
TOUCHED BY BLOOD
BY
Craig M Buckhout
Misty, not her real name, real names in a place like this were hard to find, breezed through the door, which wasn't a door at all, only a beach towel nailed at the corners where there used to be a door. She dropped her bag on a cheap plastic chair in front of a Formica countertop that ran the length of the room and inspected her face in the mirror.
She called herself Misty because no one else claimed it and because it seemed like an okay name for a dancer; her kind of dancer anyway. It was also a way to keep what she did there and other places separate from who she really was, though that line wasn't so clear anymore.
Misty leaned in towards the mirror and lightly tapped the tip of an index finger over the dark pouches beneath both eyes before turning away in disgust. She then crossed the room where she worked the combination on a gray metal locker decaled with a yellow, saucer sized happy face. After two attempts, she finally got it open and swung the door with a bang.
Nona, who was seated at the far end of the counter, applying the final touches to her make-up, turned to look at the commotion. After a second or two, she turned back to the mirror and asked, "What'd he do this time?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Misty said, stepping out of her shorts.
"Sure you do. What happened?"
"I don't even know why I stay with him."
"Then why do you? ...And if I remember right, he stays with you, not the other way around."
"It's not so easy to get rid of him, you know."
"So what did he do, hit you again?"
"No, nothing like that. He stole a hundred bucks out of my purse."
"Dump him," Nona said.
"How? You know what he's like. He's using again, too. He gets crazy when he does that stuff."
"You could stay with me until he cools off. I'll make you a good deal with the rent. ...But you won't will you?"
Misty stripped off her top, bra, and panties and hung them in her locker. She stepped into her G-String, walked over to her bag and removed bottles of make-up, hairspray, and brushes which she arranged on the countertop.
After a few moments Misty asked, "Before this, did you ever think about doing something else?"
Nona lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew it out of the side of her mouth up toward the ceiling. "What do you mean?" she replied. "Before this, like in all this, the club and everything?"
"Yeah, you know, like maybe being a nurse or a teacher or getting married and having a bunch of kids and going to PTA meetings; I don't know, anything, anything but this."
"Um ...no, not really; never gave it much thought I guess. Why?" Nona lifted her breasts up, leaned in against the counter's edge, and used the mirror to poke at a pimple that was just starting to erupt on her chin.
"You got any of that lotion? I got a zit here. Can you believe it, a flippin zit?"
Misty reached to her left and grabbed a small bottle with a skin colored liquid in it, got up and walked across the room where she set it on the counter.
"I guess I just didn't think it'd be like this," Misty said. "I thought I'd do it for a few months, maybe a year, make my money, and go back to school. I was always good in school."
Nona turned from the mirror, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and said, "What are you complaining about? With tits like you got and all the extra jobs Carl's been giving you, you should have plenty." The cigarette bounced up and down with the words.
"That's the problem. I should, but I don't. It goes out as fast as it comes in."
"That's why you got to get rid of him. Frankie's a leech I'm telling you. What do you need him for anyway? What do we need any of 'em for?"
Nona tipped the bottle onto the end of one of her index fingers and dabbed at the spot on her chin. Misty picked up the bottle and made her way back to her chair, where she sat down.
"I'll just have to think of a way to do it. It's just that you never know what he's gonna do. He gets mean."
A new song started up out front prompting Misty to look up at the clock hanging on the wall over the doorway.
"Bout time to get out there, don't you think?" Misty asked.
"Plenty of time," Nona replied.
"I don't want him coming back here to get you."
"Carl don't scare me none."
"Yeah, well he scares me. They say he broke somebody's nose last night, out back in the alley."
Nona took another pull from her cigarette and waved her hand dismissively. "I can handle him."
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than, "Nona! Get your ass out here!" It was Carl coming down the hall.
"Shit," Nona whispered.
"I told you."
Nona one eye squinted a final drag from the cigarette as she stood up, dropped the butt into a cold cup of coffee, and slipped into a black leather vest that she left unbuttoned.
Carl swept the towel aside and strode into the room. He was wearing all black; black tee shirt, black jeans, and black shit kickers with those long pointy toes capped in silver.
Carl was the head bouncer, book keeper, hirer and firer, and final word in all things of importance at the club. He was also one of the biggest, and surely the ugliest, and meanest man Misty had ever met. You didn't dare cross him. In fact, it was Carl who convinced Frankie he shouldn't ever put a mark on her again, following their last fight. He didn't care if Frankie tuned-her-up some, that was none of his business, he just didn't want any bruises. It was all a matter of protecting his investment.
"How many times I gotta tell you; I want you ready and waiting when it's your time to dance," Carl told her.
Nona moved past him, keeping as far out of his reach as possible, scurrying like a scolded child going to her room. "I know, I know, but I had a zit for chrissakes sake. I'm ready to go now. Plenty of time."
"But you're not out there waiting, like I said. And don't fuckin' stop and talk with anyone either. I swear I'm tired of telling you." He stared after her until she was gone.
Once Nona had made her exit, Carl grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it over to where Misty was seated.
She watched him in the mirror with her hand poised, holding a mascara brush.
Carl spun his chair around and scooted it up close, before sitting down and resting his massive, tattooed arms on top of the backrest.
She hated it when he did this. Why'd he have to invade her space? But as much as she wanted to move away from him, she knew she couldn't show her discomfort. He'd take advantage of it.
"We got somethin' special for you tomorrow night, all night," he said.
She wanted to scream. And what's this we crap, she thought. We as if that meant some big deal organization or something. She knew his we; it was him and another guy. She'd even slept with the other we. He's got a short memory. Probably not the only thing he's got that's short.
"Yeah, how special is special?" she asked, still looking at him in the mirror. "The last special job you sent me on, the guy wanted me to pee on him."
"You got paid for it."
An idea started to form in her head on how she could maybe get a little extra out of this thing. Maybe start putting some of it in a separate account that Frankie wouldn't know anything about.
"Not paid enough, the freak. Besides, I'm scheduled to work tomorrow night or have you forgotten?"
"I already took you off."
"Well if I'm not working tomorrow night, I want what I would have made dancing added to my special fee."
"There'll be extra in it for you."
"Yeah ...like how much extra?" she said turning to him.
He pulled a joint from his pocket, straightened it out, put it between his lips, and lit it up before answering.
She knew he was stalling, thinking. He wasn't one to answer the phone on the first ring.
"We'll put another three hundred on the card, so after you pay for the room and any extras the client might want, you should have plenty when you add it to your usual."
Misty turned back to the mirror and applied some mascara. Now it was her turn to stall. She wasn't thinking, though. She was making him wait.
After a little bit she said, "I'd make more than that here. Throw in another hundred bucks and I'll consider it."
"You'll consider it? You'll consider shit, that's what you'll consider. I'll give you an extra three-fifty and you'll do it or find yourself job hunting tomorrow."
He took a drag on the joint and held it in.
She knew he was just talking. She was his best draw at the club. Even though she was only trying to get another fifty out of him in the first place, she wasn't ready to let him off the hook.
"This guy doesn't want anything weird or anything does he?"
In a gravelly voice he said, "No, he's just supposed to be some rich guy from the mid-west who's looking for a good time while he's in town. Everything is the same. You get there early, use the card to pay for the room, and then leave an extra key for me in an envelope at the front desk in case there's trouble. After that, you call me between midnight and two to let me know you're okay and again when you leave. No money talk while you're with him. If he wants to give you a gift, that's between you and him, but don't ask for one, got it?"
She turned to face him again. "Yeah, I got it, just like I got it all the other times. And you'll add another three-fifty on the card, which I get to keep in addition to my regular fee?"
"Yeah, but don't go and expect that every time, you hear me?"
There was a noise and they both turned their heads towards the doorway.
Just inside the room stood a woman of about thirty with dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing flat black shoes, tan, mid-calf length cotton pants, and a light blue top.
"Who the fuck are you? Carl asked.
Misty grabbed a tee shirt off the back of her chair and pulled it over her head. As she did so, she said, "Ellen, you shouldn't be here."
Ellen ignored Carl and spoke to Misty. "You weren't returning my phone calls so I decided to drop by."
"You know this broad?" Carl asked Misty.
"I didn't call you back because I didn't want another lecture."
Carl set the joint on the countertop and stood-up.
Ellen casually slipped her hand into her purse.
"I'm just trying to help you, Moll. You're my sister, and I can't stand seeing you in a place like this." She then looked directly at Carl and said, "And by the look of things, you need all the help you can get."
"I don't need your help, not now anyway."
Carl started for Ellen but stopped when he saw the pepper spray in her hand. She held it close to her leg with her thumb on the trigger but in a position where he'd be sure to see it.
"If you think that will stop me, you're out of your fuckin' mind," Carl said.
"It might not keep you from getting to me, but you'll regret it when you do."
"Carl, she's my sister," Misty said. "Let me handle this. Ellen, you better go."
Misty tugged at her tee shirt, pulling it down.
"I don't care if she's Mother ...Mother ...whatever, I want her out of here."
"It's Teresa, Einstein. Mother Teresa," Ellen said.
"That doesn't help Ellen. You're just making it harder on me," Misty responded.
"I just came by to talk. It's swastika boy here who's making it hard."
"Look Ellen, I can't talk now, anyway. I'm on in just a couple of minutes. Can't we make it later, tomorrow maybe, or the next day?"
"If you'll really do it."
"I'll get hold of you, I promise."
"Okay, then I'll take off, but you better keep your promise. The home number is the same but this is my new cell."
Ellen set her business card on the end of the counter while keeping her eyes on Carl.
"All right, all right, I'll call you, please, now just leave."
"I miss you, Moll. I've got something to tell you."
Ellen turned and left the room, but after she was sure Carl hadn't followed her, turned back.
"What have you told her?" Carl demanded.
"Nothing, I swear."
"So she doesn't know anything about our side-deal?"
"I told you she doesn't. As you can see, we don't talk much."
"You better be telling the truth. If you're not, it isn't just me you'll have to worry about."
"Carl, I know the rules, now leave me alone. I have to get ready."
"Just see that you remember those rules, you hear me?"
Ellen had heard enough to be reasonably sure her sister wouldn't get hurt, and also enough to be worried about what she'd gotten herself into. She turned and headed for the exit.
Carl walked out of the room and caught a glimpse of Ellen leaving.
"Son of a bitch."
Nolan St. Claire reached a manicured finger above his head and pressed the button to request assistance just as the Gulfstream 200 began a gradual decent into the Jet Center at Mineta San Jose International Airport. He could have easily gotten what he wanted himself, but he wanted her to do it; after all, for all intents and purposes, he practically owned her. Hell, he owned the whole damn plane.
At the sound of the buzzer, Jody Coombs, the co-pilot, looked over at Stan Jacobs, who was actually flying the plane, and asked, "How about you this time? I'll owe you one."
"Sorry, I don't like him any better than you do."
"Yeah, but he doesn't play pat-a-cake with your ass like he does with mine, does he?"
"No, but I don't want to give him the opportunity either." A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Jody took a deep breath and exhaled in resignation as she unfastened her harness and moved between the seats.
"Thanks a lot, pal," she said.
St. Claire watched her approach without expression. He casually threw one leg over the other, plucked at some imaginary lint on his trousers, and briefly glanced at his handmade Ostrich-skin boots. He ordered them special from a small boot maker in Austin, Texas; eighteen hundred bucks a pair. He felt they added panache to the otherwise boring corporate image most of his contemporaries had. They also added another two inches to his height which helped with the women. He liked that the best.
He saw her duck through the doorway and into the cabin. As she did so, she put a hand over the front of her blouse when it fell away from her chest.
Habit or intentional, he wondered. No matter.
He recognized that under normal circumstances he wouldn't give her a second thought. She was too boney and uptight for his tastes. He preferred, well, something a little fleshier and shall we say more grateful. But desperate circumstances and all of that; meaning when you're on the road it isn't always easy to get what you want. She'd be a nice little appetizer before the entrée tomorrow night. He felt a slight stirring between his legs.
"What is it you need, Mr. St. Claire?" As hard as she tried, she couldn't hide her annoyance.
He handed her his glass. "Would you mind freshenin' up my drink sweetheart? And help yourself to one if you want."
Jody stared at him for a couple of beats then took his glass. "No, thank you. I could lose my license if I did, sir."
"Well now, who would ever know? I certainly wouldn't say anything. I can be very ...very discrete when necessary."
Jody didn't miss his meaning. "I appreciate that, sir, but I take my job very ...very seriously. Your safety is at stake."
She turned around and took two steps to the on-board bar where she dropped three cubes of ice into his glass and added two fingers of Glenfiddich 40 year old scotch. The whole time she was doing this she felt his eyes glued to her ass. The nerves at the small of her back and the base of her neck fired-up like the launch of an Apollo Rocket.
He didn't immediately move his hand to take the glass but instead made her stand there for a second or two holding it. When he finally accepted it, he said, "I also need you to call ahead and make sure my car is waiting for me. If it's not, the number for the person responsible for it is on your list of contacts. It's Templeton or something like that. Call him and tell him I expect it to be there when we land; no excuses."
"We already have verification that the car is waiting, sir."
"Perfect, that's the way it should be. I'll make sure I show my gratitude in a way he'll appreciate. Now how about you Miss Coombs, can I offer you a ride somewhere? Do you have accommodations arranged? Perhaps I can be of help."
He reached out and took hold of her hand, but she pulled it away.
It was all she could do to keep from slugging him. "Actually, it's Mrs. Coombs, Mr. St. Claire, and I have both a ride and a place to stay. My husband should be arriving by commercial jet in about an hour and a half. We're going to get a couple of rare days together while you're busy at the conference."
This was a lie. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was in New York and right about then was probably with his blond, slut of a girlfriend. Jody was very careful to keep her personal life out of the company intranet.
"Ah, I see. That's fortunate now, isn't it?"
With that, he picked-up the most recent copy of Forbes and began thumbing through it.
Jody stood there for a couple of seconds before turning back towards the cockpit. As she was leaving the cabin, St. Claire stated, without ever looking up from his magazine, "Make sure my luggage is loaded into the car when we land Mrs. Coombs. I wish to be on my way as quickly I can."
She didn't answer him. Not by choice but because she wasn't sure she could and at the same time keep her job.
The vanilla scented candles presented themselves in gentle competition of light and dark, flickering back and forth across the playscape of Misty's bare skin. She was a fantasy revealed, from the sculpted tuft of blond hair floating above the sweet juncture of her youthful thighs, to the soft round breasts full of promise.
She lay stilled on the bed, her body damp from exertion, her legs splayed, her heat radiating outward and conjoining that of her lover in an amalgamation of symbiotic lusts --- money and flesh.
Nolan St. Claire rolled off the bed and stood, hands at his sides, jaw slack, staring, with his heart thudding heavy as a grave digger's pick. Sweat dripped from under his arms, rolled down his ribs, and accumulated along the roll of fat around his belly.
He took two steps towards the bathroom, a half step more, and then crumbled to his knees, head down with one hand covering his eyes, the other gripping his thigh to steady its shaking. He was then swept-over by a series of deep breaths that got shorter and faster as they progressed until he became so light headed he almost passed out.
"No," he whispered. A second later, he dropped the hand covering his eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and shouted, "Nooo!"
With great effort, he regained his feet and turned back toward the bed.
As he stood looking at her, he once again began shaking, first just his hands, then his knees, then in full-out, all over panic.
"Jesus, what am I going to do? I'm ruined. My life is over."
He reached out and grabbed Misty's wrist and pulled her upper body to the edge of the bed. Maybe it wasn't too late, he thought. Maybe there was still a chance he could bring her back.
He slapped her face twice. "Hey ...hey, wake-up. Wake-up. God damn it, wake up, you hear me?"
When she didn't respond, he grabbed her shoulders and shook them hard, causing her head to flop like a sock monkey. Not yet ready to give up, he covered her mouth with his own and blew. He felt his first breath come right back at him through her nose. He remembered then that he had to pinch her nostrils. His next breath was more successful, and he saw her breasts rise, ten, twelve, fifteen times. It was working, he thought. Hope reigned king.
He stopped his breaths and placed his fingers in the groove below her Adam's apple to get a pulse. That's when he saw the red, swollen skin on her throat, and the dark blotching beneath. He yanked his hand away.
"Oh, God. Oh, God. Did I do that? No. No way. I didn't squeeze that hard. I couldn't have done that. It's impossible."
He made a fist and hit her with it one, two, three times fast right over her sternum and watched the fatty tissue ripple out.
"You stupid whore. This is your fault. You did this, not me."
St. Claire then placed the heel of one hand between her nipples and push sharply down. The bed gave under the pressure, but he continued with the compressions anyway.
"Come on. ...Come on. ...Breathe. ...Please breathe. ...Come on."
Perspiration dripped off the end of his nose and onto her skin. His own breathing deepened with the exertion. Eventually, his arms, shoulders, and back ached so badly he couldn't continue anymore.
He bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. When his breathing slowed, he took up Misty's arm and felt her wrist for a pulse. Nothing. He repositioned his fingers and felt again. Still nothing. He found his own pulse, on his own wrist, and tried the same spot on her for a third time. She was as dead then as she had been when he took his hands from her throat.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit!"
St. Claire turned around and slid to the floor with his back against the bed. Misty's limp hand dangled over the top of his right shoulder.
"I'm screwed. What am I going to do?"
He gave brief consideration to calling 911 but quickly recognized the idea was a stupid one. Nobody could do anything to revive her and, well, he'd be giving up any chance he had to get out of this situation whole. Even if he left and called anonymously, his chance of escape would be seriously compromised. The longer the whore's death went undiscovered, the better for him. It was too late for her. He still had a chance. He still had a life.
The logic of his thoughts gave him a boost of confidence. He was starting to think rationally. He was starting to problem solve. Now, he just needed a plan.
""Think. Think," he said out loud.
His thoughts remained jumbled, though. The sense of hopelessness persisted. He turned his head over his right shoulder and said, "Why? Why? This didn't have to happen. It was just a little bite, that's all. You were paid for it. You were paid enough to take a beating ...several beatings."
He fell silent as his eyes drifted around the room before finally coming to a stop on his Ostrich skin boots. He'd left them side by side near his clothes. He now wished he hadn't worn them. Somehow, in this setting, they seemed gaudy and out of place.
St. Claire shook his head to get his brain back on track. The motion loosened a bead of sweat that rolled down from his hairline, over his temple, and onto his cheek where it burned as if he'd been sliced with a razorblade.
He gently probed the spot with a fingertip and was rewarded with more pain. When he inspected the tip of his finger, he saw blood.
He turned his head again and said, "You stupid bitch. Look what you've done."
He got to his feet and almost ran to the bathroom. When he saw the damage to his face he said, "Oh, sweet Jesus. I'm dead. I'm fucking dead. I'll never be able to explain this."
One side of his face had two deep claw marks running from his cheekbone to his jaw. They were so deep he thought he could actually see little white deposits of fat mixed in with all the red gunk and gore. There was also a third gouge that ran parallel to the others, but it wasn't as long or as deep.
On the other side of his face he'd suffered only welts; two of them. They hadn't broken the skin. He had been able to grab that hand in time. It was still obvious what they were, though.
He turned the water on and let it warm while he continued to examine the damage. Almost without thinking about it, he recognized that the first thing he needed to do was to get-away from her and back to his own hotel room. He couldn't be found with her or even any place near her considering the way his face looked. But he asked himself, "How the hell am I going to do that?"
He tested the water and gently wet his face. Once that was done, he soaped his hands, took a series of deep breaths, and washed his injury. The pain nearly caused him to fall to his knees. He closed his eyes tight, gripped the edge of the sink, bent forward at the waist, and rested his forehead on the countertop. Once the pain passed, he rinsed, which sent another wave through his head, neck, and shoulders.
After that, he took a washcloth and pressed it to the worst damage, trying to get the bleeding and weeping to stop. As he held it there, he looked down and saw that he was still wearing the condom she had insisted on. He told himself he should have known right then and there that she wasn't going to go along with the program. He stripped it off and flushed it down the toilet.
Back at the mirror he rechecked the wound and found that it actually looked a little better. While examining it, an idea came to him.
St. Claire walked back out to the room where Misty's body lay, granting her a nervous glance, hoping for a miracle that was not to be. He took up her overnight-bag, which was nothing more than a large purse, and dumped its contents out on the carpet. Moving the items around with a big toe, he eventually saw what he wanted plus two more things he thought he could use. He picked-up a bottle of a skin-colored liquid, a large can of hairspray, and Misty's cell phone.
He dressed at this point, doing the best he could to maintain pressure on his wound. He purposely kept his back to Misty's body, so he wouldn't have to look at her. He wanted to get as far away from her, or what was left of her, as he could. The urge to do so was so strong that if it wasn't for the great likelihood of being seen and caught, he would have already run from the room.
Once finished dressing, he opened the "Guest Services" binder on the table and turned to the page showing the evacuation diagram. He could quickly see that the exit stairs were four doors down to the left. The stairs would be much safer than the elevator. It was only just past midnight. Any conventioneers out for a late dinner and drink would still be returning to their rooms. The stairs would also take him directly to the garage without having to go through the lobby.
Still holding the cloth to his cheek, he began wiping down everything in the room he'd even come close to, with a wet towel. As he moved about, he shot Misty a series of sideways glances. He really didn't want to go back over there. He didn't want to even acknowledge her existence. But he knew he had to. He knew the police would zero-in on her and the bed.
Could they get his fingerprints off her throat? They couldn't do that, could they?
He walked to the bed. As much as he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes from her face. Her head was turned his way, her eyelids half closed, her lips parted just as he'd left them. A clump of hair, the color of harvest wheat, swept down across her forehead, the rest of it was spread out around her head in tangles. One arm was still extended out over the edge of the mattress, her hand palm-up with fingers slightly curled.
He stood over her, looking down. As the seconds ticked by, his earlier want to dismiss her very existence morphed to one of embracing it. Standing over her like that, he felt a strange mixture of power and of fear. His body seemed to literally hum with it.
He reached out and took her jaw between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand and flipped her head from side to side, inspecting the damage he had done to her neck.
"I guess you'll never do that again," he said.
He bent closer, much closer, and worked his way down her body, looking for any of his hair he may have left behind. He found three mixed in with hers, between her legs. He picked them up and put them in his pants pocket. He repeated the procedure with one he found on her left thigh and another two he found on the sheet.
He still wasn't convinced he'd gotten them all, so he took the wet towel and wiped it over her body, paying particular attention to her throat. He did the same for the sheets and then sprayed everything down, including Misty, with hairspray. He didn't know if it would help but reasoned that the alcohol and other chemicals would make it much more difficult for the police to collect their evidence. The remaining hairspray he used over any surface he was likely to have touched.
Finally it was time. He returned to the mirror in the bathroom and used the make-up he'd found in Misty's belongings to halfway camouflage his injury. It would be good only for a passing glance at best. For one thing, his skin color was darker than the contents of the bottle. For the other, the symmetry of the surface of his cheek was ruined by the deep divots that were carved there.
It crossed his mind at this point that he might actually have to have plastic surgery because of what the girl did. There was definitely going to be a scar if he didn't do something. Maybe he'd leave the country and have it taken care of, he thought. There'd be no records in that case. Could he do that without anyone knowing? He'd have to think about that one; possibly Mexico or even Brazil. They must have good plastic surgeons in Brazil, he thought. Then he wondered if what they say about Brazilian women was true; that they were less uptight than Americans and that sex was a recreational pastime for them. Weren't the beaches all topless there? But there were other more immediate problems to deal with now. Damn her. Damn her anyway. This was all her fault.
St. Claire finished by pocketing the make-up, the bloody washcloth, and the girl's cell phone. He wiped the hairspray can down with the wet towel he'd used on the girl and the room. After a quick look through the peephole in the door, to make sure the hallway was empty, he left.
Mikolaj (Nick) Zajac parked his blue 88 Chevy, step-side pick-up in a taxi zone, put his business card on the dash, and badged his way past the spiky haired valet, without saying a word. He went through the big double doors of the Claremont Regency, crossed the lobby, and took the elevator up. Stepping out onto the sixth floor, he saw the profile of Aloysius Rosewell Splaine halfway down the hall, writing in his notepad.
Al was one of those guys you always caught yourself staring at whenever he came around. He was six four and maybe three hundred pounds. Definitely overweight, well, fat to be accurate, but not sloppy fat; a solid fat, if such a thing could be said of fat. He had jet black hair that was as straight and thick as bundled straw, and started from a ruler's edge, low down on his forehead, and combed back. The otherwise soft features of his face were overwhelmed by a pair of clunky prescription glasses that looked to be framed out of an old two by four, painted black. He was also what you might call fashionably challenged, from his ten year old, brown checked, Big and Tall Man's sports coat, right on down to his black, rubber soled lace-ups and white socks.
"What took you so long?" Al asked, glancing up and then returning to his note-taking.
"I was running when they paged me."
"On duty?"
"Sure. It's job related."
"How do you figure?"
"One of us has to be able to chase bad guys. I think by elimination that means me."
Al looked up from his note writing. "Says who? If God intended cops to run, he wouldn't have invented prowl cars."
"Prowl cars?" What the hell is a prowl car?"
"See, there you have it."
"Oh, here we go."
"You need to expand your horizons. You won't be a cop forever, you know. Prowl car is an east coast term. I picked it up in my writing class. It reads better than just plain old police car."
"Writing class? Reads better? You surprise me."
"There're a lot of things about me you don't know."
There're a lot of things about you I don't want to know."
Al smiled. "So, you want the story, or what?" Al nodded his head towards one of the rooms.
"Yeah, sure, go ahead."
"Looks like somebody throttled a hooker."
"And we know she's a hooker because ..."
"Because she checked-in with a phony name, has no ID or luggage, and there's a jumbo pack of rubbers on the nightstand. ...Hey, you know why Polish women don't use vibrators?"
"I'm not answering."
"It chips their teeth."
"Jeeze. Nick shook his head and approached room 618.
Behind him he heard Al say, "I'll hang-out here. Room service is bringing me a nice big piece of pie --- banana cream with a scoop of coconut ice cream. On the house, of course." He was smiling.
The door to the room was slightly ajar, so Nick toed it open.
Fran Decker, one of the Crime Scene Techs, stopped him before he could cross the threshold. "If you're going to come in here, you got to put on gloves and bootees," she said, pointing to the boxes on the floor.
Unlike Al, Fran was someone your eye would probably pass right over if you saw her on the street. She was thin, pale, wore no make-up, had medium brown hair to the shoulder that hadn't seen a stylist since last year's Christmas party, and dressed in a manner that bordered on boring --- except for the 9 mm Sig on her belt that, because of her diminutive size, looked like a horse riding a jockey.
The room was a standard layout, nothing special. You entered into a small hallway. To the left of the door was a closet and bathroom. Straight ahead was the main room containing a king bed, desk, armoire with TV, and two stuffed chairs backed by a floor lamp.
Nick checked the bathroom first. Someone had left the light on, the toilet seat up, and a wet towel on the floor. There were swirl marks on the mirror and counter as if it had been wiped down, probably with the wet towel. One half of the closet next to the bathroom was standing open. A simple black dress hung from a hanger and spiked shoes were on the floor beneath.
The victim herself was lying naked and face-up on the bed in the main room. It appeared as if she had died just about where she lay because the blankets were bunched and wrinkled under her feet as if she had struggled and kicked while she was being killed. There were marks on her neck indicating strangulation was probably the cause of death. There was also a bite mark on her right breast, covering the nipple. And as Al had stated, there were a variety of condoms spread-out on one of the nightstands.
Over the back of an upholstered chair, a pair of pantyhose was draped. On the cushion below were a black bra and panties. An unopened bottle of champagne, resting in a bucket of melted ice, was positioned on a table next to the chair along with two clean, long stemmed glasses.
On the floor at the foot of the bed was what Nick guessed to be a nightgown, also black, made of a silky, shiny material. Also on the floor, but several feet away, he saw a number of items that apparently had been dumped there from a large purse, which lay next to them.
Nick watched as Fran photographed the victim's hands, first from a few paces back and then up close.
"Looks like she fought back," Fran said, setting her camera aside. "The nails on her left hand have blood and skin under them. There's a good chance we'll get something useful out of it. But that also means we'll likely have to wait until the doc scrapes the nails before we go for fingerprints."
As she talked, Fran began placing paper bags over the dead woman's hands and securing them in place.
"How'd we get the call?" Nick asked.
"Housekeeping. At 9:34 AM. The beat officer got here about seven minutes later."
Nick walked over to the bed and stood there, looking down at the victim. Her eyes looked back at him through half closed lids. She was young he thought, hardly more than a kid. She had also been beautiful.
He wondered what her story was. Why hooking? The answer to his question really didn't matter, though. Somebody killed her. Who was the more important question to answer.
Nodding his head at the victim, he asked, "How long you figure?"
"A few hours. She's stiff. I'll let you know what the medical examiner says as soon as I hear it," Fran replied.
"Can you get me a shot of her face from the chin up?" he asked. "Something I can take with me."
Without saying anything, Fran bent over the body and took a photograph. She then walked to a work table she'd set-up and plugged into a portable printer.
While the photograph was being printed, Nick squatted down and examined the stuff that was scattered on the floor. There was no wallet, no cell phone, nothing that would immediately identify the victim. Maybe Fran picked something up already, he thought.
"You find any ID?" he said.
"No, not yet."
He returned his attention to the items from the purse, scattered on the floor. He saw a business card; EB Photography. Weddings, events, fashion, portraits. He copied down the information, took the photograph of the victim from Fran, and walked back out into the hallway where Al was eating the last of his pie and ice cream.
"Anyone in the rooms on either side?" Nick asked.
"In one of them, but they checked out before we were even called. They live in Toronto. The police there will make contact and have them call me as soon as they arrive. The hotel desk is putting together a list of the entire floor for us. Of those we've contacted, nobody saw or heard anything."
"Who rented the room?" Nick asked.
Al handed Nick his plate and pulled his notebook from his inside coat pocket.
"Misty Brown. The address she gave is phony and who ever really names their kid Misty."
"How about the Department of Motor Vehicles?"
"Nope, no record."
"Didn't they ask for a credit card or something? There's got to be a name on that."
"That may be what they asked for, but what they got was a prepaid debit card in her name, with a balance of eight hundred on it. Apparently it was paid for in cash. I got one of the guys in Fraud following up on it. Maybe he can find something out."
"Anybody do a canvass?"
"Yeah, patrol knocked on all the doors on the floor. They got nothing useful out of it."
"Okay, how about following me back to the department so I can drop my truck off and then let's check out EB Photography? There was a business card with her stuff in the room."
Al took back his plate and finished off his pie.
"Ahhhh, goddamnit! Why is this happening to me?"
Nolan St. Claire abruptly turned onto his right shoulder, pulled the blanket over his head, and laid there with his eyes closed, wide awake. Sleep was hopeless now, and he knew it. Still, he laid there, the anger baking inside him like over-cooked meatloaf.
He had tried everything to get to sleep. Nothing worked. When the images of the previous night came into his head, he at first tried thinking of something else --- golf, a business deal, someone he knew, the new pair of boots he'd ordered, anything else but her. When that didn't succeed, he started counting to himself; slowly, deliberately, and picturing each of the numbers as he mentally called them out. But that didn't help either. In fact, he discovered that he could actually say the number, visualize it, and think about what happened in that hotel room all at the same time. He then tried staring at a single spot on the ceiling of his darkened room. That only lasted for about five minutes before he decided to change tactics completely. He closed his eyes again and replayed the whole sordid affair, from start to finish. It was his thought that if he did that, he'd get it out of his system and finally doze off. All that got him for his trouble was an endless loop of an image, complete with dialogue, of how he wished the night had gone.
St. Claire finally gave up, opened his eyes, threw back the covers, and swung his feet over the edge of his bed. "Shit!" he shouted.
It felt like someone was sitting on his chest. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. It didn't help. He tried it again with the same result.
He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost noon. He could see the light squeeze-in through the crack where the two drape panels came together. He heard the air conditioning kicked on and felt the cool air. Out in the hallway a door slammed and then another farther away.
"I need sleep," he told himself, as if somehow complaining about it out loud would change things.
He hunched over and rested his forearms on the tops of his pale, spindly thighs, staring at the web of tiny blue veins under the skin. After a moment, he sat up straight and rubbed one of his hands through his graying hair. As he did so, he felt a prick of pain to his cheek, so gently probed his damaged face. He worked an index finger up the length of the crust that had formed and then down again. In several places it had the texture of pealing bark, and in other places it was still tacky.
"Great. Just great," he said out loud before falling deathly silent.
Voices in the hallway. He heard them, men, two or three of them at least. He was sure of it, and they seemed to fade to a whisper just outside his door. How could they find out so fast? It was impossible. But the last was more of a question, than a statement.
He stared at the door so hard that everything around it washed to gray. He could picture them, the cops; big beefy ones with bent noses, grim faces, and long barreled revolvers, lined up and ready to bust in. He would be humiliated. His photo would be all over the news. His enemies would openly laugh and celebrate and circle for the kill. His ex-wives; they'd dance a happy jig and say to anyone who would listen, "I knew something like this would happen. It could have been me."
He was suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of being trapped. His eyes shot around the room as if some place of concealment would reveal itself to him. His gaze fell upon the closet, but he immediately dismissed that thought as useless. It would be the first place they'd look. He kneeled down and peered under the bed, but access was blocked off. After a moment, he quietly got up and tip-toed to the desk and turned towards the door with his arms crossed over his chest and his chin up. He thought that maybe he should face them standing up, defiant, dignified, as the CEO of a multi-million dollar real estate empire. But standing there in his underwear, with his cheek torn to bloody hell, what dignity was there in that? So he changed his mind and moved to one of the arm chairs and sat down with his legs crossed. But seconds later, he regained his feet and went back to the same spot on the bed where he was in the first place.
He wondered what he should say to them when they came in. Whatever it was, it would be remembered and repeated in court. He'd act surprised. That's what he'd do. "Who are you? What's this all about?" Maybe he'd even yell for help; ask someone to call the police. No, even better, he'd stand-up and run for the bathroom yelling, "Somebody call 911." No, no, no, that sounded too phony. Instead, he'd just yell, "Help." Yeah, that's what he'd say; something nice and simple. Sure it would make him sound weak, but so what, he had to keep his priorities in mind.
A new idea came to him. They might even jump on him and take him to the ground. He could say that's how his face got injured. The cops scratched him while trying to put him in a headlock. He'd make a complaint of brutality. He'd sue. Sure, it wasn't much, but it was something. A good lawyer could make reasonable doubt out of something like that. He had good lawyers, too. And if he needed more, he'd get more. If OJ could get off, he certainly could.
A frozen thirty seconds ticked by, then a minute, and then two. What were they doing out there? Maybe they weren't sure he was in the room and they were trying to listen at the door.
After a few more seconds he couldn't stand it anymore. St. Claire got up and chanced a look out the little peephole, hoping not to go eye to eye. He stood there for a full two minutes, in his boxers and wrinkled V neck tee shirt stretched tight across his gentleman's belly, staring out into the hallway. No eye, nothing moved, nobody passed, no more whispers.
Did I imagine the whole thing, he wondered? Am I going crazy here? Sitting and waiting was the worst, the absolute worst.
At this point he promised himself to never, ever be put in this position again. Next time he'd make absolutely sure there was a clear agreement as to what he expected. He'd also take steps to better conceal his identity. Yeah, he'd learn from this little experience and do it differently next time. No, he'd do it better.
He went back to the desk and poured three fingers of scotch. He had to get out of here; a few more hours, just a few more hours. The message light on his phone was blinking. He ignored it.
St. Claire carried his drink into the bathroom.
First, he looked at his face straight on. It wasn't too bad, not from this angle. He could see something there, but he was also looking for something to see. If someone came at him from the front, he'd probably be okay. People generally don't stare anyway, especially if you meet their look.
But to see him from the side was another matter entirely; a completely different story. His face was a total wreck. There's no way they'd miss that, and for him to see it now pissed him off all over again.
"Damn her," he said out loud.
He refaced the mirror and took a mouthful of scotch, held it on his tongue, and swallowed it down.
He leaned in towards the mirror with his head turned again. Up close it was worse yet. The two deep gouges were only partially scabbed over. The rest was covered in a yellowish crust that readily split and oozed at the slightest stretch of the skin. The third mark wasn't as bad, but there was still no mistaking what it was. They told the whole story better than a signed confession. That's why he had to get away. His face was their best witness against him. It was more damning than if the little blonde tart could somehow point him out.
He picked at the edge of the yellow gunk where it had seemingly dried on undamaged skin but gave up when it looked like the whole scab was going to lift off. Taking a tissue from the box on the bathroom counter, he lightly pressed it against a spot where clear liquid was seeping. For the second time, he wondered if he'd have to have plastic surgery.
Maybe a beard would cover it up, he thought. He considered that for a moment and tried to visualize how he'd look with a beard, when he noticed a light flash on the bathroom phone indicating an incoming call. He let the messaging feature pick it up, but it reminded him that there were already two messages waiting. He ignored them all. It was time for the news.
Taking another swallow of scotch, thank God for that, he sat on the bed and switched on the television. The anchor, grey suit, gray hair, red tie, highlighted the top stories that included the one he was interested in and then went to a commercial break. He muted the sound and worked through the process to retrieve his messages.
The first was from his pilot Stan, responding to the earlier message St Claire had left for him. In this message, Stan acknowledged that he would fly the jet back without his employer on board.
The second was from Peter Blaine, the man who invited him to speak at the conference. He was expressing his concern about St. Claire missing his assigned speaking time. After listening to the first few words, St. Claire just skipped it.
The third message was from Fielding, his caretaker at the cabin in Vancouver. But before he could play that message, the news came back on, so he hung up and restored the sound.
The reporter, an Asian woman with a round face and black eyes, was already talking, "... Regency Hotel when the cleaning staff found the body of a woman in one of the rooms. After an initial investigation, the police have classified the death as a homicide, the thirty seventh of the year. Although the investigator in-charge refused to speculate on the cause of death until after an autopsy has been performed, Channel 13 has learned that the victim showed signs of a violent struggle. The police also declined to reveal the identity of the victim until her next of kin have been notified. This is Rita Chung, Channel 13 News."
The station went back to the anchor, so St Claire shut the TV off and re-accessed his messages.
He skipped to the message from Fielding. It said that everything was arranged. He would have the cabin all to himself for two weeks. The heat had been turned on and sufficient food put away. Fielding would be visiting family on the east coast so wouldn't be available if he should need anything.
St. Claire clicked off and called the front desk.
"Yes Mr. St. Claire, how may we help you?"
"I'm leaving early tomorrow so require you to close out my charges. Put everything on my card and bring a copy of the bill to my room by 4 AM. Also, at that time, I want room service to deliver a turkey club sandwich and a pot of coffee. Include a twenty percent gratuity on my bill. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. Is there anything else you'll require? Should we arrange a car for you?"
He liked the way he was addressed as sir. "No, that's taken care of; just make sure everything is done on time."
He hung-up and poured more scotch into his glass. In a few more hours he'd be out of danger. And after a long drive and two or three weeks in Vancouver to heal, he'd be home free. He decided to give sleep another try so arranged a wake-up call and finished his drink.
E B Photography was located on North Seventeenth Street in a white with green trim, single story residence, built in the 1920's. It had a raised and covered wooden porch, and a detached, single car garage set back in a deep, narrow lot.
Nick rang the bell and the door was opened by an attractive woman of about thirty. She had dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, except for the several strands that had escaped confinement and dangled over an eye the color of a cut emerald. If she wore make-up it didn't show, and her appearance suggested that receiving company wasn't part of her plans for the day. She had on a spaghetti strap cotton shirt with a dirt smudge on the rib area, a pair of cuffed khaki shorts, and was barefoot. On the inside of her right ankle, Nick noticed a butterfly tattoo. On the left, she wore a gold ankle bracelet. No ring on any finger.
"This E B Photography?" Al asked.
"Yes."
"We're from the police department, if you don't mind we'd like to come in and talk with you."
She looked from Al to Nick and then said, "You look like the police I guess, but may I see some identification?"
They both exposed the badges on their belts.
The woman focused on Nick and asked, "Do you have something with a photograph on it?"
Oh, oh, Nick saw it then, the subtle similarities in her face to that of the victim's. God, how he hated to be the one to do this. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the similarities were just coincidence. He handed her his identification.
The woman stared at it for several seconds before looking up at Nick's face again.
"You can just call me Nick, everyone has trouble with it."
"Mikolaj (MEE Ko Lo) Zajac, it's Polish right?"
"Yeah, not too many people know that. For some reason, most think it's Russian."
"I spent some time in Warsaw. Come on in. My name is Ellen Banks. Hope this isn't about my parking tickets."
As Nick started through the door he saw her wave at someone behind him. He turned to look, but didn't see anyone.
"It's just my neighbor," Ellen said. "We keep an eye out for one another."
He noticed a gray haired woman standing on the other side of a picture window in the house directly across the street.
Nick and Al walked past Ellen directly into the living room, which was a perfect restoration of early twentieth century architecture from the built-ins with glass doors and detailed woodwork, to the hardwood floors. The furniture matched the period, but everything was lost in clutter. A jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, a soda can was on a table, two pairs of shoes and a pair of sandals were in different places on the floor, and there was unopened mail and magazines just about everywhere.
Ellen cleared the couch of one Oprah, two People, and a photography magazine featuring a SLR camera on the cover, in an invitation for the two of them to sit. She took a place on the arm of a nearby chair. She didn't try to apologize for the mess and maintained direct eye contact.
"Nice place," Al said.
Folded up on the couch like he was, Al looked like the parent of a six year old, sitting in his kid's chair, at a parent-teacher conference.
"Thanks, I bought it about six months ago. It's perfect for me. I've got my studio in the basement and there are even a couple of places in the garden that are good for portrait shots. Now, what can I do for you guys? I'm sure you didn't come here just to admire my house."
Al looked at Nick who reached into his inside coat pocket and took out his notebook.
"Well, we're trying to identify someone who had one of your business cards in her belongings," Nick said.
Ellen's face tightened.
"And I assume she can't or won't identify herself or you wouldn't be here."
There was a slight increase in pitch to her voice as well.
"That's right, she's dead," Al said.
Whoa, easy now partner, Nick thought. He figured Al must have missed the facial similarities. Hope he doesn't do one of his Polish jokes next.
"Dead? ...You mean ...What's she look like? ...Do you have a name? ...What am I talking about, of course you don't have a name or you wouldn't be here? ...Is there someplace I need to go, you know, to see her; to try to identify her?"
Wrinkles formed across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes narrowed, and her right hand, which had moved to her chest, trembled ever so slightly. Nick felt certain that Ellen knew who had died the moment she heard it was a woman, and the woman had her business card.
Nick took the photograph from inside the pages of his notebook but held onto it. Al stood. Ellen stopped talking.
"I have a photograph of the woman I'd like you to look at. If you don't want to, that's okay, we'll understand and try to identify her a different way."
There was no protocol for telling someone about a death. There were no words that worked better than others. In fact, the old timers just said it straight out. They got it over with fast and waited out whatever happened afterwards until they could get back to business. Nick never got the hang of it, though. It was one of the worst parts of the job. He'd rather have a tooth pulled.
Ellen reached out and snatched the photograph from Nick. Her hand was openly shaking.
"Sister." She started crying.
Ah shit, Nick thought. Then, after a few seconds he said, "Is there someone we can call?"
Ellen held out the hand with the photo, covered her mouth with the other, shook her head, and said, "No other family. Just us." The last of it was almost impossible to make out.
Nick took the photograph from her and motioned Al towards the door with his head, but his partner looked at him without comprehension. Finally he wrote, "The lady across the street" in his notebook and showed it to him. Al headed for the door.
After more tears, Ellen asked, "How did she ...I mean, what happened?"
"We're not exactly sure yet."
She stood with a hand still covering her nose and mouth, her eyes squeezed tight, head down, and crying. Nick got up and faced her, not sure what to do or even if he should do anything. Finally, he reached out and awkwardly put a hand on one of her arms, just above the elbow. She walked into him. He stood there for just a second, the one hand still on her arm and the other down at his side, before putting both his arms around her. She moved her hands around the small of his back and buried her face on his shoulder. Her sobs shook him. He felt sorry for her but he also felt very, very out of place. Cops don't hug witnesses, at least this cop didn't.
Nick thought about how easy this job was as long as you kept your emotions at arm's length. Not that long ago he had been standing over the body of a dead woman and had little emotional response. He noted the bruising on her throat, the evidence of her struggle for survival, and the artifacts of her life as things to be later recalled in a clinical, monotone fashion on the witness stand. Holding the victim's sister, though, while she cried over the loss of someone she loved, changed things. It was as if he'd been touched by the victim's blood.
"Was it an accident? Drugs? Do you know anything?" she asked after a few seconds and between sucked breaths.
"It looks like someone killed her."
She put her hands against his chest and pushed away. Staring into his face, she saw a strong, broad jaw, light brown hair smoothed into place with his hands, and a pair of sad, pale blue eyes looking back at her.
He dropped his hands to his side, and felt at a loss of what to do with them. He slipped one into his front pants pocket and immediately felt awkward about that, too, so took it out again.
"Someone killed her, why?"
"We don't know yet, but we will." He wondered what was taking his partner so long. Close and personal was not his thing. And why'd he make a promise he may not be able to keep?
"Was it Carl? Did he do it?" Her voice rose as she said the words.
Now Nick took a step back. He was on comfortable ground again.
"Whoa, Carl, who's Carl?"
"He's some guy at the club where she works ...dances. I was trying to get her away from there. I wanted her to work here with me. I went there to talk to her about it, and he was with her. He told me to get out. I left but came back and listened to them talking. I couldn't hear all of it but enough to know he had her doing something other than just dancing, something that was probably illegal. He asked her if she had told me about whatever she was doing. He said people wouldn't be happy if she had. It scared me, for her. That's all I heard."
As she talked, Ellen kept sniffing, making it a little hard to understand.
"Do you know Carl's last name?"
"No, but he works there."
"Works where? What's the name of this place?"
"The Rack or something like that."
"I know the place. We'll check it out. It shouldn't be hard to figure out who he is."
"I don't want you to think ...her working in a place like that ...the kind of person she is, was ...." Ellen's voice broke and she was crying again. After a couple of seconds, "She was a good person." More crying.
Nick heard the front door open and saw his partner holding the elbow of the woman from across the street. The older woman crossed immediately to Ellen and put her arms around her.
