Steve Silverman. The ex-Mr. Katherine, as she now thought of him. It had been two years since he left, two years of pain and near-crippling self-doubt. Two years of not simply being afraid to move on, but of genuinely not being sure she could. Cheating bastard, she thought, then, disgusted with herself, said aloud, “Katherine, you are a worthy and lovable person. You are very capable, and you choose whether or not to be happy.”
She took another sip of the pinot and felt herself relax a bit. Dr. Slayton had told her she would get to this point, that she would one day feel confident again and be ready to move on. And he’d been right. The therapy and the antidepressants had done their jobs, and she, Dr. Katherine James, had emerged relatively whole. She sighed, thinking of the proverb “Physician, heal thyself.” She had felt like such a fraud; what would her patients think of her, knowing their shrink needed a shrink? How could she advise them about their problems when she had so many of her own? Who was she to do that? And the doubts had come crashing in.
The rest of the red disappeared from the glass without her really noticing.
Presently, she felt a chill. Rising from the chair, she took her now-empty wine glass inside and considered having another. She needed just one more, she decided.
It really was time to move on. She had a new apartment with a six-month lease, and could take her time searching for just the right home, one that she wanted. She had also gone on several shopping trips and had filled the apartment with new furniture, dishes, appliances, art, and knickknacks. The shelves in the den held whatever books caught her eye, and she had even changed her hair and wardrobe. She was a new person. No, not really a new person, she thought. She was on her way to being the best version of herself.
And she finally felt ready to meet a new man. Katherine had learned the hard way that she needed to be cautious. No jumping right in. And no blinders on now; she was not the starry-eyed young woman she had once been. She had an idea of what she wanted in a man, and definitely knew what she didn’t want. Any man she might consider would have to be honest, decent, and able to give her at least part of himself. And faithful, he had to be faithful, that was not negotiable. She wanted a man who was capable of caring about another human being in the deep way necessary for a real relationship. She deserved that, and knew she could give that in return to the right man. Assuming he existed.
The second glass of wine finished, Katherine put the bottle away and rinsed the glass. She walked to the bedroom, picking up her keys and placing them on the table where they belonged, and gathering her shoes along the way. She took from a dresser drawer her new pajamas, lightweight with a pattern of birds and flowers in pinks and blues and yellows. She stepped out of the knee-length, straight skirt she wore, and unbuttoned her silk blouse, hanging both over a chair back. They would go to the dry cleaner tomorrow. This evening would be a cozy at-home one, with leftover Chinese food and the comfortable pajamas. She would sit on the new couch with her new laptop and go over some of her files, make some notes and prepare for her next sessions with various patients. She had respect for all of them, although she did enjoy working with some more than others. Still she knew she gave each of them her best effort and full attention; she could sleep nights knowing that. Katherine glanced at the first name on the list of her clients. She smiled, unaware that she was doing so. She told herself she needed to start with this file, because the patient had complex issues to deal with and she needed to be well versed in all aspects they had covered so far. She had been considering for a few weeks now advising this patient that having sessions twice a week instead of just once would be beneficial. She found she really cared about his progress, and often thought about him and wondered how he was doing.
Katherine’s smile widened, and she realized she was smiling and had been thinking of this patient more than any of the names in the other files. She shook her head. No, Katherine, you are not thinking of this patient as special. You are not. You are his doctor. Just do a good job with him and help him to move on. She opened the file, the one labeled Richard Jones.
22
I PASSED THE In-N-Out burger on my way home and thought about a burger, having missed dinner and now noticing a rumbling in my stomach. But I silently declined and sucked in my stomach a bit, thinking it was time to lose some weight. The way to lose weight was to avoid burgers and fries, especially at eleven at night. But I also needed to get back to the gym, or at least to running. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to spar again or work out hard the way I always had, having been pushed to do so by Floyd most of my adult life. Maybe it was my age. Maybe having been shot and just not feeling the same physically anymore. But at the very least, I needed to jog and burn some calories and stress.
As I neared my street I rubbed my elbow against the butt of my gun that sat in a holster high on my hip. It’s something I often did without thinking about it, a quick check to make sure I hadn’t left it behind somewhere. I never had, but the thought that I might was a deep fear I held. Like locking my keys in the car. I never have, but for some reason I’m always afraid I will. I double check before shutting the door. If I get out of the car and leave it running, I roll the window half down first, even if it’s raining. No way I’m going to take a chance of being locked out of my car or find myself in a gunfight without my Glock.
When I turned the corner, coming in the back way to my street, my heartbeat noticeably increased at the sight of an unfamiliar vehicle parked along the row of others. I had come to know each car, and this was one with which I was not familiar. It wasn’t the Oldsmobile from last week, but still . . .
I slowed and readied a flashlight as I drove up behind it. It had a California license plate which I read aloud and repeated twice in order to commit it to memory. There was nothing remarkable about the car, it was just a typical sedan. A silver Ford Taurus. Half the guys in our bureau drove cars just like it. The FBI had fleets of them as well. They must have been giving them away, all the ones that didn’t get bought by rental companies.
