by Mark Pepper
The vindictive bitch had tried to frame him, but had she? Did the facts prove his innocence or conspire cruelly against him?
The weapon used. He had left it behind in his rush to get out, but it wasn’t his, it was Laura DeCecco’s. Unfortunately, it would not be hard to ID the middle-man who had transported it from the Beverly Center to Venice Beach.
The two shots prior to the fatal bullet. Those could screw his defense, as Marie had clearly intended they should. How many suicides missed their own head at point-blank range? With wrist-slashing, there were often hesitation wounds before the deep cuts, but no jury would accept those first two shots as being in the same category. By definition, hesitating took a certain amount of time, and Marie had fired three rounds in quick succession. It would have sounded to the neighbors exactly like it was meant to sound: an assailant trying to nail a moving target.
Forensics. This could well incriminate him. Ironically, the lack of gunpowder residue on his hands would not prove him blameless of pulling the trigger, because another test would find matching submicroscopic particles of metal in his skin, proving he had held the Sig very recently. A prosecuting attorney would then simply accuse him of thoroughly washing his hands after the murder, which could sometimes remove gunpowder but was highly unlikely to shift trace metal. The fact that both tests would show positive results with Marie meant little. A frail women, he might have clamped her hand round the butt of the pistol before turning it towards her, a scenario that would explain her prints on the weapon, powder burns around the in-shoot, and two shots going astray as she desperately struggled to keep the muzzle away from her head.
Of course, if he could avoid the law for a couple of days neither test would work on him, but running would in itself be an indicator of guilt, especially when Marie’s death did not fit the mould of a classic female suicide. A woman often left a note, typically lay down to kill herself, and would normally choose drugs, poison or hanging before picking up a gun. Even then, she would rarely put a bullet into her own face.
Recent history. This was damning. It was more than just circumstantial evidence, it was practically mitigating circumstances. He could imagine his attorney telling him to plead diminished capacity rather than maintain his innocence. It all started with Frank Dista dropping dead. Larry’s there, sees it, begins to crack; falls out with his new partner; takes Mallory to a bust where six bad guys and Mallory wind up dead; investigated by Internal Affairs; beats his wife who leaves him; held at gunpoint by DeCecco for causing the premature birth of his son; dropped by a stun-gun during an armed confrontation with Hayley and persons unknown. Then he goes to Marie’s house to find Hayley, but Marie won’t talk so he kills her. It sounded like the most natural progression in the world. With all that, would a jury have enough reasonable doubt to acquit? No. Not when the points in his favor were so negligible: if Marie were terminal, her committing suicide was not so improbable … and that was about it.
Larry abruptly pulled the car off the highway onto the hard shoulder and cut the engine. His route up Highway One had flanked the ocean. To his left stretched the Will Rogers State Beach; on his right the hills of Pacific Palisades rose up, hiding the homes of the rich and famous. He looked sadly from one to the other. Marie was right. This could have been his life. Hayley had been all set to earn the big bucks in Malibu Mischief, filming just along the coast from there. After a couple of years in the show she might have broken into the movies.
His stupid temper and worthless pride had ruined it, destroyed their future. Not only had he hurt the woman he loved, Hayley had been the hand that would feed him, and he had done more than just bite it, he had literally nearly snapped it off.
A sudden panic attack made him gag for air. He got out of the car but the sunshine and ocean breeze only reinforced his tragedy. Such simple pleasures. Why had he asked for more? Why had he not embraced the life and love that was freely available?
‘Because I’m a fucking asshole, always have been,’ he said to himself, and decided it had gone far enough. He hadn’t killed Marie and he wasn’t going to run as though he had. He would find a good defense counsel and take his chances.
He checked both ways but could not see any Highway Patrol vehicles. What the hell; he would take a leisurely drive up to Malibu Beach, stop at a bar, have a few beers, a little tequila, ogle the women, and when he was thoroughly smashed he would call the cops to come pick him up. He nodded to himself, unfastened the Beetle’s soft-top, folded it back and climbed in. He started the engine, waited for a gap in the fast-moving traffic and re-joined the carriageway.
