DYLAN:Is that why you broke into your stepdaughter’s house?
CARA:My husband and stepdaughter granted me indefinite use of the house. I entered using a key.
DYLAN:So noted.
CARA:And tomorrow morning, I’m going to get the proof I need. As soon as I have it, I’ll let you know. And you will help me tell the world.
DAY EIGHT
SEVENTY-THREE
JORDAN
Caught up with an old friend yesterday. Old friends are the best friends. #TeamCara
—@StephanieVDLProperties
Jordan found the Beverly Hills parking lot already full of government vehicles. He stopped next to Crosby and Hart, who were leaning against a black Ford Explorer.
“Morning, Sheriff Andy,” said Crosby as he climbed out. “You bring Opie today?”
Hart shook his head. “Nah, he’s McCloud. Ever see that old show? My dad used to watch the reruns. Small-town sheriff in the great big city.”
Tired of looking like a tourist, Jordan was wearing his uniform again. He took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket, slipped them on, and grinned. “Come hiking with me sometime. I’ll find good nicknames for you.”
“Hard pass,” said Hart.
Wen joined them. “You kids done? It’s, like, go time.”
Everyone climbed back into their cars. Jordan found himself near the tail end of a procession that included the Marshals’ SUVs, several cars and vans full of FBI agents, and four LAPD cruisers for traffic control.
Wen gave commands over the radio, and on her signal, everyone hit the gas, racing around a corner and down three blocks to a two-story brick office building on South Beverly Drive. The LAPD cars blocked the intersections while the rest of the vehicles split up, half going behind the building and half in front.
Jordan followed as everyone scrambled out of their cars, leaving the doors hanging open, and beelined for a glass door sandwiched between a clothing boutique and a vegan Jewish deli. They climbed stairs single file to a hallway covered in stained carpeting. Jordan was last in line when they reached a door across from the fire exit.
The lead agent banged the door with the heel of his hand. “FBI! We have a warrant! Open the door!”
There was no answer.
Jordan had barely counted to five before two other agents with a metal ram stepped up and cleanly hit the door between the deadbolt and the handle. The splintered door jumped out of its frame and sagged inward.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Guns drawn, the Feds charged inside, moving with noise and aggression intended to stun the occupants into compliance.
The yelling stopped.
“Shit!”
Wen went in. Jordan followed and poked his head around the corner. The door had a cheaply printed label for Gioni Enterprises, LLC. But the one-room office was completely empty except for a broken office chair and a stack of letters that had fallen through the mail slot and been pushed up against the wall.
Crouching on her haunches, Wen was rifling through the envelopes, which appeared to be junk mail.
“It’s a goddamn mail drop,” said an FBI agent, kicking the chair in disgust.
Jordan pushed through the fire door and pounded down the metal stairs. Wen came down a moment later. They squared off in the shadow of the building next to a dumpster whose smell was surprisingly foul for a vegan restaurant.
“Thisis your big lead?” demanded Wen.
