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“It’s a partial, California plates AMO 67. It belongs to a Chrysler 300 not any more than five years old I would say.”
“That ought to be enough. I’m not doing anything right now and I’m right in front of my computer. Stay on the line and I’ll pull it up, save you some time.”
“You sure? I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account. You can call me back.”
“No, it’s no trouble. Now is the perfect time.”
Doreen hadn’t run a lot of license plates for Margot but every other time she had insisted she do it when she wasn’t on the clock. She always called back, usually the next day. Margot was thinking this might be a good thing, considering the F.B.I. was in on this. Then she heard the helicopter.
“Just call me back,” she said.
“No, just give me a minute.”
“Are you keeping me on the line so they can trace my call?”
Doreen was silent.
Ames came on the line. “You can hang up if you want, we’ve already determined your location. If it helps, we didn’t give her much choice. I told you worse than me would be coming for you. You should have listened. Tell Mal to come out quietly.”
Margot ended the call. She’d walked over a block. A look back showed a pair of black SUVs—probably belonging to the F.B.I.—rolling into the parking lot of the Seashell Motor Lodge. Following close behind was a S.W.A.T. vehicle, more like a tank than a truck.
She ducked her head and kept going the other direction. It looked like they had tracked her phone to the general location and then figured the most likely place for her and Mal to be hiding was the Seashell. Mal had a deal with the owner, but they weren’t going to risk getting on the wrong side of the F.B.I. over Mal.
Margot saw a bar and walked inside. If they’d already spotted her, it would merely allow her to get a drink before she got arrested.
She sat down. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone took a date. A fat guy wearing a baseball cap with the words ‘Layla’s West’ embroidered across the front was behind the bar. Margot hadn’t looked at the sign out front but figured it also read ‘Layla’s West.’ He smiled like he was genuinely glad to see her. Looking around, she could see why. She was his only customer.
“Makers on the rocks.”
“How about Jack? I’m all out of Makers.”
“Jack on the rocks it is.”
He poured her the drink then left her alone. Margot sipped it, waiting for the door to burst open and men with guns to come in. When she finished and no one came in, she figured they hadn’t see her. With her car a block away, there was at least a chance they hadn’t see that either. She could still hear the helicopter though.
Margot took a hundred dollar bill out of the stack Dean Stone had given her and set it on the bar.
“How much for your hat?” she asked the bartender.
“This hat? This hat is not for sale.”
Before Margot could say anything, he held up his index finger and reached under the bar. For a second, even though there was no way he could know anything, she thought he was going to pull a gun out and make a citizen’s arrest. Instead, he came up with a cleaner version of the hat on his head.
“I can sell you this one for about fifteen bucks. I got the bright idea customers would buy these things, didn’t really work out. I can sell you a shirt too, it’ll only cost you ten bucks.”
“I’ll just take the hat.” She tapped the c-note sitting on the bar. “If you let me walk out the back door you can keep the change.”
“You in some kind of trouble?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah, take my money and let me walk out the back door.”
The bartender took the money and pointed to a door marked emergency exit only. “There’s no alarm or anything. Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.”
