Scars (Nevada James #2) (Nevada James Mysteries)

by Matthew Storm

  I’d have had to admit I was intrigued. And I had very little else to do with my time. It wouldn’t kill me to look at the old case files. At the most all I was going to lose was a day or two I’d just have spent watching bad television in my motel room.

  I stood up. “I’m going to go,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few hours. I want to think about a few things before I make a decision. Will you be reachable after your brunch, or whatever the hell you’re doing?”

  “Call whenever you like, Nevada. I’ll drop everything for you.” She stood up and shook my hand. “Regardless of your decision, I’d like to thank you. It’s been a while since I could be myself in front of other people.” She scrunched up her face around the eyes and a set of wrinkles appeared, adding ten years to her appearance. The grandmother was back. “I do hope you’ll be discreet, dear,” she said, using the singsong voice again.

  “You’ll have to teach me how to do that someday,” I said. “My mask has never been as good as yours.”

  Chapter 6

  I was already pretty sure I was going to take the case, but I was hesitant to just jump into it without talking to someone I trusted first. My list of trusted people was fairly small. You could count them on one hand, and you only needed two fingers. Three, if you counted Sarah Winters, and I wasn’t sure I did. I liked her, and I had no reason to think she’d ever betray me, but I was also a paranoid and possibly delusional alcoholic. Trust wasn’t something that came easily to me.

  The gate leading back to the main street had a motion sensor that made it open automatically for anyone who was leaving, but I stopped at the guard booth anyway. The same guy I’d talked to before was still in there. “What do you think of Anita?” I asked him.

  “She’s the sweetest lady,” he said. “We all just love her.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She brings cookies and lemonade out here on the hot days,” he nodded. “Always asks about the kids. Not like some of them in there, who drive by like they don’t even see us. She’s good people.”

  “Thanks,” I said, putting the car into gear. He may have made a good security guard, but he’d never have been a good detective.

  I stopped at a fast food drive-through on the way back to San Diego and ate in the car. I really wanted to talk to someone, but I wasn’t sure who to call. Dan Evans was probably still in Santa Fe, and the first thing he was going to say to me was “come back to work.” As if that were really an option. Even if I was willing to go back to a life of rules and regulations, being a police officer required a certain amount of psychological stability I didn’t have. The other option was…I took my phone out of my pocket and dialed.

  Molly Malone answered on the third ring. “Hey.”

  “Hey. You busy?”

  “I’ve got a class at 2:00, but I’m free after that. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I just want to run something by you. It’s not urgent.”

  “Why don’t you come by after?”

  “That works.”

  “See you then.”

  Molly Malone had been a well-known therapist with several successful books to her credit. She’d taken some of her book money and opened a karate dojo in Pacific Beach several years ago. I’d trained there when I’d been a cop; not having the advantage of physical size or muscle in a job where I could easily find myself up against violent killers, I’d wanted to make sure my fighting skills were top notch. I’d earned a black belt before I made detective.

  After the Laughing Man, and after I’d been in the psych ward, Molly had tried taking a turn as my therapist, if only because she knew I wasn’t going to talk to anyone else. That hadn’t gone well. A long time ago, while I’d been in a drunken rage, I’d told her I never wanted to see her again. We’d only been back in touch for a few months, but I was glad to have her in my life. This time it was as friends only; she’d said she couldn’t fill both roles for me. She’d recommended half a dozen other therapists for me to see since we’d started talking again, but I had yet to actually visit one of them.

  Pacific Beach was a small community on the western side of San Diego that catered to surfers, hipsters, and people who liked both nightclubs and overpriced alcohol. I was none of those things. Even when I’d been drinking, I only did it alone. My version of nightlife when I’d been a cop consisted of picking through crime scenes, then going home to down enough vodka to knock me out. After a while it had been the only way I could go to sleep.

  I got into Pacific Beach a little before 3:00. It was early enough that traffic was still light; Pacific Beach really only had one major thoroughfare that went in and out of the neighborhood, and it would be clogged well before rush hour hit. Coffee shops, trendy restaurants, and bars lined both sides of the street, as did surfer dudes and homeless people. When it got dark the surfers would leave and the hipsters would arrive. The homeless and the crazies never left. I saw a raggedy man arguing with a mailbox, and nearer Molly’s dojo a guy who could have passed for an otherwise normal professional in his thirties was having an animated discussion with a cat. I wondered what his problem was. Drugs or alcohol, probably. Had I ever argued with a cat when I’d been drinking? Probably. That or worse.

  Molly’s dojo was at the end of a strip mall near the beach. I parked out front and went inside. Molly was easy to spot. She was exactly five feet tall and probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, but sometimes big surprises came in small packages. Even when I’d been in my best shape, Molly had been able to wipe the floor with me on the mat. One of these days, when I was back in top form, we were going to have to try that again. In the meantime, though, I tried to get in here once or twice a week to work out and build my body back up from the physical wreck it had become during my drinking days.

  Molly was still in her gi. She trotted over and hugged me as soon as she saw me. Molly was also a hugger. I needed to introduce her to Sarah. Maybe they could start a hugging club. “You want to spar?” she asked me.

