Bradley puts the computer into the trunk of the car. He opens the passenger side door. "Get in."
I slide onto red leather tuck and roll upholstery. "Nice car," I say. "Your dad know you have it?"
He doesn't respond. His face is a neutral mask. He acts as if he's lost all interest in me now that he has the computer. He puts the car in gear and pulls into traffic.
"Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer that question either, so I try another. "How did you keep Williams from coming to meet Ryan and me?"
That one provokes a reaction. He glances at me. "I didn't have to do anything. Seems Williams was called to a command performance at the Mayor's office. He figured you'd be safe since you had Ortiz with you. You'd just sit tight and wait for him. But when I saw Ortiz back at headquarters, I guessed that you'd sent him away. I guessed right. Patrolman Ortiz didn't think it a problem to tell the FBI where he'd left you."
"How did you know about Ortiz anyway?"
"When we had to wait to go up to the Chief's office, I knew there had to be a reason." He snickers. "I saw you sneak out back to the squad car. And when Ortiz returned, I recognized the wig and coat he handed to the desk sergeant."
Since I seem to be on a roll, I throw out another question. "Where's your partner?"
"Accompanying the Chief to the Mayor's office. Didn't see any point in both of us going. After all, Donovan knows everything I do about the investigation."
His tone is mocking.
We're headed south on Mission Boulevard, back toward town. Bradley lapses into cold silence. We take Pacific Coast Highway past the airport, and for a brief minute, I think we're going to my office. But then he turns east on Broadway, toward SDPD Headquarters.
Which makes no sense at all.
"Where are we going?" I ask again.
This time he answers. "We're going to visit a friend of yours."
I frown at him. "What friend?"
We pass police headquarters and continue on Broadway into Southeast San Diego. Now I've traced a lot of skips into this neighborhood, but not one I'd call a "friend."
Southeast is the "bad" side of town. It sits up on a bluff with a view over 94, and once you cross that freeway bridge, you're in another world.
In the daylight, the neighborhood looks benign. Little stucco ranch style houses in various states of disrepair on big lots. But when you look more closely, you see those little houses are surrounded by big fences. Concrete bunkers three to five feet high topped with ornamental wrought iron. And like bunkers in wartime, their purpose is to keep what's inside protected from whatever or whoever is outside, whether that might be the police, the drug dealing competition or a determined bounty hunter.
David and I don't relish our forays into this neighborhood. I can't imagine why Bradley is bringing me here now. But I know it can't be for any good reason.
In the early morning, the streets are deserted. The business conducted here is done at night. The Escalades and Hummers are as secure in their driveways behind padlocked gates as their owners are secure in their beds behind security bars. There are a few young children playing in yards, accompanied by some nasty looking dogs, but for the most part, it's eerily quiet. There's a feeling of uneasiness, like tiptoeing around a sleeping giant you don't want to waken.
Bradley seems to know the area well. He navigates the maze of streets south of Market easily, finally pulling to a stop at the curb in front of a pink stucco house. The ironwork on the fence matches the bars on the windows and doors, a sign of an "upscale" residence. The grass is cut in the yard, and it's actually green.
Someone must be watching for us because as soon as Bradley opens his car door, the garage door at the end of the driveway slides open, too.
That's when I see it.
A blue VW.
I look at the numbers on the mailbox.
3946.
And the street sign on the corner.
Quail Street.
This is Darryl Goodman's house. No-neck.
I can't believe I didn't guess it.
Darryl is approaching the gate, smiling as if he's greeting a lover, excited, eager, his eyes bright with pleasure. "You're a day early," he says. "We aren't supposed to meet until tomorrow."
He looks over my head to Bradley. "You got it?"
Bradley moves to the back of the car and opens the trunk. Darryl watches as he removes the laptop and holds it for him to see. He claps like a satisfied little kid.
Then he turns to me. "And where are our little friends?"
"What little friends?"
"Don't be coy, Anna," he fires back. "It doesn't suit you."
Bradley slams the trunk closed and grabs my arm, propelling me toward the gate. "She let the boy go," he says. "But I know where to find him."
Darryl nods and unlocks the gate. He swings it open for Bradley and me to enter. The closer I get, the more I'm assailed by an odor emanating from Darryl's body. It's sickening sweet and pungent. Too late, I realize what it is. Bradley is behind me, blocking any escape as my legs go suddenly weak.
Darryl puts out a hand to steady me. "What's the matter, Anna? Don't like my after-shave?"