I call bullsh*t on Hollywood Burke.
—@madera_watchdawg
Jordan sat behind the wheel in the parking lot as the task force disbanded, the vehicles’ departure documented by a dozen onlookers with raised phones. He could somehow believe that even the might of so many federal agencies had failed to bring in Cara Campbell. After all, she was proving more intelligent, determined, and resourceful than he had imagined.
But he couldn’t believe they hadn’t managed to find her realtor friend.
On his phone, he searchedstephanie van der lind realtor. She came right up and had a few active listings. There was a one-bedroom condo on South Canon Drive listed for $912,000, which seemed high, even for LA; a five-million-dollar mini-château on Coldwater Canyon; a Wilshire Boulevard penthouse for over seven million that had three whole bedrooms; and a beach house in Malibu going for a mind-boggling twenty million. The first three looked sterile and staged, but the fourth one looked lived in.Includes ALL furnishings,went the listing.Meet the asking price and move in TODAY!
Using Google Maps, he saw the closest property, the Coldwater Canyon home, was only three miles away. It was worth a shot.
As he locked in the coordinates, he saw a flash of orange and looked up. Troy Silverman was leaning against his tricked-out Ford Bronco with arms folded, watching him. Was there someone else in the department feeding him information? Someone in someone else’s department? Silverman could have been connecting the dots from publicly available information—or he could have just gotten stupid lucky.
When Silverman opened his door to get behind the wheel, Jordan stomped on the gas and pulled out, cutting off an irate fed as he jumped the curb. He drove too fast and made random turns, ignoring his electronic copilot’s pleas to return to the route until he was sure his rival wasn’t following.
Then Jordan dialed Stephanie van der Lind’s publicly listed number. She was obviously hiding from law enforcement. Somehow he doubted she would hide from a six-figure commission.
“Stephanie, my name is John Brown,” he said, wishing he’d come up with a more convincing alias. “I just saw your name and number on the yard sign outside a house I know my wife would love—we’re moving to LA soon from the East Coast. I’m basicallyon my way back to the airport, but I was hoping you might be free to meet me at the house in the next half hour.”
If similar ruses worked with meth dealers back in Madera, Jordan saw no reason it wouldn’t work with a Beverly Hills realtor.
He was halfway to the house when a text came in.
Hi John! I’m actually really close. Can I bring you a Starbucks?
That’d be great, he texted back at the next stoplight.Tall latte with an extra shot.
He was fully caffeinated but wanted to make sure he got there first.
Five minutes later, he reached the address. The house had a circular driveway screened by closely spaced Italian cypress trees, so he pulled in, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain his presence to a puzzled homeowner. But no one came out.
Ten minutes after that, a red Porsche convertible rolled to a stop across the street. Jordan waited until the driver started to get out, then gunned his engine, pulled out, and boxed her in.
Two Starbucks cups slipped from Stephanie van der Lind’s hand and exploded on the driveway, staining her white pants in an eruption of mocha-colored foam.
Her eyes went wide.
“Cara Campbell escaped in my jurisdiction, and I’ve been searching for her with the US Marshals task force,” he told her, careful wording that wasn’t a lie.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Well, she’s nothere.”
Jordan waited. The best way to interrogate a suspect was often to let them guess at the questions. But as he watched her face go from startled to scared to indignant, he suddenly knew.
“You’re hiding her.”
Her nervous laugh was as fake as they come. “No way!”
“Well, I guess I have to bring you in for questioning. There are a lot of people who want to talk to you. We know you gave her a ride, Ms. van der Lind.”
“Should I call my lawyer?”
“You certainly can. Or you can just tell me where she is.”
“Don’t know,” she said, unconvincingly. “Maybe she’s at a hotel or hiding at another friend’s house.”
“We both know she’s short on friends.”
“True,” Stephanie admitted.
