Chapter 81 Jordan
EIGHTY-ONE
JORDAN
—Google Maps
Jordan’s luck with traffic had finally run out.
He should never have gotten on the 10, despite Google’s recommendation, a mistake he realized as soon as the yellow traffic-flow indicator turned bright red. He had no idea how the system worked, just as he had no idea how the city’s traffic could stop on a dime for no apparent reason.
Wen would undoubtedly have suggested a better route, but it didn’t matter now. He was stuck in five lanes of traffic going nowhere fast, a river of red brake lights under a darkening sky lit by LA’s otherworldly glow.
Before he’d started, Google Maps said the thirty-five-mile journey to the address Beto had given him would take just over fifty minutes by taking the 10 to the 101 north.
Now its prediction was almost two hours.
Desperate for distraction, he turned on the AM radio. A talk-show host was discussing Cara Campbell’s precarious mental state.
“The internet is awash in speculation that Cara Campbell may be considering self-harm,” he said in a cheerful baritone.
“Her last post, from beside the grave of her husband, sounded hopeless. Well-wishers and chaos tourists alike have descended in droves on Forest Lawn Cemetery, while LAPD assures us Cara Campbell is no longer on the premises.”
The Western Avenue exit was a mile ahead. Surface streets had to be faster.
Jordan had not yet used his flashers or siren in LA, wanting to avoid any interdepartmental awkwardness. And he had no legal jurisdiction in Los Angeles County.
But screw it.
He hit the overheads and triggered the piercer, scaring the driver of the compact car ahead of him so badly he nearly caused a rear-end collision. A little bit of room opened up, then a little more. He made a lane change so tight he almost scraped the decal off his door.
The drivers around him got the picture and made room.