“What cause are you talking about?”

“Getting rid of the left-wing regulation shit.”

“Meaning?”

“Grease Pit mentioned helmets,” Webster said. “Maybe they’re trying to repeal the helmet law.”

“And you see a man like Azor Sparks giving large sums of money to something like that?”

“Passions run high, Bert.” Webster shrugged. “You saw the card he printed for himself. Maybe he fancied himself a bad actor.”

“Don’t see it.”

Webster shrugged. “I’m just throwing out possibilities.”

In the distance, a two-year-old navy Lincoln with tinted windows was inching up the mountain road. It was heavy with poor traction, fishtailing as it maneuvered the curves.

“Odd car to drive up here.” Martinez spit his gum out the window. “Pull off, Tom.”

Webster slowed, swung the ’Cuda onto a small, rocky ledge, the tires churning up gravel. He killed the ignition. They both watched the Lincoln pass, chugging up the mountain at unimpressive speed.

Webster said, “Do it?”

“What the hell?”

Webster made a U-turn, keeping lots of distance between the ’Cuda and the Lincoln. Martinez wrote down the license plate, was about to call it in. Then he remembered they weren’t in the unmarked.

Webster said, “I’ve got a cellular in the glove compartment.”

Martinez opened the door, took out a compact phone, and pressed a couple of buttons. “What am I doing wrong?”

“No reception?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re probably too far out,” Webster said.

Martinez’s face was tight in concentration. Stuck in Lodi with no radio contact. Not good.

Slowly, the ’Cuda reclimbed the mountains, bucking at the reduced speed. No one spoke. Within minutes, the graded area appeared, followed by the two skeletal remains of ranch houses. Sure enough, the Lincoln had pulled off, was heading toward the motorcycle lot.

Which was now an empty field of scrub grass. Only the shed remained.

Webster sped up and passed the dirt clearing. “They’ve gone fishing.”

“Forever.” Martinez’s breath was shallow. “Turn around. Let’s get out of here.”

Webster reversed the ’Cuda, and they headed down the mountain at rapid speed. When they had reached the freeway, Martinez tried the cellular again. This time it connected through. He called in the license plate to the Radio Transmitting Officer and waited.

Webster said, “You know, if you come over Saturday, why don’t you bring the wife and kids. I’ll make a barbecue.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.”

“You eat red meat?”

“Yes.”

“Steak?”

“Perfect. I got a portable TV. I’ll bring it and a six-pack. We’ll watch the game while we work.”

“Great.”

The cellular phone rang. Martinez picked it up, wrote down the information, then pressed the end button.

Webster looked at Martinez. His face was tense. “Who?”

“Three guesses.”

“Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

“William Waterson-Sparks’s estate lawyer.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. Webster said, “Think we should go back up?”

“Yeah, turn around.”

Webster moved the ’Cuda into the right lane, preparing to exit at the next off-ramp and reverse directions. Martinez picked up the cordless.

Webster asked, “Who y’all calling now?”

“Decker.”

“No way you two are doing a solo tail back into boony canyon-”

“Loo, it’s paved-”

“Martinez, listen to me,” Decker interrupted. “After what you told me about Sanchez, he’s going to be looking. He spots the ’Cuda, you’re roadkill. All he has to do is get a couple of friends to box you in-one car in front, one behind-and bump you on a hairpin turn, down a five-hundred-foot drop. I don’t turn women into widows, Detective.”

“If we wait for backup, we could miss him,” Martinez countered.

“Bert, Waterson’s a respected member of the community. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“What about Sanchez?” Webster piped in.

Decker barely heard the question through the ambient freeway noises. “What about Sanchez?”

Martinez said, “Don’t you want to find out what he’s up to, Loo?”

“Bert, we know what he’s up to. He’s running a chop shop. First, even if we wanted him, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Second, even if it was our jurisdiction, we’re not going to find him. He’s picked a perfect area for cover. Miles of isolated canyon roadway with outlets leading to God knows where. He’s gone. Forget about him.”

“Semi’d be easy to spot, Loo.”

“The hills are heavily wooded. You could easily hide the truck, yea, even an eighteen-wheeler, off-road. Only possible way to find it would be with a low-flying chopper. Not a good use of time or money right now because we don’t know who we’re dealing with. For all we know, Sanchez might be armed with Uzis. Send in a copter, Grease Pit might do some target practice with the pilot. Turn around and come home.”

Martinez swore silently. Webster took the phone. He said, “How ’bout this, Loo? We wait at the mouth of the canyon for Waterson. If he should hop on the freeway, we follow. Plain and simple and very, very visible.”

“Let me reiterate, Tom. Waterson isn’t going anywhere. What purpose would it serve to follow him into the city?”

“Bert and I are just a mite curious to see where he winds up after his clandestine meeting with Sanchez.”

There was a long pause over the line. Decker said, “Pinpoint where you want to wait.”

“The Placerita on-ramp to the 14 West,” Webster said. “It’s a stone’s throw from the Sierra Highway. Very well trafficked. Give us an hour, Loo. What could it hurt?”

Decker paused again. “The cell phone you’re on. Will it maintain contact up there?”

“Probably not,” Webster admitted.

Decker waited a beat, then said, “All right. Wait at the Placerita entrance. But I’m telling you right now. If Waterson doesn’t come down through Placerita, you have direct orders not to go looking for him in the canyon. Stay away from anything that even hints of ambush, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Decker said, “If I don’t hear from you after one hour, I send a posse out. If I send a posse out, you’re both in deep shit. Get it?”

“Got it. Over and out.” Webster smiled. “Now that wasn’t so hard.” He gunned the engine, edging the speedometer to ninety.

“Why don’t you just put wings on the sucker and get a pilot’s license.” Martinez crossed himself. “Next time, I drive.”

“I’m just hurrying things ’cause I don’t want to miss Waterson.”

“Be nice if we got there in one piece.”

“You worry too much.” Webster raced onto the 14.

“You got binoculars?” Martinez asked.

“In the trunk.”

Within minutes, the ’Cuda neared the Placerita exit. Just as Webster edged the car onto the eastbound off-ramp, Martinez spotted a midnight blue Lincoln entering the westbound on-ramp in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” he said. “The Lincoln just got on the freeway going back toward L.A.”

“Fuck!” Webster depressed the accelerator and the ’Cuda thrusted forward. The off-ramp led to a near-empty intersection. Webster shot a red light with a left turn, narrowly missing an oncoming Toyota. The shaken driver let go with a long honk and a series of lost curses. Webster floored the ’Cuda, catapulting it back onto the freeway. “See the Lincoln?”

“No.”

“Fuck!”

A Cutlass cut in front him. Webster braked hard, throwing them both backward. He rolled down the window and screamed. “You fuckin’ asshole! I’m gonna kill you!”

The Cutlass quickly moved out of the lane and dropped back into traffic. Martinez was ashen.

“That son of a bitch!” Webster muttered.

Patiently, Martinez said, “Slow down, Tom. Now!”

Finally, Webster braked. Breathing hard, he said, “Spot the Lincoln?”

“No.” Martinez’s heart was pounding at his breastbone. His eyes moved like radar, scanning through the traffic in front of him. Then he looked out at the side mirror. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He jerked his head around. “It’s behind us.”