Living with the Dead

FINN

Finn sat in the car and watched the building. A cookie-cutter motel – an ugly block of rooms with an office at one end, a cleaning cubby and vending machines in the middle. He imagined a motel salesman back in the fifties, drumming up customers. "You want one of our Model A roadside motels. Model B? Well, actually, we don't have a Model B…"

The problem with Model A was parking. The layout presumed you were in the fifties, heading down Route 66 on a family road trip and, naturally, you only needed one parking spot, which was conveniently located right outside your room door. If you brought a friend or towed a trailer, you needed to park it in the dirt lot out back, which was quite possibly the worst location for a stakeout. So Finn was stuck in one of the empty spots along the front. Uncomfortably exposed and, worse, unable to see one half of the building, now that a billboard of a minivan had pulled in beside him.

He'd gotten out once to scout, but he wasn't inconspicuous enough to loiter for long, so he was stuck with two hopes. One, that Adams was in the part of the motel he could see. Two, that Damon would get his phantom ass the hell back from wherever he'd gone and tell Finn where Adams was.

Making Damon hitchhike in the taxi had been an inspired plan. And like all his inspired plans these last few days, it had played out much better in his mind than in reality. Finn had managed to follow Adams's cab for a few miles. Then he'd lost it as a transport cut him off. When the transport had passed, the cab was gone. A half-mile later in his rearview mirror he'd seen the cab pull from this motel.

All he had to do then was pull in and wait for Damon to come out and tell him which unit Adams was in. That had been ten minutes ago.

As Finn leaned back in his seat, a man jogged past his car. Anytime Finn saw someone running in L.A. without a jogging suit – hell, sometimes even with one – he paid attention. The guy was nearing forty, clean shaven, wearing a team jacket and a ball cap, heading toward the road, no sign that he was chasing or being chased.

Finn relaxed. Then another man, older and heavyset, ran past, this one along the sidewalk in front of the motel rooms.

"Hey!" the second man yelled. "Hey! Someone stop that guy!"

That got Finn out of the car. He strode to the sidewalk. Ahead of the running man stood a girl, no more than eleven, dressed in a halter top and denim skirt that wouldn't be out of place on a street hooker.

"What's happening here?" Finn said, flashing his badge to the big man, who'd stopped now, doubled over, panting.

"There was a girl…"

"That girl?" Finn jerked a thumb at the preteen.

"No, a – " He caught his breath. "Woman. Young woman. She said that guy attacked her. I told the manager to call the cops, but I don't think he's going to."

"Where's the young woman?"

"Took off," the girl said.

"Is he chasing her?"

"Dunno."

"Which way did she go?"

"Dunno."

She scuffed worn sneakers against the pavement. Crossed her arms. Scowled as if she was being asked to do a chore. Finn started walking, taking out his phone to call for backup.

"My dad's right," the girl muttered behind him. "Too many foreigners in this city. Stupid lady smacked right into me. Never even said sorry."

Finn stopped and looked back. "The young woman?"

"Yeah. Mexican or something."

"East Indian, I think," the man said. "Tiny thing, but the way she threw that guy down – "

Finn didn't hear the rest. He was already running down the front sidewalk. A young couple blocked the way. They'd stopped to look at a partially open door.

As Finn passed, the young man plucked his sleeve. "You smell that?"

He caught an odor that made his guts knot, remembering a training seminar where they'd sprayed new LAPD recruits with CS gas.

Wisps of smoke spiraled from the cracked-open door. Inside, someone coughed. He pulled out his gun and eased the door open another inch. The distinct peppery smell of tear gas wafted out, mixed with another smell – whatever caused the smoke, he supposed.

The smoke had almost evaporated, and he could make out a figure on all fours, hacking. A woman. Young. Slender. Dark blond hair in a ponytail. His hand tightened on his gun, the image of Adele Morrissey popping to mind. Then the woman lifted her head and Finn saw the face that had been taunting him for three days.

Robyn Peltier.

A careful look around the empty room, then he holstered his weapon and hurried inside, grabbing her under the arms and lifting her. Once they were past the door, she staggered to the wall and leaned against it. Her head dropped forward as she sputtered and gasped, tears streaming.

Finn called for backup and an ambulance. When he gave his name, Robyn stiffened, head rising, watery reddened eyes meeting his. Then she dropped her head again, racked by a fresh wave of coughing and dry heaves.

"It's Detective Findlay, Robyn," he said when he got off the phone. "You called me last night."

She tried to nod between coughs, face still lowered.

"Paramedics are on their way," he said. "That was tear gas. It's not dangerous, just…" He was about to say something suitably neutral, as the department taught, but remembering what it felt like, what came out was: "… vile."

Her cough softened into a laugh. "That would about sum it up."

Finn shifted his weight, resisting the urge to take her arm.

He'd spent three days searching for this woman, and now here she was, hacking up her lungs, and all he could think was that she looked… small.

He glanced around for the ambulance. "Keep breathing. Do you feel like you're going to be sick?"

She shook her head and went to swipe her sleeve over her eyes.

Finn caught her arm. "Don't rub. You'll only make it worse. We need to get your eyes washed out. Same with your skin. Does it burn?"

"Ice," she croaked.

Good idea. There'd be water in the vending machine, too.

He plucked a bill from his wallet and looked around for someone to run the errand. The tiny crowd had dispersed, which may have had something to do with the stinking fog still seeping from the opened door. He closed it, scanned the lot and found the heavyset man, hanging back as he stared at Robyn.

When Finn waved the man over, he shook his head, still gaping at Robyn with the horror one usually reserves for Ebola victims.

"It's tear gas," Finn called. "It's not – "

The man climbed into his car, shut and locked the door.

"The ice machine's right over…" Robyn squinted to see, her eyes still streaming tears. "Over there," she said resolutely, then took an equally resolute step before faltering against the wall.

Finn went to grab her only to realize he still had hold of her arm. He tightened his grip, helping her find her balance.

"Sorry," she said. "Guess I'm a little off."

Now it was his turn to laugh, a rusty rumble. "I'd say you've got a right to be. I'll get the ice and water. Stay here and catch your breath."

Finn jogged to the vending machine. He fed his bill into it while scouring the cubby for something to hold the ice. He bought a water and a Coke, then snatched up an empty chip bag, filled it with ice and put it into his pocket.

The sidewalk was empty.

Finn strode to the spot where he'd left Robyn. He looked around. Even opened the motel room door again. She was gone.

He dropped the bottles. Threw them, if he was being honest, as he started running.

How stupid had that been? He finally catches his fugitive suspect, only to leave her unattended while he trips over himself to get some water, some ice… Hell, she could probably use a Coke, to boost her blood sugar.

He reached the side corner to see her race around the back, remarkably agile for someone unable to take two steps a few minutes ago.

She'd played him.

He tore down that side stretch so fast he barely had his gun out before he wheeled around the back corner and -

There stood Robyn Peltier. Holding a gun on him.