Justice Edge (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 10)

by Rex Bolt

  Chris said to Ned, “She didn’t fall for your set-up, the fake CraigsList deal when you introduced us -- or she forgot about it -- either way, thanks for sticking me in the middle of something.”

  Ned laughed. “She’s available, if that’s where you’re going. Don’t let Austin throw you off, he’s a big pussy cat at heart.”

  “I got mixed signals, let’s leave it at that . . . Listen, reason I came down . . . I’m taking off tomorrow.”

  Ned seemed genuinely surprised. “Come again?”

  “What we talked about. After needing that hour to dance around to it, only to bury it again . . . But yeah.”

  “No,” Ned said. “No good.”

  Chris said, “You figure it out, you can reach me, the next week or so. After that I’m not sure, I may have to ditch my phone.”

  “Why would that be?” Ned said, and Chris realized he was confused himself, this out-of-state stuff, between being on the run not wanting to be found . . . and the flip side, him finding someone (hopefully) who didn’t know he was being found.

  There wasn’t anything left to say tonight, either one of them . . . and Chris polished off his drink and waved a thanks to Cindy, and he noticed Austin and Jeannie still going at it, and he gave them a wide berth as he headed out the door.

  Chapter 10

  He’d given Mark a heads-up that he was coming, and you could hear Mark reacting like yeah sure . . . since fine, Chris had flaked out on him the last few times -- but Chris could also sense Mark was up for the challenge, and he told him short of getting crushed by a log truck on the way up there, he’d see him sometime tonight.

  Chris asked about Mel, Mark’s dog, who he’d had a nice encounter with that one time, and Mark said he was good, but that you don’t typically have to worry about log trucks coming up from LA, that was more up around Eureka, where that came into play.

  “I knew that,” Chris said. “I was making a general comment. Trying to emphasize, I’m good this time. I won’t lose the zip file in a fast food place on the way up, either.”

  “Being good,” Mark said, “that could be up for interpretation. Let’s see how it plays out before we start popping the champagne corks.”

  “Agreed,” Chris said, and Mark was handling it like a professional. No rosy predictions.

  Now that they were going to find out for sure -- what the cops would discover if they ran they Chris’s DNA (currently Jeff Masters by the Gardena lab) the same way . . . the cops not knowing of course whose DNA it was, and that was the whole point -- but now that it was a reality, Chris was nervous.

  What if there were a ton of relatives deep in his family tree, who watched late night TV and said this sounds good and did their spit-in-a-cup due diligence and sent it off to Ancestry.com?

  Taking it a step further -- Jeez, what if even Bonnie or Floyd got curious where the Seelys came from, way back in Neanderthal times, and they participated?

  Traffic slowed down like it always did around Harris Ranch, halfway there, and Chris thought of the old John Madden line again: worrying about something (or even multiple things) that you can’t control is a waste of time . . . and what the hay, he got in the right lane and exited, and took his time and sat down to a real steak dinner.

  And it wasn’t cheap. You were talking 38 bucks for a 14 ounce rib eye, but man it was good, just perfect, and he noticed an older couple splitting one, which they were certainly entitled to do, but it reminded him of a story . . . and the couple finished before he did and left, and Chris told the story to the waiter, a young Hispanic kid who probably had better things to do, but polite enough to stand there and listen.

  Chris said, “I was in Chico one time -- not sure if you know it, but it doesn’t matter. They have a famous steakhouse there -- one room, brick walls, about 12 tables, you need way advance reservations. But I’m passing by, looking in the window, checking the menu, and this guy’s heading in with his wife, and she says hey, they can split a steak, like it’s a revelation . . . The guy stops walking, turns to her real slow, puts his hands on his hips and says: I don’t bust my tail -- getting up at 5 in the morning -- walking a half mile to the bus -- take that to work -- walk four blocks the other end -- sit in a cubicle all day wrenching my brain -- then reverse the whole thing back home the other way . . . to split a steak.”

