Mission Canyon Read Online Free

without signaling. ’’ The van swerved, and he swerved, and the mailbox got the worst of it. His fault, but Brand took off and he had to follow him.
    ‘‘And every second, he’s getting farther away. If you’ll give me the ticket, you can go find him.’’
    His face was luminous with anger. Then he caught sight of me, and a dismaying expression ignited in his eyes: hope. I jogged up, shaking my head. His shoulders dropped.
    The shorter cop was a brunette built like a stove. She said, ‘‘Ma’am, this gentleman claims he saw an individual who’s being sought by the police.’’
    ‘‘Franklin Brand,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s a fugitive wanted on a manslaughter warrant.’’
    ‘‘So we hear. You saw this individual?’’
    ‘‘Heading down State toward Carrillo.’’
    Her partner half turned and spoke into his portable radio, calling in the information. The radio squawked.
    Jesse pointed at my bloody knee. ‘‘What happened?’’
    ‘‘Never mind.’’
    The cop eyed my costume. ‘‘Is the rest of the Mod Squad still chasing the suspect?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. Just follow the groovy theme music; you can’t miss them.’’
    She could have battered doors open with that face. Time for me to dial down the attitude.
    Jesse said to her, ‘‘Chasing the suspect should be what you’re doing.’’
    He gripped the push-rims of the wheelchair. His hands, in his half-fingered gloves, looked bloodless.
    The cop ripped a ticket out of her citation book and gave it to him. ‘‘The Postal Service will contact you about the mailbox. Next time, watch for oncoming traffic.’’
    ‘‘We done?’’
    Without waiting for a response, he spun and headed for his car.
    He’d barely started the engine before he got on the phone again, calling Chris Ramseur, the police detective who handled the hit-and-run investigation.
    ‘‘Tell him to call me. It’s urgent,’’ he said. Hanging up, he looked my way. ‘‘Did you serve Diamond?’’
    ‘‘No. There were two Zorros.’’
    ‘‘Damn.’’ He pulled out. ‘‘ ‘You saw this individual?’ They think I’m seeing ghosts.’’
    ‘‘Chris won’t.’’
    He swung onto State, a brazen illegal turn. ‘‘Brand walked across the street right in front of my car. He stared straight at me.’’
    The image gave me a chill. ‘‘Did he recognize you?’’
    "Didn’t give me a second glance. No, he was going to the museum."
    We looked at each other.
    ‘‘Mako,’’ I said.
    ‘‘The ghost that won’t stay dead, no matter how deep I bury it.’’
    Before Franklin Brand was a fugitive, he was a vice president at Mako Technologies. He was a star player at the company, which designed cybersecurity systems for corporations and the government. When he was charged with the hit-and-run, Mako panicked. It tried to divorce itself from the crash. Executives expressed shock at the charges. They disputed Brand’s guilt and convinced others to dispute it, persuading their insurance company to deny claims under Brand’s policy.
    That left Jesse up the creek. He was critically injured and flat broke, a law student facing a six-figure medical bill that Mako’s insurer refused to pay. The future looked brutal.
    ‘‘I saw a life selling pencils,’’ he once told me. ‘‘Or worse, sitting on a corner holding a cardboard sign: ‘Hungry, toss food.’ I had nothing to lose. I loaded and fired with everything I had.’’
    He threatened to sue the insurer for bad-faith denial of liability. Then he called George Rudenski at Mako. He talked to him about Isaac’s death, and his own spinal cord injury, and about Mako giving Brand a $65,000 car to play with. He explained that when he sued the insurance company, Mako would be a codefendant. Then he mailed Rudenski photos of the accident scene. Color photos.
    Forty-eight hours later, the insurance company agreed to square things with Jesse and with Isaac’s brother. Rudenski had put it right.
    ‘‘Mixed emotions’’