“Hákarl,” Hart said promptly. “My girlfriend and I went to Iceland and it’s their native dish. Rotten shark, if you can believe that shit.”
Crosby seemed intrigued. “What did it taste like?”
“Like... cheese soaked in ammonia. I’m gonna get the dry heaves if I try to describe the texture. What about you?”
“I was at this diner in the Midwest, and they served something called a ‘loose meat sandwich.’ Kind of like a sloppy joe. Which would have been fine except the meat was turning... and I found a fingernail in it.”
“Jesus, guys, grow up!” said Wen, grimacing. “And shut up. Here comes the food.”
Ellett, a Reseda native, had directed them to her favorite Middle Eastern restaurant, a clean, no-frills place still quietin the dead zone between lunch and dinner. She had been deputized to order for all of them and was now returning from the counter bearing two trays laden with baba ghanouj, labneh, falafel, chicken and lamb shish kebabs, and even salads. No sooner had the food hit the table than the hungry Marshals fell on it like they were starving.
Jordan dug in, too, glad to fill his stomach and take a break from the banter of his companions. Crosby and Hart had been talking nonstop, pointedly excluding him from their jokes—unless he was the butt of them. Ellett didn’t seem to know what to do with him. Wen seemed to want to get rid of him but didn’t know how to do it. She had been happy enough to work with him one on one, but now that her team had regrouped, he was the fifth wheel on their well-oiled machine.
“So, what now?” Jordan asked, after the gorging lost momentum.
“Ellett’s in touch with LAPD, monitoring CCTV,” said Wen, swallowing and wiping her mouth with a napkin.
Ellett nodded. “She’d be caught in sixty seconds if she was driving a car.”
“And her photo and last knowns have been shared on every channel we have.”
“So we’re back to waiting for a tip?” Jordan asked.
“That’s what she said,” said Crosby, fist-bumping Hart.
“You are,” said Wen, eyeing the remaining food like she was thinking about going back in. “I’m taking Ellett to HQ so she can use some fancy electronic toys while I brief the chief deputy. And Crosby and Hart are going to spend a couple hours rolling past bus stops before they turn in for bed.”
This was clearly news to the two big men.
“Seriously?” said Hart.
Crosby just groaned.
“I’m happy to join in,” Jordan told her.
“We’re cool,” Wen said. “Take a break and call your wife. Call in to your department. I’m sure they’ve got their hands full up there.”
Which was true enough, but Beto had that covered. Jordan was here and couldn’t stand the thought of killing time. A few hours ago, he’d thought the chase had come to an end. He wasn’t leaving LA without Campbell.
Wen pointed across the table. “Pass the labneh, will you?”
Crosby chuckled as he passed it over. “Cheese. Soaked in ammonia.”
“I can’t believe how lucky I am to work with a hella amazing team like you guys,” she said sarcastically.
Jordan couldn’t believe he wanted to be part of it, too.
FIFTY-SEVEN
CARA
It’s a long day, livin’ in Reseda.
—Tom Petty, “Free Fallin’”
The sun had set by the time Cara made her weary way up Tampa Avenue to the address Rae had given her. She pushed open the creaky metal gate and saw a beige stucco house with a rainbow peace flag hanging in the front bay window.
After the day she’d had, she wasn’t quite sure she agreed with Fisk that it was easier to get lost in LA than the woods while she searched for Karl’s killer. But this place—a random house she never would have looked at twice—was as good a place as any to start.
