Page 50

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

HUNTINGTON BEACH, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 2023

10:00 P.M.

When Detectives Ray Horn and Eddie Ortega left Huntington Beach PD, they did so in Ortega’s unmarked Inter-ceptor.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Ray asked.

Eddie nodded. “Churchill Drive in Huntington Beach,” he answered. “Do you think Detective Burns will get that confession?”

“I wouldn’t bet against her,” Ray replied.

They were barely underway when a radio transmission came in. “We’ve got movement.”

“It’s from the uniforms parked outside Adam Brewster’s house,” Eddie explained to Ray before asking, “Which car did they take?”

“Joel Franklin’s Camaro.”

“How many people in the vehicle?”

“Only one as far as we can tell.”

“Try to keep the subject in sight, but follow at a distance,” Eddie directed. “If he speeds at all, has a broken taillight, or runs even so much as a single red light, initiate a traffic stop.”

“Gotcha.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Eastbound on Ellis.”

“Okay, we just left headquarters and are coming your way. Keep us posted.”

“Will do.”

Just then a text came in from Monica containing nothing but the numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4. Ray hauled out Marc’s phone and typed them in. Sure enough, the phone opened right up. He went to the call app, found the voice mail messages, and played them back using the speaker.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice sounded casual and at ease. “You should be off work by now. Want to get together? Call me back.”

Message number two said, “I thought you would have called by now. Are you working overtime?”

Message number three sounded more impatient. “I just called the Meet and Greet. They said you left a while ago. Where the hell are you? Call me back.”

The fourth message contained only two words. “Screw you!”

“He sounds upset,” Eddie observed. “Panicked, even.”

“Doesn’t he just!”

“Is he bolting?” Eddie wondered aloud. “Any chance he was able to communicate with Marc after you and Detective Burns made contact?”

“None whatsoever.”

Another radio transmission came through. “Headed northbound on Goldenwest Street,” the uniformed officer reported. “He’s sticking to the speed limit, and so are we.”

“Roger that,” Eddie said.

Meanwhile Ray was mulling the problem. “They said both vehicles were in the garage, right?”

Ortega nodded. “Correct.”

Suddenly Ray had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Where’s Adam Brewster, then? First Joel was terribly anxious to make contact with Marc. Then awhile later, without their ever being in touch, he takes off alone for parts unknown in the middle of the night. That doesn’t sound good to me. Can you ask someone to initiate a welfare check?”

“Will do.”

Eddie made the call. “Uniforms are being dispatched,” was the response, “but it’ll take time for them to get there.”

Ray understood that was only to be expected. “So if you were Joel Franklin, with a murder rap hanging over your head and wanting to make a run for it, where would you go?”

“That’s easy,” Eddie answered. “Mexico. Tijuana is only two and a half hours from here.”

“But that’s to the south, right?”

“Correct.”

“So why’s he heading north, and why are we?”

“Because locals know that coming from Holly-Seacliff, traveling north on Goldenwest to Warner, is the fastest way to the 405. We’re on Beach Boulevard, which runs parallel to Goldenwest. Not to worry, though. Regardless of whether he heads north or south on the freeway, the guys who are tailing him have him in sight and will keep us posted.”