by Rick Murcer
It took a minute for him to recover. He headed toward the staircase with a trickle of sweat meandering down his temple. The sand got thicker and his steps tougher until he began his ascent onto the staircase and eventually ended up on Coast Boulevard.
Barton found Prospect Street and made his way to Weatherby’s. Thankfully, he wore a coat and tie, because once inside the ambiance hit him. Candlelit tables were spread out enough to allow a violin player to work his way through the dinner crowd. He squeezed past the group lined up in front of the hostess stand and poked his head into the dining room.
There she was. Sitting by herself in a booth.
Barton had to gather himself and remember the job. Always the job. He found himself approaching the table unprepared. He had a million questions, but not a single one came to mind as he eased into the seat across from her. They looked at each other, but neither one spoke. She hadn’t aged much. The only noticeable difference was her obviously pregnant belly.
The silence grew awkward as he took a breadstick and snapped it in half.
“Am I going to need an attorney for this?” she asked.
Barton stabbed a square of cold butter with a knife and smeared it onto the end of his breadstick. He pointed the butter knife at her belly. “Congratulations.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? I’m happy for you.”
“You’re looking at me the way a starving man stares at a stuffed turkey. We could never do this, and you know it.”
“I know, I know.”
“No you don’t. You never did. So don’t begin a stroll down memory lane with me like it was the yellow brick road, because there was no Oz for us.”
“I didn’t come here to reminisce.”
“Then why are you here?”
He took a sip of her water. “I’ve got a stiff one down in La Jolla Cove.”
“And?”
“And it’s professional.”
“And?”
“And it was done by a southpaw.”
“Oh come on, Michael. Look at me. Do I look like I’ve been working tonight?”
He took a bite of the breadstick and shrugged.
She leaned back and folded her arms. “You knew I could never be a stay-at-home mom.”
He chewed quickly. “I told you it’s not about that.”
“I mean think about it—how was I supposed to make a living while sharing my home with a homicide detective?”
“Do you know Elliot Sinclair?”
That stopped her. Her eyes roamed side to side as she ingested the news. She maintained her poker face, but he could tell she was trying too hard.
“It’s not a tough question,” Barton said.
Finally, she said, “Is that who’s getting his photo taken over on the beach?”
“Spoken like a true pro. Always get more information than you give.”
“Quit analyzing every little thing.”
“I can’t help it. It’s my job.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the entrance of the restaurant. When she turned back, she sighed, “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Should I?”
“Because if you’re not, I’d like you to leave. I’m meeting someone here.”
That’s the part that bothered Barton about his theory. Why would she be waiting for a man she’d just killed? Coming down from his suspicions, he looked at her with a fresh pair of eyes. She was truly a beautiful woman, even with the excess weight from the pregnancy.
“You look good,” he said.
She frowned. “That’s enough.”
“See,” he said, “that’s why we didn’t last. I was never good at giving compliments, and you were terrible at accepting them. It’s like you try to scare off any chance of intimacy.”
“Are you through, Dr. Freud?”
“See what I mean?”
“Here’s what I see. I see a pathetic man who wants a family so bad he would actually try to convert an assassin into being his bride. That’s what I see.”
The tension mounted in his chest. She knew the exact button to push. He put down the breadstick and slid to the end of the booth. Before he stood, he thought about something. “Just exactly who are you waiting for?”
Her eyes gave nothing away. She simply pursed her lips and said, “Get out.”
Barton wasn’t going to learn anything this way. He would wait outside and see what happened. When he swung his legs from under the booth, he knocked over her purse. Several items spilled out. A checkbook, a pair of sunglasses, a set of keys, and an earring.
Barton stared at the earring. He heard the click of a .22 chamber being loaded.
“Sit back down,” she said.
Her hands were under the table. Her expression was terminal. This wasn’t the same woman he’d just complimented about her looks.
“Sit down,” she repeated. This time she raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Don’t tempt me.”
He sat.
“Keep your hands on the table in front of you.”
He did as she said. For a few moments, they said nothing. She kept her head still, but her eyes darted everywhere. It was the first time he’d seen her show indecision. It gave him hope.
“Why don’t you tell me about it, Sheila?”
Her restless eyes appeared to settle on Barton by default. She took a deep breath. “He raped me.”
“Who?”
“Elliot Sinclair.”
“So you killed him?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Just tell me why you were calling him on his cell after you did him?”
She seemed confused. “How—”
“Because I was there. I answered his cell phone when you called. That’s how I found you.”
This seemed to set her back. She shook her head and tried to piece it all together. “That was you on the phone?”
Barton nodded. “Leaving the earring was sloppy. It’s not like you.”
Her eyes went cold and dark, and Barton realized he’d gone too far. She was about to finish off the only person who could put her away.
“Don’t do it, Sheila. The gunshot will only bring you more attention.”
“It won’t matter,” she said. “The minute I’m out that door, I’ll disappear into the landscape. They can have all the evidence in the world, but they won’t have me.”
