Swift Vengeance

19

Hector engaged the saleswoman, who had set a number of the decorative janbiyas on a glass countertop. I pressed in closer. The janbiya is the classic Arab knife, with a short, curved blade and a raised medial ridge running its length. The hilt is relatively short, made for one hand. I could see that each knife was safely housed in its own scabbard. An informative stand-up cardboard graphic said that the janbiya is a dagger used in the Middle East and India but is most closely associated with Saudi Arabia and Yemen. Many boys in those countries begin wearing such a knife at age fourteen as “an accessory.” The design and materials used to make the blade, the handle, and the scabbard are a measure of the owner’s status.

Hector’s back was to me, but I could see that he was talking to the saleswoman with some animation. He’d rolled his Rumiyah magazine tight and stuffed it into his wallet pocket. The clerk had a skeptical expression and a guarded smile. Looked at me quickly, then back to her customer. One dark-suited security man watched from behind the counter.

Hector perused the knives before him. Asked a question, got a brief reply. He picked up one scabbarded dagger in his right hand, then another with his left. Raised them up as if he was about to stab something. Then set them back down and crossed his arms.

I sensed female company hard on my left and half a step behind. “Do you think he’s dangerous?” asked Faux-Mink Stole. “Or just insane?”

“Definitely.”

“You look familiar. But then, I collect faces.” Cinnamon hair, loosely up, eyes blue. The faux mink had a fair, elegant neck to ride on.

“My face is common as a clock’s,” I said.

“No, you’re wrong,” she said. “I love that scar. But I really am concerned about this little man. Playing with knives. What if he’s packing?”

“He could be.”

“I have seen you,” she said. “On the news last year. Fallbrook. A helicopter.”

I raised one finger to my lips. Her smile of recognition quickly turned to surprise, then confusion, then embarrassment.

“I am so sorry,” she said, leaning closer, her voice a leafy rustle. “I have terrible manners sometimes. I truly beg your pardon. And please know that the man you watched me walk in with is a client.”

From a black clutch she drew a business card and a short jeweled pen, wrote something on the back of the card, and handed it to me. Then she smiled and backed into the crowd, latching the clutch as she looked at me, blending easily, as if she had another set of blue eyes on the back of her head. I looked down at the card:

Underneath that, a Santa Monica address, phone number, and website. On the back, no handwritten phone number after all, just: “Sorry. Do call.” When I looked up again she was gone. Should have asked her if she danced.

After more talk and knife-handling, Hector decided on two janbiyas. The clerk rang him up. One knife came in a silk scabbard, decorated with leaping lions. The other scabbard looked like heavy sand-colored cotton with subtle stripes and triangles woven in. The saleswoman accepted his sheaf of bills with unsubtle disgust, counted them quickly down to the glass countertop, gave Hector his change. Then wrapped the knives in red tissue, set them in a twine-handled Gallerie Monfil shopping bag, dangling it out to Hector on the farthest possible tip of one forefinger.

Hector O. Padilla, owner of two janbiyas and a stone to sharpen them on. Janbiyas — possibly the type of weapon used to decapitate Kenny Bryce.

Hector O. Padilla, reader of Rumiyah, recently broken up with, interested in Muslim women.

Hector O. Padilla, owner of Lindsey’s current address, professionally provided by my old partner, Jason Bayless.

I followed Hector from the knives, to the swords, to the spears and lances. He didn’t seem to have serious interest in any of them. Standing under the ceiling-mounted “Mihr Killing a Lion” tapestry, Hector set down his treasures of Araby to consult his phone again. This time it took longer than it had before. He read, thumbed in a reply, then slipped the phone back into his rear pocket and took a deep breath. He headed for the salon exit. Hustled back a few seconds later to get the shopping bag he’d left behind.

Following him was easy. Plenty of people out on Cedros that night. Not that he seemed to practice universal awareness all that often. He walked past my truck with a relaxed air, tapping his terrorist magazine against his leg. I climbed in a few moments later, watching from two hundred feet away as he got into his gleaming black Cube. I set up my smartphone with the tracker codes, keeping an eye on Hector.

He U-turned and came toward me. I did a full PI Slouch, watching his headlights pass across the headliner until they were gone. Started her up, gave Hector a few seconds while I confirmed his location on my phone, then cranked a U-turn of my own. The tracker GPS updated its location every second on my screen — street, address, city, state. Best hundred and ninety-nine bucks I’d ever spent. Bought two.

He made a series of right turns, which brought us back to where we started. I couldn’t figure why, other than some kind of evasive maneuver he’d been told would work. I thought of him forgetting his bag of treasures of Araby. Separated by ten seconds, I tracked him north to Lomas Santa Fe, east to Stevens, south to La Colonia Park, where he circled a parking lot and came back out. This could have outed me if I hadn’t been trailing far back. I parked, shut down, and slouched again while his headlights slid over me.

Then another U-turn and a low-speed tour through residential Solana Beach. I fell far back, lost sight of him, let the tracker do its job.

At last Hector broke out and took a mile-long straightaway on Villa de la Valle. Past the racetrack and the fairgrounds, both dark. His taillights, way up ahead. A left turn on San Andres and a right on Flower Hill. Then he stopped. I pulled over. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. I drove slowly toward his current location, spotted his Cube parked far out in the Flower Hill Promenade lot. Just a few other cars there, this far from the retail stores on a cool, dark night.

I parked in the lot, on higher ground, a full hundred yards away. Killed the engine, got my night binoculars from under the seat. Rolled my window down. Hector got out and started toward a Toyota 4Runner parked one space over from the Cube. It was a dark, older vehicle and I wrote the plate numbers in my notebook.

The Toyota driver’s window was halfway down. A stand of eucalyptus trees bordering the lot blocked the moonlight. As Hector approached I could just make out the shape of someone behind the wheel. A pale face in a dark interior.

They talked, Hector saying little, nodding. The window rose and Hector went to the rear, opened the 4Runner’s lift gate, and let it rise. Then back to his Cube, where he swung open the rear cargo door.