The Crossing by Michael Connelly

having any. The bartender put down fresh martinis in front of them just the same. With sidecar shakers on ice.
    Haller wasn’t going anywhere soon. Ellis retraced his steps and went into one of the old phone booths in the back entrance hall. There was no longer a pay phone in the booth but the small space could still be used for privacy. He closed the door, pulled out his own phone, and called Long.
    “Did you follow him?”
    “Yeah, we’re going up Highland.”
    “The plate?”
    “There’s a law enforcement block on it. Says LAPD.”
    “He’s a cop.”
    “Yep, or possibly retired. He looked like he could have put in at least twenty-five.”
    “Either way, what’s he doing talking to our guy?”
    “No way of telling. Let’s see where he goes.”
    “I’ll be here. Looks like our man is working some chick at the bar.”
    “Talk to you.”
     
    Long didn’t care what Ellis thought. The blue Cherokee up ahead was a nice ride. Classic squared-off design that was utilitarian and solid. Long wondered why they had changed them. Now they looked like any other SUV. Bloated, like a fat guy whose blubber goes over his belt. His ex-wife called them muffin tops.
    The mystery man was now on Cahuenga, still heading north. Long saw the left turn signal on the Cherokee start flashing. The mystery man was going to head up into the hills. This would complicate things for Long.
    Long drove by the Cherokee as it waited for an opening in the traffic to turn. He glanced to his left and saw the left turn led to an immediate split. Mulholland Drive to the left, Woodrow Wilson to the right.
    He watched the side-view mirror and as soon as he saw the Cherokee make the turn, he hit his emergency lights and made a U-turn right in front of oncoming traffic that had slowed to a stop. He turned off the lights, pegged the accelerator, and got back to the turnoff. There was no sign of the Cherokee’s tail-lights in either direction.
    Without hesitation Long chose Mulholland because it was the more popular street and it went farther. He started the winding road up to the crest but pretty soon realized he had chosen wrong. The roadway wound back and forth, edging the mountain. He wasn’t that far behind the Cherokee and would have seen its lights on one of the hairpin curves ahead.
    Once more he made a U-turn and this time headed back to Woodrow Wilson, pushing the sedan beyond safe limits on the winding road. All he needed was Ellis coming down on him for losing this guy. Fuck the limits.
    Woodrow Wilson was a narrow residential road that wound its way up the opposite side of the mountain from Mulholland. After a half dozen switchbacks and hairpins Long finally saw the familiar lights of the Cherokee ahead. He slowed down and maintained distance. Soon he rounded a curve and saw the Cherokee pulling into a lighted carport next to a powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle. He drove by without breaking speed.
    Long followed the road around two more bends before pulling over and putting the transmission in park. He checked his phone for texts or missed calls from Ellis. There was nothing. He let three minutes go by and then used the empty carport of a house to turn around. He then killed the lights on his car and coasted past the house where the Cherokee had parked. It was a small cantilevered house with the glowing lights of the city behind it.
    Long checked the plates of the Volkswagen as he went by. He also noticed that a city trash bin had been rolled out to the curb.
     
    Haller was striking out with the woman next to him and was chasing defeat with vodka. Ellis watched him in the mirror behind the bar, camouflaged by the crowd. He held a full beer now, as part of blending in, but was not drinking from the bottle. He never ingested alcohol.
    The woman Haller was working was at least fifteen years younger and Haller had ignored a key rule when it came to picking up younger women. Avoid reminders of the age difference—especially mirrors behind the