Justice Edge (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 10)

by Rex Bolt

  Though Chandler wouldn’t necessarily assume that anything pertained to Chris here -- right? Just that Chris probably heard about something that did happen -- or might have happened -- and wanted to explore it a bit further.

  Either way, Chris wouldn’t even have run it by Chandler this time, since it’s not his normal territory, except that Chandler back toward the beginning -- and what was that deal even about now? But bottom line, Chandler surprisingly had a solid contact in Sonoma County -- not Marin per se but right above it, likely good enough.

  Oh yeah, that was where Chris wanted to make sure he wasn’t under the radar up there, which he assured Chandler would have been real goofy and misplaced and completely off target -- and Chandler to his credit didn’t pass judgement (for the most part) and discretely found out that he currently wasn’t.

  So yes, Chandler might be able to get a word back to him on the pricks who robbed him at gunpoint on Mount Tamalpais, when he was killing time while Kay her Nancy friend engaged in their shopping spree at the Corte Madera mall.

  Chris said, “One guy did more of the talking -- from what I understand. Shorter of the two . . . also what I heard, there was a brown car involved. Not a Honda or Toyota most likely. More like a Hyundai or Kia. Like I said, lightish brown.”

  What happened that night was when he was forking over the money and explaining why he wasn’t going to give up his wallet as well, he noticed the shadowy outline of one car in the parking lot, the trees mostly in the way. No idea what it was, except that it belonged to these a-holes.

  Then though, a minute later, he did see the car better, after they’d exited the pull-out out of view and had swung around and were headed back down the hill, and you wouldn’t have been sure it was the same car, except there were two black faces in front.

  The other issue being, at that moment, Chris was in the middle of seeing stars from just having been pistol whipped in the head -- but he did process the vehicle.

  “Unh-huh,” Chandler said. “That it?’

  “There’s a little more I think, about the car, from what I heard. If it helps. It sat a bit low, like they can these days, and it had those hub cabs that spin around funny.”

  “You mean the opposite direction of the wheels?”

  “I think so. I’m guessing they keep spinning when a guy stops at a light, I think I’ve seen that.”

  “That it?”

  “I’m afraid so. I wasn’t given much else . . . What do you think? Any ideas?”

  “My experience up there?” Chandler said “The bulk of your crime -- the black population you’re referring to -- that’s going to be based in the city, or the Oakland/Richmond corridor.”

  “Kind of my impression too,” Chris said, the implication being Marin County was one of the whitest -- and richest -- counties on the planet. And it could happen of course -- but you didn’t typically run across inner city black guys driving across the bridge to go for an evening hike on Mount Tam -- or even rob someone there who was doing that.

  “Let’s see what my guy says,” Chandler said. “Meanwhile don’t do anything stupid.” Chandler hung up.

  And this wasn’t a normal finishing comment from Chandler, who kept it clinical and relatively objective . . . and Chris was startled for a moment, that Holy Mackeral, did he know something?

  Chris convinced himself no . . . because nothing happened here . . . on his end . . . and he reminded himself that he’d been a simple victim in this one for Gosh sakes.

  Chandler’s manner and admonition did confirm though -- didn’t it -- that who are we kidding, Chandler probably understands the big picture . . . and Chris trying to be coy and cagey and otherwise BS him on the petty details of these things -- so what, the guy gets it.

  Friday Chris was almost home, at least the Bay Area, and he decided to call Mark and tell him the good news, what happened out in Detroit. It had been another post card day and he’d cut over at Clear Lake and out to the coast, and now was back in Bodega Bay, one of his favorite spots, and he dropped down off Highway 1 past the crab boats and the marine lab, and drove up the bluff to Bodega Head.

  It was more crowded than usual for a week day out here, but someone told him the whales were visible, meaning the annual migration of the gray whales from the feeding grounds of Alaska to the warm lagoons of Baja, which Chris could never quite wrap his head around. He’d seen whales a couple times from this spot, rolling around in the kelp beds surprisingly close to shore, not appearing in any hurry.

