—Dave L., Las Vegas, NV, Yelp Review
Cara had visited historic Olvera Street, a cobbled pedestrian passageway filled with traditional Mexican shops, clothing stalls, and restaurants, many times before. She’d brought out-of-town guests and even spent an afternoon there as part of an LA staycation weekend as a brand ambassador for Millenium hotels. She and Karl had spent two nights at the Biltmore, taken a ride on the Angels Flight funicular, then made their way to Olvera Street for shopping. They’d eaten lunch at the El Paseo Inn, where the waiter prepared its famous Caesar salads at their table.
The throngs of tourists had added to the all-around charm on that happy weekend. Now, the density allowed her to hide in plain sight.
She ducked into a small shop and bought a pair of sunglasses big enough to conceal her bruise, a bucket hat, and a black unisex T-shirt with Frida Kahlo splashed across the front. She pulled the T-shirt over herFlorida Is for Loverstank top before leaving the shop.
Sheriff Burke was walking toward her, this time with the short Asian woman Cara had glimpsed alongside the pulled-over bus on Highway 41 outside Oakhurst.
Hoping to hide the shock on her face, Cara turned and kept walking, careful not to run. How had they known she was here? Two very big men in matching blue windbreakers, one Black and one White, were coming from the opposite direction. They obviously weren’t tourists—they were looking at people, not merchandise.
She cut between two vendor carts and ducked into a storefront on the west side of the street. Inside, she squeezed past shelves filled with brightly colored sombreros, blankets, maracas, leather goods, and assorted knickknacks—ignoring a friendly, “Can I help you, miss?”—until she found a door at the rear of the store.
Thank God, it wasn’t alarmed.
Cara heard the shop owner say, “What’s going on?” as she opened it and pushed through. On the sidewalk of North Main Street, a beverage-delivery truck idled at the curb while its driver wheeled a hand truck into a nearby restaurant.
After quickly checking to make sure no one was watching, Cara used both hands to lift the rolling door on one of the truck’s back bays. Other than two cases of Mountain Dew Baja Blast, it was empty. She climbed inside and pulled the door down all the way.
Escape achieved.
FIFTY-TWO
JORDAN
WHERE IS CARA CAMPBELL?
—Headline, People.com
Jordan was the first one to see her. She had changed clothes already—a new shirt, hat, and sunglasses—but by now he recognized her gait.
She saw him, too, reversing direction, then ducking between two stalls and hurrying toward a store on the first floor of a brick building.
Jordan pointed the way, and he, Wen, Crosby, and Hart all converged on the door at the same time. He barged in first and scanned the room. Low ceilings and narrow aisles, a couple of sunburned tourists gaping at him over a cheap embroidered sombrero.
“What’s going on?” asked the owner as the rest of the US Marshals crowded in.
“The woman who just came in—where is she?” he demanded.
“I-I-I think she went out the back.”
Crosby and Hart flanked him, but Jordan had the center aisle and reached the back first. The metal fire door was still ajar. He charged through.
Outside, the sidewalk was empty. A delivery driver returning to his truck with an empty hand truck looked at him curiously, then got in and drove away.
Wen ordered her men to spread out and search the neighboring businesses, but most of them were closed. In stark contrast with bustling Olvera Street—which was little more than an alley—there were few pedestrians here.
“I’m actually starting to respect this girl’s skills,” Hart chuckled as they regrouped.
Jordan had to reluctantly admit that he was, too. Was her ferocious drive to escape driven by guilt?
Or innocence?
FIFTY-THREE
CARA
“Hello Sunshine, Hello Mountain Dew”
