He ran outside, pounded up an escalator, and emerged on the sidewalk of a bus plaza. The black-haired woman was waiting to board a bus.
“CARA CAMPBELL!” he yelled.
She turned and looked, a victim of instinct. It was her.
Oh, shit,she mouthed.
Other people had heard him. Confusion was coalescing into recognition. As she turned and fled into the crowd of early morning commuters, Jordan chased after her. He finally had the presence of mind to use his radio.
“Target sighted on the east side of the station, at the bus plaza,” he said as he broke into a run. “I’m in pursuit.”
FORTY-NINE
CARA
We canceled all endorsement contracts with Cara Campbell immediately after she was charged with murder.
—@readysetgofashion
Leaving behind the bus to Reseda, Cara ran forward to the next one, cut through the line of boarding passengers, and slipped through the gap between it and the one ahead. Shielded from view, she crossed the roadway and hopped the low iron fence to the north.
She didn’t dare slow down to look back as she skirted a county transportation building and took stairs three at a time down to East Cesar Chavez. She ran west, into the concealing darkness of the railroad overpass, her own breathing ragged in her ears.
Even with the US Marshals and LAPD on her trail, it was somehow scarier that Sheriff Jordan Burke had followed her to LA himself.
The underpass seemed to go on forever, but when she finally emerged into sunshine, she felt painfully exposed, trapped between traffic and an endless wall. Risking a look behind her, she couldn’t see any pursuers, so she slowed to a gasping walk. As soon as she had the chance, Cara ducked into the parking area of a sprawling apartment complex, then jaywalked across Alameda to Placita De Dolores. From there, she worked her way toward the crowd of people at El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historical Monument.
Even though it was still morning, Latin music was already thumping from the bandstand in the center of La Placita and hundreds of tourists were gathered around. Panting and sweating, Cara paused under a trellis covered in brilliant red bougainvillea to catch her breath and cool down. She pretended to admire the dancers while stealing looks over her shoulder for Sheriff Burke. She had to figure out a Plan C. Or was it D? She also needed whatever help she could get.
When she checked her phone, Dylan’s message was short and to the point:You can reach me at 310-777-5479.
She started to write back immediately:Thank you! I will definitely call first thing?—
“Care to dance?” asked a small, sturdy man in an aqua western shirt and cowboy boots with matching piping. Above his toothy smile, bored eyes suggested it was his job to dance with tourists.
What she really needed was a long, comforting hug and a ride.
She added the wordpossibleand sent her reply to Dylan Danvers.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the steps,” she said to the man.
“I’ll show you,” he said, gently taking her elbow to lead her toward the bandstand.
“I just stopped here for a minute to figure out the bus schedules. I really need to get to the... Valley.”
“Give me one dance and I’ll show you. I know how to get from here to anywhere.”
As a half-dozen LA cops emerged from Union Station across the street, she gave in and grasped the man’s outstretched, fleshy hand.
“One dance,” she told him as he placed his hand on her waist.
“I’m Federico.”
“Carla.”
With the first beat of the salsa tune, he started, and she followed by shifting her right foot behind the left, taking a small step in place, and moving her right foot back. Then she repeated the sequence starting with her left foot, pretending she was just as carefree as all the other people spending a sunny day taking in the sights and sounds of historic Los Angeles.
“Where do you need to go?” Federico asked, honestly sounding more interested in giving her directions than a dance lesson.