  Maybe he’d take a good look after he reached Mark.

  “Oh hey,” Mark said. “Still to trying to figure it out, work the kinks. I can tell you’re concerned.”

  “Yeah well, I appreciate it,” Chris said. “But one good thing -- long story short -- I took care of that late addition, the Studebakker guy out in Michigan.”

  “Jeepers,” Mark said. “I mean . . . what do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t fancy. Leave it at that for now. I’ll give you more detail another time, though it’s not real inspiring . . . The good thing though, at least I could relax driving home.”

  You could hear Mark clicking around. “No,” he said, “I’m still seeing the guy.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” Chris said . . . and he made sure Mark was on Gedmatch and had the correct name.

  “Hey sorry man,” Mark said, “but no . . . You what . . . I’m taking a guess. You convinced the guy that another genealogy site would be more advantageous? And he deleted himself from this one?”

  “Something like that. Yeah,” Chris said, starting to feel more than a little sick.

  Mark said, “Problem we’re seeing with Gedmatch -- and it’s very clean overall, mind you, the massive engines they’re having to run, and essentially via open source volunteers -- but one bug is its cache.”

  “Uh,” Chris said.

  “Meaning -- the database tends to retain information unnecessarily.”

  Chris had no come-back to that one. What could you say? He did everything right, it sure seemed like . . . and it didn’t matter.

  “However,” Mark said, “and this is the exciting part. I’ve come up with a new point of entry, different foundation entirely. I should be able to a) contain the re-peats like we were discussing before, and b) handle the new entries this time -- such as your friend in question in Michigan -- not to mention we get notified when a new one of these folks joins up.”

  Chris said okay then, and please don’t torture yourself . . . though both statements were incorrect . . . it wasn’t okay that Chris was still currently hanging out to dry, probably, if Law Enforcement took a good hard look . . . and in terms of Mark torturing himself, please do that, if that’s what it takes.

  There’d been an article in Sports Illustrated this week on the ‘69 Mets coming out of nowhere and winning the World Series, and not that it pertained exactly but it reminded Chris of another Met, from ten years later, a relief pitcher named Tug McGraw, and he had a mantra which caught on, “You gotta believe.”

  Right now -- with Mark, the computer quirks, the DNA profiles, the unlikely relatives -- Chris figured you could do worse than keep your fingers crossed and buy into what Tug McGraw was selling . . . and he got back in the car and headed to San Francisco.

  Chapter 17

  Sunday morning Gloria had announced that she was trying a new take on Eggs Benedict, with an Asian-fusion twist, and it was a recipe one of the cutting-edge chefs in Hayes Valley gave away for a little extra PR . . . and for Chris not to be too hard on her if it didn’t work out.

  And of course each of Gloria’s culinary presentations tended to outdo that last, and this was no exception. “I might have told you this before,” Chris said, “but even if it wasn’t incredible I’d tell you it was . . . but no need for that here.”

  Gloria said, “You’re saying you lie then, on a semi-regular basis.”

  “Not with you, no. You missed my whole point.”

  “I understand,” she said, and she wagge
d a finger at him, smiling, like I know you’re a naughty boy sometimes . . . but you could tell she believed him that he was loving this particular meal.

  Chris’s phone rang and for better or worse it was Chandler . . . and you couldn’t dispect Gloria’s work right in the middle of the action and excuse yourself for a moment, so Chris told him he’d call back in 20 minutes.

  The for better or worse reaction was because Chris had forgotten by now (mostly) about getting in touch with Chandler from the rest stop off I-5 in Gold Hill, Oregon, on Thursday.

  In fact he was mentally set to return to Manhattan Beach, either later today or first thing in the morning. His current measure of guilt for calling on Gloria once again was front and center -- but meanwhile, dang, this Eggs Benedict concoction was something else . . . and why not another cup of fresh-dripped organic Bali blue mountain dark bean coffee, which Gloria was coming over with at the moment, before worrying about that guy.

