprise at the people inside the relatively small room. In the center were George Kaplan and two other men: The one with the bushy eyebrows who had accompanied him to the Chinese Theatre and attempted to manhandle Ms. Washburn, and another who must have been the driver that day. I did not recognize him, but he had a very thick neck holding up a wide head. Their arms were held in a defensive position, showing the palms of their hands. The two associates looked embarrassed while George Kaplan appeared to be quietly fuming.

In front of them was Ms. Washburn, facing the three and wearing an expression that communicated determination and some satisfaction. But I thought there might too have been a trace of anger in her eyes.

She was holding a pistol in each hand.

Ms. Washburn turned and looked at me. “Oh good, Samuel,” she said. “Here, take this.” She extended her left hand to give me the gun she was holding. “Those were getting heavy. Can you call the police?”

“There is no need,” I said. “They are already here. Why didn’t you call me?”

She gestured toward the three men with the gun she was now holding with both hands. “These sons of bitches broke my phone,” she said. “Then I got mad.”