Angle of Attack

by Lee Baldwin

  Near the double sash windows stands a scarred wooden desk, early Goodwill, with my laptop, wires, gadgets, flying gear, and miscellaneous pieces of semi-functional electronics. An old telephone handset rests on the floor, not connected. A cluster of decorative holiday lights hangs from the ceiling in a corner, among them several lights that mean things, tell-tale indicators from my totally homebrew intruder system. One orange light in this scraggly arrangement tells me the swimming pool is occupied. The Desmond twins, finishing the day. I badly need to talk to them but it will have to wait.

  The swimming pool reminds me how little I need more cop attention, and my fury at Roswell glows red. Dead or alive, I would still like to strangle that asshole. Why did he want to kill me and who the hell is he hooked up with?

  My stomach reminds me I have Chinese takeout. “You hungry?”

  Montana, who seems far off within herself, nods enthusiastically. I bring the bags to the coffee table. It is odd enough, eating out of white paper bags with someone I haven’t seen for 20 years, but how many reunions are graced by a fresh corpse on the front porch? I’d have preferred a potted plant.

  In spite of the situation, or maybe because of it, we find small talk possible. Montana is evasive about her life since high school, but talks about her career and her plans. She has ambition, going to have a life like her sister has, but without the dipstick husband. There is a boyfriend vaguely in the background, and her career in law enforcement does not sound like her main focus. She keeps it hazy with few details.

  I’d heard Montana left town right after grad, but Dad had recently died and Mom was having health issues then. Wade was on his aircraft carrier being a jet mechanic, so I was on point at home. Montana alludes to living a few years with someone she really liked, with whom the relationship was interesting, but marked at the end by something black. Complications is how she put it.

  Now she’s coming at me again with everyone’s question number one, but not like a cop or a Parole Agent, more like an old friend. Kind of refreshing, given everything.

  “Who is Roswell? Why did he want to kill you?”

  So I’m telling her some of this again. I understand little more than what I’d told the cops, and her as well, all afternoon. The local gangs know nothing about me, my past, or my current income source. I’m not connected with any locals. Yes I have a grow, I sell in L.A., not the Bay, and the twins take care of those runs. The people involved at the time of my arrest four years ago are all dead except for me and McIntyre, who in spite of anything the late Mr. Roswell might have claimed, is still enjoying Lancaster on a 12-year spin cycle.

  Wait a sec, I caution myself. Is McIntyre connected to Roswell? In spite of the high stakes that go with any drug deal, my part had been minor. Delivery driver for the cash. No drugs with me, only the money, which I stashed in a secret location as planned. I’d have paid a fine or spent a few months in a County lockup for failure to yield to a police siren, exhibition of speed, reckless endangerment, and so on. Misdemeanors, yes, but still mere traffic stops. Except the cops thought I should give someone up. The only person I could give them was already in custody. McIntyre.

  “I got nailed only because someone ratted me out. I was in jail three weeks before they made any charges,” I tell her. “Why’s it take the cops that long to bring a possession charge if they have product? Something fishy.” Thinking about it pisses me off again. I know someone will pay for that someday. “I never handled any dope.”

  My getaway was clean. Brilliant even. But there was no one to brag to, and because I got caught there was no point. I disposed of the car per the agreed original and fiendishly clever plan and arrived quietly home. It was only upon the arrival of the Hollister Police two days later that I became an actual criminal in their eyes.

  Mick McIntyre is the name that comes to mind. I could mention this to Montana but hold back. She knows him, far too damn well. And that’s another score I have to settle with him. And with her, for that matter.

  She listens halfway, couple times looks like she’s about to say something. But I can feel her persona wobbling from cop to friend and back again, and I hark back on all the mixed feelings we had for each other. Loathing and lust. Great name for a punk group. It was weird, how we were in school. We’d been in the same classes coming up, and when the teener hormones kicked in we found one another funny, smart, adventurous, and insanely hot. Deadly combo for kids that age. We were lucky to survive.

