Justice Rain (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 11)

by Rex Bolt

  They knocked on the door. Pretty much like Chris pictured it unfortunately, you had a secretary or receptionist or general helper sitting at a big desk up front -- plump middle-aged woman -- and the apparent doofus boss across the room.

  Smaller desk for that guy, but he was slick -- stylish baby blue blazer, shiny cufflinks, starched light pink shirt that you’d guess was custom made, hair puffed just right on top and around the ears, indicative of a weekly coiffe.

  The woman said hello, quite pleasant, but the guy was paying attention too, and when McBride said they were shopping the college thing and didn’t quite know where to start, the guy stood up and stepped forward and introduced himself, effectively by-passing the assistant.

  The guy pulled out a couple folding chairs and they sat down at his desk, and Chris asked for a brochure or paperwork they could study, and the guy said there wasn’t any, but, “We’re good at what we do.”

  “Well whoopee then,” Chris said.

  “What he means,” McBride said, “is . . . what did you mean, anyway?” Looking at Chris.

  “I don’t know,” Chris said, “don’t blame it on me. You’re the one that wanted to come down here. You’re whining that Jenny’s not applying herself sufficiently to her curriculum.”

  “That part is true,” McBride said. “She don’t got diddly squat options.”

  “And you decided that was fine. She graduates, she can go to work at 7-11. Teach her about the real world.”

  “Yeah but I thought about it obviously -- otherwise why would we be sitting here at the moment, taking up this patient gentleman’s time.”

  “You’re losing me,” Chris said. To the slick guy he said, “But, I’m a fan of not screwing around. What’ll it run us?”

  “I’m sorry?” the guy said, and for a moment Chris thought this is all screwed up, this guy may not even be crooked, much less be Karolina’s guy.

  “Fuck this shit,” McBride said, and he theatrically stood up and started for the door, and Chris followed him.

  The guy let a couple beats go by, and then called across the room, “Let’s take it easy now fellas. If we’re speaking the same language here . . . I’m sure we can formulate some options for you to discuss.”

  “Fair enough,” McBride said, and kept going out the door, and Chris was wondering why he’d be doing that now, but went with him.

  Outside McBride said, “That guy was getting on my nerves. First of all, did you notice the cologne?”

  Chris said, “No. The gal though, she reminded me of a parent, a mother of a kid I used to teach.”

  “You keep getting so far off topic it’s ridiculous. But you obviously need to tell me . . . so what?”

  “Nothing. Other than she told me I didn’t know what I was doing, and should be ashamed of myself being part of the profession.”

  “Did you?”

  “Nah, she was right. They had me teaching english and history, but I subbed one week in health and rec. I was in unfamiliar territory. I told the kids, best way to handle this, go out and run for 20 minutes to start the class, then your brains’ll work smoother when we do get around to discussing health.”

  McBride said, “In other words, why talk about health -- when you can do it instead.”

  “Exactly. So this gal’s daughter gets hit by a car. Not right away, the first two days went fine, but the third one she cuts a corner a little tight -- and I could picture it, I know the intersection, and a guy making a right turn just nicks her.”

  “Not good then.”

  “She didn’t need a hospital or anything -- actually they take her to one, but she was back in school later that day . . . anyhow the mom called the cops on me and so forth.”

  “Anything happen?”

  “Naw. Then she threatened a lawsuit but my guess is she couldn’t find someone to take the case. So it went away. Except I saw her, the mom, once at a restaurant, a Mary’s Pizza Shack. She was taking out, so I discreetly took care of it with the cash register person.”

  “Paid for her order. She say anything?”

  “Yeah. She said ‘if you think you can buy my ass off, you got another thing coming’ And that I needed to watch my back worse now, if I think this is over.”

  “Those words? The buy my ass off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what else did happen?”

  “Nothing. That I know of. And it’s been several years . . . But the back of my mind, every once in a while I’m wondering if she’s still got something up her sleeve. That there’ll be a big surprise.”

