Veronica Mars (29 page)

“I hear he’s a bad mother,” Mac said.

Veronica didn’t miss a beat. “Shut yo’ mouth!”

“I’m just talking about—”

“You two are a laugh a minute, you know that?”

Suddenly Veronica heard her phone, trilling at the bottom of her bag from where it hung on a hook by the door. She got up, Mac and Wallace still mock bickering behind her. The caller ID read
UNKNOWN
.

“Hello?” As she answered, she cracked open the door
to the apartment and stepped out into the hallway, which smelled like cabbage and industrial-strength cleaner.

“Hi, is this Veronica Mars?”

The voice was female, throaty, and a little hoarse, not someone she recognized.

“Yes, it is. Who’s this, please?”

“This is Lee Jackson from the Meridian Group. I’m returning your call.”

The phone almost fell right out of Veronica’s hand.

“Ms. Mars? Still there? Hello?”

Even taking the sketchiest back roads she knew, it took Veronica almost twenty minutes to get to the Neptune Grand. She’d never been prone to road rage, but she laid on the horn as slow-moving packs of drunken students staggered out into the road ahead of her. They gave her offended, unfocused looks. A wobbly blonde with bundles of Mardi Gras beads dangling around her neck slapped her palm on the hood of the BMW, and for just a split second Veronica imagined running her over.

Back at Mac’s she’d asked Lee Jackson if she could call her back. Then she’d stuck her head in the apartment to tell Wallace and Mac she had to go. Their faces barely had a chance to register surprise before she’d slammed the door shut behind her. There’d be time to explain later. Now she had to find the “Lee Jackson” who currently had $600,000 in unmarked, nonsequential bills in an easy-to-transport nylon duffel bag.

The closer she got to the Grand, the worse the traffic got. Downtown was a snarl of cars and pedestrians. Tenth
Avenue was completely shut down for a concert; she could see the lights flashing on the distant stage. People swarmed around the bars, and the souvenir shops were all open late for last-minute purchases. At the ’09er, a long line of glittering hopefuls hung back behind the velvet ropes, waiting for entry.

She caught sight of the Grand from a few streets away, its new tall glass tower stretching over the old sandstone façade. She waited impatiently for a light to turn, then roared through the intersection.

After throwing her keys to the valet she ran through the lobby, gentle piano music tinkling from the speakers in an absurd contrast to her pounding heart. She stopped at the desk and leaned toward the startled-looking clerk.

“I need to know which room Lee Jackson is staying in,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

The clerk, a young woman whose dark hair was scraped painfully back into the tightest bun Veronica had ever seen, pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not able to give out—”

“I’m working for Petra Landros,” she snapped. “Veronica Mars? She said if I needed anything I should ask. Well, this is an emergency, and I’m asking.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open for a half second. Then she was on the phone, speaking in a hushed, urgent voice, apparently to Petra’s assistant. “She says her name is Mars? Oh … oh, okay. I’m sorry, Gladys, I’ll do that right away.”

Veronica shifted her weight, glancing around the lobby. It was quiet tonight; the resident spring breakers were already out at the clubs, and any other tourists kept a wide berth from
Neptune this time of year. A bellboy stood gossiping with the concierge near the front door; back in the bar she could just make out that the cocktail waitresses were leaning against the bar, watching the TV. The calm was surreal after the commotion on the streets surrounding the hotel.

Finally the clerk hung up the phone. “I’m so sorry, Miss Mars. Mr. Jackson is in the north tower, room 1201—do you want directions?”

But she was already running, out to the courtyard and around the pool, to the tower.

The elevators stood on both sides of the tower, facing the streets to either side of the hotel. They were glass-fronted and cylindrical, and Veronica felt as if she were stepping into one of the vacuum tubes at the bank as she hit the button for the twelfth floor. Slowly, then quickly, the elevator started to rise.

The city dropped away at her feet. From here she could see the bright, glittering streets around the hotel. A hot-tub limo drifted past like a shark, the bubbling water full to capacity with topless girls. A few streets away, a crowd was forming up around a guy in a cow suit—a moment later she realized he had a T-shirt cannon as white jersey knit went flying through the air. And down at the base of the hotel …

She pressed her face against the glass, eyes bulging. Down at the base of the hotel, she just had time to catch an image of a tall black man in a dark suit, hurrying up the street with a blue duffel bag in one hand.

