Runaway Heart

TWENTY-SIX

Zimmy wasn't at JPL, but Jack got his home address from the Security Office by flashing his fancy new imitation ostrich P.I. license holder and saying: "Police."

The girl handed him a slip of paper and said, "Zimmy told me yesterday they're painting his apartment. I think he's staying at his ex-wife's place."

"Could I have her address, please?" Jack smiled, giving her his best ten-megawatt meltdown.

"Montrose Apartments, 2300 Montrose Boulevard in Montrose. Apartment ten."

He ran back to Barbra's Mercedes, where Herman and Susan were waiting. He jumped in the car and headed west on the Foothill Freeway, hoping Montrose was in that direction. He was lucky. Montrose Boulevard was a freeway exit.

The apartment house was a two-story, sixties-type building: a gray stucco box with white trim. He pulled past and parked across the street in somebody's driveway.

Jack had grabbed his backup gun from the trunk of the Fairlane before they left Malibu. It was an S amp;W Model 60, lightweight, three-inch barrel, burnished finish, and it was under his coat, jammed in his belt Billy-the-Kid style. "Okay… whatever you do, don't leave the car until I get back."

Herman and Susan nodded grimly.

He walked to the corner and bought the Los Angeles Times from a newspaper box, transferred the revolver from his belt to the inside of the folded newspaper, tucked it under his arm and crossed the street.

He entered the building courtyard, spotted apartment ten on the second floor at the end of the corridor, then climbed the interior stairwell and banged on the door. "Dr. Zimbaldi?"

Nothing.

He knocked again and tried the door. Locked. When he rattled the knob, it felt like there was no deadbolt, just a button lock. Another job for Wells Fargo Bank. Jack took out his credit card, slipped it into the space between the door lock and the jamb, then pushed.

Credit approved.

It was a very ordinary, sparsely furnished apartment. He moved quickly through the neat two-bedroom, one-bath layout, then ended up in the small kitchen. There was no sign of Zimmy or his ex-wife.

He walked out onto the balcony, which offered a quasi-view of the Valley. Jammed into that small space were a wooden chair, an orange Weber barbecue, and a chest-style Amana freezer from the horse and buggy era. Jack opened the freezer, praying that Zimmy wouldn't be inside curled up next to the flank steak. The Amana was filled with ice cream. He snagged a container of Rocky Road, pried it open, then went back inside to borrow a spoon from the kitchen.

The P.I. takes an ice cream break.

Two blocks away a windowless, brown Econoline van pulled up and parked off Foothill Boulevard. Inside Vincent Valdez watched a GPS monitor with a small locator light flashing on the LED map screen, then said: "He's around the corner on Montrose."

Marine Captain Norm Pettis, who had flown in from D.C. with Valdez on a private jet that morning, was seated next to the assistant director in a little command chair bolted to the floor of the van.

"Strockmire should lead us to Zimbaldi," Valdez continued. "We move in fast and take everybody. But, whatever you do, make sure you get that encrypted file." It was hot in the van and moisture was collecting under his armpits. He didn't want to stain his Armani jacket, so he took it off. "Turn on the engine and get the air going," he ordered the driver.

"Whatta you wanna do?" Captain Pettis asked. "Looks like he's just parked over there."

"Take a walk down the street and hang an eyeball on them. Lemme know what you see."

Pettis pushed a computerized receiver chip into his ear, fixed a pin mike to his lapel, then opened the van doors. He was dressed in chinos and a sport jacket. The only uniform issue he wore were his J-6 laced leather jump boots. He liked them because they gave him good ankle support and had reinforced metal toes. He jumped out of the van, then sauntered casually down the block, turning the corner on Montrose Boulevard.

Almost immediately, he saw Herman Strockmire and his daughter, Susan, sitting in a silver Mercedes.

"I have our people in sight," Pettis said into his lapel mike. "Whatta you want me to do? They're just sitting in a Mercedes looking across the street at the apartment house."

"Go check the mailboxes, see if anything over there lights up."

Captain Pettis entered the Montrose Apartment courtyard and began to quickly scan the mailboxes. On the second row, two from the end, a typed face card read: donna zimbaldi.

"Looks like a sister, or an ex-wife or somethin' lives here. Donna Zimbaldi, apartment ten," he said into the pin mike.

"Go sell her some mags," Valdez instructed.

"Roger."

The mailboxes were locked, but bulk mail was in open trays under each box. So Captain Pettis went magazine shopping. He picked out a Vogue, a Redbook, and a few other women's magazines, then went upstairs and knocked on the door of Donna Zimbaldi's apartment.

Jack heard the knock, set down the ice cream, and crossed to the door, snapping up the newspaper off the kitchen counter as he passed. Holding his gun in his left hand, he folded the paper over it, then opened the door with his right.

"Hi," Norm Pettis said. "I'm with Helping Hands and we're selling magazine subscriptions to benefit the Children's Cancer Center. Is Mrs. Zimbaldi at home?" Pettis thought the guy in the apartment looked familiar-like the P.I. in the briefing photos they'd taken at Area 51, but he wasn't absolutely sure.

"There's no Zimbaldis live here. Just me and my brother, Lonnie, but he ain't home." Jack smiled, then glanced down at the magazine salesman's feet. Crepe soles on black leather jump boots.

