Justice Dig (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 9)

by Rex Bolt

  For now though . . . tough as it was to wrap your head around, there was a dose of reality to Ned’s information . . . that being, Emma had said one time: If I had a bazooka, I swear, I’d use it on my husband.

  Words to that effect.

  Chris could place it too, it was when things were picking up steam between them, and you didn’t know where it would go, but Chris was inspired enough to invite Emma up north as his 25th high school reunion date. He didn’t have a whole lot of slam-dunk options, but still.

  Emma had explained to him when they first met, that yes she was married, but she and her husband had an open relationship, and they lived together strictly for convenience at this point.

  A week before the reunion though, Chris got up one morning wanting to be with her and she told him she was in Venice, and they met for a little brunch on the beach boardwalk. It was a warm morning and there was a lot of flesh passing by -- biking, walking, jogging, skating and otherwise -- and Emma expressed an interest in a few of the male bodies, which Chris was fine with, and a female or two as well, which Chris found he was also fine with.

  She told him the reason she’d been in Venice, spending the night with old college girlfriend, is she had a bad argument with her husband and stormed out of there, and Chris didn’t pry into the details, he let her talk, and that’s when she built up to the If I had a bazooka declaration.

  And wait a second, Jeeminy . . .

  Now that it was coming back . . . didn’t she make a few other similar comments here and there as well?

  Because now he remembered that he, Chris, actually drove over there -- the Torrance house -- and parked up the block for twenty minutes before driving away -- but the concern had been, should he inform the husband that Emma might be sliding a bit off the rails.

  He realized now too, that part of going there was a sneaky motive of his own, since he didn’t completely trust her and wanted to see if there even was a husband and if she lived where she said . . . and after those 20 minutes he felt guilty snooping around, even if the original reason had some credence . . . and he didn’t give much thought to the guy again.

  Now that you were up, unfortunately for good it looked like, you might as well check the news. So first the easy way, on TV, and there was one 11 o’clock LA newscast being replayed, but he came in halfway through and there was nothing about any assault in Torrance.

  And let’s face it, unless someone died, or it was a particularly noteworthy assaulter or assaultee, it likely wouldn’t make a half hour newscast anyway.

  So plan B -- Chris was never sure about this -- but the internet. The whole business of leaving tracks -- what kind of stuff your were looking at, even searching. He made a decision this time, that if a man can’t simply read the news online, we’ve gone down the tubes as a society . . . and yep, there was a small item, page 3 of the LA Times, datemarked 6:12 pm, meaning it wouldn’t appear in the physical paper until tomorrow morning -- meaning this morning, since it was close to 3 now, but whatever.

  Torrance Man in Critical Condition Following Alleged Domestic Assault

  by Ruben Barnaby

  March 18, 2018---A south bay architect is in critical condition tonight following what police say was a domestic argument that escalated into violence in a Torrance townhouse.

  Nicholas Mathieson, of 1189 Lone Pine Way, was rushed to Torrance Memorial Medical Center at approximately 11;45 this morning, after a dog walker reported heard a man calling for help from the residence.

  Police declined to specify the nature of the assault, but sources tell the LA Times that a hand tool was involved.

  Police offered no other information at this time.

  Records show that Mathieson, 46, maintained an office in Redondo Beach, and has been married three times, most recently to Gina Mae Loren, whose whereabouts at this hour are unknown.

  Sheesh . . .

  Was he all mixed up here, and was even the right guy getting assaulted?

  A couple things. You could understand Emma, with her personality, not taking a husband’s last name -- this guy or anyone else’s, even if she was married to Bradley Cooper.

  But three wives for the dude, the current of which wasn’t Emma?

  Unless she’d really been feeding Chris a line, faking her whole identity, which seemed going too far, and he dismissed it.

  He supposed you’d have to look it up, but not here, you’d need the security of the library computer . . . and just for the heck of it he went through the rest of the LA Times online, and the Daily News too, to see if there was a different assault in the last 24 hours in Torrance, but nothing showed up.

  Chris felt a little more relaxed about looking around Google Street View, and even so he went incognito mode, which someone told him about recently, not sure if it protected you but why not . . . and there was the townhouse and you could spin it around 360, and if he didn’t 100 percent recognize the house he at least pegged it the same block he sat in the car on for the twenty minutes when curiosity got the better of him last fall.

  So . . . you had a verified assault. You had the cops, in pretty serious mode, looking for Emma. In theory, they could be looking for her as a material witness, not as the perpetrator . . . heck, maybe this listed third wife, the Gina gal, didn’t like Emma for some reason, and took it out on poor Nicholas.

  Except then you had Mancuso telling you she hacked the guy. And the sucker did have his connections.

  You couldn’t fight it at this point, despite the confusing multiple wives deal . . . and when you took the news article literally -- domestic dispute -- Emma might have been making it with the guy on and off, never married to him.

  Either way, it was sure coming into focus now that she’s in some deep doo-doo . . . But, what does that have to do with Kenny?

  Probably plenty, unfortunately. The kid was loyal to a fault, for one, and could be helping her now, hiding her, driving her cross country for all you knew.

