Killer

CHAPTER 41

The Toyota was a dark gray blur at the far end of the block.

Rolling toward us at moderate speed. Coming to an abrupt stop well short of the hubbub fronting the beige house.

Swinging a quick three-pointer, it sped off.

Yanking the seat forward, Milo started his engine, jammed his foot on the accelerator.

No match between the Toyota’s four cylinders and the unmarked’s police-enhanced V8. Within seconds we were riding the compact’s rear bumper.

The driver — female, head topped by the curly do I’d seen on Willa Nebe — hooked a squealing right turn and raced along a side street lined with bungalows.

Milo stayed on her tail, NASCAR comes to Van Nuys. An errant pedestrian would be doomed but walking in L.A. is generally relegated to gym machines and this time that worked out fine for the citizenry.

L.A.’s also delinquent about maintenance unless some crony of the mayor or a council member has a sweetheart contract, so the asphalt was scarred by potholes and the Toyota hit a big one and bounced straight up and swerved left and rocked before settling. For a moment I thought that would end the chase.

The Toyota straightened, surged forward making an ugly sound. Sped faster.

Smooth sailing for three blocks before a cul-de-sac changed things.

The Toyota took the only option: quick left turn, barely short of the dead end, onto another side street.

Milo re-glued the unmarked to the Toyota for another four blocks of straightaway.

This time people were crossing: two women pushing strollers.

Bracing himself, he slowed. The Toyota didn’t bother to and the women jumped back, wide-eyed and openmouthed, avoiding obliteration by inches.

Milo looked everywhere, then forward, gunned his engine, narrowed, finally closed the gap. His gun remained holstered. In the movies, cops and bad guys race at Indie speed while shooting at each other. In real life it’s all cops can do not to die behind the wheel.

The Toyota’s bearings looked shaky but it kept going. Off in the distance, a stream of cross-traffic filled the horizon.

Van Nuys Boulevard. Once the pursuit moved to the busy thoroughfare, the risk factor would change in terrible ways.

If the Toyota made it to the freeway, we’d be on every local station’s live cam and anything could happen.

The little gray car raced for escape. One block shy of its goal, an obstacle rolled into view.

Massive, unpleasantly green steel hulk lumbering from the right on six wheels.

City garbage van. But no cans out at the curb so this wasn’t pickup day.

Yet there it was edging along at fifteen per.

I made out a sign on the truck bed’s ridged flanks: tree clearance program, credit to the district’s councilman.

No sound of sawing, no evidence of arboreal work, no foliage sprouting in the bed.

Let’s hear it for sweetheart contracts.

The driver, oblivious, was doing something that caused him to look down.

Texting.

The Toyota hit the rear of the truck head-on, full speed. The sound was surprisingly restrained. Dull and squishy, heavy-on-the-plastic Japanese engineering surrendered to heavy metal.

By the time we got out of the unmarked, the truck’s driver, a paunchy guy with a drooping white mustache, his phone still in his hand, was on the pavement staring at the upended accordion that had once been a vehicle.

Milo checked the Toyota’s front seat but there was no need to. The car had compressed to half its normal length, the entire front section now shared space with the rear.

What remained of Willa Nebe was curly gray hair flecked with pink pudding above a sodden lump of something that might’ve been chuck steak had it been able to hold itself together.

“I couldn’t stop,” said the driver, to no one in particular.

Milo glanced at me. “You wanna do therapy, be my guest.”