He smiled. "Into the high-crime neighborhood. Watts. That's when I finally felt safe."
"Then what?"
"Then nothing. I kept a low profile, ran out of money and smack, did what I knew how to do, and got busted."
"You never thought about reporting the murder?"
"Sure," he said. "Rich kids from Bel Air and a black junkie felon tells the cops he just happened to see a white girl get carved up? Cops used to stop me for driving while black, run my license and reg, pull me out, have me do the spread for no reason. Even in my old Mercury Cougar, which was a piece of junk, appropriate for a black junkie felon."
"That night," I said, "you had better wheels. Late-model white Cadillac."
"You know that?" he said. "You already know stuff?" Something new crept into his voice— an aftertone of menace. Hint of the man he'd once been. "You having me go through the motions?"
"You're the first eyewitness we've found. I know about the Caddy because we located Melinda Waters, and she mentioned it. But she split from the party before the murder."
His head rolled slowly, and he canted it away from me. "The Caddy was a borrowed car. I maintained the Merc the way a junkie would and finally it broke down and I sold it for dope money. Next day I realized that without wheels I was nothing— good old junkie planning. I planned on boosting some wheels but hadn't gotten around to it, too stoned. So that night, I borrowed from a friend."
"Nice car like that," I said, "must've been a good friend."
"I had a few. And don't ask me who."
"Was it the same friend who helped you escape?"
The mirrored shades tilted toward me. "Some things I can't say."
"It'll all going to come out," I said.
"Maybe," he said. "If it happens by itself, it's not my responsibility. But some things I can't say." He turned his head sharply toward the front of the house.
"Something's wrong," he said. "Aimee's coming, but that's not her usual walk."
I heard nothing. Then: a faintest crunch— footsteps on gravel. Footsteps stopping and starting, as if someone was stumbling. But for the panic on his face, it would've floated right past me.
I left him and stepped into the front room, parted the drapes on a small, cloudy window, and looked out at the filmy, amber light of impending dusk.
Up the drive, maybe a hundred feet from the house, two men were walking Aimee and Bert toward us. Aimee and Bert's hands were up in the air as they marched forward reluctantly. Bert looked terrified. Aimee's pasty face was expressionless. She stopped suddenly and her escort prodded her with something and she winced and resumed walking.
Crunch.
One of the men was large and beefy, the other a head shorter and wiry. Both were Hispanic and wore cowboy hats. I'd seen them half an hour ago— in the pickup loaded with fertilizer that had interposed itself between Bert's car and mine, then dropped away at the 33-150 intersection.
Lucky break, I'd thought at the time, enabling me to use the truck for cover as I tailed Bert.
Bill called out, "What's happening?"
I rushed back to him. "Two cowboys have them at gunpoint."
"Under the bed," he said, waving his arms helplessly. "Get it. Now."
Barking the order. Sounding like anything but a junkie.
CHAPTER 41
The computer gizmo that read out the trace on Alex was right in Craig Bosc's Saab, hooked up to the dash, a cute little thing with a bright blue screen and a printer. It sputtered to life after Bosc punched a few keys.
Nineties guy, everything he needed, close at hand.
Milo hadn't found any printouts in Bosc's house, meaning Bosc had left those at his office. Or at someone else's.
As Bosc kept typing, the screen filled with readout— columns of numbers in a code that Bosc explained with no prodding. Bosc pushed another key, and the columns were replaced with what looked like blueprints. Vectors and loci, computerized map lines, everything loading at warp speed.
Bosc was sitting in the Saab's passenger seat. Hands free to work, but Milo had rebound his ankles, first, kept the gun at the back of Bosc's neck.
Promising to let him go when he'd done his bit for humanity.
Bosc thanked him as if he was Santa Claus with a bag full of goodies. The guy stank of fear, but you'd never know it from looking at him. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Gabbing technotalk as he worked.
Killing time and filling space; keep those psych tactics going.
His fingers rested. "That's it, amigo. Look at the capital X, and you've got him."
Milo studied the map. "That's the best you can do?"
"That's pretty damn good," said Bosc, offended. "Within a hundred-yard radius."
"Print it."
His pocket filled with paper, Milo yanked Bosc out of the Saab and walked him to the rear of the car.
"Okay, Milo, we're just gonna forget this happened, right?"
"Right."
"Could I have my legs back, please, Milo."
The easy, repetitive use of his name filled Milo's head with enraged buzzing. He looked up and down the street, now graying. During the time Bosc had played with the computer, a single car had driven by. Young woman in a yellow Fiero, blond and big-haired enough to be one of Bosc's unwitting home movie costars. But she sped by fast, went two blocks, disappeared, never returned.
Now the street was empty again. Thank God for L.A. alienation.
Milo popped the Saab's trunk, gave Bosc a swift, hard kick behind one knee and as Bosc collapsed predictably, shoved him inside, slammed the lid and walked away to the muffled drumbeat of Bosc thumping and screaming.
All that noise, someone would find him soon enough.