  “Nah,” I said. “Not today. You got time to go get coffee?”

  “Sure. Let’s go across the street. The new place finally opened.”

  The new place turned out to be a Starbucks, which made at least three different Starbucks within walking distance of the dojo. I wondered how many people needed to want coffee at the same time in order for that to be profitable, but overexpansion didn’t seem to be hurting their stock price. “So what’s going on?” Molly asked once we’d sat down.

  The triple espresso I’d ordered was still too hot to chug, which was how I liked to drink it. I swirled the liquid around in the cup once. “You know I saw a dude arguing with a cat on the way in here? What do you think that was about?”

  “I think you’re in Pacific Beach, Nevada. It’s a slow day if that’s the only weird thing you saw. Now stop avoiding the question and tell me what’s going on.” She gave me a skeptical look. “If you’re drinking again you’re putting on a hell of a sober act right now.”

  “No. I’m clean and sober.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  “I hate it worse than cancer.”

  Molly shook her head. “Well, that seems kind of excessive. I know it’s not easy, but you look a lot better than you did three months ago. I thought you were on death’s door. You still going to A.A.?”

  “Now and again, but booze isn’t why I wanted to talk to you. There’s this job…”

  She frowned. “The Laughing Man copycat thing? I saw it on the news.”

  “No, not that. I mean, they actually did call me in to look at the crime scene, and one of the detectives wanted to ask me some questions about it, but I’m not involved other than that.”

  “Good. What’s the job, then?”

  I broke down the Anita Collins situation for her. It only took a few minutes. She listened without interrupting, sipping her vanilla chai intermittently until I was done. Then she thought it over and I wondered what her vanilla chai tasted like. I’d never had one, but fro
m where I was sitting it smelled like Christmas.

  Finally she broke her silence. “That woman sounds damaged beyond repair.”

  “I wasn’t trying to refer her to you,” I said. “I get it, though. She’s been sitting on this for twenty years. If I lived to be her age, I’d probably wind up the same way.”

  “You think you won’t live that long, Nevada?”

  “I know I won’t live that long.” Molly frowned at me. “That’s not depression speaking. With the damage I’ve done to my body, there’s just no chance. And that’s assuming the Laughing Man doesn’t kill me before I can kill him.” I studied the expression on her face. “If you were frowning any harder I might turn to stone.”

  She looked away. “Damn it, Nevada,” she said.

  “Leave it. What’s done is done.”

  “Well, at some point I’m going to drag you in to see an internist, but that’s not what you came here for. You want to know if you should look for the killer.”

  “Yeah.”

  Molly sighed. “You know, why is it every time we have a conversation it’s never about…I don’t know. Politics, or the last book we read, or even men, for god’s sake?”

  “Did you start dating men without telling me?”

  “No, but that wasn’t the point and you know it. You come by and we spar, which is good. You need to get out of the house and be active again. But your life is so colossally fucked up, Nevada…”

  “You mean everyone doesn’t have a serial killer obsessed with them? I just assumed…”

  She jabbed a finger at me. “See? That right there! Any rational person would be going out of their damn mind about that, but you just make jokes. You act like he’s your annoying ex-boyfriend holding up a boom box outside your window, trying to get back together with you. You need to get your mind right.”

  “Remember how when we talk now it’s as friends, and not as therapist and patient?”

  “That was me talking as your friend. If I was your therapist I’d call the police.”

  My espresso was finally cool enough to drink. I downed it in one swallow, grimacing like I’d done a shot of whiskey. “Just tell me what you think.”

  “I think I’m about to tear my damn hair out talking to you.”

  “We’ll stop at the salon after.”

  She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like harrumph, if that was a noise people actually made. “Take the job. Go look for the bomber. You won’t find him, but who cares?”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Well, what else are you going to do? Sit around your motel room and wait for the Laughing Man to send you flowers again? That sounds miserable.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s given me a lot of time to catch up on daytime television. I saw an episode of Maury Povich the other day. You know Maury?” She stared daggers at me. “See, there was this woman who had a baby, and this guy was like, ‘That’s not my baby,’ but then Maury whipped out this lie detector…”

  “Nevada…”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve seen that one? I don’t want to ruin it for you, but it actually was his baby…”

  She stood up. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “If you’ve got time to sit here and make jokes, then you’ve got time to work out. Come on. I’m going to kick your ass.”

  Chapter 7

  Half an hour later I was lying on my back on a padded mat in Molly’s dojo looking up at the light fixtures overhead. One of these days I’d be able to breathe again. Maybe I’d even get really ambitious and try standing up.

  Molly had been exaggerating, of course. If she’d really wanted to hurt me, I’d probably be dead. But she hadn’t minded smacking me around her dojo like a cat playing with an overweight, asthmatic mouse. “Are you even sweating?” I asked her.

  She reached out a hand and helped me up. “No. You’re getting stronger, though. Maybe I’ll sweat next time.”

  “I guess I’m getting better, then” I said. “I still feel like a kid when I fight you.”

