CHAPTER 2
"No, Hoyt. I'm telling you – the guy was wearing a black ski mask." Matt was parked in the lot of a grocery just around the corner from where the cement mixer had almost creamed him.
"Did you get a number off of it?" Michael had thought the PI was joking when he first called.
"Yeah, it was Rollins – truck number 412."
"Are you sure you're okay?" Hoyt started looking through the list of stolen vehicles.
"Yeah, I just..." He took a deep breath. "I'm starting to wonder." He told the cop what the mechanic had said about the brake lines on his truck.
"Here it is...it was reported stolen out of a store parking lot. The driver ran in to get a drink and someone took it. Maybe you should just go home, Houston. Turn on the alarm system and take the day off."
"And then what? Wake up to deal with it again tomorrow?" He blew out a breath. "Look, don't tell anybody about this. I don't want it getting back to CJ and worrying her. But see what you can find out and let me know, okay?"
"Alright. Just be careful."
"Thanks." Matt hung up and took a deep breath hoping that the two events weren't linked and headed back to the office.
MEANWHILE...
"Oxford, those two attempts were weak. You've got five days left before I take the video to the Chief."
"I'm trying to come up with something else. Just give me time." The detective's hands were shaking as he tried to drink the bottle of beer that was sitting in front of him at the bar.
"It might help if you didn't drink." The mysterious caller hung up, leaving John Oxford to stare first at his phone and then at the bottle in front of him. Putting down the bottle, he paid for his drinks and walked out into the bright sunlight of LA. He didn't know who the guy was blackmailing him, but he needed to find out. If he could find out who it was, he could eliminate him – instead of Houston. The only thing he knew about what had happened that night was the name of the bar that he had been in and where he had come to in an alley next to a couple of warehouses. He went to the drugstore on the corner, buying a bottle of mouthwash and then straightened up his clothing before going to the Property Assessor's office and doing some research on who owned the warehouses.
After waiting in line and then flashing his badge, he got the help of a weaselly little man who gave him the names and addresses of the owners. He immediately recognized one of them: Floyd Hooten, an FBI agent that he had run into on a few occasions dealing with kidnappings. It had to be him.
John made his way to the man's home address, only to find out that he had left a few weeks before without leaving a forwarding address. With nothing else to go on, he went to the warehouse and began looking for a way in. He was met with a pistol to the back of the head before Hooten cuffed him and dragged him inside.
"So you decided to do some detective work for a change, huh?" He gave a derisive laugh. "I didn't think you were actually capable of that."
"Why do you want Houston dead?"
"Why do you? And I know you do. I've been watching you for a while, Oxford. You're a sorry excuse for a detective and Houston being around just makes you look even worse. I saw the chewing out that Lt. Hoyt gave you that night at the fire scene back in December."
Oxford gave a surprised grunt. "You were there?"
"I'm everywhere I need to be. You, on the other hand – well, let's just say the only place you're going to be is face down in a prison cell. I don't really need to explain – do I?" He laughed as Oxford shook his head. "Now, since you know who I am and I've proven that I can kill you at any time I so choose – let's cut the crap. I want him dead. But I'm willing to give you an idea. You know he's been working with the Fire Marshal's Office? Fires are dangerous places to be, John – especially when you can't breathe. How do firemen breathe in a fire?"
"Air tanks...okay. But I get him dead and you give me all of the evidence and we never see or talk to each other again, right? Because now I could do just as much damage to you as you can to me." Oxford tried for a look of confidence.
"Sure, John. Now we're associates, right?" The agent uncuffed him. "Remember – five days are all you have left."