About time, Nick thought to himself.
"Aloysius told me. I'm so sorry, Ellen."
"It's Al." Al looked at Nick and shrugged his shoulders.
"It's terrible. She was so young," the woman said.
The two women held each other for a while and then Nick said, "I know this is a bad time, but just a few more questions. We'll save the rest until later. Where does your sister live?"
"I have the address written down. I don't know it by heart. I only went there once. She has a boyfriend who made it hard for me to visit. That's someone else you ought to talk to."
"What's his name?" Al asked.
"Frank Fontaine. He's about Molly's age."
"That's your sister's name, Molly Banks?"
"Yes. We're really half sisters, though. My mom remarried after my father died. Her second husband's name is Banks. He adopted me when I was nine. Molly came a year later. Mom died a couple of years ago. I don't know where he lives. We weren't that close, and I, well, moved away." Ellen swallowed a couple of gulps of air. "I should have stayed and maybe this would never have happened." She was crying again.
"Here, let's sit down, dear," her neighbor said as they moved to the couch.
They spent another fifteen minutes gathering information from Ellen, and then started to leave. As they were headed towards the door Ellen asked, "Mikolaj, I guess I need to make arrangements, who do I call?"
He took out a business card and wrote his cell number on it. "Let me look into that for you. Here's my number if you have any questions."
The Rack was in county jurisdiction where city sidewalks passed over to vaguely defined right of way, graveled and pocked in their lieu. The joint itself was square and squat and cinderblock drab, with double steel doors dead center front that, when opened, cast a soft red light and wailed lustful.
In its past life, the place first served rough dressed men who stomped fertile valley dust from worn out boots and hefted heavy sacks onto flat-back Fords, while talking weather and yield. Then later, after the tracts of prunes, and apricots, and tomatoes, and corn were plowed away, only to be replaced with tracts of a different sort, it became a paint store. And now it was a place where soft handed men, who lived prescribed, orderly, virtual lives, came to push the limits of reality and feel the raw edginess of life up close.
Just inside the front door was a foyer gated with a yellow plastic chain and guarded by a black shirted man with a four inch ponytail, a big sterling silver ring on one of his fingers, and a hoop earring.
"You here for a look or another reason?" the man asked. "You cops are always coming round for a free one."
"Who says were the police?" Al asked.
"I marked you for cops before you even got in the door."
"Now how exactly would you manage that Sonny Boy?"
"Cameras," he said pointing to a monitor facing away from Nick and Al. "Anytime two guys dressed like you drive up in a four door Crown Vic, it's the cops."
"My, my," said Al. "Aren't we the clever lad?"
Nick broke in, "Look, let's just cut the crap, so you know we're cops, great. We're here to talk with Carl. Is Carl working tonight?"
"Maybe, what's his last name?"
"Sonny," Al said stepping closer, looming, "if you want us to call a couple of prowl cars over here and stand everyone in this place up against the wall, just keep on screwing around. If Carl's here, go get him. We'll decide if he's the right one or not."
Al looked over at Nick and smiled.
"Okay, okay, no need to go SWAT on me. You two just hang tight and I'll go check to see if we have a Carl here tonight. I'll be right back."
"Prowl cars again," Nick said shaking his head. "How long am I going to have to listen to this?"
"He knew what I was talking about. That just goes to prove how uninformed you are."
As soon as Sonny Boy was out of sight, Al unhooked the chain and they both stepped through to the main room which, for a week night, seemed was fairly well seated.
The focus of this room was an eight foot wide, polished wood stage that at the moment was host to a woman in a black G-String who was provoking a brass pole to music drooling from a dozen speakers strategically placed. The stage ran maybe ten or twelve paces from back to front. On both sides of the stage, against the back wall, were fully stocked bars, and along its length were spaced a series of stools, elbow to elbow, where patrons could sit and drink and stare and think themselves to distraction. Around the perimeter of the room, against the walls, was a continuous cushioned, upholstered bench. In front of that were a series of small tables, and on the other side of these were some wooden chairs.
In a separate room, Nick could see at least one pool table that was being used by two men playing a game of eight-ball. But behind that pair were another pair of men, one of whom was none other than Sonny Boy who was in serious and dark conversation with the other, a block headed behemoth, also wearing a black shirt, only this one stretched tight across swollen biceps.
In mid conversation, Sonny Boy looked in their direction and said, "Shit," though the word was too timidly offered to reach their ears. This caused Mister Blockhead to look as well and greet Nick's gaze with a decidedly unwelcome expression.
Nick started in their direction, feeling competitive. "I think we found Carl," he said.
Carl faced around on them and dismissed Sonny Boy with a string of words muttered low. When Nick and Al were yet four of five steps away, Carl said, "What's the problem?"
"You Carl?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, I'm Carl. So what?"
"We'd like to ask you some questions, starting with your last name."
The two guys playing pool had stopped and were now looking at them.
Carl glanced in their direction and said, "Beat it," motioning with his head towards the main room.
The smaller of the two, sporting sideburns on a narrow face said, "Hey, we're in the middle of a game here."
Carl just stared.
His partner swept the balls aside with his cue stick, tossed it on the table, grabbed his companion by his shirt sleeve, and walked him into the other room.
As they stepped away, Nick heard the one with the sideburns say, "Why'd you do that?"
"Just shut-up. I'll buy you a lap dance or something," his partner replied.
"Nice friendly place you got here," Al commented.
"Like I said, what's the problem?"
"And like I said, what's your last name?" Nick repeated.
Carl hesitated a beat or two in his answer, eventually saying, "Malone."
"We're investigating a death."
There was no change of expression on Carl's face. Nick was sure at that point that Carl knew what death they were referring to.
"So?"
"So aren't you wondering who?"
"Okay, I'll play along, who died?"
Nick decided to string it out to see how he reacted.
"One of your dancers."
Still no reaction, his eyes held evenly on Nick's.
"Which one?"
"We'll get to that. You the owner here?"
"I manage the place. What difference does that make?"
Nick ignored his question. "Where were you last night and early this morning?"
"Last night, I was here until two in the morning. There are plenty of people who saw me. Ask 'em. After that, I went home and stayed there until I went to the gym about ten or so. Who's dead?"
"Was anyone with you after you left here?"
"Nope."
"Call anyone, watch any movies, download any child porn?" Al asked.
"Fuck you."
Al chuckled.
"You the one who manages the dancers?" Nick asked.
"And orders the booze, and counts the money, and does the books, and sees to it the place is clean at the end of the night, and makes sure we follow all the rules so guys like you don't pull our license."
"When did you last see Molly Banks?"
"Misty. The night before last. She danced. She the one?"
"She's the one, and you seem all broken-up about it."
"What am I supposed to do, cry? She was an employee. Now I'll have to replace her. What I do regret is she was a good draw. It's going to cost me money, at least until I find another one just like her; and there's always another one."
The guy with the long sideburns paused near the door and looked in. He moved off.
"She a good employee? Any problems with her?" Nick continued.
"She was a real girl scout. Look, she showed-up on time, danced well, got a lot of tips, sold a lot of booze, that's about it."
"Anyone here close to her, as in friendly?"
"Oh yeah, she organized our Wednesday night socials and Friday pot lucks. We're all real close here. A regular fucking family. ...Hey man, they're strippers. They take their clothes off for a living so these fools," he nodded towards the main room, "can go home and beat-off. They don't hang out with one another. They barely get along."
"She ever complain about anyone bothering her, especially in the last few days?"
"She and her boyfriend were always at it. Once she showed-up with some bruises. His name is Fontaine. That's about all I know."
Nick wondered why, after all the smartass remarks and evasive answers, Carl would give up Frank Fontaine so quickly?
"I need a list of everyone who works for you and the names of anyone who worked last night," Nick said.
"I have it in the office. I'll get it for you."
Carl started to walk off.
"We'll go with you."
"You got a search warrant?"
"No, you got something you don't want us to search for?" Al asked.
"No, but you still don't have my permission to search."
"You sound like you've done this before", Al said.
"You cops are always screwing with people."
They followed Carl to a small room with a solid, locked door.
"If you're not the owner, who is?" Nick asked.
"A guy named Ramon Forney."
"How do we get a hold of him?"
"The phone book."
As Carl was copying a list of employees and their schedule, Nick asked, "Do you know what Molly Banks was doing last night?"
"What she does on her own time is her business."
"That doesn't answer my question. Do you know what she was doing last night or who she was with?"
"No. That's an answer for you."
"Did she ever meet with any of your customers after work or on her days off?"
Nick framed the question without suggesting Carl was involved in any of Molly's liaisons in the hope that it would make it easier to answer.
"What are you asking? Was she hooking?"
"Look, we're not vice, and we're not trying to make anyone on a prostitution beef. We're investigating a death. We want the name of the person she was with last night, got it? And we have reason to think you may know who that is."
Nick watched Carl's face harden.
"Yeah, says who?"
"Doesn't matter. Just answer the question. Who was she with?"
"I already told you, I don't know and if someone says different they're lying."
He handed the work schedule and list of employees to Nick.
"Was the guy guarding the door working last night?" Al asked.
Nick looked at the work schedule.
"Yeah, he was here, and he will say that I was here, too," Carl said.
Nick nodded to Al, and Al left to talk with Sonny Boy.
"Your schedule here shows Molly Banks was supposed to work last night, but there's a line drawn through her name. How come?"
"She called-in sick."
"Who's Nona? The schedule shows that they were both here, at the same time, on the day that Molly last worked."
"That's her stage name, Nona Pantz. Her real name is Edna Faulk. It's on the employee roster."
"She here?" Nick asked.
"No, she was, but she left."
Nick spent the next fifteen minutes going over the schedule, making sure he had all the information he needed to find each of the employees, and recording Carl's own personal information.
Al returned from talking with Sonny Boy and said, "He confirms that Carl was here until closing, which was at two in the morning."
"Disappointed?" Carl asked.
"I still need Ramon Forney's address and phone number."
Carl stared at Nick for a couple of seconds, wrote a phone number and address on a Post-It pad, pulled the page off and handed it over.
Nick put his business card on Carl's desk but Carl didn't make a move to pick it up.
"We'll undoubtedly have more questions for you about this. Make sure you return our calls."
On the way out, Al said low, "We better get a search warrant for the surveillance tapes. The kid out front says that they reuse them after about a week."
"Okay, but first I want to check Malone, Forney, and Fontaine for priors."
No, first a couple of chili cheese dogs. I know a place right down the road.
Nolan St. Claire sat hunchbacked in the dark, elbows squeezed tight to his ribs, hands balled-up between his thighs, and his feet bare flat on the floor, when room service tapped out its arrival. Half a second later, the phone rang a wake-up.
In a phlegmy voice he said, "Just leave it by the door," cleared his throat, and repeated it because he didn't think he'd made himself heard the first time.
He next leaned over and picked-up the phone, only to slam it right back down on its cradle. He should have known better, sleep was not to be had. This had been the worst thirty hours of his life.
He remained where he was for a few moments longer, just to give himself a chance to gather his thoughts. His plan was simple; get the hell out of Dodge. First, he'd drive south for about half an hour before making a call with Molly's cell phone, maybe to one of the airlines. He'd then leave her phone someplace a kid was likely to find it and maybe, hopefully, this kid would make some additional calls. Then he'd do an about face and drive north as far as the gas in his tank would take him before using his credit card to make yet another traceable record. He figured that ought to be good for a shitload full of reasonable doubt, if reasonable doubt was needed.
After that, he'd just lay-up at his place in Vancouver while his face healed. Everything he needed to conduct business was there. People would assume he was just taking a working vacation. It was a little unusual, but he didn't think they'd give it a second thought. He'd never kept a predictable schedule.
He took-in a deep breath and let it out soundly. There was a lot to do in just a short time, but doing something, doing anything would feel good. He was taking control of things again, finally.
St. Claire crossed the room, peeped the door, retrieved his meal, and poured a cup of much needed strong, black coffee which he carried into the bathroom. He then stripped off his underwear, showered, and dressed. Next, he closely examined his pillow and saw what could be blood spots, so removed the pillowcase, packed it with his clothes, and swapped the pillow itself for one in the closet. He then returned to the bathroom where he used the make-up he'd taken from Molly's belongings to camouflage the scratches on his face while he half-heartedly ate some of his sandwich. After that, he emptied all the wastebaskets into one plastic liner and threw-in the cosmetics along with a washcloth he'd used to clean his wounds. Finally, after one last look around, he went out the door and took the stairs towards the garage where his rented car was parked.
Negotiating the stairs was cause for concern. There was the potential that he'd encounter someone who might see him, and more importantly, see his injured face. But as he neared the garage, without hearing so much as a sound above or below him, his confidence of success grew. He told himself all he needed to do was make it to his car. The car was his means of escape. The car meant safety.
When the heavy metal door into the garage slammed shut behind him, it echoed loud and made him jerk. A quick look around the area showed nobody in sight. He was safe. His car was only a short distance away.
He smiled to himself as he set his garment bag down and used the button on the key fob to pop the trunk. The tension in his neck and shoulders was almost gone now. He felt good, energized even. But as he threw his luggage into the back, along with the garbage bag from the room, he heard a noise behind him. It was someone humming softly and the sound of a broom. A worker he thought, cleaning up before the place got busy.
His first instinct was to turn around and look, but if he did, it would mean showing his face. He couldn't afford to do that. That could seriously compromise him, so he kept his back to the sound, slammed the trunk lid and started toward the driver's door.
He wanted to run the last few steps, jump behind the wheel, and burn rubber out of there. With great effort, though, he fought the impulse, instead casually walking, trying not to draw any attention. The humming had stopped at this point, but the slip of a shoe, the brush of clothing told him the person was still close-by. In two more seconds it wouldn't matter because he'd be inside the car and safe. Two more seconds and he'd be on his way.
St. Claire opened the door and had stepped his right foot in when he felt something, an arm, encircle his face and jerk him back hard. His stomach flip-flopped. His sphincter tightened. At almost the same instant there was a punch to his back, down low, above the belt on the right side. Pain was just starting to register in his brain when there was another blow, this one to the top of his shoulder on the right side of his neck. Then nothing.
He left the knife right where it was, buried to the handle in the neck of Nolan St. Claire. He didn't take the time to check him or, for that matter, to even look at him; he knew the job was done. The broom he'd used as a prop was leaning against the back of the car parked next to St. Claire's. He tossed it beside the body. He then stripped off the rubber gloves that were over other rubber gloves, dropped them, and calmly walked to his car, a silver Honda Accord.
Exiting Hotel Lexington's parking garage, he turned left, drove two blocks, turned right, and after another two blocks made a left and a right, before stopping next to the Southern Pacific tracks.
He was safe there. It wasn't even six in the morning. The only people who lived in the area were the homeless, and they would be in their bedrolls until the sun came up.
He stepped from the Honda and shrugged out of the blue coveralls, sticky red from the life that had spilled itself upon him. Next came the shoes, which like the coveralls, were two sizes too large and purchased for ten dollars cash from the clearance basket. Finally, he rolled them together with the rubber gloves and stashed them in a rusty, three wheeled grocery basket full of other raggedly odds and ends, lying on its side in the weeds.
That's it, he told himself. Now, just get out of here and dump the car.
The downtown was just starting to yawn and scratch and stretch as Sergeant Richard Emerson began his slow roll into the office. As he turned onto Basset Street, pigeons lifted off from the roof of Burk's Tire Warehouse and circled in twos and threes before landing in the field on the far side of the tracks. Driving on, he heard a diesel engine somewhere nearby rev in short starts and stops, followed by the crash of dumpsters being emptied out. Up ahead, he could see a dog, its black and white fur so matted that it looked like it had dreadlocks, trotting along a chain link fence festooned with scraps of paper and dried weeds. It abruptly stopped, spun, put its nose to the ground, sniffed, and then peed on the spot before moving on. It crossed the street toward a parked, silver Honda Accord, only to tuck-tail and scurry away when he realized someone was inside it.
When Emerson saw the Honda pull away, he almost passed it up. His guys were tired and deserved the break. If he made the stop, one or more of them would come back in-service just to make sure he didn't get in any trouble. So instead, he compromised. He decided to make the stop without telling the dispatcher. If it was a problem, he'd say something and they'd come running.
He pulled in behind the Honda just after it took off and honked his horn a couple of times to get it to stop. The brake lights came on and went off again as the driver killed the engine. Emerson got out of his car, squared himself away, and walked to the driver's window.
"Did I do something wrong, officer?"
"Just wondering what you're doing here. It's kind of an unusual hour to see a car parked in this particular location. We've had some breakins." The last part wasn't really true. He just didn't want to get into an argument with the guy over being detained.
"Oh, well I kind of had to, you know, take a leak. I just couldn't hold it anymore. I didn't see any place open. You know how it is. Sorry. I won't do it again."
"No big deal," Emerson said smiling. "You have a driver's license and registration?"
"Sure. I guess I just drank too much coffee. It was either that or fall asleep driving."
The man smiled, reached up with his left hand to the visor, and pulled out a piece of paper.
"This should be the registration," he said.
Just as Emerson accepted the piece of paper and his eyes focused on it, the man's right hand came up from next to his right thigh and pointed a .22 automatic.
Emerson saw the gun, and the threat registered. There was even enough time for his stomach to twitch before the bullet entered his skull in an upward angle, from just below his right eye socket. His knees gave and he dropped straight down, landing on his butt and then onto his back. But he wasn't aware of the last part of it. Emerson wasn't aware of anything.
The man stepped from the Honda, keeping his back to the police car in case there was a camera mounted on the dash, pulled the portable radio from Emerson's belt and tossed it onto the Accord's passenger seat. He then picked up the piece of paper he'd handed the Sergeant, returned to the car and drove off, passing over one of Emerson's legs as he did.
After a short drive and a couple of turns, he hopped on Highway 87 South. As he did so, he clamped the radio between his legs. It was pretty easy to figure out which one was the on and off switch and which one changed the channels. After switching to and from several channels, there was nothing he heard to suggest any gunshots had been reported. Nobody was thought to be missing or unaccounted for. No suspicious vehicles had been seen. Nobody was looking for him. So far his car was still safe to drive.
At Almaden Expressway he exited the highway and continued south to a shopping center at the intersection with Blossom Hill Road where he parked. After wiping away his fingerprints, he left the Honda there but took the pistol, radio, and registration with him, concealed in a paper bag. It crossed his mind to hold onto the radio because it might be useful in the future, but he dismissed that thought because it was a direct link to both murders. He walked to his car two blocks away, wiped down the radio, too, and dumped it in a nearby dumpster. He hung-on to the pistol, empty bag, and registration. He then drove to Gus' on Lincoln Avenue to have breakfast. Just outside the restaurant was a city trash can where he tore-up and disposed of the registration and the paper bag. That should do it he figured. That should do nicely.
Nick had just started up the outside staircase when he heard the first siren wail. This was followed by the sound of a Crown Vic bottoming out as it transitioned from the parking lot into the street at too fast a speed. It's siren cranked-up as well, as did others, all over the police complex, a chorus of sadness and fear and anger.
When he reached the first landing he turned to look, swallowed a mouthful of his morning Starbucks, and watched two more blue and whites transition from the parking lot to the street with lights and siren. He was wondering what the hell was going on when the big glass door on the third floor landing crashed open, followed by a stampede of footsteps that shook the platform on which he stood.
He backed-up against the wall so he wouldn't get trampled and felt the first few drops of adrenalin overpower the caffeine.
The big man never ran, so when Nick saw Al's white socks and black shoes quick-stepping their way down the stairs, he knew the stink was in the air.
"Somebody shot Emerson," Al said, coming to a brief halt and causing two other detectives to bump into him.
Nick cut in front of him and started back down, pitching his coffee over the side. "Is he alive?"
"The beat cop cancelled paramedics."
"Ah, shit."
Al didn't bother with the siren, there were enough of them already, one more wouldn't make a difference, and busted the light at First Street along with two other unmarked cars.
"Where is it?" Nick asked.
"Basset by the tracks."
There were so many police vehicles at the scene that Nick and Al had to park a block away and walk in.
As they approached, Nick saw Fran and a female uniformed officer standing near the front of an idling patrol car with its driver's door open. They were in a face-off with a patrol sergeant named Malcolm who was crying and trying to get past them. The women kept stepping in his way and at one point Fran even stiff armed him. Nick left Al at that point and walked over to the sergeant. As he neared, he saw Emerson lying on his back, shirt opened to his belt, and blood all over his face. He put his arm around Malcolm's shoulders and said, "They'll need you on the perimeter. There's nothing you can do here but screw things up."
Malcolm pushed Nick away and walked off, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve, swearing, and vowing vengeance.
Nick looked one more time at Emerson before turning his attention to Fran who said, "Thanks," as she pulled a roll of orange crime scene tape from her pocket. He watched her tie one end of it to a wood fence post and roll it out. Nick could feel the tension all around him; tight jaws, wet eyes, looks that were angrier than any words that could be said.
His eyes shifted to Al who was talking into his cell phone. When they made eye contact, Al signaled him to come here.
When he neared, Al held up his index finger as an indication for Nick to hold on, and said into his phone, "Okay, one of us will be there in a few minutes."
Dropping the phone into his coat pocket, Al said, "We got another one at the Lexington, in the parking garage."
"Another cop?"
"No, but another homicide."
"Got to be connected," Nick said.
"That's what I'm thinking. How do you want to handle it?"
"You go there. I'll stay here. Call me when you have details."
Al nodded. "I'll take the car."
Nick started back over to Fran. By this point, she had the immediate area around Emerson's body partitioned off. The uniformed officer, who had been with her earlier, was widening the crime scene even more by roping off an entire section of the street, thirty yards in both directions.
Emerson lay with his upper torso on the asphalt and his lower body on the dirt shoulder of the road. His legs were twisted at an odd angle and his dark blue pants showed dirt. Fifteen or twenty feet away from him, parallel to the edge of the street, was a marked patrol car idling with its driver's door open and a single, solid red light showing on its roof's light-bar. "Supervisor" was stenciled on its front fender. By its position and appearance, Nick assumed it was Emerson's vehicle, and he had made a car stop just prior to his death.
Thirty feet from the back end of Emerson's car, in the middle of the street, was another marked patrol car. This one, too, was idling. Nick assumed this car belonged to the first officer on the scene.
"So far we have tire tracks belonging to the shooter's vehicle and maybe even a shoeprint," Fran said.
"The tire tracks weren't there before Emerson was shot?"
She looked away and spoke to the tracks. "No. The asshole drove over his legs."
Nick had never heard Fran swear before. She was always precise, serious, and by-the-book.
"You're going to need help," Nick said.
"It's coming. I came out ahead of everyone else to make sure the scene was protected. The others are coming with the van. While I'm waiting, I'll see if I can find anything else."
"Was it called in?" Nick asked.
"No. A rookie found him. She notified dispatch, checked to see if he was still alive, and then cancelled fire and paramedics. She kept everyone away, too. She was the one who was helping me keep Malcolm from walking all over my evidence. He knows better than that."
"Ah, you gotta cut him some slack, Fran. They were pretty good friends."
"Yeah, but still ...," Fran said turning her hands palms-up.
"Who's running the show for patrol and where's the rookie now?"
"Captain Daley. He's over there," Fran said pointing. "And the rookie is sitting in the car over there, getting started on her report." She indicated a different direction. "You should also know Emerson's portable radio is missing. I let dispatch know."
Nick called dispatch and told them to get him a list of any stolen vehicles reported in the twenty-four hours proceeding Emerson's murder and of any that were reported in the next forty-eight hours.
He then started towards Daley who was standing outside the perimeter and giving direction to a lieutenant. On his way, he passed by an officer who was saying to another, "They should at least cover him up."
Daley saw Nick coming and said, "We've got nothing. That's what you want to know, right? Whatever Emerson was doing, he was doing it off the air. I got people writing down all the plates in the area, going through all the garbage cans, knocking on all the doors, checking all the homeless encampments, and even talking to people in the free food lines, and nobody's got shit. And now I got another homicide at the Lexington."
Daley spoke into his shoulder mic and advised the dispatcher that he wanted all the midnight officers who were still in-service to stay that way until he released them to go home.
Nick's cell phone rang. It was Al. "Better get a grip on your jockstrap, pal. I think the victim here is the one who killed Molly Banks. His face is all scratched to hell, and he tried to cover it up with something."
"You gotta be kidding me. You have a name on him yet?"
"Nolan St. Claire. One of the hotel staff ID'ed him. Says when he checked in a couple of days ago, he didn't have the marks on his face. He's some rich guy from the Midwest here for a convention."
"Shot?"
"Stabbed. The thing is still sticking out of his neck."
"Well that doesn't match up ..."
"Hello. What do we have here?" Al said.
Nick waited for Al to explain.
"Got a cell phone. It's on the ground next to his body, under a car. Must have fallen from his pocket, but it ain't his, that's for sure ...or the killer's either, unless maybe the killer is the tooth fairy. It's pink. You got the cell number for Molly Banks?"
"I think so, hang-on." Nick thumbed through his notebook and found it. "Okay, call me back if it rings."
Nick heard Molly Banks' number ring several times, then go to voicemail. A female voice said, "Hi, you've reached Molly's cell phone. I'm not available right now. Please leave a message and I'll call you back." Before the message ended, Nick got a call interrupt from Al.
"Did it ring?" Nick asked.
"Vibrated. So now we know for sure all three murders are connected."
"We'll focus on St. Claire. If we clear his, we'll clear Emerson's. Keep at it there, and I'll join you as soon as I can.
Nick saw the Chief of Police arrive. He was immediately surrounded by the media.
"I'm thinking Carl," Al said. "We pay him a visit, ask some questions, and wham-o, St. Claire gets himself dead."
"Maybe. We'll get that search warrant for the tapes at his club as soon as things are under control at both scenes."
Nick started back over to Fran. She needed to know the three homicides were connected. When he got there, Fran told him that the dispatcher was trying to get hold of him.
Rather than do it by radio, he used his cell. The dispatcher told him that four cars had been reported stolen in the last day. One was a Toyota 4x4 pick-up truck, one a BMW 740i, the other two a Honda Accord and a Toyota Camry.
Nick looked at the track across Emerson's legs and told them to broadcast the Camry and Accord as possibly connected with the Homicide and that if either or both were located, advise Homicide and hold the cars for fingerprints.
Nick told Fran about all three homicides being connected and that St. Claire had been stabbed not shot.
"That makes sense," she said. "I just found a pair of bloody overalls stuffed in that grocery cart over there." She pointed in its direction.
"So the killer was getting rid of the clothes he wore when he killed St. Claire at the time Emerson came across him. He killed Emerson because he knew that once St. Claire's body was discovered, Emerson would remember their encounter and put it together."
"Works for me," Fran said.
Nick hitched a ride to the Lexington with a beat cop.
On his way to the Lexington, Nick called Ellen Banks. She picked-up on the sixth ring.
"Ellen? This is Sergeant Zajac."
"Mikolaj. Have they finished with my sister's body yet?"
To Nick, she sounded as if she was holding it together.
"No, sorry, that won't be until tomorrow at the earliest. You might want to contact a mortuary, though, and start making the necessary arrangements. All you'll have to do is sign some papers and they'll take care of everything."
"Who should I go to? I've never done this before," she said.
"We're not supposed to recommend anyone. I'm sure ... "
"So you're one of those by-the-book kind of guys, huh?
She was teasing him.
"It's just a rule we have, to keep everyone honest."
"And you never break the rules Mikolaj, even the little ones?"
He chuckled. "Sometimes. Okay, look, a lot of cops go to Cromwell and Finn. They're on Willow Street. They'll do a nice job for your sister."
"Thank you. There's hope for you yet."
He laughed again.
Her voice turned serious. "Have you gotten anywhere on Molly's case yet? You talk to Carl?"
"That's why I called. Did Molly ever mention the name Nolan St. Claire?"
"Well, we hadn't talked very much in the last few weeks. She was avoiding me. It goes back a long way. Wait, what did you say that name was again?"
"Nolan St. Clair."
"That sounds familiar but not from Molly. Hang on a minute."
He could hear noises in the background, papers being shuffled, perhaps things being moved. After a couple of minutes Ellen came back on the phone.
"Yeah, I knew I'd heard that name. The day before Molly died, I helped shoot a dinner for the Western States Commercial Real Estate Association over at the Lexington. He was one of their scheduled guest speakers. Why do you ask?"
"He had your sister's cell phone."
"What do you mean he had her phone? What was he doing with her phone?"
Her voice quivered on the first sentence. Nick got the impression she was close to breaking down again.
"We don't know, and we can't ask him. Someone killed him and then probably killed one of our police sergeants."
"Whaaat? I don't understand. He's dead and an officer is dead? What does this have to do with my sister?" Her throat was froggy.
"We're not sure yet, but it's possible that St. Claire was the one who killed your sister."
"Why would he do that? I don't understand. What's going on here Nick?"
She was crying now. Nerves still raw, emotions on the surface.
"Look, I'm sorry. I should have told you this in-person. Things are a little crazy right now. We haven't figured it out yet. We're just getting into it actually. I'll try to stop by later and talk with you some more. But one more question. How did you land the job at the Lexington?"
He heard her sniffle.
"Through another photographer. Westin Photography. When one of us has a job that is too big to handle alone, we have a deal to call the other."
Her voice was hoarse.
"Okay, Westin Photography. I'll call you maybe later tonight."
As soon as he hung-up he called Westin Photography. He spoke to a man named Jim Westin who verified Ellen's story. He had been hired by Roger Templeton, an event planner. He, in turn, hired Ellen to handle the portraits while he roamed the dining area taking photographs. Nick thanked Mr. Westin and hung-up.
He didn't get the feeling that Ellen was involved in all this, but it was too much of a coincidence not to check it out. He felt relieved it was just that, a coincidence.
He thought of something and called Westin back.
"Mr. Westin, I need to see your photos."
"Well, I suppose that would be all right. I'll have them posted on my website the day after tomorrow. Call me and I'll give you the password."
"I need them sooner. We have three people dead. It's possible the killer was at that dinner."
"I'll try Sergeant."
"He's not here."
Sonny Boy's eyes shifted away from Nick's.
"Oh yeah, where is he?" Nick asked.
Nick had earlier met with Al, taken the car, obtained the search warrant for the surveillance tapes and was now back at The Rack to get them.
"I dunno, he called earlier and said he'd be late. That's all I know to tell you."
"Well, I've got a search warrant for your surveillance tapes."
"You'll ...ah ...have to wait 'til Carl gets here. He didn't say anything to me about any search warrant."
"That's not how it works. Either you hand them over or I get them myself."
"Oh shit, ...um ...can I at least call him?"
"Knock yourself out, but I don't leave here without the tapes." Nick thought it wouldn't be a bad thing to talk with Carl Malone anyway and find out where he's been in the last several hours. "If you get him on the phone, let me talk with him."
Sonny Boy keyed-in Carl's number on his cell phone. After a short time Nick heard him say, "Carl, the same cops, cop is here with a search warrant. Call me as soon as you get this."
"He didn't answer," Sonny Boy said.
"So it seems. Let's get the tapes."
"I guess I'll go get them."
"We'll go together."
"Ah man, he's gonna be pissed."
"Think how he'll feel if I close the place down while I'm doing my search."
"This is about Misty, huh? She was one of the nice ones."
"If she was so nice, why was she killed?"
"I dunno man, maybe we better just get the tapes. Jeeze, he's gonna be pissed."
"Maybe we'd better," Nick said.
While Sonny Boy was retrieving the tapes from Carl's office, Nick noticed the current work schedule posted on the wall. It indicated that Nona, also known as Edna Faulk, was working. She was the last one to have worked the same shift with Molly.
Nick walked back out to the bar area and saw a dark haired women with D implants doing the splits at the edge of the stage so a man with rubbery jowls could slip a dollar bill into her G-String.
"Who's that?" Nick asked.
"The dancer? That's Nona."
Nick continued on out to the car, secured the tapes in the trunk, and then returned.
"What now?" Sonny Boy asked.
"Thought I'd take a closer look."
"See what I mean about you guys always after a freebee?"
"What can I say?"
Nick unlatched the yellow chain and walked to the stage just as Nona was picking up her leather vest from the stage. He held up a ten to get her attention.
"Liked my dance, huh?" Nona asked.
"Didn't see much of it. Actually I'm with the police department Nona, go get some clothes on. I need to talk with you about Misty."
Nick tried to keep his eyes on Edna's but it was a lost cause. They twice shifted to her breasts. He cursed himself each time it happened.
"I don't know. Don't I have a right not to talk with you?"
"We can either talk here or down at the police department, doesn't matter to me."
She looked over to where Sonny Boy was standing and watching them.
"Not here. I don't want them to see me talking with you. How about I meet you somewhere? I don't go back on for a couple of hours."
"Okay, there's a place a couple of blocks down called Tubby's. You can't miss it. They got an outside BBQ going all the time. Look for the smoke. I'll meet you there, but if you don't show in ten minutes I'll come back and we'll talk downtown."
"Don't worry, I'll be there. Misty was a sweet kid." She then snatched the ten from Nick's hand. "It makes it look better," she said.
Tubby's, on the inside, was a narrow but deep room sandwiched between a Vietnamese nail salon on one side and a liquor store on the other. When you walked in the door, there was a small waiting area with a couple of chairs and a counter with a cash register. Behind the counter was the place where the BBQ'ed meat was sliced and made into sandwiches. As you walked deeper into the room, beyond the counter, small tables with checkered, plastic, tablecloths lined the walls on either side. The floor was linoleum tile that changed from a black and white marbled design, to a green and white checkerboard pattern at about the halfway mark. The last coat of paint on the walls was battleship gray.
Nick took a table towards the back and waited for Edna. While doing so, he checked-in with Al to see if he'd come up with anything else at the Lexington.
Al told him that the coroner had taken the body, but before doing so he retrieved the victim's wallet from his clothing. An Oklahoma driver's license confirmed he was Nolan St. Claire. Al also advised that St. Claire was in San Jose for a realtor's convention where he was scheduled as a guest speaker. He apparently had acquired his considerable wealth in commercial real estate and was going to talk about timing the market.
Al also stated he spoke by phone to a Mr. Peter Blaine, who was the president of the Western States Commercial Realtors Association. Blaine said that St. Claire showed for the welcome dinner, left early, and failed to show for his assigned speaking time the next afternoon. Regarding the car he had been driving and was found next to, it was an "Executive Rentals" BMW, contracted for by Roger Templeton who was owner of "Manage Your Affairs," the company hired to coordinate the event.
As Al was explaining this to him, Nick saw Edna step inside the door and scan the room. She was wearing a hot pink sweatshirt that was zipped halfway down, over a low cut tee shirt of the sort that showed-off her cleavage, a pair of fuzzy pink sweatpants, a white ball cap, and dark glasses. The last two items no doubt meant to conceal her identity --- as if nobody took notice.
Nick cut the call off and waved Edna over.
"I hope they don't see me. I don't want to get into trouble."
"Whose they?" Nick asked.
"You know, they, Carl, the people from the club."
"Why would you be in trouble?"
"They told us not to talk with you is why. You don't understand how scary this is."
"Help me understand then. Who told you not to talk to us? You keep saying they."
"Well, not they so much, Carl's the one who said it, but it's like there's more than Carl who want me to keep quiet."
This isn't going to work, Nick thought.
"Okay, okay, how about I ask you some questions and you answer them?"
"You're kinda cute. You married or have a girlfriend or anything?"
"Stay focused here for a second, Edna."
She turned and looked around the room, saw a woman behind the counter, and waived her over.
"Do you know who killed Molly?"
Keep the questions simple, he thought.
"I don't know, but I think she had a, you know, like a date with someone because first she was scheduled to work, and then not scheduled, and then she was found in a hotel room, you know, dead. So I think maybe it was someone she was, you know ...."
"What do you mean by date?"
"Well, it's like a saying, you know. It's just how we say it. You see, sometimes clients, clients are what we really call them, want some special entertainment, and we like give it to them."
"You mean they want sex?"
"Yeah, but it's not just like that. It's all very classy and everything. We go to a nice hotel, have champagne, and sometimes talk a little. It's not like wham-bam or anything. Well maybe sometimes, but not all the time. Am I going to get in trouble for telling you this?"
"No. These people you meet, are they people who come into the club?"
"Somebody like you probably couldn't go out with somebody like me, huh?"
"By someone like you, you mean a witness? I'm afraid not, we have rules about that sort of thing. I'd get in trouble, too."
Ellen and her comment about rules flashed through his mind. He wondered if that's how people saw him; one of those inflexible types.
"But getting back to it, how do these people you date contact you?" Nick asked.
"Oh yeah, but this could get me in a lot of trouble. You have to promise not to tell anyone."
"For now it's just between us. And remember, you're doing this for Molly."
"I don't know ..."
"It's the right thing to do, Edna."
Edna turned around again and looked at the same woman who was still in the same place behind the counter, then back at Nick.
"I don't know what's taking her so long," she said.
"There's no table service here, Edna. You have to order at the counter, but let's just get these questions out of the way and then you can order something. Now, these people, your clients, how do they contact you?"
"Oh, yeah. Well, Carl's the one. He tells us where to go to meet them."
"And you get paid for this, right?"
"Yeah, but we never get paid by the client. That's definitely against the rules. It's Carl again, he pays us a bonus with our regular pay but you can't tell what it's for or anything. It's like just mixed-in with the other money."
"These clients, when you meet with them, is there an understanding you're there to have sex?"
"Well, I know why I'm there and since I usually get the room, and the client comes to me, and then it happens, they know, too. Oh and sometimes they tip us. Sometimes real good. Some of them even ask for our phone numbers so next time they can call us direct and not go through anyone else."
"And you think that's what Molly was doing, meeting a client when she was killed?"
"Yeah, but nobody said so or anything."
"How many times has Carl set something like this up?" Nick asked.
"You're going to think I'm a bad person if I tell you."
"Look Edna, I'm not judging here. I'm just trying to find out who killed Molly." Actually, who killed the person who killed Molly and then a cop?
She looked away from him.
"Well for me, it's maybe once a week or so, a little more for Molly. I could stop, though, if the right person came along. I could stop dancing, too. It's just something that happened. I mean I didn't plan it, you know like 'I think I'll grow up to be a stripper' and a, well you know."
"You don't have to explain, really. I'm okay with it. Do you know how Carl finds these clients?"
"That's the thing, see; that's why I think there's like someone else. These clients, they aren't the type of people Carl would know. I mean they have money, and have gone to college, and everything. You can tell because they wear expensive clothes and jewelry and talk nice."
"How about the other dancers, do they go on dates, too?"
"I think it's only Molly and me. If the others are doing it, they don't say anything or anything."
"Aren't you worried when you do this? How do you know the client isn't some nut case?"
She shifted in her chair.
"Well, I guess I don't know for sure. The only thing is we're supposed to checkin with Carl to let him know if we're having any problems. If he doesn't hear from us, he says he'll come to make sure everything is okay. But sometimes, sometimes he doesn't even answer his phone, so how's he know if we're all right?"
"Edna we could really use your help to figure out what happened to Molly and why."
"I don't know what more I could do. I've already told you everything I know."
"You could help a lot if the next time Carl tells you to meet someone, you let us know. If we could talk with one of the clients, we'd find out how they connect up with Carl, you know, who they talk with to arrange a date."
"Ah, I don't know about that. Just talking is one thing, but that sounds like it's really dangerous. If Carl finds out, I don't know what he'd do. Sometimes he can be really mean."
"As long as you don't tell anyone and we keep it between you, me, and my partner, he'll never find out. It's practically foolproof. All you have to do is call my cell phone as soon as he tells you he's got someone he wants you to meet. We'll tell you what to do after that. We may not even arrest your client. All we want to do is find out what he knows. What do you think, will you do it?
"What's your partner like? Is he nice like you?"
"Nicer."
"I guess so, but I'm scared."
As she said this, she pulled the front of her sweatshirt down exposing more flesh. It made Nick wonder how much of being scared was just an act.
"We'll look out for you, Edna. It'll be like you're one of us. We won't let you get hurt."
"Well, if you put it that way, I guess. Are there any rules about coming by and seeing me dance?"
"How about if I buy you something to eat instead?"
Edna smiled. "Like a real date."
"Friends."
Nick made a mental note to get St. Claire's personal financial records, e-mails, and phone records to see if he could establish a connection to Carl Malone or possibly this Ramon Forney character who owned the club. They were going to need more help.
It was 10 o'clock dark. The midnight police were yelp testing their sirens and dry racking their Remingtons, the ritual preparation for another shift, when Nick walked out of the station.
He dropped into the driver's seat and felt the dead dull of fatigue settle over him like a heavy winter coat. Except for a vending machine turkey and cheese, he hadn't eaten or stopped since he'd followed Al down the rear steps.
Once back at the department he and Al briefed Navarro, their Lieutenant, and began the process to have St. Claire's personal records searched. After that, until their brains refused what their eyes saw, they watched The Rack's surveillance videos. There were hours and hours left to go through. Not so easy. Play, stop, re-wind, play again.
His cell phone symphonied something Beethoven and it displayed a number he didn't recognized. He almost ignored it, but remembered Edna. Maybe she'd been given another job. He hoped it wasn't for tonight. It would be a scramble.
"Nick, its Terrie."
Terrie Callister, was Lt. Terrie Callister, who'd shared a short but intense thing with Nick several months earlier. Passionate, then comfortable, then occasional, then not at all except for when they found themselves in the same place, at the same time, in the same consenting adult mood.
"Hey Terrie, what's up?"
"Do you know someone named Ellen Banks?"
"Yeah, why."
"We got a suspicious circumstance call, and I'm at her house now."
"Is she all right? What happened?" Nick asked.
"She's okay. I'm looking at her right now. The neighbor across the street thought she saw a prowler in her yard and called it in. Ellen thinks it's a false alarm."
"You turn anything up?"
"Not really. But the first guy here heard some barking dogs on the backside of the block a few doors down and there's a footprint in the dirt under her window, but no attempted entry or anything like that. It could be something or it may be nothing more than some guy chasing down his dog."
"Okay, look, will you protect the footprint for me and tell her I'll be there in a few minutes?"
"Hold on," Terrie said.
Nick heard her say, "He says he'll be right here."
"Okay, she's got the message."
"You'll hang out with her, right, until I get there?" Nick asked.
"If you want me to. Anything else you want from me, Nick?"
He laughed. "Always."
When Nick pulled up out front, Terrie's blue and white Tahoe was at the curb and a beat cop was parked in Ellen's driveway. Terrie met him on the porch.
"So what's the deal with Ellen?" she asked.
"That was her sister who was murdered at the Claremont. It's somehow connected with Emerson's death as well."
"Ah huh."
"What do you mean, ah huh?" he asked.
"Nothing, just wondering."
"Just wondering what?"
"Just wondering if there was anything going on there."
"Going on? ...You mean between her and me? She's a witness for chrissakes."
"Okay, don't get all worked up, it's just a woman thing. Maybe I misread it. Forget I asked. How've you been?"
"Misread what?"
"Nothing. Forget it. Maybe I was being a little over sensitive."
"Over sensitive? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Look, you're here, she's safe, I got places to go and people to see. Why don't you call me on my next days off --- Sunday, Monday, Tuesday? We'll get a drink or something."
"Okay, but gotta clear this one first. You know how it is."
"Call me anyway, we'll have phone sex. Say hi to your mom for me."
Terrie said the last over her shoulder.
Nick stood there for a moment and watched her walk to her SUV, wondering what the heck had just happened. He opened Ellen's door and walked-in. She was sitting in her living room with a young beat cop who was looking through one of her photo albums. The officer put the album back on the coffee table.
"You want me to hang out, Sarge?"
"Nah, you can take off, I got it."
The officer turned towards Ellen. "Take care now. If you have any other problems don't hesitate to call."
"Thanks, but I think this was just a false alarm."
"Maybe, maybe not," Nick said.
"You look beat. You want some coffee?" Ellen asked him.
"Love some."
He followed her into the kitchen and watched her start the coffee. There was an open bag of potato chips on the kitchen counter that he helped himself to. After a couple of chips he pushed the bag away. They tasted like salty cardboard.
"I'll make you some scrambled eggs, too."
"I'm all right."
Ellen ignored him, opened the frig and pulled out a carton of eggs. Nick caught a glimpse of the inside and wondered if the eggs weren't stale, too.
"So how well do you know Terrie?" she asked.
What's with these women, he wondered?
"We went out a couple of times if that's what you mean. That was a while back. Why?"
"No reason, woman's intuition is all. You know, body language, the way things are said. We've got our own language."
She broke four eggs into a bowl and beat them.
Nick decided to change the subject. It was nice to be the center of all this female attention, but it wasn't helping his case.
"Tell me about what happened tonight."
"I don't know what happened really. First, I got a call from Louise across the street saying there's somebody in my back yard and then your girlfriend ..."
"Ex-girlfriend."
"Okay, ex-girlfriend shows up with the cavalry.
Ellen pulled some green onions and a red bell pepper out of the crisper and began to chop them up.
"You didn't hear or see anything?"
"Nope, and as soon as Louise called, I checked out all the windows, too."
"Hmm ...You know what, I think while you're doing that I'll go across the street and see what Louise has to say."
Louise told him that because of all that had happened she'd been keeping a close watch on Ellen. An hour or so ago, she looked out her window and saw a figure walk down Ellen's driveway. It was pretty dark, so she couldn't be a hundred percent positive, but it looked like a man dressed in dark clothing rather than a woman. He disappeared out of sight, probably around the back of the house. She then grabbed the baseball bat she keeps by the door and called Ellen. After Ellen hung-up, she called 911. If the operator hadn't kept her on the phone so long with all his questions, she would have had a look herself.
Nick thanked her and checked out the footprint in Ellen's backyard. He found it under a window on the backside of the house. Terrie or the officer had covered it with a cardboard box. It was a waffle pattern similar to the one he saw at the scene of Emerson's murder. He gave Fran Decker a call and told her about it and that it was temporarily safe until she could photograph it.
Nick walked back inside the house just as Ellen turned off the stove.
"I think I might join you," she said.
She scooped eggs onto two plates and carried them to the table.
Nick noticed her hair was as before, in a ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of dark blue, threadbare sweatpants, and a faded light blue tee shirt.
"Napkins and forks are on the counter," she stated.
Nick took the hint without comment.
She returned to the kitchen and pulled a couple of cups from a shelf and filled them with coffee. One read 'Life is Great' on it. The other read nothing, it just showed an orange cat sporting a big grin.
"I don't have any cream, but there's milk in the refrigerator."
