Chapter 2: Der Rave 1
Die Sonne der Mojave-Wüste spendete keine sanfte Wärme; sie war eine drückende Last, wie ein Hammer auf einem Amboss. Cliff fuhr mit offenen Fenstern, die Klimaanlage des Ford war längst ausgefallen, und der heiße, staubige Wind wirbelte die brütend heiße Luft im Fahrerhaus nur umher. Die Landschaft war ein ausgebleichter Albtraum aus Gestrüpp und rissiger Erde, der Highway ein schimmernder schwarzer Fluss aus geschmolzenem Asphalt. Er fuhr schon seit zwei Stunden; Rubys Wegbeschreibung lag auf einer Serviette neben dem .38er Revolver auf dem Beifahrersitz.
Biegen Sie bei Meilenstein 77 ab. Halten Sie Ausschau nach dem verrosteten Schulbus. Folgen Sie dem unbefestigten Weg fünf Meilen. Wenn Sie ein Schild sehen, das vor dem Betreten verbotener Wege warnt, sind Sie auf dem richtigen Weg.
Er fand den Bus, ein von Sand und Zeit völlig ausgelaugtes Gerippe. Der Feldweg dahinter war kaum noch zu erkennen. Der Ford ächzte und stöhnte, seine Federung drohte bei jedem Stein und jeder Unebenheit auseinanderzubrechen. Staub wirbelte hinter ihm auf, ein beigefarbenes Banner kündigte seine Ankunft an. Er hoffte, niemand würde zusehen.
Plötzlich tauchte der Lieferwagen auf, eingebettet in einem flachen Ausläufer des Bachbetts wie ein tickender Riese. Es war ein alter Chevy Step-Van, so ein Lieferwagen. Sein weißer Lack war von der Sonne zu einem kränklichen Grau verblasst, und er war mit einem Gewirr seltsamer, selbstgebauter Anbauteile bedeckt: Satellitenschüsseln, in schrägen Winkeln geneigte Solarpaneele und etwas, das aussah, als wären mehrere Autobatterien zu einem wackeligen Stapel zusammengebunden. Stacheldraht glitzerte um ihn herum.
Cliff stellte den Motor ab. Die Stille war erdrückend, nur unterbrochen vom Ticken des abkühlenden Metalls und dem trockenen Rauschen des Windes. Er stieg aus, die Hitze stieg sichtbar vom Boden auf. Den .38er ließ er im Truck. Bewaffnet in der Festung eines Paranoikers aufzutauchen, war ein sicherer Weg, sich eine Kugel ins Gesicht zu fangen.
Er war drei Meter vom Lieferwagen entfernt, als aus einem im Schatten eines Felsens verborgenen Gitter eine Stimme knisterte. Sie klang digital verzerrt, geschlechtslos. „Das reicht. Sagen Sie, was Sie wollen.“
„Ruby Red hat mich geschickt“, rief Cliff und blinzelte gegen das grelle Licht. „Sie meinte, du könntest mir da vielleicht bei ner heiklen Sache helfen.“
Eine lange Pause. Eine Kamera an einer dünnen Stange über der Tür des Lieferwagens surrte und fokussierte ihn mit einem leisen Klicken.
„Du bist Lohman. Der Polizist.“
„Ehemaliger Polizist.“
„Das ist dasselbe. Dreh dich um. Langsam.“
Cliff kam der Aufforderung nach und hielt die Arme leicht vom Körper abgespreizt. Er spürte die unsichtbare Beobachtung wie eine körperliche Berührung.
„Du bist sauber. Für einen Stadtjungen.“ Die Stimme verlor etwas von ihrer Verzerrung und klang nun wie ein junger Mann, mit einem Hauch von Misstrauen. „Hintertür. Und fass nichts an.“
Ein dumpfer Schlag hallte aus dem Lieferwagen wider, und ein Teil der Seitenwand schwang knarrend nach außen und gab keine Tür, sondern eine dunkle, schmale Öffnung frei. Cliff duckte sich hinein.
Der Übergang war schockierend. Von der gleißenden, 43 Grad heißen Wüste in eine düstere, gekühlte Höhle. Die Luft summte vom Geräusch der Server und roch nach Ozon, kaltem Metall und abgestandenen Energydrinks. Entlang einer Wand leuchteten Monitore, die scrollenden Code, Überwachungskamerabilder der kargen Landschaft draußen und eine Live-Satellitenkarte anzeigten. In der Mitte, umgeben von einem hufeisenförmigen Gebilde aus Tastaturen und Bildschirmen, saß Chester.
Er war jünger, als Cliff erwartet hatte, vielleicht Anfang dreißig, mit dem blassen, weichen Blick eines Mannes, der seit Jahren kein Tageslicht mehr gesehen hatte. Sein braunes Haar war wirr, und er trug eine dicke Brille, die seine müden Augen noch verstärkte. Ein verwaschenes T-Shirt einer Band, von der Cliff noch nie gehört hatte, hing locker an seinem schmalen Körper. Er stand nicht auf, sondern drehte sich nur in seinem Stuhl um, sein Blick musternd.
