Chapter 34
“I don’t understand why we have to go all the way to Palm Springs,” Pike Westin said into his phone. “Billy should come to me.”
“I’m the one who suggested we go there,” Tina clarified.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Pike, you need to trust me. It’ll look better to meet him halfway on this.”
“We’re not meeting him halfway. You said we’re going all the way there.”
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
“Right,” he said quickly. “I knew that.”
“Centurion has invested a lot of money in this film, and what you are asking them to do will cost even more. All I’m saying is it’s better to be as accommodating as we can.”
Pike frowned. “I guess. What did he say when you told him what we want to talk about?”
“He said he’d be happy to meet with you.”
“He did?”
“Uh-huh. Look, think of this as a little getaway. We’ll drive out tomorrow right after lunch. I’ll get us rooms at a nice hotel. We’ll have dinner with Billy and get everything settled. Okay?”
“If that’s what we have to do, fine. But I’m not backing down.”
“No one thinks you are.”
“And I want a massage.”
“Excuse me?”
“At the hotel. Make sure it’s someplace with a good spa.”
“No problem.”
“And has a steam room, too.”
“Sure thing. Gotta run. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at one.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
He hung up.
Though the call had made him feel better, he still wasn’t convinced that Billy was going to accede to his demands.
What Pike needed was a secret weapon, something that he could use as a threat to ensure that Billy saw things his way.
He reached for his phone and made a call.
“Pike?” a woman’s voice answered.
“Hey, Paula. Long time no talk.”
“I’ll say. Please tell me you’re calling with something juicy.”
“I am indeed.”
“Should I be recording this?”
“I’d rather we talk about it in person.”
“You’ve gotta give me a little something.”
“All I can say now is it will mar the reputation of a prestigious studio.”
She gasped. “You’re not talking about Centurion, are you?”
Instead of answering her, he asked, “So, are you interested?”
“Are you home now? I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Actually, I was hoping you could meet me tomorrow evening.”
“I can do that. Where and when?”
“Palm Springs and we’ll have to be flexible about the time.”
“That’s a long way to go.”
“I promise it will be worth it.”
“It better be.”
“So you’ll come?”
“I’ll come.”
“Fantastic.”
—
When Sanchez and Jensen returned to the station just after sundown, they were told by the desk sergeant that Captain Wilson was looking for them.
“And here I thought we could sneak out unseen,” Jensen said.
“You and me both,” Sanchez said, annoyed.
They found their boss in his office, frowning at his computer screen.
From the speaker came the voice of a reporter saying, “A preliminary report from the Riverside County Coroner’s office, released late this afternoon, lists Miss Lane’s manner of death as homicide.
I spoke to a police source who told me that they are pursuing several leads but have no suspects at this time. ”
Sanchez—the unnamed source—rapped on the doorjamb. “You wanted to see us?”
Wilson fumbled with his keyboard and cut off the video, then motioned for them to come in. “Shut the door.” Once alone in his office, Wilson gestured to his computer. “You need to find out who’s talking to these people! I will not tolerate leaks.”
“I’ll ask around,” Sanchez said.
Jensen coughed to cover a laugh. He’d been standing next to Sanchez when Sanchez had answered the reporter’s questions.
Wilson was too caught up in his anger to notice, however. “As soon as you find out who it is, I want to know.”
“Will do,” Sanchez said. “Is that all?”
“Hell, no, that’s not all! Have you tied Perez to the murder yet?”
Both Sanchez and Jensen were convinced Emma Perez had nothing to do with the crime.
She’d said she’d been on a hike at the same time Katy had been killed, and they’d found traffic footage of her heading toward the mountains confirming this.
But they’d dealt with Wilson enough to know that he wasn’t in the mood to hear it at the moment.
“We’re turning over every stone,” Jensen said.
“Have you at least traced both women’s movements?” Wilson asked.
“The last person we’ve found who saw Lane alive was one of the security guards at Damian Leon’s party,” Sanchez said. “He told us he escorted her to the gate after she’d been kicked out, and she started walking down the street.”
“What about Perez?”
“We’re still checking her alibi.”
Wilson snorted. “We all know it’s not going to hold up.”
“We’re just trying to dot our i’s and cross our t’s,” Jensen said.
“Do it faster.”
“Yes, sir,” Sanchez said.
“Now go!” Wilson barked. “Find me the evidence!”
Sanchez and Jensen left before Wilson could change his mind, and within fifteen minutes had clocked out for the day.
—
At a quarter to eight p.m., Billy watched Popov leave his bungalow in the company of several men, including all those who’d played golf with him on Saturday. One was the older version of the guy who’d departed with Marty.
Unsurprisingly, the two men stationed at the gate stayed behind.
As soon as Billy was sure Popov was leaving the resort, he hurried downstairs and out the main entrance.
A valet jogged toward him, but he waved him off, then pulled out his phone and pretended to make a call as he walked down the sidewalk toward the parking lot exit.
He didn’t have to wait long before two Ford Broncos pulled onto the street, each with one of Popov’s men driving. There was something about the vehicles that tickled the back of his mind, but the reason eluded him.
He noted the license plate numbers, then returned to his room and changed out of his business clothes into a pair of black pants and a black shirt.
After activating a signal jammer that would scramble any hotel camera near him, he grabbed his backpack and headed out again.
This time, he used a back stairwell to exit the hotel unseen. Sticking to the shadows, he circled around to the rear of the resort, where he reentered near the bungalows.
Once he had identified the back wall enclosing the grounds of Popov’s bungalow, he peeked over the top to make sure there was no one around, then pulled himself over.
All the windows along the back of the bungalow were dark. He crept to the nearest one and listened for any sounds inside.
All was quiet.
It took him less than thirty seconds to unlatch the window and slide it open. Again he paused, alert for any response to his actions, but none came.
Once inside, he confirmed that the bungalow was indeed unoccupied. He then planted audio bugs and cameras in every room.
Fourteen minutes after he’d left his suite, he returned, ordered a steak sandwich from room service, then composed an email on his laptop and sent it.
That done, he made a call.
“Don’t tell me you already finished?” Vesna Martic asked.
“I have a reputation for efficiency to uphold,” he replied. “There should be an email in your inbox, with links.”
“Hold, please.”
Teddy knew Vesna from his old life in the CIA. She was an ex-Bosnian intelligence officer who’d enjoyed a successful freelance career after she left government service. She’d provided valuable assistance to Teddy in the past and would be doing so again today, this time with her language skills.
Unlike Teddy, she was fluent in both Russian and Belarusian and would be monitoring the bugs in Popov’s suite and translating the conversations for him.
“Very nice,” she said a half minute later. “Everything seems to be working. I see no one is home, though.”
“I find it easier to plant bugs that way.”
“Yes, but where is the challenge in that?” she said. “So how do you want me to do this? Call every time I have something? Or…?”
“If you hear something you think I should know right away, then call. Otherwise, give me a report in the morning,” he said. Then he clarified, “My morning. Not yours.”
She was nine hours ahead of California, so it was already early morning there.
“You are no fun.”
“So you keep trying to tell me.”
There was a knock on the suite’s door.
“I believe my dinner has arrived,” Teddy said.
“Then I will bother you no further. Good night, Teddy.”
“Good morning, Vesna.”