  Finally Chris did excuse himself and went outside on Jackson and took a slow walk toward Arguello, where you turn into the Presidio.

  Chandler answered pretty quick and said, “Here’s the scoop, take it however you want. Limiting the details here -- there is a recent record, two guys, petty thefts, one taller one shorter, lower Marin County, some vandalism. Mostly it’s car break-ins, to be honest. They did link them to employing a similar vehicle to the one you described.”

  “Ah.”

  “The two fellas in question reside in Marin City.”

  “Yeah, Jeez,” Chris said, “not a huge surprise I guess.” Marin City being an anomaly, a cluster of housing projects built in the 1950’s in lower Mill Valley that you saw from the freeway as you started up Waldo Grade toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Chandler’s point earlier made sense, that black guys committing crimes in upscale Marin County likely would have come from one of the Bay Area urban centers -- since there sure weren’t many thug black guys living in Marin -- with the exception maybe of Marin City.

  Chandler continued. “One of them, a James DuPree, 22 years old, has been apprehended and detained since April 3rd. The other half of the pair is underaged. No name on him. Spent 72 hours in Juvenile Hall in San Rafael, also from April 3rd . . . Anything else?”

  “No, wow, thanks. Once again. What can I say? . . . Do they know which one was the taller one, and which one was the short guy?”

  “Give me a break,” Chandler said. “That all?”

  Chris said he wouldn’t bother him again, this should do it . . . and he added that Chandler didn’t sound that great today and hopefully not on account of this . . . and Chandler said nah, his shoulder’s giving him trouble, the damn bursitis again, and he hasn’t been able to pick up a racquet for a couple days . . . and Chris said you’ll be fine, and Chandler said how would you know, and they wrapped things up.

  ***

  Gloria’s friend Tina was having a get-together at her house in Lafayette, celebrating the renovation being finished, and even Gloria, who could spend money with the best of ‘em, seemed to be rolling her eyes, pointing out that the house was already perfect, didn’t need a darn thing. Anyhow she invited Chris, said Tina’s parties are always fun, and there might even be some people Chris would know from back in high school, that there are a few connections.

  Chris said that’s okay, he’s got it covered today, going to keep it low key . . . and she made him promise he’d check in later, and Chris got in the car and drove to Marin City.

  The housing projects were hanging off the side of the hill in the eucalyptus trees, spaced out, and there was one road up there and one back down, but you had these flatlands at the bottom, and that’s what Chris always thought of as Marin City, because there was a popular flea market there on the weekends.

  And it was one of those now, a perfectly fine Sunday afternoon, and it was dead here, and had been ever since they decided 15 years ago that the flea market didn’t contribute enough to the local economy, considering the valuable space it wasted -- and in all-American fashion the dodo birds on whatever commission approved a commercial development that would rival the worst that a Gary, Indiana, for example, might have to offer.

  In any case, they did have a fast food joint and Chris had zero appetite but you could sit down in there and at least mull it over -- were you barking up the wrong tree here and should you lick your wounds once and for all and forget it?

  The girl behind the counter was black, so you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to assume she was local, that she probably just walked down the hill to work -- and as she was putting the lid on his iced tea he asked if she was still in high school, and where would that be, that kids living around here would go.

  She said yes she was, and she was talkative -- that they hired you here at 15, younger than the In-n-Outs and Burger Kings, and it was a good opportunity, and her goal was to work up to district manager.

  Chris said don’t you need to manage this place first, aren’t you skipping a step, and she laughed and said that was true but she liked to think ahead. Chris said yeah, when it comes down to it, good to skip steps . . . and he repeated the question about the high school, and she answered that she and two of her friends go to Tam, and one goes to Redwood, and one goes to San Rafael High.

  This pointed out of course that there wasn’t a whole lot of population in Marin City, period. You had like 4 or 5 buildings up on the hill, HUD apartments, and that was it. Yes, maybe they were adding a few more down below, but the bottom line was you’d only have a handful of minority kids in any given grade, at any of these schools.

