The Competition

55

Bailey continued north on the freeway.

“But he didn’t see Logan?” I asked.

“No. They might’ve split up to lay low until the next hit.”

“I thought you had Harrellson working the Shane angle up here,” I said.

“I pulled him off to head up the detail at Platt.”

We passed through the Valley and Camarillo. When we kept heading north after Ventura, I seriously started to wonder exactly where this small town was. “Mind telling me where we’re going?”

“No, but it won’t help. We’re going to La Conchita.”

Actually, it did help. Graden and I liked to take day trips up to Santa Barbara, and La Conchita was on the way. It was a town tailor-made for a sitcom-a bohemian, beachcomberish kind of place. Nestled into a hill on the east side of the Pacific Coast Highway-the only thing separating the town from the ocean-La Conchita was a tiny burg filled with individually built houses, trailers, and a random assortment of small apartment buildings. The mom-and-pop liquor store just off the highway was the town’s main attraction for travelers. Graden and I had stopped there once or twice to get water and sandwiches.

And it was a tight-knit community. When torrential rains caused a major mudslide that buried four houses, the government had proposed evacuating the town-possibly for good. The residents had refused to go. They’d dug their way out, helped one another rebuild, and rescued their little city from oblivion. It made perfect sense that everyone in town would know if a stranger was hiding out there.

Bailey pulled up to a small cottage that had a front walk lined with crushed seashells and a large conch on the front porch. The doorbell was a literal bell that sat on an upside-down barrel near the door, and the hammock suspended from the overhang swung gently in the sea breeze. Something about the decor reminded me of Gilligan’s Island. I picked up the bell and rang it, because…I just couldn’t resist.

A smallish man with a woolly thatch of dark hair, dressed in a faded Hawaiian shirt and jeans, answered the door. He looked from Bailey to me. “Detectives?”

Bailey pulled out her badge and introduced us. “Officer Santos?”

“That’s me. Todd.” He held out his hand as he gestured to his clothes. “Sorry for the civvies, but Sunday’s my day off. Come on in.”

Bailey and I settled on a blue denim sofa that had seen better days sometime before the Korean War. Todd welcomed us and set bottles of water on the electrical cable spool that served as a coffee table. It came as no surprise that he didn’t wear a wedding ring. It was a rare woman who’d embrace Todd’s choice of decor. But Todd himself was charming. Maybe it was his open face and eager smile. Or the way he leaned forward, hands clasped together, with a look that said whatever we needed, he’d be up for it. Plus, he smelled good. His cologne-possibly aftershave-was light, citrusy, and a little like the ocean. The ocean part might’ve just been the air. Whatever it was, I liked him.

Bailey pulled out her cell and showed Todd the photo of Shane. “This is the man you called about, right?”

Todd took one look. “Yep, that’s him. Must have just got in last night because I only saw him this morning. Spotted him out on the balcony of Max’s apartment.” He tapped his forehead. “I never forget a face. Especially when it’s attached to a criminal. You think he’s one of your shooters?”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “And he’s a gun nut. There’s a good chance he’s armed.”

Todd looked from me to Bailey. “Want me to back you up?” He nodded at us, indicating what the answer should be.

“Maybe,” Bailey said. “What do you know about the guy he’s staying with? Is he the jumpy type?”

“Max? Nah. But I didn’t want to take any chances, so I didn’t say anything to him.”

“And you’re sure Shane’s still there?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been keeping tabs on him for ya, watching the building to make sure no one leaves. It’s been quiet.” He got up and motioned for us to join him at the window. Todd pointed to a green apartment building across the street with an open carport and units above. “See that old red Mustang? That’s Max’s car. That bike parked behind it has to be Shane’s ride because I’ve never seen it before.”

“You know which unit Max lives in?” Bailey asked.

“Didn’t before, but after I sighted Shane, I went and checked. Apartment two B.”

“What do you know about Max?” I asked.

“He’s a vet. Did a tour in Afghanistan. Works construction when he can. Nice guy. Not the sharpest knife in the box, but a decent sort.”

“Which is why he’s harboring a mass murderer?” I asked.

“I’d bet you he doesn’t know,” Todd said. “He doesn’t have a television. Got drunk last year and kicked in the screen when the Dodgers lost.”

“Is he going to cause us trouble?” Bailey asked.

“I doubt it. But I’ll tell you what. How about I go over there and see if I can pull Max out? I’ll keep him quiet, and you guys can move in and take your prisoner.”

That sounded nice and simple, except that our prisoner was likely to be armed to the teeth. And nothing fights like a rabid animal when it’s cornered. “Maybe we should wait for backup.”

