There still was no signal.

“Goddamnit!”

He slapped the phone closed on his thigh. He looked back at the road and froze as his eyes caught and held on two glowing eyes in the headlights. In a moment he broke free and jerked the wheel right to avoid the coyote. He then corrected but the wheels caught on the deep edge of the asphalt. He jerked harder and the front wheel broke free and jumped back up on the road. But the rear wheel slipped out and the car went into a slide.

Clewiston had an almost clinical knowledge of what was happening. It was as if he were seeing it on a video screen as one of the accident re-creations he had prepared a hundred times for court hearings and prosecutions.

The car went into a sideways slide toward the precipice. He knew he would hit the wooded fence—chosen by the city for aesthetic reasons over function and safety—and that he would crash through. He knew at that moment that he was probably a dead man.

The car turned 180 degrees before blowing backward through the safety fence. It then went airborne and arced down, trunk first. Clewiston gripped the steering wheel as if it was still the instrument of his control and destiny. But he knew there was nothing that could help him now. There was no control.

Looking through the windshield he saw the beams of his headlights pointing into the night sky. Out loud he said, “I’m dead.”

The car plunged through a stand of trees, branches shearing off with a noise as loud as firecrackers. Clewiston closed his eyes for the final impact. There was a sharp roaring sound and a jarring impact. The airbag exploded from the steering wheel and snapped his neck back against his seat.

Clewiston opened his eyes and felt liquid surrounding him and rising up his chest. He thought he had momentarily blacked out or was hallucinating. But then the water reached his neck and it was cold and real. He could see only darkness. He was in black water and it was filling the car.

He reached down to the door and pulled on a handle but he couldn’t get the door to open. He guessed the power locks had shorted out. He tried to bring his legs up so he could kick out one of the shattered windows but his seat belt held him in place. The water was up to his chin now and rising. He quickly unsnapped his belt and tried to move again but realized the seat belt hadn’t been the only impediment. His legs—both of them—were somehow pinned beneath the steering column, which had dropped down during the impact. He tried to raise it but couldn’t get it to move an inch. He tried to squeeze out from beneath the weight but he was thoroughly pinned.

The water was over his mouth now. By leaning his head back and raising his chin he gained an inch but that was rapidly erased by the rising tide. In less than thirty seconds the water was over him and he was holding his last breath.

He thought about the coyote that had sent him over the side. It didn’t seem possible that what had happened had happened. A reverse cascade of bubbles leaked from his mouth and traveled upward as he cursed.

Suddenly everything was illuminated. A bright light glowed in front of him. He leaned forward and looked out through the windshield. He saw a robed figure above the light, arms at his side.

Clewiston knew that it was over. His lungs burned for release. It was his time. He let out all of his breath and took the water in. He journeyed toward the light.

James Crossley finished tying his robe and looked down into his backyard pool. It was as if the car had literally dropped from the heavens. The brick wall surrounding the pool was undisturbed. The car had to have come in over it and then landed perfectly in the middle of the pool. About a third of the water had slopped over the side with the impact. But the car was fully submerged except for the edge of the trunk lid, which had come open during the impact. Floating on the surface was a lifelike mannequin that appeared to have been cut in half at the waist. Both top and bottom piece were dressed in military camouflage. The scene was bizarre.

Crossley looked up toward the crest line, where he knew Mulholland Drive edged the hillside. He wondered if someone had pushed the car off the road with the mannequin behind the wheel, if this was some sort of prank.

He then looked back down into the pool. The surface was calming and he could see the car more clearly in the beam of the pool’s light. And it was then that he thought he saw someone sitting unmoving behind the steering wheel.

Crossley ripped his robe off and dove naked into the pool.

Two-Bagger

The bus was forty minutes late.

Stilwell and Harwick waited in a six-year-old Volvo at the curb next to the McDonald’s a block from the depot. Stilwell, the driver, chose the spot because he was betting that Vachon would walk down to the McDonald’s after getting off the bus. They would begin the tail from there.

“These guys, they been in stir four, five years, they get out and want to get drunk and laid in that order,” Stilwell had told Harwick. “But something happens when they get off the freedom bus and see the golden arches waiting for them down the block. Quarter Pounder and fries, ketchup. Man, they miss that shit in prison.”

Harwick smiled.

“I always wondered what happened with real rich guys, you know? Guys who grew up poor, eatin’ fast food, but then made so much money that money doesn’t mean anything. Bill Gates, guys like that. You think they still go to McDonald’s for a grease fix every now and then?”

“In disguise maybe,” Stilwell suggested. “I don’t think they drive up in their limos or anything.”

“Yeah, probably.”

It was new-partner banter. It was their first day together. For Harwick it was also his first day in GIU. Stilwell was the senior partner. The veterano. They were working one of his jackets.

After forty-five minutes and no bus, Stilwell said, “So, what do you want to ask me? You want to ask me about my partner, go ahead.”

“Well, why’d he bug?”

“Couldn’t take the intensity.”

“Since I heard he went into special weapons, I assume you’re talking about your intensity, not the gig’s.”

“Have to ask him. I’ve had three partners in five years. You’re number four.”

“Lucky number four. Next question: What are we doing right now?”

“Waiting on the bus from Corcoran.”

“I already got that part.”

“A meth cook named Eugene Vachon is on it. We’re going to follow him, see who he sees.”

“Uh-huh.”

Harwick waited for more. He kept his eyes on the bus depot half a block up Vine. Eventually, Stilwell reached up to the visor and took a stack of photos out from a rubber band. He looked through them until he found the one he wanted and handed it to Harwick.

“That’s him. Four years ago. They call him Milky.”

The photo was of a man in his early thirties with bone-white hair that appeared to be pulled back in a ponytail. His skin was as white as a new lampshade and his eyes were the light blue of washed-out denim.

“Edgar Winters,” Harwick said.

“What?”

“Remember that guy? He was like an albino rock star in the seventies. Looked just like this guy. He had a brother, Johnny. Maybe he was the albino.”

“Missed it.”

“So, what’s Milky’s deal? If you’re on him, he must be Road Saints, right?”

“He’s on the bubble. He was cooking for them but never got his colors. Then he got popped and went to the Cork for a nickel. He’s got to crack an egg now if he wants in. And from what I hear, he wants in.”

“Meaning whack somebody?”

“Meaning whack somebody.”

Stilwell explained how the Gang Intelligence Unit kept contacts with intelligence officers at prisons all over California. One such contact provided information on Vachon. Milky had been protected by incarcerated members of the Road Saints during his five-year stay at Corcoran State Penitentiary.