He hurried to the Polaris, checked the gas gauge, fired up, sped toward the 101 freeway, driving like a typical SoCal idiot: way too fast, steering with one hand, the other gripping his mobile phone as if it was a life preserver.
CHAPTER 42
A husky voice from outside the cabin bellowed, "Everyone out, hands up." A second later: "No fucking around or we kill the retard and the old guy."
I crouched closer to the window. "We're coming out. I have to get him in the chair."
"Do it."
I returned to the bedroom, clamped my hands around the grips of Bill's wheelchair. I'd put a bright white stocking cap on his bald head and had covered him with two soft blankets, despite the heat.
Or maybe it wasn't that hot. I was sweat-drenched but, he, the diabetic, remained freakishly dry.
A moment before, he'd prayed silently, lips quivering, hands hooked in the blankets.
He said, "My, my, my" as I wheeled him forward. When we reached the door, the footrests of his chair nudged it open, and we stepped out into an amethyst twilight.
The pair of cowboys holding Aimee and Bert were twenty or so yards up the gravel drive, off center, closer to the western edge of the pathway, where the forest began. The sky was slate, and the foliage had deepened to olive drab. Flesh tones remained vivid; I saw the fear on Bert's face.
The bigger cowboy was positioned slightly in front of his partner. The pickup's driver. Midforties, five-eleven, with a potbelly that strained his ice-blue shirt, thick thighs that turned his blue jeans into sausage casing, a complexion the color of dirty copper, and a bristling, graying mustache. His hat was broad-brimmed, brown felt.
Bored demeanor, but even at this distance I could see the edgy movement around his eyes. He towered over Bert, held the old man by the scruff.
Just behind him, to the right, the smaller intruder maintained a grip on Aimee, clutching her sweatshirt from behind, stretching the fabric over the rolls and bulges of her torso. Younger, five-five, midtwenties, he wore a baggy black T-shirt and saggy black jeans too urban for his straw headpiece. The hat looked cheap, a hurried addition. He had a round face bottomed by wispy goatee. Dull, distracted eyes. A mass of tattoos ran up his arms.
One of the car restorers at Vance Coury's garage.
The sun didn't m
ove, but Bert Harrison's complexion grayed.
Aimee said, "Billy, what's happening?" She made a move toward the chair but the small cowboy cuffed the back of her head. She flapped her arms clumsily. He said, "Cool it, retard."
"Bill—"
Bill said, "Everything's cool, babe, we'll work it out."
"Sure we will," said the big cowboy, in the husky voice that had brought us out. A pack of cigarettes swelled one of the pockets of his shirt. Western shirt, with a contrasting white yoke, pearl buttons, still box-creased. He and his pal had dressed for the occasion. He said, "Get the fuck over here, Willy."
"Over where?" said Bill.
"Over here, Stevie Wonder." Glancing at me: "You— asshole— wheel him over here real slow— take your hands off the fucking chair, and I'll blow your fucking head off."
"Then what?" said Bill.
"Then we take y'all somewhere."
"Where?"
"Shut the fuck up." To the smaller man: "We'll load 'em in back with the shit. Under them tarps, like I showed you."
Small said, "Why don't we just do 'em here?" in a nasal voice.
The big man's chest swelled. Taking a deep breath. "That's the plan, mijo."
"What about the wheelchair?"
Big laughed. "You can have the chair, okay? Give it to that kid of yours to play with." To me: "Wheel him."
"Where's the truck?" I said.
"Shut up and wheel him."
"Is there a truck?" I said. "Or are we just taking a little walk?" Stalling, because that's what you did in situations like that. Because what was there to lose?
The big man yanked Bert's hair, and Bert's face creased with pain.
"I'll just do this old payaso right here, you keep talking. Blow out his eyes and make you fuck the sockets."
I rolled the wheelchair forward. The tires caught in the gravel, kicked up rocks that pinged the spokes. I pretended to be stuck. My hands stayed wrapped around the grips.
Big maintained his hold on Bert and watched me closely. His companion's attention span wasn't as good, and I saw him glance off into the darkening trees.
"Bill?" said Aimee.
"Bill?" mimicked Big. "That's what you call yourself, now, Willie?"
"He's Bill Baker," I said. "Who do you think he is?"
Big's eyes slitted. "Was I talking to you, asshole? Shut the fuck up and get the fuck over here."
"Hey," said Bill, cheerfully. "What do you know? I thought I recognized that voice. Ignacio Vargas. Long time, Nacho. Hey, man."
Recognition didn't trouble the big man. He smirked. "Long time no see, nigger."
"Real long time, Nacho. Doc, I used to sell this vaquero product. He was smart, never tasted, just distributed to his homeboys. Hey, Nacho, didn't you go off somewhere for a vacation— Lompoc? Or did you make it to Quentin."
"Nigger," said Vargas, "before I went away I tried to party with you and the retard over at that house in Niggertown, but you got away. Now, here we are, after all those years. One a those . . . reunions. Who said you don't get a second chance?"
His mouth opened, displaying rows of broken, brown teeth.