"Not for me," he said.
As she carried the cups to the table she said, "Okay Mikolaj, you said you'd tell me about my sister and this Nolan St. Claire person. Is he the one? Did he kill her?"
They both sat down.
Nobody ever called him Mikolaj. Even his mother called him Nick. Coming from Ellen it had a very personal feel to it. He liked it.
"It's sure looking that way," he replied. "He had her cell phone and there were some injuries on him that your sister could have inflicted. Tests will have to confirm it, but for now that's our working theory."
"Why would he do such a thing? She was such a sweet kid; a little mixed up maybe, but she was only twenty one, who isn't a little mixed up at twenty one?"
The corners of her mouth turned down and tears accumulated along the lower lids.
Nick shook his head for an answer because he had no other answer and didn't really expect Ellen was seriously looking for one. It was one of those things they would probably never understand.
He took a forkful of eggs in the silence that followed. She was fighting down tears. Nick saw her wipe her eyes with her napkin.
"You also said that someone then killed him. Who would do that?" she asked. "He kills my sister and then someone kills him? Why? It doesn't make any sense."
Nick swallowed a mouthful of eggs and thought how this whole setting felt odd to him. It seemed almost like a family discussion at the dinner table rather than talking to a witness in a murder case. His senses were all messed-up because of it, not in a suspicious, on-guard sort of way, but just the opposite. He felt disarmed, too familiar, and that was something he wasn't accustomed to. Even where Terrie was concerned, he never completely let his guard down. She even brought that up to him once. He was uncomfortable with this feeling. Keeping a little bit of distance was more his way; it was safe.
"We're not sure what's going on Ellen and don't know who killed St. Claire either. That's why you have to take what happened tonight seriously. There's too much we don't understand yet. But we do know your neighbor saw someone in your backyard and there's a footprint by your window. You could be in real danger here."
Ellen pushed the eggs around her plate for a second or two, and then put her fork down.
Nick took a swallow of coffee. It was strong.
"But why? Why would someone want to do anything to me? I don't have anything to do with anything, except for Molly being my sister. That's not a reason to kill me."
"I wish I could tell you why you might be in danger, but I can't. Maybe they think you are a threat to them, that you heard something, or saw something, or know something, I don't know, and until I do know, we need to make sure you're in a safe place."
"Are you implying I shouldn't stay here? Isn't that a little drastic considering we don't even know for sure if I am in danger?"
Nick put his fork down and gave her his full attention. He felt he had to make her understand.
"It's the smart thing to do. Whoever this guy is, whatever his reasons are, he's one serious motherfucker. He killed a cop Ellen, shot him dead. It wasn't any panic killing either. He did it because it served his purpose, and he was calm enough after to take the officer's portable radio."
She leaned forward and stuck out her chin. "I can't. I have a business to run. If I don't work, I don't eat."
Nick stared at her and she stared right back. He could see that she wasn't going to give-in and he knew he didn't have the leverage to reason with her. And the truth was, if the roles were reversed he wouldn't leave either --- but he had a gun.
Nick's cell phone sounded off.
"Then I'll try to get around-the-clock surveillance on your house, but we almost never do that. We don't have the people for it."
"Yeah", he said into his phone.
Ellen picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. She hadn't eaten anything that Nick saw. She probably hadn't eaten all day. The thought made him feel guilty. Instead of a lecture, she probably needed compassion.
It was Navarro.
"Hey, they just found Frankie Fontaine's body shot through the head. He was in his car, parked outside your first victim's apartment."
"Suicide?"
"Nope. You're not that lucky."
Nick looked at Ellen. He felt the pin pricks on the back of his neck. This ought to convince her, he thought.
Ellen, seeing his intensity mouthed the word "what."
"Okay, I'll be there shortly. I have to take care of something first. It shouldn't take much time. Who found him?"
Ellen came back to the table and sat down with her hands folded in front of her.
"One of his neighbors," Navarro replied. "She saw him parked in her space after she'd left several notes on his car to park elsewhere, so got out of her car to tell him off. At least it sounds like her problem is solved anyway."
"Okay, I know where it is." He ended the call.
"What happened," Ellen asked.
"Someone killed your sister's boyfriend. Look, I gotta go, so I'll get a cop to hang out here until I can get back. We'll talk about what we're going to do then."
"What the heck is going on? Now my sister's boyfriend is dead?"
"I have no idea. I'll tell you what it looks like, though. It looks like someone is trying to clear the boards. He's killing people who he thinks betrayed him, are a threat to him, or something like that. He's just getting rid of everyone so there isn't anyone who can give him up.
You've told me everything, right? You're not holding something back to protect your sister?"
She placed her palms flat on the table and stood-up.
"I can't believe you just asked me that. It's my sister who is dead! My sister! I want to get anyone who had anything to do with it, you hear me?" And then quieter, "Besides, what can I protect her from now?"
"All right. All right. I had to ask. Sorry."
Nick dialed Terrie and got her commitment to send an officer over and then relieve him with the day shift. After that, Nick would have to make an arrangement with the Deputy Chief of patrol. He told her he'd stay put until someone got there.
Ellen had turned her back on him, stiff-necked, facing the sink. She was still mad about his question.
"You know how to get a one armed Polack out of a tree?"
Al stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking from heel to toe, just beyond the ring of light that was directed on Frank Fontaine's car.
"Jeeze, don't you ever rest?" Nick said.
"Wave to him."
"I think you've told that one before."
"Nah, you're thinking about the Polish parachute joke.""You know what, I think you're right. This one's worse."
"What can I tell you, I'm going for a personal best."
"You're there. You can retire now."
"Think so?"
"Definitely. Trust me. So, what do we got so far?"
The smile evaporated.
"We got bubkes, that's what we got. This asshole isn't slowing down long enough for us to even take notes. If he's smart, though, he'll tuck tail and run because I'll tell you what, if one of Emerson's buddies gets a hold of him there'll be nothing left but teeth and hair. They're pissed like I've never seen before."
Nick just nodded his head.
After several long moments without more of a response, Al said, "What, the prospect of a payback offends your sensibilities?"
"Huh? No, I'm just thinking about Ellen Banks."
"Thinking about her covered in whip cream and chocolate or thinking about hiring her to take boudoir photos of you and Terrie in gun belts and black leather boots?"
Nick chuckled and said, "Your mind astounds me."
"My writing instructor said practically the same thing."
Nick let out a breath. "No, actually I was thinking about how our suspect may have made a try for her tonight."
"No shit?"
"Yeah, the lady across the street saw someone near Ellen's house and the officers who responded found a shoeprint in the dirt under her window. So I was just wondering why. She's not holding back on us, I'm sure of that. But maybe she knows something only doesn't realize it? Or the other possibility is she doesn't know jack but our bad guy just thinks she does."
"Know what, though?"
"Haven't figured that out yet, but it all has to start with the reason St. Claire was killed. He's the first kill. Think about it. St. Clair was Molly's customer. Ellen is Molly's sister. Fontaine is Molly's boyfriend. So maybe all three of them know or knew something, or the killer believes they know or knew something that is a threat to him, and he's trying to eliminate that threat. What other possibility is there that makes any sense?"
"Okay, I can buy that I guess, but if it's true, then it probably has something to do with prostitution because that's the only connection we know of between St. Claire and Molly Banks. And since we have ...what's the stripper's name, the one who wants to tug your rope?"
"Edna Faulk."
"Yeah, Edna Faulk telling us that Carl Malone was Molly's pimp, he's sounding more and more like our perp."
"Yeah, I think we better get him in for a formal interview. He's gonna lie through his teeth, or lawyer-up, but let's make a record of it anyway."
"And throw a surveillance on him as well. If we think he might be whacking people, we better keep an eye on him just in case there are others out there he still intends to whack on."
Nick wondered if "whack" was another word Al got from his writing class. "Yeah, good idea. They gotta be careful, though, I don't want to screw-up any chance we have getting him through Edna. ...You look at Fontaine yet?" Nick asked, nodding in the direction of the body.
"Nah, I can see what I need to from here."
"Okay, well, I have to see it close-up."
"Naturally."
Fontaine was positioned in the driver's seat of a black Chevy Camero, slumped sideways in such a manner that his head was pressed up against the lower half of the driver's-side window. He was wearing a black leather coat with a greasy collar, and there was a bloodstain running down the left side of his face and onto his shoulder from a tiny, black hole in his temple. His left hand lay in his lap. His right lay next to his right thigh. There was a .22 caliber size hole in the same side-window he was leaning against, about three inches below the roof frame.
Around six feet from the driver's side of the car was an evidence marker straddling a .22 caliber shell casing. It would be in about the right position for someone standing next to the car and shooting if the type of pistol ejected back and to the right. Its position would help identify the possible manufacturer of the weapon, and the ejection marks on the casing would help them identify the exact pistol if they were lucky enough to find it.
The conclusion was obvious. The shooter approached Fountaine while he was seated in his car. He probably came from the back of the car, otherwise Fountaine would have seen him, turned his head to look, therefore causing the entry wound to be in a different location than it was. The killer fired in a downward angle through the window and then simply walked away.
Arnie Grant was working the crime scene alone, not that he needed any help; there wasn't much to it. He was a short, bowlegged man with worn down shoes, and glasses that changed from clear to dark depending on the light.
"Where's Fran?" Nick asked.
"She's checking out a stolen Honda that patrol found dumped down south. It supposedly has a small caliber bullet casing in it."
"They were supposed to call me."
Arnie looked at him and shrugged and returned his attention to photographing the crime scene.
Nick walked back to Al.
"Where's the woman who found him?"
"The Night Detectives have her down at the department. I spoke to her briefly and she's legit, so I told them to go ahead and take her statement. And to save you the breath, everything else is taken care of. The canvas for witnesses is underway, the plate numbers of all the cars have been written down, and we're pulling the surveillance video from the stop and rob down the way just in case our shooter stopped for a pack of smokes and a Guns and Ammo magazine to unwind afterwards."
Nick looked at his watch. It was after 2 AM.
"Shit ...let's check The Rack and see if Malone is still there. If not, then we better run by his place and grab him up."
When they got to The Rack, Sonny Boy was locking the front door.
"Carl around?" Al asked.
"Ah man, not you guys again. I'm gonna find another job, that's what I'm gonna do. This isn't worth it. Carl's not here."
"When did he leave?"
"I don't know, I wasn't paying attention. He got here a couple hours after you left. When I told him you'd been here, he got mad at me, at the customers, even the girls. After that, I just avoided him. When he's in a mood, you don't want to be anywhere near the man."
"Okay, when you see him, tell him we came by again."
"No offense but you can tell him yourself. I'm not saying shit."
They next checked Malone's house in the Burbank district. His car wasn't in the driveway and there wasn't a response to either his home phone, cell phone, or the doorbell, so they decided to call it quits until tomorrow.
After being dropped off at his car, Nick did a roll-by of Ellen's place. There was a beat cop parked out front, sitting in his car with the map light on reading a paperback. By the time Nick had left, a second car had joined the first and both were blacked out and looking.
"Try the D.A.'s Office, they've got a witness protection program." Then Deputy Chief Theodore Billings made that sound with his mouth --- "tsst," which was kind of like the sound a kid makes spitting between his two front teeth, only without the spit.
"Tried 'em," Nick said. "She doesn't fit their protocol. A complaint has to be filed before they'll assign an investigator and spend the money."
"Tsst. I don't know what to tell you then. I don't have the manpower to do it. Two cops around the clock to protect someone we can't even say for sure is in any danger." He shook his head, "Impossible."
Billings' phone buzzed and he picked it up.
"Yeah. Tell him I'll call him right back, I'm in a meeting."
After Billings hung-up, Nick asked, "Well, what can you do for me Chief?"
The Deputy Chief stared at him for a second and then said, "Tsst, goddamnit Nick. Okay, you said she runs a business out of her house, right? So I'll give you one uniform during the day when she has to be there. The rest of the time we'll park an empty blue and white out front and swap it out each shift so if someone is watching, it won't be the same car number all the time. It's the best I can do."
"I'll take it," Nick said.
"But ...tsst ...after three days we'll re-evaluate."
"By then we should have something figured out."
As Nick started out the door, Billings asked, "We gonna get this prick?"
"We'll get him Chief; I just don't know how many more people are going to die before we do."
Once outside, Nick was stopped by Billings' assistant.
"You're a popular guy this morning. Your office forwarded a couple of calls for you."
She handed him the messages. One was from Dr. Nguyen at the coroner's office and the other was from Jim Westin.
Nick put off calling Westin and instead dialed Nguyen.
Dr. Nguyen told him Molly's body was available to be picked-up. He also said that their contract forensic dentist confirmed that the bite mark on Molly's breast was made by St. Claire.
Not as good as DNA, Nick thought, but good enough for now.
Back in Homicide, Nick could see several investigators crowded into Lt. Navarro's office and around the only video player in the unit.
"There," he heard Al say. "Doesn't that look like him? That's got to be him."
"That's him all right." It was Fanucchi's voice this time. "No two guys in the world are that ugly. Man!"
Nick stuck his head in the door just as Carla was coming out.
Over her shoulder she said, "It's him, look at the hair cut."
"Got something?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, look at this," Al said. "We have Malone leaving The Rack at about 3:30 AM on the morning St. Claire and Emerson were killed."
Al rewound the tape and pushed play. The image of Carl Malone came onto the screen. Down at the bottom, a running clock showed 3:34 AM.
"How do you know the time is accurate? Or the date for that matter?" Nick asked.
"That's easy," Al said. "Around 2 AM a deputy made a car stop right in the parking lot. I called dispatch and asked if there was a record of a stop at The Rack on Thursday at that time in the morning, and there was. Everything matches up."
Lt. Navarro sidestepped into his office and threw his briefcase on the desk. Fanucchi surrendered Navarro's chair.
"What's going on?" Navarro asked.
Al filled him in.
"So maybe he's the one," Navarro said.
"We're still not there yet," Nick said. "For instance, how did the killer know St. Claire was going to leave when he did? St. Claire could have just as easily left at two or three in the morning instead of around five. And how did Malone, if he is the killer, know which car was St. Claire's? That's a big parking garage and if Malone was in the wrong place, St. Claire could have been in his car and gone by the time Malone got to him."
"Maybe he just waited near the exit until St. Claire came out and then followed him to his car," Fanucchi said.
"Or maybe Malone knew what car St. Claire was driving because the two of them met when they were making the deal for Molly's services," Al added.
Nick turned his palms up. "Maybe, but that still doesn't answer how he knew when St. Claire was going to leave. He sure as hell wasn't going to hang out near the exit for four or five or more hours until St. Claire decided to get out of town. Someone eventually would have wondered who the blockhead eyeing everyone coming out the door was and reported it."
"Could be less complicated than all that," Navarro stated. "Maybe St. Claire and Malone had a meeting scheduled."
"I don't know about that one boss," Fanucchi responded. "St. Claire and Malone, somehow I don't see St. Claire wanting anything to do with that guy."
"Look," Navarro said, "Malone knew that Molly and St. Claire were together when Molly was killed, right? So it's not hard to believe that Malone put the bite on him for hush money. Malone meets St. Claire in the garage to get his money, but something goes wrong; St. Claire refuses to pay, or makes a counter offer, or tells him if you snitch on me I'll snitch on you, whatever, so Malone does the only thing any red blooded thug could do, sticks a knife in him."
Al nodded his head. "I like it. But it could be that Malone was going to kill him all along."
"The trouble with that is the broom," Nick said. "It was a prop. Why would you need a prop if you were expected? Also, there's no indication that the killer made a search of St. Claire's body or belongings for money. Malone isn't likely to pass up something like that."
Nobody said anything for a second.
"Hmm, I think I better have another talk with the staff at the Lexington," Al said. "St. Claire ordered room service for 4 AM. Maybe Malone or whoever somehow found out about it."
"Good idea. I've got a couple of things to do and then I'll catch up with you," Nick headed for the door.
Nick was just about to sit down at his desk when Fran Decker called him into the back room. Setting on her work table were several photographs of shoeprints.
"I want to show you something," she said.
Nick moved around until he was standing next to her.
"This is a picture of the shoeprint left at the scene of Emerson's murder, and this ..." She moved another photo next to it, "this is the shoeprint left under the window at your witness' house. I'm no expert, but they look like the same shoe to me."
"Son-of-a-bitch! I knew it. It was him. Now, I just have to figure out who it is. Thanks, Fran."
Nick went back to his desk and called Jim Westin who directed him to his website, gave him the password to access it, and explained how the photographs were organized. Westin agreed to stay on the phone until he was sure Nick was on track.
Together they cycled through the first twenty-six photos, at which point Westin stopped him. It was a photograph of St. Claire talking with a tall distinguished looking man in a gray suit and yellow tie.
"Who's the guy he's talking with?" Nick asked.
"That's Peter Blaine. He's the President of the Western States Commercial Real Estate Association, the organization that hosted the conference."
"Peter Blaine, yeah, somebody already talked with him." Nick jotted the name down in his notebook.
After another twenty photos or so, Nick found another one of St. Claire. It showed St. Claire standing with four other men in a circle, all with drinks in their hand. A ruddy faced man, wearing what looked like a dark brown suit with a stick-on nametag on its lapel, was pointing at St. Claire with the same hand holding his highball glass. It gave Nick the impression the man was trying to make a point about something beyond casual conversation and that maybe he was just a little bit drunk, too. The others were smiling slightly.
"Number forty eight," Nick said. "Who are these guys?"
"Other than St. Claire, I only know one of them. It's the guy in the pin stripe. His name is Roger Templeton. He's the local event planner who Blaine contracted with to put the whole thing together. He's also the one who hired me to take photos. As for the rest, I'll bet Blaine can tell you who they are."
"I'm going to need a copy of forty eight so I can show Blaine. I think I have the hang of it now. So how about I go through these on my own and, afterwards, give you the numbers I want printed. You tell me if you recognize anyone and print up the copies."
"Okay, I can do that."
An hour later, Nick called Westin and gave him the numbers and then arranged to pick the prints up in an hour. He also got Templeton's contact information. He then contacted Peter Blaine and made an appointment to meet with him at 2 PM in his office.
The blue and white was parked out front as promised, but the out front promised cop was nowhere in sight.
Nick pulled to the curb two doors away. When he got out of his own car, he first scanned the neighborhood looking for a uniform. Not seeing anyone, he approached the patrol car and did a slow walk around it. Everything looked all right. The keys weren't in the ignition, the doors were locked, and the computer screen was tilted down so passing eyes couldn't see what might be displayed on it. That made him feel better, a lot better. Maybe the officer was checking out the back of the house instead of lying dead somewhere.
Ellen opened the door to his knock.
"Mikolaj, is this business or pleasure?" she asked.
He looked past her and saw Officer Ray Trent sitting on the couch with his legs crossed drinking coffee from the same 'Life is Great' cup Nick drank from the night before, which for some reason annoyed him. But what annoyed him more was Trent didn't even bother to uncross his damn legs. How can you protect anyone sitting on your ass with your legs crossed, he asked himself?
He ignored Ellen, looked at Trent and said, "Can I talk to you outside?"
Once outside, Nick led Trent off the porch and to his car before he spoke.
"Did anyone explain to you what this assignment is about?" Nick asked.
"Not really," he replied. "They just sent me out here saying a witness in Sergeant Emerson's case might be in danger."
"That's part of it all right, but I'll tell you what, you better take this assignment seriously. There's a strong indication that the guy who killed Sgt. Emerson and another man, cased this place last night and after that killed another witness. This guy is dangerous, you hear me? You need to be on the outside checking out everyone who comes by. If someone looks just the least bit hinky, you have to find out what he's about. You're not here for show."
"I didn't know. Nobody said anything."
"Well, I'm telling you now."
"Okay, okay, I got it. You don't have to say anymore. I'll let the team know, too. We're switching off."
Ellen didn't meet him at the door this time, or even acknowledge his return for that matter. Instead, she was standing at her dining room table laying out prints from one of her jobs when Nick walked back in.
"Ellen."
No response.
"Ellen."
No response.
He walked up behind her and lightly touched her shoulder.
She turned and faced him, causing him to take two steps back. Her left fist rested on her hip, her right was still holding some of the prints.
"What was all that about, huh? You just come in here, don't say anything, and start bossing people around, is that how it goes? This is my home, not yours. I invited him in. He was just sitting there."
What crawled up her butt, he wondered?
"He wasn't doing his job, that's what that was all about. He could have gotten you both killed."
"Both killed? Isn't that just a little over the top? I hardly think someone is going to come on in here, blasting away, when he knows there's a police officer around."
"Yeah, tell that to our dead cop. You have to take this seriously, Ellen. There isn't any room for error here. For some reason this guy is killing people who are connected to your sister. That shoeprint found under your window, well it matches a shoeprint left near Emerson's body. It's the same guy. He was trying to get to you, too."
She dropped her hand from her hip and didn't respond for a while.
Okay, Okay, I got the message. I'm in danger. And I know you're trying to protect me. But soon you'll get this guy and things will go back to normal, right? In the mean time, there's an officer outside my door scaring off any prowlers. I'm safe. Nobody is going to sneak up on me. I'll just stay here, run my business, and follow your rules until you get him."
She set the stack of prints she was holding on the table.
"Well, that's one of the reasons why I'm here. I've got authorization for an officer to be here during the day, but night time is going to be a problem. They'll only park a car out front to make it look like someone is here."
"You got to be kidding me. You come in here and scare the hell out of me about the big bad boogieman, but you're only going to protect me during the day? What kind of a deal is that?"
Nick took a step towards her and evened out his voice.
"For now, that's the best that can be done. They figure you have to be here during the day because of your business, but you can go someplace safe at night."
"Like where? Where exactly can I go that's safe? I don't have any relatives, or friends that I know well enough to impose upon, so just where do you expect me to go?"
"How about a motel?"
"And who's going to pay for it, huh? I'm just surviving here. To put out an additional eighty to a hundred dollars a day, well I just can't afford it. That would mean, with meals, what, maybe another seven or eight hundred dollars a week."
"All right, all right, take it easy, I'll think of something, but you have to understand that you can't stay here. It's too dangerous."
"I get that part, Mikolaj. You've already explained it. You don't have to say it anymore. But where? Where am I going to stay if not here?"
"I don't know right now."
"Great."
"Look, I said I'll think of something. Just have your gear packed and ready to go by 1600."
She held her hands out, palms up.
"Gear, 1600, is that cop talk the rest of us normal people are supposed to understand?"
"Sorry, I mean have a bag packed for overnight by 4 PM. I'll figure out a place for you to stay."
"Okay, but a shelter or one of those dumpy motels on First Street is out of the question."
The two of them lapsed into silence again.
"You hungry?" she finally asked.
"Thanks, but there're a couple of people I have to see. ...Ah, hey, I almost forgot, your sister, she can be picked up when you're ready. Ah, jeeze, sorry, that didn't come out right. Sometimes I don't ..."
"That's okay. It didn't offend me. I guess I'll call the mortuary. They said they'd take care of it. Thanks for telling me."
Another uncomfortable silence passed between them. Nick was thinking he better get on with things; Westin would be waiting for him. But still he hesitated because it looked like Ellen had something on her mind.
"Ah, I've been thinking," she said. "The service for Molly, well I'm just afraid nobody else will be there. She deserves something, though. People only know the bad about her. Somebody ought to be there to hear the good things, too. And, well, the thing is I also don't want to go there alone. So, would you consider going with me? It shouldn't take too long."
He'd never been asked that before. It kind of took him by surprise. More of the victim's blood on him, he thought. He'd never allowed himself to get this close before. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
"Sure, I guess so," he said.
"Hey, if you don't want to, I understand. She's my sister. You didn't even know her."
"No, I didn't mean it to sound like that. I'd be happy to go with you." Happy, jeeze, what a stupid thing to say, he thought. It seemed like everything he said to her was either awkward or insensitive. "Maybe we should also go by her place. You know, there may be something of hers you'll want to keep or bury with her. I'll also take a look through the things of hers we have in evidence. Maybe we can come up with the names of some of her friends, too. We ...you could contact them, see if they would come."
Ellen was smiling, but it was through tears.
"I have to go," he said. "I'll see you around 4 PM."
First impression: Peter Blaine was a Gold Double Eagle in a handful of pocket change.
He was flat bellied and tall, with mocha colored hair parted high left, and had a long straight nose. He was dressed in a light blue shirt with "PB" double scripted on the breast pocket and cream trousers with a crease that looked like it could draw blood. And he wore these clothes with the casual ease of someone well moneyed and used to fine things.
His office was large enough to have accommodated a dozen homicide investigators with file cabinets, coffee counter, and all. The walls were done up in a light green burlap with little brown flecks that matched perfectly with the oatmeal carpet which, in one corner, actually had a hole fashioned into it for practice putts.
After greeting Nick with an overdone handshake and a perfect set of whitecaps, he said, "I guess I don't have to ask what this is all about, do I? It's all just so hard to fathom."
"Did you know Mr. St. Claire very well?" Nick asked.
"Hardly at all, really. I've seen him before, a couple years back at another conference, and read several articles about him, but never really had any one-on-one until the conference." He then said, "Where are my manners Sergeant, please sit down. Can I get you some coffee?"
Nick shook his head and took one of the upholstered arm chairs positioned around a coffee table in one corner of the room. Blaine sat in its mate and threw one leg over the other.
"How is it that he came to be a guest speaker at your conference?" Nick asked.
"Well, I invited him. I thought he would be an interesting speaker because he's made a lot of money in real estate and he's, was, a rather flamboyant personality with those cowboy boots of his and the way he was always joking around."
"When you invite someone like him to speak, do you pay him for coming?"
"Not in his case. He only required us to arrange things for him."
"What does that mean, arrange things?"
"Oh, well, arrange for a car, a hanger for his jet, reserve a room, that sort of thing."
"And did you do that, arrange things for him?"
"Of course."
"Did you personally do that or did you have someone else do it for you?"
He smiled. "Oh no, I didn't do it, didn't make the calls that is. I had someone else do it for me."
"And who would that be?" Nick asked.
"Our event planner, Roger Templeton. I think I may have had my assistant take care of reserving the room for Nolan, but the rest was pretty much left up to Roger."
Nick decided to change the subject and come back to it when he showed Blaine the photos.
"Has Mr. St. Claire ever been in San Jose before, that you know of?"
"I have no idea. ...Ah, I take that back. When we were talking on the phone he asked questions such as would he be able to land his jet at the airport, and is the airport close to town. That suggests he hadn't been here before, don't you think?"
"Sounds like a fair conclusion. When was the last time you spoke to him?"
"That would have to be Tuesday night at our welcome dinner. I spoke with him several times during the course of the function; just casual conversation you know, a little business maybe."
"And after that, you never had any contact with him again?"
"Well, yes and no. He called and left a message for me Wednesday morning saying he would not be able to give his talk because he was sick. I returned his call and left a message expressing my disappointment. We never really directly communicated, but we left messages for each other."
"Did you see him any time after Tuesday night?"
"No."
"On Tuesday night, did he give you any indication what his plans were for the evening?"
"No, the only thing I remember him saying was that he was a little tired so he was going to leave as soon as the dinner was over. It ended about 7 PM, and I don't think I saw him after that."
"Okay, let's change directions a little bit Mr. Blaine."
"It's okay to call me Pete if you want."
"Have you ever visited a strip club called The Rack before?" Nick asked.
Blaine shifted in his chair and broke eye contact.
"What does that have to do with St. Claire being murdered?"
"It may have everything to do with his death, Mr. Blaine."
Nick saw Blaine stiffen, probably at the use of his last name rather than his first name as he had offered.
"I guess I'll have to trust you on that, Sergeant." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Yes, I've been there before. A bunch of us went there after playing some golf, you know, kind of a boy's night out. We had a couple of beers and left."
"When was that?"
"A couple of months ago maybe. I don't see the relevance of all this."
"Bear with me, Pete. I'll explain the relevance in a minute. This boy's night out to The Rack, who else was with you?"
"Well, ah, let me think about that. Let's see, there was Fred Arnold, Simon Castle, Roger Templeton, and a couple of people I only met that day. One of them was a man named Josh, and the other one ...I can't remember his name. Maybe it'll come to me as we talk."
"Was that the only time you've been there?"
Blaine uncrossed his legs and shifted again.
"Just the once," he said.
A lie, Nick thought. But was it a lie because he was embarrassed to admit it or was it a lie because he wanted to put distance between himself and a possible murder charge?
"How about the others, did any of them indicate that they had been there before?"
"Not that I recall."
It felt like another lie, or at least a half-truth.
"Do you know any of the dancers at The Rack?"
"Of course not."
"Was there an indication that anyone in your group knew any of the dancers, or any Rack employee for that matter?"
"Like I said, we had a few beers and went home. Someone may have given a buck or two to one of the dancers, but it didn't appear he knew her."
"And who was that, the one who gave some money to one of the dancers?"
"I can't be sure. I think it was one of the two men I didn't know."
Nick handed Molly's photo to Blaine and asked, "Do you recognize this woman?"
"Can't say I do." He swallowed.
Stomach coming up on you, Blaine.
"Do you know someone named Carl Malone? He's a big man."
"No."
"How about someone named Ramon Forney?"
"I think I'd remember that name if I've met him."
"The reason I'm asking you about The Rack is that St. Claire was with one of their employees on Tuesday night."
"I see; a woman I presume. This woman?"
Blaine handed the photograph of Molly back.
"Do you know why St. Claire was with one of the women from The Rack?"
"I haven't a clue."
The next question he wanted to ask would have to wait until the end of the interview because it might tweak Blaine enough that he'd kick Nick out of his office, and he still had other questions for him.
Blaine looked at his watch.
I'd like to show you a few photographs and see if you recognize anyone. Without waiting for an answer he handed Blaine the stack of photographs he'd gotten from Jim Westin and then got up and moved next to his chair.
"This of course is St. Claire," he said pointing. "The other three are Roger Templeton, Fred Arnold in the brown suit, and I'm not sure about him. He looks familiar but I don't know his name."
"Okay, what about this photo, St. Claire's tablemates?"
"Not going to be much help to you on this one. The man seated to St. Claire's right is Wendell Gertz. He's a real estate broker in town and active in politics. He bought the entire table, so the rest of these people are, in all likelihood, from his office."
"How about these last two photos? Who is the blond woman with Fred Arnold?" Nick asked.
"Oh, that's his wife. Her name is Gert, Gertie."
"And this one?"
It was the photograph of St. Claire and the woman in the blue dress.
"That's my wife, Melanie. She was working the room; saying hello to everyone."
There was a tiny catch in his words.
"If I need to get hold of these people, how do I do it?"
"Just call my secretary and she'll get you their contact numbers, and if you need to talk with Melanie I'll set it up for you."
Blaine handed the photos back to Nick who returned to his chair.
"Will this take much longer Sergeant?"
"Not much," Nick said. "In your industry does it occur that important clients, people like St. Claire for instance, sometimes find themselves in need of an escort?"
"What do you mean by escort? You mean like someone from an escort service?"
"That's exactly what I mean."
"Well, I can tell you that none of my clients have ever asked for that."
"So it's never occurred as far as you know?"
"Oh, I've heard of things like that before. I'm not going to lie to you. But I've only heard of them. It's not anything I have any personal knowledge of."
"So if a business associate of yours, let's say worth a hundred million or so, said he wanted an escort to accompany him to a function, or maybe just for some private companionship, you'd say 'no can do'?"
"I'd say I wouldn't know how to help him out. I don't know people who know about those things. You're not implying that I arranged the meeting between this woman from The Rack and St. Claire, are you? Because if you are, you're sadly mistaken."
"I'm asking the question, Mr. Blaine, that's all. You said that it appeared as if St. Claire had never been to San Jose before, yet a day after he arrives, he's with a woman from a strip club you've patronized. That's pretty fast work don't you think, unless he knew someone with a connection?"
Blaine's face colored, and he leaned forward in his seat. "Whether it's fast work, luck, or something arranged for him, I don't know anything about it. And I don't appreciate you implying that I do a little pimping on the side. I help clients buy and sell real estate, not women."
Nick ignored his temper tantrum. Was it genuine or put on? It sounded a little theatric.
"Was there anyone at the dinner St. Claire seemed to know other than you? Maybe someone he spent a lot of time with or perhaps greeted as if they've had some prior contact, that sort of thing."
"No, not that I saw. Now, is that about all your questions because I have other appointments?"
"Actually, I have just one more question."
"And that is?"
"Where were you on Thursday morning between say 3AM and 7 AM?"
"You've got to be stupid to ask that question. Do I look like a murderer? Look around you Sergeant, I could buy and sell you twice over, more, do you think I'd risk that by killing someone? That's an idiotic question to ask."
"No, you don't look like a killer, but sometimes people surprise me. So the question still stands, where were you?"
"At home with my wife."
"Anyone else in the house with you and your wife?"
"Our yellow Lab, Trixie."
"Thank you Mr. Blaine. And I had to ask that question because when this case gets to court you can bet your ass that someone would make a big deal out of it if I didn't."
"And when this case gets to court, is someone going to make a big deal about me going to The Rack?"
"I doubt it, but I can't promise anything either."
"Great," Blaine said.
Nick found Al sitting in the driver's seat of the Crown Vic, parked in the red zone out front of the Lexington, with cigar about the size of a ballpark hotdog clenched between his teeth, talking on the phone.
He opened the passenger door and climbed in just as his partner folded up his cell.
"Fran says hello and that it's a good day because nobody's found any bodies yet. She also says the blood on the coveralls located near Emerson's body is the same blood type as St. Claire's."
"Good, that may help later on if we need to connect the three murders for a search warrant. You find anything out?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. As you know, St. Claire ordered both room service and a copy of his bill for four in the morning on the day he was killed. He made those arrangements, by phone, sometime around noon the day before. Well, about midnight this guy calls the front desk and says he was supposed to pick-up St. Claire but forgot what time he was to be there and asked if St. Claire had indicated a checkout time. The clerk says she told the caller that it would be sometime around four in the morning. So now we know how the killer knew what time to be there waiting for him."
"In that case, we gotta check phone records. Since Malone is at the top of our list, let's start with him."
Nick's phone rang. It was Edna from The Rack.
"The thing is," she said, "I just found out about it so don't think I didn't tell you or something."
"Hold it. Wait a minute. Start over. What did you just find out about?"
"There's one tonight."
Nick took a deep breath and let it out. "One what?"
"I'm supposed to meet a fem. It's at eight o'clock."
"Jeeze."
"Hey, it's not that big of a deal. I get one every so often."
"What? ...No, no, no. I don't understand what you're saying. What's a fem, and what exactly is supposed to happen tonight?"
"Oh my God, I thought everyone knew what a fem was. It's a woman, you know a female with tits and all. Where have you been?"
"Okay, that's better. So Malone told you to meet a woman for sex at eight o'clock tonight. Is that it?"
"But it's almost tonight already. Don't you want to wait until the next one? The next one might work out better."
"You didn't answer my question. Did Malone tell you to meet this fem for sex?"
"Well of course he did, silly. I wouldn't be calling you otherwise."
"Okay, okay, thank you. And don't get cold feet on me Edna. Everything will be all right. Now, what hotel?"
"That's a little different, too. It's at the Empire Cottages in Los Gatos."
"Maybe he decided to move it over there because the hotels downtown might be looking for single women with debit cards. That's what I'd do. Okay, what name will you be using?"
"Well, my real last name but Nona as my first. I like that better for a first name, don't you?"
"I like them both. Okay, this is what I want you to do. Get there by six o'clock and checkin as usual, just don't call Malone and tell him what room you're in until I tell you to. One of us will meet you in the lobby and take you to where we can talk. You got that?"
"One of you? So that means your friend will be there, too?"
"Partner. And you still didn't answer if you understood to meet us at six."
"Well I was kinda thinking that after, maybe you and me could, you know. "
"Edna, before we talk about that, repeat when and where we're supposed to meet."
"We're supposed to meet at six near the lobby."
"Okay, good." Finally.
"Now how about after?" she persisted.
"We can be friends, Edna, but we can't have a relationship because you're kind of like a fellow employee now."
"I wasn't thinking of a relationship. I was just thinking of having sex."
"We'll have coffee instead, okay? Now I've got to take care of some things if I'm going to meet you at six."
"You don't know what you're missing."
Nick hung up.
"You got that?" He asked Al.
"You mean the part that she wants to mash your potato after it's over with?"
"Mash my potato? You get that from your writing class, too?"
"Nah, I made that one up, but maybe I'll use it, though. Mash your potato, not bad."
Nick looked at his watch. "Look, I have to move Ellen to a safe place for the evening. It shouldn't take too long. How about you getting a wire from the narcs and then hustle over to the Empire Cottages in Los Gatos and secure one of their rooms for us near the one Edna's going to use? She'll be using the name Nona Faulk. Better get a key to her room, too."
"It'd be a lot easier if it was in one of the downtown hotels. That place is all spread out and thick with trees and bushes. If I recall, lighting's not too good either."
"Yeah I know, but we have no choice."
"I may as well go there now," Al said. "If I get over there early enough I can check out their buffet. It's supposed to be pretty good. You want anything?"
"From the buffet, I don't think so. Your idea of what's good and my idea of what's good are completely different."
When Nick got there, Ellen was waiting for him with a couple of small suitcases and her laptop. He waived off the cop who was parked out front and carried her belongings to his truck.
"I'll just follow you in my car," she said.
"No way. Once you're settled I don't want you going anywhere until I bring you back in the morning."
"I don't know if I like that. Where are you taking me anyway, or are you going to blindfold me and spin me around three times before we leave?"
Nick ignored the question and opened the passenger door for her.
"And who's truck is this? Tell me this isn't yours."
She got in.
"What's wrong with my truck?" he asked.
"It's a truck; an old truck. What, they don't pay you, or do you have these huge child support payments and so can't afford something newer?"
She was smiling and Nick wondered if she was just making fun of him or probing.
"I bought this used, right out of the Marines. From time to time I have to have something done to it, but since it runs fine there's no reason to replace it. How does the saying go, 'If it ain't broke don't fix it.' I just don't happen to believe in change for change sake. And no, I don't have child support payments." She was probing, he decided.
"Okay, that answers that, kinda, now how about telling me where we're going."
"You're going to stay at my mother's place. It's safe, it's free, and she'll call me if you sneak out."
"Oh that one's got to be against the rules." She rubbed her hands together and smiled.
"Actually, there's no rule against it, but if my boss found out there'd be one, so keep it to yourself."
"Hmmm," she said.
"Hmmm what?"
"Well, I was just thinking you're sort of a hard one to figure out. You're the kind of guy who doesn't like change but you work in a job where there are no regular hours or routine, and you have to constantly adapt to irrational circumstances created by irrational people. You also follow the rules, which kind of makes sense since you don't like change and since you're a cop who enforces rules, but sometimes you break the rules when it suits your purpose. I also think that you have a problem getting up close and personal with people, yet here you are going out of your way for me. You're a real mystery, Mikolaj, someone I'm going to have to think about."
Nick didn't say anything in response, but showed the slightest smile.
He drove south on 17th Street, turned west on Taylor, and then north on 16th Street before pulling to the curb in mid block while checking his side-view mirror.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm checking to see if anyone is following us."
"And?"
"It doesn't look that way so far."
His radio was on a local jazz station and turned low. Ellen reached out and changed it to new country and turned it up a couple of notches.
"I think this is the only car, truck, in the world without a CD player," she said. "I'm surprised you don't have one of those gun hanger things in the back window, and a hula-girl on the dash."
I don't like country, he thought.
Nick pulled out from the curb and continued north to Hedding, turned left, and then left on 10th St. When he reached St. James he turned left again and into a dirt parking lot where he whipped out a u-turn and stopped facing the street. After a few seconds he drove back out onto St. James and continued east.
"How do you know I'm not some crazy woman who'll do something bad to your mom?"
"I checked you out."
"And?"
He reached over and turned the radio off.
"Let's see, you ran away at age sixteen but were brought back home by the police. Other than that you have no record. You haven't committed a traffic violation ..."
"I've been stopped, but always talked my way out of it."
"Figures. You haven't been in any accidents, and your name doesn't appear on any reports as a suspect, victim, or witness. There also haven't been any calls for police service to your house, other than the one we know about. You have a mortgage of about two hundred thousand on your house and have a good credit rating. The lady across the street says that you stay pretty much to yourself, don't have a social life, and work too hard. She also says that you regularly check up on her to make sure she is all right. That one earns you a lot of points. Westin says you're very reliable and would consider a partnership with you if he thought you'd go for it. Oh, and your medicine cabinet doesn't have any medications in it that would indicate that you have any psychological problems."
"How do you know that?"
Nick turned south on 14th Street.
"You have one bathroom. I had the beat cop out front ask to use it, and he checked the cabinet for me."
"Is that legal?"
"Remember, I break the rules when I have to."
"Apparently so. Well, you only think you know about me. There's stuff that your records and my medicine cabinet can't tell you."
"Such as?"
"Like a past is what."
"Everyone has a past Ellen, and it usually includes things we wish we could do over. So what's yours?"
She didn't answer right away.
He crossed Santa Clara Street and then turned east on San Fernando.
"What's mine, huh? Well at nineteen I finally got my wish and moved out. I did some modeling to pay the rent and ended up in Europe. I didn't have the look to make it big but enough of it to still work the shows and do some advertising. I met a guy in Spain and we moved in together for about a year. We both used drugs, him more than me, until one night he overdosed and died. The Spanish police apparently also don't have any problem with going through people's personal stuff because they found a small amount of cocaine in our place and arrested me. I spent three days in one of their jails before they decided to let me go. I haven't used anything since or wanted to. That was ten years ago. I was twenty then if you're trying to do the math. I stayed with modeling for a while longer, moving all over Europe, but was getting fewer and fewer jobs."
"Ah, and that's how you came to spend time in Poland."
He turned south on 14th Street.
"Yes, exactly. Eventually I took a job helping one of the fashion photographers and found I was pretty good at it. I also met another guy, an American, and he moved in with me. One day we got in an argument and he socked me in the face and, not satisfied with that, tried to strangle the life out of me. I called the police, that was in Germany, but they didn't do anything about it except escort him away. After that he kept following me, pounding on my door in the middle of the night, ringing me up, and threatening me. That's when I decided to pack-up and come back to the states to start my own photography business. So, do you still want me to stay at your mom's?"
"Yes."
"That's it, yes?"
"That's it, yes."
He actually felt more confident about his decision, now. She'd told her story. She'd told the truth like you tell the truth, in a string of words without pauses to think them out.
Nick made a u-turn at William and headed back south studying the street as he went; one last test to see if he had a tail.
"So your mom, what do I call her?"
"Ann."
"Ann for what? That's not a name you usually hear in Poland."
"It's for Antonia. It wasn't that she intentionally changed it, it's just that people started calling her that for short, so she stuck with it."
He pulled into a driveway midway between San Fernando and San Salvador and drove to the back.
"This is your mom's house?"
"This is it."
"Do you live here, too?"
"Not since I was eighteen and ran away to the Marines."
The back door opened and a gray haired woman stood in the opening only to be pushed aside by a huge black dog that loped over to Nick and jumped up, putting his paws on Nick's shoulders. He then dropped down and approached Ellen more gently.
"Don't mind him, it's the men who have to watch out," Ann said.
Nick carried Ellen's bags inside the back door, gave his mother a hug, and introduced her to Ellen.
"Sorry I can't stay," he said, "but I've got to meet Al. Don't go anywhere or tell anyone where you are, no exceptions. Oh, and I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."
"You serious?" Ellen asked.
"Of course I'm serious."
"You don't have time to eat?" his mother asked.
"Fraid not."
He then looked at Ellen and said, "Careful, she'll force feed you cabbage rolls or her famous Hunter Stew."
Ellen glanced at him and said, "Good-bye Mikolaj, get out of here so your mom and I can get acquainted." She then turned to Ann and asked, "My God, what kind of dog is this?"
Nick felt dismissed at this point.
"It's actually a Black Russian Terrier, but since the Polish don't like the Russians, I call him a Black Polish Terrier," Ann said.
Nick heard them laughing as he went down the back stairs.
The Empire Cottages Resort rested in the afternoon shadow of the Santa Cruz Mountains, just outside the town of Los Gatos. The registration desk, restaurant, bar, and thirty-four luxury suites were located in the main building, which was designed by a protégé of Frank Lloyd Wright to blend with the oak studded landscape. A banquet room, spa, and exercise facility were located in a separate, nearby building. The pool and tennis courts were between the two.
Spread throughout the extensive grounds were forty-one cottages of similar design, each containing a large Jacuzzi tub, kitchenette, bed, sitting area, and small back porch. These cottages were strategically positioned and landscaped in such a way as to maximize guest privacy. Access to them was by foot or golf cart only.
Nick found Al seated at a table in the dining room with a white napkin tucked in his collar, eating crème brulee --- for two.
"You want something?" Al said pointing at his food with his spoon. He then lowered his voice and out of the side of his mouth added, "It's gratis."
Nick shook his head and asked, "Have you seen Edna yet?"
"Now, how could I do that? Maybe if she was doing lap dances in the lobby I might be able to spot her, but I got no idea what she looks like, remember?"
A white haired woman with parchment skin, sitting at the next table, looked over at Al upon hearing his statement. She stared at him for a couple of seconds, her eyes coming to rest on his white socks. She frowned and then returned her attention to her pear and candied walnut salad, muttering something low to her tablemate, a distinguished looking gentleman wearing a light blue, v-neck sweater.
Nick scanned the room. "Hope she didn't change her mind and snitch us off to Malone. Are the rooms taken care of?"
"Yep, all squared away. We got a couple of the cottages. That's all that was available. Already checked us in and the card keys are in my pocket. How about the equipment?"
"I told you to take care of that."
Al let out a little laugh. "Relax, I was just yanking your chain. It's on the way. Rene from Narcotics is bringing it.
"Jerk. Okay, I gotta find Edna. She should be here by now. Will you call Rene and give her the room numbers so she can get the equipment set up?" He looked at his watch. It was 6:18 PM.
Al pulled his cell phone out of his pocket with one hand without putting his spoon down with the other. "Sure no problem," he said waving his partner off with the spoon.
Nick looked the lobby over without spotting Edna, so approached a young woman at the front desk and showed his badge.
"Has a woman named Nona Faulk tried to check in yet?" he said.
The woman behind the counter typed something into a computer and said, "No, sir, but another police officer has already picked-up her key."