  “Not out of the question,” McBride said. “She sounded nuts enough, that you might have to worry about something.”

  “Jeez,” Chris said, “I didn’t expect you to take her side. You’re supposed to say forget it, if you had something to worry about it would have already come to pass.”

  “Well we’d like to think that way. Past experience of my own, nothing’s certain, along those lines.”

  “I just wasted five minutes,” Chris said, “when the secretary gal really didn’t resemble the school mom that close.”

  “What time you got?” McBride said.

  “Little after 3:30 . . . we’re gonna have to wait this one out.”

  “Let’s grab a bite,” McBride said. They were on the same page. Bottom line, you wanted to deal with the blue blazer smart guy by himself, when (you hoped) the gal would be gone for the day. You’d have to time it . . . but he and McBride between them, they weren’t total greenhorns, were they?

  The food was tasty in Tuscon, the sauce and spices a little different in the enchiladas than how they work it up north . . . and Phoenix too, being different than southern California style, but Tuscon fare was proving unique and Chris reminded himself to look it up sometime, the historic migrations from Mexico into the different regions . . . but this was once again getting off topic.

  At 10 to 5 McBride called Advanced Intercollegiate Solutions, and the woman answered and McBride buttered her up a bit, and said would it be okay if we stopped back in now, that we might be ready to conduct a little business.

  She excused herself and put him on hold, and came back and said certainly, that Mr. Saulterk can see you presently.

  McBride said great and hung up, and he and Chris gave each other the palms up, like maybe this’ll work . . . and they waited until a couple minutes after 5 and went back up there.

  It wasn’t what they hoped, at first, as the receptionist was sitting at her desk typing something like she didn’t have to be anywhere.

  Their little plot, maybe not so ingenious after all, was you time it so that she’d gone for the day, but the doofus is still around. The hours on the door did say 10-5, Monday thru Friday, so the plan didn’t seem unreasonable.

  They sat down again with the guy -- you had to now -- and then fortunately Beagle -- the was her name oddly, or else a nickname, because that’s what the guy used, to say he’d see her in the morning -- picked up her stuff, switched shoes for whatever reason, and left for the night.

  They small talked the guy for a couple minute until they were convinced Beagle didn’t forget something and would re-appear . . . and Chris said, “Reason we’re here, should have started at the beginning. We got a referral from our friend Karolina.”

  Letting the one stay out there a second.

  The guy was a cool customer, he’d been around he block clearly . . . but there’d been a tip of the iceberg reaction off him when Chris said the name.

  McBride had picked up on it as well.

  McBride said, “In fact -- we call her a friend, but we don’t even know her last name, which is kind of crazy. Do we Dave?”

  Chris said, “Joe, that was your job, the last name.” Looking back at the guy. “I believe you’d know who we’re talking about though . . . Major financial assets . . . so to speak.”

  They watched to see how that resonated, and it was even a bit more clear this time that they were sitting currently with the correct Karolina shyster.<
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  “Speaking of that though, her last name,” Chris said to the guy, “we’re gonna need you to look her up.”

  “I have no idea what you fellas are talking about,” the guy said, though there wasn’t as much oomph to it.

  There were different ways you could play it of course. Slow and steady and polite was one, converting the guy eventually on a civilized note.

  Right now though that enchilada sauce from an hour go, the different type than Chris was used to . . . it was starting to kick in a little funny.

  That . . . combined with the aggravation of the excursion itself -- which let’s face it, didn’t exactly qualify on Chris’s list of items to try to deal with for the betterment of society -- or whatever the heck.

  The point being, slow and steady wasn’t an attractive option right now . . . and Chris stood up and grabbed Mr. Saulterk by the collar region of the snazzy blue blazer, and started marching him toward the far window.

  “Dave, you sure?” McBride called, and Chris detected a touch of genuine panic in McBride’s voice, though the guy at least had maintained enough poise to call him Dave instead of Jeff, though did that really matter.