She jammed her thumb against the Stop button on the elevator’s panel, then hit the button for the ground floor. Her eyes were glued to Jackson’s form as he paused at the corner,
then crossed the street, his long legs taking him farther and farther away in enormous strides. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor and let on four boys in tight polo shirts. It seemed to take forever for them all to climb on and select their floor; one seemed to be half in the bag already. The rest nudged one another at the sight of Veronica, and one propped an elbow against the glass to lean down over her. “Hey, there.”

“Shut up and get on!” she barked. The boy looked startled, then glanced quickly over to his friends.

“Come on, guys, hurry up. Hurry up.”

But by the time the doors closed and the elevator started its quick descent, Lee Jackson had disappeared into the dark side street next to a boutique.

Veronica shoved past the hulking boys and out the doors the moment they slid open. She bolted across the street. Traffic screeched to a stop in front of her, horns blaring, but she didn’t slow down. As she approached, she saw that the boutique was closed for the night, the mannequins standing in postures of casual disdain. She put on another burst of speed and veered into the alley.

Almost immediately, the smell of urine and garbage assaulted her nostrils. The alley was unlit, steeped in shadow. She stopped in her tracks, listening. The only sounds came from the surrounding streets, the pulsing bass and screams of laughter. Then she snapped on the Maglite attached to her keys.

Its beam revealed that she was in a service corridor between shops, bars, and restaurants. A clutter of empty boxes and broken bottles filled the spaces between the small concrete
loading docks. To one side she could see a large wooden crate lined with blankets and empty bottles—someone’s abandoned squat. She made her way slowly, stepping carefully over debris. A cold breeze cut through the alley, sending loose newspapers fluttering like wounded birds. Then a low groan sounded from somewhere to her right.

She turned quickly, sending the tiny circle of light searching over the spot where she’d heard it. It took her a moment before she found him.

The man lay on his side next to an overflowing Dumpster. She couldn’t see his face—it was turned toward the ground—but she recognized the navy suit with its narrow white pinstripes, recognized the long and lanky form of the man who’d called himself Lee Jackson. The back of his head was wet with blood, and blood soaked the shoulder of his jacket.

Hands trembling, she called 911.

“Hi. Yes, I’m in the alley just off Seventh Avenue—it’s the one just across from the Grand’s north tower. There’s a man here who’s had some kind of head injury. I think he might be unconscious.” She knelt down next to him, shining the light closer on his head without touching him. “Looks like some kind of blunt force trauma. Can you please send an ambulance immediately?”

She hung up the phone before they could ask her to stay on the line. She didn’t have long before the ambulance would arrive; if she wanted answers, she was going to have to look now.

She felt for the lump of his wallet in his jacket pocket. Carefully, trying not to move him more than necessary, she tugged it free. It was a billfold, made of very soft leather.

All right, Lee Jackson. Just who are you, anyway?
She stuck the Maglite in her mouth and opened the wallet.

The compartments were full to bursting. She tugged one of the cards out; it was an Idaho driver’s license. She recognized the picture as the man prone before her. The name on the card was Omar Tyrell Mitchell, date of birth 5/12/68. Behind it was an Arizona license for Roy Franklin III, and behind that was a military ID for Reginald Dalton Baker, PFC. They were all like that—licenses and IDs from all over the country, all with the same man’s picture. There were at least ten, along with a handful of platinum-grade credit cards in various names.

He was either a con man or a private eye—she had a collection of IDs not much smaller than his. Veronica’s money was on the former. Stealing the identity of the real Lee Jackson was short-con behavior; he’d planned to be gone before anyone knew the difference. But had he conned Tanner—or were they in this together?
Tanner
had been the one to bring up hiring a specialist.
Tanner
had been the one who refused to work with the guy the Dewalts hired.

The sound of sirens echoed up the narrow corridor, faint at first but growing louder. She closed the billfold and carefully slid it back into his pocket. Then she saw something that made her freeze in her tracks.