„Ruby meinte, du seist diskret“, sagte Cliff, während sich seine Augen an die Dunkelheit gewöhnten.
„Ruby sagt vieles. Meistens sagt sie: ‚Chester, ich brauche einen Gefallen.‘“ Er deutete auf einen Klappstuhl. „Setz dich. Blockier nicht die Luftzufuhr zu Server drei.“
Cliff setzte sich. Er zog den silbernen USB-Stick aus seiner Jackentasche und hielt ihn hoch. „Das ist der Gefallen.“
Chesters Blick ruhte darauf. Er griff nicht danach. „Beschreib die Quelle.“
“A small-time hustler named Peter. Got in over his head. Disappeared. His apartment was tossed by professionals. He gave this to his sister for safekeeping. Said it was something he shouldn’t have taken.”
“What was his field?”
“Petty theft. Fencing. Occasionally driving for bigger fish when he needed cash. Not a tech guy.”
Chester finally took the drive, handling it with the tips of his fingers as if it were radioactive. He plugged it into a standalone, non-networked laptop that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts. The screen lit up. His fingers flew across a secondary keyboard, lines of command prompt text scrolling faster than Cliff could read.
“Government-grade encryption,” Chester muttered, more to himself than to Cliff. “Not standard NSA. Custom. Military contractor, maybe. Heavy-duty stuff.” He whistled softly. “Your petty thief stole from some very serious people.”
“Can you open it?”
“Can I open it?” Chester gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s not a pickle jar. This is a multi-layered, probably biometric or key-file triggered vault. Breaking it isn’t about clever code. It’s about brute force, time, and not triggering the data-wipe protocols that are undoubtedly baked in.” He glanced at Cliff. “And it’s about motivation. Ruby’s favor only gets you in the door. This,” he tapped the laptop, “is billable hours. Dangerous, ‘might-get-a-visit-from-men-in-black-vans’ billable hours.”
“How much?”
“Five grand. Up front. In crypto. No paper trail.”
Cliff didn’t flinch. He had about eight hundred in cash hidden in the Airstream. Ruby would front him the rest. He’d pay her back in ways that had nothing to do with money. “Done. How long?”
“Could be an hour. Could be a week. Could be never. The clock starts when the money hits my wallet.” He recited a string of letters and numbers. Cliff memorized it. “I’ll call Ruby when I have something. Or if the sky starts falling. Now you should go. Your truck’s thermal signature is messing with my perimeter sensors.”
Cliff stood. The canned, cold air was starting to seep into his bones. “You hear anything on your… channels. About people looking for this. Or for Peter.”
Chester was already absorbed in the screens, the USB drive now a digital puzzle consuming his world. “If I do, you’ll be the second to know. After me. Now get out. You’re letting the heat in.”
Back outside, the desert heat felt like a physical slap. Cliff climbed into the Ford, the steering wheel almost too hot to touch. He sat for a moment, watching the van. No movement. Just the hum of its hidden systems, a low drone against the vast silence. He’d handed it off. The weight was now Chester’s, at least for a while. But the itch between his shoulder blades remained.
He started the engine and bumped back down the dirt track. When he hit the paved road, his cheap burner phone buzzed in his pocket. A number he didn’t recognize. He answered.
“It’s me.” Monica’s voice was tense, clipped. The lawyer voice, but with a hairline fracture in it.
“You’re not using your phone.”
“No. Payphone. I’m… being careful. Did you see your friend?”
“Yeah. He’s on it. It’ll take time. Monica, I need more. I need Peter’s world. Who was he running with? Who did he owe? Who was he afraid of?”
A long exhale on the other end. He could picture her, perfectly composed in some sterile hallway, her knuckles white around the receiver. “It was always a revolving door. Lowlifes. I never paid attention, Cliff. I was… I was glad he wasn’t in my world.”
“Think. Recently. Did he mention anyone new? A job that was ‘too good to be true’?”
Silence. Then, “There was a girl. He mentioned her a few times. Nikki. He said she was… sweet. Different. I think she was… you know.”
“A working girl.”
“Yes. He seemed fond of her. Maybe he talked to her. Maybe he bragged.” The distaste in her voice was palpable, but beneath it was a desperate hope. “Her name is Nikki Marker. She works out of a place called ‘The Starlite Motel’ on Figueroa. At least, she did a month ago when he mentioned her.”
The Starlite. Cliff knew it. A crumbling pink nightmare that rented rooms by the hour. A perfect place for a scared kid to hide, or for information to be traded for cash.
“Okay,” he said.
“Cliff… thank you. And I’m… I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”
“You’re not sorry yet,” he said, and hung up.
Figueroa after dark was a different kind of desert. Neon bled into the damp pavement, reflecting in the oily puddles. The Starlite Motel’s sign flickered, missing an ‘r’ and an ‘e’, so it glowed ‘Sta lite’. The pink stucco was stained with decades of exhaust fumes and neglect.