  “Yeah I’m sure Joe,” Chris said, “except it’s gonna require two people.”

  Saulterk wasn’t very likely a physical crook, or a street one, thank God, not like Chip, for instance, way back when in the office in Hermosa, Chris still living up in the city then, the place on Broderick -- but with Chip you did fear a guttural, primitive, survival instinct kicking in -- and you had to be very careful and a little lucky too.

  This guy wasn’t going to give you that kind of trouble. At least while you were here.

  That was the problem, though, he could cause problems once you departed . . . so you better give it your best shot right now, and instill your point.

  McBride opened the window and it was an effective location. It hovered over a back area where employees from the building could take a break, run their phones, smoke a cigarette . . . but now it being close to 5:30 no one was doing that . . . and if you were going to point a guy out a window this was a decent option, certainly compared to the street side behind Saulterk’s desk.

  As Chris was shoving Saulterk’s head and then upper torso out there it occurred to him that McBride, even though he opened the window, might be wondering how far this was going to go -- and Chris wasn’t sure himself.

  So he said calmly to the guy’s upside-down region, “We’ll just need her records. Karolina’s. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  The guy mumbled something and Chris flipped him back up, so he was sitting on the window ledge facing into the office. Chris asked for a clearer rendition.

  “All my clients,” the guy kind of gasped, “they’re on the computer.”

  “Paper records, though?” McBride said.

  “Absolutely not,” the guy gasped again. There was a determination to it where Chris sort of believed him. After all if you were running a scam at least leave it all in cyber space . . . correct?

  Chris dangled the guy back out the window, and McBride got busy, the nonsense you had to go through unplugging the guy’s computer tower . . . and then doing the same for the secretary’s.

  McBride stood there a moment like what now, and Chris said why not pack up, that we’re good here . . . meaning him, and Saulterk continuing to reverse dangle, and Chris did have to respect the guy for not throwing up or exercising any other abnormal bodily function.

  So McBride put the computer stuff in the trunk and they both helped Saulterk back in now, who was admittedly a little shaky with his equilibrium.

  “You got any booze in here?” Chris said. “Like guys who might end up under indictment are pouring themselves off of these days?”

  The guy shook his head. McBride said, “Looking at it like that, we’re doing you a favor. Aren’t we?”

  The guy wasn’t in the mood, or the temperament to do much conversing, but McBride had a point, that who knows, a pre-emptive purging of the records might help, when the Feds got around to knocking on the door.

  Chris said, “Okey-doke then, Mr. Saulterk. Are we good?”

  “We’ve achieved the proverbial meeting of the minds?” McBride said, and Chris wasn’t crazy about McBride borrowing that line from his own earlier reference to the frisky tenant.

  The guy nodded his head.

  “So just to clarify,” McBride said. “You ever get asked about her -- our friend Karolina . . .”

  The guy waved his hand, a little more recovered and animated now. He said, “Karolina who? Excuse me, I’m not familiar with anyone by that name.”

  “Good to hear,” Chris said, “and it goes without saying . . . your receptionist’s recollection on the subject, that’ll be in line with yours?”

  “Oh hell yes,” the guy said, perking up even more now, maybe a bit too much in fact.

  Obviously you couldn’t cover all avenues. Maybe there was paperwork somewhere that documented Karolina’s case. Maybe the mope mentioned her to a wife or girlfriend or bowling buddies. Or had a connected laptop at home.

  But you did your best, and moved on, and McBride was thinking the same thing . . . except Chris couldn’t help wondering: did I really make my point?

  He told McBride he’d be right back, and halfway to the vehicle he realized he didn’t have the Malibu and that McBride drove . . . and what he was going to get was his basic tool kit that he kept under the front seat.

  Since he was out there anyway, and McBride had left the car unlocked -- Chris thinking this being Tuscon I guess -- he popped the trunk and roamed around in there and came up with something similar to his, the gray plastic compact tool case job from Costco.