Communication had barely improved. Each time he heard an engine looming along Angelo Drive, John prayed it belong to the Jeep. Not just because he wanted to see Dodge and Marie back safely, but because their arrival would end the awkwardness he felt being alone with Hayley. He had never wanted to be somewhere else as much as now, not even during the worst times of his military service. Whenever he looked at her she was always looking at him, wearing that persistent smile that so unsettled him. He could sense how utterly contented she was just to be sitting beside him.
He was amazed he felt this way. His disappointment was colossal. He was like a little kid worshipping a supermodel for years, and when he finally meets her he discovers she has pimples, halitosis, BO, and is long overdue a depilatory session on her top lip. He was ashamed to admit it considering the sorry physical state she was in, but he wanted to say something to wipe the smile off her face. She was making him deeply anxious. He’d thought only airline personnel could maintain such fixed grins for so long. This was more frightening; this was genuine.
Eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer. It was undoubtedly a harsh way to curtail her bliss but it was all that came to mind.
‘I hope nothing’s happened to them,’ he said.
Her happiness was strangely undiminished. ‘I know where they’ll be,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘Same place I’ll be taking you.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘So you think they’re okay?’ John asked.
‘Oh, yes. More than okay. They’ve gone to the place of new beginnings.’
John didn’t even try to look like he understood, but Hayley’s mysterious optimism was undaunted. If he had been asked to label it, he would have called it something akin to religious fervor.
‘I need the loo,’ he said, and left the room.
Larry may have murdered the mother, but at least he didn’t know where the daughter was. He was running blind, that was obvious. If Marie had revealed where Hayley was hiding out, then why was Larry taking the PCH north?
Dodge was in control. He did not have to relinquish the element of surprise, overtake Larry and stop his progress. Larry was going nowhere near Hayley. He could take his time and enjoy it, the easiest of hits on a target unaware he was marked for termination. One last wet job, and one that made perfect sense. He wasn’t obeying orders, hunting a quarry because someone said he should. He was not killing for a dubious political ideology. He wasn’t fighting a war he didn’t really believe in but was too gung-ho, then fugazi, to opt out of. He was stalking a demonstrably bad person whose demise would release others from fear, and, unlike all those times past, he was suddenly very aware that he wanted to live through it. His death-wish was over. This would be the ultimate healing, the exquisite paradox. For, once it was done, Dodge fully expected to spend the rest of his days in perfect mental health, all debts repaid.
Up ahead, the white Beetle was still stopped on the hard shoulder. Dodge kept his engine running. He wondered whether he should pull alongside Larry and finish it, then cursed at a potential oversight. He guessed it was actually quite amusing. His entire adult life had been spent with firearms, and yet he had not considered whether his chosen weapon was up to the job. He thought it would be – its stainless steel construction pretty much ensured its longevity, and Harry had always obeyed the golden rul
e: take care of your weapon and it’ll take care of you – but supposition got people killed. Dodge could not risk a misfire at the crucial moment.
Keeping an eye on the stationary Bug, he lifted his newspaper off the passenger seat onto his lap. He opened it out, popped the clip from the butt of the Smith and Wesson and unscrewed the silencer. He didn’t need to look as his experienced hands worked swiftly to dismantle the semi-automatic. In pieces, he gave it a quick visual once-over. All it required was a little lubrication. He reached beneath his seat and produced a can of WD-40, liberally sprayed the parts, then reassembled the weapon by feel alone. He worked the action three times, re-attached the silencer but did not reinsert the clip. The gun was sound, but there was still an unknown quantity: the old ammunition. Although it would reduce his firepower by half, he decided to dump it. The nine mils in his other gun were compatible, so he thumbed the rounds from the top of the Hush Puppy’s clip, dropped them in the door compartment, and loaded from the Walther’s.
