Last year he’d encountered a murderous power freak and nearly died in the process. I’d saved his life. Since then, he’d feigned being okay and we’d never really talked about it.
Everyone knew. No one spoke because this was the job, not group therapy.
Milo said, “Have some muffins, kids. They’re fresh.”
—
Binchy returned looking as if he’d been sick.
Milo ignored that and sketched out the new plan: The four of them would divide the watch on Okash into six-hour shifts beginning with Binchy at six tonight, Milo taking over at midnight, Reed handling six a.m. to noon, and Bogomil working the afternoon.
If Dugong’s L.A. residence could be determined, there’d be improvisation: a looser watch on him with Milo handling most of the extra hours. Milo would also pursue and analyze Okash’s phone records.
Bogomil said, “Full plate, L.T.”
“That’s why I get the big bucks.” He looked at the uneaten muffins. “Plenty of nutrition to go around— Don’t grimace, Moses. Once upon a time you ate for pleasure.”
With the interview room emptied, Milo began folding up the whiteboard.
I said, “What do you need from me?”
“Stay smart.”
“Seriously.”
“I’m being serious. Go home, I need you, I’ll ask. One thing I’ve never been accused of is reticence.”
—
I took Sepulveda to Sunset and drove east. My return trip would normally end at the Glen, well west of Benedict Canyon. But I saidWhy not?and continued past the Glen into Beverly Hills.
Three thirty p.m. was theoretically early enough to beat the northern commute to the Valley. But early home-goers had already queued up north of Sunset, turning the ride into a stop-and-go.
That was beneficial, enabling my peripheral vision. A mile short of Ascot Lane, during a stop phase, something caught my eye.
Blue hair, electrified by sunlight, far brighter than the surrounding vegetation.
Medina Okash’s dress helped, as well. Red, short, tight as sausage casing, a shiny fabric that bounced solar rays like a prism as she toted a four-by-four brown-paper square to the front door of a house just off the main road.
During the meeting, she’d left the gallery, eluding notice.
The square was the same size and wrapping as the canvases we’d seen in the back of her gallery.
The dress was a good sign: You didn’t attire yourself that way if you knew you were being watched.
I took advantage of the next traffic lull by making eye contact with the motorist facing south and eliciting a weary go-ahead nod. Hooking into a driveway on the west side of Benedict, I pulled off as quick a three-pointer as the Seville would allow and drove back to where I’d seen Okash.
The street was named Clearwater Lane, a steep slash of blacktop not unlike the one leading to the old bridal path that terminates at my house. I got there just in time to see the front door of a house close. Kept climbing until the road flattened, reversed, and descended.
No street parking on the north side of Clearwater, permit-only after six p.m. on the south. That hadn’t stopped a vehicle from stationing itself where Okash had gotten out.
Not Okash’s BMW; a brown Toyota RAV4. A man sat at the wheel. Not Geoffrey Dugong. Older, heavier, swarthy, working his phone.
Another male friend? Another potential weapon? Then I saw the black-and-white Uber windshield sticker.
The driver kept his head down and his fingers manic, caught up in cellular narcosis. Betting that would hold, I backed up, swung around, and repeated my climb up Clearwater. This time I settled with a clear view of the SUV and waited.
The house Okash had entered was a pale-blue fifties ranch with a flat gray roof and decorative wooden slats over the front windows.
