Page 56 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Selina glanced in her rearview mirror. Was she imagining things, or was that a black SUV behind her?

After Ryan Hall had left her with fluffball Caliber, she had waited exactly five minutes before heading out.

There was no way she was going to sit on her hands.

That waiting thing again. Always a problem.

Upstanding soul that he was, Nando might have been lying about having a way to reach Sweeney. And he could be calling the man right now to tell him a cop was looking for him. Their only lead might pack up and vanish.

That was not going to happen.

Ryan had made it clear he wanted to be in her life. If that was true, it was time he learned that the Sanchez women weren’t the type to stay home and wait for the men to handle things.

Thoughts of how she’d been raised reminded her of her big sister. Carmen was trained in countersurveillance and had given Selina some pointers over the years.

First, identify if you’re being followed.

She’d been driving toward Fillups gas station in the Westside region of LA, in the Santa Monica Mountains. She made four consecutive right turns, effectively taking her in a circle, then glanced up again.

The black SUV, the Ford Edge.

Yes, it was there. Definitely hanging back, allowing several cars between them. Seemed like what a pro would do. Okay, she had a tail. She struggled for calm, recalling her sister’s next instructions.

If you are being followed, take streets with traffic lights. If it’s green, slow down and wait until it turns yellow, then act like you’re going to stop. At the last second, gun it to get through an instant before it turns red.

She did just this at the next light: slowed dutifully at the yellow. Then punched it, zipping through as yellow went to red. She checked, and sure enough, the car directly behind her had stopped, forcing the Edge to stop as well.

Good.

If the tail’s forced to stop, immediately turn at the next possible street or alley, accelerate and lose yourself on surface roads.

This she did too.

She sorted through other tricks Carmen had taught her:

Call 9-1-1. But if you can’t, drive to the nearest police station or government building and lay on the horn until someone comes out to see what’s going on.

Regarding that advice: nope.

She continued on to her destination, Fillups, only now taking side streets, not the highway.

Soon she was cruising in the Stone Canyon hills. Traffic was less congested here, far more vegetation and, in places, an absence of vegetation. Sand, rock, dirt.

After making several turns to be sure no one was trailing her—black Ford, or anything else—she wound her way along Stone Canyon Parkway to Fillups, one of hundreds of independently owned gas stations in California.

She saw it ahead of her, dusty and in need of paint and fronted by ancient pumps.

She pulled into the lot around back, where her car wouldn’t be visible from the main road.

After a brief wait to make sure she was safe, Selina climbed out and walked inside. A forty-something woman with sun-burnished skin and sharp hazel eyes greeted Selina with a nod, when she walked through the smeared, heavy glass doors.

“Hey,” Selena said.

“Hey.”

Selina’s mouth was dry from Ford Edge–induced stress. She got a bottle of water from the second case from the counter (beer was the first). Then grabbed one of Jake Heron’s favorites, a Red Bull.

No one else was in the small convenience market attached to the station. Selina walked to the counter, paid for the drinks and sipped the water.

Recalling a conversation she’d had with Carmen years ago about gaining trust with witnesses and interviewees, she tried to personalize things.

“I’m Selina,” she said, smiling.

“Wanda,” came the automatic reply.

Selina looked around. “You the owner?”

Wanda nodded. “Yeah, I’ve had this place nearly ten years. Don’t want no chain franchise shit.”

Selina detected a note of pride. “Well, that’s great. I bet you see a lot of things around here.”

Another nod. “Part of the territory. No gas today, hon?”

“Fact is, Wanda ... got a question.”

“Hm?”

Selina realized her plan would work only if she came off as young and naive, so she tucked away some of the Sanchez grit.

“Okay.” She looked down. “The thing is ... See, I met this guy at a bar. North Hollywood.” She offered her most innocent smile. “I kind of like him. But I lost his number. I didn’t put it in my phone. I wrote it on a Post-it. Stupid.”

“In the ocean of stupid, hon, that’s a pretty small fish.”

A smile. “His name’s Sweeney. He told me he comes up here a lot. Drives a red Silverado pickup. You know where he lives, where I can find him?”

“Isn’t he a little old for you, hon?”

So she did know him.

Selina winked. “I like older men. He was nice to me. Not a lot of guys are nice.”

