Justice Rain (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 11)

by Rex Bolt

  McBride meanwhile, was fine, if you could believe it. Chris saw him yesterday at the pool, no more than 12 hours after the near death experience, and the guy was cracking jokes like nothing happened -- though there was some serious markage and indentation around his neck region.

  They’d shot the breeze a bit, nothing heavy, and Chris said he’d buy him dinner tonight, why not.

  Dale told Chris he’d catch him later and said, “Either way, good the guy didn’t die on us.”

  Chris was thinking, didn’t I just go over this? He told Dale thanks for pointing that out, and to have good day.

  ***

  “So how’s yours man?” Chris said to McBride. “Any kick to it?”

  “None at all,” McBride said, “just how I like it.”

  There was a Chinese restaurant Chris hadn’t noticed before, in the strip mall across from Denny’s, and he’d insisted on buying that dinner for McBride tonight, catching up a bit, and McBride suggested the place.

  “Only reason I ask,” Chris said, “I’m getting ready to call the forest fire service.”

  “Why them?”

  “Come on, figure of speech. I mean I can handle hot stuff, but these noodles -- someone back in the kitchen must have got distracted.”

  “Not sure what the issue is,” McBride said. “Alls you do, you check the menu before you order. If they have the chili pepper dealie next to the item, you move on.”

  “You’re preaching to the converted,” Chris said. “Typically -- in fact almost never, when us white folks are the main clientele -- does that little logo mean diddlysquat.”

  “Then why’s it there?” McBride said.

  You weren’t getting anywhere here. Chris signaled for some more water please, and did his best with the House Special Peking Noodles -- which really did have a thick and extremely bright red sauce covering them, and shouldn’t the sauce have been at least a tad lighter in color?

  He said, “So. The other business. I didn’t press you on it . . . but you blank out? Or no.”

  “The second time, yeah, I’m pretty sure,” McBride said. “Because Reba told me I was asking the questions you might expect . . . how did this happen, how did I get here, what time is Johnny Carson -- all those.”

  Chris said, “Johnny Carson? I loved that guy, what I remember of him. He was your friend on the screen . . . it was like you were an insider, and he was speaking directly to you. There was a warmer vibe than you get with the late night acts today . . . what you’re saying though, the Johnny Carson reference highlighted your confusion.”

  “Right,” McBride said, “in fact yesterday out of curiosity I looked him up. Johnny retired in 1992. In the spring.”

  “Dang . . . maybe that’s why I appreciate the guy so much. I never put it together, but that was my senior year in high school. In fact right then, the spring, all the fun stuff was going on, the prom, picnic, other BS -- as they ushered you out the door.”

  “Into greener pastures. I’m a couple years ahead of you, but same ballpark deal.”

  Chris said, “We had a guy, a teacher -- you know how the class votes on who they want to give the motivational speech, at the graduation?”

  “I don’t remember us doing anything like that,” McBride said.

  “At any rate, they pick this guy -- a science teacher, I never had him -- but the son of a gun, standing out there on the football field, middle of the ceremony -- delivers one of the most inspiring speeches I’ve ever heard. And as he tried to end it, the guy got choked up, could barely finish it off.”

  “He meant it then.”

  “He did. No canned script for this guy. He wanted us to go forward, and conquer shit . . . and also, on some level, he was sorry to see us go . . . I should have said something to the guy, but I never did.”

  “It’s never too late,” McBride said. “I’ve converted on a few of those. You feel good.”

  “I saw the guy downtown in Macy’s one year at Christmas. But I didn’t go up to him. I fizzled out. A couple years later, I see in the alumni bulletin that the guy died during a summer vacation, in a fishing accident in Alaska.”

  McBride nodded and gave Chris a moment. Chris decided sometimes you could tell who the sensitive people were who you ran across, by when they simply kept their mouth shut -- and this McBride was okay.

  Chris said, “So what I’m thinking, next couple days, that I might head down to Tuscon . . . You have any interest in tagging along?”