At that exact moment he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. When he turned around, he faced a dark haired woman wearing a white silk blouse with a simple gold chain around her neck, diamond stud earrings, a navy skirt that stopped just above the knees, and matching high heels.
"You looked right at me, Sergeant Nick," she said smiling. "You thought I was one of those snotty, rich bitches, huh? You didn't expect to see me all straight and everything, did you?"
Nick had to admit the transformation was amazing. He stepped aside and said, "You look nice, Edna."
The young woman behind the counter got a confused look on her face.
"So... you like the snotty, rich bitch look, huh? Is that how it is, Sergeant Nick? I can do that. I can do that all day if that's what you want." She reached out and laid the flat of her hand on Nick's chest and took the lapel of his coat between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing it up and down.
Nick ran his hand across his face and glanced at the woman behind the counter, who continued to stare for a second before quickly looking away.
"Come on Edna, we have work to do." He put his hand on the small of her back and escorted her towards the dining room.
Edna looked back over her shoulder at the woman behind the counter, smiled and said, "It may be work to you, but it's pure pleasure for me."
Nick gently propelled her forward. "Behave yourself."
Edna giggled.
They stopped at the entrance to the dining room and Nick signaled Al to join them.
"Al, this is Edna," Nick said.
"Eww, you're a big one," she said as she stepped up next to him and wrapped her two arms around Al's one.
By this time, several persons in the restaurant had stopped eating and were looking at them, so Nick said, "Come on, let's get out of here. This is supposed to be a sting, not a public performance."
Al patted Edna's hand and walked her towards the exit. "As you can see, I'm the fun one."
When they reached Edna's cottage, Rene was just coming out the door. She was a tall, thick boned woman wearing blue jeans, a tee-shirt hanging out at the waist to hide her pistol, tennis shoes, and had a pair of dark glasses hiked up on her head.
"Perfect timing. This her?" she said nodding her head at Edna.
Edna stiffened. "Hey, I thought this was going to be between the three of us."
"It's okay, Rene works with us and knows how to use the equipment we need to make sure you're safe. Everything will still be confidential," Nick said.
Al patted her hand, smiled at her, and said, "Don't worry."
Edna avoided looking at Rene. "What sort of equipment?"
Rene took a deep breath and let it out. "It's just something that lets us hear what's going on inside your room. If you need help, we'll know it. Relax, it's no big deal."
Edna finally looked at Rene. "Help? Nothing's going to go wrong. She's probably just some old dyke who wants to get off with someone younger. Certain other people may need help with that," she said staring, "but not me."
Rene looked at Nick and dropped her dark glasses down. "What the fuck, Nick?"
"Everything's okay. We just haven't had time to explain things to her. Just show us where the microphone is."
Rene stared at Edna for a second, shook her head, turned, and led them back inside the cottage.
Edna let go of Al's arm to get through the door and whispered, "Bitch," from behind him.
"Okay, so this is what I did; I hid the microphone in this lamp over here." Rene pointed to one of the lamps next to the bed. "I unplugged the light because if it's switched on, it will make the equipment buzz too loud for us to hear what's said. So whatever you do, don't plug the cord back in, got it?"
"Got it," Edna said. "Don't plug the lamp in."
"Okay, if something goes wrong, I like to use a simple signal. Just say, 'Please let me go. I won't say anything.' Not more than ten, fifteen seconds later, we'll come through the door."
Edna rolled her eyes. "Please let me go. I won't say anything."
"Hey, Edna, this is for your protection. If you don't give a fuck, I don't either," Rene said.
"It's stupid ..."
"All right, all right, let's just get this done," Nick said. "Edna, I don't think anything is going to happen either, but you're part of the team now so we don't want to take any chances, okay? Just listen to what Rene has to say so we can get this over with."
"Since you put it that way, Sergeant Nick." She took Al's arm again and pulled it into her chest.
Al smiled, put his hand over hers, and looked down at her chest.
"Moving on," Rene said. "We still making a phone call to this Carl Malone person?" Rene asked.
"Yeah, and we need to do it pretty soon, too," said Nick.
Rene walked over to the phone on the desk and attached a recorder. As she was doing it, she said, "This is how we do it Edna: Once the recorder is going, I'm going to punchin all but the last digit of his phone number. Then I'm going to say my name, the date, and ask you if we have permission to make and record this call. You say 'yes' into the phone. I'll then punchin the last number and hand the phone to you. You say what you have to, and hang up. It's easy as that. You got it?"
"I think so."
"I'll help you through it if you get stuck."
Nick gave the go ahead.
Rene and Edna went through the routine, and Edna took the phone. After a few rings it kicked over to voicemail and Malone's voice was heard to say leave a message. Edna did as she was told, left her room number on the recording, and said the card key would be under a rock to the right of the door.
"Is that unusual?" Al asked, "Malone not picking up when he knows you're going to call."
"It happens. Sometimes I think he does it just to make me mad."
"It would have been nice to get something on tape," Nick said.
Nick then told Edna that the three of them would be in a nearby cottage waiting for her client to arrive.
In their room, Al and Nick took turns watching the front of Edna's cottage. They could see all but the last ten to fifteen feet of walkway leading up to Edna's door. Shrubbery blocked the rest of their view. While they were doing that, Rene listened in on Edna through a set of earphones.
About 7:20 PM, Rene said, "Ah man, she just turned on the TV. I can't hear shit."
Nick used the phone in their room to call Edna.
"We forgot to tell you to keep the television off. When it's on we can't hear what's happening," Nick said.
"Nothing's happening. She's not supposed to be here for about a half an hour. Why don't you come on over Sergeant Nick, there's plenty of time?"
"Just turn the TV off, Edna. Let's not blow it now."
"It's boring here by myself. I'll turn it off as soon as she gets here, I promise." She gave it her best pouty voice.
"We can't protect you if we can't hear what's going on. Just a few more minutes, that's all. Turn it off."
"If you're not coming over, I'm not turning it off."
What is this, high school, he thought? "Listen Edna, you've got to turn the damn TV off, you hear me. I can't come over because she may show-up early and then we're screwed. So just turn the TV off, will you?"
"Like I said, Sergeant Nick, I'll turn it off when she gets here. Don't worry, you'll be able to hear everything we do."
Edna hung-up on him.
"God damn it!" Nick shouted. "We should call this thing. She's going to leave it on until her client gets there."
"Ah, let it ride for a while, Nick," Al said. "We'll see when someone arrives, and if she doesn't turn it off, we'll just go knock on the door. It's not like she's expecting Jack the Ripper."
"I don't like it," Nick said.
"Just a few more minutes," Al replied. "Hey Rene, you know why Christ wasn't born in Poland?"
"Oh gawd," Nick muttered.
"No, why?" Rene asked.
"Because they couldn't find three wise men and a virgin."
"I can believe it about the wise men, but some of those Polish women just have to be virgins, if you know what I mean."
Nobody laughed except Al.
Ten minutes later, "Hey ...hey, I think something's going on," Rene said. "Wait, wait, wait a minute ...it sounds like someone else is there."
"Nobody came up the path," Al said. "Are you sure?"
"I don't know, hold on. Maybe it's just the TV."
"We better go," Nick said.
"Let's just make sure," Al replied.
"No, there's definitely someone there. But, only ...it sounds like a dude or this woman has a dude's voice."
"Okay, that's it, we're going," Nick said.
"Shit, something's going down. She screamed. ...Gunshots!"
Rene pulled off the earphones and started for the door.
As they exited, Nick said, "Al, take the back!"
When Nick and Rene got to Edna's door, they heard the sound of something inside being knocked over.
"San Jose Police Department!" Nick shouted. At the same time, he drew his pistol and kicked the door.
The two of them rushed the room, pistols out and pointing. The first things Nick saw was one of the lamps knocked over on the floor and the rear patio door standing open. As he got closer, he saw a woman face down on the carpet at the end of the bed and Edna's feet sticking out on the far side. "Shit, two down!" he shouted. Since he was first through the door, he peeled off to clear the bathroom, leaving Rene to go into the main part of the room. At the same time all this was happening, he heard first one shot and then an exchange of gunfire coming from outside.
When Nick re-entered the main room, Rene was kneeled down. "Head shots, both of them. No pulse," she said. "It's going down outside."
"Call it in," Nick told her. He then went back out the front door and circled around to where he last saw Al heading towards the back.
Experience and training told him to go slow; to clear the areas around him before moving forward. His gut told him that whatever happened was over with and he better get to his partner, so he ran blindly through the shrubs and blackness in the direction of the shots.
"Here," Al said. "I fucked-up man."
Nick saw Al stagger and then drop to one knee.
"Whoa. Whoa big guy. You hit?"
"Yeah, I think so, ...sorry."
Al sat down and then laid flat on his back.
"Rene, Al's hurt! He's needs paramedics!" he shouted.
Nick heard someone from one of the nearby cottages yell, "What's going on? We're calling security."
"Ah, man," Nick said.
There was blood on Al's shirt.
"He got away. I got a couple off at him, but I don't know if he's hit."
Nick heard footsteps coming fast behind him and spun with his pistol out. It was Rene.
"Did you call for paramedics?" Nick asked.
"They're on the way. Is he okay? Where's he hit?"
Al started making a gurgling sound and opened his mouth, struggling for breath.
"Help me roll him over on his side. I think he's choking on his blood."
Everything was noise and lights and questions after that; lots of questions. Trouble was there weren't many answers to go with them. How could someone walk in on a police stake-out, kill two women, shoot a cop, and then escape? And who was the other woman? What did the shooter look like? Which way did he go? Was there more than one shooter involved? How did he get into the room unobserved? It was a royal fuck-up.
After the paramedics cleared Al's airway, got the bleeding controlled, and stabilized his vitals, he was taken to Valley Medical Center. Only then did Nick ventured back into Edna's room.
On the way back to the room, he asked himself what the hell happened? How did the killer and the second woman arrive undetected? Two possibilities came to mind. Instead of arriving on the path, maybe they took an indirect route and walked up in the blind spot. Or maybe they entered through the back patio door. Nick wouldn't put it past Edna to leave it open while she waited. Whichever the case, once the killer got inside, he shot both women and then went out the back where he ran right into Al.
Nick squatted down next to the woman at the foot of the bed who was now positioned on her back. It took a minute, a long minute, but then he remembered who she was. She was Peter Blaine's wife, Melanie. What the hell, Nick asked himself? What's she got to do with this?
How could this get any more messed up? Blaine's wife dead, Edna dead, and Al in the hospital.
His head was spinning faster than a defense attorney making closing argument. He had to slow it down. He needed to slough off the emotion of everything that happened so he could function effectively. It was hard not to think about those who had been murdered though: Molly, St. Claire, Emerson, Fontaine, and now Melanie Blaine and Edna, too.
Edna, poor Edna, she had trusted him and was now lying on a blood soaked carpet with a bullet in her head. That image wouldn't leave his brain. It would live there forever. It was his fault she was dead, all his fault. He should have stopped the sting as soon as Edna refused to turn the TV off. "My screw-up," he told himself. "I was in charge and people died."
All those thoughts and more tumbled around and around as he merged onto 880 north. Then a motorcycle, one of those sleek Japanese jobs, its rider prostrate over the gas tank, shot past him at ninety plus, providing momentary distraction. Nick's foot automatically pressed down on the accelerator, a programmed response, but he immediately backed off. Never catch him anyway, he thought.
Back he went to his dark and unsettling contemplations. This whole thing was a blur of events. First St. Claire killed Molly, no mystery there exactly. They were having sex, a free market arrangement, consenting adults, and then St. Claire got a little weird with her. He bit her; it was there on her breast and obvious enough that it must have hurt like hell. So she did something back to him, probably; it stands to reason she would have. Who wouldn't? There were the scratch marks on his face, but Nick guessed those didn't come until later, after he wrapped his hands around her throat. Anyway, whatever happened in that hotel room, the asshole killed her. That was clear.
Things really went crazy after that. Somebody killed St. Claire; stabbed him to death in a very planned, measured way with one thrust to the kidney and one to the neck. This somebody knew what he was doing, so he probably had done it before. Nick's educated guess was that St. Claire was killed because he was stupid and the killer knew he would eventually get caught. Once he was caught, handcuffed, strip searched, and treated like the punk he was, he'd squeal like a pig in the slaughterhouse. He'd tell the cops everything, including who the pimp was. So this somebody, to protect himself from prosecution, killed the killer.
Once St. Claire was dead, his assailant probably thought he was safe, problem solved, home free. Anyone else who knew anything about the prostitution operation wasn't likely to talk because justice was done. St. Claire killed Molly and someone killed St. Claire, so what, he deserved it, good riddance. The killer was a hero. But then the improbable happened; Emerson came along, just doing his job, and exposed the killer. So the killer killed again. Only now he killed a cop, not some pervert, and the heat was on big time. The police would be looking for someone who killed one of their own, and they weren't likely to let go of it.
The killer had a problem now; a big, big problem. The people questioned would also feel the heat. There'd be a lot of arm twisting going on, a lot of finger pointing, a lot name calling, and a lot of threat making, too. It would get ugly. If the cops thought someone knew something, he'd be squeezed until the information flowed like blood from a head wound. Witnesses would be more afraid of the cops than of the killer, so they'd talk. That fact forced the killer to start knocking off people who knew or possibly knew who he was and what he was doing. There goes Fontaine and now Edna. If it wasn't for the lady across the street, Ellen would be dead, too.
In his rear view mirror, Nick saw a pair of headlights come up on him fast. After a second or two, he could make out the silhouette of a patrol car with a light bar across the top of the roof. He checked his speed and saw it was below the posted limit. The marked unit changed lanes around him, and he saw its emergency lights come on. He reached over and turned the volume up on the two-way; maybe something was going on? ...Nothing. He punched through the channels but still nothing. Just an accident he finally decided.
The rear flashing yellows made him think about the ambulance that took Al to the VMC Trauma Center, which in turn made him think again of Edna and Melanie Blaine.
But that brought him to the big question: What the hell did Melanie Blaine have to do with this? What was she doing there? Why was she killed? Nick didn't even have a guess for that one.
The single thread that weaved through all these murders was Malone. Edna told Nick that it was Malone who sent Molly and her to meet with clients. Ellen overheard Malone asking Molly if she had told Ellen about their other business. And most damning, Malone was the only outsider who knew which cottage Edna was staying in. Malone, Malone, Malone, his was the only name that kept coming up. But if it was Malone, why involve Melanie Blaine? He could have killed Edna without ever involving Mrs. Blaine. He didn't need to make such a big production of it. It didn't make sense.
He stopped the Ford waiting to make a left-hand turn. Next to him was a Volkswagon Beetle, one of the new ones, with a couple of young women inside. Next to it was a white Chevy Tahoe blasting out something angry. Two guys were hanging out the windows like a couple of zoo monkeys, saying something to the women.
The light turned green for all of them and Nick made his left hand turn.
The Blaines lived in a twenty-eight hundred square foot luxury condominium at Santana Row, one of those live, shop, and play developments in west San Jose that architecturally resembled an Italian fishing village on the Amalfi Coast. It covered about six square blocks of prime real estate. The buildings ran to three stories and were shaded green, yellow, and terracotta. The bottom level was shops and restaurants, most the latter with sidewalk seating to give it a European ambiance. The upper levels were mostly designated for condos and apartments with a sprinkling of office space. The main street consisted of one lane in each direction with a median between, wide enough for several kiosks and an occasional musician. It was the place to go if you could afford a two hundred dollar pair of shoes or six California Rolls and a chocolate martini for thirty bucks.
At the end of the street Nick turned left and found a red zone with his name on it. Trouble was that one of the many security officers didn't see it that way and said, "You can't park there, sir."
"You have a supervisor?" Nick asked.
"Ah, well yeah, that'd be Sergeant Cameron, but he'll just tell you the same."
Nick pushed his badge at him.
"Oh, I didn't know. Sorry, no problem."
"I still need to talk with your supervisor," Nick said.
"Okay ...ah, okay ...can you tell me first? I mean he'll ask what it's about."
"Just tell him I need his help for a little bit and I'll explain when he gets here."
The security officer looked back at a marked unit that was just pulling to the curb with its lights off and another that was also blacked out and gliding-in behind.
"Maybe I better not ask him over the radio. Maybe I should go get him instead."
"Good idea. And you come back with him, too, okay?"
The security officer drove off in his golf cart with his yellow gumball whirling.
A half hour later, after calling all of Peter Blaine's phone numbers and knocking way too many times for the benefit of any witnesses, Nick was standing inside Blaine's home office. Blaine was nowhere around. Nick was sure of that because he'd personally looked behind every door, under every bed, inside every closet, and even searched every drawer --- without a warrant. If he found anything important in one of those drawers (which he did), he'd put it back and come back later with a warrant so he could find it all over again, legally this time.
In Blaine's top desk drawer, he found a photograph, which gave him a whole new set of theories.
The photograph showed Melanie Blaine with her eyes closed, head turned slightly to the side, on her back, naked from at least the waist up. Next to her, lying on her side, looking down towards Melanie's legs, was Edna. Only her head and bare shoulders were showing because her head was oriented lower in the photograph. The impression Nick got was they were engaged in some sort of sex act. It looked like the shot wasn't taken with informed consent, either. It appeared as though the lens was mounted up high and partially behind an object with a sharp edge, like a box or picture frame, because it showed in one corner of the photo.
So maybe the Blaines were being blackmailed. It wouldn't be the first time that happened. An indiscretion committed by someone influential and rich, in this case that someone's wife, used by a blackmailer to get money, or information, or a business advantage. Another possibility was that Blaine had his wife followed because he was suspicious of her and had the photograph taken. Once he had the proof and knew it wasn't a one-time thing, it made him mad and he killed her along with Edna. Anger and jealously was an age-old motive. Another possibility was that Peter Blaine not only knew about his wife and Edna but approved of it. Maybe he even participated in it and the photo had nothing at all to do with any of the murders. Or, on the other hand, it was possible Peter Blaine was the pimp all along and killed them all so he wouldn't be found out.
The trouble was Nick had too many damn theories. He was just chasing his tail. He had to get back to the basics. He had to interview his witnesses, Forney and Templeton. He had to find Blaine and re-interview him. And above all else, he had to pick-up Malone and search his house, car, and business.
Nick put the photograph back in the drawer and posted one of the patrol officers outside the condo in the hallway. He had an arrest warrant and a couple of search warrants to get. But first, he wanted to stop by and check on Al.
At just past midnight the doors to Valley Medical whooshed open to pass Nick in. In the waiting room he saw a man, dirty and worn like a field hand's boot, wearing a heavy, red plaid shirt, and a navy blue watch cap. He was slouched down in one of the chairs, his chin resting on his chest, his personals in a black plastic lawn bag at his feet. On the opposite side of the room sat a family of three. The little boy, maybe six, in sweatpants, tennis shoes, and a Spiderman tee shirt, was nervously kicking the air. On one side of him was his father, a man of about twenty-five with a blue ink tattoo on the side of his neck. On the other side of the boy was his mother who had straight black hair, red-brown lips edged in black, and blue eyelids. Like the man across from her, she too was asleep. Other than that, the waiting room was empty.
Nick badged past security and headed towards the elevators. At that exact same time his cell sounded incoming. The readout showed Terrie calling, so he let his voicemail pick it up. He didn't want to go over the whole damn story again; he'd already told it twice. He actually didn't much feel like talking at all.
His mind inexplicably jumped from Terrie to Ellen. Why one would prompt the other made no to sense him, but he didn't spend much time thinking about it because his thoughts of her prompted a strange emotion --- fear. This too, made no sense. He knew she and his mother were safe. Nobody but nobody knew where Ellen was staying ...unless she called someone. He hoped she hadn't called someone. His apprehension grew.
While he waited for the elevator to take him to ICU, it crossed his mind to give Ellen a call, just to make sure. The possibility of danger continued to sit there like an indigestible mass in the pit of his stomach. His elevator arrived, but he didn't get in. Instead he opened his cell and punched in her number.
A sleepy Ellen answered the phone, and he was relieved. For the first time in several hours he felt better.
"What time is it? Is everything okay?"
It sounded like she switched on the lamp next to the bed.
"Yeah ...no ...just checking to make sure you and mom are safe."
"Something's happened, hasn't it? What is it Mikolaj?"
"I'll explain in the morning. Go back to sleep. I shouldn't have called. I just, you know, wanted to check."
"You sure you don't want to talk?"
"I can't right now. Look, I gotta go. I'll be there in a couple of hours or so. Please go back to sleep, I shouldn't have called ...really."
He disconnected and poked the elevator button again. He told himself he shouldn't have called but felt better that he had.
Ellen ...
He couldn't ever remember seeing Al without his glasses on. It changed his whole appearance. Or was it seeing him flat out on his back, covered with a white hospital blanket, that made him look, what, vulnerable? Jeeze, I can't believe it, he told himself.
The night nurse floated into the room, checked Al's IV, and then lifted up the blanket to look at his wound and the drain tube the surgeon had left in place. She took a listen to his heart and lungs before leaving without saying a word. Out by her station he could hear two of the night staff in discussion about someone's sister and her eminent divorce. He also heard the sound of a patient buzzing for an attendant. Nick remembered how much he hated hospitals.
He scooted a chair over by Al's bed and sat down. He couldn't stay long; there was a lot to do. He sat quietly watching him breathe until a tear started to form. He wiped it away, waited a couple of seconds, and looked to see if anyone was watching. There wasn't. It still embarrassed him, though. What the hell is that all about, he thought?
It was just past 4 AM, and Nick was cold. From the driveway he could see a faint glow through the windows. It was just like his mom to keep a light on for him. Some things never change.
After leaving Al, Nick got the arrest warrant for Malone and the search warrants he wanted. It wasn't as hard as he thought. It was all done by phone. He then put the Special Ops people on it and they hit both the club and Malone's house looking for him. They found nothing except the indication that he had packed up and left in a hurry. They'd go into hunt mode now.
Nick went in the back door taking care to minimize the squeak of the hinges. It was warm inside and he could hear the metal grate over the floor heater, the one he used to stand over on cold mornings as a kid, ticking from the heat. He kicked off his shoes and crossed through the kitchen into the family room where he hoped to catch a few hours sleep before taking Ellen back to her place later in the morning.
He stepped into the room and Ellen was there, sleeping in his father's big chair, wearing pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, wrapped in a blanket, legs pulled-up to her chest. The remote control for the TV rested on the floor below her. On the couch, someone had placed a pillow and a couple of blankets for him.
He stood there looking at her; one minute, five minutes, it seemed like more.
It's strange, he thought, the whole scene seems so familiar. It's as if I've been here before. Then he asked, what am I doing stashing a witness in my mother's house?
Just then she opened her eyes and looked at him. A second of silence passed between them.
"I must have fallen asleep. Mikolaj, are you all right? I heard. The news said a detective had been shot and some others, too. Was it Al? You said you were going to meet him."
She uncoiled herself and stood up.
"Yeah, he's going to be okay, though."
He stopped talking and just locked-in on her. The blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, a corner held in each hand.
The sensation of familiarity was even stronger now. They weren't acting or feeling like strangers. Maybe it was her presence in the family home, or maybe it was the way she seemed genuinely concerned about what had happened to Al, or maybe it was because he was tired, or maybe it was because he wanted to feel something other than hate, and anger, and sadness. But he didn't think so.
A connection, an emotional one, had been made somewhere along the way, before now. Almost from the beginning they had acted as if something was there; the way they talked to each other, discussing, arguing, give and take; the way she called him Mikolaj; even the simple act of her changing the channel on his car radio and turning the volume up, was one of unconscious familiarity.
"What happened?" she asked. "How bad is he hurt? ...What's the matter?"
She stopped talking as soon as he moved towards her. She unwrapped the blanket and pulled him in, putting both her arms and the blanket around him. They kissed hard at first, then softer and longer.
After a moment she whispered, "Ann says you act tough but you're not. She also says you'll blame yourself for what happened."
He kissed her to get her to stop talking. He didn't feel like talking about it anymore ...or acting tough either.
Sounds and smells roused him, and the weight of Ellen's body on his brought him fully awake. He could hear his mother in the kitchen banging pans, running water, listening to the radio, a morning ritual of hers played out thousands and thousands of times before. The old house had its sounds and its smells.
They were in his bed. The one he slept in as a kid. How weird was that? Ellen was half on top of him, her head on his chest, one leg between the two of his. His pants were on the floor, his shirt and jacket over the footboard. And his left hand was full-out, dead asleep. But he liked the feel of her, the smell of her, hearing her breathing slow and at peace. Who cares; it's just a hand?
He wondered what time it was but he couldn't get a look at his watch without disturbing her. By the light coming through the window, though, he guessed it was after eight. Four hours sleep, maybe. It was enough. It would have to be.
Ellen stirred, rolling her face slightly back and forth on his bare chest. Maybe she sensed the change in his breathing pattern.
He started to think about the implications of a relationship with her but put it aside. There was no point. It was there, it happened, was happening. He'd deal with the consequences later.
Nick turned to the problem of finding Malone. Maybe his phone records would give up a clue. An idea suddenly came to him. He had to make a call, but he couldn't get up without waking her.
She stirred again and he felt her eyelashes fluttering on his bare skin like little brush strokes. He glanced down without raising his head. Her eyes were open now, looking across his chest at the wall.
What was she thinking? Regrets? A mistake? He needed a shower? No, not that, at least he hoped not.
Ellen looked-up at him, saw he was awake, smiled, kissed his chest, and then raised-up and kissed him on the lips. Her breasts hung down touching his arm and shoulder.
That answers that, he thought. He also decided the call wasn't so important anymore. She was incredible.
Later, after, thirty minutes after, they lay holding hands staring at the ceiling.
"Do you think your mom heard us?" she asked.
"Does a Pollack like vodka?"
She giggled. He didn't.
"Do you mind if I shower first? That way I can go down and help Ann."
"No, go ahead. I'll just lie here and enjoy the view."
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed so her back was to him, grabbed his shirt off the footboard, and held it over the front of her as she stood up. As she walked towards the bathroom, she looked back at him and smiled. Some of the best parts were still showing.
As soon as Ellen left the room, Nick searched out his cell and called around until he located Rene.
"How's he doing?" she asked.
"Last I checked, okay. The bullet collapsed a lung and broke a rib. That seems to be the extent of it."
"Lucky man. He sure scared the crap out of me; all that blood ...jeeze."
"Yeah, me too. I thought for a second there ...well, he's okay now so what I thought doesn't matter. Hey, I need a couple of favors."
"Name it," she replied.
"Isn't there something you guys do with cell phones when you're trying to track dealers, pinging?"
"Good idea. I assume you mean to track Malone. Yeah, if his phone's on then we can pretty much figure out where he is. It's beautiful; they never think to turn their phones off, especially when they're running. They wanna stay in touch so they can find out what's going on."
"The sooner, the better; we gotta get this guy before someone else gets hurt."
"Okay, I'll get on it but what else? You said a couple."
"Oh, I'm going to need the tape from last night. The original."
"Not a problem, I can take care of both. Now, I want a favor from you."
"What's that?" Nick asked.
"If I can find this sucker from his cell phone, I want to be in on it."
"Deal, but you know how those Special Ops guys are."
"Yeah, but at least I'll have a shot at him."
"Okay, if you get a location on him call Special Ops first and get them moving on it and then call me. After that, just meet me there, wherever there is."
Ellen came in the door wrapped in a towel, her hair wet from the shower.
"Cool. You at the office? I could walk the tape over."
"No, I'm taking care of a witness," he replied with a smile.
Ellen looked at him and dropped the towel, facing him. He felt it starting all over again.
"Don't you ever sleep?"
Nick shook his finger at Ellen.
"If I sleep, I might miss out on something."
Ellen made a sad face.
"Huh, okay, whatever you said."
Rene hung-up. Nick looked at his watch.
Forney's house was a bad imitation of a Greek Mediterranean villa, this one built in the dry, brown, east San Jose foothills. Marble was everywhere. You couldn't spit without hitting it --- the broad, fan-shaped front steps; the porch landing; the trim around the cut glass door; the railings and balusters; even the statuary in the gardens. The walls, though, were whitewashed stucco, set off by a terracotta tile roof. There was a rangy olive tree near one corner of the front yard and alongside the stand-alone three car garage there was a low palm and three tall cypresses. In place of the traditional California lawn was low crawling juniper, a rolling sea of blue-green.
Nick parked the Ford in the driveway behind a black Mercedes S500 and next to a yellow Hummer.
He was greeted at the front door by the housekeeper who had a slight Hispanic accent, and who led Nick into the living room that looked out onto the back patio where Forney was taking either an early lunch or a very late breakfast. She requested a moment to allow her time to announce his presence and walked out to her employer. Nick couldn't ever remember being ushered anywhere by a servant before, much less announced, so he traipsed on after.
Ramon Forney was a short, barrel chested man of about fifty who looked to be one of those unfortunate types who could shave baby butt smooth in the morning and have a full beard by dinnertime. He was wearing a white, short-sleeve shirt out at the waist, tan linen trousers and brown loafers without socks. On his left wrist he wore a huge gold watch with a gold band and on his right pinky, a gold ring.
He sat at a glass topped, wrought iron table that allowed the view of a rectangular swimming pool. On the far side of the pool were two marble statues of naked men, one posed sitting and the other as if he'd just launched a javelin. Beyond that were more marble steps, four to be precise, that led to an elevated patio and garden area that was being tended by a gardener wearing a floppy hat. And then, if the statues didn't overdue it, at one end of the pool was a small replica of the north porch of the Erechtheum of Acropolis, columns and all, that served as a pool house.
As Nick stepped out onto the patio he could see that Forney was reading the newspaper in an attitude of leisure. A saucer with cup, half full of coffee, rested within his reach. A mostly-eaten omelet was pushed to one side.
At the housekeeper's approach, Forney looked up from his paper and then caught sight of Nick behind her. Her boss' eye movement drew the housekeeper's attention as well, and she turned to look.
"Oh, sir," she said to Nick. Then she turned back to Forney and stated, "I asked him to wait."
"That's all right; this man is a police officer. I've been expecting him. You may leave us. Oh, and will you tell Leo to wait in my office please."
"Expecting me, Mr. Forney; how is that?"
"It's obvious isn't it; two women who work for me, indirectly at least, have been murdered. You wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't question me. And of course you've paid a number of visits to my club. Those reports have reached me as well."
"Fair enough," Nick said. "And if you anticipated my visit, you probably anticipated I'd ask you where you were last night around 8 PM and, say, last Thursday around five or six in the morning."
Nick decided to start with this question for a couple of reasons. First, Forney was too confident. Asking him to establish his whereabouts right-away, might unsettle him and make him less likely to stray too far from the truth. The other reason was he didn't want Forney to think that they were looking only at Malone.
"Last night is easy. I was in a meeting with Councilman Foster regarding a zoning issue. And as far as last Thursday goes, I was where I usually am at that hour, here in bed."
"This meeting with Councilmember Foster, where was it?"
"Hmmm, I don't exactly remember the name of the place, but it's an East Indian restaurant in downtown Saratoga. There's only one."
"Did you have a reservation?" Nick asked.
Forney showed the smallest hint of a smile.
"Everything they say about you is true. You're very, ah, thorough. No, we didn't have a reservation. Mr. Foster is familiar with the owner so is usually able to get us a table without trouble."
Interesting, Nick thought. No reservation to record if they were there at 7:30, 7:45, or 8:00, and downtown Saratoga is only five minutes from the Empire Cottages, if that.
"They say about me, Mr. Forney?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "People."
Nick decided to let it drop. It might be just BS anyway, intended to distract him."
"And what about Thursday morning? Is there anyone who can verify you were home?"
"Yes, Leo can vouch for me."
"He'll say you were in the house at five in the morning; that you didn't go out and then return?"
"Of course, he was with me the entire time. We're partners, Sergeant. I think the current, politically correct term is domestic partners."
Nick hoped he didn't betray surprise.
"And his last name?"
"Anderson. Leo Anderson. He's twenty nine, born October 26th nineteen something."
"I'll need to speak with him," Nick said.
"Of course."
Nick wasn't sure if he came out on top of that exchange or not, but decided to push on anyway.
"How long have you owned The Rack?"
"Not that long, a couple of years. I'm a businessman. The previous owner found himself in personal financial difficulty, the place was showing a profit, and so I bought it at a good price."
"What other businesses do you have an interest in?"
"Well, let's just say I have a broad investment portfolio that includes used car lots, convenience stores, strip malls, and apartment buildings. I even own a limousine service."
"Did Carl Malone come with the club or did you bring him on-board?"
"I hired him myself. He seemed perfect for the job and said he had experience with that sort of thing."
"Is he someone you already knew, did he apply for the job, how'd you come to hire him in particular?"
"I'll try to save you a little bit of time here, Sergeant. I met Carl in, shall we say, an upscale club for men. He was trolling, in other words. I wasn't at all interested, I prefer men who are less defined, yes that's a good way to say it, but I did feel he would fit nicely into this particular business. Since he was gay, he wasn't likely to become involved in a personal way with the dancers. He was also big and very tough looking, so people weren't likely to give him trouble. And since he said he had managed clubs and bars before, he'd probably continue to turn a profit. I made him an offer right there on the spot."
Forney was full of surprises. Nick never would have guessed Malone was gay.
"How long ago was that?"
"Shortly after I bought the place, so about two years ago," Forney said.
"He wasn't at either his club or his house last night. Do you know where I can locate him?"
"It seems he's disappeared, which means I now have to find someone else to manage the place."
"Have you ever seen him with a gun, Mr. Forney?"
"Never, though I wouldn't be surprised if he owned one. He just seems the sort, if you know what I mean."
"How about you, do you own a gun?"
"I own a Browning shotgun if that's what you mean. Never use the thing anymore. Bought it a number of years ago because a couple of men I was doing business with were into skeet and trap shooting, but it never really interested me. The business wasn't all that good anyway."
"Were you aware that Malone was running a call-girl service out of the Rack?"
Forney's eyes narrowed and stared at Nick's.
"That surprises me Sergeant; really surprises me. What makes you say that?"
"I can't tell you anymore than it's pretty solid information."
"Well, in that case, you've solved a problem for me. I'll either sell The Rack or close it down. I do business in this community. I don't need to have the reputation for that sort of thing. I hope you're circumspect in how you treat the information."
"Of course, but you never directly answered my question. Did you know Malone was running a call girl service from The Rack?"
"No."
"You never suspected it?"
"Never."
He didn't seem like he was lying, but Nick couldn't say for sure. Behind this smooth, somewhat sophisticated exterior was a man who, no doubt, was a very tough and very smart businessman.
"Did you ever have any direct contact with the women there, sexual, conversational, or otherwise?"
"Hardly. I was not involved in the day to day operations in any way either. I left that up to Carl and my accountant. I will say this; I have taken some of my, ah ...heterosexual business associates there before."
"Was Nolan St. Claire one of your business associates?"
"I never even heard of him before reading about his murder."
"Okay, to speed things up, I'd like you to thumb through some photographs and tell me if you recognize anyone."
Nick opened a manila envelope and handed Forney the photographs he got from Westin.
Forney quickly flipped through the stack of photographs.
"Yes, I know some of these people."
He looked at the top picture again.
"Wendell Gertz for instance. He bought a small property from me that bordered one he already owned. Made a nice return on that deal, but then so did Gertz."
"Who else do you recognize, Mr. Forney?" Nick asked.
"Well, I recognize Peter Blaine and Roger Templeton. Blaine I know only slightly, in fact I've only had the briefest contact with him. The foursome I was with had some drinks with his at the San Jose Country Club, if I remember correctly. I'm pretty good with names, Sergeant. The person you meet on the golf course may someday be the person you do business with."
Nick wondered if Blaine lied to him when he denied knowing Forney. Everyone lies, a little or a lot, but in this case maybe Forney just has a better memory than Blain.
"How about Blaine's wife; do you know her?"
"Wouldn't know her if she was standing in front of me."
"What about Templeton? How do you know him?"
"He's an event planner, and I've used him several times to put events on. Some have been right here. I do an annual Fourth of July bash and a holiday party as well. You should come. Really. I'm sure everyone would be interested in meeting you. Business is boring when it's all you do, police work now, that'd be something to talk about. Anyway, getting back to Templeton, there have also been some business related events he's handled for me."
"Those businessmen you brought to The Rack, was Blaine or Templeton among them?"
"Definitely not Blaine but I'm not sure about Templeton."
"One time, several times, what?"
"Two times I think. It was right after I bought the place. I don't do it anymore because if you go at the wrong time, the atmosphere isn't all that great."
"Okay Mr. Forney, that's all I have for now. I'll probably want to speak with you again, however. Now, I'd like to have a word with Leo."
Leo was a fidgety sort and definitely less defined. He was taller than Forney, by a couple of inches at least, but very slight of build.
He did vouch for Forney's presence on Thursday morning early, but Nick got the impression that good old Leo would have sworn that Forney was Christ resurrected if his sugar daddy asked him to.
Outside in the car he took a call from Fran Decker. She informed him that she'd found the naked photograph of Melanie Blaine and Edna while serving the search warrant at the Blaine residence. Only the one photo had been located, strengthening Nick's belief that blackmail was afoot. No weapons had been discovered in the place or any indication that weapons had ever been there. Also not found, was Peter Blaine. That was a bad sign, Nick thought. Another body somewhere?
Roger Templeton's office building was the commercial real estate developer's equivalent of a tract home. It was part of two square blocks of single story, lift slab, smoked glass office complex in north San Jose. The only thing that distinguished his door from those of his neighbors was the address; that and a white delivery van with the business name stenciled on the side parked out front, next to the ivy. Nicked rapped on the door twice and called the phone number once before he gave-up, thinking maybe he should have called ahead instead of trying to surprise him.
Nick hadn't even made it out of the parking lot before his phone rang.
"Got his ass," Rene said.
"What do you mean? Malone?"
"Yeah, Malone. We got him on The Alameda in Santa Clara. He's got his cell phone on. The signal is near The Venetian Motel, so we think that's where he is. A lot of shitheads hang out there. Special Ops is on their way to check it out, but we may have to turn it over to Santa Clara SWAT if they jam us on jurisdiction."
"Okay, I'm on my way. You going?"
"Getting in the car now. The phone guy will call me with any changes, but right now they have him within a three hundred yard area. If he's in that motel, the staff will definitely remember that ugly face of his."
"Keep me informed will ya? It'll take me ten to fifteen minutes to get there."
It took twenty, and just as Nick arrived in the area, Rene called him again.
"Room six at The Venetian."
"Is he there now?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, housekeeping just had a conversation with him. He didn't want his room cleaned."
"Somebody keeping an eye on it?"
"Me and a Santa Clara guy, but I'm getting the feeling I'm on borrowed time. They said they're going to take it, so we have to step aside until they have him."
"Okay, I gotta talk to 'em before they do anything. Where's their command post?"
"It's on The Alameda about two blocks west of Newhall. You can't miss it; I think every on-duty Santa Clara cop is there and then some."
Nick found the Santa Clara command post and the Lieutenant in-charge, Nelson Wells.
"We'll get this bad boy for you, he isn't going anywhere," Wells said.
At first glance, Well's didn't inspire a great deal of confidence. He was an old-timer, with a bald head and a bowling ball belly that stretched his buttons enough that his white tee shirt peeked through just above the beltline. The more Nick listened to and watched him, though, the better he felt.
"I just want to make sure that when you take him, your guys don't advise him of his rights or ask him any questions. I want to do that myself. If he says something spontaneously, though, they should make a note of it," Nick said.
"Not a problem. We generally don't ask case related questions or Mirandize suspects in situations like this anyway. But I'll make sure your instructions are passed on."
An officer wearing combat fatigues and a helmet walked up and said, "We're ready to do it. Perimeter is set, everyone's been evacuated, sniper's in-place, and the arrest team is waiting. Just waiting for you to say when."
"As soon as you remind the arrest team not to advise the suspect or ask him any questions, you can go ahead," Wells replied.
The officer hesitated a minute, looking first at Nick and then at Wells.
"What?" Wells asked.
"It's just that there's the San Jose narc. She says she doesn't want to leave."
"Don't worry about it. I know where she is and as long as she stays with one of our guys, she's okay."
The officer left without any further conversation.
Wells then turned to Nick.
"This is how it's going to happen. We're going to place a call into the room and tell him to come out. If he tells us to go screw ourselves, we'll put a negotiator on the line and try talking him out. If we feel we're wasting our time, we'll load the place up with gas. After we get him outside and the scene is secure, I'll high-sign you and you can go on in. Got it?"
"Yeah I got it, but I'd at least like to be in a position to see what's going on."
Wells rubbed his hand back and forth across the top of his bald head.
"I guess I'd want that, too. Okay, I'll get someone to give you one of our jackets and place you. Once there, you may be stuck for a while, though."
"I'll take that chance. Maybe you can spare a radio, too," Nick said.
They didn't give him a radio, that was on the belt of the uniformed cop standing next to him, but Wells did give him a first class, box seat. He was in a second story window directly across from The Venetian and, more particularly, room 6.
He rolled a chair over to the window just as the radio crackled out, "We're placing the call now, standby."
The Venetian was a two story, L shaped building with all the doors facing out towards the parking lot. Number 6 was on the bottom level. There were five doors to its left, as Nick was now looking at it, and four to the right.
"Contact made," a voice announced over the radio.
The manager's office was in the short part of the L, with the top portion living quarters.
"The suspect says he'll think about coming out. Contact broken."
"Okay, let the negotiators handle it from here on out. Secure the car and hold the perimeter." It was Wells' voice.
Nick saw three SWAT guys move up along the face of the motel. Two took a position that allowed a field of fire on the door and windows of room 6, while one belly crawled to a black Lincoln parked out front and knifed the back and front tires. After the car rested on its rims, the three officers withdrew out of the area.
"The car's secured," was announced.
Shit, Nick thought, it's going to be a while.
As he looked towards The Venetian, he saw the windows of room 6 vibrate, stop, and then vibrate again. A few seconds later the same thing happened. Nothing was broadcast over the radio. Nick guessed that Malone was probably barricading the door.
A couple of minutes went by, and Nick saw the windows to room number 7, the one to the right of Malone's room, vibrate several times. At the same time the windows in rooms 6 and 8 showed movement, just less so.
Nick turned toward the officer assigned to him. "Did they evacuate the whole place?"
"Yeah, and everything on this side of the street, too."
What the hell was Malone up to, Nick wondered.
"Negotiators are ready to go on line. Everyone standby," the radio announced.
Now Nick saw the windows to room number 8 vibrate. To a lesser extent, 7 and 9 shook.
"The phone's ringing," came from the radio again.
Nick wondered why nobody was saying anything about the windows vibrating. It crossed his mind that maybe the sniper, because he was looking through his scope, couldn't see the other windows moving.
"Still no contact. Still ringing."
The windows to room number 9 started to shake.
"Hey, are your radios encrypted?" Nick asked.
"You got to be kidding, we aren't big time like you guys are. We're lucky to have radios."
Nick sprung out of the chair and started towards the door.
"Come on!" he shouted.
"You can't go out there."
He could hear the officer coming after him.
"He's going to break your perimeter."
As Nick hit the stairs, he could hear the officer shouting into his radio something about the San Jose detective. By the time he reached the sidewalk out front, the windows to room 10, the end room, were vibrating. As he crossed the street towards room 10, he heard one of the Santa Clara SWAT guys shout at him to stop. At the same moment, he saw door numbered 10 open but no Malone. He started to question his decision until he saw the door move as though something had brushed against it. It became suddenly clear to him that Malone was low crawling out of the room toward one of the other cars in the parking lot. He has a second car, Nick said to himself.
At a full run, with his gun out, Nick pointed at room number 10. The Santa Clara officers covering that end of the motel changed their positions to where they could observe where he was pointing. He could see the confused looks on their faces but he didn't want to yell out and give Malone a fix on his own position.
Now in the parking lot, Nick could see Malone's hand with the key in it, trying to unlock the door to a gold Acura. Other than his hand, he was hidden completely from view.
The uniformed officer who had been with Nick earlier, stopped on the sidewalk across the street, not understanding what was going on and not wanting to run into the line of fire.
Just as the door to the Acura opened, Nick ran between it and the car next to it. He could see Malone, on his hands and knees, crawling into the driver's seat while trying to keep his head below the headrest. Nick planted his foot in Malone's ribs with his full weight behind it. He saw the gun then, it was in Malone's right hand, but he didn't want to shoot him, at least not until he had a chance to talk to him. Before Malone could bring his pistol into play, Nick kicked him a second time, which caused the weapon to fall from his hand onto the ground. Nick was going to kick him again, just for the hell of it, when he was pulled back and flung out into the parking lot by a burly SWAT guy.
A car skidded to a stop right next to him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Wells shouted. "I told you ..."
He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Malone being pulled to his feet.
"Ah, Shit!"
Rene arrived about that time, at a run and saying, "Ah man, I wanted him."
To Wells, Nick explained, "Yeah, he went through the sheetrock, room to room. I thought he was just going to try to run the perimeter, but somehow he had another car here."
"Yeah, and he probably would have made it past us, too, maybe even gotten completely away."
Two of the Santa Clara cops had Malone between them and were escorting him to a cage car idling in street. He was staring at Nick like he wanted to cook his internal organs in a port wine sauce with garlic mashed potatoes on the side, and as Malone passed-by he said, "What comes around, goes around."
Nick turned away from him without comment and back to Wells. Any interview of Malone was starting to look iffy.
"Hey, can I get your guys to impound both cars and have them towed to our warehouse?" Nick asked. "They need to be processed for prints and other evidence."
They say you don't hear the one that gets you, which is a good thing since Nick heard the shot cook-off from somewhere behind him. He hit the ground anyway, right next to Rene and Wells, just in case more bullets were about to be loosed his way. In that event, he wanted to be able to hear those, too. When he was finally able to look out toward the street, which was the direction the shot came from, he could see Malone on the ground and everyone else pointing their weapons all over the place, a sure sign they had no idea who shot what, from where.
Nick got up and ran to Malone. By the look of things a bullet had torn out his throat and severed his spine near the base of his skull. He was definitely dead.
When things started to settle down and he had a minute to think, he wondered who the hell killed Malone? And from the talk on all the radios around him, a lot of others were asking the same thing. The Santa Clara officers came up with the only plan they could; organizing a systemic search of the likely areas the shot could have come from.
It came to him then, that he needed to warn Ellen and the officers protecting her. The murderer, or was it one of the murderers, was capable of making a long range kill. They needed to take that into account.
