Hell and Gone

5

You know why so many people came to my funeral?

They wanted to make sure I was dead.

—Larry Tucker, Shock Corridor

DEKE CLARK DROVE up and down the 101, burning gas.

Deke didn’t know what he expected to see, really. The mystery ambulance? Not a chance. Some little random forensic clue that would unravel the case? Yeah. Like that ever happens. Besides, he’d done as much of the forensic-type work as he could, tapping traffic cameras everywhere from the Studio City crime scene all the way out to the hospital, and then out again to the major highways. He’d spent days trying to account for every ambulance on camera, retracing their routes, trying to find his phantom vehicle. It was a hard task, and hard to stay focused, since he kept pausing to check his cell phone and e-mail accounts—both official and private—hoping to hear from Hardie. Nothing. Exacerbating the whole situation was an awkwardness with his wife. When she’d call to check in, Deke would invariably be distracted, and it would leave his wife hurt. Later he’d feel bad and want to call back, but then would feel guilty about not using every waking minute to search for Hardie. Five days in, and nothing to show for it except half a license plate.

Deke knew who would have been great at this: his buddy Nate Parish.

Until his untimely death, the man was the secret genius of the Philadelphia police department.

Nate and Charlie Hardie had worked together—only semi-officially. Their mission: clean up the streets of their hometown, using whatever legal or extralegal means necessary.

Deke himself had almost busted the two of them during the infamous mob wars that permanently finished the Italians, crippled the Russians—but also opened the way for the Albanians.

Only reason he didn’t bust them was that Nate knew what he was doing, and he was doing the right thing. And he wouldn’t work without Hardie.

So what would Nate Parish do?

He had this gift for boiling things down to their simplest and purest form. Crime was not complicated, he’d say. Sure, criminals would obfuscate and try to make it seem as clever and confusing as possible, but it always boiled down to something simple. Almost always money. If you can strip away the drama and the clues and bullet casings and the blood-splattered walls, boil it down until the fat and meat fall right away from the bone…what do you have? You have some kind of financial transaction.

That’s when it hit Deke—the ambulance.

Keep digging until you find out who owns it.

Whoever owns it might know who was driving it.

Whoever was driving it would know where Hardie was.

The ambulance was owned by a small private company based out in Arcadia, California, now defunct. Calls to that company were directed to a San Francisco law office called Gedney, Doyle & Abrams.

Deke called GD&A.

GD&A stonewalled.

The essence of their exchange:

GD&A: We don’t own ambulances. We handle insurance litigation.

Deke: I’m looking at the papers right here; you represent the company that owns this ambulance.

GD&A: Must be a filing error. Because we don’t own ambulances. We handle insurance litigation. Can I ask what this is regarding?

Deke: You may not.

GD&A: Well, go fuck yourself and have a great day.

Deke: This company in Arcadia, do you still represent them?

GD&A: No, really, go ahead and fuck yourself and have a super-awesome day.

Four hundred miles away, in San Francisco, in a hotel suite overlooking Union Square, Gedney was deep into another one of his conversations with his partner Doyle about the events of the past few days.

As usual, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue sat unopened on the marble desk between them, along with a fine array of artisanal cheeses and hand-carved meats. The management was trained to send it up no matter what. Neither Gedney nor Doyle ever touched the stuff. Not when they met in this room, anyway. This was reserved for private discussions; the Industry had equipped this room with the latest anti-eavesdropping devices and bug detectors. It was an utter dead zone. Plus, the view was nice.

“How’s the asset?” Doyle asked. He was wearing a suit but still had traces of grease under his fingernails.

Gedney sat on the edge of the bed, his feet barely touching the floor. “Surgery went very well, I hear. He’s going to make it. Just like I thought he would. I told you about what happened to him in Philadelphia three years ago, right? The man is a born survivor. Maybe it’s good fortune he crossed our path.”

“Yeah,” Doyle said. “I’ll be sure to pass that sentiment about fortune along to our friends over in Burbank. But you still think he’s right for our project?”

“He will be in a few months. Soon as he’s healed we’ll begin training.”

“Can he be trained? I worry about all that tech. Not that he can really do anything, but he’s kind of the proverbial bull in a china shop. I just want some assurances that he’ll behave.”

“Anyone can be broken,” Gedney said. “And if not, we’ll flush him down the toilet. Whatever.”

“We have any other loose ends? For instance, is anyone looking for the asset?”

“Asset apparently has a friend in the FBI—Philadelphia field office. But that won’t be a problem. In fact, it may work to our advantage in other matters. We’re looking into it.”

“The Hunters are still missing.”

“They’ll be found and eliminated. They’re staying underground, which is good. Some of the teams have worked up about a half-dozen scenarios that fit the situation. Sooner or later they’ll emerge, and then…”

He allowed the statement to hang in the air for a few moments, spreading his hands as if they were blown apart by an invisible explosion.

“Good,” Doyle said, nodding.

Outside, down on the square, a saxophone player started running up and down some scales, warming up. The notes bounced off the buildings.

“Well, anything else on the agenda?” Doyle seemed eager to leave. Gedney knew he was a lawyer in name and degree only; what he really loved was screwing around with machine parts.

“Go with God,” Gedney said. “I’ll keep you posted on the asset.”