On the other side was a round brick courtyard surrounded by greenery. Plants in pots. Tiled fountain off to the left; no drip. Soft lighting revealed the house, a split-level Spanish design, tile-roofed, with nice arched windows.
Very good life.
No sign of the BMW or the Expedition, but the courtyard terminated in an attached three-car garage that sat under a wing of the house. A low-wattage bulb revealed a trio of bleached wood chevron doors that matched the gate. To the right, an iron-railed staircase led up to what Stahl assumed was the house’s main entrance. Hard to say how big the place was, it looked good-sized.
He thought about the layout. The door up the stairs would be where you had your guests enter, if you wanted to make an impression. First thing they’d see would be a windowful of city lights.
With no one to impress, Shull would drive in through the garage, take an interior staircase into the house. No BMW in sight said that’s what he’d done tonight. Meaning, he was alone.
Or with someone he didn’t care to impress.
Stahl stood there, perched on the gate frame, figuring this would be another uneventful night. Then a rustle of leaves—several rustles—tightened the back of his neck, and he got down and pressed himself against the ivy-colored wall.
More noise. More than a rodent scurrying. Someone sniffing the air.
Stahl waited. Nothing happened.
Then the sound repeated itself, louder, and twenty feet down, the brush parted and a deer—a smallish doe—began prancing across the road.
The animal stopped in the middle, stood there twitching. Stahl’s heartbeat was way slow—the way it always was after it had been tweaked. Quick recovery . . . from some things . . .
The deer considered her options, finally bounded off and ran down a driveway, disappearing between two houses.
A regular; she knew who was home and who wasn’t. Now someone’s garden would be a late-night snack. And, eventually, the doe would be some coyote’s dinner. Or maybe a puma would get her. Stahl had heard that the mountain lions were making a big comeback—wildlife, in general, was inching its way toward the urban jungle. That had certainly been true near the base. All sorts of critters turning up in the strangest places—his favorite was the snake who chose a colonel’s wife’s bidet as a drinking fountain. She squats in the dark, gets a slithery surprise . . .
Stahl felt himself smiling.
Noise on the other side of Shull’s gate wiped his face clean.
Ignition rumble.
He ran to the gate, regained his foothold, chanced a quick look. The center garage door slid open, and he jumped down, sprinted back to his car.
He barely made it back as the gate swung back.
Headlights, a new set, higher up than the BMW.
The Expedition nosed its way out, paused, sped away.
Black SUV. Blackened windows.
One-man tails were impractical, often impossible, but with an arrogant guy like Shull, the job was easier. Why would the bastard even imagine he was being followed?
Stahl drove with his lights off as Shull sped down the hill way too fast. The Expedition headed north on Cahuenga and over to a jazz club just south of the Valley. Not far from Baby Boy’s apartment. Shull left the Expedition with a parking valet, stayed inside for forty minutes, and retrieved the SUV. Now it was nearly 1 A.M., and with the traffic thinned, Stahl had to keep his distance.
Shull didn’t go far, just a quick jaunt into Studio City, where he had coffee and a burger at an all-night coffee shop on Ventura near Lankershim. No valet, here. Stahl parked in the half-empty lot, observed the window.
Four cups of coffee, black. Shull inhaled his burger.
Fueling up.
Shull paid in cash, got back in the SUV.
Back to the city on Laurel Canyon, a right turn on Sunset. A few blocks up, Shull pulled in front of a bar called Bambu. Neo tiki-hut décor, bored bouncer in front. Another valet situation.
Stahl drove a block, hung a quick U, watched from across Sunset as Shull got out of the SUV smoking a cigar.