The Hell Yo, стр. 69
far, so technically I was not trespassing on Jake’s turf.
That’s what I told myself, but it didn’t fly as well with Jake.
“You’re not that stupid,” he said. “Then again, maybe you are. I go to the trouble of
lying – of falsifying police reports – to keep you out of this shit, and you turn right around
and walk back into it.”
My heart slipped into heavy, slow punches against my rib cage. “Give me a break,” I
said. “You didn’t lie to protect me. You lied to protect yourself. You never asked me what I
wanted. And I sure as hell never made you any promises about what I would or wouldn’t
do.”
His finger jabbed the air, punctuating his words. “Stay. Out. Of. It. Or this time, bad
heart or not, I will throw your ass in jail.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to risk anyone discovering the connection
between us.”
His face changed, grew ugly, dangerous. “Are you threatening me?”
I hadn’t been, but like an ember in dry grass, a self-destructive impulse flicked to life in
my mind.
“My existence threatens you.”
He shoved me back, hard. I crashed into the hall table, knocking it over, smashing the
jar of old marbles I had collected. Glass balls skipped and bounced along the corridor. I
landed on my back, my head banging down on the hardwood floor.
I lay there for a second, blinking up at the lighting fixture, taking in the years of dust
and dead moths gathered in the etched-glass globe. The silence that followed was more
startling than the collision of me and the table and the floor. I heard Jake’s harsh breathing
and a marble rolling away down the hall – which seemed pretty damned appropriate, since
I’d apparently lost all of mine.
He bent over me. Probably safer to stay submissively on my back, but I got up fast,
knocking his hands away. It was a protective instinct and maybe not a wise one. I hadn’t had
time to inventory what, if any real damage, I’d sustained.
Weirdly, neither of us spoke. There was plenty to say, but no words.
Jake stared at me. In his eyes, I read the urge to knock me down again, to punch, to
kick, to silence, to destroy. His hands were clenched by his side. I felt light-headed with
anger and outrage – and yeah, maybe a little fear. He could probably kill me by accident. My
heart was tripping in my throat.
I was afraid if I tried to speak I would cry. From rage.
He swallowed once, dryly. He looked sick.
“I won’t tell you again. Stay out of it.”
He went, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Twenty-six
“I’m not comfortable with this, Adrien,” Chan said when he returned my phone call
early Tuesday morning. “Why exactly do you want this information?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why wouldn’t you ask Jake to nose around, if that’s all it is?”
“First of all, because he doesn’t have time for it. He’s too busy with his big-league cult-
murder case. Secondly, as you probably know, the situation between us is awkward these
days.”
A lot more awkward than Chan knew.
But he said gruffly, “Okay. But promise me you’re not planning to do something
stupid.”
Like he thought I actually planned ahead when I wanted to do something stupid? I
said, “Paul, it was just curiosity. Jesus, if it’s that big of a deal, don’t tell me.”
He sighed. “No, I got the intel for you. Oliver Garibaldi owns a second home in Bel Air.
Do you have a pencil?”
I stopped doodling little devil faces on the pad in front of me, and took down the
address.
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
“You can pay me back by not misusing this information. Jake will have my balls if you
get into trouble.”
“He’ll only find out if you tell him,” I said. I thanked him again and rang off.
One last try, I thought. One last effort before I gave up and took my lame-ass story to
the cops and let them try to sort it out – whether it compromised Jake or not.
* * * * *
The house, located in one of Los Angeles’ most prestigious neighborhoods, was a gated,
pseudo-English Tudor mansion on a nice chunk of manicured real estate. It could have
modeled for cover art on The Dain Curse.
I parked far down the shady street and prepared to wait, sitting low in the Forester,
baseball cap pulled over my face. When there were no cars or people around – which was
most of the time – I used my binoculars to watch the front of the house – not that there was
anything to see. Trees effectively blocked most of the windows.
I listened to Rufus Wainwright’s Poses a couple of times. After the fourth time, I
wished I’d brought some other CDs.
No one came, no one went. No sign of life anywhere. The neighborhood was a quiet
one, reminding me of Lisa’s home in Porter Ranch, though here there was no pretense at
being rural. The houses all sat well back from the street behind tall gates and vigorous
foliage.
After a couple of boring hours that knotted up my back and gave me way too much
time to think about things I didn’t want to think about, I drove to a gas station, used the
restroom, and stocked up on bottled water, chips, Ding Dongs, and mini doughnuts. The tune
from “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” was playing in my head as I paid a small fortune for
my repast. Like Rufus, everything I liked these days seemed a little bit strange and a little bit
deadly.
When I drove slowly past the Garibaldi estate, the iron gates were wide open. A blue
sedan was parked in the circular front court. I kept on driving, parking far down the opposite
end of the street. I pulled out my binoculars.
Total void. I couldn’t see anyone. I swore. Talk about the world’s worst timing…
Was there a back entrance to the estate? The problem with one-man surveillance was
that I didn’t dare leave except when the call of nature got too loud. And I wasn’t quite
dedicated enough to the cause to try pissing into a bottle.
A cleaning van roared up, blocking my view of the house. I started the engine and
drove still further down the street, parking on the opposite side this time. I knew I was
pushing my luck. If I stayed positioned on this street much longer, the cops would be
checking me out. Even if the cops didn’t bother with me, I couldn’t afford to attract my