Hess left the room. With head down and rounded shoulders, he shuffled through the hospital to the parking lot. Blending in. Every turn. As he jumped behind the wheel, he glanced at his assistant. “Now—we focus on the others. First, the judges.”
“Second, the lawyer. Can’t forget him,” said his assistant.
“Right. We’re on deadline. The Summit’s breathing down our necks.”
CHAPTER 6
Ridge was more-than-ready to leave. And antsy to get out of the damn wheelchair the orderly insisted he sit in until his ride arrived. At 2 p.m. sharp, Kate, a petite Latina, brunette and street-smart, pulled up in front of the hospital lobby, hopped out of the car, and handed him jet-black Ray Ban sunglasses. Ridge stood, gave the orderly a crisp ‘thank you’ handshake, and put the glasses on. Aviator frames. Appropriate, thought Ridge. After all, I am a pilot, and bonus time: they’re just right for covering black eyes.
Kate slipped back in behind the wheel as Ridge got in on the passenger side, buckled up, and flipped down his visor. Mirror, mirror on the wall. Most of the bruising was covered, but the stitches showed above the frames. Nothing he could do about that. “Except for twelve stitches, I look pretty normal,” he said.
“Normal is what normal does. Where to?”
“My apartment.”
“No way,” said Kate. “You need a complete checkup by your internist at UCLA.” When Kate got ideas like that, she was hard to turn around. So, Ridge agreed to see his doctor—if anything got worse. She insisted. He insisted. Back and forth, back and forth until he finally convinced Kate to drop him at the apartment because he needed to get some rest.
Ridge and Jayne had only recently moved to the apartment. It had been Jayne’s idea—sell the house, buy the boat Ridge had always wanted, and alleviate the stress of commuting, which too often fed into his nighttime struggles with PTSD. At first, he thought he’d miss their house in Westwood, but nope. Not with the marina so close. Ridge loved boats; Jayne didn’t. She couldn’t even swim. But they were both glad they’d made the move. They ended up choosing a corner apartment, with balconies to the west for sunsets, and to the north for the coastline—the Queen’s Necklace that ran from the Beach Cities to Los Angeles Airport and then around to Santa Monica and Malibu. The apartment was big, not fancy. But the views were to die for.
Ridge took the elevator up to the fifth floor, and as soon as he got inside the apartment, Mister demanded Tasty Tuna. Mister, their rescue cat, had had the good sense one day to walk up to Jayne, with bright blue eyes and deep dark tabby swirls, and purr. The rest was history, and now Mister ran the house. Well, he and Pistol duked it out on a daily basis as to who was top cat—or top dog—in the pecking order. But Pistol was being boarded since Jayne was out of town and Ridge thought he’d have to do some business travel while she was gone. So, Mister truly ruled the roost this week. So be it. Ridge opened a can, fed Mister, and made a ham sandwich for himself. He headed to the north balcony packing the sandwich and an Amstel Light. As he lay in the chaise lounge, thinking about the Hulk and the hospital, Mister jumped on his lap, shared some ham, and burrowed in for a siesta. Ridge was damn jealous. If only he could rest—really rest—like a cat.
And then he heard the thrum and slowly turned his head toward the corner of the porch where Jayne had set up a bright red plastic feeder and several hanging geraniums. Two hummingbirds, each not much bigger than a shot glass, sporting translucent wings and an inch-long black bill, like a slender plastic straw. It was amazing the kind of noise their wings made. The first had a shimmering rose-red neck and head. Remarkable. When the head twitched, it all turned bronze-green. Probably male, thought Ridge. Wing span… about five inches. Then the bird stuck its bill deep into the feeder and hovered like a miniature chopper. Meanwhile the other tiny bird, with brown, green, and cream coloring, seemed to be building a teeny nest of fuzz in one of the geranium pots. Remarkable. But also, somehow, very restful. Moments later, still thinking about hummingbirds, he conked out.
He woke with a jolt, as Mister bolted from his lap like a small cougar. Ridge took a few seconds to orient himself, and then focused. A red sun was setting in a sky drenched by layers of baby blue, pink and burnt orange. Beautiful. After watching it drop below the horizon and wink goodbye, he walked into the living room where he found Mister swatting at a piece of white paper flat on the entry floor. No doubt, slipped under the front door. He stroked Mister and grabbed the paper. On it, scrawled in black magic marker, were the words: “WE’RE WATCHING. DO IT OR DIE.” Ridge, still holding the note, ran to the door and crouched. He yanked it open and searched left and right in the hallway. Nothing. Then rising he checked the elevator and stairwell. Nothing.
“This is shit,” he growled, as he called Terry Pao’s number. No answer. Ridge left a voicemail: “Kapow, 7 p.m. Monday. Got to talk, pronto. Need help.” Then Ridge stared at his phone. On silent. Two voicemails waiting. The first was Kate saying she was having trouble getting hold of Terry. The second was Jayne, checking in. Ridge called Jayne first, because, well, he was no dummy. But he didn’t mention the note, just that he was feeling better.
“If you keep that up, I’ll fly into L.A. at noon Friday.”
“Perfect. Terry and I can pick you up at LAX. That way, we can all go to lunch at the Blue Grill.”
“I’m good with that,” she said and signed off with a “Love you.”
Ridge nodded. “Love ya back. See you soon.” Then he hung up and tried Terry again. Still nothing. He whispered, “Come on, Terry. I need you.” Mister responded, rubbing against Ridge’s lower leg, and giving out a long, long purr.
