Diabolical by Hank Schwaeble Page A

they didn’t before, they sure do now.”
    Hatcher stood, scanning the distance. Joggers, cyclists, a few skateboarders. No guy in gray sweats.
    He glanced down at the display again. The call that just ended had lasted for over forty minutes. The prior three calls were from the same number. Given the time intervals, it seemed Bartlett had the decency not to let anyone listen, including himself, while Hatcher and Vivian had been taking the edge off their pent-up libidos.
    â€œI don’t understand,” Vivian said. “You think the phone has a . . . what, a bug? That they bugged it?”
    â€œDidn’t need to. All they had to do was program it to be on silent mode and to automatically answer. It basically turned itself on whenever they called it.”
    â€œWhy would they do that?”
    â€œBecause it’s just like you said. People like Bartlett don’t like leaving things to chance. He wasn’t about to take anything on faith. They would want to know if I was in, was really in. Or if I was intending to head over their way and start popping caps. They’d want to know if you and I were planning something. If you had found out where they were holding my nephew. They want to know everything. Bartlett understands better than most—information is power.”
    Hatcher kept studying the Strand as he spoke, watching for some sign of the man. “I’ll bet that guy is still close.”
    â€œJake.”
    Hatcher moved out from behind the table. “Probably just around that corner. If I—”
    â€œJake.”
    â€œRelax, Viv. I just need to get some more infor—”
    â€œJake.” Hatcher felt Vivian’s grip on his arm. “Remember how you said you wouldn’t know where to begin?”
    She raised a hand and pointed into the distance. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
    She looked past him, moving her eyes from his in the direction of her finger, peering out over the Pacific at the brilliant morning sky. Hatcher turned to look over his shoulder.
    A small plane was flying above the water, maybe a thousand feet in the air. A banner trailed behind it, carrying a message:
    J.H. LET’S TALK. LOOK UP YOUR FAVE ESCORTS AND GIVE A CALL.
    Hatcher watched the words fly by to the south until the angle became too acute and they started to shrink in the distance. Assuming he’d read it correctly, he realized he’d been wrong about one thing.
    Damned if they weren’t in the phone book, after all.

CHAPTER 6
    HATCHER COASTED TO A STOP IN FRONT OF THE SMALL HOUSE and shifted the car into park. After staring at the porch for a few moments, he double-checked the number. This was it, all right. Not exactly what he expected. But when the Carnates were involved, he couldn’t think of much that was.
    The address was in south L.A., what used to be called south central, not far from Florence and Normandie. He didn’t know southern Cal that well yet, but even the Jihadis he’d mixed it up with in Afghanistan probably could have popped off about this zip code’s rep. It was known for having a lot of gangs, a lot of crack, and a lot of crime. Cheap liquor stores and colorful graffiti. Race riots and drive-bys.
    But what Hatcher saw when he looked around was a neighborhood of modest tract homes, mostly Spanish-styled stucco, a smattering of squat, hardy palm trees lining the street in front of them. The landscaping was spotty, the majority of lawns a patchwork of browns and greens and footworn dirt. The assortment of purple and red and yellow paint jobs were probably a bit loud, too, and the cars parked along the curbs tended to be either really flashy or really beat up; but notwithstanding a few of the houses he’d passed with plywood over the windows, sporting spray-painted initials and monikers, the area didn’t strike him as a ghetto. People owned most of these lots, lived in these homes. They cared for