  Molly bowed. I bowed back. “You’re at about 40% of where you used to be,” she said.

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, no,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to feel bad. It’s more like 30%. Any of my faster brown belts could take you.”

  “Oh.” I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. “At least I’m not puking every time I exercise anymore.”

  “There you go,” she said. “Okay, I’ve got another class coming up. You want to stick around, or are you going to take off?”

  “I’m going to take off. I think I deserve a pizza after this.”

  She gave me a long look. “You be careful out there, Nevada. Look into the case, see what you think, but don’t take any chances. It’s probably not going to go anywhere after twenty years, but if things get weird or it starts screwing with your head, just walk away.”

  “I doubt anything is going to get weird.”

  “It’s you we’re talking about, so I’m pretty sure something is going to get weird.”

  She gave me another hug and went to get ready for her class. I took a shower in the locker room and put my street clothes back on. I had my own locker and gi here, and Molly still let me wear my black belt even though I really wasn’t at that level anymore. I’d get there. It was just going to take time. Three months ago I’d come in here stinking of vodka and she’d destroyed me like it was nothing. At least this time it had looked like she’d needed to pay attention while she kicked my ass.

  I hit rush hour traffic on the way out of Pacific Beach, but it wasn’t as if I was in a hurry to get anywhere. It gave me time to think things over. Anita’s case was interesting, if way outside my area of expertise. I’d been a homicide detective, and while what had happened to her family certainly qualified as murder, most people picked guns or knives as their weapons of choice. Bombs were a lot more unusual, if for no better reason than they weren’t all that easy to make. I wondered if I should go pick up a chemistry textbook. I could also do a Google search for “how to make bombs and kill people,” but that might get me a visit from Homeland Security. Probably not, but there was no point in getting myself a spot on the no-fly list.

  Back at the motel I ordered a sausage and mushroom pizza for delivery and spent half an hour looking at one of my early Laughing Man case files. His first kill, at least the first we knew about, had been a high society woman in her forties. Her body had been found on a patio chair next to a swimming pool with a Mai Tai next to her. It had been the first time anyone had seen the Laughing Man’s bloody smile. Nobody knew what to make of it at the time. The only thing I’d been sure of back then was that this was something new. Murders that took place out of anger or jealousy were old hat to me by then. I’d even worked a couple serial killer cases, but those had been simple by comparison. The Laughing Man was something unique.

  He’d come to feel the same way about me, eventually. Three years ago he’d had me dead to rights, had beaten me within an inch of my life, and then, at the moment we both knew he should kill me, he’d turned and walked away. And then he went dark. The cops hadn’t understood why. How was it that his compulsions didn’t make him kill again?

  The answer was simple. Because it wasn’t about compulsion for him. It was a game. If he killed me, he’d have had nobody left to play with. Sitting at a chessboard by yourself isn’t any fun.

  Now I was back on my feet, but he hadn’t started the game yet. It’s amazing how bored you can get when you’re ready to play, but the other player refuses to take his seat at the table.

  My pizza came and I ate two slices, then put the rest in the tiny motel refrigerator. The rest of it would be tomorrow’s breakfast, or maybe a midnight snack if I woke up and was hungry. I’d tried placating my urge to drink with junk food, with mixed results. On one hand, I didn’t get drunk. On the other, it was getting hard to remember the last time I’d seen a real vegetable.

  I
was watching some terrible police drama on television when there was a knock at the door. I took my Glock out of its holster and pointed it at the peephole. “Who is it?” I called.

  “Open the door, Nevada,” Dan Evans said. His deep voice sounded like an avalanche. Well, I’d never been in an avalanche, so that was a guess. I probably wasn’t far off, though.

  I put the gun down on the bed and went to open the door. Dan stood there, a suitcase in one hand. He looked like he’d missed a day of shaving. Behind him I could see a taxi pulling out of the motel parking lot. “Jesus,” I said. “Did you come here straight from the airport?”

  “It’s on the way home,” he said. “You going to invite me in?”

  I moved away from the door and shut it once he was inside. Dan was a bear of a man, too tall and too wide for any of the clothes he bought, but he’d never yet let me take him shopping. Not that I knew a great deal about men’s fashion, or fashion at all for that matter, but at least I could find the Big & Tall section in a department store.

  Dan put his suitcase down and stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes lingering for a second on the Glock on my bed, before surveying the rest of the room. Without a word he went to the bathroom, flipped the light on, and looked inside.

  “You want to check the drawers, too?” I asked. “That’s where I keep the booze.” I hoped he wouldn’t pick up that my sarcasm was a bluff and decide to look in there for himself. I didn’t want to explain my nightly ritual to him. He’d never understand it.

  He eyed the dresser but didn’t look inside. “You can’t blame me for being concerned.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “I did tell you I’m fine, though.”

  “You said the same thing five minutes before you had your first seizure.”

  He’d told me I’d said that before, but I couldn’t remember it. I’d quit drinking cold turkey when I finally stopped. That had been a serious mistake. It turned out delirium tremens was a very real thing, and I’d spent two nightmarish days in the hospital while my body demonstrated that to me. “Fair enough,” I said.