He was about to phone her when he heard an officer summon Wells over to room 6. Wells looked back at Nick and said, "You may as well come along, too."
The inside of room 6 looked like the scene of a Baghdad terrorist attack. Furniture was turned over, big chunks of sheetrock and fiberglass insulation were scattered about, and there was a gaping hole in the wall common to room 7. Adding to this image were three fatigue cloaked cops, crowded around the one king size bed, all with their backs to the door.
"What do you got?" Wells asked.
The officers then stepped aside enough for Nick to see a man, slight in build, with long blond hair, and of something less than manly bearing, handcuffed and face down on the mattress.
"They're too tight. My hands are going to sleep," he cried.
"Quit your whining, you little prick," one of the officers shot back. "They're as loose as they're getting."
"Come on, they hurt bad. I can hardly stand it. I didn't do anything. I was just here is all. I didn't have anything to do with it."
"With what?" Nick asked.
The blond raised his head and twisted it around until he could see Nick.
"With anything. I didn't have anything to do with anything. Are you the one I can talk to about getting these things off me? You can't all be a bunch of thugs. Somebody around here's got to be the head thug or something."
They all looked at one another at this point and started laughing, which just lit Blondie up all the more.
"Oh yeah, sure, go ahead and laugh at someone in pain. I hope your pathetic little dicks fall off. You ..."
"Gawd almighty, shut-up will you?" Wells shouted. "Get his ass up somebody; he's giving me a fucking headache."
They lifted him completely off the bed and set him on his feet right in front of Nick.
"So, is it you I talk to?" he asked.
"That depends if you're going to talk or whine. If you're going to whine and snivel, you can sit in jail. If you tell the truth, maybe we'll help you out."
"Ask me whatever. I'll tell you the truth, cross my heart. Come on; just ask me so I can get out of here."
"Not here, at the police department," Nick told him. Then he turned to Wells. "Can I also get someone to transport this guy to San Jose?"
Nick heard one of the officers swear under his breath.
His name was Adolph Dodd, but his friends called him Doll. He was twenty and a half years old, which made Nick wonder at what age someone stops counting the half years. He was wearing a thin white tee shirt over a thin white body, low rider jeans over a pair of Chicken Little legs, and was attractively accessorized with a leather thong necklace dangling a cluster of three or four beads over his sunken breastbone.
When Nick first walked into the room, which wasn't much larger than a poor man's closet, Dodd's body language told him to turn right around and walk back out. He was scooted as far back in a corner as he could get, with his arms wrapped around himself and his legs crossed; not exactly the, ask me anything posture Nick expected. But the "right to remain silent" speech somehow changed everything. It was like the start of the Preakness, he wasn't going to stop until he went full circle.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know who would do that to him. I mean I can understand it; he was just a mean, mean man. Sometimes he ...but he was nice to me ...well as long as I ...you know, but even I wouldn't want to be the one getting one of those looks of his; oh no, uh uh. And the way he talked to people, it was just totally scandalous. So I can see why someone would do something like that to him, but I don't know who, and I don't want to know who, if you know what I mean."
Dodd grabbed onto his leather necklace and rubbed it back and forth between his thumb and index finger like a string of prayer beads.
"Okay, okay, let's see if we can make sense out of this," Nick stated. "How long have you known him?"
"Maybe a year. No, wait a minute. It was at the St. Patty's day thing where I colored my hair this green," he picked at his hair. "I was wearing these really tight black pants that came down to about the middle of my calf and said 'pinch me' on the back. So that makes it, what, a year and a half maybe? I've known him almost a year and a half. Yeah, that's it."
"Did the two of you spend much time together or was your acquaintance more casual than that?"
"Casual, oh no, I usually stayed at his place. I still keep a place of my own, though, I'm no fool. I figured he could turn on me in a second, just like that," he snapped his fingers. "Never did though, but I stayed right there with him. Pretty much the only time I could go out was when he went to work. I felt pretty much like a ..."
"I have the picture; you spent a lot of time together. And since you spent time together, did you know the people he associated with; you know, partied with, did business with, that sort of thing?"
"Oh no, it's like I was a big secret or something. In fact, my friend Felix, his name's really not Felix, he just calls himself that after a movie, well never mind that either, anyway Felix calls me Carl's love child. You get it, right; not really his child but me being twenty and a half and all, and him being older and keeping me a secret? So ..."
"I get it, you don't have to explain."
"Okay, cool, you never know, but there was one time, yesterday ... yesterday?" His brow wrinkled. "No, the day before when he took me with him. Only thing was he made me wait in the car. See, there you go again, love child. Actually more like a dog if you ask me. So I didn't really see anyone. Everything was a secret with him; always a secret, always wait in the other room, or I gotta go out and meet someone, never this is my partner Doll. Sometimes it made me want to scream."
"Where did he take you the day before yesterday, when you had to stay out in the car?"
"It was in China Town, a bar there on the main street, I forget what it's called. It looked straight. You can tell. Sometimes it's hard because you can have gays in a straight bar, so you have to know those kind of things."
It was Japan Town; there was no China Town in San Jose, but he didn't correct him, it would just lead to more confusion.
"You lost me there at the end but it doesn't matter. Do you remember anything about the place, anything at all?"
"Well, there was a restaurant next to it."
"There's probably a dozen in that area, so that doesn't help much."
"Well, the window right next to the door had a Budweiser sign in it; one of those electric ones. It was red."
"In the restaurant or the bar?"
"Oh, I thought you were asking me about the restaurant."
"I was asking you about the bar but ... never mind. Are you sure it was a Budweiser sign and not some other sign? A Budweiser sign in a Chinese restaurant doesn't seem right."
"Yeah I know. That's why I remember it. Weird, huh."
"And getting weirder by the minute. So what time was this anyway; that you went with Malone and stayed out in the car?"
"It was around 9 PM I think. Didn't I say that?"
"You said a lot of things but not that. How long did Malone stay inside this bar?
"It seemed like forever because I had to pee really bad, and he knew it. But oh no, he just stayed in there, drinking and being secretive and everything while I waited outside about to explode. He bought me something to eat later and was nicer to me, so I guess that was all right."
"Okay, let's change directions for a second here. How long were you and Carl staying in the motel?"
"Well, you see, we went there the night before last and got the room, but he told me to stay in it and he'd join me later. Little did I know he meant almost a day later. You can only watch so many MTV reruns. So I stayed in it for two nights and he stayed in it for only one, and that would be last night."
"The night before last, about what time did you check in?" Nick asked.
"Right after we went to that bar, I mean right after he went to that bar and I stayed outside like a dog. We ate after that and then sorta, well sorta hung out for a while, and then he left. That was cool, though. You can only do so much of that, too."
"Okay, so as best as you can remember, what time did he leave the motel Thursday night?"
"Well, probably at least 11:30, maybe a few minutes after that."
"And you're sure this was on Thursday night?"
"Yeah of course, because after he left I called Felix and Felix was saying how nervous he was because the next day he was supposed to meet someone after work and if it worked out they were going to Bodega Bay for the week end."
"How about before 9 o'clock, was there any time when the two of you weren't together?"
"Well, let me think about that. Thursday, Thursday. Well I know he got home about seven that morning because he woke me up and well ..."
"You can skip the and well part. Just go on after that," Nick said.
"Oh, well, okay that's cool if you don't want to hear about that, but I don't mind telling you."
Nick held up his hand to stop him.
"Okay, I'll skip that part. Well after that part happened, he went to sleep until maybe noon. It could have been as late as one o'clock. Oh yeah, it was past noon because I made myself a tuna sandwich and was already done eating it when he got up. I remember because he got mad I didn't leave any for him. So after that we just sort of hung out, not doing anything or anything, watched some TV, that sort of stuff. Oh, now I remember; he got a call late in the afternoon and said he had to go out for a while. He was gone maybe two or three hours then came back. After that we just hung out some more and then went to that bar in China Town."
If Dodd's timeline was accurate, Malone could have killed St. Claire and he could have cased Ellen's house, but killing Fontaine would have been pretty difficult. He would have had to move pretty fast to pull it all off, and the timing would have had to be perfect.
"Okay, let's talk about Friday. What time did Malone show up at the motel on Friday?"
There was a knock on the interview room door. It was Fanucchi.
"Sorry, I hate to interrupt you but Al's on the line. He says he remembers something important. Terrie's here, too."
"Terry, who's Terry?" Dodd asked. "I know a Terry."
"Not this one." Nick told Dodd to just sit tight and left the room. As soon as he stepped outside he came face to face with Terrie.
"Hey, I gotta talk with you about Ellen Banks," Terrie said.
"Why, what's happened? She okay?"
"Relax Nick, she's fine. I just have to talk with you about protecting her. The Chief wanted me to touch bases with you."
"All right, ah, give me a couple of minutes, Al's on the phone."
"Take your time and be sure and say hi for me."
Nick picked-up the phone and jabbed at the blinking light.
"Hey big guy, how you feeling?"
"It's worse here than being in lock-up. They're starving me to death; say I have to lose at least forty pounds. Can you believe that? I come in here because some shithead shoots my ass, and all I hear is diabetes this and heart disease that. You gotta bring me Chinese; prawns in walnut cream sauce and pork fried rice. That's all I want. I'll never ask the Department for anything ever again, I swear."
"I'll get by tonight; extra sauce on the prawns."
"That's what I'm talking about. Hey, you hear the one about the two Polish bear hunters? Well they're out driving through the forest on opening day of hunting season and come upon a road sign that says bear left, so they turned around and went home."
Nick heard Al start to laugh and then bellow out in pain from his broken rib.
"Serves you right. Fanucchi said you had something for me."
"Yeah, I remembered something. When I went around the back of the cottage, I saw this guy running right at me. Only he was back lit, so I couldn't see anything but a silhouette. Then he pops me, and I get a couple off at him. The thing is, even though I didn't see his face or much else, I saw enough to be pretty sure it wasn't Malone. He wasn't big enough."
"You sure?" Nick asked.
"Eight on a scale of ten. Maybe getting tagged like that screwed-up my memory, but I don't think so."
"It's good enough for me. Anything else?"
"Just don't forget the food, oh, and if I die in here make sure the medical examiner checks me for malnutrition."
Terrie, who was sitting on the edge of Nick's desk said, "Don't forget to tell him hi for me."
"Hey Al, Terrie says to say hi."
"Yeah, yeah, it's a sympathy hi. The good looking ones only say hi to you when you're in the hospital. You and her still ..."
"Al says hi back," Nick said to Terrie and then hung-up.
"Good, he's a nice guy, but he could use to lose some weight. So is there anything more we need to do to protect Ellen Banks?"
"Nah, she's pretty well covered. Only thing is that from time to time she may have to go out on a job, and I don't think we're prepared for that. Maybe if she can get us her schedule we can come up with some way to protect her."
"Are you sure she's still in danger?"
"I'm not sure of anything. I thought this Malone character was good for it, but Al may have just shot that theory all to hell. As for Ellen, I'm pretty convinced that she doesn't know anything important about the murders. It's just that the killer may think she does; that her sister told her something."
"Okay, I'll stop by and see if I can get a schedule from her. Now how about at night; is she covered then, too?"
It was a question he was hoping she wouldn't ask.
"Yeah, don't worry about it, it's taken care of."
"What a motel or something? Maybe we could do roll-bys."
"Nah, not necessary, our perp will never find her."
She gave him a funny look. "Okay, if you say so."
"Oh, and tomorrow she won't need anyone on her place. She won't be there, so maybe just the car. If she changes her mind, though, I'll call the Watch Commander. Now I better get back in there before my witness' vocal cords tighten up on him."
She gave him another funny look. "Sure Nick, no problem."
When Nick walked back into the room, Dodd was sitting with his eyes closed, cross legged on the chair with his forearms resting on his knees, and the index finger and thumb of each hand touching to form a circle.
Nick closed the door but Dodd still didn't acknowledge his presence. So he kicked Dodd's chair and said, "Hey, let's finish this thing up so we can both get out of here."
Dodd smiled, opened his eyes and said, "I was in a good place ...floating."
"Yeah, well, welcome back to earth. Let' see, I think we were just getting to Friday. Yeah, that's right. I don't think you answered the question about what time Malone got back to the motel on Friday."
"That's a good question. Oh, I know. Where's my cell phone?"
"On my desk, why?"
"Well, I had just finished talking with Felix so the number should be there along with the time. See Felix was telling me that he and his friend were on the way to Bodega Bay and that was where they filmed some famous movie a long time ago."
"You don't have to explain all that. What's Felix's telephone number?"
Dodd gave the number to him.
"Have you talked with him since the call on Friday?"
"No, that's what I was trying to tell you. He was going to call me when he got back on Sunday."
"Okay, I'll be just a second. Don't go into a trance or whatever you do, I have more questions."
Dodd's cell showed an incoming call from Felix at 5:56 PM. If Malone showed up right after that call, Nick reasoned, he couldn't have possibly been anywhere near the Empire Cottages. Since both Al and Dodd now eliminated Malone in the murders of Melanie Blaine and Edna, he probably didn't kill the others either. But he certainly had something to do with it. The only way that Edna's killer knew what cottage she was in, was from the message she left with Malone.
Fran Decker poked her head in the office.
"Hey Nick, the DNA came back on those coveralls. It was definitely St. Claire's blood. They also ran the DNA on the tissue under Molly's fingernails. That comes back to St. Claire, too. That's kind of what we expected, but here's one I'll bet you weren't expecting; Malone isn't Malone. We ran Malone's prints and they come back to some guy named Earl Manning. He's a federal parolee wanted for a parole violation. We're doing a work-up on him now."
"Whoa, hold on a minute. Malone is a parolee-at-large?"
"Sure enough."
"Is Malone a made-up name or did he steal it?" Nick asked.
"Not sure yet. The computer shows about a dozen Carl Malone's. We're working our way through them now to see if there is any connection."
Nick went back into the interview room.
"Malone use any other names?" he asked.
"Any other names, no why? Don't tell that's not his real name. I wondered ..."
"When Felix called you Friday, how long did the two of you talk?"
"Not very long, you see he was in a rush or something. I think ..."
"What's not very long; thirty seconds, five minutes, what?"
"Maybe just a minute or so. Did I do something ..."
"How long after you stopped talking with Felix was it that Malone joined you?"
"It was like right away; almost as soon as I hung up. You see he doesn't like me talking to Felix so I ..."
"Did the two of you stay together after that? Did Malone go anywhere?"
"No, we just hung out. He was a little nervous like, so I sort of relaxed him."
That pretty well settles it, Nick thought. Malone is clean on the cottage murders.
"Did he receive or make any calls while he was with you Friday night, especially in the hour or so after he arrived?"
"Oh, that's right, I forgot about that 'til just now. He got a call but let it go to voicemail. It must have been important because he snapped his fingers real fast like and told me to turn the TV down so he could listen to it. And then all serious and everything, he sent a text message right after that. I thought he was done so I turned the TV back up, but he grabbed the controller out of my hands and shut it off; as if you need quiet to read a text message. After a couple of minutes he got a text back and that was that. He just turned the TV back on and seemed like before."
"How long after he got there did that happen?" Nick asked.
"Ahhh ...maybe, well, maybe thirty minutes or so. I would have remembered it if you weren't acting so jumpy and everything. It's like ..."
"Just a second," Nick said and left the room.
Outside he spotted Fanucchi.
"Hey Fanucchi, I need a favor. Can you see if you can round up Malone's cell phone and find out if he saved any text messages, sent or received, between 6:00 and 7:00 PM Friday? Santa Clara P D or the coroner should have it."
"How soon do you need it?"
"As soon as you can get it. I'll explain later."
Nick then went back into the interview room.
"Just a few more questions," Nick said. "Why did you two go to the motel in the first place?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, if you'd let me talk. Like I said over and over, he's paranoid, oops, was paranoid. He said that the cops, ah police, wanted to talk with him but he didn't want to talk to them. He doesn't like you guys so much. So anyway, he wanted to get out of the house for a couple of days."
"Did he always carry a gun?"
"No, at least not that I ever saw. Guns scare me. I nearly fainted when I saw him with it and then everything just sort of happened crazy. It was like the movies, only worse because it was really happening. I kept asking him 'what's happening, what's happening,' but he didn't tell me, so I did the only thing I could do, I hid under the bed. Well, I couldn't really get under it, so I just laid next to it real close."
"How about the Acura, whose car is it?"
"It's mine. It didn't get damaged did it? Tell me it doesn't have blood on it or something."
"I thought you guys drove to the motel together?"
"Who said that; I didn't, ...did I? You see I followed him to the bar and waited outside in my car for him to come out, and then I followed him to the motel."
"The way you said it made ...never mind, it's not important. You have any relatives that don't live in the area?"
Lt. Terrie Callister was just stepping off the porch when Nick was stepping on. Timing is everything.
"Hey, Terrie, everything okay?"
She stopped and faced him. "So what's the deal? What's going on between you two?"
"What are you talking about?"
She stared at him for several seconds before saying anything. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. You and her; there's something going on, isn't there?"
"Where you going with this?"
She put her hands on her hips. "You didn't answer the question, but I guess that is the answer. You're screwing her, aren't you? At night, she's staying with you, isn't she?" She was whispering loud.
"Okay, yeah, she's staying with me. The threat is real, Terry."
She leaned-in towards him with her face up close. "Oh, give ...me ...a ...fucking ...break. A witness, Nick? A fucking witness? What the hell is the matter with you? You, who are always so much in control."
"Hey, slow down. Is this about her or about us?"
"Me, slow down? Me, slow down; sounds to me like you're the one who should slow down. But don't worry Nick, I'll keep your little secret, but not because of you." She hit him in the chest with the back of her hand. "Because of her. The weird thing is, I like her a hell-of-a-lot better than I like you right now." As she walked off to her car she said, "A witness, Nick? Smart. Real smart."
Nick stood on the porch and watched Terrie drive off. The patrol cop posted at the curb across the street was staring at him but looked away when their eyes met. Nick turned towards the door and was about to knock when Ellen opened it.
"I kind of heard. Are you in trouble?" she asked.
"Aw, don't worry about it."
She took his hand and pulled him inside the house. "Of course I'm worried about it."
"I'll take care of it. It's no big deal."
"You want me to stay someplace else?"
"No."
"You want to take a step back; you know, last night," she said.
"No. How about you? Do you want to take a step back?"
"No."
"You sure you want a relationship with a cop?"
She looked into his pale blue eyes, smiled, and said, "No, but the thing is, I like your mom."
"Yeah? Well, I like the sex."
"You know, we hardly know one another," she said picking at something on the sleeve of his coat and then smoothing the material with the tips of her finger. "Things are moving pretty fast."
"That's true, and it could get complicated."
"Yes, I suppose it could. But I really like your mom."
"And I really like the sex."
"You want to have some now?" she said, still smiling.
"With a beat cop parked right outside. What if he comes to the door?"
"I could put on a robe."
"Hmm, that could work, but it'll have to be fast. Al wants me to stop by. I promised him Chinese and later tonight I've got to interview a witness."
"Not too fast, though." She stepped closer to him and put her hands on his hips.
"No, not too fast." He put his arms around her."
"Well, we better not waste any time." She took him by the hand and led him towards the bedroom. "By the way, your mom is planning dinner for six --- stuffed cabbage rolls."
"You talked to my mom?"
"Of course. I like talking with her."
"Maybe we can stop and see Al on the way to my mother's, then."
Roger Templeton was seated at a large round table close to the kitchen, leaning over a sheaf of papers, alternately tapping the keys of a small calculator and making notes. His charcoal gray suit coat was hung over the back of his chair, his tie and collar loosened, and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to the elbows.
Around him was a buzz of activity that seemingly escaped his awareness. A half-dozen workers were stripping cloths from the other twenty-five tables positioned throughout the room. They were also stacking chairs on large rolling carts and pushing the carts through a set of double doors on the wall opposite, into storage. In one corner of the same room was the DJ dressed in all white --- shoes, pants, and shirt. He had just finished coiling up his cables and was now hefting a very large box speaker onto a flatbed. Through the wall behind Templeton, water could be heard running and pots were sounding off against one another. Voices were made in loud and sustained discourse, punctuated by an occasional laugh. It wasn't the ideal place for an interview, far from it, but sometimes that's just the way it goes.
As Nick traversed the room, a man wearing a white tunic open at the neck and checkerboard pants, walked from the kitchen. He put a piece of paper on the table. Templeton picked it up, looked at it, and set it aside to continue with his calculations and notations. No words were exchanged between the two men.
The steady approach of his footsteps on the hard floor was apparently insufficient to herald his arrival, so Nick stepped around to face him before he spoke.
"Mr. Templeton?" Nick asked.
Templeton looked-up, took off his readers, those small ones that tend to slide low on the nose, and smiled.
"Aw, you must be Sergeant ...you know what, I'm not going to even try pronouncing your name. I'll only embarrass myself."
"He stood up, shook Nick's hand, and said, "Please, please sit down. Now I hope you're going to go easy on me. Blaine was a little shook-up by your questions." Templeton was smiling.
One point for Templeton, Nick thought. The identity of Melanie Blaine hadn't been released yet, nor the fact that Peter Blaine had disappeared. Templeton sounded as if he wasn't aware of any of that.
"They're just questions. It tends to be the answers that are difficult."
Templeton laughed. "Well, I guess that's one way to look at it. So what questions do you have for me?"
"I'd like to start off by asking you about Nolan St. Claire."
The smile faded from his face.
"You know, I hope you don't think badly of me for saying this, but I really didn't care for the man. He struck me as a pompous, egotistical, ass. That's still not a good reason for someone to kill him, though."
"What would be a good reason to kill him?"
Templeton smiled again.
"Wow, you are direct. Just a question, huh? I have no idea. If I had to speculate, it was a bad business deal, a love triangle, something already with a lot of emotion in it that was made worse by his personality."
"Possibly. What was the nature of your dealings with him?"
"I was hired by Peter Blaine to put on his event. After the contract was signed, he asked me to provide St. Claire a car; not just any car but something of quality. In doing so I had to have St. Claire's schedule, specifically when and where he would arrive so I could get the car to him. In that regard, we had a couple of phone conversations, and I had another with his pilot just before he landed in San Jose."
"In your conversations with St. Claire, did he ask you to provide for anything else?"
"You mean like a hooker, right? Yeah, Blaine said you'd probably ask about that. And the answer is no, we just talked about a car."
"Did you refer him to anyone who might be able to make those arrangements?"
"No, and I wouldn't have either," Templeton said.
"If I had a lot of money and was from out of town, who would I go to, to find a prostitute?"
"I have no idea. They used to advertise escort services in the paper, but I don't know if they do that anymore. I would imagine that the internet would also be good for that."
"Maybe, but I can't see a guy like St Claire taking a chance like that," Nick said. "I think he'd want the best and also he'd want to know that he wasn't going to find himself tied naked in a hotel room somewhere. He wasn't the kind of person who would do things himself either, he'd have someone else do it for him."
"Well, I don't know about that. I guess you'd know more about that sort of thing than me."
"Do you know this man?" Nick asked, sliding a mug shot of Earl Manning, AKA Carl Malone, across the table to him.
"Looks familiar, like he's someone I've seen, but I can't say that I know him. If I do, he's not someone I've met more than once."
"How about a strip club called The Rack; have you ever been there?"
"I've been there. What can I tell you, I like looking at naked women." He shrugged his shoulders. "I would say I've been there maybe three or four times."
The man wearing the tunic stepped from the kitchen and announced, "We'll be another ten minutes."
"Okay, I'll have it ready for you," Templeton replied.
He looked at Nick and said, "Sorry, give me just a second. This guy wants his money."
Nick watched as Templeton wrote out a check, pulled it from his checkbook, and set it aside on the table.
"Are you friendly with any of the dancers at The Rack or any employee for that matter?"
Templeton laughed.
"Well, only friendly in terms of when I put a dollar on the stage, they smile at me, and I smile back."
"Do you know the name Misty; she was one of the dancers?"
"Afraid not."
"Carl Malone?"
"Nope."
"How about a woman named Nona Pantz or Edna Faulk?"
"That's a name to remember. No again."
Nick took the same photos he'd shown both Blaine and Forney, and handed them to Templeton. Included in the stack were those of Molly and Edna.
"Who do you recognize in these pictures?" Nick asked.
"Well, quite a few people actually. Blaine of course. This is Fred Arnold. That's his wife Gert. There's St. Claire, and Wendell Gertz. I've done a couple of events for Wendell. He throws a great party. This looks like Rebecca Homer, and this guy here, from the side, looks like Jack Rawlings. These two women look a little familiar, too. Since you earlier asked me about the strip club and dancers, I'll take a guess and say I've seen them there but can't say for sure."
"In the photo where you and St Claire are pictured, what was he saying?"
"I don't remember. It was probably something about business. That's what they usually talk about at these gatherings. Business people talk about business and golf, and athletes talk about their sport and golf ...and women. I've done a couple of parties for one of the Forty Niners, that's why I can say that with some authority. I've always thought that if you play golf, which I don't, at least don't very well, you will fit in at just about any of these gatherings. Do you play golf, Sergeant?"
"No, not my thing exactly."
The man in the tunic came out of the kitchen again and approached Templeton. Nick noticed he was wearing tennis shoes. Templeton handed him the check he'd written and shook his hand.
"I included a little extra, thanks again. The food got a lot of compliments."
"Anytime. I see you're busy so I won't take your time."
Nick watched the two of them interact and also thought of how Templeton had answered his questions so far. His overall impression was that Templeton wasn't holding anything back; that he was being honest and straight forward in his answers.
The man in the tunic disappeared back through the kitchen door.
"In this business you have to know good Chefs," Templeton said to Nick. "If the food is good and presented well, people will remember that. I get a lot of business that way. Especially the wives, they seem more attentive to those kinds of things then the men are."
"Do you know a man named Ramon Forney?" Nick asked.
"Sure. Now he's an interesting person. That house of his is something else, isn't it? He's also got his fingers into things all over the county. But yes, I know him and have done jobs for him, too."
"Did you know that he owns the strip club?" Nick asked.
"Now that I didn't know, at least if I was told, I don't remember."
"Mr. Templeton, Nolan St Claire was killed early Thursday morning, can you tell me where you were at that time?"
"How early is early? I'm an early riser."
"Say between five and six in the morning."
"That early huh, well I was probably having coffee in my kitchen about 5:30. After that I showered and headed to the office. I like getting there early because it's quiet and I miss the heavy commute traffic."
"Was anyone with you to verify that?"
"No, I live by myself, and my office manager, Margaret, doesn't get to work until nine."
"Make any calls, talk with anyone, use a credit card to make a purchase, gas maybe?"
"Well I can't really say about buying gas. I do go through a lot of gas, so it seems like I'm always stopping to fill-up. At that time of the morning, though, I doubt it. As far as talking to anyone, it's very unlikely."
"Okay, how about that same day, only between 10 PM and midnight."
"Sorry, no help there either. I can only guess I was watching TV or reading. I read a lot, murder mysteries mostly." He laughed.
"So at home?"
"At home."
"What about Friday evening between 6 PM and 8 PM?"
"Well, let's see. I left the office late, maybe around 7, stopped and picked-up a burrito at a little place down the street, oh, before you ask I paid cash, I don't like to use my card for only two or three dollars, and then I stopped by Barns and Noble looking for a book. I couldn't find what I was looking for, so I went home and ate my burrito. I can't remember if I spoke with anyone by phone, it's possible; I'll have to check my statement when it comes in. Once again, I was by myself."
"What book were you looking for?"
"Ah, let's see, it's something like Candle, Candle Maker by Vance Stead."
Nick saw a change in Templeton's expression when he asked the question. Nobody likes to be doubted, so maybe that was it.
"Was it the Barns and Noble on Almaden Expressway?"
"As a matter of fact it was."
"And earlier today, between say 10 AM and 1 PM, where were you?"
"Well, I started out by getting my car washed at one of those places that does it by hand. It's on Monterey Rd. So there is no receipt for that. That was about 8:30 to 9 AM. I then went to the office and caught up on some paperwork. I was there by myself. It seems to me that around 9:30 or 10 AM I made a call to the Chef, and we talked for about two or three minutes. I then took a quick drive here, sometime around 11 AM or so, just to make sure the gate was open so we could get in to set-up. I didn't see or talk with anyone but instead just left and went back to the office. And that's about it."
If he left the office around 11 AM and didn't return for an hour, that would explain how I missed him when I stopped by his office, Nick thought.
"Was there anyone else in your office while you were there?"
"Man, this isn't looking good for me is it? It seems like I can't supply you with a single alibi witness. No, Margaret doesn't work on Saturday as a rule. This event here wasn't that big, so I was able to handle it myself."
"Do you own a gun, Mr. Templeton?"
"No, but I've thought about getting one. The only reason I haven't is most of my business is done by check, so I seldom have more than a hundred bucks on me at a time. In other words, there would be no reason for someone to try to mug me or anything. Still, it seems like every time you turn around somebody is shooting somebody else."
"Have you ever owned one?"
"No, uh, uh."
"Have you ever shot one before; a rifle or a pistol?"
"As a kid my dad took me to the firing range once, and we shot a .22, but that's about it. Isn't there a way you can check to see if I've ever bought a gun?"
"Sometimes. Do you know Melanie Blaine, Peter Blaine's wife?"
"Well, I don't know her exactly, but I've met her on several occasions. All my business has been through Peter."
"When was the last time that you saw her?"
"Oh gosh, I don't know, let me see. I guess it would have been at the Western States Realtors Association gathering; so last Tuesday."
"You didn't see her yesterday?"
"No, why?"
"Just wondering. Okay, that's about it for now, but I'll undoubtedly want to ask you some more questions. You have any travel plans?"
"Not in the foreseeable future. I've got events lined up for the next two months."
As Nick drove towards home for a shower and change of clothes, his route of travel took him to the Almaden Expressway exit off Highway 85. On impulse he took it. At the bottom of the ramp, across the street, was Barnes and Noble. He parked and went to the door but found it locked. He could see people still inside, probably straightening up before leaving. He knocked on the glass door and finally got a brown haired woman of about forty to look up. He showed her his badge.
"Did the alarm go off again?" she asked.
"No, nothing like that. I'm investigating a homicide and need some information. It shouldn't take but a couple of minutes."
"A homicide, I don't understand. How could we possibly ..."
"I just need to know if you carry a book written by Vaughn Stead? Apparently it's a murder mystery."
"We carry his books, but let me check to be sure," she replied. "We have so many books it's hard to say what's in stock and what's not without looking it up."
Nick followed her to the checkout counter where she stepped behind it and then in front of a computer terminal.
"Vaughn Stead; do you know the title?"
She started typing on the keyboard.
"Something with candle or candlestick in the title," Nick answered.
More typing followed before she said, "How about 'Jack Jump Over The Candlestick'?"
"That's probably it. Do you have it on hand?"
"Yes, it's a fairly new printing and we show thirteen copies of it left."
"Okay, can you tell me when it was that you received them?"
"Of course. Two weeks ago to the day."
"Just one more question, no, two more. Can you show me where they are stocked?"
"That's easy," she said. "They're right over there."
She pointed to a set of shelves not twenty feet away with a sign that read "New Arrivals" above it. The set of three shelves was about ten feet long and was filled with books.
"Okay, is it possible for you to print-up whatever you're looking at so I can have a copy showing they're in-stock?"
The woman didn't answer but instead grabbed the mouse and clicked it. The printer next to the computer came to life and printed what was on the screen.
"One other thing," Nick said. "Will you print your name and phone number on the back, sign your name, and then write the date."
"This is all very exciting," she said. "Will I be called to testify?"
"It's possible."
After receiving the paperwork from the lady clerk, he walked to the bookshelf and located the book. It was in about the middle of the top shelf.
As Nick left the book store, he asked himself if he'd just caught Roger Templeton in a lie or had Templeton just been unable to find a book, in plain sight, among all the others?
Outside of the room on the wall, a simple sign read, "The Banks' Family." It hung above a glass vase with sprigs of gladiolas, lending a little color and relief to their cheerless surroundings. Inside, the room was perhaps twenty by thirty feet, and smelled musty as if dampness had somehow invaded its walls. On the wall opposite the door, centered, rested Molly's casket; a lonely and hopeless thing at the end of an isle parting a sprinkling of hard bottomed chairs, four to a side.
Now it is true that sometimes cops will go to a funeral to see what they can see; like maybe the murderer showing up and, by some behavioral tic, giving them self away. But usually it's just a bunch of sad people who come-a-mope, trying to fathom the insanity and later wondering if anyone will give a wit to their own passing, when their turn comes.
For the sadness, Nick usually excused himself from such ceremony, but not today. Today, he walked through the door for a woman he barely knew.
Inside, to Nick's surprise, Sonny Boy was there. He was sitting in the back, his long hair greased slick and attired in his best black leather vest over a freshly laundered black long sleeve tee shirt. Sitting next to him was a redhead, kind of, too red to be real, undoubtedly one of the dancers from The Rack. The very tight, very short knit dress gave it away, too.
Nick followed Ellen and his mother past them, but nodded to The Rack's doorman as they went on. People continue to surprise me, he thought.
He watched Ellen put a photograph of her sister, one she'd found in the apartment, on top of the casket. His mother then hooked one hand under Ellen's arm and momentarily rested her head on the younger woman's shoulder. They stood there for a second or two before sitting in the front row, across the aisle from an older woman. Ellen took Nick's hand.
A couple of minutes later he heard the sound of someone coming in the room and a quiet murmur of words. A suited man then walked forward carrying a large arrangement of flowers that blocked him from view. He set them down next to the casket and turned. It was Ramon Forney.
Now what is he doing here, Nick wondered.
He saw Forney's eyes meet his, switch to Ellen's, move to their joined hands, and then finally go on to his mother. He nodded to Ellen and then wordlessly moved on back down the aisle and took a seat next to Leo.
It was information Nick didn't want Forney to have. It worried him. He should probably be sitting in the back of the room now, not the front, watching who came in and also watching their backs. He didn't like sitting in the front row.
The woman across from them stood-up and approached Ellen, where she took Ellen's one hand in her two.
"Ellen, I'm Fern Stewart, we were neighbors when you and Molly were growing up."
"Oh, yes of course," Ellen replied. "It's so nice of you to come."
"I got such joy out of watching the two of you. ...She was too young to leave us. Please accept my sympathy."
Nick could see tears form in Ellen's eyes.
"Thank you, Mrs. Stewart."
The woman then returned back to her seat.
Over the next few minutes another half dozen people came into the room prompting Ellen to whisper, "I didn't expect this many to come. Maybe I should say something?"
Nick nodded his agreement. Ann squeezed her forearm.
She stood and addressed the small gathering, after first introducing herself as Molly's sister. She thanked them for coming, explained there was no formal service planned, and read a poem that Ann had shown her the night before. She finally shared a few memories of Molly, things she had been reminded of in the last few days. It was all unrehearsed, conversational, from the heart of a sister. It was perfect.
Just as she sat back down, Nick's phone vibrated which earned him one of those looks a mother gives an errant son. It was Fanucchi. He excused himself and walked outside the room.
"About Malone's, I mean Manning's text messages," Fanucchi said. "He was slick enough to erase them all from the memory, both incoming and out-going."
"The carrier can't pull them out of their computers?" Nick asked.
"They say no; not once they've been erased. They suggest we take the phone to a computer guy who might be able to pull it out of the phones built-in memory. It doesn't always work, though."
"Okay, Okay, I'll put it on the list. Anything else?"
"Just that Manning was released on parole a little over two years ago. He was convicted because he worked for a guy, who worked for a guy, who worked for another guy, who was into narcotics, gambling, and prostitution. He got popped on a conspiracy charge and carrying a concealed weapon."
"Who were the people he was pinched with, his co-conspirators?"
Nick watched Forney and Leo exit the room.
"I'm working on it. You know how the Feds are; you tell me what you got and we'll tell you nothing."
Forney said something to Leo, left him standing by the door, and approached.
Nick abruptly ended his call to Fanucchi.
"Sergeant, I hope you don't mind, but I introduced myself to Ellen and told her if there was anything I could do to help, that she should call."
"Why, and why are you here Mr. Forney."
"Ah ...I can see that I may have overstepped my bounds. Since Molly was an employee of a business that I own, I felt it my responsibility to express my regrets. It just seemed like the right thing to do."
"Generally it's not a good idea for someone who is still on the person of interest list to make direct contact with a family member of one of the murder victims."
"I guess I can see your point, but I assure you my intentions were only good. I'm not your enemy Sergeant. Neither of you have anything to fear from me. I take it Ellen is a friend of the family."
"You can take it anyway you want, I don't share that sort of information."
Ellen and his mother exited the room. Nick held up his hand to indicate they shouldn't approach. The redhead also exited and gave Ellen a hug before moving off towards the parking lot with Sonny Boy.
"Perhaps we should talk about this later," he said. "I hope I haven't caused you any difficulty."
At that, Forney threw a head nod at Leo to follow him and headed towards the parking lot as well. Nick watched their progress for a moment and saw Leo put his hand on Forney's back and rub it back and forth a couple of times.
Forney now has information he shouldn't have.
At his departure Ellen and his mother joined him.
Ellen said, "Nick," she held up Forney's business card, "I ...."
He cut her off and spoke directly to Ann. "Does Forney know that you're my mother?"
"Why no, I don't think so. Why, is that important?"
"Did you say your name to him; your last name?"
"Nick," Ellen again said.
He looked at her and then back to his mother. "Well, did you?"
"No, I don't think I said either my first or last name. And you shouldn't speak to your mother that way."
"I hope not because ..."
"Nick, will you listen to me for a second. I saw this same business card in the stuff I picked-up from my sister's place yesterday."
"Your sister had Forney's business card?"
"That's what I've been trying to say. When I went through her stuff last night, I saw a business card with his name on it; one identical to this one." She dropped her voice as one of the mourners passed. "I think there was a number written on the back of it."
"Why didn't you say something?"
A young woman, about Molly's age, and one who looked familiar to her, gave Ellen a hug and expressed her condolences. She, too, then left.
"I thought it was just a card some guy from the club gave her; you know, trying to pick-up on her."
"I wish you'd told me. It could be important."
"Well, if it's so important why didn't you or your friends take it when they first searched her apartment several days ago? And while I still have the floor, Ann's right, you shouldn't talk to your mother that way."
Now they're ganging up on me, he thought. Somehow though, the bond they'd formed made him feel good. What a mess.
"Look, he may be somehow involved in your sister's death. If he knows my mother's name, even that she is my mother, he can find out where she lives and where you're staying. That would mean we'd all be sleeping in a motel until this thing is over with."
"There's no way he could know Ann is your mother."
"Let's go back and get that card."
It crossed his mind at this point that emotion, he refused to acknowledge love, is like a bullet. In its casing, it is inert, safe, only a potential as long as you keep your damn finger off the trigger. But once you squeeze it off, there's no calling it back. It blasts out at twelve hundred fifty feet per second, and all you can do is stand there and see what happens next.
He took her hand. She held on but punched him in the shoulder with her other.
He was a pacer, she was a scrubber; same difference. That's how he knew it was coming; the lecture. And that's what she did to work up to it. She'd start thinking on it, then scrubbing on it, and then when she was sufficiently worked up, she'd let him have it. He should have gone upstairs with Ellen to retrieve Forney's business card.
"Are you listening to me?" she asked.
Old Max wasn't a fool either. He knew the signs. He was stretched out on the floor with his head planted between his forelegs and his eyes wary, darting; as if he thought whatever was going on could foul on him.
"We hardly know one another."
He hoped that phrasing it that way would make it sound he was as much concerned about her as he was about himself.
"Hardly know one another? Let me tell you ...after a single conversation I knew your father was the one; a single conversation. But he was just like you; his head so full of ideas and his mouth so full of bull, he couldn't see the field from the cabbage, that man. But he knew, too, deep down, though a stubborn man to his own feelings he was."
The old country accent always squeezed out between her words when she pinned him down like this. He suspected she did it on purpose.
"It's not just that. My job, it's just too hard on ..."
"You don't think Poland was hard during the struggle? They wanted to throw us in one of their jails. Practically every night we slept in a different place, but we had each other. Don't pass this up Nick, you'll always have someone."
"You just want grandkids."
"If that was only it, I wouldn't say anything."
He heard Ellen coming down the stairs, so he acted as if he was thinking, biding his time until she got there.
It worked. Ellen stepped through the doorway and stopped.
"My ears are burning," she said.
Max wagged his tail but didn't bother to get up. The odds were growing in his favor but you don't pick sides until you know the winner.
"Oh, think nothing of it," Ann said. "We were just having a little mother-son discussion."
"Do you want some privacy? Maybe you should have your space back."
Ann shot Nick a look.
What the hell did I do, he asked himself?
"Oh nonsense, if it were up to me you would move-in."
No accent now.
Nick figured it best to change the subject. "Did you find the card?"
"Yep, right here. And I was right, there's a phone number on the back."
She handed it to Nick.
It was just a regular business card; black on one side with white lettering that read, "Ramon Forney, Commercial and Residential Real Estate Investment." It also listed his business and cell numbers, plus his e-mail address. On the back was a handwritten phone number.
Nick thumbed back to the notes of his interview with Forney. The phone number Nick had for him was the same as on the front of the business card. The handwritten number didn't match anything. Too easy he thought.
Ann filled the tea pot with fresh water and put it on the stove while Ellen grabbed a couple of cups from the cupboard.
He picked-up the kitchen phone and called Records. The PD contracted with a vetted computer search service for this sort of thing but to get to them he had to go through Records.
A male voice with a thick accent answered. He gave the records clerk the phone number and hoped he'd made himself understood. He also tried to pin the clerk down on how long it would take to get the information on who the phone number was assigned to, but all he got was it was a Sunday so sometimes it took longer. Risking further confusion, he also requested a copy of Forney's driver's license photo printed up and ready for him in thirty minutes.
Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly 3 PM.
Once he saw the place, he remembered it, kind of. He remembered it in the sense that he'd driven past it a thousand times but he'd never been there, either officially or otherwise.
Like most of the rest of old Japan Town, it was a two story wood sided building, with paint layered as thick as a good wool blanket, in this case chalk white. The door stood with its toes on the sidewalk and except for the sign over it, a neon one with Japanese lettering and a martini glass, he wouldn't have known it was the entrance to anywhere. It was just an old, single-wide door plopped in the middle of a solid wall; no windows except down-a-ways where the neighboring restaurant displayed a red Budweiser sign, just like Dodd had described.
Nick parked out front and stepped through the door only to find a narrow wood staircase that shot straight up with no landing to catch your breath on the way in or stop your martini induced freefall on the way out. At the top of the stairs, to the right, was a curtained doorway and beyond that the bar.
The bar, like the entrance, made no statement unless it was leave me alone, I want to drink in peace. There were about a dozen small tables scattered about the sloping plank floor, and not all of them matched. Some were made out of painted over bamboo and glass, while others were of fiberboard edged with cheap metal trim. Off in one corner there were a couple of men the far side of sixty, playing what looked like a game of dominos. At another table sat a second man, about the same age, reading the paper. Smoke drifted up like a drunken finger from a glass ash tray in front of him.
The bar itself, the business part where booze is passed from one side to the other, looked like an original; heavy, dark, fifteen feet long, and showing the scars of a life well served. Behind it was the usual array of bottles and glasses plus an old green metal fan that gently circulated the air in the room so everyone could enjoy the benefits of second hand smoke.
Behind the bar on a stool, with one leg hiked exposing a stripe of black between a gray cotton pant cuff and a greasy looking brown oxford, sat a decidedly expressionless man reading a paperback that he held only inches from his face.
As Nick made his way towards him, a woman exited a door near one end of the bar, looked in Nick's direction, and gushed a stream of Japanese at the expressionless man. Afterwards, she moved on to the patrons already seated. The bartender put his book face down on the bar and stared with hooded eyes at Nick's approach.
Nick put his business card on top of the bar and slid it across with the tip of his right index finger.
The bartender picked it up, squinted at it painfully, and set it back down again. Wordlessly, he raised a nicotine stained index finger before searching behind the bar until he came up with a pair of reading glasses, minus one stem, which he then held to his face as he leaned over the card to give it a second try.
Great witness, Nick thought. He pictured him testifying. How many fingers am I holding up mister bartender? ...Okay, try this; point to where in the courtroom I'm standing. Sometimes an idea pays off and sometimes it doesn't.
"Ah, the police," he said in perfect English. "Do you know my nephew, Charles Hahn, he's one of you?"
"Yeah, I know him. We went to the Academy together. He's your nephew?"
The bartender nodded his head. "He doesn't take shit from nobody."
"We must be talking about the same guy, because the Charles Hahn I know doesn't take shit from anyone either."
"Small world, huh?" he said.
"Small world. Hey, were you working last Thursday night, say around 8 or 9 PM?"
"I'm here every night except Monday and maybe sometimes a Saturday, but not yesterday, I was here yesterday, that's for damn sure."
"Okay, then can you tell me if you recognize this guy?"
Nick handed him Malone's photograph.
"What'd he do, kill someone?"
"Other way around. Have you seen him before?"
The bartender picked up the photograph and studied it for several seconds through his broken glasses.
"Probably deserved it. Look at him. ...You know, my eyes, they're not what they used to be. No damn good for looking at pictures or people. But you know what, maybe Michele saw him. She was here Thursday night."
"Who's Michele?"
"That's Michele." He pointed at the woman who had spoken to him earlier. "She's Charlie's cousin. Their mothers are sisters. One of them had all boys and the other all girls. You know Charlie, huh?"
"Yeah, I know him."
"He don't take shit from nobody."
Nick thanked the man and picked-up the picture of Malone off the bar. As he was doing this, the bartender resumed his place on the stool.
The woman was younger than the man, a lot younger, maybe in her late twenties. She wore a pair of black pants, a white blouse, and shoes that looked more like slippers. She moved as if on autopilot, soundlessly from one table to the other, picking up the empties, wiping up debris, and in one case swapping a full ashtray for an empty one.
"I figured you'd get to me. I saw you show him a photograph," she said at Nick's approach. "Uncle can't tell the difference between a hundred dollar bill and a one dollar bill. Believe me, I know. I have to do the cash drawer at the end of the night. He needs surgery, but he's stubborn about it. One of these days he'll go blind and ...let me put this down and then I'll look at what you have."
Nick followed her over to the bar where she put her tray down.
"Uncle, I need a sake, and a bourbon and water, light on the bourbon because Sammy has to walk home."
She then turned to Nick and said, "Now what's this all about?"
He handed her his card and said, "I want to find out if someone came in here in the last few days."
