their house or two ridges away.
Hicks wiggled out of his jacket, stripped off his holster, and pushed the gun under his seat. He stuffed his jacket under next to prevent the gun from sliding out, and joined the cars heading home.
Two black-and-whites were pulled to the side around the next curve. They weren’t stopping cars, so Hicks and the locals continued. The helicopter disappeared, but appeared again as he wound higher. Each time it reappeared, the helicopter seemed larger.
Brake lights ahead finally flared, and the free pass was over. A police car blocked the street, and the cars ahead lined up to speak with the waiting officers.
Hicks joined the line, and waited his turn.
An occasional car was allowed to proceed, but most were diverted onto a connecting street, or forced to turn around.
Hicks tried Ronson and Stanley again. Nothing. He tried Wallick. Nothing. Hicks was scared.
The last two members of his crew were Stegner and Blanch. Neither man had been at the house when he left. He tried Stegner first.
Answer.
“Yo. S’up?”
“Where are you?”
“Scarfing chicken. I’m at Roscoe’s. Want me to—”
Hicks cut him off.
“Have you heard from Ronson or Stanley?”
“No. They looking for me?”
“What about Wallick?”
“Uh-uh. What’s up? Is something wrong?”
“Stay away from the house.”
“What’s—”
“Stay away.”
Hicks reached the roadblock, and put away his phone. A K-9 officer readied her dog farther up the street. The dog meant a suspect had been cornered, or was believed to be in the area.
Hicks rolled down his window as the roadblock cop approached. Buff dude in his thirties, tight hair, calm eyes. The whump-whump of the helicopter was loud. The searchlight flashed beyond the ridge, and the helicopter circled away.
Hicks said, “Hey, Officer. What’s going on?”
“Someone heard shots, so we’re checking it out. Sorry about the roadblock.”
“Shots? Holy crap. Where?”
The cop ignored his question.
“I know it’s a pain, but we can’t let anyone through until we know it’s safe. You a resident?”
Hicks knew better than to lie. If he claimed to be a resident, the cop might ask to see proof.
“I’m picking up my girlfriend. On Glendower. Can I get up there?”
The street they were on led to Glendower, but Glendower was beyond the mansion. Hicks had studied the area. He knew every possible route up to and away from the mansion, and could draw a map of the neighborhood from memory.
The officer waited for the helicopter to pass before he answered.
“Not from here you can’t. No promises, but you might be able to reach it if you come up over by the Greek.”
The Greek Theatre was a popular music venue in a canyon to their east.
Hicks didn’t move.
“The shooting. Was it up by her?”
“We’re still securing the area.”
The cop stepped away, and motioned toward the detour.
“Give her a call. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Hicks didn’t argue or waste more time. He wanted to punch the gas and scream down the hill, but turned as the officer directed and followed the detour. Then he turned uphill again, and followed the map in his head to the end of a cul-de-sac.
Hicks knew of five locations from which he could see the mansion and its immediate neighbors. He had sought out and used these locations to assess the home’s suitability. Now, what he saw left him feeling sick.
Hicks climbed out of his car, and stood in the center of the cul-de-sac. The air was chill, but he didn’t notice.
The cul-de-sac offered an unobstructed view of the rear of their house. The arched windows and glass doors were bright, and cops moved past the windows. The helicopter circled above, sweeping the pool and the deck and the neighboring homes with the light of ten million suns. A Medical Examiner’s van passed on a lower street, on its way to the scene.
Hicks watched the officers moving through the house, and felt as if he were floating. His hands and face felt numb.
He took out his phone, and called Ronson.
Voice mail.
He called Stanley and Wallick.
Voice mail.
If they were alive, they would have answered. If they escaped, they would have called.
Hicks stood in the middle of the street, watching the helicopter.
Whump-whump-whump.
He climbed into his car, locked the doors, and sat with his hands in his lap. His crew had been arrested, or they were dead. Either way, it was over. Done. Maybe the girl got hold of a phone and called the cops. Done. Maybe she grabbed a pistol. Done. Maybe a neighbor got nosy. Done.
Hicks closed his eyes.
Taking scores safely required information, so Hicks had developed sources in useful positions. He