The prostitutes ball

Chapter 45

I left the Sheedys' Georgian house, passing the three expensive cars belonging to his dinner guests, which I'd failed to take adequate note of before.

I slid behind the wheel of my MDX and pulled up the street, then hung a U-turn and parked half a block away where I had a view of his front door. I had a hunch something was about to happen.

I didn't have to wait too long.

Ten minutes later Stender Sheedy Sr. ran out on his very important dinner guests, almost falling down the front steps in his haste to get to his car.

He climbed into the Mercedes and backed out, clipping one of the stone lions on the way. He bounced over the curb cut in his driveway, threw the car in gear, and raced up the street.

If I'd set fire to a cat's tail, I wouldn't get this much reaction.

I pulled out after him, keeping the lights off for the first few blocks before switching them on.

Single-car tail jobs are hard because if the subject is paying even the slightest bit of attention, it doesn't take much effort to pick you off. But judging by the panicked way Sheedy was driving, I didn't think he was wasting much time on his rearview mirror.

After he turned up Coldwater Canyon, I was pretty sure I knew where he was going the deserted house on Skyline Drive.

Was he worried about that Brinks truck?

I followed him up into the hills, dropping farther back as his destination became clearer. When he turned onto Mulholland, I let him get far enough ahead so that I wouldn't be in his rearview at all.

I turned onto Skyline and pulled behind a van parked about a block down from the mansion. Then I got out of the Acura and walked to a place where I could see what he was doing.

He was in a moonlit argument with the two patrolmen stationed at the foot of the drive, guarding the property. They were denying him access and it wasn't hard to figure out what he was saying. His arms were flapping. He was bobbing his head as he shouted at them. It was the same sort of behavior he'd displayed less than an hour ago when he was shouting at me.

His dialogue had to be something like, "Have you any idea who you're dealing with?" Punctuated with words like "outlandish," "outrageous," and "preposterous." He seemed to be very frustrated with all us little people who for some reason were being uncharacteristically disrespectful tonight.

He got back into his car and burned rubber to display his anger to the cops. He flashed right by me going downhill without so much as a glance in my direction. He was having a bad night.

I jumped back into the MDX and followed. In the next few minutes I almost lost him because I'd assumed he would turn left on Mulholland and head back toward Bel Air. Because of that assumption I turned in the wrong direction, but fortunately caught a glimpse of the distinctive taillights on his Mercedes in my rearview mirror. He was going the other way on Mulholland, toward Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I backed up, swung around, and followed him. He took a left on Laurel, heading down the hill into the Valley.

He was on a mission, running yellow lights, occasionally leaving me stuck at intersections behind a line of traffic. Just past Moorpark Avenue I thought I was going to lose him so I took a big chance and put on my hidden flashers in the grille, growled the siren, and broke through a red light. Despite my light show, I somehow remained undetected.

I followed him onto the 101 North heading toward Ventura. I kept several car lengths back. Once on the freeway, he was a little easier to follow.

I had put Hitchs number on my cell phone's speed dial so I jammed the Bluetooth into my ear and hit Send. No answer. I left a voice message for him to call back ASAP.

I kept driving, trying Hitch every ten minutes or so. He was either out of cell range or had turned his phone off while he was interviewing Meeks. The fifth time I called, I was deep into the West Valley.

This time Hitch answered on the first ring. "Whatup, dawg?"

I told him briefly about my meeting with Stender Sheedy and that I was tailing Sheedy, Devine amp; Lipscomb's senior partner on the 101, heading toward Santa Barbara.

"I'm liking this," Hitch said. "This is all great Third Act stuff."

"I'm trying to stay on this guy, but he's going fast and once he gets back on city streets my single-car tail is gonna be tough. I could use some help. I just passed Thousand Oaks. You still anywhere out here?"

"Yeah. What's your next exit?"

I saw it coming up on my right. "Royal Oaks."

"Okay, I'm not that far. Let me know when he turns off."

Sheedy exited on Lynn Road, turned left, and headed toward the ocean, which lay on the other side of a chain of low hills about ten miles to the southwest. I stayed on the phone with Hitch, giving him my changing location as I kept driving.

Finally, I followed the Mercedes into a green valley that was home to some big, lush horse-breeding ranches with expensive-sounding names like Arabian Acres and Kensington Farms. The properties stretched out magnificently on both sides of the road. Huge ranch houses and miles of lush grass were bordered by white slat fences.

Sheedy kept going straight until he turned onto a road marked W. Potrero. Half a mile farther on the Mercedes slowed and pulled up to a large arched gate with a white security shack.

I saw it just in time to shut off my headlights as I approached, rolling to a stop off the road about a quarter mile back. Hopefully I had remained out of sight of the guard shack that protected the drive. Sheedy spoke with the uniformed security cop for a moment before he was passed through.

The Santa Anas had by now cleared L. A.'s night sky of its normal brew of hazy pollutants, and a bright three-quarter moon was putting a soft silver glow on everything. I took a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and panned the huge, meticulously maintained ranch before me.

Arabian horses stood in the fenced fields, some with their beautiful shiny necks arched gracefully down to graze. A large racetrack outlined by white-painted rails could be seen in the distance. On the top of the hill the sloping roof of a magnificent old Spanish-style ranch house was silhouetted in the moonlight.

Then I panned over to the white arch spanning the light brown two-lane granite driveway. There was something spelled out on the arch in gold letters. I worked the binoculars until

the words came into sharper focus and I could read the sign. RANCHO SAN DIEGO