She looked at his card and asked, "Do you know my cousin Charlie? He works with you guys."
"From a long time back, actually." Nick then handed her a photograph of Malone and asked, "Do you recognize this guy?"
"Oh yeah, he comes in here sometimes. There's something about him that I don't like. It's not just how he looks; it's more of an attitude. Why; what did he do?"
"When was the last time he was here?"
"Well, let's see. Today's Sunday, so it was either Thursday or Friday. It definitely wasn't yesterday and I'm off on Wednesday, my other cousin works on Wednesday, so it's got to be Thursday or Friday."
Nick took all the photographs he had out of an envelope and handed them to her.
"Take your time and look at all the photos. After you've had a chance to look at them all, tell me if you recognize anyone else."
"Okay, but we get a lot of people in here so sometimes I don't remember faces."
She shuffled through the pictures, giving the group shots a longer look. Nick was closely watching her when she came to the photograph of Ramon Forney but didn't see her pay any more attention to it then she did to the others. After reaching the end, she went through them again until she came to one of the group shots Jim Westin had taken. She set it on the bar with the others next to it before putting her finger on Roger Templeton's face and saying, "Him, I recognize this one."
"You've seen him in here before?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, he was with the other guy."
Al ceremoniously unwrapped the paper. "Tell me you brought hot sauce, the red stuff, I love the red stuff," he said.
"It's in the bag with the chips."
"You brought chips? Oh man, they're gonna be so pissed at me. We gotta clean the crime scene before you go."
He smelled the burrito as if it was a vintage wine. "Sour cream and guacamole, I've died and gone to cop heaven. ...So where's Ellen? She didn't come with you this time?"
Al took his first bite and rolled his eyes back. Nick noticed that the hair on the back of his partner's head was spiked up and twisted from the pillow.
"I shouldn't have brought her the first time."
"You shouldn't have... Are you nuts?" He was talking with his mouth full now. "Oh no, don't tell me you're feeling guilty because she's a witness? Tell me that's not true. If you let her walk you're an asshole."
"You're getting a little ahead of yourself don't you think."
"Oh, bullshit. Nick, what, you think I'm blind? You're all over that and the feeling was mutual. Where's she staying; your place right? You're squeaking the bedsprings already, aren't you?"
"She's not at my place."
"Where then, your mother's? That's it, isn't it; she's staying at your mother's and you're staying there, too. And I'll bet your mom likes her, huh?" He took another bite. "You're screwed, buddy. I wish I was there to see it."
"Let's change the subject."
"If you say so, but if you let that go, you ought to be shot." Hot sauce stuck to his bottom lip.
"That your last word on it?"
Al took a drink of water through a straw.
"That's my last word on it."
"Good, now let's talk about the case and get off mine."
"Sure, why not, but first, do you know what is long and hard that a Polish bride gets on her wedding night? ...No? Okay, I'll tell you; a last name."
Al started laughing, then choking, then moaning and grabbing his ribs. Nick didn't make a move to help him, but instead just sat there watching.
"Those Polish jokes are gonna kill you one of these days."
"Asshole."
Nick could see that Al had gotten sauce on his hospital gown where he grabbed his ribs.
For the next fifteen minutes Nick brought his partner up to speed on the investigation. After he finished, Al said, "So you got Blaine in the wind and a dirty picture in his desk drawer showing his wife and Edna doing the wild thing, which makes Blaine a liar for telling you he didn't know any of the dancers at The Rack. You got this guy Forney's business card in Molly's personal belongings with a number on the back, which makes him a possible liar for saying he didn't know any of the dancers at the club either. And you got a connection between Templeton and Malone, which makes Templeton a liar for saying he didn't know him."
"That's about it," Nick said.
"So basically, they all look dirty, some more than others, but that's it."
"Basically."
Al put another bite of burrito in his mouth and said, "Okay, what's next?"
"Well, I want to listen to the tape of what happened in Edna's hotel room. Gotta do backgrounds on Forney and Templeton, and then there are the phone records. Who's calling who, the number on the back of the card, try to breakdown the alibi's for Forney, Templeton, and even Blaine some more. When you getting out of here?"
"They say maybe I can go home the day after tomorrow. But I tell you what; if it starts to really roll, I'll cut out early. I got some getting even to do with that asshole."
"I'll let you know, but I don't think it's going to happen that fast. Hey, before I go, is there anything you need?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, bring Ellen by for a visit ...and a nice piece of pie."
"I thought you said your last word on that subject."
"Ellen? Not by a long shot."
Outside in the parking lot Nick heard a car alarm go off. He cruised by it only to see someone from the hospital come out and click it off with the remote. Then, as he turned out onto the street, an idea came to him. He hopped up onto the freeway and headed towards Templeton's business.
He arrived about twenty minutes later, parked, and got out on foot. On the wall up near the roofline was an alarm box with the company name, Specter Security Systems, printed on it. There was also a phone number written below the name. He called the number and asked if they had an active account for "Manage Your Affairs." After being told that they did have such an account, he asked if it was monitored or if it was audible only. It was a monitored account.
Another forty minutes later, he was lying in bed next to Ellen.
Nick spotted a pencil sticking out from under a half price coupon for an all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant on top of Al's desk blotter. He grabbed it, slipped on the headphones, and punched play.
At first, the only sounds were of Edna moving around the room, going through a few drawers, laying on the bed, getting off the bed, using the bathroom, and laying back down on the bed again. After a few minutes of silence he heard her say, "It's nice and soft here Nick, you don't know what you're missing." Nick smiled. Then the TV came on and he could hear her running through the channels before stopping on one playing music.
He listened to a couple of minutes of rock, hit the fast forward button, let it run a couple of seconds, and returned it to normal speed. He repeated the process until he picked-up voices and stopped the tape. He tore off the coffee stained top sheet from his legal pad and recorded the tape recorder's counter number so he could easily find the place again if he needed to.
The first words he could make out after hitting play again were, "Hi, come \_ who \_ you?" The voice sounded like Edna's. She had that gravelly smoker's voice. He rewound and replayed this part of the tape several more times, but it didn't get any better. At best, hidden microphones made listening difficult. With the TV on, it was worse.
The next words he could make out were those of a woman, not Edna, so by process of elimination, Melanie Blaine's. "You said \_ hurt."
These were followed by Edna again, who said, " look let me \_. I won't say \_ please."
She did what she was told to do, Nick thought; "just let me out of here" was the bust signal; her 911. The trouble was that nobody could hear it. Should have followed my gut, he told himself. Another wave of guilt swept over him.
It sounded like a man's voice next, "Shut the ." After three or four rewinds Nick still couldn't recognize the voice. There wasn't enough there.
He tried to picture the scene in his head. After they entered the door (the front or back he couldn't tell), Edna first saw Melanie, greeted her, and then saw the killer, who probably had his pistol out. She backed away from him, probably to the bed, where her body was eventually found.
The light on his phone lit-up, so he stopped the tape, pulled off the headphones, and answered it.
"Sergeant Zajac, this is John over at Specter Security Systems. I've got the information you asked for. Do you want to pick it up, or can I fax it?"
"Fax it if you will, but hang onto your copy and make a note of the date and time of this conversation in case you later need to recall it."
"Not a problem, I'll send if off right away."
Nick thanked him, gave him the fax number, and hung-up. He then put the headphones back on, only to take them right back off again when he saw Andy from Records enter the office, make eye contact, and start his way.
"We got the info back on that phone number, but you're not going to like it," Andy said.
"Yeah, why's that?"
"Because it comes back to one of those prepaid cell phones you can buy at just about any Wal-Mart in the world, so no owner information."
"Can the phone people say what store it was sold in?"
"I didn't ask."
"Can we at least get information on who the purchaser called and was called by?"
"I was only asked to check the number," Andy said. "Nobody asked for any of that other stuff."
"You want me to handle it?" Fanucchi asked.
"Yeah, thanks," Nick said. "I owe you one."
"Just one?"
After Fanucchi left, Nick went back to the tape. He rewound and replayed what he had so far and heard a woman's voice, he wasn't sure whose, say, "No, please," followed by a gunshot.
This was followed by not exactly a scream, but more of a cry and the words " are doing?" These words sounded as if they came from Melanie. Then there was another gunshot. No further words were heard after that, just noises, until Nick and Rene entered the room.
Nick stopped the recorder and went over what he'd written so far.
Edna: "Hi, come . \_ who \_ you?"
Melanie: "You said \_ hurt."
Edna: " look let me \_. I won't say \_, please."
Man: "Shut the ."
Woman: "No, please."
Gunshot.
Melanie: Cry/scream. " are doing?"
Gunshot.
Nick felt it was safe to conclude that Melanie and the shooter accompanied one another to the door and that Melanie had been deceived somehow about the killer's intentions. It was also clear that Edna had been killed first, because the last words were from Melanie, followed by the second shot. Finally, it also sounded as if Edna did not know the man. If true, it was one more piece of corroboration that Malone wasn't the actual murderer. He could at least say that.
From the fax machine, Nick pulled the information Specter Security sent him. It was a printout of the times the alarm at Templeton's business was activated and deactivated during the last two weeks. He took his notebook out of his pocket and opened it to the first page of his notes on Templeton's interview. On a fresh page on his legal pad he wrote:
Thursday Morning: Templeton states - Up before 5:30 AM, showers, arrives at office, no stops. Secretary comes in at 9:00 AM. Alarm company records show - Alarm deactivated 8:33 AM. (St. Claire killed between 5:00 and 6:00 AM.)
Thursday Night: Templeton states - at home between 10:00 PM and Midnight. Alarm company records show - alarm activated 7:56 PM. Bar waitress states - Templeton and Malone meet approximately 9:00 PM. (Ellen prowled about 9:45 PM. Fontaine killed between 10:00 PM and 11:45 PM).
Friday Night: Templeton states - left office about 7:00 PM, bought burrito, went to Barnes and Noble, then went home. Edna and Melanie Blaine killed about 7:45 PM. Alarm company records show -- alarm activated 5:16 PM.
Saturday Morning: Templeton states - car wash 8:30 to 9:00 AM, then to office. Called chef 11:00 AM, 11:00 AM drove to wedding site, and then immediately back to office. Alarm company records show -- alarm deactivated 8:53 AM, activated 10:22 AM and deactivated 2:07 PM. (Malone killed 1:10 PM.)
The first thing he could conclude from all this information was that Templeton could have committed all the murders except Molly's, which of course was done by St. Claire. The second thing was that the man apparently lied to him about his whereabouts on several occasions. One of those lies was his meeting with Malone on Thursday night. Then, on the night Edna and Melanie Blaine were killed, he said that he left the office about 7 PM. The alarm log indicated that he left at 5:16 PM. He also said that on that particular night he went to Barnes and Noble after work. This was probably a lie, too, because the book he said they didn't have in stock, they did. And yet another lie was he said he left his business about 11 AM on Saturday, drove to the wedding site and then immediately back to the office. The alarm company records showed he left his office about forty minutes earlier than that and returned much later than he claimed to have.
The trouble was that even being able to prove that Templeton and Malone knew one another and that Templeton was a liar wasn't enough to get an arrest warrant. He needed more. If he could only get his hands on the shoes Templeton wore when he killed Emerson and prowled Ellen's place, and the pistol and rifle he used to do the killings, then he'd have him. There was another thing he needed.
Nick picked up the phone and called Rene.
"I need your help again," Nick said.
"Anything, name it."
"I think the guy who may be good for Emerson, Edna, Al, all of them, is someone named Roger Templeton."
"Not Malone?"
"No, Malone apparently set the whole thing up for him, though. Anyway, Templeton may not be his true name, so I want you and whoever you need to help, to follow him around and try to get fingerprints and maybe even a DNA sample from him."
"You mean get the stuff he touches, that sort of thing, and get it printed and tested?"
"Exactly, and maybe even some photographs of him."
"Sound's fun; where can we find this Templeton, and what's he look like."
He gave her the information she needed and hung up.
It was nearly noon, so he gave Ellen a call to see if she was interested in lunch. She excused herself saying she had a potential client coming over. Nick reminded her to let the officer out front know she was expecting someone. After hanging up, he called her back and gave her Templeton's name and description just in case he happened to be her appointment. She told him she was expecting a woman.
William 'Wild Bill' Foster took the boring out of Council Meetings. Partly it was his appearance --- flaming red hair with a bad comb over and a waxed, four inch handlebar moustache. He was also loud and bodacious, often wise-cracking during meetings. And then there was High Beam, his three year old Toy Schnauzer. He went with Wild Bill everywhere, even into council chambers where he could frequently be heard growling during the Mayor's speeches.
"Well now, what can a humble civil servant like myself do to be of assistance to one of San Jose's finest," he said.
High Beam scurried over and sniffed Nick's shoes and pant cuffs.
"Just answer a few questions," Nick said.
Wild Bill pointed at High Beam and said, "Watch that he don't wet you there. He pissed on the Mayor's shoe the other day. It was a sight to see. I'd have given my sister Rhonda, the good looking one in the family, to anyone who'd a photographed it. Sit right on down, Sergeant. ...Beamer, come here you little trouble maker."
Nick sat down and stated, "This is just routine follow-up."
"You guys must learn that line, 'it's just routine', in the Academy or something; tell me it's true."
"You know, I've said it so many times, I forget where I first heard it. Sir, do you know a man named Forney, Ramon Forney?"
"What'd he do, pick someone's pocket? The man's a hell of a businessman. He's also a little light in the britches if you know what I mean; not that there's anything wrong with that mind you. Some of my best constituents ...so on and so forth."
"It's nothing like that; I'm just trying to nail down a timeline on a case I'm working."
Foster picked-up the morning paper that was sitting on his desk top and tossed it across to Nick's side. "Your case wouldn't have anything to do with all this nasty killing business would it?"
Nick looked at the headlines. 'Mystery Deepens, Death Toll Climbs'.
"As I said, I'm just trying to nail down a time line. He's not a suspect. Did you have dinner with him recently?"
"Surely did. It was Friday night over Saratoga way. He was trying to swing my vote in favor of rezoning a piece of property he owns, from residential to multiple use. He wants to build a small shopping center. The neighborhood could probably use it, but I told him we'd have to meet with the folks who live out there first before he got my endorsement."
"What I'm interested in is the time you two had dinner together."
Foster swiveled his chair clockwise so he could reach his calendar.
"Well now, let's just see. It was about eight o'clock. That's what I have here and that's about the time I remember, too."
"Okay, did you put it on your card where there'd be some sort of transaction time recorded?"
Foster thought for a second then held up his index finger. "Got just as good, valet parking, how's that?"
"Sounds just like what I'm looking for."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a claim ticket. He flipped it over and studied the front of it. Then, as he half rose and handed it across his desk to Nick, he said, "Shows 7:49 PM as the time they took my car. I went inside, ordered a drink, and had just got myself settled when Forney showed-up. So let's say he got there just a little before 8 PM. That answer your question?"
Nick nodded and said, "May I keep this?" He held up the valet claim ticket.
"My civic duty."
Nick punched in a call to Forney to make sure he was home, and later, while in route, called Andy in Records.
"I gave everything to Fanucchi," Andy started out.
"That's not why I'm calling. I need you to run complete backgrounds on a guy named Roger Templeton and a guy named Peter Blaine. You can get their dates of birth from Lt. Navarro; they're in my reports. I want you to get me a ten year driving record, criminal history, calls for service where they are listed as victim, suspect, or witness, a credit check, civil check, divorces, lists of property owned, business licenses, everything. If there is an arrest record, civil record, or divorce, I want you to get copies of all documents associated, even if you have to go there and get them yourself. You got all that?"
"Yeah, it could take a while though depending ..."
"Do it as fast as you can and get the stuff to me as it comes in."
"I'll get started right now, how can I reach you?"
Nick gave him his cell phone number.
Ramon Forney answered the door wearing tan khaki pants and an orange polo shirt with a little horse and rider embroidered on the left breast. He was also holding the morning paper.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked shaking the paper. "It was Carl? He was the one shot and killed in Santa Clara? And then Blaine is missing, his wife dead, it's unbelievable. Do I have something to worry about here? Am I in danger?"
"Let's not discuss this out here on your front porch, Mr. Forney. Is there a place we can talk and then I'll try to answer all your questions."
Forney took a deep breath and let it out. "Of course, sorry, sure, come on in. The study, we can talk there."
Nick followed him in, but before they reached their destination Forney turned around and faced him.
"You don't still think I have anything to do with this do you? I mean come on."
"I'll be honest with you; I don't think you shot anyone, no, that I can say for sure. The councilman alibis you out, but I'm still not convinced you're not somehow involved in all this."
Forney stared at him for a second before saying, "All right, how do I convince you I'm not involved?"
"We'll get to that, but first I have to ask you a few questions."
Forney motioned with his head into the study and walked on in, taking a seat in a brown leather chair, leaving a love seat to Nick."
"Now, what do you want to know; ask away? Anything. Everything.
"First, I need to look at a sample of your handwriting. Do you have anything written out by hand; maybe a few pages in an address book that has both numbers and letters on them?"
"Now why ..." He stopped mid sentence, got up and walked to his desk, picked up a leather bound address book and handed it to Nick.
Nick took a legal pad from his briefcase, a pen from his pocket, and handed them both to Forney.
"Now I'd like you to write a few things out for me."
"And this is necessary? It will clear me of suspicion?"
"Possibly."
"All right, go ahead, I'm ready."
Nick dictated a long series of numbers and letters that included all the numbers on the back of the business card taken from Molly's belongings. When he was finished, he first compared what Forney had written on the legal pad to what was written in Forney's address book. Although not a qualified handwriting expert, it was clear that Forney made the entries in the address book.
He next removed the questioned business card from an envelope and compared it to the address book. While doing this, he also checked to see if there was an entry for Blaine, Molly, or Edna on any of the pages. There was no such entry, and the handwritten number on the back of the business card did not match the writing in the address book.
Nick then handed the business card to Forney.
"Do you recognize the phone number written on the back of your business card, Mr. Forney?"
"No, and that's not my writing either. Where'd you find this?"
"When was the last time you spoke with Carl Malone?"
"Well, it was before you and I talked the last time, so I suppose at least a week ago."
"Did he have one of your business cards?"
"I'm sure he did. I probably gave one to him when I first ran into him. So is this his?"
"How about Peter Blaine, have you had any contact with him since we last spoke?"
"No, none."
"Same question again, did you give a business card to him?"
"It's possible, probable. I pass them out like candy."
"Okay, how about Roger Templeton?"
"He stopped by yesterday afternoon."
Forney broke eye contact and looked at a spot on the wall above Nick's head.
"And why did he do that; stop by?"
"He said that he had a new client and he wondered if he could use me as a reference. I told him he could."
Forney was still avoiding good eye contact. Nick got the feeling that there was more to the conversation then permission to use him as a reference. Forney was definitely acting nervous about something.
"What else did you talk about Mr. Forney? There's something you're not telling me. You better pay attention to what's going on here. Seven people are dead ...so far." Nick paused to let that sink in before continuing. "And if I find out you know something that could put an end to the killing and didn't tell me, your ass is mine. Do you hear me?"
"It's not like that. I don't know anything about the killings."
"Well, then what? What are you not telling me?"
"You have to understand he didn't mean anything by it. It was an accident. It's just that Leo sometimes doesn't know when to be discrete. He's really a sweet guy."
"What are you talking about? What did Leo do or say that has anything to do with people dying?"
"Nothing with people dying, but he told Roger that you and Ellen Banks were, well, close."
"What do you mean?"
"Leo was a little angry about the way you talked to me at the funeral service. So when Roger came by shortly after we got home, well, it was fresh on his mind and he said something. Roger, Leo, and I were talking about how tragic the killings were because we had just come from there, the funeral home, and it came out that you and Molly's sister were romantic."
Nick wanted to pound the little shit into the ground. If Templeton was the killer, he just put Ellen in grave danger. And even if he wasn't, who knows who he would tell. Nick acknowledged he had to own some of the responsibility, though. He should have shown better control.
"He shouldn't have done that," Nick said.
"I told him that afterwards. I told him that information of that sort should always be kept to himself. I'm sorry if this causes you any problems."
All right, Nick thought, it happened, and there's nothing he could do about changing it. It would just have to be dealt with. At least he had a heads-up.
"Let's move on. So you talked about the case then?"
"Not in detail. After Leo mentioned we'd just come from the funeral and the rest of it, Roger brought up that you'd talked to him and asked his whereabouts on certain days and so forth. I told him you must be asking everyone those questions because you'd also asked me. And that was about it."
"How about him; do you think he had one of your business cards?"
"I can't say I remember giving him one, but I know I did."
"You said that you'd been to The Rack a few times with business partners. Is it possible that you gave one of the women there one of your cards?"
"I highly doubt that. I can say with almost complete certainty that I didn't."
"How about one of your companions; do you think it's possible that they could have used one of your cards to write their personal number on, to give to one of the dancers?"
"Humm, let me think about that one. ...I don't remember that happening, but it's possible I suppose."
"All right Mr. Forney, you asked if you were in any danger. I don't know. I wish I did. If I were you, though, I'd be very careful. Keep aware of your surroundings. Don't conduct any meetings in private. If something feels wrong, trust that instinct and get to a safe place. You obviously have considerable resources, so you might think about hiring security."
"That's a good idea. Do you have any suggestions?"
"No, but I'm sure there are people you do business with who hire security firms all the time. You might try them for recommendations. Just don't hire some eighteen year old kid who is getting paid minimum wage. Make sure it's someone who knows what he's doing. You can have him call me if you want. In the mean time, if Blaine, Templeton, or anyone else initiates a conversation with you about the murders, I want you to call me. Is that understood?"
"It's understood Sergeant. And I hope you don't hold any ill-will towards Leo."
Nick dropped into his chair. In front of him, waiting, were three thick and neatly stacked, nine by twelve manila envelopes.
Fanucchi, coatless but still wearing his trademark fedora, which was pushed back on his head, was already seated with his feet crossed and propped on his desk top, talking on the phone.
"Cash huh?" Nick heard Fanucchi say. "Figures. Did he give a name? Do your records show that? ... ... Yeah, I know, but try anyway. ...Yeah, I'll hold."
Nick opened the envelopes and found them to contain the phone records for Nolan St. Claire, Molly Banks, and Carl Malone. "About time," he muttered to himself.
Carla Stevens, one of the homicide detectives, stormed into the office, threw her purse on her desk, un-holstered her pistol, slid it in her top right hand drawer, hipped it closed, and asked, "What's up."
Good question Nick thought. What's up with you? Carla seemed a little raw.
"On hold with Wally Mart security," Fanucchi answered.
"Phone records for three of my victims," Nick added pointing to the hundred plus pages in front of him.
"Well, let me know if I can help. Court was continued."
"Yeah, which case?" Fanucchi asked.
"Divorce case," she answered. "Can you believe that loser; he wants spousal support from me, me! Maybe if he had a decent job. What kind of a man ...ahhh." She threw up a hand dismissively.
Nick shot Fanucchi a 'what'd you ask that for' look.
"Tough one," Fanucchi said, dropping his feet to the floor and turning to face the desk.
Nick put Molly's phone records on top and started through them looking for the phone number written on the back of Forney's business card.
"I'm here," Fanucchi said into the phone. ..."You got to be kidding, Fidel Castro? Jeeze. ...Yeah, I still want a copy faxed. It will at least have his handwriting. And if you'll Fed Ex the original with the signature on it, that'd be great. ...Me or Nick Zajac. ...Yeah, that's right, no wait, it's with a C not a K."
Nick took his highlighter and yellowed over the first occurrence of the number. The date was about two months prior to Molly's death.
Right at that moment, Andy came in the door holding some computer printouts. He set them on Nick's desk and said, "These are the Department of Motor Vehicles and criminal histories. Nothing too earth shattering. I'll have some more stuff for you in about thirty minutes or so." He went back out the way he came in.
Nick thanked him to his back and heard Fanucchi say, "Okay, now who do I contact to get the records of calls made and received?"
He wrote something on a notepad.
"Are they going to give me a problem? I don't want any problems. ...A letter or maybe a subpoena, huh? Yeah, I can do that, thanks."
After hanging up he said, "You know, it used to be that a cop could get anything with a phone call. People would drop whatever they were doing just to help. Now, now everyone wants a frigging piece of paper, on official letterhead, signed by the man, and then you still have to wait your turn."
"Yeah, well, it also used to be that men had a set of balls, too. Present company excluded of course," Carla said.
"Of course," the two of them responded in almost perfect unison. But then Fanucchi added, "Awh, you just need to get back out there and get yourself laid by some twenty-year old with a flat stomach and a tattoo on his arm that says Mother, then things will look a whole lot brighter."
"You got to be out of you mind, Fanucchi. I don't want to see another pair of hairy legs for the rest of my life. That's how I got in this mess."
Nick just looked at Fanucchi and shook his head. A good reason cops shouldn't get married, he thought.
"You just didn't find the right one. It makes all the difference." Changing the subject, Fanucchi said to Nick, "I guess you got most of that stuff I said on the phone, huh?"
"Yeah, he used the name Fidel Castro to pay for the phone and you're going to need a letter or subpoena to get the phone records."
"That's about it. It only takes a minute to do, but still ..."
"Hey Nick," Carla interrupted. "How about you give me the phone records to work on? I need something to get my mind off that jerk I married."
Nick told Carla what he needed done and handed the documents off to her. She then grabbed her belongings, the records, and headed out the door saying, "I'm going to do this at home. I'll give you a call when I'm finished."
After she was gone Fanucchi said, "Bet you twenty bucks that before the month is out she'll be joy popping some guy named Lance, sporting a ten-inch salami, and coming to work with a smile on her face. It's nature, you can't fight it. Know what I mean?"
"Doesn't mean she has to marry him."
"Maybe not him, but the third or fourth or fifth Lance she will. Coupling-up is in our DNA; survival of the species and all that. You just have to find the right one so you can survive happy."
"I got work to do," Nick said and turned his attention to the criminal history checks.
Blaine had bumped the law a few times; nothing serious, though. In his early twenties, he was pinched for disturbing the peace and drunk in public. The case was dismissed. Nick thumbed through the paperwork until he found the report. It was just two pages long. Police were called to a sorority house on a complaint of someone singing in the bushes. They found Blaine drunk and urinating under one of the windows. Another arrest was more recent. It was for drunken driving five years ago. He paid a fine, did community service, and had a restricted driver's license for a year. That was it for the criminal history, nothing further. As for the DMV records, he'd received a couple of speeding tickets over the years, been in one accident, had two cars registered to him, and the drunk driving charge was listed there, too. End of story for him.
As for Templeton, there was nothing, not even a traffic ticket. He had a Chevrolet van registered to him as well as a Volvo station wagon. His license was valid, issued three years earlier. Andy had thought to include a copy of his driver's license, and the photo matched.
The Homicide Unit secretary announced over the PA system, "Nick, call for you on two."
He picked it up.
"Hey Nick," Rene said. "We followed Templeton to a restaurant downtown. One of my guys got the table next to his and when he was done, grabbed a napkin and coffee cup before the busboy could get to them. The only thing is that he looked right at me when he came out. I wasn't expecting him. He just sort of surprised me. I don't know if he recognized me or not, but I was right there when Malone got shot, so it's possible. Just to be safe, from now on I'm going to stay out of the area. I'll just coordinate things."
"Good idea. You're probably okay, though. You know how it goes, you always think they burn the tail, but they never really do."
"Yeah, but I don't want to take that chance. The other thing is, while he was in the restaurant I wiped down his driver's door around the handle and window, and also the trunk lid. That way they're clean and tonight when he's sleeping we'll try to lift some fresh prints. If we can figure out the collection schedule, we'll snatch his garbage, too."
"Good trick. So far the guy's a ghost. He just seems to appear out of nowhere about three years ago. If this fingerprint thing works, maybe we can figure out who he really is. By itself, it won't clear our homicides but it may get us closer. So whatever you come up with, turn over to Fran Decker. She'll do the processing."
"Sure, no problem. I'll call you later."
Andy walked back into the office and started putting bundles of papers down on Nick's desk.
"These are calls for service. These are credit checks. These are civil filings, properties owned, divorce stuff for Blaine only, and copies of business licenses. I took the initiative to run up Melanie Blaine, too, so here's criminal, divorce, and credit on her."
Nick thanked him and started labeling each stack of paper.
Blaine continued to be an interesting guy. He'd been sued a couple of times, carried a lot of debt but also owned a lot of property. It was the divorce filing that was good reading, though. His ex had been granted a temporary restraining order where it was alleged that he had threatened her with a gun and was frequently drunk and abusive. Nick wrote his former wife's name down in his notebook. Ex-wives and ex-girlfriends were always a good source of information.
As for Melanie Blaine, she turned out to be the perfect match for him. Her financial history included a bankruptcy and later a high debt to asset ratio, mostly due to credit card use. She too had been through a divorce where custody of her children had been awarded to her ex-husband. Affidavits alleged that she slept around with both men and women and frequently came home late and drunk.
It got Nick to thinking. Three bad marriages, Peter Blaine's, Melanie Blaine's, and Carla's; if you were going to do something like that, why not live together for a while just to make sure there weren't any surprises?
Nick shook the thought off and got to Templeton who had nothing of interest, which made him of interest. He owned no property, had no debt except a business loan for about fifty grand, had never been sued, and had never been married or divorced.
Nick checked his watch. It was getting to be about that time.
Instead of sitting in his car, the uniform was standing in the bushes across the street. Not a bad idea Nick thought.
Nick signaled the officer he could clear and climbed the steps to Ellen's front door. She must have been waiting for him because she opened it before he could knock, gave him a kiss on the lips, and ushered him inside.
"How about we order pizza," she asked, "maybe eat it in bed and then go to your mom's house later? That way we can make all the noise we want."
"Hmmm, tempting but how about instead I take you out to dinner, we come back here and make lots and lots of noise, and then we go to my mother's place?"
"Really, we can go out? The big bad boogeyman won't get me?"
"Not where I have in mind."
"I'll buy. I got a job."
"Deal."
Borys' was on Fourth Street north in a converted two story Victorian with the Polish flag hanging out front. It was a place where you could get Pierogi at seven in the morning or green eggs and zucchini pancakes at seven at night. It was loud and busy and happy and just about everyone knew everyone else. Nick had been going there for as long as he could remember, though not so much lately. In fact, not at all in the last couple of months. When he was a kid, his father used to bring him here on Sunday afternoons. He'd balance Nick on his knee while sitting at a corner table sipping vodka and talking politics with his friends from the old country. It was that kind of place.
"Well I'll be damned; every day I check the obituaries looking for Mikolaj Zajac and now here you are," Ben shouted.
Ben, Benedykt Jaworski, was in his sixties and was the second generation owner of Borys'. Borys Jaworski was his dad, God rest his soul. Tonight, Ben was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt buttoned at the collar and grey slacks held-up with a scuffed, thin leather belt. Yesterday he was dressed that way, too, as he was just about every other day except Sundays when he always wore a white short-sleeve shirt with a diagonally striped blue and white tie, ten years past fashionable, all other things being the same.
He spotted Ellen over Nick's shoulder, pushed him aside, and immediately took her hands.
"Now what is such a beautiful lady like this doing with you," he said to Nick. And then he shouted, "Dorota, look who's here."
Dorota Jawarski was Ben's wife and good friends with Nick's mother. She was wearing a black skirt and a light blue blouse, both under an apron stenciled Borys'. She crossed the room in a rush and wrapped her arms around Nick.
"It's so good to see you Nick, it's been too long. And I was just talking with your mother, too."
She then moved past him, slapped her husband's hands away, and gave Ellen a hug. She stepped back to arms length and said, "Ann told me all about you. You can call me Dorothy."
"We've got just the table for you," Ben said. "This calls for vodka."
"Everything calls for vodka around here," Nick replied.
"But this is special."
"We'll make it the special vodka then."
"Ahh ...Wyborowa."
He propelled Nick with a hand on his shoulder.
"How terrible about your sister," Dorothy said as she walked arm and arm with Ellen to their table. "I am so sorry for you. If there is anything, all you have to do is ask."
"Thank you," Ellen said. "He's taking pretty good care of me, though," indicating Nick who was just ahead of them.
"Nick's a good boy, just a little stubborn about some things if you know what I mean. I've known him since, well, I changed his diapers more than once. That's how long I've known him."
Nick overheard the conversation and groaned. A woman laying claim to a diaper change was like the youth anointing himself with the blood of the stag, Nick thought.
Ben laughed.
For starters, they ordered crispy potato pancakes with smoked salmon, red caviar, capers, goat cheese and light cream, and with a shot of vodka of course. Ben and Dorothy toasted them like long lost cousins, and then they were off to care for others.
"The faces of the people here, so much expression," Ellen said when they were alone. "I wish I could photograph them. Look at that woman over there, she's so proud. Look how straight she sits and the smile lines around her eyes. Those have to be her grandkids. And that little boy, blond hair, blue eyes, skin as pale as parchment, he's beautiful."
Nick looked around him. "You know, you go someplace time after time, see the same things over and over, and it looks, well, just the same; nothing special. But through your eyes, I see what you mean."
Ellen touched his hand. "Thanks for bringing me here."
At the same time their appetizer arrived, so did a call from Fanucchi.
"Where are you, I need to drop something off."
"Borys'."
"Be there in a few."
They lingered over the appetizer and then decided to skip the salad. Instead, Ellen ordered the black truffle steak with mash potatoes and greens, claiming she'd burn the calories later, and Nick the Polish Perogi with caramelized onions.
"So tell me about this job," Nick asked.
"Oh, it's a fiftieth wedding anniversary, about two hundred people attending. Their daughter is making all the arrangements. It ought to be fun, plus bring a nice fee. That's how I can afford to buy you dinner."
"To gainful employment," Nick said raising his glass.
"And to good daughters with large bank accounts."
They both swallowed down the last of the Wyborowa.
Nick saw Fanucchi come in the door, shake hands with Ben, and start their way.
When he got to their table Nick said, "Ellen, this is Benito Fanucchi. Fanuch, this is Ellen, she's Molly Bank's sister."
Fanucchi removed his hat in a show of respect seldom conferred.
"Well, well, nice to meet you."
Nick didn't like the way he said, "Well, well."
Ellen shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, also."
The waitress arrived and Fanucchi ordered a Bushmills. Nick called for two more shots of vodka.
"So, what do you have for me?" Nick asked.
"Oh, yeah, first off I got the list of numbers called and received on that phone, the one from Wal-Mart. The number written on the back of the business card. I had this contact of mine check to see who they belonged to, and one of them came back to the Mesa Arizona Police Department."
He handed Nick a single page showing the phone number, name, and address of its subscriber.
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I called it and got a recording for a Detective Meyers. He's not scheduled back until tomorrow morning at eight. Thought you might want to make that call instead."
"Yeah, thanks. Anything more on the other numbers?" Nick asked.
"No, still working on them, but Navarro caught me as I was leaving and said that a couple of deputies found Blaine's car in the light rail park and ride off Santa Teresa Blvd. Not too far from where they found the Honda after Emerson and St. Claire were killed."
Nick looked at his watch. "At this time of day it'll take me forty minutes to get there."
"Relax man; Navarro said there was nothing to be done. They're going to just seal it and take it to the warehouse for processing. Enjoy your dinner."
"Have you had dinner yet?" Ellen asked. "You're welcome to join us."
"Oh no, no thanks. I have dinner waiting; can't stay long. ...So how long have you two been ..." Fanucchi stopped mid sentence and motioned with his hand back and forth between the two of them.
"Been what?" Nick asked.
"Oh, gimme a break," he said.
"Not that long," Ellen replied. "You might consider this our first official date."
She raised her foot and rubbed it along the inside of Nick's leg. He dropped his hand below the table and touched her ankle.
Fanucchi's eyes caught the movement, and he couldn't help but smile and then chuckle.
"See," Fanucchi said. "Simple question, honest answer." He then handed her his card and said, "When you get tired of him, give me a call."
"You're married," Nick said.
"I'd leave my wife in a heartbeat."
"If you did, she'd cut your heart out and put it in a Mason jar on her night stand."
The waitress arrived with the drinks.
"So true." He took a swallow of whiskey.
Ellen handed back his card. "In that case, you should probably keep this; we want to keep your heart right where it is."
"Too bad, we would have been good for one another."
Ellen laughed but Nick's mind had gone back to the case.
"So what do you do for a living Ellen," Fanucchi asked.
"Photography," she then handed him a card.
"Now we're talking."
"Did they check the trunk?" Nick asked.
"What? Oh yeah, and no body, blood, nothing," Fanucchi said.
"You know, I wonder if Special Ops is keeping track of Blaine's credit cards. They were taking the lead on tracking him. If he's still alive, he'll need money."
"Tell you what, I'll check to make sure. Everyone's been so busy, maybe they missed it. But right now, I'm getting out of here and going home. You guys probably have more important things to do than talk about murder anyway."
He took another swallow of Bushmills.
"Don't leave on my account, I figure it comes with the territory," Ellen said. "Besides I want this guy caught, too."
"Oh no, I'm leaving on my account, it's lasagna night. It's to die for. And don't worry; we'll get this guy, if only by process of elimination."
"I think we're close," Nick said.
"Yeah, me too. Maybe Mesa will help."
"Maybe."
"Okay you two, I really am out of here." He tossed back the last of his drink and took off just as the entrées arrived.
They finished most their meal, decided against desert or coffee or another cocktail, and returned to Ellen's place, resisting the urge to pull over and jump in the backseat.
As soon as the backdoor was closed and locked, they started undressing, leaving a trail of clothes through the kitchen, down the hallway and into the bedroom. And then an hour later, after their passion had given way, Nick lay asleep, naked on his back, with Ellen taking unabashed inventory of his body.
She stared at his face a moment, then leaned over and breathed him in, first his hair, then his neck and then the skin of his shoulder and chest. He wore no cologne, not even a trace, but she loved the smell of him all the more. He needed a shave, too. His beard had come sharp to her stomach during their lovemaking, and on the soft skin of her thighs, though it was just a brush here and there, enough to excite, not enough to distract. And there was the tattoo. It was a simple USMC across his bicep. It was a part of him she would never know. Was he cocky and arrogant back then? Or was he a steadfast and efficient warrior, one to whom eyes turned in the dark? She lightly traced the letters with an index finger, trying to get a sense of them before letting her eyes drift down his lightly haired chest to his navel, and then to the part of him that had given her so much pleasure just moments before. She hadn't ever known anyone so unpretentious, so real, as the man who now slept in her bed.
After a few minutes of watching him and listening to him breath, she gently scooted to his side, warming herself with his body, pulled the blankets up, and fell asleep.
Nick sat at his desk with the phone to his ear, nursing his first cup of coffee, and also a slight hangover. It was all worth it, though.
"Task Force, Meyers."
"You're a police officer, an investigator?" Nick asked.
"Badge and everything."
"Okay, just wanted to make sure. This is Sergeant Nick Zajac with San Jose P.D. Homicide. We're working a case here that may somehow be connected to you."
"You mean connected to Mesa, like a drug organization or something?"
"No, to you."
"Okay, hold on, wait a minute, I don't understand. Do you mean to me, Meyers?"
"Yeah, you Meyers. Look, it's a little complicated, let me explain."
"You bet your ass you better explain."
"I'll give you the short version. During the course of our investigation we came across a phone number. We ran the number and it came back to one of those prepaid cell phones purchased with a phony name."
"Yeah, our dope dealers use 'em all the time, so what?"
"Well, one of the numbers called by this phone was yours, your direct number. In fact the one I'm talking to you on right now."
"Gotta be a mistake."
"Don't think so."
"Maybe it was a misdial or something. I get wrong numbers every so often."
"Like I said, don't think so. This call lasted nearly two minutes."
"Look man, I'm not trying to give you a hard time or anything, but I don't know anyone in ...When was this call made; the date?" Meyers' voice took an edge.
"The sixteenth of last month, about three in the afternoon."
"Hang-on," Meyers said.
Nick took a swallow of coffee and watched Carla walk into the office. She still seemed a little wound-up.
Meyers came back on the line. "What'd you say your name was?"
"Sergeant Nick Zajac."
"How do you spell that?"
Nick spelled it for him.
"Doesn't spell like it sounds. And you said San Jose P. D. right, like in San Jose, California?"
"Right."
"Give me your office number and I'll call you right back."
Nick gave him his phone number and hung up.
Carla, seeing he was off the phone, scooted her chair over next to his.
"You want some advice?" she asked.
At the same time Fanucchi arrived and tossed his hat on his desk, hung his coat on the back of his chair, and sat down.
Suspicious Nick said, "Depends if it's good advice or not."
"It's great advice; live with her before you do anything permanent. At least a year, and then, even if it's still good, think about it some more. It'll save you a lot of heartache later."
Nick's phone rang.
"Huh?" he asked.
"This photographer you're seeing."
Nick picked-up the phone and asked, "Meyers?"
"Yeah."
"Hold on a minute." Nick then covered the mouthpiece and looked directly at Fanucchi.
"It wasn't me," Fanucchi said, "I just got here. I haven't said a word to anybody." He turned to Carla. "Lighten up will you. I met her; she's a nice gal, and I know you'd like her, too."
"I don't care if she's Mary Poppins, he still should ..."
"Hey!" Nick said. "For chrissakes you guys."
"I'm just ...." That's all Carla got out before Nick turned his back on her.
"Sorry, now where were we?" Nick said into the phone.
"Before we get to that, the reason for the callback is because I wanted to make sure I knew who I was talking to."
"Figured. No problem."
"Okay ...that call, it came from a guy named Nathanial Moby. He calls me every few months just to screw with me; kind of his way of giving me the finger, if you know what I mean."
"So who's this Moby, and why's he screwing with you?"
"Moby's an asshole; a smart asshole though, a very smart asshole but still an asshole. See, even though I'm a Mesa cop, I work with the combined DEA task force. About three, three and a half years ago we got this snitch who told us about a shipment of cocaine that was coming in from Mexico. They were flying it in low, landing in the desert, and then transferring it to a couple of four by fours."
"It took us a while, but we found the landing strip and staked it out. We were there for two days and except for a couple of ATV's, on foot. Our own air support was on standby. Anyway, about two in the morning the plane lands, the SUV's show, and we grab everyone and the cocaine; big seizure, over a hundred pounds, plus we got the plane. So we're naturally slapping each other on the ass, taking pictures, telling ourselves how smart we are and how dumb they are, when one of the guys we arrested, the pilot, says he wants to talk with us in private.
So we pull him off to the side thinking he's going to try to cut a deal with us, but instead he identifies himself as an undercover DEA agent working in Mexico. He even has a badge in a special compartment in his shoe. He says that his agency contact knew about the shipment and was going to let it go so he, the undercover guy, could work his way up the food chain as pilot for one of the cartels. Anyway, we're a little suspicious about his story but he's telling it like he's one of us. You know, talking about how we operate, using the slang, that sort of stuff. Still, we keep him hooked-up until we get back to the office and until he can go face to face with the DEA agent in charge. They chat and this guy, Nathanial Moby, talks about different people he's worked with, some busts that he was involved in, and pretty well convinces us that he's who he says he is. So we cut him loose, even apologize for screwing up his case and blame the brass for not talking with one another.
To make it even more convincing, he hangs out with us for a couple of hours, drinks our coffee, eats our deep dish pepperoni, and actually helps us weigh and process the evidence. Then he takes off. We later find out that he only used to be a DEA agent. Well, really not even that. He was a county mounty, assigned to a different task force somewhere in the mid west, Ohio, and went bad on them. He stole some drugs, a lot of drugs actually, and then disappeared."
"So why does he keep calling you?" Nick asked.
"I guess he wants to keep reminding me how he made us look like a bunch of idiots. Think about it, I mean his personality; he not only cons us into releasing him but he hangs around helping us process the evidence of his guilt. He's one of those guys who's got to be the winner no matter what, and he gets off on it. So, is he your killer?"
"Maybe ...I don't know. It's a pretty weak link; a number on the back of a business card in the possession of one of our victims. Still, our perp acts a lot like this Moby. How'd you identify him?"
"Prints off the paperwork he filled out while processing the evidence."
"You got a photograph of him?"
"Somewhere. An old one; one from his academy graduation," Meyers said.
"Can you fax it to me?" Nick asked.
"Once I find it, yeah."
Nick gave him his fax number.
"You got warrants out for him?" Nick asked.
"You bet your ass, a million bucks bail. Federal."
"Does it have his information on it, date of birth, height, weight and so forth?"
"Yeah, but it won't do you much good."
"Why's that?"
"Because he changes his appearance. He was blond and clean shaven in the photo and when we got him he was dark brown with a goatee."
"Still, it might help. Can you fax a copy of the warrant to me as soon as possible?"
"Not a problem. You'll have it within the hour."
"Okay, thanks. And if we get him, I'll let you know."
"I'll make the trip just to piss him off," Meyers said. "And there are about a dozen others who'll come with me, even if it's just to see his dead body. ...Hey, hey, I almost forgot. It could tie in.
When the agents assigned Moby's case started checking into him, they found that as a kid he spent about ten years in the foster care system. I guess the county took him away from his old-man because he used to beat Moby with a belt. Anyway, as the story goes, one day his father is found dead with a knife sticking out of his neck. When they inform the foster parents of this, so they can give Moby the bad news, the foster parents tell them that they think the kid may have snuck out the same night as the murder. I guess there was some damage to their car. They weren't sure, though, and nobody could prove anything. His father's murder is still an open case. Just thought you should know that."
Nick thanked him, hung up, and immediately called Rene.
When she came on the line he asked, "You get anything yet?"
"It's on the way in with one of the guys. The night shift put him to bed and then waited until three in the morning to check his car for prints. We didn't get anything off the trunk, but we pulled what is probably a thumb print off the door handle and three good fingers off the frame around the driver's window. Then this morning we followed him downtown and into the Lexington. When he got out of the car, he had one of those small bottles of water with him. Just before he went inside the hotel, he pitched it into a trash bin. We were able to get that, too."
"Where is he now?"
"Still in the hotel. We're sitting on his car and the exits, so we won't miss him when he leaves."
"Do you know what he's doing in the hotel?"
"No, the only one who is dressed right to go in is me, and you know the story about that."
"Okay, keep me informed will you? Oh, and you probably ought to know that there's a possibility he may be an ex-cop from the mid west. He also may have worked narcotics, so he's going to know about surveillance."
"Wished we'd known that yesterday. We're probably okay, though."