  McBride kept chewing but he was processing this one, and Chris was pretty sure he wouldn’t have to spell it out.

  “So the college business,” McBride said.

  “Allegedly,” Chris said.

  “It didn’t add up, is all . . . that you were . . . prepared to shoulder the burden. As it were.”

  Chris said, “I may not be . . . It just logical . . . or that may be going too far, let’s just say -- it didn’t seem illogical -- to at least get a word with Karolina’s benefactor in the thing.”

  “A meeting of the minds,” McBride said.

  “Hey, something like that. Sure, why not.”

  “What else we got going . . . you’re saying, that precludes us from making a little excursion down that way?”

  “You know something? I’m starting to appreciate the way you put stuff . . . When I get back to my other life, I’ll have to remember to mirror some of your shit.”

  McBride said, “That’s a new one. The going back to another life reference.”

  “Yeah, well,” Chris said, “with Waylon, you know, back on the loose soon enough, and all . . .”

  McBride said, “That’s the thing, isn’t it. Him not being charged, can’t quite wrap my head around that one.”

  It didn’t make sense to Chris either, when you had the little quirky situation the other night of one human trying extinguish another via an extended chokehold, and not making any bones about it.

  But Dale had explained it -- sort of -- that that part was a fight with two willing participants, and that the old security guy was the real key to Waylon being arrested and charged, but the old guy -- from his own hospital bed -- said forget it, he didn’t want it to be a big deal, with word getting around.

  Even then Eclipse could have charged Waylon, couldn’t they? But Dale said his impression was the fat cop knew the old guy, deferred to his wishes, and therefore left it alone.

  McBride said, “A lot of stuff lately, apparently being chalked up to self defense.” And Chris figured that included him kind of lucking out as well, not that different than Waylon in the end.

  Chris said, “So yeah. For those reasons . . . and a few others . . . I thought sooner rather than later. The Karolina activity.”

  McBride had been trying to use the chop sticks, had switched to the fork, put that down now and wiped his mouth with the napkin and took a deep breath. “Well, what are you doing tomorrow?” he said.

  Chapter 14

  The lab business Thursday morning wasn’t routine it turned out, there was another layer that made it trickier to engineer.

  The rub was the standard labs that profiled your DNA had you spit in a paper cup, or a technician swabbed you in the inner cheek -- and Chris hadn’t thought of this one being different -- meaning walking in there with a drop of dry blood soaked into a piece of fabric.

  So he Phoenix lab that looked good -- and quick -- turned him away, and he wasted time investigating a couple more, until one of the phone receptionists told him in no certain terms that he needed the one out in Gold Canyon, and she hung up . . . and wouldn’t you know there were three out there, but he figured it out, the correct place being located almost to the national forest they had out that way . . . and it worked out, they accepted the sample no problem, and the place did seem efficient and quick, though dang, it was costing him triple what the Gardena lab ran.

  Eclipse to Tuscon was closer than he thought, under 3 hours tops, and Chris and McBride were going to leave at noon, get down there mid-afternoon and see what
developed . . . so on the way back from the lab first, well . . . you may as well check out Reba’s ‘new and improved’ art show at the bank.

  Right away the entire circumstance was transformed. The tired, thin, amateur-hour stuff had been replaced -- completely it seemed -- by big, bold, colorful, vibrant new work. The settings of the paintings looked similar to Reba’s previous poor efforts -- and for all Chris knew they could have been depicting exactly the same scenes -- but where Reba’s old ones depressed you, frankly . . . these new efforts lifted you, they added a jump-start to your day.

  Yes, Chris wouldn’t have spent 5 bucks for one of her old ones if it were on a bargain table -- but Gee, forking over the real bucks for one of these -- and bringing it home and hanging it up in Manhattan Beach over the couch -- you’d actually mull that over.

  There was a woman at one of the side desks, an assistant manger type, and Chris said, “An elevation in here, is what I’m discerning. Do I have it wrong?”