The windows were tinted, so as I came alongside the car, I shined my light at it. I didn’t see anything so I continued past it. But a thought hit me and I threw my car in park and quickly exited. At the same time, I jerked my gun from its holster, brought it up in one hand to meet my flashlight in the other, and I approached the car pointing both at its interior. The thought went through my head that this was not the smart thing to do, but now I was committed. My tactics were poor: I didn’t have backup; nobody knew where I was or what I was doing; and I hadn’t even written down the license plate so that if I were killed there would be a clue left behind. Oh well.
I moved more quickly and aggressively when I neared the car, thrusting the barrel of my gun and its accompanying flashlight at the interior of the parked sedan. It was empty. I scanned the interior again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, careful to see the floorboards as well. Nothing. I looked around, up and down the street, making sure I hadn’t missed someone outside the car, but the street was quiet. I walked over and placed my hand on the hood; it was cold to the touch. The car had been parked here for a long time. I looked around on the ground but didn’t see any cigarette butts. Maybe I was being paranoid.
I drove around the block twice before parking in my usual spot on the street near the driveway to the garage and the gate to the backyard. I sat there in the dark for another five minutes to watch the street. Finally, I went through the gate—noting that my security twig was still in place—and ascended the steps into my apartment. But I didn’t turn on the lights. The outside street lights cast sufficient light into the apartment that I could see the placement of furniture and was able to walk through the darkened interior. I tossed my briefcase onto the couch and walked to the balcony, opening the slider and stepping out into the dark.
I looked up the street at where the car was parked.
It was gone.
I hurried into the kitchen using my phone for lighting as I didn’t want to turn on the interior lights. I grabb
ed a piece of paper and wrote the license plate number down before I forgot it and hoped I had remembered it correctly. It occurred to me I should have taken a picture with my phone.
Then I called the office.
“Homicide Bureau, Detective Farris speaking.”
Rich Farris, my name buddy.
“Rich Farris, Rich Jones here.”
“Hey Dickie, how’s it going, man? I heard you were back but haven’t seen you around the office yet.”
“Yeah, just got back. Listen, I need a plate ran, you got a second?”
“For you, my brother, anything. Shoot.”
I gave him the license number and waited. With the sounds of fingers pecking a keyboard, I pictured Rich Farris alone at the desk, his tie loosened or maybe removed, drowsy eyes. Rich always had drowsy eyes, a man who appeared bored to the casual observer. He was a veteran homicide detective who had the respect of his peers and supervisors alike. A man with blinding white teeth set against chocolate brown skin, who had an easy way about him. He also had a taste for bourbon and troubles with women.
After a few moments of relative silence, he said, “Nothing on that plate, brother. You want to read it back to me, make sure I ran it right?”
I did, and it was the correct plate. At least it was the license number that I had committed to memory and recorded on paper once the situation had escalated. I was mad at myself for not taking the photo, or at least writing it down then and there. Now I questioned if I remembered it correctly, and I repeated it in my head while trying to see the plate again.
“Rich, thanks, man, I really appreciate your help.”
Detective Rich Farris said, “No problem, brother. Let me know if you need anything else. I’m here all night.”
I thought for a very brief moment of asking him to call Burbank PD for me, or maybe asking him to page my lieutenant. I thought of calling Floyd, or maybe even my new partner, Ray. But nothing seemed right to me. It all seemed overdone. I still was unable to convince myself that I was being watched, and that I wasn’t just being paranoid.
“Thanks, Rich. Have a good night.”
Leonard had grown tired of sitting in his car. He had been there three hours and needed to take a leak. The street was desolate, like a graveyard, all of the lights were off, yet piggy was nowhere to be found. He needed to figure out what this asshole did that kept him out so late. He must have a drinking problem or something.
He glanced at his phone to check the time. It was nearly midnight, time for him to wrap it up. He wasn’t going to wait all night. But first, he needed to relieve himself. It was a long drive back to his room. He slid out of the car and climbed a small hill near where he had parked. There were no homes and he could have some privacy. Just as he finished, he heard the sound of a car approaching. He zipped up quickly and flattened out in the tall grass. He watched until the headlights came close, and then he tucked his face into the turf. He waited. He heard the motor winding and the tires crunching on the pavement as the car slowed nearby. He cautiously lifted his head and saw that the car had stopped in the street, next to Leonard’s car. It was the cop, and he was shining his light at the parked vehicles, focusing mostly on Leonard’s. He felt lucky he had needed to piss and was not sitting in his car at that moment. He’d have to rethink his strategy now too, as the cop had surprised him and came home a different route. Had he not been pissing, Leonard would have been caught redhanded.
The cop started to drive off, but then stopped. He jumped out of his car, the way cops do, and approached Leonard’s car while continuing to shine his light at it. Leonard heard the cop curse as he now stood looking around. Leonard ducked his face again when the cop’s eyes panned in his direction.
