A Killing in China Basin

THIRTY-THREE


By dawn the next morning Stoltz was two hundred miles north of Los Angeles sitting in a red plastic booth at a chain restaurant along I-5, waiting for the waitress to bring the crap he’d ordered. When she did, he took one look and shoved the plate away.

‘Sir, is there something wrong?’

‘Just with the food, but it’s not your fault. I should have known better. I’m ready for my check.’

She huffed away and instead of his check she returned with a pimply little guy in a checkered shirt who looked like an unemployed jockey. He turned out to be the manager. The manager also wanted to know if there was a problem and Stoltz said, ‘The problem is you’re serving food out of your dumpster.’

He started to get into a debate with the manager but ended it asking, ‘Didn’t they teach you the customer is always right?’ He slid out of the booth and dropped ten bucks on the table. When the manager started to say something more, Stoltz said, ‘Take my word for it, I’m the type to write a letter. So why don’t you just shut up?’

When he got in the car he was shaking and unsure why he’d lost it in there. Three hours later and after two more stops, one for gas and one for a nap that he’d hoped would clear his head but left him feeling like he was jet-lagged, he deviated from his plan and took the cut-off for a state park, following a road rising toward dry hills and a reservoir. In this rural country a little state park wasn’t going to be crowded, and he needed to be somewhere he could sit and think because he was screwing up.

He pulled in and parked next to a brown and white trailhead sign. Fifty yards to his left was a cinder block toilet structure for hiking types. Two other cars were in the lot, an old Subaru with a bike rack and a Chevy pickup. It felt safe enough and he locked his car and walked up a trail to a stand of pines, hoping the cool air and sunlight would help him calm down inside. He found a place to sit where he could still see his car, and then tried deep breathing. He lay on his back for a while thinking about everything that had happened in the last week and a half.

Then, as he was close to leaving, another car drove into the lot, a late model, white four-door Buick with a trim gray-haired man getting out, a guy in his early sixties, who immediately looked through the windows of Stoltz’s rented Nissan. He got something out of his car, laid down on the pavement and reached under the Nissan. Stoltz moved around the back of a pine tree and watched the man dust himself off as he stood up, nothing in his hands any more. He got back in his car and pulled out. Like in a movie, like something you wouldn’t believe had happened unless you saw it.

Stoltz drove back to the freeway and then north thirty miles before taking an exit that led to a shopping mall. He needed a place to park and look under the car. He drove through the mall and had a crazy idea as he saw two California Highway Patrol cars parked side by side, with an open space between one cruiser and a mammoth Ford Expedition blocking the officers’ view, where they sat at a table in a Fresh Mex.

He pulled into the parking space, walked around, opened his passenger door, leaned over, then sank down and slid under the Nissan. He scanned the dark underbody until he found it, like a blister of metal attached to the chassis. He wrenched it free. Nothing but magnets had held the GPS tracking device in place, so he figured he could do the same with the CHP car. He slid out and then underneath the CHP chassis. The magnets snapped against metal as the device grabbed, and Stoltz was on his feet, locking the Nissan before going into the Mex Fresh to buy food to-go. He was still waiting for his food as the CHP officers left. He watched them drive away.

Then he did a lot of driving and doubling back. He didn’t turn in the rental until after dark and took a cab to the warehouse. At the warehouse he rethought everything and changed his plan yet again.