He knew she was right. She was too involved with the underworld. She had the connections. She would never be found.
Sheila kept her attention on him as she reached down, swept up her loose items, and returned them to her purse. She sat upright, and her right arm seemed to extend under the table to zoom in on her target. Then, for a brief moment, a flash of compassion flickered across her eyes. “Sorry, Michael.”
He braced for the shot. In the very moment he had shut his eyes, he heard a familiar voice.
“Mind if I join you kids?”
It was Jenson. His partner had a 9mm tucked discreetly by his side, and he motioned Sheila to make room for him in the booth.
Barton breathed.
Jenson sat next to the assassin and twisted to face her. He dug his automatic into her armpit.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Sheila,” Jenson said. “My partner told me he was chasing a lead, but I never imagined this.”
Sheila never even looked at Jenson. She stared straight at Barton with the glare of a coldhearted killer.
“I’m taking one of you with me,” she said.
Barton saw the determination on her face. He tried to diffuse the situation. “You’re not thinking straight, Sheila,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, I’m not. But I’m not going down without a fight.”
“Take a good look around,” Jenson said. “Notice anything?”
Sheila glanced briefly around the restaurant. Barton hadn’t noticed, but the remaining customers had left their tables. Sheila was so focused on Barton that she didn’t see it happen either.
�
��I had the place evacuated,” Jenson said. “Now if you look out that picture window, besides the view of the ocean, you’ll notice a nice group of friends I like to call the SWAT team.”
Barton could see helmeted men tucked behind steel shields strapped to their arms. Their rifles were all trained on Sheila.
“You see,” Jenson said. “There’s no way out.”
Over years of evolution, humans have developed the ability to warn their enemies of imminent danger. Their lips tighten. Their eyebrows merge. Sheila had adapted her own version of this autonomous skill. She smiled.
Barton had seen the look before, and he needed to divert the tension before bullets started flying.
“He raped her,” Barton said.
“Who?” Jenson asked.
“Elliot Sinclair.”
“Our stiff?”
Barton nodded.
“How’s a guy like Elliot get the jump on you?” Jenson asked Sheila.
“He slipped something strong in my drink while I was at Harvey’s having a martini. The drug hit me hard. It took a while for my memory to return.”
Jenson pointed to her belly. “Is that the result of—”
“Yes,” she said. “It took me eight months, but I finally tracked him down tonight. I happened to spot him on the boardwalk on my way here, and I couldn’t wait. I didn’t have the patience. I was too emotional.”
“But why would you call him after you shot him?” Barton asked.
“I know the answer to that,” Jenson said. He removed a sheet of paper from his jacket with his left hand and unfolded it on the table. “I found this in his pants pocket. He printed this from your e-mail to him. Apparently you two met on a secure dating web site and only knew first names and cell phone numbers. Am I right?”
Sheila nodded.
“You made a blind date with the guy who raped you?” Barton said.
“Pisser, huh?” Jenson said.
“I didn’t know he was the same guy until just now. I figured I’d do the guy, then have a date as an alibi thirty minutes later. I didn’t know they’d be the same person. It was a good plan until Mr. Scruples here showed up.”
“Trust me,” Jenson said. “Your plan wasn’t so hot to begin with.”
“I was too emotional,” Sheila said. Her face got tighter. “Like now. I’m capable of anything when I’ve got all these hormones raging in me.”
“Now listen,” Barton said. “This is not as bad as it seems.”
“Of course not,” Jenson said. “I mean what are we doing here? He raped you. We get a DNA match with the child, and you’ve got yourself justifiable homicide.”
“Who are you bullshitting?” Sheila sneered. “If I did him the night of the rape, maybe. But eight months later? No way. They’re going to want me inside for at least twenty. And I’m not going inside. Never have. Never will.”
Jenson dug his pistol into her side. “The only reason you’re alive right now is because of that baby you’re carrying. These guys outside could pick which nostril they want the bullet to enter. You get my drift?”
It seemed that she did. She acknowledged Jenson with a slight grin. It was a sadistic grin that made Barton’s stomach twist.
Sheila quickly pulled the gun from under the table and jabbed it into the top of her belly. “If you don’t let me out of here, he gets it.”
Barton held up his hands. “Oh, man, let’s not get stupid here. That kid’s done nothing wrong. Leave him out of it.”
Sheila looked at Jenson, then she held up her arm so the snipers outside could see what she was doing. There was a dead silence to the place. No silverware rattled. No music played in the background. Just a collective gasp from anyone who could view the assassin’s next target.
Barton waved down the SWAT team. With great reluctance on their faces, one by one, they began to stand down.
Sheila gave Jenson a venomous glare. “Get out of the booth,” she demanded.
Jenson looked at his partner. Barton nodded. Jenson backed out of the booth.
To a passerby, the scene must’ve looked bizarre. A pregnant woman backing away from the booth, all the while holding a .22 to her own belly. The entire time, Jenson stood still with his gun trained on her head. Barton knew that nothing good could come of this death dance. He held his hands up high and said, “Let me escort you out of here, Sheila.”
