“Sherman Oaks,” she told him, because it was close to where she was actually headed.
Federico considered this for a moment before making his recommendation. “I would catch the B-Line toward North Hollywood from the Pershing Square station. I’m not sure exactly which bus you’ll need to transfer onto, but you can ask the driver if you can’t figure it out on your way.”
“Thank you.”
As the song ended, she gave him a little hug, then took off around the corner at a fast walk.
FIFTY
JORDAN
Expect delays at Union Station due to police activity.
—@metrolosangeles
Jordan raced into the Patsaouras Bus Plaza. The transit hub was big and crowded, nothing like the rinky-dink bus station back home. The huge oval was laid with red-brick pavers, shaded by evenly spaced palm trees, and jammed with airport shuttles and double-length orange Metro buses.
Fifty yards ahead, Campbell crossed the roadway and slipped between two idling buses. Jordan, cut off by a lumbering bus, ran behind it and sped toward her. But by the time he reached the center of the oval, he had lost her among the passengers waiting to board for destinations all over LA County.
Breathing hard—Campbell was a fast runner, he grudgingly admitted to himself—he ran to the east side, where a bus was easing toward the exit. When he waved the driver to a halt, she was apparently so startled she didn’t realize he wasn’t with the LA Sheriff’s Department.
He boarded and stalked down the aisle, checking every face. She wasn’t there.
“Black Lives Matter!” shouted someone as he climbed off.
“Back the blue!” someone else retorted.
By now, reinforcements were arriving: Wen with Crosby, Hart, and Ellett in tow.
“Search every bus before it leaves!” Jordan screamed at them. “Purplish-black hair and a tank top!”
For once, Crosby didn’t give him any guff. The Marshals just fanned out and did their jobs with remarkable precision. As uniformed cops arrived, Wen ordered them to seal the perimeter.
Jordan fought sensory overload at the center of the swirling crowd, many of whom were aiming their phones and narrating what they thought they saw.
“Is this a movie?” a teenage girl asked him, looking around for cameras.
Within five minutes, Jordan knew they’d lost her again—how, he had no idea. He was furious at Campbell for this waste of time and money. He was furious at himself, too. He took a final lap, his back drenched in sweat, and found Wen climbing off a bus.
“You had her and you lost her. Again.”
“I was the one who told you she was coming to LA.” It was weak, but he wanted to say something in his defense.
Wen put on her sunglasses. “And what have you done for me lately?”
Jordan looked around at the milling crowd. “In the woods, she was just lost. She had no idea what to do. Here, she’s getting lost on purpose. Hiding in crowds. Maybe she went back into the station.”
“I don’t think so. We had at least a dozen people right behind you.”
“She’s from here. You’re from here, too. Where would you go?”
“To lose myself in a crowd? Olvera Street.”
FIFTY-ONE
CARA
Olvera Street feels like an authentic mercado in Old Mexico. It’s a great place to get lost and forget you’re in the heart of Downtown Los Angeles except for all the homeless encampments nearby. Why don’t they do something about that?