"Can't do anything about it now," Nick said. "Be sure to give me a call if you get anything."
"Will do and same goes for you."
As soon as he was off the phone Carla said, "Hey, sorry Nick, it's just that, you know."
"Forget it," Nick replied. "You have any success with the phone records?"
He wondered how the word about Ellen and him got around so fast, but he wasn't going to make it worse by asking. It didn't matter now anyway.
"Yeah, I found the number that was written on the back of Forney's business card twice in St. Claire's phone records and just that one time in Molly Bank's. There was also four calls to it from Malone; short ones. That's it for that number. I also highlighted in green the other numbers St. Claire called that have our same area code. There were maybe a dozen of them. If you want, I'll check to see who those belong to."
"Definitely."
"Okay, I'll take care of it," Carla said.
"Speaking of the pre paid phone number, there were a couple of calls made to Blaine, three to Malone, and one to St. Claire," Fanucchi said.
"So we have the owner of that phone calling Malone, Blaine, and St. Claire. Then we have Molly, Malone, and St. Claire calling him, Nick said. That tightens things up."
"That's about it," Fanucchi said. "There were other calls made from the pre paid phone, and I have some names, but I haven't contacted them yet to see who they spoke with. That's next on my agenda."
"Anything on Blaine yet?" Nick asked.
"Not as far as I know. I left a message with the special ops guys to get a hold of me but nothing yet."
Nick looked at his watch. He had to pick-up Al from the hospital soon.
He walked into the adjoining room and let Fran Decker know that there was some fingerprint evidence on its way in and that she should log it, process it, and then get it to one of the latent fingerprint examiners to enter into the computer as soon as possible.
Al stood ready, long past ready, waiting next to the bed wearing white boxers, white socks pulled up to just below the knees, and black lace-up wingtips. That was it, nothing else, except the bandage wrapped around his ribs and his thick framed glasses.
"Those my clothes?" he asked pointing with a thick, blunt finger to the paper bag Nick was holding.
Nick set the bag on the foot of the bed and said, "Everything except your coat. That's out in the car. Tell me I'm not going to have to help you on with your pants; friendship only goes so far."
Al dumped the contents of the bag onto the mattress.
"I'd rather walk out of here without 'em," he replied. "Where's my gat and my star?"
"What the hell is a gat?" Nick asked.
"Gat; you know, gun, piece, hog-leg."
"Never heard it called that before. Why not just say pistol?"
"Gat has more flair."
"Oh okay, now I got it, this is from your writing class again, isn't it?"
"Don't make fun or I'll write you in as a junky snitch in my first story."
Nick shook his head. "Your gat and your star are locked in the trunk of our prowler. I didn't think you'd need 'em."
"You never know, the way you drive somebody could do a road rage on our ass before we even get out of the parking lot."
Al leaned back against the edge of the bed and tried to step into his pants but he couldn't get them over his shoes.
"Son of a bitch," he said as he toed his shoes off. "It took me a half hour just to tie 'em."
Nick bent down, picked the shoes up, and untied the laces.
"Things are starting to happen on the case," Nick said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, you gonna tell me or what?"
"You gonna promise to stay out of it until you heal?"
"For chrissakes, I can't even tie my own damn shoes. All I want to do is go home, have a cold beer, and grill a nice big juicy steak."
Nick wasn't completely convinced of his partner's sincerity but decided to bring him up to date anyway. When they were both finished, there was a knock on the door followed by the appearance of a young woman in a red and white striped dress pushing an empty wheel chair; a ray of light in a dark and rumbling sky.
"Just in time I see. I'll bet you're ready to get out of here?" she said with a smile.
"You can say that again, sister," Al said as he walked past her.
Nick rolled his eyes --- sister. Maybe Ellen could get him interested in photography instead of writing.
"You have to let me push you, sir. It's hospital regulations."
Al tapped Nick on the shoulder. "Come on," he said and walked out the door.
"I could get in trouble, sir."
Nick looked at her. "Try working with him. He gets me in trouble all the time."
Once Al was locked, loaded, and coated, and they were on their way, he pointed up ahead of them and said, "Pull-in over there."
"You got to be kidding; we'll be at your place in ten minutes."
"Hey, if you had to eat the crap they serve in that place, you'd want one, too."
"I don't think I'd want one even if I was starving to death," Nick said.
"Whatever." Silence. "Did you hear the one about the Polish guy who comes home from work, hangs up his coat, and then walks into his bedroom only to find his wife in bed with his best friend? ...No? Well, he grabs his pistol from the dresser and puts it to his head but then hears his wife laughing at him. So he tells her, yeah go ahead and laugh, you're next."
"This one's on me," Nick said as they got out of the car.
Nick was sipping a diet coke and watching Al devour a giant, double chili cheese dog, when his phone rang. It was Fanucchi.
"I just heard from the special ops guys. There's activity on Blaine's cards in Vegas at the Bellagio. I called and spoke with their security and confirmed he's registered as a guest there."
"Okay, can you call Las Vegas PD and see if they will detain him? You want to go and do the interview?"
"Yeah, I'll do it. I'll clear the ticket with Navarro and then catch the first flight there."
"I'll be in as soon as I drop Al off."
Al burped, patted his stomach, wiped some chili sauce from the corner of his lips with his thumb, inspected it, popped it in his mouth and said, "Tell you what, it sounds like it's starting to come together, so I'll just go in with you and hitch a ride home with one of the fellas. It'll give me a chance to say hi to a few people." He started wrapping up his second hotdog to take with him.
"It'll only take ten minutes to get you home."
"Yeah, but then it'll take you another ten, fifteen minutes to get back to the office. A lot can happen in twenty, twenty five minutes."
Nick looked at his watch again. Al had a point.
"Okay, and you're going home after, right? You're not going to try and stay?"
"Are you crazy?"
He still didn't sound convincing.
Al was king shit on parade, so Nick left him with his minions and found Fanucchi in the office.
"The Vegas cops have him under surveillance," Fanucchi said. "I should be there in about three hours. How's Al doing?"
"He's got a full stomach and signing autographs in the hallway if you're interested," Nick said.
He then threw a set of photographs on Fanucchi's desk that included one of Melanie Blaine's body.
"If Blaine gets a little stubborn on you, these might loosen him up some."
Fanucchi thumbed through them quickly, put them in his briefcase, grabbed his hat, and headed for the door.
"I'll call you," he said over his shoulder.
Carla, followed by Arnold Grant, walked into the room.
"Hey Fanuch, where you going?" Carla asked.
"Vegas. Blaine's there."
"Vegas huh? Did I tell you that's where that lousy husband of mine took me to get married? Yeah, he said the money for a formal wedding would be better spent on a honeymoon. So where do we go; we go to some car race, in some boring city, where we watched the good ole boys crush beer cans on their heads to impress their barefoot, halter topped, tattooed girlfriends. That's where we went for our honeymoon."
"Got to go Carla," Fanucchi said, and then he was out the door.
"Nick, you know Al's out in the hallway?" Grant asked.
"Yeah, so I heard," Nick said.
"Hey Nick, DEA on line two," the secretary's voice came over the intercom. He could hear people laughing in the hallway.
Al came into the room with a big smile on his face.
Nick picked up the phone and pushed the button for line two.
"Sergeant Zajac."
"Agent Nesbit, San Francisco DEA office. You ran a set of prints and they came back to one of our fugitives. What's the deal, what are you working on?"
"Yeah, which fugitive?"
"A guy named Moby."
"Gimme your office number and I'll call you back," Nick said remembering Meyers' caution.
"You got him?"
"What's your number, and I'll call you back?"
"All right. All right." He gave Nick the number.
"What do the feds want?" Al asked, he smile gone.
"I think we got a hit on Templeton's prints. They must have had the warrant flagged and they called the DEA instead of us."
Nick dialed the number he was given, went through the receptionist, and was connected to Nesbit.
"We submitted a set of lifts taken from a vehicle and another object handled by a guy we know here as Roger Templeton. Templeton is now our prime in a series of homicides were working on."
"We want him for drug trafficking, tampering with evidence, lying to a federal officer, and impersonating a federal law enforcement officer. You know where he is now?"
"Not specifically, but in the area of, yeah," Nick said.
"Okay, great, we're going to send some guys down there to see if we can hook him up. How do we contact you? We're going to need local support."
"Yeah well, were going to have to interview him first, so we'll go ahead and make the arrest and let you know when you can come on down."
"Are you going to arrest him on your case or our warrant?" Nesbit asked.
Nick knew he was still short on probable cause to make an arrest for homicide, but long on probable cause for a search warrant. So his plan was to arrest Templeton on the federal warrant, search his home, business, and vehicle, and interview him on the murder charges. The federal warrant made all that possible.
To make the homicide case, he needed something to connect Templeton to at least one of the killings; a pistol, a matching shoe to the footprint left at one of the murder scenes, a rifle, records of prostitution deals, something. It wasn't enough that he just fit.
"We'll pick him up on your warrant, do our interview, and then if we don't have enough to charge him on our case, he's all yours. Look, I know he embarrassed some of your guys, and he was bringing quantity into the U.S., but we think he's responsible for six murders, including a cop and the wounding of another, that's got to have priority."
"Bet your ass it takes priority," Al mumbled.
"How'd you find out about him trafficking and the other thing?" Nesbit asked.
"It's kind of a long story. We were just following up on some information we developed. We didn't know for sure our guy Templeton was your guy Moby, we only suspected the possibility."
"Okay, okay, how about I send just a couple of agents down there to monitor what's going on? It'd be nice to get our hands on this asshole."
"Not a problem," Nick said. He gave Nesbit his cell number and hung-up.
After Nick was off the phone, Al asked, "The feds giving you a hard time?"
"Nah, not really. I'd probably feel the same way if we got screwed-over, too."
Nick picked up the phone and called Rene.
"Good work on the prints," he told her. "It turned out Templeton's real name is Nathanial Moby and he's wanted for drug trafficking and impersonating a federal cop, so hook him up as soon as you lay eyes on him."
"Okay, we'll see if we can find him, but he's been in there a long time. I got this bad feeling he's onto us and we're watching a car that isn't going anywhere."
"Do you have the exits covered?"
"Now, but we didn't get that set-up for five minutes or so, maybe longer. He could have easily walked in one door and right out another. And now, what's he have, a two or three hour jump on us?"
"Maybe, maybe not; this guy's pretty slick, though. But it could also be he's planning some big function, and it's just taking a lot of time. Doesn't much matter I guess because the way I see it we have no choice anyway. We can't just fold up our tents and go home until we know for sure. So if you spot him, take him into custody. And while you're doing that, I'll get search warrants for his car, house, and business."
"We don't have enough people to cover those other locations," Rene said.
"Don't worry about it, I'll get a hold of Special Ops and get them on it."
"Yeah, thanks, that'll help. I'll call you if we get him. So you think he's the one; the one who shot Al and the others?"
"Pretty damn sure."
"Well, who knows, maybe he won't put his hands-up like a good little asshole."
"Be careful, Rene."
"No problem."
As soon as Nick put the phone down Al said, "Why don't I get started on the search warrants while you get the special ops boys going?"
"No way, you just got out of the hospital."
"Hey look, if I go home now, all I'll be doing is sitting on my butt and talking on the phone anyway. I can do that here. It's only for a few minutes; just long enough for you to get the other locations covered."
"I don't know, man," Nick said.
"Where's the search warrant you did on Blaine's place? All we have to do is update it with the information on Templeton, I mean Moby, whoever."
Al moved to Nick's desk and started going through the paperwork on top.
"Hey, you're going to screw everything up," Nick said as he pushed Al's arm away with one hand and fished out the Blaine residence search warrant with the other.
"Here," Nick said handing it to Al. "And here's a copy of the federal arrest warrant for Moby; you'll need that, too," he added, passing over the fax he got from Meyers in Mesa.
Al sat right front, arms crossed, staring straight ahead, and except for his shallow breathing, not moving an inch. Strapped to his hip, he had a short barreled, five shot Smith. He carried a second snubby in his coat pocket. After a time he blinked, inhaled deep, let it out, and passed a meaty hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the tension.
Nick glanced sideways at his partner. He'd promised to stay put, not even get out of the car; yeah, right. He leaned over and turned-up the silence on the two-way. It was deafening.
Minutes passed, then: "Perimeter team standby, we're making our approach." It blasted from the speaker. Nick turned the volume back down again.
From half a block away, with his window open, he could hear the SWAT team pounding and shouting its demands. "San Jose Police. We have a search warrant. Open the door."
More silence, only seconds this time, followed by Moby's door going down. And then there was a loud gunshot; not the pop of a pistol, or the sharp crack of a rifle, but louder, deeper, blunter.
Nick's heart did a quick-step at the sound, and his first inclination was to go toward it. He knew better. He had no business there right now. He'd only get in the way.
Five more minutes went by and he heard someone ask for the ambulance to move-up to the corner. Another minute after that and someone else asked for the detectives. His first thought was Moby was dead.
Nick started the car and drove it to the front of the house. Two officers were supporting another as he limped to the ambulance, blood spotted the front of the injured man's left thigh.
"What happened?" Nick asked.
"The bastard set-up a shotgun on a tripwire, and a couple of the pellets caught him in the leg."
"Is the house clear?"
"Yeah, nobody's inside."
The house was a white with green trim, single story rental. There was a struggling lawn in front surrounded by red and pink geraniums and Japanese boxwood. A stained, gray cement birdbath rested near the porch, its bowl filled with leafs from the Maple tree in the neighbor's yard.
When Nick stepped through the door he saw an officer squatted near a twelve-gauge, single-shot, shotgun that had been wired to the legs of an end table positioned to the right side of the door and pointed somewhat towards it.
The officer looked up and said, "Fortunately for us he made two mistakes. First, he put the shotgun to the side of the door instead of straight on. Doing it this way, most of the pellets missed. If it had been straight on, anyone standing in the doorway would have caught all of them. His other mistake was he wired it to a table that was too light weight. When the trip wire tightened on the trigger, it pulled the table a little bit out of alignment causing the pellets to shoot at a slight angle away from the door."
Nick looked to where the projectiles had impacted the wall to the left of the door. By the size of the holes, they looked like number four shot. As he examined them closer, the portable phone in the living room started ringing.
"You want me to answer it?" the officer by the shotgun asked.
"No, I'll get it," Nick said.
He answered the phone on the fourth or fifth ring.
"Yeah?" Nick said.
"The shotgun was meant for you Zajac. Too bad it didn't do its job."
"Well Moby, I guess that's just the way things have been going for you lately, huh?"
"That answers that; you know who I am."
"Who you are and what you are."
Al walked through the door and Nick pointed to the phone.
"So your partner's back in action. I thought I'd killed him, too."
That little admission just tied you to two of the murders, Nick thought.
Nick covered the mouthpiece and said, "He must be somewhere nearby. He just saw Al come in the door." He then waved Al away from the entry.
The SWAT officer spoke into his radio telling other officers to check the perimeter for the "suspect". He then moved to the side of the door jam and peered out.
Nick figured he needed to draw the conversation out until they found him.
"You know what man, you're one sick motherfucker," Nick said. "To kill all those people, you've got some serious head problems going on there. You need yourself a major tune-up. Why not let me take care of that for you?"
"I know you're not serious. You and I both know this isn't going to end with me in a court room listening to some shrink telling twelve losers that I'm a sociopath but because I still know right from wrong I should be juiced anyway. If you really think that, you're the crazy one."
Another good statement, Nick thought. Not exactly a confession, but certainly an admission.
"Nah, I was thinking more about taking care of it by putting you out of your misery."
"De hombre a hombre, eh. Good, you had me worried for a second. That's more like it. But it'll never happen Zajac. You're not smart enough. In fact, I'm going to kill you. But first, first I'm going to torture you a little bit; take from you what's most precious; make you hate like never before; and after that, I'll make you scared of everything around you, every sound, every doorway you pass, every car that pulls up alongside. And when I'm tired of messing with you, that's when I'll kill you."
Nick saw the SWAT officer push his fingertips to his earpiece, apparently listening to some radio traffic, and then look his way and shrug his shoulders. Nick took this to mean that the perimeter units weren't able to locate Moby.
"Why don't you just tell me where you are and we can get it over with? That's what it's all about, right; the shotgun, the phone call? I figured out who you were, messed with your little business, made you on the murders, and now you want to get even. You can't stand being the loser, you pathetic little shit?"
Nick hoped by baiting him, he might reveal something helpful.
"Loser, pathetic, you know nothing about me. People much more cleaver than you have tried to take me down and they haven't even come close. I go where I want, when I want. I also kill who I want. Nobody can touch me, especially you. I pick the time and place. I control things."
"Yeah, well the way I see it you're not controlling anything right now. I'm standing in the middle of your living room and you're hiding like a scared little kid. That doesn't sound like you're in control of shit to me."
"I know exactly where you're standing Zajac, and what you're doing, too, because I'm right there with you, right there in the room. I can see you're holding the phone with your right hand. I can see that your fat partner has his pistol out. I can see you looking around now, wondering what the fuck is going on. And that's why you don't have a chance in hell. I'm just smarter than you."
Nick scanned the room. Given his location, there were only a limited number of positions Moby could view him from and none of them included windows or doors. The possible locations were narrowed further when you considered he could also see Al. ...Shit, nanny cam! Hidden camera! I should have thought of that. Pretty slick.
"Any ten year old with a computer can do that, big deal. That doesn't make you a criminal mastermind. The trouble with you is that you think you're better than you are."
Nick covered the mouthpiece again and told Al there was a camera somewhere in the living room broadcasting their picture over the internet. Al faced the living room and gave Moby the finger.
"Maybe I'll kill him, too."
"What's the point of all this; money, power, what? When you're dead and buried do you think anyone is going to remember you or what you've done?"
Al and the SWAT officer began searching the living room.
"Hey now, you're partner's getting warmer. And there is no point. I do it because I can do it. Money, women, power, history is just what comes with it. Oh, by the way, speaking of women, that's a nice little woman you have there; maybe I'll borrow her for a few hours one of these days. Is she as good as the sister? I had the sister you know."
Nick bit back his anger. He knew Moby was baiting him, maybe trying to see what pushed his buttons.
"You're brain is all over the place, man. Are you even able to keep a single train of thought; kill Al, kidnap someone you only imagine to be my girlfriend, stock and kill me? I think your old man must have hit you one too many times with that belt. You're messed up."
Silence.
"Hey Moby, you still there."
"My old man, huh! My old man! I'll tell you about my old man, you fuck! He pissed his pants before he died. He squirmed and cried and moaned. He begged for his life. 'Please, Nate. Please, help me.' Fuck him and fuck you because that's exactly what you're going to do, too. Please. Please, Nate. Help me. And you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to film it all and send copies to the Mercury News and all your little buddies just so everyone will know what happens to people who mess with me."
"Oops, I think we've found you," Nick said.
Al turned the camera around to face the wall.
"Okay, so what now Moby, anymore juvenile tricks? Anymore hollow threats. If not, I got to go. I've got a nutcase to hunt down."
"What now; I'll tell you what now. First, I'm going to take a short vacation and relax a little bit. I've earned it. After that, I'm coming back and kill you and your partner."
"Hey Al, he says he's going to kill you."
"You tried that, asshole! Remember? It didn't work." Al replied.
"Al said you already tried and couldn't do it. He also called you a bad name," Nick said into the phone.
"All right funnyman, we'll see who laughs. I'll be keeping in touch just so you know I'm still thinking of you. Ta-ta," and then Moby hung-up.
"So, what else did he say?" Al asked.
Nick started punching numbers into his cell phone.
"He imagines himself as Hannibal Lecter and says he's going to eat your liver cooked with fava beans and wash it down with a nice Chianti. He also acknowledged personal disappointment for not killing you the other night."
"He'll be disappointed in my liver, too."
"Yeah, this is Zajac. I need to talk with the Watch Commander. ... ... Yeah, I'll hold."
Nick's phone clicked indicating someone was calling in. He let it go to voicemail.
The Watch Commander came on the phone. Nick asked that a second car be sent to Ellen's location and explained why. He then checked his voicemail.
"I just wanted to make sure I had your correct cell number. From time to time I'll be calling you," Moby said in his message.
Nick called Ellen.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Perfect. I'm just getting ready for that job this week end. ...Why? Whenever you ask that question something's gone wrong."
"That guy Roger Templeton, the event planner, he turned out to be someone named Nathanial Moby. He's the one who killed everyone starting with St. Claire."
"Why? Why would he do something like that?"
"The real reason is that he's insane."
"But to kill all those people; you don't just start killing people."
"You're right, it was more than that. He was also facing some serious time for drug trafficking and impersonating a federal agent. So if during our investigation of your sister's murder we found out who he really was, he would have gone to jail for a long, long time. Because of that, in his mind he had no choice but to kill St. Claire and that led to the others."
"So, are you going to get him?"
"That's why I'm calling. He knows we know and he's on the run. He also knows about you and me. It's complicated but he may now try to get to you, to get to me. So I want you to be even more cautious. We just need some time to pick him up. I've got another car coming out to your house."
"Just a second, I hear something," Ellen said.
"What do you mean you hear something? What something?"
"Ellen?"
She came back on the phone, "Another police car just pulled up," Ellen said.
Don't scare me like that, he thought.
"Good, it's just until we can get things sorted out," Nick replied. "I'll see you at the regular time."
"Okay, but be careful, Nick, I just found you. I don't want to lose you, now."
"I will."
Al walked out of the bedroom holding a brown loafer at the same time two men dressed in jeans and tee shirts walked in the front door.
"Looks like a match for the sole pattern left near Emerson's body and at Ellen's place," Al said turning the bottom-side up.
"Who's Sergeant Zajac?" one of the two men asked.
"Me, who are you guys?" Nick asked.
Nick's phone rang, but he ignored it.
"DEA; Nesbit sent us down here." One of them pulled out a badge that was under his shirt and hung on a chain around his neck.
"Okay, hang--on a second," Nick said. Then to Al, "Maybe we'll find the guns, too. I'll give Fran a call to process this place."
Al turned and went back into the bedroom.
Nick then addressed the two DEA Agents. "You guys may have wasted your time coming down here. Moby's disappeared. We last saw him this morning when he walked into a downtown hotel."
"Ah, shit. We better give Nesbit a call," the same one said.
Nick heard another cell phone toning an incoming call, then heard Al talking.
"Yeah? Before you get to that, I heard that place has the best buffet; all you can eat lobster for $19.99, or something like that. ...No kidding? Definately, I'll take as many coupons as you can get. That might be a good place to go to recuperate from my wounds, if you know what I mean, especially if I have coupons. ...Okay, now, how about Blaine, what'd he have to say?"
Nick called Carla to check on the status of the search warrant being served on Moby's business. She told him that there hadn't been any problems and that she was driving Moby's receptionist to the office to get a recorded statement from her.
Al walked out of the bedroom into the living room with the phone still to his ear.
"So when you coming back?" Al asked. ..."Since the city's paying for it why not, I would. ...Okay, I'll fill Nick in."
After Al hung up he said, "That was Fauncchi. He said he tried to reach you but got your voicemail."
"Blaine give a statement?" Nick asked.
"Sounds like he gave the whole thing up. Apparently Moby, some months ago, set Edna up with Blaine and his wife. It wasn't exactly a threesome, though. Apparently Blaine gets off on watching his wife with other women; likes to be the master of ceremony so to speak. But what this little three ring circus didn't know was that Moby was filming the whole thing. Anyway, about a week after, Moby shows up in Blaine's office with a set of living colors and a choice, but not much of one. Either Blaine agrees to give him all his business and all his sexually active, rich clients, or the photos go public. So that's how St. Claire and Molly end up in the hotel together. Blaine makes the referral."
"Was Moby blackmailing these client friends of Blaine's?"
"That's a yes. How Blaine knows that is that one of these friends, some guy named Gertz, ..."
"That'll be Wendell Gertz," said Nick.
"Okay, Wendell Gertz, calls Blaine up one day, madder than hell, and says how someone is putting the bite on him for an extra marital. He wanted to know if Blaine had anything to do with it because Blaine was the one who hooked him up with the guy who hooked him up with the hooker. The cash demand was accompanied by a photograph of him going into a hotel room with said sex worker. Blaine didn't know how much Gertz had to pay but did know that Gertz had to pay in cash and never saw the person he was paying.""So that's the scam, then. Moby operates a prostitution ring as part of his event planning business. He meets rich, important people that way and compromises a few of them, such as Blaine, (he can't be the only one) and gets them to make other referrals. He gets paid as an event planner, as a pimp, and as a blackmailer. Not only does he make lots of money, but he also gets to manipulate a lot of rich, successful, power brokers, which is as good as money to him, better even."
"Yeah, then St. Claire wigs out and kills Ellen's sister. So Moby has to kill St. Claire because he knows St. Claire will get caught and rat him out. When he kills St. Claire, everything is good until oops, along comes Emerson, and he kills him, too. After that he starts killing the others based upon where we go with our investigation."
"That's about it," Nick said. "Now how about Blaine's wife; did he say anything about her?"
"Yeah, I guess she called him Friday and left a voicemail saying that Moby demanded a meeting with her. He told her that if she didn't show, the photos would pop-up on Blaine's company computer system. Also, that whatever he wanted her for, it would end their relationship once and for all. Blaine never heard from his wife after that. And so when he learned that two women had been killed at a Los Gatos hotel and he couldn't get in touch with his wife, he figured she was dead, and he was next, so took off."
"Now there's a guy you can count on," Nick said.
"Yeah, like a hemorrhoid. Well, other than a little more follow-up and about a hundred hours of report writing, I'd say Moby's about wrapped up."
"Except now we have to find him."
"How about if we eat first?" Al suggested.
The little girl in the Pooh top stood stock still, staring at the giant. He was huge. She'd never seen such a big man before. He made the restaurant owner look like little people.
"They here yet?" Al asked.
"Oh yeah, they got here about five minutes ago," Ben said. "Hey, that Ellen ..."
"I know. I know. I'll tell you what, as soon as she dumps him I'm moving-in," Al said as the two men started toward one of Borys' two back rooms.
They both laughed. The little girl slid behind her mother's leg and stared after Al.
When they arrived at the table, the waitress was just taking the drink orders.
"The house chardonnay," Ellen said.
"A Wojak Mocne for me and the bottle is fine," Nick added.
"We must do shots," Ben announced. "Just one." He then turned to the waitress and said, "Wyborowa for everyone and bring the golabki and paluszki appetizers".
"Now we're talking," Al said.
"Hope you're waiting for us," Carla announced as she neared the table with Fran in tow.
Ben looked at the waitress as she started to go off and showed her two fingers. He then grabbed a chair from a nearby table along with a place setting.
"You have to be Ellen," Carla said touching her upper arm. "Don't worry, the secret was out this morning."
"It was only a secret to Nick, I think," she replied.
Carla and Fran sat down with the others and Fran introduced herself as well.
"You wanna hear what Moby's secretary had to say?" Carla asked.
"Better than talking up your ex," Al said.
Nick shook his head.
"He's not my ex ...yet. Besides we've, ah, been kind of talking today. We might go to counseling."
"I thought he was history," Al said.
"Well, that was before he came to his senses. It's just that ...you wanna hear about the secretary or what?"
"Ain't love grand?"
"Jeeze ...Yeah, let's hear about the secretary," Nick said.
"Okay, but first I got to pee."
"I'll go with you," Ellen said.
"No way I'm going to stay behind with these two," Fran chipped in as she got back out of her chair.
"Hey, you can tell us what turned up in the search," Nick said.
"When we get back."
The waitress arrived with the shots as the women moved off.
"Don't start without us," Carla tossed back over her shoulder.
"The hell with that," Al said and picked-up one of the shots.
Nick slid one over in front of him just as his phone rang. He answered without looking at the read out.
"So where are you, Zajac?" Moby asked. "I've been sitting around here waiting for you. Having a little trouble finding me?"
"What do you want, Moby. I'm busy."
Al put his glass down.
"Busy trying to find me no doubt. You'll never do it."
"No, busy ordering dinner. Now why are you calling?"
"Making sure you're keeping your phone on, slick. I told you I'd stay in touch."
Nick hung-up on him and dialed Rene.
"What's he want?" Al asked.
"I think the better question is what's he up to."
Rene picked-up.
"Hey, it's Nick. Moby just called me. Can you do that thing to his cell phone; the same you did to Malone's?"
"If you have his number."
Nick read her the number from his calls received list.
"Where are you now?" Rene asked.
"At Borys' on 4th St, you want to join us?"
"Depends on how long it takes to set the trap up."
The waitress arrived with the appetizers. Behind her were the three women and Ben.
"Think that phone trick will work again?" Al asked.
"I think there isn't a chance in hell. This guy is an ex-cop and was a narc on top of that. He's got to know we'll try to trace him through his cell."
"Yeah, but he just called you on it, didn't he? Sometimes cocky little pricks like that miss the details."
Al picked up a golabki, a boiled cabbage leaf stuffed with meat and onion, took a bite and put what was left on a small plate.
"Yeah, but Moby's whole thing is manipulating people and making them look stupid. He prides himself on it. He's up to something."
As Carla sat down she asked, "Who's up to something?"
"Moby, he just called Nick," Al said.
"He called you?" Ellen asked.
"Yeah, he likes screwing with people. There's this cop in Arizona he calls every so often just to give him a bad time."
"Don't worry," Carla said covering Ellen's hand with hers. "Nick'll get him."
"Hey," Al objected.
"I mean Nick and Al will get him."
Al popped the rest of the golabki in his mouth and Nick remarked to himself how one trip to the bathroom can bond women for life.
Al reached for another appetizer but Carla stopped him with, "First, to Ellen's sister, Molly, and all the other victims." She raised her shot and drank half of it.
"God bless," Ben said downing his. "Another?"
"Why not," Al answered for everyone.
Ben left for the bar.
Nick noticed Ellen's eyes were watery and took her hand under the table.
"Okay, now let me tell you about Moby's assistant, secretary, whatever she is, was. She says Moby was flat out weird; so weird she was looking for a new job. He was very secretive, always closing his door during phone conversations and coming in at odd hours, like late at night."
"Yeah, and we know why, but that's not proof of anything," Al interrupted.
"Gimme a chance to finish, will ya? ...Anyway, she went into his office one morning and saw a duffle bag under his desk, so she checked it out. Inside was a pretty large amount of cash, stacked and banded, and a pistol. That's when she decided to find other employment."
"That helps," Nick said.
"Especially since when I showed her the gun photos, she picked out a .22 Beretta as the most likely match."
"That's good," Fran added. "I found a half box of .22 bullets in his house. That's a type match to Emerson's murder, Fontaine's, and the Los Gatos case as well."
"Yeah, well, it sure didn't feel like no prissy ass .22 to me. It felt more like a 12 gauge," Al said.
"What are you doing here anyway?" Fran asked. "Shouldn't you be taking it easy or something?"
"Well, you know, I'm just ...," he shrugged his shoulders.
The waitress arrived with the second round of shots, Nick's beer, and Ellen's wine. "You folks ready to order?"
"Absolutely," Al said without even picking up the menu. "I'll take Bigos and a house salad to go with it; the quacks say I gotta eat more greens."
The waitress looked at Ellen.
"I can't pronounce it, but the thin pancakes rolled with meat."
"The pork loin", Nick said. "No salad."
Carla pointed at Nick, "The same as him."
"You know what, I think I'm going to try the Kotlet schabowy. Hope I pronounced that right. And if it doesn't come with a salad, I'll take one with oil and vinegar," Fran said.
When she left with the orders Nick asked Fran, "You get anything else?"
"Oh yeah, that's right, we were talking business. Well we got the shoes, but you know about that, and then we found an empty rifle case, one of those soft ones, at his business. Then of course there is the computer, appointment book, rolodex, and so forth. And among the so forth is some stuff with his handwriting on it. I just took a quick look, but it seems a match for the phone number written on the back of Forney's business card. He does this thing with his 4's."
"All in all, we have a pretty good case," Nick offered. "We have his statements to me, his lies, his flight, Blaine's information, the shoes if they match, the rifle case, the bullets, the pistol and money discovered by his secretary, his connection to all the victims, and when we finish up with his prepaid cell phone records, we'll probably have even more witnesses against him. We just need to get him in custody now."
"No shit," Al said.
"How we gonna do that?" Carla asked taking a sip from her shot glass at the same time.
Nick saw Ben with an arm around Rene's shoulders pointing her in their direction.
"That's a good question," Nick said. "Rene," he pointed her out, "is trying to trace his calls through the cell towers his phone uses when it's on, but I don't think he's dumb enough to let himself get caught that way."
Rene arrived at the table and Al stood up, "Take my chair."
Nick had never known Al to be so polite.
Rene wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.
"How you feeling? Shouldn't you be at home?" she asked.
"Nah, I'm okay."
Rene rubbed her hand across the back of his shoulders and said, "You ought to be in bed if you ask me," and then sat in the chair.
Al grabbed a chair from a nearby table and everyone scooted around to make room. Nick then introduced her to Ellen.
"Ah, so this is who everyone is talking about? Nice to meet you."
Great, Nick thought.
Ellen removed her hand from his and patted his knee under the table.
"Well, I couldn't get through to my contact about tracking the phone, so I left a message," Rene continued. "He's real good about calling me back, though. Besides, he's taken a special interest in this one." Then to Nick she said, "So when we get it set-up, if he calls again you probably ought to keep him on the line for as long as possible. You know the routine. And if it turns out he's got GPS on his phone, it'll be even easier to find him."
"Okay, we'll work it same as before. If you get a location on him, first go ahead and alert the cops who work the area so they can get started sealing him off. Then call me and I'll take care of the rest of the notifications."
The waitress stopped to clear the empties.
"Okay, but I still want to be in on it. I don't care where we find him; I want my shot at this guy."
"How do you think I feel?" Al asked.
"We got to get you healthy first," Rene said patting his back again.
Carla stopped the waitress from leaving and asked Rene if she wanted to order something to eat.
"Oh, I already did. Ben took my order. We women have it under control, don't we? In fact, I think the four of us ought to get together when this thing is over with. Maybe a shopping trip ...to Vegas."
Great, Nick thought, Ellen with these three in Vegas.
"Tsst." Billings made that spitting sound again. "It's been a week without any activity, zero, zip, nada ..."
"That we know of Chief. Nobody's watching it at night, remember. For all I know Moby's been sleeping in her bed," Nick shot back.
"Look, I just can't justify it any longer," Billings said. "And it's not just the expense. I have to cut an available vacation slot to keep someone on her house and still maintain minimum staffing. That means someone who wants a day off can't get it, which gives the police association something to snivel about. Then there's the new school program we got going. We have to have an officer at each of the public schools at the beginning and end of their day. That also means staffing levels have to stay up. And that's not the half of it. Your case isn't the only thing we got going, Nick."
"Moby's still out there, and he's still dangerous."
"But he's running. Tsst ...He's so hot his ass is smoking. There's no way in hell he'll show his face around here."
"I'm not so sure about that. He's not like your everyday crook. He's challenged by the fact we're looking for him. He wants to thumb us in the eye and keep on doing it every chance he gets. He gets off on it."
"Tsst, tsst ...I just don't see it. His damn photo has been on the front page of every paper and on every news channel for the past three days now. There isn't a blue and white in the city that doesn't have his face taped to the dash. If he was in town, someone would spot him for sure. He's gone, Nick, and he's not coming back."
"Moby's different. I'm telling you, he's gonna be back and it'll be soon," Nick said. "I'm sure of it."
"Tsst ..." Billings stared at him. "Maybe you're right, but the facts say something else. This is what I'll do. I'll park an empty blue and white out front for a few more days and that's it. Even if he does come back it's not likely he'll try anything in broad daylight. And the way I hear it, you've got her well covered at night."
The Chief remained stone faced as he said the last.
So the rumors had even reached Billings. Nick decided to ignore it.
"When are you going to call it?" Nick asked. "How much time do I have?"
Billings looked at his watch. "The end of the day, so what, four o'clock I suppose."
"Will you at least give the order to have the beat officer do frequent roll-bys for a few more days?"
"I'll order up the roll-bys and an empty blue and white, but that's it. Don't ask for anything else. Are you always such a hard-ass?"
"Just when I'm trying to catch a killer. One more thing and that's it; can we look at it again if things change?"
"Yeah ...Tsst ...of course. Now get out of here. I don't' want to talk with you anymore. Go. Go catch this asshole so we can be finished with him."
Nick couldn't stand the thought of going back to his office and sitting at his damn desk some more. He needed some fresh air. He needed that and a cup of good strong coffee.
He left the building at a fast walk out onto San Pedro Street and turned towards Hedding. A marked unit passed by on the street. The driver double tapped the horn in greeting, but Nick couldn't see who it was; too much reflection coming from the windows.
He felt antsy, anxious, full of energy but no place to go. He'd cleared the case, identified the killer, and the evidence just kept on getting better, but so what; so fucking what? Moby was still out there and still an ever present threat. Nobody was safe until the man was either dead or in jail.
He walked past a gang banger dressed out in red, a dummy sitting on the cement retaining wall outside the county jail building. A tattoo bloomed on his right arm. Spit landed next to Nick's feet as he passed but he ignored him.
At the corner, he crossed the street, walking towards N First. He nodded to a Deputy District Attorney he recognized, but couldn't recall his name. A man wearing a white apron, smudged dirty with ink, and a cockeyed ball cap was selling newspapers on the sidewalk. The newsy held up a copy of the Merc. Nick could see Moby's smirking face staring out from the front page, which only deepened his mood.
He's not going to be caught that way Nick thought. Somebody in a neighborhood convenience store isn't going to recognize him buying cigarettes and a six pack and dial up the local cops. Moby was too smart for that. He had an escape plan in place long before he went on the run. A guy like him would have a new identity, plenty of cash, transportation, even a disguise ready to go. A safe house somewhere wasn't out of the question either.
Nick climbed the steps in front of the county building, up onto the broad patio out front. A kiosk was there that hawked coffee and snacks. He lined up behind a woman wearing a violet colored dress and matching hat with a long feather tucked in its band and white mesh veil hanging down in front.
If I was Moby, Nick thought, I'd be in Mexico right now, or farther south, maybe even Brazil, just biding my time. And in a couple of weeks, maybe a month, when everyone had gone back to their routines and thought it was safe, I'd come around and wreck havoc.
The woman with the hat stepped away from the counter and Nick ordered. He paid for his coffee and stepped to the side where he went about putting one of those thin plastic lids on his cup. It was at this time that his cell beeped once indicating a text message received.
The text message was actually a picture message, and at first he didn't understand what he was looking at. But then he got it. It was from Moby. It was an image of the tops of his bare feet. He must have been laying down on a chaise lounge with his ankles crossed, looking out at the ocean. Nick could see the lower part of his legs, the tops of his feet, an expanse of sand, the ocean, and blue sky. Moby was telling Nick that he was on vacation, enjoying life, but he still hadn't forgotten about him.
It crossed his mind that maybe he ought to send a picture back; one of his bare ass, just to let him know what he was thinking of Moby.
Nick tried calling Rene's cell phone but got her voicemail. He tried her at her office and was told she had stepped out for a couple of minutes. He needed to find out if she had been able to set up the trace on Moby's phone. He picked-up his coffee and began walking briskly back to the office. After just a few steps the coffee was spilling out the sip hole and burning his hand. Frustrated and out of patience, he pitched the whole cup into a nearby trash can.
He hadn't gone more than another twenty yards when his phone rang. It was Rene calling him back. His mind flashed on the full cup of coffee he'd just dumped.
"Hey, sorry," she said. "I was in the bathroom when you called. What's up?"
"I just got a message from Moby. Was your contact able to set-up the trace on his phone?"
"I don't know. Let me call him and call you back."
After hanging up Nick went back to the kiosk and bought another cup of coffee. The operator looked at him with curiosity, but didn't say anything.
Nick was almost back to the office when Rene called back.
"Got bad news for you. My contact is just the security guy. He's not the guy who does the hocus pocus stuff to do the actual trace. That guy, the hocus pocus guy, screwed-up and either didn't set the trace up or he traced the wrong number."
"So we didn't get it; is that what you're telling me?"
"That's what I'm telling you. My guy was so pissed off I could hear him reaming the other guy out over the phone. It's fixed now, though."
"Great, perfect."
"Well, we may still have a chance. If Moby left his phone on we should be able to track his location. I'll give my contact a call back in a couple of minutes and see if they have anything."
"Okay, thanks. Maybe I'll send Moby a message of my own to see if I can stimulate some conversation and help things along."
After hanging-up Nick thought about sending a picture of one of the range targets with the center shot out of it but quickly dismissed the idea because he didn't want the photo showing up at trial as a twenty by thirty poster board display by the defense. So instead, he sent him: "You're about to go international --- America Watch. See you soon."
After sending off the message, he slipped his phone back in his pocket, thought better of it because he was afraid he wouldn't hear Moby's call if it came, so took it back out again and held onto it as he walked back to the office.
When Nick arrived in Homicide, Fanucchi was there wearing a narrow brimmed straw hat with a little green and blue feather tucked in its wide satin band. Carla was standing facing him, holding a six inch mirror.
"I can't believe you paid a hundred and fifty bucks for that thing," she told him.
Fanucchi grabbed her wrist and raised it and the mirror she was holding to get a better view. He then turned his head a little to one side and then the other before saying, "It was a deal. This is a genuine Biltmore Madison Panabu. I've seen 'em for two hundred ...more even. Wearing one of these babies is like you toting a Louie Vuitton handbag."
"I wouldn't spend my money on one of those either. Hey Nick, some fed named Nesbit called for you. I left his number on your desk."
Carla then pushed the mirror into Fanucchi's hands and said, "Here, that thing makes you look like one of those guys in an old black and white gangster movie."
"See, that goes to show you, you don't know gentlemen's fashion. Hats are making a big comeback."
"That's another reason not to wear it. You're no flippin gentleman."
Nick picked-up the message and asked, "How long ago did he call?"
"A half hour maybe. Hey Fanuch, you hear my husband and I are going to try and work things out. We're going to our first counseling session tonight."
Nick dialed Nesbit's number.
"You told me yesterday, Carla," Fanucchi said.
"Yeah? So what do you think?" she asked.
"I think it's good because maybe if you get a better understanding of the man in your life, you'll also get a better appreciation of men's headwear."
"There isn't a shrink alive who's gonna make me like that hat of yours, or my husband for that matter, that is unless he changes."
Nesbit came on the line.
Fanucchi took his new hat off and set it carefully on his desk. Carla picked-up a case file and started reading it.
"Agent Nesbit."
"This is Zajac. You called and left your number."
"Who? Oh yeah, yeah. I guess I've been saying it wrong. What is that, Russian or something?"
"Polish. You get some information on Moby?"
"Yeah, but first we have an agreement right; to share information? You give me what you have and I give you what we have."
Since Nick really didn't have anything of real value to trade, he figured he didn't have anything to lose by saying yes.
"That's how I look at it. The point is to bag him, isn't it? You're not going to try and turn him into a snitch are you?"
"Hell no. He goes to prison."
"Or to the execution chamber."
"Better. Okay I'll go first."
"Fair enough," Nick answered.
"One of our surveillance operations in a nowhere place named Why Arizona, spotted him, only they didn't know who they were looking at. It was only later, after the photos were sent to Mesa, that he was identified."
"What the hell was he doing there?"
"He was meeting with a mid level dope smuggler in a bar called Doctor Charlie's. I've actually been there before and it's a real dump. I think it used to be a barn or something. Got an old metal roof; you can even feel the air coming through the wallboards. I think the dress code includes packing a gun. Anyway, we've kept an eye on it for years to see who is meeting who, whom, whatever. Sometimes we even get a seizure out of it. In fact, that's the weird thing about all this. The time he was busted bringing in a load and talked his way out of it, well that whole operation started in Doctor Charlie's. He has to know we're watching the place."
What are you up to, Moby, Nick wondered? Did you want to be seen?
Al lumbered in making his first appearance of the day, looking a little beat-up. He picked-up Fanucchi's hat and tried it on.
"When did all this happen?"
"Yesterday."
"Do you think he's staying someplace around there?" Nick asked.
"Unlikely. Our guys hung with him as far as the little airport they got there and then pulled off, so he probably caught a flight out or maybe even flew himself. Just to be safe, though, we sent a couple more agents down to see if they can sniff him out. Now how about you; you have anything?"
"Careful," Fanucchi told Al. "That's a Biltmore Panabu. I got it in Vegas. Hey, I have those coupons for you."
"Not anything as good as yours." Nick then told Nesbit about the photo text message Moby had sent him, the message Nick sent back and the trace they'd set-up on his phone, if only he'd turn it on."
They ended the conversation with an agreement to talk again soon.
Just as Nick hung-up with Nesbit, Rene walked in.
To Al she said, "You don't look so good; you feeling okay?"
"I'll be all right," he said. "I stopped the pain meds. It was a little hard to sleep last night is all."
She put her hand on his arm, leaned in and then whispered in his ear. Nick saw his partner smile.
Now what's going on there, Nick asked himself.
Rene finally addressed Nick. "Hey, I guess Moby must have turned off his phone because they can't pick him up."
"Figures." Nick wrote Nesbit's phone number on a scrap of paper. "If they do locate him, and he's somewhere we can't get to him in a reasonable time, call this guy with DEA. He'll send some people after him from their closest office. We'll just have to catch-up."
"So what'd he say," Al asked. "The fed."
"He says a guy they later identified as Moby walked into a DEA surveillance in a little Arizona town near the border."
"Was he doing a dope deal or something?"
"Or something is more like it. He says that Moby should have known he'd be photographed."
Fanucchi dropped into his chair and swiveled it around to face Nick. "Well if that's true, he was screwing with us again."
"Trying to mislead us somehow," Nick said.
"Or maybe it is what it is; he was there to do a dope deal," Rene said.
Carla sat on the edge of Fanucchi's desk. "He's a man, you can't trust him. He's up to something."
"Give me a break." Fanucchi picked up his new hat and put it on again.
"Have to agree with Carla," Al said. "He's too smart to walk into a DEA surveillance".
They all sat quiet for a second.
"So what do we know for sure?" Rene asked.
"Well, we know he's not hiding out and lying low," Nick said. "We also know that he's probably getting around by airplane. Maybe we can work with that somehow. We know that he was in Arizona yesterday. And we know that at some point, probably in the last couple of days, he was on a beach where it was sunny and clear."
"Why don't I check the airport and see if I can get anything on the plane?" Fanucchi suggested.
