Astra. I caught her eye just as she tromboned the slide, kicking a fresh round into the chamber, then clicked on the safety.
"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," she deadpanned.
Chapter 4.
We powered up Laurel Canyon with the siren squealing and turned right onto Mulholland Drive, which runs for a way along the top of a mountain ridge that separates Hollywood from the Valley. The road was almost a thousand feet up and provided spectacular views of Studio City on the right and Hollywood to the left. The view was the reason so many multimillion-dollar estates dotted this hillside.
About a mile down Mulholland, we saw Skyline Drive. It cut in on the left heading farther into the mountainside. As I made the turn I almost hit a blue Maserati that flashed past, speeding onto Mulholland. Alexa snapped her head around to look through our back window but the car had already disappeared.
"Didn't get it," she said, referring to the license plate.
The engine on the Acura roared loudly beneath my siren as w e c ontinued up the grade, passing more cantilevered mansions that hung off the mountain like glass-walled palaces. We were in the 2800 block, which meant we still had a ways to go.
Then a red Ferrari Mondial sped past us. There were two people inside. The savvy driver flashed his high beams up into our eyes so we couldn't read his plate.
"Didn't get that one, either," Alexa said. She was looking out the back window again but missed the rear plate because of the dark, underlit street.
We passed two bumper-chasing Escalades. Both had their headlights off and were screaming down the hill. No front plates. Next, a half-million-dollar Mercedes McLaren whipped past, its high beams blinding us, followed by a Bentley Azure, then another Maserati. This one was yellow with a maroon racing stripe.
"Nope," Alexa said, turning again. It was way too dark to see much.
"Cockroaches running for the baseboards," I muttered as I grabbed a curb number. 3140. The house we wanted was going to be near the top of the hill.
The last car to pass us was a new black Mercedes 350. It was also running without lights, but this time as Alexa spun around she managed to catch the first four letters on the back plate.
"4 L M C!" she exclaimed. "Didn't get any other numbers."
We got to the address and I skidded the MDX to a stop, flipping off my emergency package as Alexa and I bailed.
I clawed my party gun, the backup Taurus Ultra-Lite .38, from my jacket-slimming ankle holster and we both surveyed the scene, our hearts pounding.
3151 was at the very end of Skyline. The driveway looked like an extension of the street leading up a hill onto a large property dominated by a looming overgrown mansion on the left. We were the first unit on the scene.
The huge house was a big, rundown Spanish structure that looked like it was built in the early 1900s, well before the rest of the sixties - style neighborhood had filled in around it. The front yard had gone to seed. An old wooden gate was hanging crooked but standing open across the driveway. I could hear Christmas music coming from the back Bing Crosby singing "Silver Bells/'
"Let's clear it," Alexa said.
I nodded and we passed through the open gate and started up the drive with our guns drawn, moving carefully, ready for anything.
The mansion was dark. As far as I could see, not one light was on inside. We walked up the steep drive, hugging the mansion's south wall, heading toward the sound of the music.
When we neared the top of the hill a huge eight-car garage came into view and we could see lights coming from a large backyard area. We crested the drive and saw that the house sat right on a promontory point. A magnificent half-acre pool area with a spectacular view overlooked the lights of the Valley on the left and parts of Hollywood on the right.
There were neighboring houses on either side but they were newer and sat a little farther back from the point, allowing them views in only one direction or the
"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," she deadpanned.
Chapter 4.
We powered up Laurel Canyon with the siren squealing and turned right onto Mulholland Drive, which runs for a way along the top of a mountain ridge that separates Hollywood from the Valley. The road was almost a thousand feet up and provided spectacular views of Studio City on the right and Hollywood to the left. The view was the reason so many multimillion-dollar estates dotted this hillside.
About a mile down Mulholland, we saw Skyline Drive. It cut in on the left heading farther into the mountainside. As I made the turn I almost hit a blue Maserati that flashed past, speeding onto Mulholland. Alexa snapped her head around to look through our back window but the car had already disappeared.
"Didn't get it," she said, referring to the license plate.
The engine on the Acura roared loudly beneath my siren as w e c ontinued up the grade, passing more cantilevered mansions that hung off the mountain like glass-walled palaces. We were in the 2800 block, which meant we still had a ways to go.
Then a red Ferrari Mondial sped past us. There were two people inside. The savvy driver flashed his high beams up into our eyes so we couldn't read his plate.
"Didn't get that one, either," Alexa said. She was looking out the back window again but missed the rear plate because of the dark, underlit street.
We passed two bumper-chasing Escalades. Both had their headlights off and were screaming down the hill. No front plates. Next, a half-million-dollar Mercedes McLaren whipped past, its high beams blinding us, followed by a Bentley Azure, then another Maserati. This one was yellow with a maroon racing stripe.
"Nope," Alexa said, turning again. It was way too dark to see much.
"Cockroaches running for the baseboards," I muttered as I grabbed a curb number. 3140. The house we wanted was going to be near the top of the hill.
The last car to pass us was a new black Mercedes 350. It was also running without lights, but this time as Alexa spun around she managed to catch the first four letters on the back plate.
"4 L M C!" she exclaimed. "Didn't get any other numbers."
We got to the address and I skidded the MDX to a stop, flipping off my emergency package as Alexa and I bailed.
I clawed my party gun, the backup Taurus Ultra-Lite .38, from my jacket-slimming ankle holster and we both surveyed the scene, our hearts pounding.
3151 was at the very end of Skyline. The driveway looked like an extension of the street leading up a hill onto a large property dominated by a looming overgrown mansion on the left. We were the first unit on the scene.
The huge house was a big, rundown Spanish structure that looked like it was built in the early 1900s, well before the rest of the sixties - style neighborhood had filled in around it. The front yard had gone to seed. An old wooden gate was hanging crooked but standing open across the driveway. I could hear Christmas music coming from the back Bing Crosby singing "Silver Bells/'
"Let's clear it," Alexa said.
I nodded and we passed through the open gate and started up the drive with our guns drawn, moving carefully, ready for anything.
The mansion was dark. As far as I could see, not one light was on inside. We walked up the steep drive, hugging the mansion's south wall, heading toward the sound of the music.
When we neared the top of the hill a huge eight-car garage came into view and we could see lights coming from a large backyard area. We crested the drive and saw that the house sat right on a promontory point. A magnificent half-acre pool area with a spectacular view overlooked the lights of the Valley on the left and parts of Hollywood on the right.
There were neighboring houses on either side but they were newer and sat a little farther back from the point, allowing them views in only one direction or the
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