Up ahead, Larry had put the Beetle’s roof down and was now looking up and down the highway. Dodge couldn’t figure him out. Maybe he was debating between Mexico and Canada like the draft-dodgers during Vietnam. While he waited for Larry to do something, Dodge decided to test-fire the Hush Puppy to make sure. He worked a round into the chamber and locked the slide shut. He opened the passenger door a few inches and poked the extended barrel towards the verge. Back at the range he had apparatus that would do this remotely and less hazardously. He looked back down the highway. A big semi-trailer truck was approaching. He needed its noise to drown the shot. These rounds weren’t subsonic like the originals. Even with the silencer, they would sound. The big rig rumbled past and Dodge squeezed the trigger. The shot discharged safely, if a little noisily for his liking. It was a problem, but one he could see his way around. He would keep the slide locked and press the muzzle firm against Larry’s skin so the bullet would effectively not get into flight, preventing its sonic crack and alerting no one to what had taken place, thus allowing Dodge the time to E & E.
Larry’s left blinker was flashing to re-join the highway. Dodge manually ejected the spent shell, closed the door and slipped the gun back into the lubricant-stained pages of the LA Times. When Larry left the hard shoulder, Dodge accelerated away to continue his clandestine pursuit.
Virginia was sitting in an easy chair by the window, a sketch pad on her lap, a smug smile on her face. ‘Don’t you think you should go back down?’ she asked.
John was leaning his back against the bedroom door as though he expected Hayley to charge through. He shook his head.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘And you’re not? I thought there was some kind of family reunion going on downstairs.’
‘Come down with me. Please. I can’t talk to her.’
‘I’m working.’
‘That’s good! Talk to her about work. Acting. That’s common ground. Bring her back down to earth.’
Virginia laughed and set her pad on the bed. ‘You think I can bring her back down to earth with talk of Hollywood? Jeez, she must have her head way up in the clouds.’
‘Please. She’s saying some really strange things. And giving me some very weird looks. She said she wants to take me somewhere.’
‘Well, don’t forget your parachute.’
He went and sat on the arm of her chair. ‘Please,’ he said.
‘Poor John. She’s really freaked you out, hasn’t she?’
‘Tell her about the jobs you’ve had, the stars you’ve worked with. Give her some hope. Or make her jealous, I’m really not bothered. Just get her off my back. I’m sure she won’t talk the same way if you’re there.’
She held his hand, a girlfriend again, not a tease. There was no gloating when she asked: ‘Do you wish you hadn’t met her now?’
‘Oh, Ginny, I don’t know.’ He laid his cheek against her hair.
‘I like that,’ she said softly.
‘What?’
‘Calling me Ginny. I’m surprised. I’ve never liked anyone but my dad calling me that.’
John kissed her hair, and properly noticed the page in her lap she was working on. Around the costume ideas and notes were doodles that made him smile. Schoolgirl love hearts pierced by arrows, her name on one side, his on the other. And in tiny letters he had to squint to make out, a combination of their names: Virginia Frears. He was shocked by how unperturbed he felt. Not so long ago he would have been lacing up his running shoes after seeing that. But perhaps it wasn’t a matter of time, not in the sense of him having reached a certain level of maturity. He suspected it was rather simpler: at last he had met someone he didn’t ever want to lose. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he said. ‘Ever.’
‘I won’t. Now where did I put my air-traffic-controller’s hat?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Let’s see if I can’t talk Hayley down.’
Somewhere beyond Malibu, Larry had turned off the PCH and driven down to a beachfront bar. It was a watering-hole for rich beach bums and poor surf dudes. The mix of vehicles outside testified to that. The building was transparent; plate glass windows on both the road side and facing the ocean; a bar along the left wall, washrooms on the right. Steely Dan was playing loudly on the sound system, drifting out across the lot. Several patrons were seated on a balcony over the beach. Ten or twelve were inside, among them Larry, presently buying himself a beer and a chaser like he didn’t have a care in the world.
