Death Is A Redhead

Chapter Six: The Road Trip

David called back, pacing the wooden floor of his studio apartment. The phone went straight to voicemail. He calls back once more.

"Come on, come on," he whispered, banging his free fist against his thigh.

No reply. Deep breath. He rubbed his hand roughly down his face. Returning to his phone, he scrolled through his recent calls and taps on Hector Carmona's number. The phone rang eight times before a grumpy detective answers.

"You two do know I don't work for you, right? What do you want now?"

"It's Felicity. She's in L.A. I think something may have happened to her."

"She's already there? She just called me last night."

"Yes, she's there and she's outside the Volkof guy's ex-wife's house. I think I heard a gunshot and now she isn't answering my calls," David spat rapidly.

"I doubt it was a gunshot."

"Well, maybe not, but I need to head that way anyway," he said, feigning composure. "What is the ex-wife's address?"

"Give me a minute. I'll get it to you."

David sat the phone on the kitchen counter, putting it on speaker phone. He swept through his apartment, like a tornado, tossing clothes around until a fresh set landed on his unshowered body. It takes almost six hours to get from Phoenix to Los Angles. No time to spare.

"Did you find it yet?" he yelled into the phone.

"Almost. I've got the files right here."

David grabbed his keys, wallet and phone and headed out the door, not bothering to lock it behind him. In the parking garage, behind the wheel, he started the engine. The digital clock on the dash flashed 7:40 in bright green.

"Now would be a great time for that address, Hector."

"Here it is! Are you ready?"

David grabbed a crumpled receipt from the passenger seat and a pen. "Go!"

"612 Vineyard Lane, Los Angeles, California."

"Got it," he said, hanging up.

Quickly, carefully, he entered the address into a GPS app, then headed for the I-10. The radio played quietly in the background. He didn't hear it. The robotic GPS voice directed him to the freeway. He didn't hear her either.

"Stay on Interstate 10 West for 372 miles," she said, as he merged onto the freeway. He distracted himself by weaving through traffic, trying to stay ahead of the morning commuters. After a while, the traffic thinned out. He'd just gotten through Buckeye, a suburb on the outer limits of Phoenix. "Stay on Interstate 10 West for 330 miles," she said.

This was the hardest part of the trip. No traffic meant he could make better time. It also would give him more time to think. To worry. He stared at the straight road ahead of him. The freeway had narrowed into two lanes and stretched as far as the horizon, disappearing into a clump of mountains. To the left and to the right, there was nothing but sand and creosote bushes. An occasional prickly pear or saguaro might add a little green to the mostly brown landscape.

He set the cruise control to eighty-two miles per hour. He figured that's about as fast as he could go without risking a ticket. He didn't have time to get pulled over today. The quiet music is louder now. James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" was playing. He changed the station immediately.

A factory hit by a popular DJ boomed through the speakers. He turned up the volume so loud he could feel the electronic beat vibrating through his whole body. Maybe he could drown out the thoughts threatening to burst forth from the back of his mind. It worked for about an hour.