  The waiter smiled and nodded and moved on, and Chris was pretty sure it didn’t register the way it did with him, but it was fun to tell.

  ***

  “Hey,” Mark said.

  They shook hands and right away Mel was saying hello too, and Chris had to bend down and take care of that . . . and this was the beautiful thing about dogs, they always acted like they remembered you, even if they didn’t.

  “I suggested it last time,” Mark said. “Get one. Or have you by now?”

  Chris said he hadn’t, and he almost volunteered to house sit for Mark if he ever required it, but they were going off topic and Chris handed over the plastic thing from the lab. “What do they call these again? USB sticks?”

  “Yeah, or memory sticks.”

  “There’s another term though, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t know, a flash drive? Listen, we got bigger problems than naming the thing.”

  Mark explained that when he was convinced Chris was coming, he got started setting up the account, and there’d been an unexpected issue, and he didn’t want to complete the set up to where it could come back to bite them . . . and Chris had no idea what this meant, and told Mark that was understandable and thanks again -- and what Chris was getting at now, was yeah, please don’t fuck this up by jumping the gun.

  Mark said he’d need to get a hold of someone, research it a bit . . . and how soon did Chris need this . . . and Chris said, a little more directly now, that he didn’t need this at all, if it’s not going to work.

  He felt bad blurting it out like that, but Mark understood, and said, “Don’t worry. Getting out of these jams, that’s what I live for,” and he let Chris out, and back in the car Chris was thinking these tech nerds, you need ‘em, you appreciate ‘em -- but do they have to turn it into a game?

  ***

  Gloria said, “If I said I’m glad you called, would you term that an understatement?”

  “Huh?” Chris said.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “Uh let’s see . . . Franklin and Bush . . . meaning the left turn on Lombard. Didn’t they used to synchronize the lights on Franklin?”

  “I believe so. And the inverse, Gough as well, going south. Why do you ask?”

  And he didn’t want to be a bore and complain about traffic yet again, but without mentioning it, at the next intersection he turned left on Pine and got out of this mess. “Forget me,” Chris said. “What’s happening on your end?”

  “Can we be a bit more exact,” Gloria said. “How long are you in town, and where is your destination, currently?”

  “You know, the usual motel row . . . which I why I called you, maybe you want to meet in the Marina, grab a late bite.”

  “Okay, stop what you’re doing,” she said. “Get off Franklin, take anything westbound to California and Cherry, and you know exactly where I am from there.”

  She had her no-nonsense authoritative hat on, the same as when Chris first got to know her (if high school itself doesn’t count) at the 25th reunion -- and the woman couldn’t have been more gracious that weekend, and and some others later where Chris leeched off her as well.

  The point being, the past few times he’d had to be in San Francisco he didn’t contact her at all, on purpose, because she doesn’t take no for an answer re the accommodations, and it was getting embarrassing -- but Chris’s experience last time at the Lombard motel -- when he was looking for Ken in Bolinas -- was so unpleasant that he hoped she’d pick up tonight before he got back to one of those places and had to check in again.

  “Really?” he said now, and she gave him some sarcastic line, an is water wet type thing, and she was
waiting for him out front on Jackson when he pulled up.

  The big hug, showing him to his room, the covers turned back just so, like a 5-star resort, then the coffee brewing in the kitchen, the French pastries brought out and warmed up just right, and Gloria finishing it off by assuring Chris there’ll be no one else around to worry about.

  “My daughter,” she said. “It’s gotten worse. We can’t exist in the same room for more than 5 minutes. My ex -- for the sanity of everyone -- offered to take her full-time . . . and that’s essentially where we are.”

  Gloria was one of those glass-always-half-full folks, and her positive vibes did rub off, Chris driving back to LA more than once deciding he needed to be more that way too, and what was his problem . . . but Geez, estranged from your own daughter, that had to be tough.

  “Don’t mind me if I’m butting in on that one,” Chris said, “and of course never having been there myself . . .”