Slowly, cautiously, she reached out and plucked a small, dry object from the ground next to the man’s head.

A pinto bean. For a moment she stared at it in the palm of her hand. Then she shined the flashlight around the man’s body. There were more, lying around his shoulders, one caught in the collar of his shirt.

She barely had time to process what she was seeing before
red and blue lights came fluttering down the alleyway, the siren echoing painfully off the walls. The cops were here; the ambulance wouldn’t be far behind. She shoved the bean, still clutched in her hand, into her pocket. Then she stepped back from the body, turning toward the street to meet the officer who’d almost certainly have questions for her.

“I need you to check out Tanner’s movements, Mac. Find out if he has a flight, a rented car, anything in the next few days.”

The BMW tore up into the hills, tracing along the winding roads with hairpin precision. Veronica kept rubbing the pinto bean between her fingers, her mind churning. She stepped on the gas and urged the car up toward the condo.

“What’s going on, Veronica?”

“I’ll explain everything as soon as I have a chance, I promise. For now just get me that information.”

Neptune was a glittering bracelet spread below the bluffs, every light in town on for another wild spring break night. In the condo’s parking lot Veronica killed the engine and was at the door in a flash, first ringing the doorbell, then pounding with her fist.

When Lianne opened the door, Veronica didn’t even bother to say hello.

“Where’s Tanner?” she asked, walking past her mother, darting her gaze all over the living room.

“What? He’s out.” Lianne shut the door and turned to her, eyes round. She was still dressed in the short-sleeved sweater and jeans she’d worn earlier, but she had on chenille
socks and a pair of reading glasses. Dressed to stay in. “What’s wrong?”

“Out where?”

“Out for a run!” A frown creased her forehead. “Hunter’s just gone to bed. Can you please keep your voice down?”

“Out for a run after dark? At nine?”

“He always runs at night.” Lianne stared at her. “Look, we couldn’t find a meeting tonight. An AA meeting? Running helps to calm him down. When he’s upset, when he’s angry. When he’s feeling like picking up a drink. I told him to take as much time as he needs.”

Veronica tried to read Lianne’s face. Did she know? Did she suspect what her husband had done? Was she in on it? Or was she just like poor Willie Murphy—another dumb patsy in someone else’s game?

Lianne had been Veronica’s own personal villain for a long time—not because she was evil, but because her father was good. Because Keith was the hero, the one who stayed. Veronica had always known the truth about her mother, the painful, awful truth. Lianne was, like all addicts and drunks, a world-class con. But she always fell for her own trick. She was the only one, in the end, who believed her own lies.

“Mom …,” she said, not sure how to start. She closed her eyes, shook her head, opened them. Started again.

“Who hired Lee Jackson? Did you find him? Or did Tanner?”

Lianne’s frown deepened. “Tanner found him. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a kidnapping specialist. But Tanner heard about it on some TV show a few years ago.”

Veronica shook her head.

“I put in a call to the Meridian Group yesterday, and tonight I finally got a call back. Funny thing … it turns out the Lee Jackson who works for Meridian is a woman. I can see why it’d be easy to assume it’s a man’s name. Kidnapping and ransom is a pretty male-dominated profession, after all. It’d be easy to, say, pick that name off a website, print out a few cards, and run with it. Then anyone who wanted to check your credibility would be able to see a nice CV and a list of pretty heavy-duty accomplishments on the website, but not a picture—pictures are a liability in the security world. Something about blown covers. But if you’re a grieving, scared parent, desperate to find your child, that cursory glance would probably be enough to convince you to trust him.”

Lianne blinked at Veronica in confusion.

“I went to the Grand to try to confront your fake Lee Jackson, but when I got there he’d already been attacked in the alley. Someone hit him over the head. When the cops checked his wallet there were at least ten different IDs in it—driver’s licenses from different states with his picture on each, and credit cards for a handful of identities. I went back and talked to the guy at the front desk and get this—he never checked that money into the safe today. I get the feeling he might have been getting ready to make a getaway. But someone double-crossed the double-crosser. Because that money? It’s gone.”