Read Online Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte - Free Book Online
Authors: Dick Lochte
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Crime, Man-Woman Relationships, California, Ex-convicts, Los Angeles (Calif.), organized crime, Los Angeles, Triangles (Interpersonal relations), Serial Murder Investigation
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gone out the back of the drug store and into Schlesingerâs through its rear, that would suggest sheâd spotted him tailing her and was now aware of his presence.
Even in the air-cooled car, he felt a drop in the outside temperature as they approached the ocean. The Mustang turned on to the Coast Highway, heading north.
Another few miles and both cars passed under the Malibu sign. Eventually they left the Coast Highway at Wildlife Road heading in the direction of a strand of beachfront mini-mansions in a gated community called Point Dume Estates.
The high-end homes had been built in the Eighties to fill the needs of the excessively wealthy, television and film folk in the main, who, for unspecified reasons, were unable to secure residency in The Colony. The Dume Estates crowd could rest assured that they were in the second most elite section of Malibu and that their ridiculous monthly mortgage payments were buying them privacy from the common herd, if not from fire, high tides, rodent infestation and septic tank malfunctions.
Mace followed the Mustang, staying what he thought was a safe distance behind. But he was caught off-guard by how close the Estatesâs security gate was, once you turned south off Wildlife on to Dolphin Way.
The Mustang was barely two car-lengths from him, stopped at a white booth with an orange roof that resembled the tile roofs on the beach front homes resting beyond and below. He braked, but it was too late. Angela Lowell may not have seen him. She could have had her eyes on the gate being raised and, that completed, the road ahead. But the guard standing just outside the booth was facing his way, giving him the Ray-Ban once-over.
That couldnât be helped.
Mace put the Camry into reverse and began engineering a U-turn away from the gate, conscious of the guard focusing on him and the car. He was a big man, black, wearing a brown uniform and a sea-green helmet. He said something and a second uniformed guard, this one white, appeared from behind the booth.
Mace had to blink to make sure he was seeing properly. The white guard seemed to be riding a big motorized two-wheel scooter, rolling his way at surprising speed.
The white guard yelled out, âSir . . . ?â
Mace ignored him, as much as you can ignore a guy on a motor-driven scooter shouting at you. He straightened out and drove off, following Dolphin Way to Dume Drive. Making the turn, he took a final look back and saw the white guard, standing atop his scooter, turning it in a slow circle, eyeballing him.
ELEVEN
M ace picked up a late portable lunch at The Malibu Country Mart, an upscale mall in the vicinity. He as heading for his car, scowling because heâd just paid fifteen dollars for a cup of coffee and a Swiss-cheese sandwich, when he saw a pack of paparazzi pressing in on a young brunette wearing big sunglasses and a tiny summer dress. Mace had no idea who the girl was, though he gathered her name was âGigi,â since that was what the monkey-like photographers were shouting to catch her attention.
She didnât seem to be aware of their existence, but her bodyguard, a black mountain of muscle with a communication device screwed in his right ear, was struggling to keep from swatting the scruffy interlopers from their path. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his gray suit and he kept repeating, âStand back, please,â as if it were a mantra that he didnât really believe in.
Part of the passing Malibu parade.
Mace carried his overpriced lunch to the Camry and returned to Wildlife Road, parking half a block before Dolphin Way where he could dine while observing the traffic leaving Point Dume Estates. He lowered the carâs windows and took advantage of the cool ocean breeze.
For a while, he entertained himself by studying the sea birds as they rode the wind currents. But after nearly an hour their graceful glides began to have a hypnotic effect. His eyelids were at half-mast when
Even in the air-cooled car, he felt a drop in the outside temperature as they approached the ocean. The Mustang turned on to the Coast Highway, heading north.
Another few miles and both cars passed under the Malibu sign. Eventually they left the Coast Highway at Wildlife Road heading in the direction of a strand of beachfront mini-mansions in a gated community called Point Dume Estates.
The high-end homes had been built in the Eighties to fill the needs of the excessively wealthy, television and film folk in the main, who, for unspecified reasons, were unable to secure residency in The Colony. The Dume Estates crowd could rest assured that they were in the second most elite section of Malibu and that their ridiculous monthly mortgage payments were buying them privacy from the common herd, if not from fire, high tides, rodent infestation and septic tank malfunctions.
Mace followed the Mustang, staying what he thought was a safe distance behind. But he was caught off-guard by how close the Estatesâs security gate was, once you turned south off Wildlife on to Dolphin Way.
The Mustang was barely two car-lengths from him, stopped at a white booth with an orange roof that resembled the tile roofs on the beach front homes resting beyond and below. He braked, but it was too late. Angela Lowell may not have seen him. She could have had her eyes on the gate being raised and, that completed, the road ahead. But the guard standing just outside the booth was facing his way, giving him the Ray-Ban once-over.
That couldnât be helped.
Mace put the Camry into reverse and began engineering a U-turn away from the gate, conscious of the guard focusing on him and the car. He was a big man, black, wearing a brown uniform and a sea-green helmet. He said something and a second uniformed guard, this one white, appeared from behind the booth.
Mace had to blink to make sure he was seeing properly. The white guard seemed to be riding a big motorized two-wheel scooter, rolling his way at surprising speed.
The white guard yelled out, âSir . . . ?â
Mace ignored him, as much as you can ignore a guy on a motor-driven scooter shouting at you. He straightened out and drove off, following Dolphin Way to Dume Drive. Making the turn, he took a final look back and saw the white guard, standing atop his scooter, turning it in a slow circle, eyeballing him.
ELEVEN
M ace picked up a late portable lunch at The Malibu Country Mart, an upscale mall in the vicinity. He as heading for his car, scowling because heâd just paid fifteen dollars for a cup of coffee and a Swiss-cheese sandwich, when he saw a pack of paparazzi pressing in on a young brunette wearing big sunglasses and a tiny summer dress. Mace had no idea who the girl was, though he gathered her name was âGigi,â since that was what the monkey-like photographers were shouting to catch her attention.
She didnât seem to be aware of their existence, but her bodyguard, a black mountain of muscle with a communication device screwed in his right ear, was struggling to keep from swatting the scruffy interlopers from their path. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his gray suit and he kept repeating, âStand back, please,â as if it were a mantra that he didnât really believe in.
Part of the passing Malibu parade.
Mace carried his overpriced lunch to the Camry and returned to Wildlife Road, parking half a block before Dolphin Way where he could dine while observing the traffic leaving Point Dume Estates. He lowered the carâs windows and took advantage of the cool ocean breeze.
For a while, he entertained himself by studying the sea birds as they rode the wind currents. But after nearly an hour their graceful glides began to have a hypnotic effect. His eyelids were at half-mast when
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