She came out of another sharp turn and saw the faded sign for Ventana Estates. It looked as if no one
had ever bothered to repaint it. That boded well for what she had in mind, she told herself.
She had to slow for the turn, but the last hairpin curve had bought her a few seconds of time. The SUV had fallen back in an attempt to regain control.
She hit the brakes hard, spun the steering wheel to the left and stomped on the accelerator. The first portion of road into the failed subdivision had been roughly paved in an attempt to create a more upscale impression on prospective buyers. But she was relieved to note that over the years no one had filled in the gaping potholes.
The SUV’s tires howled in protest behind her. The driver from hell was braking hard.
The bastard wa o mad he was going to pursue her into the subdivision.
Another wave of fear crashed through her. She had been praying that, having chased her off th oadway, the driver of the SUV would be content in his wretched little triumph and continue on along Lakefront Road.
So much for Plan A, as Pamela would have said. Time for Plan B.
She could feel cold sweat under her arms. Everything depended on whether or not the subdivision road had been paved beyond the entrance.
The paved section ended abruptly. The compact lurched and bounced as it made the transition from rough blacktop to even rougher dirt and gravel.
She took her foot off the accelerator and risked a quick glance into the mirror. Like some ravenou east sensing that its intended prey is tiring, the SUV leaped onto the gravel road to pursue her.
She followed the looping road, letting the SUV get dangerously close. The behemoth filled her rearview mirror now. She envisioned steel jaws opening to devour the compact. The driver was intent on forcing her back onto Lakefront Road.
This was as good as it was going to get, she decided. She tromped hard on the accelerator.
The compact surged forward as though it sensed the fangs hovering close behind.
Gravel, pebbles and clods of dirt spurted furiously from beneath the rear tires, creating a driving hailstorm of debris.
She did not have to check the mirrors to see how the SUV had taken the surprise assault. She coul ear the heavy, unrelenting rain of hard pings and sharp thuds as the wave of small stones and gravel struck metal and glass. She knew the driver from hell was looking through a windshield that was being pelted by the small meteor shower churned up by the compact’s tires.
The SUV hesitated and then fell back. Irene drove faster, following the subdivision’s single road toward the exit at the far end.
A moment later the compact bounced and jolted back out onto Lakefront Road. She floored the accelerator. The compact’s suspension system was never going to be the same, she thought.
When she dared to glance into the rearview mirror she saw no sign of the SUV It was still back in Ventana Estates, licking its wounds.
The only consolation was in knowing that the driver of the SUV was going to pay a price for that display of road rage. The windshield had to be a maze of chips and spiderwebs. In addition, the flying gravel would have caused a lot of damage to the shiny silver finish.
She eased her foot off the accelerator. It was probably not a good idea to drive too fast when you were shaking from head to foot, she thought.
Thirty-Seven
He met with Ken Tanaka in a small cafe located on a narrow street off Union Square.
Ken claimed that the little hole-in-the-wall served the best pastries and baked goods in San Francisco. After a couple of bites of the croissant he had ordered, Luke concluded that he was right.
Ken slathered butter on his own croissant and angled his head at the page of handwritten notes he ha ut in front of Luke.
“You see why I didn’t want an e-mail trail leading to either one of us?” he said.
“Sure do,” Luke agreed.
He contemplated Ken, who was sitting on the other side of the table. He had never consciously thought about what a private investigator was supposed to look like, but somehow Ken didn’t fit the profile.
Then again, Tanaka didn’t look like a man with a degree in forensic accounting, either.
It was easy to underestimate Ken. His quiet, friendly, reassuring manner made people lower their guard. He had been very good at questioning civilians unlucky enough to be caught in a war zone. More than once he had obtained information from a small boy or a frightened woman that had prevented Luke and the rest of the team from walking into an ambush.
No doubt about it, Ken was good at handling people. But his greatest talent was his almost preternatural instinct for following the money. His firm specialized in corporate security, but Luke knew that the feds came knocking when they wanted Tanaka’s expertise to help track drug and terrorist funds.
Luke looked at the notes. “Give me the short answer.”
Ken took a bite of the flaky croissant. “In the past four months there have been four large sums o oney transferred into an offshore account that I traced back to Hoyt Egan.”
“How’d you do that?”
Ken raised one brow. “You don’t want to know.”
“Right. Go on.”
“In my humble opinion, either Egan is taking payoffs from an unknown source for an unknown reason,
or he’s collecting blackmail. My gut tells me we’re looking at a series of extortion payments.”
“Big bucks here.” Luke drank some coffee. “He’s got something on the senator, doesn’t he?”
“I’d say that’s the most likely scenario under the circumstances. Guy running for president probably has things to hide. But there are other possibilities.”
“The fiancee? Alexa Douglass?”
Ken reached for the jam. “I checked around. She and Webb started dating about six months ago. From
all accounts, Alexa Douglass is an ambitious woman who is determined to marry Webb. If Egan discovered something in her past that would cause Webb to call off the wedding, it’s conceivable tha he might be paying him to keep quiet.”
“Egan is playing with matches and probably out of his league. Blackmail is a dangerous line of work.” Luke sat back in the booth. “Wonder where Pamela Webb fits into this thing.”
“Starting to think she really was murdered?”
“The dots are connecting.”
Ken applied more jam to the croissant. “You were always pretty good with dots.
What now?”
“I’m going to have to think about that for a while. I need to talk to Irene. This is her mission. I’m just assisting.”
Ken smiled. “I’m looking forward to meeting this Irene. She sounds interesting.”