Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(2)

“Secrets. Dangerous secrets.”

“You’re annoying. You’re amazing and beautiful and talented, but you’re a very annoying person.”

She touched the flash drive closer.

“Only when I respect someone.”

“You could talk to me like a real person and spare the drama.”

“I don’t have time tonight or I would. Once you see, you’ll understand.”

“What am I supposed to do with these dangerous secrets?”

Her watchful eyes darkened.

“Talk to me and we’ll decide. Until then, don’t tell anyone unless you tell everyone. You see?”

“No. I don’t.”

Josh felt nervous. He was afraid she had gotten herself involved with something shady, and wondered why she wanted to involve him. He pushed the drive with his finger.

“Where did you get this whatever it is?”

“I’ll fill in the blanks when we talk. You’ll have questions, Josh Shoe. I’ll have answers.”

Her phone chimed. Skylar glanced at the screen, and stood.

“Gotta jet. My driver.”

Josh stopped her with a touch. She was serious, and being as real as she had ever been, which worried him even more.

“Sky? What’s going on?”

“You’re a good dude, Josh. We’ll talk.”

She turned and hurried toward the door.

Josh quickly left money on the table and tried to catch up, but two other couples rose to leave at the same time, and Josh fell behind. When he finally reached the sidewalk, Skylar stood at the open door of a black Uber car. The crooked smile touched her lips when she saw him, but now her smile seemed sad.

Skylar slid into the Uber’s backseat and Josh watched her glide away.

A light-colored sedan slowly passed and fell in behind her. Josh glanced at the passing car, but thought nothing of it. He would, later, but on this night, the sedan was simply a car within a school of cars, no different from any other.





PART ONE


   The Damage They Do





1





Elvis Cole



My office occupied a two-room suite four floors above Santa Monica Boulevard on the western edge of Hollywood. Most of my business came by referral from Attorneys or satisfied clients, but do-it-yourself parties often found me online. Prospective clients usually reached out by phone or email, most to inquire about price or learn whether I could help with their problem. Some only wanted to vent. Making an appointment was encouraged. Venters were not. Walk-in business was rare.

On the day she came to my office, the sky was unnaturally clear, a clarity so abnormal the City of Angels seemed bathed in a nuclear glow. The French doors to my balcony offered an unobstructed view to the sea, but the glare was so bright I found myself squinting. The French doors were usually open, but that day they were closed. The heat.

By ten-oh-seven, I had filed two reports and returned three calls. Another backbreaking day at the office.

I said, “How about we grab a sandwich and fight crime tomorrow? Sound good?”

The Pinocchio clock on the wall beside the door to my partner’s office had a long nose, a jaunty yellow cap, and bulging eyes. The eyes slid side to side, but Pinocchio didn’t answer. He never answered, but he always listened.

I said, “Okay, then, let’s do it. I’m starving.”

At ten-oh-nine, I was packing up when the outer door opened and a woman in a tailored navy pantsuit stepped in from the hall. She was tall and square-shouldered, and her sleek black hair was pulled into a short ponytail. A man in an expensive summer-weight gray suit followed her. The man was maybe six-three, broad, and sported hands the size of catcher’s mitts. They wore their suits like uniforms.

The woman eyed me with a casual curiosity.

“Elvis Cole?”

I leaned back and considered her.

“He’s downtown with the mayor. Was he expecting you?”

The woman drifted closer as her friend circled to the French doors. He looked outside, opened the doors, stepped out, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He peered over the rail, then checked overhead as if he expected Spider-Man to swing down from above. When he looked up, his jacket opened and a holster peeked out. I made them for federal agents or bill collectors.

“If you guys aren’t building inspectors, I charge for my time.”

The man stepped inside and went to my partner’s office. The door was closed.

The man said, “Anyone home?”

I leaned farther back until my chair squeaked.

“Marines. Go in. Say hi.”

The big man peeked inside and glanced at the woman.

“He’s alone.”

I leaned forward and touched the edge of my desk. A Dan Wesson .38 Special revolver waited in the drawer, but the drawer and the pistol were a mile away.

“Are you going to tell me what you want, or do I have to guess?”

They turned without a word, returned to the outer office, and the big woman opened the door. A small, older woman clutching an enormous brown purse entered. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and looked to be in her seventies. Her wispy hair was more gray than not, and her thin flower-print dress looked shabby. She glanced at me, glanced quickly away, and turned to the woman in the blue suit. She appeared uncomfortable.