It was a pleasant place to die. The winter sun was warming, the ocean breeze cooling, the girls good-looking. If he had been choosing his own death scene, Dodge would not have wanted much more for himself than this. He guessed that Larry was contemplating giving himself up, and was taking mental Polaroids for when the time came that his only view would be a razor-wired high fence.
And if Dodge could have been certain that would be Larry’s fate, he might have U-turned and driven back to LA. But odd things were known to happen in U.S. courtrooms these days. Smart lawyers regularly worked minor miracles to dump major scumbags back on the street.
Dodge couldn’t take the chance.
Larry paid for his drinks, knocked back the short and downed the beer. His attention never left the pretty female bartender. For a man on the run he seemed ridiculously unconcerned with passing traffic, especially with the Beetle’s license plate no doubt now the subject of an All Points. Dodge wasn’t complaining. This lack of vigilance only made his job easier, and confirmed what he suspected: that Larry was enjoying the equivalent of a last cigarette before the firing squad took aim. It was truer than he would ever know.
Dodge had parked across the forecourt from the Beetle, and the Jeep’s smoked glass served to soften his outline as he watched and considered whether to make his move at that particular place. He had no trouble sitting tight. Vietnam had taught him patience.
Days and nights spent in the boonies, silent and motionless, awaiting the enemy’s footfalls. They would piss in their trousers rather than risk announcing the team’s position by movement.
But whether in the A Shau Valley or on a Pacific beach, the principle remained the same: patience was a virtue, but the longer a mission went on the higher the risk of compromise. There was no such thing as the perfect opportunity, there was only the right time to take your best shot, and that had to happen before you got tired and careless. No matter the planning or equipment or manpower involved, once guns were drawn there were no foregone conclusions, and the sharper mind could make the mortal difference.
Larry ordered a second beer and glugged it straight down. There was a good-natured exchange across the bar, then the bartender disappeared and returned with a towel, which she handed to Larry. Dodge couldn’t believe it – fucking guy was going for a swim. He watched as Larry headed for the beach-side balcony that led down to the sand. Dodge quickly opened the glove box and took out a pair of Ray-Bans and
a black baseball cap bearing a legend in white: DODGE CITY Gun Range. He removed from his belt the empty Walther in its holster and hid it away under the seat. Getting out of the Jeep he decided to take his shirt off. If Larry had any cause to give him a second glance, recognition might dawn. The shirt was a bright yellow, and if Larry’s subconscious didn’t recognize the color from earlier at the apartment, the cop-fugitive in him might simply wonder what it concealed; Larry seemed relaxed enough, but his mind had to be in turmoil, and fired by a generous dose of paranoia. Besides, a bare chest would fit in better on the beach – better camouflage.
Dodge unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, folded it collar to hem and tucked it behind him down his waist. The blast injuries that had been left to knit on their own were healing nicely. The more serious wounds had been stitched and covered. He peeled the dressings from them and smiled at the amazing speed of his recovery. It was a miracle he hadn’t died. He would be left with a bunch of scars, any one of which could have spelled the end for him. It might have made certain people entertain some pretty outlandish thoughts regarding fate and destiny, but Dodge was doing more than entertain them, he was positively embracing them. In his mind, he had been specifically spared for what he was about to do.
He donned his cap and sunglasses, reached to the passenger seat and reversed the LA Times around the Smith so the stains were to the inside. It was minor adjustments like these that had kept him alive in Vietnam. Larry was hardly likely to sniff out WD-40 like the North Vietnamese had been able to smell American soap and deodorant on the regular grunts, but being careful to the point of paranoia was a hard habit to break, and now certainly wasn’t the time to try.
Dodge locked the Jeep and set off down the side of the bar, sauntering leisurely as any man would who wanted a quiet afternoon on the beach with his newspaper.