  “I get that all the time, from my friends,” she said. “It’s not what you think. I sleep fine. There’s no guilt, no emptiness. It’s surprising, I know, and overly simple . . . but she truly is, a little bitch.”

  Gloria had made a comment like this before, not sure on which visit, and Chris had assumed the sentiment was temporary, and would blow over in a day or two -- but, wow, obviously not.

  He laughed though, he couldn’t help it, it was her unlikely outburst . . . and Gloria stared at him for a moment and then began laughing herself.

  “How old is she again?” Chris said.

  “16. And counting.”

  “Okay. But the way you’re portraying her, your relationship, it’s almost like 2 sisters going at it.”

  “Fighting over the same guy, you mean? It’s funny you mention that, because my sister and I, that did happen.”

  “Really? She was at Lowell too?”

  “She sure was. We were a year and a half apart, but the way the schools worked it, she was only a grade behind me.”

  “Wow,” Chris said, trying to wrack his brain, was there another Johansen that he knew back then, and somehow didn’t connect to her being Gloria’s sister?

  “Sigrid,” Gloria said, following along, what Chris was thinking. “Ring any bells?”

  “Can’t say it does. What’s she doing now?”

  “Three kids. Lives in Alaska. Works at an Enterprise auto counter. She’s unhappy.”

  Chris flashed on a party one time, someone’s house in St Francis Woods, and son of gun, there was a Sigrid there -- and maybe Chris never connected the last names or was oblivious like you tended to be back then -- but that Sigrid was a very hot number.

  “Well,” Chris said, “if she’s unhappy why not come back to the Bay Area?”

  “It’s complicated,” Gloria said, and what else was new, and Chris asked about that guy Steve, who Gloria got together with on the reunion weekend.

  “He’s in Georgia,” she said.

  “That I did remember. But you guys were having a good time. No return connections?”

  “No. By the end of the weekend Chris, I believe you liked him better than I did.” She was smiling, so it wasn’t a sore spot. Chris said, “He wasn’t bad. Something happened in freshmen football, some guy making fun of me because my cleats were too big, kept coming off during practice until I added a second pair of socks -- but Steve sided with the guy, came up with a couple juicy remarks of his own.”

  Gloria said, “Until 25 years later.”

  “Yeah, you do hold dumb grudges. At least I do. That’s how it started off with Steve in your backyard . . . I’m waiting for the old incident to surface. But he’s kind of a philosopher back there, talking about weather patterns, and the wildfires up north, and different parts of the country he wouldn’t mind living -- a few ups and downs he’s had career-wise, honest about those -- and by the end of the evening I’m inviting the sucker to come out and stay with me in Manhattan Beach.”

  “Has he?”

  “Nah, I haven’t followed up. He seemed interested, both the lifestyle and the fact that I don’t really do anything.”

  “That’s amusing,” she said.

  “What I didn’t tell him -- actually I tried to, but he dismissed it -- is doing nothing is over-rated . . . and not necessarily that easy. The lifestyle part, yes I’ll agree with him there.”

  “What ever happened to your date lady,” Gloria said, “at the function?”

  Gloria was polite enough not to dig in, directly, but you could tell she was having fun.

  The scenario once again being Emma disappearing with that other guy -- Chris couldn’t even remember his name now -- right off the middle of the dance floor, prime time, an hour to go before they cut the huge cake and called people up and made all these announcements and presented awards.

  Chris said, “I’m glad I gave you and your friends something to laugh about on a rainy day.”

  “You did,” she said. “We won’t deny it. That was a first . . . And you handled it with good humor, I must say.” And she was chuckling again herself, which was starting to get a bit obnoxious, but Chris knew there were certain occurrences that never did get old, and he could think of a couple himself.

  “To address your question though,” he said, “I lost touch with Emma after that night . . . but I did hear through the grapevine that she had an issue with her ex-husband, and may have been forced into hiding.”

  Gloria wasn’t laughing now and her mouth was slightly open. “Are you pulling my leg? . . . My God, you’re not, are you.”