  “Oh no, sir,” she said, “you put your finger right on it. We love the artist’s new work. In fact we’re sad whenever one sells. Which has been happening quite a lot, as you might imagine.”

  “I see,” Chris said, surprised himself, not that the staff loves the work, but the apparent extent to which the paintings have been flying off the walls.

  “Are you by chance interested in one,” the assistant manger said. “The only reason I ask, if you are, I’d recommend putting a bid in.”

  “A bid,” Chris said.

  “Yes. The artist has had multiple offers on some. We decided that’s the best way to handle it.”

  “Wait . . . so someone can’t just walk in, spot the price on the little tag, decide that works, and than pull out a check? Isn’t that how they do it in galleries?”

  “Certainly, that would be typical. Here we’ve encountered a few issues though, long-time customers wishing to take a day to decide between the artist’s works . . . and therefore we implemented the bidding process.”

  Chris thought Holy Smokes. He couldn’t help thinking back, by comparison, poor Joyce not much of an artist either, and Chris trying to help her market her stuff . . . and the whole thing felt more or less like you were wading in quicksand.

  He said, “You’ve used the expression now a few times, the artist . . . Does this person have a name?”

  “Oh most certainly. It’s difficult to pronounce. Magdalena Moussourschian . . . Are you familiar?”

  Hmm.

  “Okay, I think I follow you,” he said. “Wasn’t the artist -- even last Saturday, if I have my days straight, when I stopped in for a look -- a Reba something?”

  “She most certainly was. Sir you have excellent recall . . . Reba, she decided to retire her show prematurely. We hated to see her go, but we were sympathetic.”

  “Ah. So the . . . replacement one . . .”

  “Uh-huh. Magdalena?”

  “She, like, came in in person then? Hung her work?”

  “No, actually, the way it proceeded -- and I should have pointed out, we found Magdalena through Reba, I’m sure you can understand how the art community works.”

  “Sure,” Chris said, “tight.”

  “Indeed. The two are colleagues. Reba suggested she could procure a sufficient number of Magdalena’s paintings, and represent her while Magdalena is touring in Europe.”

  “But of course,” Chris said. “Why not?”

  “And needless to say,” the manager said, “we’re delighted with the end result . . . Please let me know if you have any questions. I find myself developing a bit of expertise. I really love it.”

  “Great art,” Chris said, “can absolutely have that effect . . . Did you ever watch the Sopranos?”

  The gal frowned slightly for the first time. She apologized, and said she did not.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “The main guy’s wife, at one point she makes a trip to the major museums in Italy. When she’s finally in the presence of the great works, she is overwhelmed. Becomes kind of catatonic actually -- which I thought may have been overdoing it a bit . . . but it was TV of course, you went along with it.”

  “Unh-huh,” the gal said. “Well, please enjoy the rest of your viewing experience.”

  Chris said thank you, he would, and he may even look into the artist further, he was so impressed.

  ***

  “Something I neglected to ask,” McBride said. He was doing the driving, nice comfy Acura SUV, barrelling down I-10. “Karolina know you’re representing her?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Chris said.

  “What I figured. You . . . finessed her, for the information? Without her putting it together?”

  “Didn’t need to. There’s only one outfit in Tuscon that offers this stuff . . . Technically there’s four of ‘em, but two, when you dig a little on the websites, they disclaimer you to death. My instinct is no way they’d have the balls to get mixed up in something like this.”

  “What about the third one?”

  “That guy, or that place -- I guess he had an uncle working with him, and the aunt was the secretary -- he got arrested, end of last year. So he’s out of business.”

  “That’ll tend to do it,” McBride said. “However . . . that’s not our man?”

  “Nah, he owned a strip club as well, and there was some weird stuff, I can’t remember what. Bottom line, he was a two-bit player. Not big-league enough to put anything past the big schools, like Karolina’s guy.”

  “Process of elimination then,” McBride said.

  “We hope.”

  McBride said, “Even that, some big-league guy seducing the big schools, being awful hard to believe.”

