Her phone rang through the car’s speakers. She hit the answer button on the wheel console. “Bob?”
“Sorry, I got tied up,” Bob said. “Look, we have to act quickly. I’ve got a confession out of Merry Michelsen. But he doesn’t know who pulled the trigger on—”
“Bob, I’m—”
“He says Baird arranged your dad’s death. He admitted to the lab and the housing scam but—”
“Bob, please, I’m—”
“He says whatever led to Marcus being busted was last minute, maybe a reaction to your father meeting with—”
“Bob! Please let me talk!”
“Sorry.”
“I’m being followed. A grey or pale blue pickup, ever since I pulled away from the clinic twenty minutes ago. Why? Why would someone be after me?”
“They probably aren’t. I’ve been driving your car regularly for the last three days. They probably think it’s me. Where are you?”
She checked the sat nav. “We’re approaching the intersection of Stockdale Highway and Village Lane.”
“Is there a restaurant in view, a chain, something that will be busy?”
“A what!?”
“A restaurant. You need cover and witnesses. These guys aren’t audacious. They’re not going to try to shoot a witness in front of dozens of people and cameras.”
“There’s a steakhouse a block up.”
“Go, now,” Bob said. “If you can’t find a spot near the door, just park illegally. Better to get towed than to have to make it across a lot without cover. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay, but—”
“No buts! Don’t argue. Just do it,” Bob commanded. He ended the call.
Sharmila checked her mirror. The truck was still nearly two blocks back, the restaurant approaching quickly. She undid her seat-belt and got ready to bail and run.
Bob kept his head on a swivel as he crossed the trailer park towards the entrance.
The hire car pulled up a few seconds later. Bob opened the back door and climbed in.
“Bob?” the driver asked.
“One and the same.”
“Good to meet you.”
Bob pulled up his trouser leg and reached into his boot to retrieve his money clip. He peeled off a hundred and held it over the division between front and back. “This is yours if you get me there in fifteen minutes or less.”
The driver’s eyes widened. Then he frowned. “That’s impossible. I’d have to go sixty the whole way there, or more. I can’t risk my ride privilege.”
Bob withdrew Diego’s Glock from his waistband. He leaned it on the seat partition. “Wouldn’t it be better to do it for money than under threat?”
The driver glanced quickly at the pistol.
Bob held up the money again with his other hand.
The driver snatched it.
“Smart,” Bob said. “I assume you’re going to call the cops once I’m out of here, and that’s okay. None of this is on you, man. I’m just in a tight spot. Hit the gas.”
The car peeled away from the curb, tires shrieking on the hot asphalt.
49
The hire car took Route 99 to Stockdale Highway, the kid behind the wheel stepping on the gas pedal like it might escape.
“The steakhouse, on our left,” Bob said.
The driver began to slow down for the left turn, across the opposite lanes.
“Just stop us here!” Bob barked.
The car shuddered to a halt. A split second later, the traffic signal turned yellow, then red.
Bob took out forty dollars and handed it to the car’s owner. “Again, sorry about the gun.”
The kid stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified, as he climbed out.