  However you spun it, this was pretty messed up.

  After a while Chris tried to go back to bed but that was useless, and he went down to the pool and there was a paperback someone had left on a patio table, and the security light off the side of the building gave you just enough, and the book happened to be a Western, not great, a bit predictable, but it helped kill a couple hours until the sun came up.

  Chapter 6

  “Whoa, I’d say look what the cat dragged in,” Chandler said, “but that’s not quite the appropriate expression.”

  “How are you,” Chris said.

  “I’m good. Maybe great even. Depending on if I can close this guy out in straight sets.”

  Chris had dropped by the Polliwog tennis courts, 10:30 the next morning, a quiet Monday down here, only Chandler and the one guy going at it. Chandler was one of those finicky people who didn’t waver from his schedule, so it was a good bet he’d be here now.

  Chris played with Chandler a fair amount for a while, and it wasn’t the losing the got to him -- fine, Chandler was a little better, and won most of their encounters -- but it was the cocky attitude he’d lay on you, during, and after.

  That’s apparently what was going on today, a young guy with a paisley bandana wrap covering his hair on the far bench working his gatorade and not looking like a real happy participant. Chandler volunteered to Chris that he was up 4-2 in the 2nd set, having won the first 6-3 -- had to throw in the first set score, no need for that at all -- and to what does he owe the pleasure of Chris’s presence today?

  Chris said let’s get into it after you finish, and Chandler pressed up and off the bench, big bounce to his step as he manned the far baseline and got set to return the guy’s serve, which wasn’t much, the guy clearly an intermediate player at best . . . and Chris supposed if it makes your day to line up guys like this and be on the winning handshake so you can brag about your prowess . . . okay, whatever floats your boat.

  The important point registering with Chris of course, was Chandler didn’t seem to know anyt
hing about the other thing.

  Meaning he didn’t seem worried about anything related to Ken . . . which told you Chandler very likely didn’t know that he was in trouble.

  The last two games concluded, Chandler winning them both easily, and the opponent didn’t bother sitting down any more, he wanted a change of scenery, you could see that, and as the guy headed to his car Chandler called out, “Great effort today, you’re really coming on, I’ll see you Thursday!”

  “Now,” he said to Chris, one leg on the high top of the bench, his chin angling toward his knee, stretching out a hamstring.

  “You remind me of someone,” Chris said, “guy named Maierhoffer. I told you that once, right?”

  “I believe so,” Chandler said, “you former doubles partner someplace?”

  Not exactly, Chris wasn’t partners with Maierhoffer, that was for sure, but fine. Chris said, “This guy today, he was a patsy.”

  “Oh to the contrary,” Chandler said. “Sambo played last year at the JC. He’s legit.”

  “Which JC?”

  “Orange Coast.”

  “Yeah right,” Chris said, and that would be a bunch of crap, Chris knowing enough to label this guy college-club level at best, and that’d be generous -- the more likely answer, he took a tennis PE class somewhere.

  “Think what you want,” Chandler said.

  “But Jeez, Sambo.”

  “I know. I mentioned it to him, but he shrugged his shoulders, so what are you gonna do.”

  Chris remembered Sambo’s restaurant chain when he was a kid, in fact there was one on Lombard Street, and the racial connotation of the word surfaced eventually and they shut down, though they did give you a good honest stack of buckwheat cakes, where were hard to find in most breakfast joints.

  “What about Ken?” Chris said.

  “What about him? Different animal of course, he continues to kick my ass every Friday, when he can make it. I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  Chris had dragged Ken out here one day when he first moved into the apartment, and it was surprising how fluid and natural the guy was, and of course modest as well, and Chandler got it out of him that he’d played the high-level USTA junior circuit. Ever since then Chandler put Ken on a pedestal tennis-wise, and took an interest in the kid’s well-being period.

  Which is part of why Chris supposed he was beating around the bush here.

  “The police were looking for him,” Chris said. “Last night.”

  Again, Chris was pretty darn certain this would be news to Chandler, but you still watched his reaction carefully, since Chandler could poker-face you . . . though Chris couldn’t see why that would be necessary now.

  “You’re kidding me,” Chandler said.

  “Not a joke,” Chris said.

  You could see Chandler considering the possibilities, and Chris knew where he was probably headed. They’d never discussed it, but you had to figure between his tennis deal with the kid and his connection to Mancuso, that Chandler was aware of the Strand house business, meaning Ken’s recent involvement there.

  Chris re-directed him. “And not where I think you’re going with it. This gal Emma, who I used to know and Kenny did too, she tried to do her husband apparently. The cops asked me about both of ‘em.”

  “Which cops?” Chandler was in lawyer mode now, no more bs, no more hamstring stretching going on.

  “Plain clothes ones. I’m guessing detectives.”

  “LAPD?”

  “You would think. Though the thing did happen in Torrance.”

  “When?”

  “I just said, yesterday.”

  “What time?”

  “The paper said before noon.”

  “What else did it say?”

  “Not a lot. The guy was on his third wife, it said. Different name than Emma.”

  “Could that have been her real name?”