  “I know,” Chris said. “Why would these established coaches for instance -- they got some of the best sports jobs in the country, everything going for ‘em -- why would they accept a bribe to fudge an applicant’s resume?”

  They were referring of course to the Orange County operation that had been in the news, these kind of details spilling out.

  McBride said, “There was a crew guy for one, right? Didn’t he even go so far as to photoshop some documents, that showed his admissions office that the applicant was one of the best junior rowers in the country? When the kid never picked up an oar?”

  “Stuff like that, yep. You got the exit?”

  McBride had it under control. The place was on E Broadway Boulevard, near the Reid Park Zoo.

  “Speaking of colleges,” Chris said as they parked and got out, “not saying we’ll have time, but I wouldn’t mind looking around the University of Arizona. If I could do it all over again, that might be where I’d try to go.”

  “You ever lived down here?” McBride said.

  “Why?”

  “No reason. That’s a fair question. C’mon Jeff, don’t be turning things into World War 3.”

  Chris was thinking was I doing that? Meanwhile he was picturing McBride and Waylon again in their little dance, before things got real heated . . . and he never did get the low down on what started it . . . though you probably didn’t really need to know.

  Karolina’s place (hopefully) was up a flight of stairs, a slightly shabby two-story commercial building, a mortgage company downstairs alongside a shop that sold local rocks and gems.

  Chris thought it was interesting -- he’d seen it a lot -- where someone making big money, likely dancing rings around the other nearby businesses -- looked from general appearances like it was doing the worst of the bunch.

  Karolina’s company (so to speak) was called Advanced Intercollegiate Solutions. It looked like a one-room set-up, and starting up the stairs Chris was hoping it was a one-man set-up too -- just one crooked guy sitting there at a computer studying the stock market pork bellies quotes, or similar.

  In between rooking people.

  And maybe you can’t even say that -- after all the guy did get Karolina’s kid -- supposedly -- into UCLA.

  So . . . you modified your assessment to . . .
rooking the family that didn’t get in because she did? Rooking the schools who you bribed?

  Whatever.

  The rookage frankly wasn’t as concerning as the potential jailage, meaning as it applied to Karolina.

  McBride stopped him a few stairs up, and they went back outside.

  “I’m not sure we have a plan here,” he said. “Do we?”

  Chris said, “You may have a point. I was thinking simply, we walk in, get the lay of the land, express an interest in the future of our two high school seniors . . . No?”

  “Then what?”

  “Beats me. I haven’t done this kind of thing before, as you can probably tell . . . You have.”

  “Threatened people, you mean?” McBride said.

  “Well, okay,” Chris said, “if we’re going there, discussion-wise, I’m guessing you have.”

  “You’re giving me way too much credit,” McBride said. “What would you think if we called them first?”

  “I’m game. If that’s the way you want to work it.”

  “You’re looking at me though,” McBride said. “You’re wondering what the point would be.”

  “Unh-huh. I mean the whole shebang sounds like a crapshoot, what the heck we’re even doing here. But I tend to favor direct contact.”

  “So you have been mixed up in a situation like this. I sorta figured.”

  “No. Now you’re give me the too much credit . . . Only one I’m remembering, reason why, I had a bad tenant. I tried the phone and the email bullshit, and when I bit the bullet and went face to face it wasn’t as unpleasant and I’d been fearing. We came to a meeting of the minds, and that was pretty much that.”

  “What’d you do to the guy?” McBride said, smiling now, want to hear this one.

  “You’re putting words in my mouth,” Chris said. “Guy invited me in, poured some corn chips in a bowl, gave me a cold ginger ale, we reviewed the rent he’d been holding back, in conjunction with the repairs on the apartment that he required. It was a win-win situation.”

  Not what happened of course, but McBride bringing it up . . . it did give Chris the idea of dangling the college guy out a window . . . You only had one story of elevation to work with as far as the fear factor, but you might be able to impress the person.