Читать онлайн «Chasing Darkness»
Автор Роберт Крейс
Robert Crais
Chasing Darkness
Elvis Cole – #11, 2008
for Shelby Rotolo
because rope ladders and
Christmas tree forts last forever
Acknowledgments
The publication of a book requires many hands. My thanks, as always, to-
– my editor, Marysue Rucci, and publishers David Rosenthal and Louise Burke.
– my copy editor, Patricia Crais. Thankfully, one of us can spell.
– Aaron Priest, Lisa Vance, and Lucy Childs for their wise counsel and zealous representation; and,
– Carol Topping and Clay Fourrier for creating the wonderful worlds of our website and newsletter at RobertCrais. com. Our family of readers now extends around the world, with numbers in the millions.
PROLOGUE
BEAKMAN AND Trenchard could smell the fire-it was still a mile away, but a sick desert wind carried the promise of Hell. Fire crews from around the city were converging on Laurel Canyon like red angels, as were black-and-white Adam cars, Emergency Services vehicles, and water-dropping helicopters out of Van Nuys and Burbank. The helicopters pounded by so low that Beakman and Trenchard could not hear their supervisor. Beakman cupped his ear.
“What did you say?”
Their supervisor, a patrol sergeant named Karen Philips, leaned into their car and shouted again.
“Start at the top of Lookout Mountain. Emergency Services is already up, but you gotta make sure those people leave. Don’t take any shit. You got it?”
Trenchard, who was senior and also driving, shouted back.
“We’re on it. ”
They jumped into line with the fire engines racing up Laurel Canyon, then climbed Lookout Mountain Avenue up the steep hill.
Once home to rock ‘n’ roll royalty from Mama Cass Elliot to Frank Zappa to Jim Morrison, Laurel Canyon had been the birthplace of country rock in the sixties. Crosby, Stills, and Nash had all lived there. So had Eric Burdon, Keith Richards, and, more recently, Marilyn Manson and at least one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Beakman, who banged away at a Fender Telecaster in a cop band called Nightstix, thought the place was musical magic.Beakman pointed at a small house.
“I think Joni Mitchell used to live there. ”
“Who gives a shit? You see that sky? Man, look at that. The frakkin’ air is on fire!”
A charcoal bruise smudged the sky as smoke pushed toward Sunset Boulevard. Beginning as a house fire at the crest of the Hollywood Hills, the flames had jumped to the brush in Laurel Canyon Park, then spread with the wind. Three houses had already been lost, and more were threatened. Beakman would have plenty of stories for his kids when he returned to his day job on Monday.
Jonathan Beakman was a Level II Reserve Officer with the Los Angeles Police Department, which meant he was armed, fully sworn, and did everything a full-time uniformed officer did, except he did it only two days a month. In his regular life, Beakman taught high-school algebra. His kids weren’t particularly interested in the Pythagorean theorem, but they bombed him with questions after his weekend ride in the car.
Trenchard, who had twenty-three years on the job and didn’t like music, said, “Here’s how it goes down-we get to the top, we’ll leave the car and work down five or six houses on foot, me on one side, you on the other, then go back for the car and do it again. Should go pretty quick like that. ”