  “It’s possible. My instinct would be, she’s either one of the other two wives, or was making it with the guy on the side.”

  “How’d you know her?”

  “We dated briefly. I mentioned her to you, I’m pretty sure.”

  “What makes you think she’s involved with this assault?”

  “Ned Mancuso told me. He didn’t know about Ken either, when I ran it by him. I guess he asked around.”

  Chandler was quiet for a minute. He knew as well as Chris that Ned’s information on something like this would be solid.

  “Did you know the husband?” Chandler said.

  “No, but the other part, this gal was a live wire it turned out, went a little unstable on me later -- not violent unstable, but still -- she mentioned to me once wanting to bazooka the guy.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “What? . . . No, of course not, they’d just had some argument, it sounded like, that she was still steaming from.”

  “You didn’t think she was making a credible threat?”

  “Oh, well, I did do one thing, a week or so later, I drove over there, thought about knocking on the door, not exactly warning the guy, but relating the comment she made.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Nah, I chickened out.”

  “How did she become a little unstable on you later?”

  “That was nothing, I shouldn’t even have thrown that in. We were at an event is all, and she left in the middle with another guy.”

  “Did she and Kenny have relations?”

  “Jesus. Okay, you put a gun to my head? I think probably.”

  “What else did the newspaper say? Beyond the first what else.”

  “That’s about it, it was brief. The dude was an architect it said, he was in bad shape, critical condition . . . oh yeah, it mentioned something odd, that the according to police the whereabouts of the third wife, a Gina something, where currently unknown.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. They do that, try to drop the guard of the real POI they’re looking for.”

  “The rest was the police declining to comment further, only that it was something domestic, but the reporter finding out a hand tool was used . . . which Ned confirmed too, a garden one he said.”

  Chandler was silent again.

  “What?” Chris said.

  “I hope to God he didn’t help her,” Chandler said. “But it looks like they’re working it that way.”

  “My thoughts too,” Chris said.

  ***

  Obviously the wheels were turning with Chandler now and he’d be making calls and trying to piece it together.

  And if he did get anywhere Chris would hear about it soon enough. But Jeez -- you had both phones disconnected, and Stacy -- who let’s face it knew Kenny pretty dang well, despite their ups and downs -- she doesn’t know where he is and she’s worried sick.

  Chandler would likely pull up more information on the crime itself, but that wasn’t going to change much. You already knew you had a guy hanging on in intensive care, who hopefully hadn’t croaked . . . and you had a kid on the run, to God knows where.

  It was starting to boil down to that now, wasn’t it . . . beyond the details of what happened or whether he might or might not have been involved . . . but where was the guy?

  ***

  Chris was in the taqueria on PCH, Scion’s, for no other reason than Finch and the reporter gal talking about it yesterday planted a seed, and on the way back from Chandler he saw the sign and automatically turned in.

  They were friendly in here, they left you alone and you could think. Or try to.

  Chris never knew a whole lot about Ken’s background. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask him much, you let him go there if he wanted, and Ken, for all his openness and gregariousness, hadn’t said much.

  Chris remembered one thing though -- that when Ken worked his deal with the deadbeat motel guest who was causing all the trouble for Sharif, threatening legal action and all -- Ken mentioned he found common ground with the guy, which loosened things up, and the common ground was they were both raise
d by their grandmothers.

  Then again . . . somewhere that’d be public record, wouldn’t it? When the cops started digging around, which they probably already had?

  Chris had no idea how to get ahold of Stacy at this point, and you hated to involve Dr. Stride now, but maybe you needed to. Stride’s number he did have, not the office number but the personal cell, on account of the guy insisting Chris carry it around. That was the least you could do, Chris supposed, after Stride had gone the extra step that time to drop by the apartment and make sure things were okay.

  Stride had been his psychiatrist -- technically, though it was a one-shot deal, and a complimentary session with a coupon at that. The thing that happened, which Chris had forgotten about when Stacy showed up last night, was Stride and Stacy were an item briefly.

  Putting it back together now, when Stride did his welfare check Chris felt bad and invited him to stay for dinner, and at that point Ken and Stacy were back staying in Chris’s apartment so Chris invited them too, and Marlene must have been hanging around the pool or something because she came too.

  At the restaurant Stride started holding court, and the guy was pretty erudite and Chris supposed interesting too, and Stacy was kind of swept off her feet there, and Ken didn’t seem to mind, he was sort of out of it that night.

  They all went across the street after dinner to the Nest and yep, Dr. Stride and Stacy sure looked like an item, they didn’t try to hide it, and of course you had the Indian Wells tennis event, where Ned got the limo and drove everyone, and the two of them were plenty lovey-dovey there too.

  So Gee, Chris must have blanked on the whole business last night, when Stacy had Martin waiting outside.

  “Bruce here, speak to me please,” was how Stride answered Chris’s call.

  “Very strange,” Chris said. “Why would you talk like that?”

  There was some hesitation and Dr. Stride placed Chris’s voice, and said it was good to hear it. Though you could feel some apprehension there as well, the doctor likely wondering what would be coming next, from a former patient.