Two decades of sanctuary, and I'd brought the enemy to the gates.
"You know what they say, amigo," said Bill. "If you don't succeed at first— but, hey, let the old guy go. He's just a doctor happens to treat me, got a bad heart, gonna kick soon, anyway, why bother?"
Bert had been staring at the gravel. Now his eyes climbed very gradually. Came to rest on me. Dispirited.
Bill said, "Let her go, too. She can't hurt anybody."
Bert shifted his weight and Nacho Vargas cuffed him again. "No squirming around, Grampa. Yeah, I think I heard that one, before. If you don't succeed at first, make sure you kill the fucker dead the second time, then go out for a good meal. Come on, Whitebread, keep moving, then when I tell you to stop, let go the wheel and slowly put your hands up then get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head and eat dirt."
I edged the chair another foot forward. Got stuck again. Freed the wheels.
Bill said, "Nacho was intelligent-o, selling but never using. I could've learned from you, Nacho."
"You couldn'ta learned nothing. You were stupid."
I closed the space between us and Vargas to ten yards.
"I don't see any truck," I said.
"There's a fucking truck," said Small.
Vargas shot a disgusted look intended for his partner, but kept his eyes on me. He began tapping his boot impatiently. Shiny, needle-toed black boots that had never known stirrups; the jeans looked fresh, too. Big shopping spree.
A one-day costume, because you could never really wash out the blood.
Bill said, "Nacho, my man, be smart: I got nothing to look forward to, put me out of my misery, but leave the old guy and Aimee and everyone else alone. Take me off in that truck of yours and do what you want with—"
"Like I need your fucking permission," said Vargas.
Bill's head rolled. "No you don't, no one's saying you do, it's just why not be smart, like I said he's got a heart condition—"
"Maybe I should have him run around in circles till he drops dead. Save on bullets." Vargas laughed, kept his gun hand behind Bert, lifted the other arm and jacked Bert up effortlessly. The old man's toes barely grazed the gravel. He'd gone deathly pale. A rag doll.
Vargas said, "Hey, this is like playing puppet." His gun hand shifted upward, too. Just an inch or so.
"Nacho, man—"
"Yeah, sure, we'll let everyone go. Maybe we'll let you go, too. Hey, that's a good idea— let's all go out and have a beer." He snorted. "She ain't the only retard." The boot tapped faster. "C'mon, c'mon, move it."
I closed the gap to twenty feet, fifteen, exerted downward pressure that tipped the chair slightly, got stuck again.
"What the fu— you playing with me, Whitebread?"
"Sorry," I said, in tremulous voice. "You told me to keep my hands— just a sec."
Before Vargas could reply, Bert sagged in his grip, cried out in pain, clutched his chest. Vargas laughed, too clever to be taken in by an obvious ruse, but Bert kept thrashing, gave his head a hard shake, and the sudden movement tugged Vargas's arm down and Bert struggled to twist away. As Vargas tried to contain him, his gun hand rose and the weapon was visible. Sleek, black automatic. Aimed at the sky. Behind him, Small was cursing, his attention directed at the struggle. Aimee stared, too, not resisting.
The moment Bert had shown distress, I'd pushed the chair faster, got within five feet of Vargas. Stopped. Vargas continued to grope for Bert. I gave a low grunt.
Bill groped under the folds of the top blanket and pulled out the shotgun.
Old but clean Mossberg Mariner Eight-Shot Mini Combo with pistol grip and speed-feed. Extreme saw-off, barely any barrel left. I'd found it under the bed, where he'd said it would be, stored in a black canvas case coated with dust bunnies. Lying next to two rifles in similar housing and half a dozen boxes of ammo.
"Use the big shells," he said. I'd loaded the weapon.
Then handed it over to a stiff-fingered blind man.
Vargas got a firm grip on Bert, but Bert saw the shotgun, turned, and bit down on Vargas's arm, and when Vargas bellowed and let go of him, he dropped to the ground and rolled away.
I muttered, "Now," and Bill yanked the trigger.
The explosion boxed my ears, and the recoil shoved the wheelchair into my groin as Bill's head snapped backward and connected with my midriff.
Nacho Vargas was blown away as if caught in a personalized tornado. The bottom half of his face turned to smoky, bloody dust, and a giant, ruby pink orchid blossomed where his gullet and chest had once been. As he fell, white-flecked, red broth shot out through his back, spattering Aimee and the small cowboy, who looked stunned. I threw myself at him, swung one fist upward, connected under his nose, got hold of his groin with my other hand and twisted hard.
The whole thing had taken five seconds.
The small man went down, landed on his back, cried out in pain. His black T-shirt was grimed with what looked like steak tartare and bone bits and gobbets of something gray-pink and spongy I knew to be lung tissue. His gun— shiny and silver— remained entwined in his fingers, and I stomped his hand and kicked the weapon loose. The gun rolled away and I dived for it, slid into gore and skidded and went facedown into the gravel, feeling the buzz of impact, then searing pain along one half of my face, both elbows and knees.
The Murder Book Page 45