"I got a crazy idea. How about if I check the weather reports and see if I can figure some possible coast areas where it was clear and sunny? It might be a place to start looking," Carla said.
Nick grabbed the background folder on Moby and headed towards the door.
"Where you going?" Al asked.
"I gotta let Ellen know that we're going to pull the surveillance on her house."
An officer was still parked out front. Only thing though, he had his face buried in the morning paper.
Nick knocked on the door and waited. A minute later he knocked again, only this time louder. He told himself that he ought to just go on in, they were long past knocking.
After another thirty seconds or so the pinch of fear tweaked him. He pushed the front door open and called her name. Unconsciously, he touched the grip of his pistol and when he got no response, he looked back at the beat cop who appeared to be working a crossword puzzle.
"Son of a bitch," he murmured. And then to himself, is this what Moby was up to, making us think he is somewhere far away?
Nick whistled once and saw the cop's head snap around. He then pointed down the driveway and drew his pistol.
The officer scrambled out of the car and ran towards the driveway.
Nick went into the house afraid of what he might find and with a rage building murder.
When he reached the dining room he saw two cameras, a tripod, a battery pack, and a stack of Ellen's business cards on the table. There was also a coffee cup more than half full of coffee and still warm to the touch. He looked to his right and saw a dish towel lying on the floor below the sink, and the water dribbling out of the faucet.
A noise drew his attention to the back porch, off the kitchen. It was a dragging sound, as if something was being pulled across a floor, but it wasn't close-by. At the same time he heard a siren coming his way. The officer who had been out front must have called it in, he thought.
Nick crossed the kitchen to the back porch. The back porch was also where the steps down to the basement were. He eased through the door and to the top of the stairs. He heard more noise coming from the basement area.
Just before starting down the steps he heard back-up stop out front, the car door slam shut, and the sound of boots pounding up the front porch. On the second step down, the floorboard squeaked loudly and the noise in the basement fell silent. Nick paused with his pistol out and pointing down.
"Who's there?" came Ellen's voice. "Is someone there?"
Ah shit, Nick thought.
"It's me Ellen. I thought ..."
She stepped into view, pepper spray in-hand, and saw Nick with his pistol down at his side.
"What's wrong? Has something happened?" she asked.
"No, everything's all right." He holstered his weapon. "I just thought ...I was afraid ...Hang on a second, I have to straighten something out."
Nick turned around and practically bumped into the officer who had just arrived.
"What do you got?" the officer asked.
"Nothing. Everything's all right. False alarm."
The uniform put out the all clear using his lapel mic and went out the door to inform the first officer who was securing the back yard.
"Did someone see something?" Ellen asked.
He moved back to the top of the stairs. "No, it was just me. I knocked and called your name and got worried. I guess he's getting to me a little."
She smiled and climbed the stairs. Two steps from him she reached out and grabbed his waistband at the belt buckle and held on until she took the next step that brought her one below his. She then slid her arms around his waist and pushed the side of her face into his chest while he rested his hands on her shoulders.
"This is an interesting position," she said looking up at him. "It might even be fun to experiment a little with it, but unfortunately I have to get ready for tomorrow's job, including picking up a few things at a photo supply place on Lincoln. You have time to drive me? I'm not going to be able to do it tomorrow morning."
Nick slouched in a wood back kitchen chair with one leg stretched out and his right index finger curled through the handle of a thick, plain white mug, exchanging eyeballs with Max, who lay at his feet with his head firmly planted between two big, fat, hairy paws. For all his size and power, the huge dog wouldn't meet Nick's look, but instead shifted to and away like a nervous child about to be found out.
"I don't want to be at my place any later than noon," Ellen said. "I need to go over my equipment one more time just to make sure I have everything."
"Okay," Nick said. He pulled the Saturday morning paper towards him, yawned, glanced at the front page, and shoved it aside.
His less than enthusiastic response earned him a check glance from Ellen and Ann both. They were ganging up on him again. He wished he was still in bed and would be, too, if Fanucchi hadn't called and said he wanted to stop by. The lack of sleep had finally caught up with him.
"If it's a problem, I'm sure Ann can drive me."
She pulled some plates from the cupboard and set them on the kitchen counter.
"Of course I will," Ann said.
"No, no, I'll do it."
Max let out a low, deep groan as if their conversation was annoying him.
Nick heard a car pull into the driveway and a door slam shut. Through the window he could see the top of Fanucchi's new hat moving towards the back door. He lifted himself out of the chair and went to meet him as Ann sliced bread and Ellen pulled things from the refrigerator. It struck him how quickly these two fell to friendship.
In addition to his new hat, Fanucchi was wearing a brown checked sports coat over an open collared shirt, and tan pleated slacks that topped a pair of tasseled loafers. For his part, Nick was unshaven, barefoot, in a pair of frayed and faded Levis, and wearing the same tee shirt he'd gone to bed in.
"So, did you have any luck with the plane?" Nick asked as he led him to the kitchen.
Fanucchi walked straight to the coffeemaker and started opening cupboard doors. Nick dropped back into his chair again.
"They're in here," Ellen said opening a different one and removing a cup with saucer and handing it to him.
"Have you eaten breakfast?" Ann asked.
While pouring coffee, Fanucchi said, "Coffee's fine, thanks."
"How about a piece of toast with some nice strawberry jam? I'm about to make some for the rest of us."
"That'd be nice. Got lucky on the plane. It's a pretty small airport they got there in Why. Weird name for a town, huh. Supposedly it's because the town sits on a Y in the road, or so they say. Makes sense, though. Anyway, the place is so small that they pretty much remember who comes and goes."
"So they ID'ed his plane then?" Nick asked.
Fanucchi set his cup and saucer on the table, removed a piece of paper from his inside coat pocket, and set it in front of Nick.
"This it; this his airplane?"
"Sort of. It's not the exact one, but it's what it looks like; everything but the number. Got it off the net. Their website has a button to select the color. This guy I talked to in Why said it was a Piper Archer III with red wing tips and red on the underside of the fuselage. So I printed it out for you."
"How about the number; anything, even a partial?" Nick asked.
"Nah, no luck there."
"Better get this out to the cops who work around the airports." He suddenly felt energized. "There aren't that many of them."
"Three or four in reasonable driving distance but there are also private landing strips. That's always a possibility, too," Fanucchi added.
"Yeah, but what are the chances of him landing on private property and then having access to a car?" Nick said.
"He'd also be stupid to land at San Jose International, too many people around to recognize him."
"Well, we have Reid Hillview on the eastside and that one down south near Morgan Hill."
"There's also one in Palo Alto," Ellen said.
"You want me to call Al?" Fanucchi asked.
"Ah, yeah, I guess so. He'll want to help. Can you call the others too; Rene and Carla? Have them meet us at the office say around noon. I'll get there right after I take Ellen to the party she's photographing."
Ten minutes later Nick was in the shower, washing his hair, when Ellen knocked and entered in the room.
"I brought you some toast and a fresh cup of coffee," she said.
"I was hoping you were joining me."
"I wash yours and you wash mine? It can be arranged."
Nick turned and faced her, then spouted a mouthful of water on the glass.
She glanced down, "My, you do have big ideas don't you? But first, your phone is beeping."
"Can you see who it is?"
"It's probably one of your many girlfriends. Ah, it's a text message. ...It's from him." Her voice trembled slightly as she said it. She immediately set the phone down on the counter as if somehow by touching it, she was also touching Moby.
"Go ahead and read it to me," Nick said.
Ellen picked it back up, holding it with two fingertips. "I've been calling. You afraid to answer? Just letting you know I haven't forgotten. ...When is he going to stop this? This is crazy."
"When he's caught or killed. That it? Nothing more?"
She set the phone back down and crossed her arms across her chest. "That's all he wrote; you want me to read it again?"
Nick shut the shower off and stepped out.
"No, that's okay. Can you tell Fanucchi? Also, tell him I'll call Rene to see if they were able to pinpoint his location while he gets started with the airports."
She turned to leave and he stopped her. "I'll drop you off at your place. Would you mind driving yourself to the hall? I'll make sure when you leave there isn't anyone following. Maybe I'll stop by later depending ..."
"Sure Mikolaj, not a problem, but you owe me a shower. By the look of things your mind is somewhere else right now anyway."
Nick was just parking his car when Rene called.
"He screwed-up Nick, just like Malone. We got him. He's in Monterey, at a hotel. The sheriff's office down there is sending an undercover in to locate his room and set up a surveillance. They want to know what we want them to do."
Nick got out of his car and started towards the back steps. He thought about the earlier photo that Moby sent to his phone. It showed the coast. Monterey is on the coast.
"You told them he's dangerous, right?"
"Yeah, I told them. The undercover won't engage without back-up."
"Where are you now?" he asked.
"In your office with Al and the others."
"Okay, I'll be right there. Hey, did Fanuch get the information out to the airports? ...Never mind, never mind, I'll be right there."
"Okay, but the answer is yes and he gave them your cell number."
"Good, okay. Are they sure it's his phone?" he asked as he went in the back door at a fast walk.
"Yeah, it's his; they GPS'ed his ass. They have a continuous read on him."
Nick could hear Fanucchi talking in the background.
Rene said, "He's at the Hanover Suites which is close to the airport."
He was near enough to the office now to hear their voices without the phone, so he just closed it up.
As he came in the door he said, "It's less than a hundred miles from here to Monterey. With lights and siren we could be there in maybe an hour."
"We better take two cars, in case we gotta split-up," Al said.
"You're not going," Nick said.
"The hell I'm not. I owe him."
"Navarro is going to kick our ass if you go. You're on light duty ...
"What's he going to do, write us up? If nothing happens, he won't know. If we get Moby, we'll be on CNN and they won't touch us."
"Oh, screw it. Who's got a car with gas?"
"I just filled mine up," Fanucchi said.
"I'm about three quarters. That's enough to get us there no problem," Carla added.
"Okay, five minutes at the bottom of the stairs." And then as everybody started to grab their gear, "Vests, everyone bring your vest," Nick said.
"Ah, I hate that thing," Al groused.
Rene looked at him. "You got to be kidding me, right?"
"I'm just sayin' it feels like I'm in a cardboard box, that's all."
"Better a cardboard box than a wood box."
"Okay, okay, I give." Al threw up his hands.
Nick placed a call to Nesbit, got his voicemail, and left a message telling him they got a read on Moby's cell phone in Monterey and were on the way.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs his phone rang. He could see Carla was already waiting with Al and Rene, and Fanucchi was just pulling up. Nick didn't recognize the number, figured it was Nesbit calling him back, and so stopped to answer it.
"Zajac."
"This is Palmer with the S.O. You the one looking for that plane?" "Monterey S.O.?
"No, Santa Clara County."
"Yeah, what's up? You find it?"
"No, nothing like that, but it used to be kept here."
"Where's here?" Nick asked.
"Out here at the South County Airport, down by Morgan Hill. You know, the one just off of Highway 101."
"How do you know that; that it was kept there?"
"Well, I showed that picture you sent around to the guy who does the fueling, and he id'ed it. Then I showed him the photograph of that guy Moby, and he thinks he remembers him, too. He checked his log and sure enough, he had several entries for the plane under the name Roger Templeton, the last one about a week ago."
"It's not there now?" Nick asked.
"Oh no, we checked. The fuel guy says he hasn't seen it for several days."
"You got a plane number for me?"
Nick walked to the hood of Carla's car and fished out his notebook.
Palmer gave him the plane's number.
"Thanks, I'll need a report. This a number where I can reach you later?"
"Yeah, it's my personal cell."
"Nice work."
"He killed a cop. I want him, too."
Nick touched bases with Carla and then ran to Fanucchi's car.
Nick set his cell phone on the dash and got out of the car before stripping off his coat, tie, and shirt. He shrugged into his Kevlar vest and snugged the Velcro straps across his chest. He stopped when he heard the radio crack and hiss but nothing followed. Nervous fingers on the mic button, he thought. He then re-dressed and returned to his seat in the car.
Fanucchi took his hat off, twisted around, and carefully set it on the back seat. His watch showed 2:05 PM. In front of him, in the other car, Al, Rene, and Carla sat motionless like ground zero mannequins waiting for the flash.
Six black clad and helmeted Monterey County sheriff's deputies stacked up along the wall outside of room 413. The team leader, gripping a blue steel Colt .45, cocked and locked, signaled the first man in line to cross in front of the door and position himself on the opposite side. He was to provide cover fire, should it be necessary. He was armed with an H & K, 9mm, submachine gun. Once the cover man was in position, the team leader nodded to the next man in line, who moved up closer to the door, extended his arm, and quietly inserted the house key into the lock. Once it was in place, he returned the nod to the team leader who pointed at the second man in line, who in turn moved up next to the first.
The team leader then made eye contact with each member to make sure they were ready and finally nodded and pointed at the door. The first man turned the key, turned the knob, and pushed the door open a couple of inches. The second man pulled the pin on a flash-bang grenade, kicked the door all the way open, and pitched the baseball sized device into the room before stepping back out of the line of fire.
Upon hearing the explosion, Carla and Fanucchi started their car engines and accelerated across the parking lot, stopping just outside the hotel's side entrance, the closest to room 413. They all got out and half walked, half jogged into the building.
As soon as the grenade detonated, the four deputies in line quickly entered the room in the manner they had practice, just moments before, on a different but identical room. The team leader and cover man waited outside. Another deputy was in the parking lot watching the balcony.
After not even two minutes of silence the team leader heard one of the entry team shout, "clear" and then, "coming out." The entry team then filed out and told the team leader, "He's not there. Maybe the perimeter team will pick him up."
The team leader made the announcement over the radio and signaled the San Jose detectives who had stepped into view at the end of the hallway.
The bed had been slept in, a tray with dirty dishes sat on a round table, the toilet seat was up, a wet towel was in the tub, and a cell phone lay on the floor near the big sliding glass door leading out to the balcony. Underneath the phone was a note that read: Dear Nick. Fuck you -- again. M
Nick scanned the parking lot and the people making their way into the banquet room at the Hayes Mansion and Convention Center, while pressing the phone tight to his ear. After a few moments he folded it shut, slipped it into his coat pocket, and hurried towards the building with Al's last words chasing after him like some wild eyed dog, touched mad.
There was no logical reason to assume Moby was here. He could just as well be in Why Arizona or Timbuktu Mali or Bumfuck Egypt for that matter. But Nick knew better; the bastard was nearby all right, maybe already inside. He felt it in his gut, that's why he hadn't gone with the others.
He tailgated a white shirted kitchen worker in the back door, earning barely a glance for his trespass, and stood flat back against the wall. He tried to recall the details of Moby's face to compare them to the features of the people moving around him. He would be here in disguise.
The simple thing to do was to hustle her ass right out of here, he thought. She'd be madder than hell but she'd also be safe, for now at least, until the next time. And that was the problem. He'd just be putting it off. The man was coming for them no matter what; to get Ellen, then Al, and finally him. Moby said exactly that. It wasn't guess work. So to avoid it today would mean facing it tomorrow, or the next day, or next month, or next year. At least today he had a halfway decent chance because today it wouldn't be a surprise.
Nick watched a male, about the right height and weight, picking up pitchers of water, three in each fist, to take out into the main room. The man was keeping his back to him. Intentional he wondered; could be?
He grabbed the man with his left hand while his right rested on his belt near his pistol and turned him. Water sloshed onto the floor.
"What's your problem?" the man said.
"Sorry, thought you were someone else."
"Yeah, well, you shouldn't ought-a-be grabbing people. I'm not him and you got no right."
"Like I said, sorry."
Nick turned away to cut the young man off and went to the door that opened out into the main room hoping to see Ellen, maybe catch her eye. If Moby was here, he thought, it would be for Ellen and not for him because as far as Moby knew, Nick and the others were about an hour away, surrounding an empty hotel room.
He spotted her by the entrance. A couple, white haired and in their seventies, were standing a few feet inside the door greeting people coming in. Ellen was moving from place to place around them, in the background, one camera hung around her neck while holding another, pointing, framing, and shooting.
He knew this was what she loved, especially the faces and catching them in candid expression; lines and wrinkles and smiles and tears, the imprint of human experience. He could also see that she was lost in her work, totally into it. That won't last long, he thought.
Somehow he had to get word to her. He had to tell her that killer and lover were both nearby. Let her make the call, run or stay, although he knew what her decision would be. She hated the idea of living in fear.
A young, dark haired server with quick, efficient movements and a friendly look came into the kitchen and conversed with one of the cooks, while a half dozen others, more, moved about banging, chopping, talking, and cursing.
Nick took out his notebook and wrote: I'm in the kitchen. Moby nearby. If you want to leave meet me here. Nick. He tore the page out and folded it in half.
He stopped the server on her way back into the main room. "Excuse me; I wonder if you'd do me a favor?"
"What can I do for you, sir."
"My wife is the photographer. I need to get a message to her about a family matter, but I don't want to walk in there while she's working. Would you hand this note to her and she can read it when she gets a chance? Until then, I'll just stand here and wait."
"Well, I guess I can do that for you, sir." She took the note from Nick's hand.
"Thanks, I don't mean to be such a bother but it's really important."
Her eyes searched Nick's face, doubt was there, maybe, and then she said, "Not a problem. I'll do it right away."
He watched her cross the big hall, weaving among tables, stopping once to speak with a woman in a long blue dress holding the hand of a little girl similarly clothed, before handing the note to Ellen.
Ellen took the note, slipped it in one of her pockets without reading it, and went back to taking pictures. At the same time, the young man he'd grabbed earlier passed by him staring hard. Get over it, Nick thought.
He'd give her a few minutes and if she didn't read it, he'd try again.
A guy with a thick, black moustache and wearing a dark suit entered the room. Nick watched him closely. Moby had light brown hair and was clean shaven when he'd last seen him. But still, he could have dyed his hair and pasted on a moustache. Nick looked for the bulge of a weapon, some giveaway expression, or telling body language, but saw none.
A woman of about fifty came in the door behind the mustached man, followed by an elderly, slightly hunched man with a cane. The woman stepped in line behind the man with the moustache, who was in turn behind a family of four engaged in conversation with the guests of honor. The elderly man moved off to one side, leaning on his cane, and took a seat at one of the nearby tables, apparently out of breath. A little girl, chasing a little boy, ran past giggling.
Behind Ellen, Nick could see one of the food servers, a male, was putting wine bottles on one of the tables. He was too short. It would be impossible to improvise that, so Nick quickly dismissed him as a threat.
More people came in the door and Nick saw the man with the moustache shake hands with the male half of the couple being honored and then hug his wife. It appeared by their interaction that they all knew one another so he was probably all right.
A thought bubbled to the surface. If he was right and Moby was here, how did Moby know this is where Ellen would be? He tried to recall if Ellen had told him how she had landed the job, but couldn't, so she probably hadn't mentioned it.
He saw the chef coming out of the big walk-in frig and watched him approach.
"You shouldn't be in the food preparation area sir. It's a health department rule," the chef said.
Nick showed him his badge and asked, "The lady who hired you, I believe she is the daughter of the couple being honored, where is she?"
"Is there a problem?"
"It's not about you or any of this; I just need to know who she is and where she is?"
"Do you want me to get her for you?"
Does this guy know how to answer a question Nick wondered? "Yeah, sure, but as long as you do it now and don't tell her in front of other guests that a police officer wants to see her."
"Don't tell her in front of others, okay, I can do that. I'll go find her."
Nick went back to where he could see Ellen. The line of people waiting to be greeted was gone now and the anniversary pair was walking towards the head table. Ellen had moved over to a corner of the room where a small table was set up and was doing something to her equipment. After a few seconds, she must have remembered the note because she took it out of her pocket, read it, and looked around the room until her eyes met Nick's. She shook her head no, just a little movement, indicating she wasn't willing to leave and then, as if the content of his message finely sunk-in, she began scanning the room.
Nick looked, too, but his attention was drawn to the chef standing next to a woman, probably in her mid to late thirties, wearing a black dress with sequins on it. After a couple of seconds, the chef whispered in her ear, she said something to him in return, and he pointed to Nick. She put a hand on the chef's forearm, said something more, and the chef walked back towards the kitchen.
Just then, another man, this one with collar length blond hair, crossed the room carrying a drink in each hand. As he did so he looked in Ellen's direction and at the same time slowed his pace a little. He was about the right height for Moby but a little on the heavy side and his facial features didn't seem right. But still .... As Nicked watched him, the blonde man changed directions and headed for Ellen.
The Chef stopped in front of Nick, blocking his view.
"She says she'll be right with you."
Nick moved the chef to one side with his hand and changed his position so he could regain his view of Ellen. Just as he did so, the man with blond hair made contact with her. There was a short conversation between the two of them, and the man turned and looked in the direction of where he was originally headed, with Ellen apparently following his gaze. He said something more to her and pointed with one of his drink laden hands. Ellen said something to him and the man departed. She glanced over at Nick and shook her head no, once. She went back to scanning the room while she re-slung a camera around her neck and picked-up the other.
Nick thanked the chef just as the woman in the black sequined dress approached and just as the band started playing Midnight Serenade.
"Now, what's this all about? I'm told you're a police officer."
"Yes I am." Nick showed her his badge. "And I need to ask you a couple of questions."
"Questions, ask me questions? This is my parent's fiftieth wedding anniversary. What could possibly be so important that you'd interrupt me at a time like this?"
"I'll get to that but first, your photographer, how did you happen to select her for this job?"
"The photographer?" She swallowed. "What about her?"
Nick heard a slight tremor in her voice.
"I'm asking you how you picked Ellen to be your photographer."
"Well, she's supposed to be very good."
The woman suddenly looked like she wanted to run.
"You didn't answer my question," he said.
"Can't we talk about this after the party? Do we have to do this right now?"
"Look lady, I don't have time to play games here. How did you pick her to be your photographer out of all the other photographers in San Jose?"
"Okay, okay, I was going to call you people. It's just that the first photographer we picked got in an accident and we needed someone fast. That was only a week ago, less. Then once we had her, there wasn't time to find anyone else."
"What the hell are you talking about? Why were you going to call us?"
"Because of him; the man in the news. When he suggested her, recommended her, we didn't know about him, what he did. So you see, it was before they said he killed all those people. I would have never ..."
"Hold on a minute, slow down. Just to make sure I know who you're talking about, what's this guy's name, the one in the news?"
"Moby, but that's not the name we knew him by. We knew him as Templeton, Roger Templeton."
As she said this, she held her hand over her heart.
"Just a couple more questions. What did you tell Ellen about how you got her name?"
"Well, the phone book; I told her I got her name from the phone book. I'm sorry; I really was going to call you. Am I in trouble? Is this going to be in the papers? My parents ..."
"No, you're not going to be in trouble," Nick said. "Why did you tell Ellen you got her from the phone book?"
"Oh, okay, ah, let me see. He asked me not to say he was the one who recommended her. It had something to do with how he uses another photographer for all his work and if the word got around that he recommended someone else it could cause problems. I got the impression that it could possibly cost him some money. It didn't make a lot of sense to me, but he seemed serious about it and made me promise, so that's what I did. Then later, when I saw all that stuff on the news, well I thought if I went to the police before the party, Ellen might back out and I'd have no one to take pictures."
"Why did you go to Moby in the first place?"
"I had his card from a party I attended about a year ago. I needed someone fast, because of the accident you know, so I called him to see if he would recommend someone."
Nick shook his head thinking. There is only one logical reason Moby would recommend Ellen. "Have you seen Moby today?"
"My God, no. Is he here?"
"I don't know. Look, just go back to the party and don't tell anyone. If he is here, let me know but do it quietly; that's all you have to do."
"It was all by phone. I never saw him in person. Is there going to be trouble, if he's here that is? I mean this is my parent's fiftieth anniversary; all these people." She motioned with her hand to the room. "I don't want there to be any trouble."
You should have thought of that earlier, lady. "He may not even be here." But he is.
"I hope not. Oh my God, this is terrible. I should have called you. And I was going to, too, right after. I just ...you know."
"Yeah, I know."
The woman walked away, back towards the head table.
If she spots Moby, she's going to screw things up, Nick thought, as he tried to regain a visual on Ellen.
At first he didn't see her. She should be somewhere up near the head table or maybe out on the floor photographing people in groups, but she wasn't there. He stepped out into the main room and stood behind a group of about six or seven people who were all hugging each other and slapping themselves on the back. Then he caught a glimpse.
She had her back to him and was just going through a single wide exit door with the elderly man Nick had earlier seen; the one with the cane. The only thing was that the elderly man was standing much straighter than before and didn't have the cane.
Nick crossed the room at a run, threading his way through tables, getting looks of surprise as people scrambled to get out of his way. He heard someone behind him ask, "What's his problem?" and someone else utter "Oh, my God" just as he hit the crash bar on the exit.
He snaked out his pistol and heard the door slam shut behind him. To his right, the building ran another fifty or sixty feet before it cornered. There was nobody in view in that direction. In front of him was part of the parking lot. If Ellen and Moby were there, they were ducked down behind a car. To his left, about twenty feet away was another corner, one that led to the back of the building, where the kitchen entrance was, and where a great many other cars were parked. On a hunch, he turned left.
As soon as he cleared the corner he saw them. They were walking from the building out into the parking lot with their backs to him. They were essentially side by side, but Moby had his left arm snugged tight around Ellen's neck. To a casual observer it might appear there was nothing wrong; that they were perhaps husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend. A closer look, though, showed that Ellen was trying to pull away, but her bigger, heavier assailant was muscling her along.
Nick ran after them, angling his approach so he was coming directly at their back, and so he would have the best chance of getting close without being seen. He needed to get closer before he did anything. At this distance, if he had to shoot, his bullet would just as likely hit Ellen as Moby.
As Nick ran, he saw a man dressed in a western cut sports coat, probably a late arrival to the party, pass by the pair going in the opposite direction. The man looked at them and continued to stare as Ellen and Moby walked on by. Nick next saw the man look in his direction, stop, and side-shuffle behind a parked car where he half squatted down in an apparent attempt to put something solid between himself and the confrontation about to unfold.
All this movement and the man's previous interest in Moby and Ellen must have caused Moby some concern because he turned around to look. It was at this moment that he spotted Nick coming up behind him.
With Nick still thirty yards away, Moby took his left arm from around Ellen's neck, spun inward towards her and at the same time came up with a pistol in his right hand. With his left hand, he grabbed her elbow. This put Ellen essentially facing one way and Moby facing the other, towards Nick.
Nick saw Moby's pistol come up but didn't want to chance a shot of his own yet. Ellen was much too close for that, so he kept moving closer, trying to keep cars between him and Moby for protection.
Moby snapped off two quick shots at Nick, their sharp, harsh echo bouncing off the building and then fading out. Just as he did this, Ellen pulled away from him, throwing-off his point of aim and causing his bullets to go wide. Moby responded by yanking back hard on her arm, which he still gripped in his left hand, but he kept his focus on Nick as he did so. As Ellen was pulled back into him, she pepper sprayed Moby in the face. Most of the stream hit the side of his head, back near his ear, but enough splattered his face that he winced, swiped his eyes with the back of his gun hand, and pushed her away. She fell backwards to the ground, down, out of sight.
With Ellen out of the direct line of fire, Nick cranked-off two shots while still moving forward, but he didn't see any noticeable reaction from Moby. He half expected that, though. You couldn't be accurate while shooting and moving at the same time. He would have had a better chance of scoring a hit if he'd planted himself before squeezing the trigger.
Instead of immediately returning fire, Moby first pointed his pistol down at the ground towards Ellen, fired it once, and then quickly turned towards Nick and shot twice more, this time using a two hand grip. One of his bullets hit the car next to Nick; the other was dead center, 10X, on Nick's chest.
Nick's brain registered the impact and for a split second it came into his mind that Ellen was dead and he was dying. But he remembered the vest. He'd put it on while in the parking lot. Still, the impact was like a two handed lick with a ball peen hammer, right over his heart. It stopped him cold, dropped him to the ground, and left him searching for breath through the fog of pain.
He scooted on his shoulder closer to the car he was laying next to and at first thought about staying there, protecting himself, using the car to his advantage. But thoughts of Ellen ragged on him. Moby had shot her; he had seen that with his own eyes. Maybe she was still alive, though.
He got his knees under him and popped up two, three feet from where he'd gone down, pistol out. Pain radiated across his entire chest; so much so that it was hard to keep his gun steady.
Moby was there, in the same place, but he was turned away, using the sleeve of his coat to wipe his face.
Nick fired twice and then twice more but had no confidence his shots would go home. He was breathing in short, half breaths. His point of aim was all over the place.
One of his bullets must have scored, though. Moby jerked and twisted clockwise at the same time arching his back. Nick saw him drop below the front end of a Toyota pick-up.
Nick, taking half-steps, followed his Glock's muzzle forward. Reaching the truck, he went around the back end of it. Ellen should be somewhere nearby.
When he stepped into view he saw neither of them.
Ellen! Ellen!" he yelled.
"Here"
The voice was right next to him and sounded weak. In the distance, he heard sirens and also a car starting somewhere in the parking lot.
Keeping his pistol pointed in the general direction of where Moby should be, he bent down and looked under the truck. She was there, looking back at him, crazy eyed, breathing hard. There was a raw spot on the upper part of her forehead and some blood on one of her hands. A small canister of pepper spray lay on the ground nearby.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She didn't answer him. She stared. Her chest heaved.
Nick looked up and saw a late model GMC Envoy accelerate out of the parking lot onto city streets. He caught a glimpse of Moby through the driver's side window. The sirens sounded maybe a couple of minutes away.
Nick reached out and took Ellen's hand but she pulled it away and started touching her face and chest.
"Come on Ellen. Come out from under, babe. It's okay. He's gone. It's safe."
She still didn't answer him. Only after more encouragement did she slowly inched her way out from under the truck. Nick immediately began checking her over.
"Do you hurt anywhere?" he asked. "I don't see anything. Let me look at your back."
She bent forward.
"Am I shot? Did he get me? ...I rolled under the truck, but I don't know. Do you see anything? Am I shot?" She was crying.
He stood her up and hugged her. "Everything looks okay. He missed. He didn't get you. I thought ...." He stopped talking and kissed her lips, her cheek, her forehead. She was unresponsive.
"He held a gun on me," she managed through gulps of air. "He told me that if I didn't go with him he would just start killing people. I didn't know what to do."
"You did the only thing you could do. Everything's okay now."
"No, it's not!" she shouted. "He's still out there. This will never end. I didn't think it would be like this. Is this how you live? Is this how it is?"
Nick held her and after a moment said, "Will you be all right by yourself?"
She stared at him. "Don't leave me Nick. I'm scared."
"I've got to get him, babe. You said it yourself, he'll just come back. I have to stop him. Go inside. You'll be safe there. Help is almost here."
He turned her around and walked a few steps with her towards the party, before turning back to his car. She looked at him once but continued on, zombie-like.
Nick dropped the magazine out of his pistol, reloaded with one of his two spares and took off running.
Nick reached over his left shoulder for his seatbelt, sucked-in a half breath, choked-back a grunt, exhaled, and followed it with a series of short, quick breaths until the pain eased. It felt like somebody landed with both heels on his chest. He twisted front again and gently put his fingers to the impact point of Moby's bullet. The fabric of his shirt and vest had holes in them. Somewhere in there should be the slug, he told himself. As much as he wiggled his finger into the hole, though, he couldn't feel it.
The trouble wasn't just the pain. His chest felt all soppy wet, too. He hoped it was just sweat and not blood. The vest he had on was supposed to stop any handgun bullet, but when you're the one who gets shot, 'supposed to' doesn't give you a whole lot of comfort.
After he drove out onto the street, he dropped a hand down and ran his fingertips along the bottom of his vest. They came away without any blood on them. If I am bleeding, it's not bad, he thought. It still hurts like hell, though.
He gingerly leaned over and switched on his red lights and siren. Thirty seconds later, he blew the intersection at Edenvale and Monterey Highway to a chorus of angry horns.
As he continued south, over the scanner he heard patrol units setting up at various intersections across the city looking for the white GMC Envoy. Nick knew Moby could have literally gone in any direction, but he had an idea of where he might be headed.
He flipped open his cell phone and scrolled through the menu until he found the number he wanted and pushed the call button.
"Deputy Palmer?" Nick queried.
"That's me, who's this?"
"It's Zajac. You anywhere near the airport?"
"Zajac? ...Oh yeah, not really but what do you need?"
"Can you get over there and see if you spot Moby or his plane. He just tried to kill a witness. He may be wounded and looking for a hole to crawl into."
"I'm on my way."
"Be careful, man. He's armed and shooting at anyone who tries to stop him."
"What's he got?"
"A pistol; probably a forty cal. He may have others, though. At one time he had a rifle and a .22 pistol. He's also driving a white GMC Envoy."
"Okay, I'll be there in five or so and give you a call if I see anything."
Over the phone, Nick could hear the deputy's car engine wind-out. "Thanks, I'm headed your way. It's the only place I can think of where he might go."
Nick transitioned onto Highway 101 south and pushed his Ford up to ninety plus. Even at that speed, when he should have his full attention on the road, he couldn't help thinking about how close Ellen came to dying. The bastard had tried to kill her for no other reason than to show he was more cleaver than anyone else. His identity was already known at that point; his guilt already established. Killing her wouldn't help him one bit. He just wanted to do it; take a life and give the finger to everyone else at the same time. He had to be stopped. The man was evil.
When Nick saw the San Martin Ave exit sign showing one mile ahead, he dialed Palmer again but only got his voicemail. He had hoped to have heard back from him by now.
Just before he exited the freeway, he cut his red lights and siren. Moments later, he turned left onto Murphy. As he reached the north end of the airport, he spotted a car with its parking lights on, stopped inside the perimeter fence a short distance from the runway. Its silhouette showed a light bar on top, so Nick braked hard, reversed, and turned into the airport.
The South County Airport was the smallest in the county with one badly patched and unlit landing strip surrounded by two foot high weeds. It ran north and south with Hwy 101 bordering the eastern edge. On the west side were several service buildings. This was also where the planes were parked. There was no control tower or regular staffing in place and, except for the car with its lights on, the airport looked unattended.
Nick parked several car lengths away and stood for a moment behind his car door surveying the area. The other car's engine was running and the driver's door was standing open. He could hear Palmer's police radio muttering away inside. The surrounding area was mostly dark, and there was nobody in-sight. In the distance, he could hear traffic on the freeway, big trucks mostly. All this left him with a lonely, isolated, vulnerable feeling.
Nick drew his pistol and approached the Sheriff's car with his head and eyes in constant motion. Halfway there, he saw the outside of Palmer's left knee and lower leg and concluded that he was lying across the front seat of the car with his butt in the driver's position and his head and shoulders in the passenger area.
Nick broke into a run to check on the deputy. Two or three strides into it, he heard two shots and felt a burning sensation to his right calf. He continued on, though, and threw himself against the side of the car, next to the driver's door. The pain from his new wound blossomed like a mushroom cloud rising above ground zero.
Nick felt his leg with his free hand, and this time it came away covered in blood. Another shot sounded and a bullet impacted the open car door, so he scooted on his side around the front fender, away from the source of the shots. He kept moving around the car to the passenger side where he opened the passenger door and checked on Palmer's condition.
It didn't take Nick long to realize that the deputy was dead. There was an entry wound behind his left ear and an exit hole in his forehead. Blood covered the floor on the right front passenger side.
Nick reached for the mic to alert Sheriff's dispatch and discovered that only bare wires were at the end of the cord. Moby had ripped the mic off. Palmer's handheld was missing, too, so Nick went to his cell phone to call for help. The pain in his leg was coming-on strong.
He hadn't even punched-in the first number when his phone rang. The screen showed Palmer's number calling --- so Moby.
"I'm going to kill you, Moby," he said.
"That's the spirit, Nick. You and I fighting it out. Best man wins and all that sorta shit; that'd be me of course. ...Hey, got you again, didn't I? Does it hurt much?"
Nick peeked over the right-rear fender of the Sheriff's car and thought he saw the glow from the cell phone at the corner of a building about thirty yards away. He fired a round right at it.
"Eww-ee, that was close," Moby said over the phone. He fired two shots back, skipping them under the rear of the car. They came only inches from Nick's knee and foot that were positioned behind the right rear tire. "Right back at you, motherfucker."
Nick crawled back to the open passenger door and searched Palmer's duty belt for his pistol and spare ammunition. All were missing. He thought for a second on what to do next, then leaned across Palmer's body, put the car in drive, and, as it started to roll, he cranked the wheel so it was headed right towards Moby. Once it was on-target, Nick moved to the back of the car and used it as a shield, limping in a crouch behind it. Two more bullets hit the car's windshield.
"Coming to get you!" Nick shouted out loud.
When the car was ten feet or so away, Nick fired a couple of rounds at the corner of the building just to keep Moby off balance. Three seconds later, the Sheriff's car hit the end of the building and Nick stepped out from behind it ready to shoot but found Moby was no longer there.
There was another long, single-story, rectangular structure to the left of the one Moby had been hiding behind and three more to the right. The three to the right were constructed out of corrugated steel so Nick assumed these served as either hangers for airplanes or workshops. Beyond that he could see several small, fixed-wing airplanes parked on a paved area and more buildings behind them.
Not sure which way Moby went, Nick took a chance and went to the right, figuring Moby would be trying to sneak around behind him and he could meet him head-on. He hopped to the corner and took a quick look between the two buildings. He didn't see anything, so started moving along the wall toward the far end, which was at least forty yards away. Over the phone he heard Moby say, "You still there Nick? You haven't gone and died on me have you."
Nick stopped walking long enough to look for and hit the 'end' button on his phone and then punchin the numbers for the San Jose dispatcher center. Enough of this bullshit, he thought; time for reinforcements. As soon as Nick heard a voice on the other end of the line, he saw Moby step out from the far end of the building and fire twice. One of the bullets hit the side of the building, and Nick thought he heard the second whiz-by his head. In response, he dropped the phone, moved away from wall, took a two-hand stance, and fired twice back. Moby ducked back out of sight, and Nick stooped to pick-up his phone only to discover that he had crushed it with his foot when he stepped away from the building.
At that point, Nick backtracked, trying to get to his car and call for help via his radio. When he reached the corner of the building, he pressed his back flat against it so he could look forward and back by just turning his head. His calf was really hurting at this point. He could feel the lower half of his pants leg sticking to his skin because it was soaked with blood. He gave it a few seconds in the hope that the pain would ease-up a little. It didn't.
An airplane engine started up to his right. Moby. He was getting away.
Nick peeked around the corner, but it was too dark to see anything. He was able to determine that the engine sound was coming from the area of the airport where planes were lined up on a paved strip of ground. Regardless of the personal risk, Nick just couldn't let Moby get away.
He turned the corner and did an awkward hop-run to the side of the next building. He stopped again, took the weight off his leg as much as possible, and peered around the corner of this building toward the noise. This time he could vaguely see some activity about thirty-five yards away, somewhat in the middle of the line of parked and tethered planes. He moved out from the end of the building to where he thought he had the best shot, and fired a series of shots at the cab of the plane with the running engine. His pistol's slide locked back open, indicating he was out of bullets, so Nick depressed the eject button and dropped the empty magazine.
Moby stepped into view from the far side of a different airplane.
Nick jammed a fresh magazine into his pistol.
Moby fired.
Nick thumbed the slide release, felt the impact of Moby's bullets, and fired as he staggered back. As his knees buckled, he saw Moby bend at the waist to one side, do a half spin, and start down. Nick landed on his butt and from there fell to his back. He laid there for a couple of seconds feeling a whole new set of pains before trying to raise his head to see if Moby was still moving, but found he couldn't. He then tried to lift just his gun hand to shoot his remaining bullets in the direction he last saw Moby (hoping for a lucky hit) but couldn't raise his arm either. After that, everything just went dark.
Nick, wearing a pair of blue shorts and a gray SJPD Academy tee shirt, sat sideways at the kitchen table, slouched on a chair with his bandaged right leg propped on a pillow which, in turn, was propped on a different kitchen chair. His right arm was in a sling and a second bandage covered the right side of his neck, extending all the way to the shoulder. Stubble showed on his cheeks and neck. His left forearm rested on the kitchen table. A cup of coffee sat nearby.
At the sink, his mother rinsed a plate and laid it on the drain board, up-side-down, to dry. Max lay on his side at her feet, eyes closed.
"Time for your pain pill," she said.
"I'll give it some more time. They make me feel funny."
"Don't be stubborn."
"I'll see how I feel in an hour." He was feeling cranky and not inclined to being diplomatic. If he thought he could get away with it he'd stay at his own place. She'd give him nothing but grief, though.
"So what did the doctor say?" Terrie Callister asked. "When can you go back to work?"
She was leaning with the small of her back against the counter top, holding a cup and saucer. It was her first visit since Nick had been released from the hospital. There was still tension between the two of them over Ellen.
"At least a month. After that it depends on how physical therapy goes."
Outside, Nick heard a car door close and saw the head and shoulders of his partner as he passed-by the kitchen windows headed toward the back door. When Al entered, the dog raised its head, looked at him, dropped it back down again, and wagged its tail a couple of times making a thumping sound on the floor.
"Hey, what smells so good," Al said as he opened a cabinet, grabbed a coffee cup, and helped himself to the coffee. "How's it go, Terrie?"
"Good. You know ...."
"I just baked some coffee cake," Ann replied. "Can I cut you a slice?"
"Well, since you offered, wouldn't want to be rude. Hey Nick, I brought you something."
Al sat down and slid a sheet of paper across the table to him.
Nick picked it up and saw that it was a copy of a handwritten note.
"Dear Nick: Sorry I couldn't stick around and shoot you some more, but the dogs were at the gate. I think it's actually better this way, don't you? We'll both get a chance to do it all again. I'll be in touch. M."
"Where'd this come from?"
Ann set a small plate with a slice of coffee cake on it, in front of Al.
"Our feds got it from the Mexican feds, who got it from the cockpit of his plane."
Terrie pushed off from the counter, set her cup down, and walked behind Nick. She reached over his shoulder and took the sheet of paper out of his hand.
Nick looked back at her mildly annoyed. "No, I mean where, like in where was his plane found?"
Al took a bite of the cake and with his mouth full said, "Oh, on the Mexican side of the Arizona -- Mexico border. Supposedly, the pilot's seat was covered in blood so they figured he's probably using his drug connections to get treatment and using money he has stashed to pay for it. Sounds like you got him pretty good."
Yeah, and he got me pretty good, too. "Any idea where in Mexico he is?"
"If they know, they aren't saying. But I don't think they have a clue. They're feds, not real cops. You can't expect too much."
Terrie put the piece of paper back down on the table and walked back to her cup and saucer.
"It'd be nice to know. If they knew for sure he's in Mexico, it might make people feel better."
"She'll be back, Nick. You just have to give her some time," Ann said. "She cares for you very much."
Nick looked at her and shrugged his shoulders. He didn't want to talk about it.
"She stayed until she was sure you were all right. That shows how important you are to her. But you have to put yourself in her place. She'd be living her life in a prison. She couldn't operate her business. She couldn't even go out of her house without a bodyguard. She would be completely dependent on you. Eventually, she'd resent it and maybe even hate you for it. She has to have a life of her own, to love someone back."
"We could have figured something out. Look, let's just change the subject, okay?"
"Hey, I got an idea Nick; why don't you quit your job and go live with her." Terrie said.
Nick shook his head. He was starting to get pissed off. "Get real, huh."
"So, in other words you're not willing to give-up what's important to you for her, but you want her to do it for you."
"That's not the way it is." When did you become Ellen's new best friend?
"That's exactly the way it is."
"Lighten-up, will you."
"Yeah, why should I. You may be a good cop but you don't know jack about women."
"Here's a good one for you," Al said. "You guys know what a Polish mine detector is?"
"Aloysius, if you finish that joke, you're out of here," Ann said.
"Just trying to help the mood."
"Well, help it some other way."
Nick turned to Al, "Can you bring me my notebook and a copy of the case file?"
"Sure. Whadda you got in mind?"
"What do we really know about Moby? I want to find out everything I can about him; talk to the people he worked with in Ohio, his friends, schoolmates, teachers, foster parents, family, anyone who knows anything about him. That narc in Arizona, or even the one in San Francisco, maybe they have a snitch into the people he hangs with in Mexico who can locate him. We never had time to check out all the people he called with his cell phone, either. I have nothing better to do."
"Now, you're talking," Al said.
Nick's new cell phone beeped. He slid the cover open.
"I worry you've lost interest, Nick. Get well soon. I'll be coming for you. M"
It was the second message from Moby since he got out of the hospital. The first one he just ignored. Nick hit the reply button and typed: "Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Looking forward to seeing you."
"Who's that?" Terrie asked.
"Just somebody from work saying hi." Turning back to Al he asked, "Can you also get me a copy of the departmental phone list?"
"Sure thing. Is there more cake?"
Nick gently rotated his right foot. The pain was immediate. He did it again.
I hope you enjoyed my story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please take a moment to log onto Amazon.com and rate this book for other readers. Also, you may be interested in two other stories I've written, "Journal" and "An Act of Kindness." I'm currently working on my fourth novel, "Deadfinger." Look for it on Amazon in the summer of 2012.
From the author:
I retired from the San Jose Police Department after thirty years and quickly discovered you can't just ride bikes and drink beer all day; you need something else to do. So I started volunteering. First, it was as a board member for the Western States Police and Fire Games; a great organization by the way. Each year they put on a huge Olympic style sporting event. After that, the Red Cross was asking for volunteers to help out following Katrina, so I made a couple of trips to the New Orleans area. That was an interesting enough experience that I decided join my local search and rescue team. I stayed with that for a couple of years before eventually moving on. Thanks to GPS, not too many people need rescuing anymore. Then, along with my wife Kim, I turned to mentoring, which I'm still doing. But throughout all this, and even before, off and on for twenty years or more, I was writing stories. I love writing almost as much as I loved being a cop. Well, that's a little bit of an exaggeration. Being a cop, a city cop in San Jose, was more fun, more exciting, more satisfying than anything else I can imagine doing --- but I'm retired now, so I write stories. It's a natural fit if you know cops. Cops love telling stories; ex-cops maybe even more so. You get a few of them together, add some beers, and it's like feeding the meter, they'll stay and yak and laugh all night.
Touched By Blood is the third story I've published as an e-book on Amazon. I'm working on two more stories right now. Deadfinger, is a sequel to Touched By Blood, and the other (untitled) is a sequel to Journal, which was published about a year ago. I'll keep at it, too, because I figure even if nobody reads them, it gets me out of a hell of a lot of chores.
Craig Buckhout

