Cruel Vintage by Huston Michaels

Author:Huston Michaels [Michaels, Huston]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780997302479
Publisher: Gold Miner Books
Published: 2020-04-13T22:00:00+00:00

DAY 15

Monday Week 3

It was still dark when Kaye backed the pickup out of the garage.

The change in mode of transport was necessary because of his plan for the day, and he wore slacks and a polo shirt instead of the usual biker garb. A sport coat lay on the front seat, with three different colors of baseball caps and a small set of binoculars atop it.

Traffic was light and he reached his destination well ahead of time. The surroundings weren’t great, but driving around the block a couple of times identified the best available spot: Not obvious, but accessible, with a great view of the Classic Realty office.

Kaye called Thompson’s office, knowing his Captain wouldn’t be in yet, and left a voice mail about what he was doing, then settled in to wait.

At 8:40 a.m. the white Escalade pulled into the parking lot, parked in a designated handicapped space, and Megan Sullivan went to work.

Kaye knew the surveillance was a big risk. If Sullivan saw and recognized him, his LAPD career was likely over despite the message for Thompson, and, based on his interactions thus far with Sloan and Leale, he’d probably face a criminal complaint.

But he was more and more convinced that Sullivan had knowledge of Avi Geller’s murder, and he needed to know how.

At 9:15 a.m. Sullivan came out of the office, a Classic Realty lawn sign hanging from one hand, loaded it into the back of the Escalade and took off.

Single vehicle surveillance is tough compared to a team effort, and Kaye hung back as much as possible without creating too much risk of losing contact at a traffic signal. He was relying on Sullivan not being concerned about being followed and not spending half her time checking her mirrors.

Which is what Kaye did because of the Kanji notes.

Twenty minutes later Sullivan parked in front of a beautiful, well-landscaped Tudor-style house in the neighborhood north of Wilshire between UCLA and Beverly Glen.

Kaye immediately turned into an intersecting side street to avoid driving past her, drove past a half dozen driveways, then made a u-turn and went back to park where he could see the Escalade.

He decided not to call in his surveillance location, thus avoiding an official record of his whereabouts, and settled in to wait again.

It was nearly an hour before Sullivan came out of the house, accompanied by a man and woman with their arms intertwined. Sullivan went to the Escalade, grabbed the sign out of the back and, with a ceremonial flair, planted it in the front yard while the couple clapped.

Hugs and handshakes were exchanged all around before Sullivan took her leave.

Her next stop was a showing, meeting a young couple with two small children and spending thirty minutes giving them the grand tour of a nice bungalow on the north side of Santa Monica.

While Kaye watched and waited, his phone buzzed.

“Kaye, are you out of your mind?” Thompson practically roared when Kaye answered.

“Not at all, Captain,” Kaye said. “I drove the truck today.

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