Cliff parked a block away and walked. He moved with a casual, unhurried gait, the gait of a man who belonged in places like this, his leather jacket and worn boots blending into the scenery. He scanned the open-air market of desperation: the dealers in shadowed doorways, the pimps leaning on glossy cars, the hollow-eyed women pacing their short stretches of sidewalk.
He found her under the flickering glow of the motel’s vacancy sign. She was younger than he’d expected, heartbreakingly so. Eighteen, Monica had said. She looked both older and younger—a child’s face hardened by a year on the street, caked with makeup that couldn’t hide the fatigue. She wore cheap pink shorts and a tank top, shivering slightly in the evening chill. Her eyes, when they met his, were flat, practiced. A commodity assessing a buyer.
“Hey, daddy. Looking for some company?” Her voice was a forced chirp, brittle as glass.
“I’m looking for Nikki,” Cliff said, stopping a respectful distance away. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets.
The flat look turned wary. “You a cop?”
“Used to be. Not anymore. I’m a friend of Peter’s. Peter Kane.”
A flicker in her eyes. Real fear, cutting through the professional glaze. She took a small step back. “I don’t know any Peter.”
“Yeah, you do. And you’re worried about him. So am I.” He kept his voice low, even. Non-threatening. “I’m not here to cause you trouble, Nikki. I’m trying to find him before the people who tossed his apartment do.”
She glanced past him, up and down the street. “I can’t talk here.”
“Name a place.”
She chewed her lip, the gesture suddenly, painfully adolescent. “There’s a diner. Lou’s. Two blocks east. It’s… it’s bright. I’ll meet you there in ten. I gotta tell my manager I’m on break.”
“I’ll get a booth.”
Lou’s was a wedge of fluorescent light and chrome, smelling of old grease and bleach. Cliff took a back booth with a view of the door, ordered a coffee he didn’t want, and waited. He saw her come in five minutes later, having thrown a thin jacket over her tank top. She looked small and lost in the harsh light. She slid into the booth opposite him, her eyes darting.
“You’re really not a cop?”
“Not for two years.” He pushed the sugar dispenser toward her. A small gesture. “Peter’s sister is worried sick.”
Nikki’s tough-girl mask slipped another inch. She began tearing a paper napkin into tiny, precise strips. “Petey was… he was okay. He wasn’t like the others. He brought me soup once when I was sick. Just soup. Didn’t want nothing for it.” She looked up, her eyes glistening. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. When did you last see him?”
“Three nights ago. He was all jumpy. Talking fast. Said he’d scored a big payday, a ‘life-changer.’ Said he was gonna get out. Take me with him, get me off this street.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Stupid. I believed him for like, an hour.”
“Did he say what the score was? Who it was from?”
She shook her head. “No. But he had this… this look. Like he’d grabbed a tiger by the tail and just realized it. He was scared, but also, like, excited. He said he had to meet someone later to ‘finalize the deal.’ Some guy at a bar.”
“What bar?”
“The Kingfisher. Over on the industrial side. He said it was a neutral place.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The next day, some guys came around asking about him. Big guys. Nice suits, but… wrong. You know? Their eyes were dead. They showed a picture of Petey. Asked if I’d seen him. I said no.”
“Good.”
“They said if I did see him, I should tell them. Said they’d make it worth my while.” She shivered. “They didn’t feel like the kind of people who pay with money.”
Cliff felt the familiar, cold click in his mind. The pieces were aligning into a dangerous picture. “Did Peter ever mention a USB drive? A little silver stick?”
Nikki’s face went blank, then confused. “A what? No. He wasn’t into computer stuff. He stole jewelry, sometimes electronics from trucks. Flashy stuff he could pawn easy.”
So Peter might not have even known what he had. He’d just seen it as a score, a ticket out. A fatal miscalculation.
“The Kingfisher,” Cliff repeated. “You’re sure?”
She nodded, shredding another napkin. “You’ll find him? Or… or what’s left of him?”
„Ich werde die Wahrheit herausfinden“, sagte Cliff. Es war das einzige Versprechen, das er geben konnte. Er zog zwei Hundert-Dollar-Scheine aus seinem Portemonnaie, faltete sie und schob sie über den Tisch unter seiner Handfläche. „Nimm dir ein Zimmer für die Nacht. Ein richtiges. Bleib ein paar Tage von der Straße weg.“
Sie starrte auf das Geld, dann auf ihn, ihr junges Gesicht ein Ausdruck von Misstrauen und verzweifelter Hoffnung. „Warum?“
„Weil Peter es so gewollt hätte.“ Er stand auf und warf einen Zehner für den Kaffee auf den Tisch. „Geh jetzt. Und Nikki? Falls diese Anzugträger zurückkommen, hast du nie mit mir gesprochen. Du hast nie etwas von Peter gehört. Du bist wie vom Erdboden verschluckt.“