The Night Crew

down the Ventura, when one lost it and rolled his rebuilt Charger off the freeway and down an embankment. They started that way, but when Anna got an exact location from Louis, she called it off. ‘‘If we get up there, we’re trapped in traffic,’’ she said. ‘‘Not worth the time.’’
    ‘‘The kid’s dead,’’ Coughlin said.
    ‘‘Yeah, but we can’t get in and out, and that’s the main thing,’’ Anna said. A chase started on the Santa Monica, the highway patrol running after a Porsche 928. Anna pointed them down the San Diego as Louis monitored the chase.
    ‘‘He’s probably gonna have to make a decision when he gets to the San Diego,’’ she said. ‘‘Either north or south. If he comes this way, we might have a shot. A nine twentyeight means there’s some money. Could be a movie tiein . . .’’
    But the Porsche went straight on, dropped onto the PCH and suddenly pulled over and gave it up.
    Nothing. Later on, they headed for a truck fire, broke off before they got there. Arrived too late at a shooting incident, found nobody hurt and cops everywhere. Coughlin checked again, and the trailing cars had not spotted anyone tracking them.
    ‘‘Waste of time,’’ Anna said, pulling on her lower lip. ‘‘We’re wasting time.’’
    ‘‘Got to be a little patient,’’ Coughlin said. Very late, they were rolling south on Sepulveda, looking for any movement at all, when Louis said, ‘‘Body found.’’
    ‘‘Where?’’
    ‘‘Mmm . . . it’s over a fence. Must be pretty high, because they can see it but they can’t get to it. No address yet.’’
    ‘‘Okay.’’ Coughlin was concentrating on the driving, Louis worked the radios, and Anna let her mind drift. All evening, she’d felt herself drifting away from the immediacy of the truck; out of it.
    The problem was Clark. Were they done? Certainly. Or probably. But all those years ago, when they were working their music together, she playing it, Clark composing; when they were going to concerts together, and clubs, toying with rock & roll; when Clark was putting together the ‘‘Jump Rope Concerto,’’ the first work to bring him notice; in the years they were doing that, she had woven a mental web around them, a cocoon to hold them—and when suddenly it began to come apart, she’d never dealt with it. She’d fantasized, instead, of pulling all the strands back together.
    And now she thought, this perfect house she’d built in Venice, with all the homey touches from the Midwest: was this a nest for Clark? Is that where the energy had come from? Because he’d like it. No—he’d love it. She’d been obsessive about it, all the small touches, the quilts, the rag carpets on the wooden floors, the folk art, the pottery.
    Was that what she’d been doing? Building for a man who’d engineered a break that had hurt her worse than anything since the death of her mother. ‘‘Bellagio,’’ Louis said.
    Anna frowned, missing it. ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘The body was found off Bellagio.’’
    ‘‘Over a fence?’’ she asked, sitting up.
    ‘‘Yeah.’’
    ‘‘Get an address,’’ she snapped. To Coughlin: ‘‘If it’s over a fence, it could be the Bel Air Country Club. Get up on the freeway, let’s go . . .’’ The body was on the golf course, but so were the cops, and they couldn’t get close. Coughlin edged the truck up to a cop car and the cop said, ‘‘Get the fuck out of here.’’
    ‘‘Hey, I’m just trying . . .’’
    ‘‘Didn’t you hear me, dummy? Get the fuck out of here,’’ the cop said. He was young, with a pale, Nordic face, untouched by any apparent emotion other than irritation.
    ‘‘All right, but I gotta go up there to turn around.’’
    ‘‘Hey! You ain’t coming through here,’’ the cop said. ‘‘Just back it up.’’
    ‘‘I can’t back it up.’’
    ‘‘Back the fuckin’ truck up or I’ll have your ass out here on the street, wise-guy.’’
    Coughlin backed the truck up, muttering under his breath, Anna and Louis watched in amusement, and when they finally got turned, Louis said, ‘‘Fuckin’ pigs.’’
    Coughlin looked up into the mirror and said, ‘‘I shoulda kicked his ass.’’
    ‘‘They would have thumped you like a tub of apple juice,’’ Anna said.
    Coughlin continued on down the street, paused at the corner, snarled, ‘‘Little fuckin’ Nazi rat.’’ And then: ‘‘You gotta put up with this all the time?’’
    ‘‘All the