Never Again, Seriously

by Forrest Steele

  The realization clicked into place. The little sonofabitch has been in my house. In the closet!

  Bill cursed himself. He’d left the backpack on the closet floor. It had showed no sign of being disturbed when Bill was last in the closet, so maybe it was okay. He’d double-check as soon as he got back. How could he have been so careless, leaving the money there? He’d take the money to a bank safe-deposit box in the morning.

  So, what had the guy been doing there?

  Bill froze at the sound of a truck in the driveway. Silence. Then movement on Leonardis’s front porch. He stood still, waiting. The doorbell rang, followed by a muffled whump. A car approached, the sound of its passing covered by the revving engine of the truck as it left. That must’ve been UPS or Federal Express leaving a package on the porch.

  He traced his steps, revisiting the office and the bathroom, making sure he’d left no signs of his visit. Satisfied, he started down the stairs.

  Staring up at him was Elmer Leonardis, an oversized pistol pointing at Bill. “I’m on to you.”

  Startled, Bill put his hands out.

  “Surprised you, didn’t I? I don’t know what you people are up to, but I know it’s not good.”

  “What do you mean?” Bill’s mind raced. How to escape this?

  “Breaking in my house. You’re messing with the wrong guy.”

  “I know how this looks, but—” Bill heard the thin voice coming from his mouth and cursed mentally.

  “You can explain it to the police. Come down and lie on the floor.” Leonardis waved the pistol and pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  Bill stepped down to the next stair. “Wait. I can—”

  Before Bill could say more, his foot slipped on the carpeted edge, and he windmilled down, trying to keep his feet under him. His body flew crosswise and collided with Leonardis, who had turned away too late. Leonardis fell under him with a loud thud. The pistol skittered into the foyer. Bill untangled himself, pushing his hand on Leonardis’s motionless torso for leverage and nudging the pistol farther out of reach with his foot.

  Leonardis’s carotid pulse was faint and weakening. A pool of blood spread on the tile floor under the back of Leonardis’s head.

  What now? Call 911? He couldn’t. While Bill tried to calm his spinning mind, Leonardis emitted a raspy sigh. Now there was no pulse.

  Heart thumping, he stuffed the pistol in his waistband and went out the back, making sure he wiped the inside window latch and the door lock with one of his socks just in case the neoprene gloves had left a trace. Halfway to his house, he remembered to wipe the outside of the window. With his sock hand in his pocket, he went back to Leonardis’s patio and stood in a casual posture, scanning. Seeing no one, he wiped the sash and the window glass and returned home.

  “Vicki!”

  “What’s wrong?” Vicki appeared from the bedroom. “You sound frightened.”

  “That’s not the word for it. This is bad, really bad.” Bill’s voice shook, and his hands fluttered as he told her what had happened.

  Her face turned ashen. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Positive.”

  “Those gloves. Did you have them on the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about that gun?”

  “It’s his. I was afraid to leave it, so I took it.”

  “You said he had a folder with our name on it.”

  “Crap. What am I thinking? I have to go back for it.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned with a towel and a bottle of spray cleaner. “Clean everything you touched too. The gloves could have picked up some of your DNA, and your forearm might have brushed something.”

  The dining room window opened more easily this time. A fecal odor greeted Bill as he approached the stairway, making him gag. Upstairs, he wiped all the places he could recall touching, and a few more out of caution. He retrieved the file and cleaned the banister as he came down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he saw a quick movement through the half-open blind on the narrow side window by the front door. He moved the blind a half inch to see out, and no one was in view. He hurriedly wiped the floor where he’d fallen and retreated to the side, out of sight. A man’s voice outside said, “Something’s wrong with Leo. He’s on the floor, and he’s not moving. Give me my phone.”

  Bill took a chance. While the guy outside was dialing, he crept down the stairs and out of view. He wiped the window and relocked it with the towel in his hand. The French doors were in the line of sight from the front door, but he didn’t have a choice. If he left through the window, he wouldn’t be able to relock it. He craned his neck and looked to the front of the house. Seeing no one, he stepped out the door, folder under his arm. Before pulling the door closed, he wiped its knob and relocked it, pressing the button with his finger in the towel.

  Back in his house, he stared wide-eyed at Vicki. “Oh my God, someone came to the front door and saw Leonardis on the floor. They called 911. I think they’re still in their car, in the driveway.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “I … I … They could have seen me through the window. But I don’t think so.”

  Vicki pressed her fingers to her lips, looking out the window, and turned to Bill. “Give me the folder, the gun, and the gloves, along with your shoes. While I’m gone, you take a shower. I’ll put your clothes in the washer and take this stuff for a ride in the country. I’ll bury the gun and burn everything else.”

  “How did it come to this?” Bill put his face in his hands, groaning long and deep. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I don’t want to kill anyone.”

  “Bill, this is awful. But it was an accident.”

  “Do you think they’ll catch us? Should we take off?”

  “No, we shouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary. We’ll just sit tight and hope for the best. That’s all we can do. I’m no expert, but I don’t see how they can put you in there.”

  “That’s not the only thing. What if they take an interest in us?”

