“They could pretend to be anyone,” I said. “Even the police.”

“I remember what you said last night. Don’t worry.”

There had been a break in the drizzle while we had dinner. The street was still shiny underneath the streetlight, but I could make out the moon overhead, so it looked like the clouds had blown on inland. I had managed to park in almost the same location, facing her apartment. Hopefully, if they had noticed the Bentley the night before, they would assume it belonged to a resident. The houses and apartment buildings in that area looked kind of seedy to me, but because of the location, they were selling in the low two millions, so a Bentley at the curb wasn’t completely out of the question.

Fifteen minutes after I got in the car, a black Lincoln Navigator rolled slowly by. I sank down in the seat. Although the moon was out again, the Navigator’s windows were darkly tinted. There was no way to see the passengers.

When it passed under the streetlight, I saw a lot of reddish mud along the sides. That was unusual in LA. The mud obscured the rear license plate, so I couldn’t get a number, but it reminded me of a mad fantasy, a river of blood seeping into the soil. I was pretty sure I knew where the Navigator had been. I removed the M11, checked the safety on the gun, put a round in the chamber, and sat there with it in my hand.

It was an hour before they came again, from the opposite direction. I thought they might stop this time, but they were more careful than that. They rolled slowly past without a pause. I got a good look at the vehicle as it approached and made a note of the first part of the number on the front license plate. The second part was covered by the red mud.

Chances were the third pass would be the one. I reached into the duffel bag Simon had brought to me the night before and removed two plastic twist ties. I got out of the car and hurried to her gate. I wrapped the twist ties around the leading edge of the gate and the adjacent steel post at the top and the bottom, effectively locking it down. I wanted to make sure they couldn’t get into the courtyard before I got to them, and I wanted to create a moment of distraction while I came.

I went back to the Bentley, got in, and took out the M11 again. In case they had noticed me before, I slid low in the seat so they couldn’t put a round in the back of my head. I adjusted the rearview mirrors to let me keep watch from that position.

Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Half an hour. The black reflection of a car appeared in my rear view mirror. It came very slowly. I wondered if they had been smart enough to change vehicles. Probably. With the M11 in my right hand, I put my left hand on the door handle and waited.

The car pulled to the curb behind me. I saw lights across the top and realized it was a patrol car. A cop got out of the driver’s side. A cop got out of the passenger side. I could only see their silhouettes in the mirror, but both of them obviously held sidearms. They advanced to my four o’clock and eight o’clock, stopped, and leveled their weapons.

One of them shined a flashlight on my side of the car and said, “Police. Put both of your hands out through the side window where I can see them. And they’d better be empty.”

I dropped the M11 into the space between the seat and the center console, twisted to the left, and showed him my hands. He approached carefully. “With your left hand only, open the door. Then get out. Leave the right hand where I can see it, and move very slowly, or I will fire.”

I did exactly as he said. Once I was standing by the car, his partner came around to cover me while he told me to assume the position and frisked me. Three minutes later I was cuffed and sitting on the curb between their car and mine while they searched the Bentley. One of them walked past me carrying the M9 and the duffel bag. He got in their car and made a call on the radio. The other one came to stand beside me.

“Officer,” I said. “I have a concealed-carry license. I’m in the personal-protection business. A woman named Olivia Soto lives in that building, and she hired me to keep watch out here tonight. She was attacked a few days ago and believes the same men might come back.”

“I know who you are,” he said. “And I know who she is. Stand up and walk to the patrol car.”

“You’ve got to listen to me. The men who attacked her have passed by twice in the last hour and a half. They’re driving a muddy late model black Lincoln Navigator. I didn’t get the full plate number, but it starts with 5DB. They’ll be back any minute now. This time they’ll probably break into her apartment and attack her. They’re armed, and they have military training. You guys need to get ready.”

“Just get in the car,” he said, opening the rear driver’s-side door.

“You’ve got to call for backup.”

“Oh, we do, huh?” Gripping the chain between my wrists, he lifted it, putting strain on my shoulders. “Get in the car.”

I got in. He left the door open. He said, “Malcolm Cutter, you’re under arrest for violating the conditions of your bail by carrying a concealed weapon and leaving the country, and for violation of a restraining order by approaching within one hundred yards of Hector and Doña Elena Montes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

“Listen, why don’t you just go over there with me and talk to Olivia Soto? She’ll back up everything I’ve said.”

“Do you understand your rights as I explained them to you or not?”

“Sure I do. Now, will you please let me go ask her to explain what I’m doing here?”

He closed the door and returned to the Bentley, where he and his partner stood around until another patrol car arrived. Two more uniformed policemen emerged from the second car. They spoke for a few minutes. One of them gestured toward Olivia’s apartment. I began to hope. Two of them walked across the street to Olivia’s front gate. I saw them press the button on the intercom. After a few minutes, I saw them try the gate. They came back across the street, spoke to the other two, and then came over and got in the car.

I said, “She’s in there, but I told her not to answer unless she hears my voice.”

One of them picked up the radio handset and told the dispatcher they were coming in with a prisoner in custody.

I said, “You’ve got to believe me. She’s in there. And the gate isn’t really locked. I secured it with some twist ties to slow them down.”

The patrolman in the passenger seat chuckled a little as the driver started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“Please,” I said. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”

“Of course we are,” said the driver. “We always do.”

I looked back through the rear window. The second patrol car’s headlights came on. It pulled away from the curb, following us.

“Listen to me,” I said. “You’re going to regret this when an innocent woman is killed. Please call Sergeant Tom Harper with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. He’ll vouch for me. You can get his cell number off my phone. Please.”

“Plenty of time for you to make a call after we get to the station, buddy. Just relax.”

“They’re going to kill her.”

“Sure they are, buddy,” said the driver. “Sure they are.”

47