  “No. I don’t mean like hiding, as in changing your identity, or moving to a different state without telling anyone.” Which is of course exactly what he did mean. “But just, I don’t know. They’ll probably resolve it through mediation, these things take time.”

  Gloria seemed relieved, and said, “Well how’s Ken?”

  And Chris had to remind himself that Gloria did get to know Ken, when she hosted them both on that Zodiac hunt . . . and there were a few things you were going to leave out of your answer at this point -- namely that he’d become somewhat of a porn star, and he was a wanted man after the Emma-husband deal . . . and who knows what the real verdict is, even now.

  “He’s fine,” Chris said. “Good solid kid, doing his thing.”

  “Wonderful values on that young man,” Gloria said. “I inquired about his upbringing and he conceded that it was a bit difficult, that he was raised by an aunt and uncle.”

  Ken had told Chris he was raised by his grandmother, and ooh boy . . . but no point, nothing quite added up anymore, not just with Kenny, but period . . . did it?

  “So,” Chris said, looking at his watch. “We can do something, if you like. You’re not going to bring up the Latin dancing place though, don’t hit me with that one.”

  “Well they are open until 2, at least,” she said, playfull. “Unless you have a better suggestion?” And okay fine . . . you had to go along, the woman was taking care of you after all, and at least you could park on Columbus Avenue at this hour.

  ***

  “I’m going to need one more day,” Mark said. They were on the phone.

  “We’ve been over this,” Chris said, “take all the time you need.” That he didn’t mean, necessarily, with the trip back east dangling on his plate . . . but the last thing you wanted was the guy feeling like you’re looking over his shoulder.

  But Mark was a little further along than Chris expected. He said, “Do you know a Frances Fergussen in Iowa City?”

  “Huh?” Chris said.

  “That’s one of them. Your relatives. How a Michael Justice in Pensacola, Florida?”

  “Never heard of ‘em,” Chris said. “You sure you’re doing this right?”

  “So far, yep, I’m pretty confident . . . Got your profile to run, finally, had to run our little snag by Vladamir.”

  Chris assumed this would be the consultant Mark referenced, when he was having trouble in the beginning . . . and that was just to get in there, correct?

/>   “Lot of progress then, last 12 hours it sounds like,” Chris said. Now that it was actually happening, Chris was thrown off by the cold reality of there being relatives in there -- but what did he expect, that’s why you were doing this . . . But still, Fuck.

  “For sure,” Mark said. “Let’s see . . . Pat (Patricia) Sindegard? It says Wheeling, West Virginia? . . . Bear in mind now, these listings, they show you where the individual was born.”

  “Oh,” Chris said, and Jeez, what was the difference.

  “There’s a an optional box they can check though,” Mark said, clearly in the groove and excited about the whole thing. “In those cases, they list where they live currently . . . Or at least where they did live when they submitted their DNA.”

  “Well whooppee,” Chris said.

  There was a pause. “Okay I get where you’re coming from. Don’t worry. If my approach (our approach) is on the money -- and I’ll know soon enough -- we’ll be wiping the slate clean of these folks.” Mark said to check back tomorrow, and mentioned some before and after work, and Chris knew what he probably meant, and let’s not complicate this thing with unnecessary demonstrations -- but of course you didn’t tell Mark that, you gave him a big old thanks and prayed for the best.

  Chapter 11

  “Listen,” Chris said to Gloria, “you doing anything special today?”

  They were in the kitchen, Chris had come down after calling Mark, and she had griddle working, the middle of the stove, and hot cakes on there, and naturally with Gloria they weren’t your run of the mill Bisquick flapjacks.

  “Un-believable,” Chris said, stuffing in the first bite after saturating the beauties with both the real Vermont maple syrup she brought out, as well an incredible blackberry jam from somewhere.

  “Oh you always say that,” she said. “You’re my best fan.”

  “And I’m betting you always say that,” Chris said, “because whatever you concoct -- unless the guest in question was born tastebud-less -- is going to leave them dripping in a state of orgiastic delight.”