nine. Bob’s gone after him, they’re over in the Hollywood area right now. He says there were two white guys in the car, so it’s not Nast. That makes at least three different guys in there.”
Lucas got cleaned up and went back downstairs to eat some Cheerios. Bob called ten minutes later and said, “I tracked these guys into a café on Sunset Boulevard. My phone map says I’m either in Hollywood or the Hollywood Hills, I don’t know which, but one of the guy is Beauchamps. He’s got a beard now. And he’s going bald, tries to hide it with a tennis hat. But he’s our guy. Another guy came in and met our guys, sat with them for a minute. I’m no narc, but if Beauchamps didn’t pick up some dope you can butter my buns and call me a biscuit.”
“Beauchamps and Nast are living together,” Lucas said. “It might be time to call Rocha.”
“Give it a few more hours,” Rae suggested. “See if anyone else turns up. Like Deese.”
Lucas agreed to wait. He called Bob off tracking Beauchamps. “There’s a chance he’ll spot you. We know he lives here, so let’s not take that chance.”
* * *
—
BOB WAS BACK, and at the window, when another car pulled into the target house’s garage, this one a red Jaguar convertible. The top was down, and the driver was a white man, neither Deese nor Beauchamps.
“Rocha told us there were four of them and that guy makes four,” Lucas said.
“They are living in a dormitory,” Rae said. “I wonder why? That seems wrong to me.”
“Gift horse?” Bob said.
“I worry about shit I don’t understand,” Rae, kneeling at the window with the binoculars, watching, said.
* * *
—
LUCAS CALLED ROCHA. “We’d like to get together to strategize,” Lucas said. “We’re up in Altadena.”
“Why are you in Altadena? You got something?”
“We found Nast, Beauchamps, and at least two other guys we haven’t yet identified,” Lucas said.
“What! You’ve been here two days?”
“We got lucky,” Lucas said. “And we are the Marshals Service.”
“Bullshit. You don’t get lucky in a city this size. And the Marshals Service can kiss my ass,” Rocha said. “You didn’t tell me something.”
“Maybe. Anyway, you want to hook up?”
She suggested they meet at the Pasadena Police Department, but Lucas wanted both Bob and Rae to be at the meeting and didn’t want to leave the target house unwatched, so Rocha agreed to come to the house.
“Don’t come in one of those goddamn beaters you guys use. Come in a personal car, or something, pull right into the garage. We’ll have the door open. We’re right across the street from Nast and Beauchamps,” Lucas said, as he gave her the address.
“I’ll be in my own vehicle. I’m bringing a couple of guys,” Rocha said.
* * *
—
NAST LEFT shortly after Lucas made the call to Rocha, driving the Lincoln. The Jaguar and its driver were still at the target house. When Nast was out of sight, Bob backed one of their Malibus into the driveway to make room in the garage for Rocha.
LuAnne Rocha and two male detectives, Lewis Lake and Darrell MacIntosh, arrived an hour later in Rocha’s Dodge minivan, the most un-cop-like of vehicles. Rocha called when they were two blocks away and Lucas went out to the garage and pushed the button that lifted the door and dropped it when they were inside.
They trooped into the kitchen, made introductions and shook hands, and Rocha said, “Tell me how you did this.”
“We had a phone number for a bar,” Lucas began. He told them the story, didn’t mention Oliver Haar but did tell them about Suzie-Q and pointed out the house across the street.
“You’re sure it’s Nast and Beauchamps?” Rocha asked. “That seems almost too good to be true.” She was an athletic-looking woman, with short brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a dark green cotton jacket over a light green blouse, black slacks, and low heels. The jacket proved not very subtle camouflage for her handgun.
“I brushed past Nast, a foot away, in a nightclub last night. Looked him right in the face,” Rae said. “Bob sat a couple of tables away from Beauchamps and his friend while they were eating breakfast this morning.”
MacIntosh asked, “You guys basically are a tracking and SWAT squad, right?” MacIntosh looked like an LA weatherman, too-white teeth, a touch of coloring in his hair, the Beverly Hills sport coat. Lake tried to dress sort of like Steve Jobs—black pants, black T-shirt, black cotton