Wanda clearly heard that. After a brief pause, she pointed out the front window. “All I can tell you is, he sometimes goes up into the hills. That private drive to the houses up there.”

“Whose house?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many are there?”

“Six, seven, I think.”

“He drive up there recently?”

“I haven’t seen him. But I got more important things to do than sit and watch rich people coming and going.”

“Is Sweeney rich?”

She smiled. “I don’t mean him, honey.”

“Thanks, Wanda. You’ve been super helpful.”

The woman frowned. “You’re a good-looking girl. You’re polite. You can do better than him.” Then a shrug. “But that’s coming from four-times-married Wanda, so what do I know?”

Now it was Selina’s turn to smile ... and slide a twenty to the woman.

She strode out the door. Moments later, at her car, she chugged the Red Bull.

Then was driving up the hill Wanda had indicated, which offered a view of the Stone Canyon Reservoirs—the one to the north being a weird football field kind of structure, while the big one to the south was more like a lake.

Situated south of Mulholland and west of Beverly Glen, this whole area was posh city. There was no way a hired hit man would live in a hood like this. She glanced from hilltop to hilltop, each mansion fancier than the last.

So this would be Sweeney’s client.

And, possibly, the man whose money-laundering operation her father had uncovered.

Twenty minutes later, so high in the hills her ears popped, she parked.

Where the hell do you go up here, Sweeney?

The cul-de-sac was surrounded by seven imposing gates. She could see several of the houses—mansions. Shit, look at the size of them. Where did people get this kind of wealth?

Well, money laundering was one answer.

Maybe. Of course there was no guarantee that the “client” Sweeney had gone to see was really their father’s killer, but what else did she have to go on?

That was how it was in her discipline—scientific research. You followed the most likely route in your experiments. A negative result was just as good as a positive one, a professor had said. It eliminated one possibility and let you pursue others.

But, please, she thought, in a very unscientific frame of mind, let this be the place where that fucker lived.

She drove in a circle.

No Silverados.

She climbed out and walked slowly past the gates to get a better look. No residents. No pit bulls either.

Well, she chided herself. It was pointless to go for a stroll along the asphalt. You’re here to investigate, then do some investigating!

There were probably security cameras, but at this point she didn’t care. She strode to each mailbox and took one piece of mail, then hurried back to the car.

Damn good thing her sister wasn’t running the show. Carmen wouldn’t have done this without a warrant, and she probably couldn’t have gotten one based on what she had learned so far.

In fact, Selina thought in passing, she’d just committed a federal offense. Well, you’ve got jurisdiction now, Carm, come and get me.

The thought nearly brought a smile to her lips.

She returned to the car, dropped into the front seat and pulled the client list she’d gotten from Mr. Overton.

She compared the names.

None of the hilltop residents were on the list. Her shoulders slumped.

Until she thought of one she’d just seen. It was Christopher James Fisher, in the house at the end of the circle.

Fisher . . .

No, impossible.

My God.

Her heart thudded.

She was thinking of the other parts of her father’s note that no one had figured out. The fact that he had underlined his middle name, and the ancient Greek lettering scrawled at the bottom corner of the page.

Δ:ΙΘ

The characters that translated into the numbers 4:19.

Mateo equaled Matthew in English.

And the answer blossomed. Like everything else her father had been forced to do minutes before he died, the clue was elegantly simple yet easily disguised.

Their parents had taken their two daughters to Mass every Sunday.

Selina had attended CCD and catechism growing up.

Now that she realized the scripture her father had directed her to, it was obvious.

Something anyone raised to memorize sections of the Bible would recognize without having to look it up.

He was directing them to Bible passage Matthew 4:19.

And He said unto them, “Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.”

Christopher Fisher.

But she grimaced. His name was not on the client list.

Then she scanned it again. And saw that some of her father’s clients were companies, not individuals.

And one of those was CJF Enterprises, LLC.

Too much of a coincidence. A fast Google search gave her proof.

Yes, the Christopher Fisher who lived here was the founder and head of the company, which did something called venture capital work.

Okay, she had enough to get started. She’d call Carmen and Ryan and tell them about her discovery.

First, though, put the mail back.

She climbed out and made the rounds once more.

She was putting Fisher’s cable TV bill back in when a man’s voice made her jump. “What have we here?”

Selina started to turn but froze when the muzzle of a gun pressed against the side of her neck.