"Maybe you should write your number on this newspaper, I could have him call you. He's always giving to charities."

Jack pressed the paper at him until the man finally took it. Once he did he was looking at the revolver.

"This is a big mistake," Pettis said.

"Why don't you come on in? We're having ice cream." Jack yanked him through the door, then closed and bolted it. "You wired?"

Pettis didn't respond, but Jack spotted the pin mike on his lapel, ripped it off, and stomped on it. Then he saw the earplug. "Get the receiver out." Pettis dug it out with his thumb and index finger. It was a microchip about the size of an eraser with no wire. "Nice," Jack observed, dropping it into his pocket.

Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs, whistling. He spun Pettis around and frisked him quickly, pulling a Glock 9 out of a waist holster, a SIG P-232 off his leg, and a stun gun with two batteries out of his coat. "You really came to party," Jack quipped as he pulled the clips and both slides, then threw the guns across the room.

"You're just making things worse for yourself."

"You, too," Jack said, and clocked him hard on the head, banging the side of the Smith amp; Wesson against the man's transverse occipital bone-police academy combat tactics. Guaranteed to produce a snooze.

Pettis went down in a clutter of stolen magazines.

A key scraped in the lock.

Jack aimed his gun and waited.

When the door opened he was looking at a very intense, wirey man wearing Bermuda shorts, grimy tennies with no socks, and a threadbare red-checkered shirt, complete with pocket protector.

"Dr. Zimbaldi?"

"What are you doing in my wife's apartment?"

"Trying to save your life. I'm with Herman Strockmire. We've gotta get you out of here."

"You're what?" Zimbaldi said.

Jack heard a car squeal to a halt in the parking lot below followed by four doors slamming. "Listen, Doctor, we need to leave right now. Your life is in danger. It's about that stuff Herman gave you-the fifty-page encryption."

"That's silly."

Jack didn't have time to discuss it, so he turned and pulled the confused Dr. Zimbaldi out of the apartment and into the corridor.

"Where's the service elevator?"

"There isn't one."

Just then the doorway to the staircase flew open and two men in jeans, combat boots, and windbreakers appeared. Both were holding guns that were unlike anything Jack had ever seen-long elliptical shapes with narrow frames and breeches, laser sights, and banana grips-deadly looking two-handed ordnance.

Jack jumped back inside the apartment, pulling Zimmy with him just as the men fired. Two laser beams of light zapped ominously, ripping holes into the door frame.

He slammed the door shut. "Is there a back way outta here?"

"This way." The doctor led Jack into the bedroom. Zimmy dug under the bed and came out with a rope ladder. "Fire ladder," he explained.

They opened a window, hooking the rope ladder to the sill, then throwing it down. Jack helped Dr. Zimbaldi out, then climbed after him. In seconds they were standing in the carport.

"You got a car?" Jack asked urgently. "Yeah, the white Nissan." Zimmy pointed to it. A Nissan Sentra. Shit, Jack thought. A roller skate with seat belts.

"Okay, I'm going across the street," Jack told him. "Hopefully, Herman and his daughter are in a silver Mercedes over there. After I leave, count to ten and get moving. We're using your wheels. Pick us up. You with me?"

"Yeah."

Jack ran to the corner and looked across the street. He could see Herman and Susan, but they had ignored his instructions and gotten out of the car. They stood looking right at the apartment building across the street, like gawk-ers in Times Square. They might as well have been holding a neon sign over their heads with an arrow pointing down. Jack crossed Montrose Boulevard, threading his way through traffic, and as soon as he got to the car he grabbed Susan's arm.

"You're both leaving in a white Nissan. Here it comes now. Leave the rear, right side door open for me. Go."

A gray sedan Jack had never seen before skidded around the corner at the other end of the street. There were four men inside.

Jack pushed Herman and Susan toward the Nissan, shouting at them to get in. Then he jumped behind the wheel of Barbra's Mercedes, gunned it, and shot backwards out of the driveway, right into the path of the fast-approaching government sedan.

A symphony of tortured rubber, crashing metal, and broken glass filled his ears as the sedan plowed right into the driver's side, knocking Barbra's little silver jewel halfway up the block, and Jack halfway down into the knee well. He didn't have time to worry about whiplash.

Jack rolled out of the passenger side and started sprinting. He ran straight at the Sentra, then dove headfirst through the open rear door into the backseat, landing right in Susan's lap. "Go, go, go, go!" he yelled.

Zimmy floored it, but not much happened. The car choked and wheezed, whirred, and woofed, and then, as fast as you could say, "This car really sucks," they were slowly moving up the street.

"Can't it go any faster?" Susan yelled in dismay. And then it finally picked up speed. Jack sat up and looked out the back window. Montrose Boulevard was a mess. The government sedan and the silver Mercedes were crumpled up in the middle of the street, twisted together and blocking both lanes. Traffic art. Other cars had skidded to a halt behind, completing the ugly sculpture.

"My God, what the hell will I tell Barbra?" Herman said, looking back at the wrecked Mercedes as the Nissan rounded a corner and took the horrible vision away.

"Tell her the airbags didn't deploy," Jack answered.