  He went back upstairs and asked McBride to blast the air conditioning, and there was a portable radio that you could turn all the way up that helped a bit too . . . and Saulterk was getting awful nervous, to where McBride had to pin him down and sit on him.

  Chris pulled a thin Philips screwdriver and hammer out of the tool case, got the guy’s shoe and sock off, picked a middle toe nail, but then nah, the big one would be best . . . lined up the screwdriver verticle, and commenced the couple of hammer taps which did the job.

  Then they did get out of there.

  “Felt conflicted about that,” Chris said, when they were headed back toward the interstate. “The last part.”

  “The final nail in the coffin, you’re saying,” McBride said.

  “He’ll be okay, though, I mean once the initial business passes. Right?”

  “Oh yeah, no big deal. Good not to be on hand though I guess, when the guy applies the peroxide or alcohol.”

  “Or nothing,” Chris said. “Nothing will remind him for a while as well, I suppose.”

  McBride said, “It should . . . if you’re worried about having to watch your back -- our back -- as in your long-winded deal with the school parent you’re still afraid of -- I suspect it’s a non-issue.”

  “Oh.”

  “Meanwhile,” McBride said, “you hungry at all?”

  And Jeez, come to think of it, yeah, and McBride had gotten on I-10 and they both started watching the exit eating-possibilities . . . and Chris decided he’d finally met his match in that department.

  Chapter 15

  Chris couldn’t help it. As much as he liked it here in Eclipse and felt he was cultivating a few real friends, he was worried about Waylon getting out of the hospital.

  And that unfortunately kind of trumped the other aspects.

  There was no predictable or comfortable way that the Waylons of the world being re-inflicted on the law-abiding public would play out.

  Chris figured if he himself was really rooted here -- meaning he owned his own condo and was locked into a career and so on -- that you deal with the uncertainty, you figure it out somehow. Maybe you purchase a legal firearm and start taking lessons at a firing range. Or some alternative approach.

  It wouldn’t be your optimum choice in life though, having som
e maniac on the loose with a score to settle in your direction.

  So you were going to have to wrap up the fun and games, and make a move. After all, Ned had suggested a vacation -- recharging the batteries for a while was how he put it -- and life threw curve balls at you and you had to adjust.

  Not that Chris was thrilled about necessarily showing his face front and center in Manhattan Beach in the near future either . . . following the Tank business in Buck’s County . . . but you had to show your face somewhere . . . and you couldn’t live in a glass house, or whatever the dumb expression was.

  So.

  And man, June 1st already . . . not that you’d celebrate that fact, but May did seem to fly by. Today was Friday, the Tuscon toenail guy was yesterday, though by now that felt pretty substantially in the rear view mirror.

  What you had to do this morning, first thing out of the chute, was head back down to the lab and pick up your result -- being the golf course murder supect’s one -- and re-connect with Dale.

  In other words get the show moving on the road, quick as you could, on a few different issues that required tying up.

  And man, there was a fair amount of traffic driving down to Gold Canyon, the middle of morning rush hour which Chris hadn’t considered, and it was real-life situations like this that amplified just how isolated you were (not meant as a negative, necessarily) when you limited yourself to the Rancho Villas day-to-day experience.

  And yeah, the lab did cost an arm and a leg relatively speaking, $1242 dollars -- but you couldn’t beat the turn-around time -- especially when you found yourself under some newly-imposed time pressure -- and Chris walked out of there with a different type disc than the one in Gardena, a bigger thing with a cord attached, but the attendant assured him it contained the text file DNA profile that he required, and wished him a blessed day. Chris wasn’t a big fan of religion but you appreciated the sincerity.

  Dale was off work today and in fact on the pickleball courts when Chris called him. Frankly it seemed like the guy was always off work, but obviously there were stretches where you didn’t see him around, and didn’t think about it, so you figured he worked the unusual schedule that cops seemed to.