The uncertainty lingered on her face as she swiveled her head to take in as much as she could. Barton caught Jenson’s eye and made a circling motion with his finger: get a chopper in the air. Jenson nodded and stayed back while Barton followed her out.
She was at the door, backing out, holding the gun to her belly. The look of confusion on the snipers’ faces said it all. They couldn’t have known what to do. It wasn’t a scenario they’d ever trained for.
Sheila used the confusion to move swiftly away from the restaurant. Barton stayed right with her. As long as she didn’t object, Barton was going along for the ride. He had no plan. No solution. Just follow the assassin and react. Maybe even stay alive.
As she turned the corner down a side street, two police cars were parked nose to nose with their red and blue lights swirling silently, reflecting off of the row of small houses. The absence of pedestrians made them stand out even more.
Sheila was clearly startled by the events. She’d never even been close to being caught, and this was rattling her. She stumbled backward, glancing around for her next move.
“Please,” Barton said, “let me take you in. I can help.”
Sheila was in another world now. She barely held the gun to her stomach as she tried to run across the street toward the beach. Toward the crowd who were evacuated and watching the event like spectators at a reality show. Barton saw them for what they really were. Possible hostages.
He shuffled in front of her, trying to slow her pace. “No,” he said. “That’s not where you want to go. It’s too open down there.”
“Don’t act like you’re my accomplice, Mike,” she snarled. “I’m on my own, like I’ve always been.”
From the distance, the thumping of a helicopter came surging toward them. She stood in the middle of Coast Boulevard, which was blocked off but for the SWAT team still lingering and the onlookers who were quickly being ushered away by police. Red and blue lights seemed to increase with every passing minute.
Sheila looked out at the ocean and, with a determined expression, trotted toward the stairs leading to the beach.
“What are you doing?” Barton asked.
“Stop following me,” Sheila barked as she hurried down the sandy wooden stairs.
Barton ignored her and kept close as she kicked off her shoes at the base of the steps and headed toward the ocean.
“Sheila, what on earth are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, can we talk about this?”
“Why, so you can get more reinforcements?”
Sheila’s feet were kicking up sand into Barton’s face as he turned to see the SWAT team take their sniper positions up on the cliffs. The thump of the helicopter’s blades was louder now.
“We already have more law enforcement than we need,” Barton said, slowing down as Sheila high-stepped into the oncoming waves.
“Sheila, stop!” Barton demanded.
For the first time since he’d known her, she listened to him. Sheila turned to see the wall of guns up on the cliffs and the helicopter now buzzing overhead. A spotlight came down and illuminated a wide circle around the two of them on the beach. Without ever looking up, Barton knew there would be at least two experienced snipers aboard.
“You can’t outrun them,” Barton said. His heart pumped extra hard, while he tried not to stare at the gun.
She swiveled her head back and forth between the ocean and the cliffs. Barton wasn’t sure what she was thinking.
“Tell them to get rid of the helicopter,” she yelled over the din of the chopper’s powerful blades.
Barton felt
the trained eyes of the snipers peering at them through their night-vision riflescopes. Nothing got the attention of the department as much as one of their own in danger.
The sand swirled around them, causing Barton to squint and spit out tiny fragments of sand. He waved off the helicopter and watched the snipers pull their heads away from their sights.
Barton waved furiously again, and the helicopter slowly tilted to the side and moved away from the beach.
Sheila must’ve realized the corner she was in, because she stopped fidgeting and faced Barton. Her expression caused him to skip a breath. “I have no family,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked down and patted her belly. It was as if she were all alone. Yet it still seemed creepy to see her point a gun at her belly with one hand and stroke it with the other.
“I can’t do this,” she said in a far away voice.
He wasn’t sure what she meant, but was glad to see her stationary.
Barton’s phone rang, and Sheila came out of her trance.
“Answer it,” she commanded.
Barton pushed the talk button and pressed the phone to his ear. A moment later, he put the phone down and said, “They want to know what you want.”
Sheila let out a psychotic laugh. “Well, let’s see, I guess a week in St. Martin is out of the question.”
Barton stared.
Then her expression went dark again. “Tell them to call for an ambulance,” she said.
“Don’t talk like that, Sheila.”
“Tell them to send an ambulance right now.” She had a permanent poker face, and Barton didn’t want to guess any longer. An ambulance meant a chance for life. Whose life, he didn’t know.
“Now,” she said.
Barton told Jenson her demand. He shut his phone.
“Five minutes,” he said.
“Good.” She shuffled in place. It was her nature to slither within the shadows of the streets, but now she stood there like a leopard caught out in a clearing. A killer, miles away from any cover.
“Just do what they want, Sheila. Life is worth living.”
She shook her head. “You’re such a dreamer. You’re trying to save the world, but you haven’t figured out that your world is just temporary. Nothing ever lasts.”