  Vicki blinked. “That’s a point. We’ll rehearse and rehearse and keep our fingers crossed.”

  “What about the gun? What if it marked the floor?”

  “If it did, the mark could have happened any time. Now give me your things and go shower. I’m gettin’ out of here. Tell anyone that asks I went shopping.”

  Bill watched Vicki take a shopping bag to the SUV and pull away. In the driveway of Leonardis’s house, the man and woman in their car appeared not to notice her.

  As Vicki returned to their house, an ambulance leaving Leonardis’s house came toward her and passed with lights and siren off. She drove at a crawl past Leonardis’s driveway, where a Lake Creed police cruiser sat next to a black unmarked with its telltale spotlight mounted next to the driver-side mirror.

  “All done. I buried the gun in the sand out in a failed development, put it in two resealable bags in case we ever need it. Everything else is burned. Has anyone been here yet?”

  “Nope. And I think they just took the body away. There’s somebody still over there.”

  “Listen, if they talk to us, we need to use our real names.” Bill gave Vicki a questioning look. “Think about it,” she said. “If they check our IDs, we don’t want them to find our driver’s licenses are fake.”

  Bill walked to the door and peered through the side window. “Okay, you’ve got a point. But then our true names might go into a police report, even a news article.”

  “Okay, let’s do this. You give them your middle name, Landon, and tell them you’re called ‘Lanny.’ I’ll do the same and give my name as Irene Scott. It’s common for people to go by their middle names, so they won’t think anything of it. With a little luck, no one that knows us will see anything about this. If they do, they shouldn’t make the connection.”

  They both jumped a
s the doorbell rang. Bill opened it and found himself looking at a fortyish man wearing a blue suit that needed pressing, an open-collar shirt, and shiny police shoes. The man held up a card in front of his soft belly. “Webster Skaffe. I’m a detective with the Lake Creed Police Department.” He handed Bill the card. “‘Skaffee’ is the way to pronounce it.’”

  “Good afternoon, Detective Skaffe. I’m Lanny Foster, and this is Irene Scott. By the way, is your name German?”

  Skaffe looked appalled. “Danish.”

  “My bad, Detective. Would you like to come in?”

  Bill closed the door behind the departing detective. “That was a good call on giving our real names. Now we have to remember that’s who we are for this investigation. What did you think of the cop?”

  Vicki moved toward the door to peek out at the policeman, then thought better of it. “He seemed dimwitted. My woman’s intuition says it’s not an act, that he really is slow. He didn’t ask us many questions. When we said we hadn’t seen or heard anything this morning, he dropped it. Maybe he’s satisfied it was an accident.”

  “That was my read too. But he did ask if we were planning to stay around here and asked us to call if we decided to leave town for any reason.” Bill rubbed his eyes.

  “Maybe that’s normal, or at least he thinks it is.” Vicki rapped the door frame with her knuckles. “Knock on wood.

  She started toward the back of the house, then turned to Bill. “Somehow this business with the fake names and fake IDs upsets me. I’ve even had bad dreams about it. If we ever move somewhere, do you think we could go back to being Jake Foster and Vicki Scott? When you think about it, the company collapsed, and the employees scattered to the four winds. You told me Malcolm probably got blamed for it, and you’ve found no mention of us—or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “You’re right. Part of me wants to go slow on that. But I got a letter last week from the DMV trying to verify my license number. Apparently, that fake number was sent in with the registration for the Escalade. If we sell the car, and Bill Clawson and Vicki Strauss disappear, it would clean up that problem. Let me research the situation and try to make certain we’re in the clear.”

  Bill touched her arm. “Today, before we do anything else, let’s take the money to a joint safe-deposit box.”

  “Let’s go. I’ll back right up to the front door. Find a sheet to cover the backpack. It’s too heavy for you, so I’ll come in.”

  Chapter 20

  After several days at Trip’s apartment, Malcolm had had enough. Their discussions about new ideas, a new plan to find the thieves, had become stale and circular. His mind was a chaotic whirlwind, the debris of thought fragments colliding with one another and assaulting his grip on reality. He had to get away.

  He’d been reluctant to call a friend at the DMV to determine if he could find information on “Bill” or “Vicki.” He was afraid the guy would tip off the cops. But he needed to take the chance. A big enough bribe should do it.

  Malcolm finished his toast, got up from the table where he and Trip sat, and rinsed his coffee cup and plate. “I’m bored. I’m gonna take a cab over to Dolphin Mall. Stretch my legs and buy some better clothing.”

  Trip’s smartass comments were getting to him, and he didn’t need this hillbilly anymore now that the cell phone tracking trick had failed. After thinking over the pros and cons, he’d decided to go it alone, just take off and renew the chase for the crooks.

  A thought nudged the back of his mind. If he left Trip behind, the guy would be a loose end, potentially able to surface again and cause trouble. Trip was the only person who knew Malcolm was alive, except for Shivani. Best to dispose of Trip now. When he caught up with Shivani, he’d take care of him too. Come to think of it, once he recovered the money, there was no reason to leave Jake Foster and Sharon Scott alive either. With these four out of the picture, there would be no one left to look for him.