Leonard looked up when he heard the cop drive away. The cop drove past his house and continued to drive down the street and out of view. This puzzled Leonard, who waited patiently, aware of his rapid heartbeat, not sure if he should move or stay put. He could hear the distant sound of the car’s motor, and he could hear the squealing of tires every so often. Soon, he heard the car coming back his direction. Leonard looked around and planned his escape. He would leave by foot, over the mountain. It was a disposable car, after all, and for good reason.
This time, the cop drove by slowly and shined his light all around, looking at other cars and toward homes and into yards. He drove past his apartment, turned around and stopped, but then he just sat there. He must have sat there half an hour, and Leonard was getting cold and stiff from lying on the damp ground. Had piggy seen him? Leonard didn’t think so. Although the front of the cop car was pointed directly toward where Leonard lay, he had been still, and he had kept his head low. He could only see the cop car from a small part of his right eye. The rest of his head was tucked into the crook of his arm and concealed by the grass.
Finally, the man exited his car and walked into the backyard. Leonard acted quickly. Without hesitation or second thought, he ran to his car and quickly entered it, started it, and drove off blacked out.
Two blocks away he turned his lights on and then yelled in the darkness of his car’s interior. “Goddam, that was close. Whew!” he said, and laughed.
He needed cigarettes. He hadn’t had a smoke since he arrived, not realizing he had run out. When he crossed the freeway and was a good distance from the pig sty, he stopped at a 7-11 and picked up a pack of smokes and a tall can of beer. They didn’t sell liquor, so beer would have to do. Leonard needed a drink.
Alone in the dark with only my thoughts, I reconciled the situation at hand thus: either I was being watched by the feds, or not at all and I was only being paranoid.
The feds made sense if I had the plate right. Just like the two suits who had arrived at Chaney’s house the day Ray and I interviewed him, this vehicle had no registration. That left me asking why. Why would the feds be watching me, and why would the feds be talking to Chaney? Floyd suggested the mob. I didn’t see it. To me, the two suits looked like feds, and I doubted the mafia would have unregistered or cold-plated vehicles. Only cops did shit like that. It was too much hassle and another reason to be detained if your car wasn’t registered, so why would criminals take that chance? No, it had to be the feds.
Or, I was being paranoid. Nobody was watching me at all. The car that had been out there tonight was unoccupied. There were no cigarette butts. Nobody sitting inside. It had to have just been timing. The driver had visited someone and just happened to leave as I was coming into my apartment. Coincidental, but not impossible. What else made sense? Nothing.
I opened a second beer and returned to my seat on the deck. There was a lot to think about and I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Not for a while. Fortunately, I had a respectable supply of Coors Light in the fridge. Respectable by cop standards; ridiculous or maybe dangerous by normal people’s.
As I sat and watched I thought about the situation, and I thought about the Santa Clarita murder, and I thought about the missing Mrs. Chaney. I thought about Jorge Regalado and his heavy mustache, seeing it again in my mind, just inches from my face in a haze of confusion and noise and silence as flames erupted from each of our guns. I went for another beer.
Soon I was thinking about Valerie and wondered how she was, what she was doing, and if she had found someone else. Then I wondered if she had had someone else before she left. You never knew, I supposed. I drained the beer and went for another. As I opened it, I wished there was gin in the house, and was glad there wasn’t.
I realized there was a lot to do tomorrow, and I needed to get some sleep. The day would start at the shrink’s office, the lovely Doc James. Who had been nearly invisible to me before but now I tended to notice her shape, and her smile, her hazel eyes, and a glimmer that hadn’t been there before.
Jesus, what was wrong with me?
I went inside and sprawled out on the couch. The thought occurred to me that I had wasted a grand on a bed.
23
DR. KATHERINE JAMES saw her patient out, watching his head recede down
the back stairs. Because many of her patients were in law enforcement, she was especially conscientious about the privacy of those who trusted her to treat them. Cops tended not to trust “shrinks” and avoided them for the most part; no cop wanted a career-ending diagnosis. The system, therefore, was set up so that only one patient at a time was in the waiting room, and there were separate doors for entering and exiting her office. Katherine noted that her next patient was due in a few minutes. He had missed an appointment earlier in the week, and she hoped he wouldn’t miss a second. She hoped he wasn’t avoiding her.
After making a few quick notes on her laptop, she rose from her desk and stretched. She caught sight of herself in the small decorative mirror she had hung over a plant next to the window. Frowning slightly, she walked closer to the mirror and looked at her face, her hair. Of course, she was presentable; she always kept her appearance neat and professional at work. Still . . .
Rummaging through her purse, Katherine found her hairbrush and used it for a few seconds. There. Better. Glancing at the clock on her desk, she hastily put the brush away and paused at the door to the waiting room. She brushed her hand across her skirt, opened the door, and smiled into the waiting room at her next patient.
“Hello, Richard, come in.”
He chose the same chair he always chose, the one where he could see both doors. He never chose the opposite chair, nor the couch. Katherine settled in the chair across from him, as always, crossed her legs, and smiled encouragingly.
“We missed on Monday, is everything ok?”
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 47