Bailey shook her head. “We can’t afford to. If he jumps before they get here, we’ll be screwed. How about this, Todd. You try and get inside and see what’s going on, see whether Max is acting weird. Look for any guns lying around. We’ll wait right outside. If it looks cool, give us a sign and we’ll move in.”

This felt like a dumb cowboy move to me, but since I was the least experienced in the arrest department, I deferred. I opened my purse and rearranged my makeup, comb, and other junk so my gun was on top.

Todd looked at my purse, then at me. I could see him wondering how much use I’d be. I wasn’t sure myself.

Todd stood up. “Okay then. Let’s do this.” Todd went to a side table near the door, picked up a small revolver, and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Then he headed out. We followed at a discreet distance, and I tried to act nonchalant, like I imagined a tourist would look. Except I couldn’t imagine what any tourist would be doing walking the streets of La Conchita.

Stairs of pebble composite led up from the street to the second floor of the apartment building where our quarry was holed up. Todd, who was wearing desert boots, made a lot more noise than I would’ve liked as he clomped up them. The units were in a U shape, and there was a courtyard in the center below, where a dwarf palm tree and flowers grew around decorative rocks. I imagined one of us being tossed over the flimsy metal railing that lined the walkway and landing headfirst on those rocks.

Todd turned left at the top of the stairs, then walked around the U until he reached the last door. Bailey and I hung back a few feet. He looked back, gave us a smile, and knocked. I heard a voice answer from inside the apartment, which tells you how flimsy those walls were. “Hey, Max. It’s me, Todd. I need a favor.”

A few seconds later, the door opened, and a sun-bleached, graying head poked out. “Whadda ya need?”

“I’m painting my bedroom, and I’ve got to move my dresser out. There’re some cold brews in it for ya.”

Max held the door partly open with one hand and stood there, considering the offer. If he didn’t go for it, then what? Finally, he said, “Okay. Just gimme a sec to put on my jeans.” He closed the door, and Todd glanced at us and gave us a thumbs-up. I rolled my eyes, but he waved me off-Don’t worry. Yeah, why worry? Just because we were about to try to take down a murderer who had access to an armory? Piffle.

A few seconds later, Max emerged-a square body with skinny arms in a tank top, torn jeans, and flip-flops. In fifty-degree weather. What was he, a werewolf? Todd moved to the side as though to let Max lead the way, but when Max started to close the door behind him, Todd grabbed it. He put a finger to his lips and pushed Max against the wall. When Max started to protest, Todd pulled out his gun. Max’s eyes got big, and as we walked past him toward the door, they got even bigger. “You stay here,” Todd whispered. Max nodded compliantly. “The brews are still yours, bud.” Max slid away, his back to the wall, like a man who’d stepped out onto the ledge of a skyscraper.

Bailey and I held our guns down at our sides as we tiptoed single file toward the apartment. The door was a quarter of the way open. I peered inside but saw only darkness. My heart was thudding in my chest. What a weird place for me to die. In a dingy apartment in La Conchita. I listened for sounds of movement. Music was playing somewhere inside, but it wasn’t coming from the front room. Todd pushed the door farther open and moved inside, and we followed, our guns now straight out in front of us. We walked into a living room, which looked empty. I slowed down to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and tried to scan every inch of the room for places where Shane might be hiding, getting ready to spring.

On our left was the kitchen and dining area-a tiny square of linoleum. We stopped and looked around. There was no one there, but the music was getting louder. We moved past the kitchen to a small hallway. There was a door on the right. Todd put his ear to the wall near it and listened, then shook his head. He took one side of the door, and Bailey and I took the other. He carefully reached out and tried the doorknob. It turned. My heart was in my throat as he pushed the door open. It was a bathroom. And it was dark. Todd crouched down, gun in both hands, straight out in front of him. It was a half bath, so there was no tub or shower. And no one was in there.

Todd continued down the hall toward the door at the end. Bailey and I followed. The music was louder now. It sounded like “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, and it was coming from behind that door. This was it. I envisioned Shane standing inside, holding an AK aimed at us. I tried to pull Bailey back. She shook me off and moved in behind Todd.

Todd listened at the door, nodded to us, then twisted the doorknob. It turned, and as he inched the door open, I held my breath and steadied my gun in both hands. If Todd or Bailey missed their shot, mine would have to be the one to take Shane out. Then, in one swift motion, Todd threw back the door, crouched down, and pointed his gun, shouting, “Police!”

There stood Shane Dolan, hair dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his stomach. He froze, then threw his hands up. His towel dropped to the floor. Standing there naked as a jaybird, he screamed, “Don’t shoot!”