At 9 p.m., sitting on the sofa, staring at a blank TV, Ridge’s thoughts turned to his son, Sean. He’d been a marine with the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit. In March 2003 during the invasion of Iraq, the MEU, attached to the United Kingdom’s 3 Commando Brigade Royal Marines, secured the only deep-water port in the country. During battle, Sean died trying to rescue two other marines. Never stopped fighting, they said. Ridge closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Tough never quits.”
At that moment, he decided to go check out the boat. Secure it and see if maniac left some evidence behind. Anyway, he damn well needed to do something. Needed to take back control of the boat. He went to the bedroom and changed into jeans, a dark shirt, and a black windbreaker. Then he opened the closet safe and took out his nine-millimeter Beretta pistol. Black. A 92F semi-automatic. “Safety’s on,” he whispered to himself. Ridge double checked it anyway. He touched the tiny safety lever with his thumb to make sure and slammed a 15-bullet magazine into the handle.
He’d qualified as an expert in both handguns and automatic weapons before going to war. He even got a green, yellow, and baby blue ribbon for it, a ribbon that looked good in his collection. But that was long ago. That’s why over the years, he and his daughter, Jenn, had spent plenty of time at firing ranges. She was now a deputy L.A. district attorney and Ridge insisted she know how to handle a weapon. Even Jayne, who didn’t care for guns, had joined them a few times.
Ridge tucked the Beretta at the small of his back and grabbed a long flashlight. Turning to Mister he bent and rubbed under the cat’s chin. “Nighty-night, buddy.” Ridge opened the front door, checked the hallway, and locked the door behind him. He rode the elevator to the ground floor. When it opened, he searched left, right, and left again, crossed the entry area, and exited through the main entrance.
Beautiful night. Fresh, clean air. Stars twinkling. Low lights lit the walkway to the ocean, but he turned left and crossed a huge sand lot with the Pacific pounding to his right. It was sometimes used for weddings on weekends but was empty now. In the white sand, Ridge clicked on the flashlight, and headed straight across and through the marina parking lot to Dock C.
Approaching the boat, Ridge switched the flashlight to his left hand and grabbed the butt of his gun with his right. Everything was quiet. Looking around, he stepped over the siderail and peered beyond the rear wall at the swim step. No shit scorched. Wow.
Just then—a click, like a hammer thumbed back on a .38, and images of a hair trigger. Ridge twisted 180 degrees toward the front cabin and crouched. The sliding door was slightly open. Ridge pulled his weapon. Flipping the safety off with his thumb, he yanked back the slide and chambered a bullet. He brought flashlight and pistol together, right over left hand, straight-arming them at the cabin. Surrounded by dark, Ridge listened. Nothing. He stood and stepped forward. Silently, he slid the door open and pointed gun and light dead ahead toward the main bed below the bow. Nothing. Without hesitating, he crouched again at the cabin door and spun the gun and light left toward the small kitchen area. No one. He whirled right toward the table area. Again nothing. Zilch. That left—only the closed-off rear sleeping area and head, inside the cabin.
Now or never. Ridge slowly stepped inside. Still no noise. Still dark—but shadows from the portholes painted everything. Turning left, he squatted and listened. Nothing. Then he shoved back the curtain on the rear sleeping area and pointed the Beretta straight ahead. Still nothing. Ridge straightened up, twisted around, and rushed forward to the closed bathroom door. He kneeled, hesitated a heartbeat, then flung the door open and pointed the gun and light inside. Ridge turned left, then right. Nothing.
Only then did Ridge finally blow out some air. He stood and mumbled, “Boat’s mine.”
The tension easing, the pain from his face made itself known. He found the bottle of aspirin in the bathroom, dry swallowed a few, and began to search for evidence. On his first pass, he came up zilch. So, he searched again. And again. Until finally, he was truly able to breath.
CHAPTER 7
When Ridge woke, the dial on his IWC dive watch showed 9 a.m. He rubbed his eyes. Made it to Tuesday—slept straight through the night. Easing out of bed, he reached for the Beretta he’d kept under his pillow—safety on, muzzle pointed away—checked the safety again and set it on the built-in bedside table. He loved sleeping on the boat, the easy, gentle rocking like balm for his soul.
Once he was up and truly awake, he put on his favorite blue swim trunks and a red zippered sweatshirt, and picked up his Beretta. He unlocked the white fiberglass door to the outside. Sliding it open, he turned right and then left. No one. Quiet. Too quiet?
Up on deck, he looked rearward to the stern, squinting against a bright blue sky and brilliant sun. It mirrored on the water, and he spotted silvery sea bass running a foot below surface. Ridge pivoted and rushed back into the cabin. He grabbed his shades and traded the Beretta for his rod and reel.
As he started back out, a loud voice shattered the stillness, “Ahoy, or whatever! Eric! Where the hell are you?” Bending to look through an oval porthole, Ridge saw his investigator, Terry Pao, standing on the dock. Dressed for business. Even wearing a tie.
Ridge bellowed from the cabin, “He’s gone. Try his phone.”
Terry shot back, “You forgot to turn on your damn phone. I’ve been trying since 7 a.m.”
“OK, bring it on board.”
As Terry maneuvered, head down, over the siderail, Ridge popped from the cabin. “Where the hell you been, compadre?”
“Hunting down a dirtbag who beat his wife in the Springs. Guy got physical, broke my phone so I broke his jaw. Everything’s good now.”
