Part 1 (2/2)
”Maybe with him or maybe on my own, but I'm going to have a bright future, Angelo. A comfortable little life at a small university stagnating does not appeal to me.” Randi said.
”You're dumping me for Biff?” Angelo cried.
”No, not exactly, it's just that, well I don't think that a relations.h.i.+p is in the cards for us Angelo.” She delivered the coup de gras. ”I hope we can still be friends.”
Angelo turned and left Randi's apartment.
1997: Vista City
Angelo looked at the report with sense of far away sadness. It blinked idly on his computer, of no real consequence. He was a cop in Vista City now. L.A. hadn't been his beat for a couple of years.
He had his net-mail daemon set to search for any mention of Randi Aiken. Now she was Randi Aiken-Marlowe, wife of the richest electronics entrepreneur in Southern California, just like she said she wanted.
Except that the newest report had her as the late Mrs. Randi Aiken-Marlowe. Tragically deceased in a traffic accident in the canyons north of the city, survived by her grieving husband.
Angelo knew that this should be the end of it. He should be free now. He wasn't. He had to go and see in person. Then he would be free.
Angelo got up from his desk and walked into Scott Ashby's office. Scott was his supervisor in the Vista City Police Department. He had white hair that used to be blond and frivolous taste in ties.
”Scott? Can I have some time off?” Angelo asked.
”Why?” Scott asked.
”An old friend died. I'd like to look into it and see if there's any way I can help.”
Scott thought about it. ”We have the movie up here to film in a couple of weeks. I'd like you back in time to help us with the security on that. And take your cell phone in case an emergency comes up.”
Angelo rolled his eyes. ”Security on a movie set? I'm a homicide detective! Let them hire security guards.”
”Sorry. That's why we're the Special Squad. I have the operational freedom to let you wander off for a couple of weeks here and there, but we have to pull the tedious details.” Scott explained. ”Call it paying your dues.”
”Yeah, right.” Angelo turned to leave. ”I'll be back on time.”
”Thanks, Angelo. I'm sorry about your friend.”
”Me, too.” Angelo said.
Angelo never got used to the fact that it took longer to drive to the airport in San Francisco than to fly from San Francisco to Los Angeles.
LAX was the usual madhouse. It always seemed worse than he remembered. Eventually he picked up his rental sedan and drove out to the crash site up in the canyons north of Hollywood.
The wreck was right where the report said it was. A red Masarati sports car lay wadded up at the bottom of the cliff as though it had been discarded by some giant child.
A plain-wrapped police sedan was there. Two people were poking around the wreck near the bottom of the hill. Angelo climbed down the embankment on the narrow path that wound up and down the cliff. It looked like a goat path, except that there were no surviving goats loose in L.A. County any more. The path was cut by people hiking up and down the canyon for their own reasons.
At the bottom of the path, Angelo met the two people who were poking around.
One was a man slightly taller than Angelo, with brown hair, brown eyes and a deep tan. He had a rectangular kindly face. The other person was a blond woman with a graceful dancer's body.
<script>