The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,158
his home. I had to wait to be sure.
“How up to the moment is the GPS on that thing?” I asked.
“It’s real time, man. This is where he’s at. He just crossed under the one-oh-one. He might be just going home, Mick.”
“I know, I know. Just wait till he crosses Ventura. The next street is Dickens. If he turns there, then he’s not going home.”
I stood up and didn’t know what to do. I started pacing, the phone pressed tightly to my ear. I knew that even if Teddy Vogel had immediately put his men in motion they were still minutes away. They were no good to me now.
“What about the rain? Does it affect the GPS?”
“It’s not supposed to.”
“That’s comforting.”
“He stopped.”
“Where?”
“Must be a light. I think that’s Moorpark Avenue there.”
That was a block before Ventura and two before Dickens. I heard a beeping sound come over the phone.
“What’s that?”
“The ten-block alarm you asked me to set.”
The beeping sound stopped.
“I turned it off.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I hung up and called Maggie’s cell. She answered right away.
“Where are you?”
“You told me not to tell you.”
“You’re out of the apartment?”
“No, not yet. Hayley’s picking the crayons and coloring books she wants to take.”
“Goddamn it, get out of there! Now!”
“We’re going as fast as —”
“Just get out! I’ll call you back. Make sure you answer.”
I hung up and called Valenzuela back.
“Where is he?”
“He’s now at Ventura. Must’ve caught another light, because he’s not moving.”
“You’re sure he’s on the road and not just parked there?”
“No, I’m not sure. He could—never mind, he’s moving. Shit, he turned on Ventura.”
“Which way?”
I started pacing, the phone pressed so hard against my ear that it hurt.
“Right—uh, west. He’s going west.”
He was now driving parallel to Dickens, one block away, in the direction of my daughter’s apartment.
“He just stopped again,” Valenzuela announced. “It’s not an intersection. It looks like he’s in the middle of the block. I think he parked it.”
I ran my free hand through my hair like a desperate man.
“Fuck it, I’ve gotta go. My cell’s dead. Call Maggie and tell her he’s heading her way. Tell her to just get in the car and get out of there!”
I shouted Maggie’s number into the phone and dropped it as I headed out of the kitchen. I knew it would take me a minimum of twenty minutes to get to Dickens—and that was hitting the curves on Mulholland at sixty in the Lincoln—but I couldn’t stand around shouting orders on the phone while my family was in danger. I grabbed the gun off the table and went to the door. I was shoving it into the side pocket of my jacket as I opened the door.
Mary Windsor was standing there, her hair wet from the rain.
“Mary, what —”
She raised her hand. I looked down to see the metal glint of the gun in it just as she fired.
FORTY-SIX
The sound was loud and the flash as bright as a camera’s. The impact of the bullet tearing into me was like what I imagine a kick from a horse would feel like. In a split second I went from standing still to moving backwards. I hit the wood floor hard and was propelled into the wall next to the living room fireplace. I tried to reach both hands to the hole in my gut but my right hand was hung up in the pocket of my jacket. I held myself with the left and tried to sit up.
Mary Windsor stepped forward and into the house. I had to look up at her. Through the open door behind her I could see the rain coming down. She raised the weapon and pointed it at my forehead. In a flash moment my daughter’s face came to me and I knew I wasn’t going to let her go.
“You tried to take my son from me!” Windsor shouted. “Did you think I could allow you to do that and just walk away?”
And then I knew. Everything crystallized. I knew she had said similar words to Raul Levin before she had killed him. And I knew that there had been no rape in an empty house in Bel-Air. She was a mother doing what she had to do. Roulet’s words came back to me then. You’re right about one thing. I am a son of a bitch.
And I knew, too, that Raul Levin’s last gesture had not been to make the sign of the devil, but to make