“They’re retired. They’re not even together anymore.”
“They still did what they did and know what they know.”
He stared at me with the big eyes again, watching. Pike was watching, too.
“You think the spooks want their son for leverage?”
He jiggled his phone again. The pictures.
“I want to know who the meatball is, is what I think. I need nice, clear pictures of him and whoever the hell else is involved. My sources will try to identify them.”
“Tell them to identify Chow Wan Li.”
“They’re working on it.”
“Have them work faster.”
I told them about Rachel Bohlen.
“I want to know if these people killed Rachel.”
Pike’s dark glasses seemed blacker than before.
“Josh will be a suspect.”
“Yes, eventually. Which means the police will go to his bungalow, so you’d best stay clear.”
Stone smirked.
“The bungalow’s covered. Don’t sweat it.”
“I’m not sweating it, Jon. I’m sweating the meatball and Josh and whether he’s alive or dead. I don’t want the same thing to happen to Josh.”
Pike reached forward and squeezed my shoulder.
“We’ll find them and stop them.”
“The sedan they used is owned by LWL.”
“We’re on it.”
Pike got out without another word and returned to his Jeep.
Jon Stone frowned.
“We?”
I climbed out, went to my car, and called Wendy Vann. I told her we had a problem. I needed to see Adele and I needed to see her now.
31
The sky was too bright when I reached Adele Schumacher’s home in Toluca Lake. She lived not far from Universal Studios in a single-story ranch-style home with batten board sides, a stone entry, and a diamond glass front door. The street was nice and the house was nice, but I was surprised by its modesty. With its shake roof, stone chimney, and orange trees bearing Day-Glo fruit, her home might’ve been clipped from Life magazine in 1958, maybe from an article showing Lucy and Desi and little Ricky splashing in their pool, an idyllic family enjoying an idyllic Southern California day. Lucy and Desi probably wouldn’t enjoy Kurt in his gray suit and earbud standing post in their drive, but Lucy and Desi hadn’t worked on secret government projects.
The cream Mercedes sedan crouched nose-out in the drive and the white Lincoln SUV hunkered out front on the street. The red-haired driver chatted with a beefy bald man by the Lincoln and both wore earpieces like Kurt’s. A black Cadillac Escalade and a gleaming red Tesla were parked across the street. A man and a woman who looked like Wendy&Kurt 2.0 stood by the Tesla watching me pass. After speaking with Jon, so much obvious security creeped me out. Whatever Adele and Corbin knew, whatever they had seen or been part of was not in the past, and realizing this creeped me out even more.
I parked behind the Tesla and walked up the drive. Wendy came out of the house to meet me.
Wendy said, “Adele’s in back. Are you allergic to beestings?”
“Are you with the Secret Service?”
Wendy started up the drive.
“I’ll take that as a no. C’mon. Corbin’s here, too. She invited him.”
We passed four high-end security cameras before Wendy opened an ivy-twined chain-link gate and led me into a garden. Kurt trailed behind, head swiveling as if he thought we might be jumped.
The yard was large and lush with colorful flowers, more citrus trees, and more security cameras. The flowers drew bees and the air was filled with them, circling and swirling between bursts of red and yellow and purple and pink. We followed a gravel path past what appeared to be a guesthouse but probably wasn’t. Shiny white antenna domes dotted the roof.
We came to a square plot of lawn at the rear of the property. Five short white beehive boxes stood at the end and Adele stood with them. She was leaning over an open box as a cloud of bees swarmed around her. She wasn’t wearing gloves or a veil or the protective gear beekeepers wear. All she wore were sandals and the same thin dress she’d worn at my office.
I sidled close to Wendy.
“Shouldn’t she be wearing a net or something?”
“They won’t hurt her.”
“What about us?”
“You, no promises. Come meet Corbin.”
Corbin Schumacher was smaller and older than I would’ve guessed from his voice. He sat in a folding chair under a canopy umbrella at the edge of the lawn, wearing baggy tan slacks, a retro bowling shirt, and well-worn loafers with no socks. He grimaced when he stood, as if he’d felt a sharp pain, but his grip was firm.