Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
The room next door seemed to be Beth’s prep area. No bed, but there was a little dressing table covered in creams and make-up shit and a little dusting of flesh-coloured powder. Nothing in Delroy’s room. Maybe he had Andre pegged as a snooper. He went through the cabinet in the bathroom. Nothing exciting. Aspirin and painkillers. Ibuprofen. She had all the heavy stuff on her side table.
Then Lou said, ‘Hey. Check this out. Lamar got whacked.’
The Jones woman had been mid phone interview when the shooting started, so some LA radio station had a recording of the mayhem: machine-gun fire, and then pistol shots at the end of the clip. The cops weren’t commenting at this stage, other than to say that yes, Erin Jones had been in residence, and no, she wasn’t hurt. A security guy had saved her. Andre wondered if that meant the surfer—Lamar’s man—or her own driver. He needed to see the surfer again. Couldn’t have the guy thinking he’d scored a point.
The TV had cut to filler footage: Erin Jones talking from a lectern, college kids burning Erin effigies. Andre watched the banner scroll an update across the bottom of the screen: SHOTS FIRED, FIVE FATALITIES, POLICE AND US MARSHALS INVESTIGATING.
Marshals.
He wondered if that mean Colton Locke, the guy who’d been following him around the past few months? Dallas, Miami, and now back out here.
Lou said, ‘The daughter’s pretty hot. Don’t you reckon?’
Andre ignored him, went through to Sly’s room and sat on the bed, used the phone to call information and asked for the US Marshals office.
They didn’t have a directory listing for Santa Barbara. Their Central District headquarters was down in Santa Ana, the Ronald Reagan Federal Building, but he could have the number for the Santa Barbara PD, on Figueroa Street, if that might be helpful?
Worth a try. The operator put him through, and a police desk sergeant picked up. Andre asked for Colton Locke. The guy said Locke didn’t have a landline, but he could take a message. Andre said he’d try him on his cell, and hung up.
So the Marshal was in town. Maybe Andre was some kind of special project. Or maybe just a hobby for this Locke character. Either way, he could definitely rise to the occasion.
He lay on the bed, wondered what big Sly would have to say about it all.