  Trip stood and raised an open hand. “Wait, let me go to the john and break one off, and I’ll drive you to the mall.”

  When Trip came out of the powder room, Malcolm stood behind the door with a cast-iron griddle in his hand. One blow with its edge sent Trip crumpling against the door, slamming it closed, then to the floor, where he lay motionless. Malcom stood over him and watched as his eyelids fluttered. When he gasped, Malcolm took another swing, more like a tennis backhand, making a bloody dent in Trip’s skull. The body was still for a moment, then convulsed violently, feet pounding a tattoo against the baseboard. The odor of urine wafted up. Malcolm waited a few minutes and checked for a pulse, finding none.

  Malcolm took his time wiping down the guest bedroom, the bathrooms, the kitchen, and all the surfaces he had touched in the living room. He washed and dried all the dishes he had used, and the griddle, and put them away. There was nothing he could do about DNA, but with no sample from him, that couldn’t incriminate him. He called a cab.

  He grabbed his ball cap and pulled the brim down until it rested on his sunglasses.

  At the mall, Malcolm tossed his cell phone and bought a burner at a kiosk. Two young boys, not much more than a year apart in age, trailed their mother in the crowd.

  So clean, so innocent. Something wrong—how do they know my secret urges—things I’ve never told anyone? Why do they put these lovely children in my path? This is to distract me. Can’t let that happen, not now.

  He took another cab to a pre-owned luxury car dealer, paying cash for a deep blue three-year-old BMW 7 Series sedan. Malcolm preferred black, but this would have to do.

  Cradled in the soft leather driver’s seat, cooled by silent air-conditioning, Malcolm cruised the streets of Miami for a while, enjoying the sensation of coasting through still waters. The memory of that godawful decrepit Volvo made him shudder.

  Sayonara, Willis Turek—Trip. Good riddance.

  Okay, time to pull it together and find these thieves. He needed to control the thoughts that were hurtling into his mind.

  Irked that his cheap cell phone wouldn’t connect to the car audio, he dialed the number of Mr. Cruz that Shivani had given him. “Mr. Cruz, you don’t know me. Raj Shivani gave me your number. I’d like to come by if you’re in. This is urgent, and you’ll be well compensated … No, I didn’t give you my name … Excellent. I have your address, and I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  Malcolm made it to the office in fifteen minutes. After negotiating with Cruz, he forked over $20,000 in exchange for the information on the new identities of Jake Foster and Sharon Scott. As he glided away from the office in his BMW, he smiled. Bill and Vicki Clawson, indeed.

  Malcolm called his contact at the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles.

  “Jerry, Malcolm Weaver here.”

  “What? Malcolm? I thought you had drowned. What the hell …”

  “Listen, I survived, okay? The situation is complicated. There are some things I can’t tell you yet, but I’ll give you the whole story as soon as I can. I hope you understand—some things have to be kept under wraps for now. Don’t talk about this or you could get in trouble.”

  “But your company, Global Source …”

  “All part of the story. I’m sorry, but the government’s involved,” Malcom lied. “I can’t say anything. Listen, the reason I’m calling you is I need help finding some people.”

  “But if you’re working with the authorities …”

  “It’s kind of complicated. Needless to say, I’m asking for some valuable help here, and I can arrange compensation for that. Twenty-five thousand, cash.”

  “Wow, this is blowing my mind. Twenty-five thousand? For what? I’m not sure—-”

  “Jerry, time is of the essence. If you can do this quickly, I’ll make it fifty.”

  “Tell me what you want. Can I be sure you’ll pay?”

  “Think about it. If I don’t, you could c
ause problems for me. I’ll send a package to you right away. You still live on Colony Circle in Pembroke Pines, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Deal?”

  “Okay.”

  “Jerry, about these people I’m looking for—no need to bother checking for valid driver’s licenses. I’m sure they won’t have them. How about vehicle purchases? Can you find those?”

  “Sure, pal. What are the names?”

  Malcolm gave the names he had gotten from Geraldo Cruz in Miami. “William Clawson and Vicki Strauss.”

  “Okay, let’s see.” Jerry hummed tunelessly. “Computer’s a little slow this time of day. Here. I found a William Clawson, middle initial J. No Vicki Strauss. William J. Clawson bought a used Cadillac Escalade recently. Says here there was a problem with the driver’s license number given. I assume someone is checking that out. He gave an address in Lake Creed. You want it?”

  “You bet!” Malcolm pumped his fist in the air and pulled over to write it down. “I’ll call when I send your package, so you’ll know to look for it.”

  He hung up. Jerry had broken confidentiality and would never say anything for fear of being found out.

  Malcolm clapped his hands and hooted. “Good old Lake Creed, huh? Bastards. Almost had them before, just down the road from Lake Creed, and they slipped away.”

  Stopped at a traffic light, ball cap still pulled down, Malcolm peered in all directions. He was sure he was being watched now. Whoever it was may have tracked him through the mall and followed his taxi—or they were tuned in to faint radio waves from his mind, through the power lines, pinpointing his location and reading his thoughts. He’d felt a tickle in his head, and he could remember people in the mall, staying at the edges of his field of vision.