  Leaving San Rafael out of it, which was the furthest away and less likely . . . between Tam and Redwood, Chris knew them both a little bit, and he’d had the stint teaching in Terra Linda himself, 8 miles up the road.

  There wasn’t a lot else to do about it today, unless you considered driving up to the projects themselves and banging on a couple doors like a fool and standing out for sure -- and what would you ask, exactly?

  So he drove over to Redwood, got the feel for it again, it hadn’t changed or expanded much, it was still parking-lot heavy with the main school and gym set back and a bunch of temporary classrooms lined up near where the canal came through below the old railroad tracks, which were long gone in favor of a bike trail.

  Then he swung over to Tam, older main structure, some character to it, up a lot of steps to get to the main entrance. This was on Miller Avenue where it opened up and started curving around toward Almonte Boulevard.

  Chris figured there were probably mini-school bus runs from Marin City to both of them, Redwood and Tam, but if he had to guess, he’d side with the girl in the fast food place, and play the percentages and put the hold-up kid going to Tam.

  You’d give it a shot anyhow, you were in it to this extent -- not sure who you owed it to, but someone.

  ***

  Monday, Tamalpais High School let out at 2:26, just like it told you on the website, and the old clock tower read more like 2:40 but the chimes at least rang on time, and the spring 2018 crop of students started pouring down those front steps to Miller Avenue.

  One thing that hadn’t changed Chris noticed, and probably universal to every generation, was the kids tended to gravitate to the ones that looked like them.

  You could pick out the wanabee hippies, the cleaner cut pre-yuppies, the jocks with the sunglasses and Nike shorts, the brainy group with the regular glasses and more disheveled appearance, and so on . . . and you had a small Hispanic cluster . . . and a group of black kids, getting onto a yellow school bus out front now, and another group hustling to catch up before the thing left without them . . . which was unlikely, but Chris remembered those days himself, you didn’t screw around with your transportation.

  In the second group Chris thought he spotted the tall kid who held him up, the shorter one apparently being the 22-year-old who they were holding and charging with something.

  But you weren’t sure, and Chris got behind the yellow bus
and followed it the 2 and a half miles south to Marin City.

  The bus let everyone out on sidewalk section of the service road, down below in the flats where the fast food place was, and Chris supposed it would be a little tricky for the busses, going all the way up top, and having to negotiate something up there in order to get down.

  It worked fine, the lower drop-off, the kids were filing out, no one complaining, and most of them started off up the hill, and few were heading to get something to eat probably . . . and meanwhile two kids were walking the other way now, south, and Jeez, toward the freeway, 101, and the tall kid Chris had his eye on was one of them.

  Hmm. Chris left the Malibu in the fast food parking lot and followed along.

  It was clear soon enough that the two guys heading in the direction of 101, which was zooming past two blocks away, meant they were likely going under the thing, toward Sausalito. There weren’t really any other options.

  On the Sausalito side you had the northern finger of San Francisco Bay, and there was a waterfront -- not the touristy one in the main part of Sausalito but a more blue collar one here, with boatbuilders and welders and fiberglassers sprinkled in with a couple of fishermen’s marinas.

  The two kids didn’t go that far though, they turned right, went a short block, turned right again into a neighborhood, and half a block left . . . and there was a city park with slides and swings and benches and some ducks running around . . . but also a full length basketball court.

  Gee . . . they’re going to play some ball it looks like. That simple?

  Chris watched it unfold, and yeah it was. The two guys called next, waited until the current game finished, picked the best three guys off the losing team to be on their team -- exactly how Chris and his friends had always done it -- and the winner would take on the next set of challengers.

  The kid wasn’t bad, he could definitely leap but his ball skills could use work, and the kid with him was the more complete player, though the (probable) robber-kid had more upside to his game, Chris concluded.

  Meanwhile . . . this was going to go on for a while, a couple hours probably, and Chris went back and got the car, so he’d be ready.