Killer in the Hills by Stephen Carpenter Page A

turn to leave.
    “Don’t come back here,” he says, as I head out with Karen.
    “Don’t worry,” I say. “You might want to disable the LoJack, or whatever’s in it. They keep finding it.”
    The kid slides out from under the BMW, holding a small metal box with wires hanging out of it.
    “Not a problem,” he says.
    The older man rolls the garage door down with a slam and I lead Karen to the Corolla and we get inside. Karen has to move trash and fast food wrappers from her seat. The car smells like beer and stale French fries.
    “You really know how to drive a bargain,” she says, as we pull out of the lot.
    I head for the freeway and Karen pesters me with questions as I drive. I give vague answers, then finally tell her yet again to keep quiet so I can think. She slouches back in her seat and turns sullen. She chews her fingernails and squirms with restless energy.
    I can’t wait any longer to bring her in. She is about to blow, or bolt. Daylight Saving Time began last weekend, so it will be dark in a few hours. I decide I will call Melvin as soon as I can find a place to meet him and cut a deal. But it has to happen right away. It’s entirely possible Melvin is closing in on us right now, and I can only protect Karen if I have some leverage. They’ve probably already lifted my prints at Zach’s, and once they ID them I’ll have no leverage at all. Erlacher said they had found Zach this morning, so he could have been killed any time after I left, just after midnight. Could we have been followed there? By who? If Sal and his crew were that close I’d be nailed to a floor somewhere, or worse—whatever “worse” might mean. My thoughts race around that possibility until I start feeling panicky and I force the panic back so I can focus on the problem at hand.
    High ground. Darkness. A large, deserted, empty space…
    I think about what I’m going to say to Melvin as I get on the freeway and join the tangle of traffic headed for downtown.
    An hour and a half later I take the Orange Grove exit off the Pasadena freeway and drive through the residential streets I know well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
     
    On the second Sunday of every month, the Rose Bowl hosts the busiest flea market in the world, in the main parking lot of the stadium. My fiancée Sara and I had furnished our first apartment in two or three visits there, in the months before we were to marry. Twice a month, the flea market takes up the entire parking lot—a huge space, surrounded by hills packed with luxurious homes.
    It is just before sundown when we weave down through quiet residential streets and reach the stadium. I slow as we pass the big parking lot. The vast asphalt expanse is dotted with groundskeeping vehicles parked in shallow ponds of recent rainwater. Other than that, the lot is deserted.
    I turn the car around and head back up into the hills. I find a dark, lonely street that overlooks the stadium. I park and turn off the engine and Karen watches as I take out my phone and put the battery in and wait for it to power up. She hasn’t said a word since I told her to be quiet.
    “So?” she says. “What are we doing now?”
    “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
    “Bullshit,” she says. “I’m sick of driving around, not being allowed to talk, not knowing what the hell we’re doing . ”
    “You’ll know soon enough,” I say. The phone powers up and I open my door and get out.
    “Stay in the car,” I say, and close my door before I can hear her response.
    I hit Melvin’s number and he answers on the first ring.
    “Where are you, Jack?” he says. Right to the point.
    “I’ll tell you in a second, but first you have to agree to something,” I say.
    Silence.
    “I have Karen, and I have the security video from the Chateau Marmont, which proves she wasn’t there the night her mother was killed. I want you to bring her in quietly, and hold her until we’ve got a lawyer for her.”
    “I’ll do what I can,” he says. “Where