  But underneath it there was something that bothered her about me. She didn’t think me macho enough. And I’d thought her slutty, too flirty with the guys. Even during our good patch I had no exclusive on her. Told myself I hadn’t cared, it was mutual. Besides at the end I was twisted up because of Dad.

  My head jerks up. Bright lights shine on the house. Two cars come fast in the dust and darkness, scuff to a halt near the porch. Car doors slam.

  We step out onto the porch. Montana holds up her ID.

  Two uniform cops with bright flashlights take a look at the inert bulk on the steps, walk in opposite directions around the house, shining their lights into windows and among the thick trees. Wolfe, the investigator, stands over the body taking pictures and video. Medium height, tending to a paunch, high hairline, Wolfe would be the perfect TV detective. He asks us about what we did leading up to finding Roswell there, and our stories match well enough. The look that crosses his face tells a tale of suspicion: Oh right, Harrison, the district playgirl. Now she’s hanging with a parolee. Montana picks it up and I feel her go rigid next to me, but fortunately she clamps down and says nothing.

  Before long the Medical Examiner arrives, and guess what, I am being asked the same questions as all freaking day long, why Roswell would try to kill me, what would be his motivation to kill a complete nobody, how well did I know him? I can give them nothing new. And I don’t divulge the fact that I’d blown Roswell’s chute inside-out with a savage dive in the K-21. Hell, I shouldn’t have wasted the altitude. Roswell, with a spare, was ahead of me all the way. It cheers me slightly that the NTSB might find his discarded gear.

  Wolfe is sitting across from me at the kitchen table. He’s starting for the third time on the same list of questions he’s been asking.

  “So how do you know this Martin Roswell?”

  “Who?”

  “The dead man’s ID shows him to be a Martin Roswell, from Sand Point Idaho.”

  “Matches what’s on his FAA license and logbook,” I say defensively.

  “Indeed.”

  I’m feeling I could punch this guy, but keep it straight. “The point is, detective, I don’t know Roswell. Like I’ve been telling everyone all day long, first time I saw him was today at the gliderport when he showed up for the acro lesson.”

  “Acro?”

  “Acrobatics.”

  All of my ID, driver’s license, FAA pilot rating and CFIG license, parole card, social security card, library card, an ancient DVD rental card, lie on the table between us. Wolfe nods. “So the first time you saw him was today?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And after he jumped out of your glider did you see him later?”

  “Yes I did.”

  Wolfe looks interested. “And where and when was that?”

  “On my front porch about an hour ago. He was lying on the steps just the way you found him.”

  “So he was dead when you next saw him?”

  “I didn’t see him. It was dark, I tripped on him as we were coming up the steps.”

  “What you mean by we?”

  “Me and Mon – Agent Harrison.”

  “Did you and Agent Harrison arrive at the same time?”

  “Yes, she followed me in her wagon.”

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “A jogging trail down West San Jose, runs beside the canal.”

  “So you both were jogging?”

  “No she’d been out for a run and I came to meet her. We were talking in our cars.” Looking
across the room at Montana in her tailored outfit and neat hairstyle I feel a burn of foolishness. Out for a run. Did she tell me that?

  “Mr. Clay, isn’t it a bit unusual to meet with your parole agent outside of business hours?”

  “You’re right of course, but we were friends in high school. I happened to be assigned to her today as my new case agent.”

  A deputy comes to the table and announces they need a residue check on my hands. I sit silent while he opens an Instant Shooter Kit, rubs my hands and forearms with a small fiberglass swab, and pushes the cloth through a membrane in a container of clear fluid. Sixty seconds later, he shakes his head at Wolfe and walks outside. I notice the deputy skips doing a kit for Montana, although he gives her figure a complete visual frisk on the way by.

  Taking another tack, Wolfe goes on. “So who do you suppose killed Mr. Roswell?”

  “I don’t know. But suppose they were actually here to kill me? If you look at the fact that Roswell tries to kill me by jumping out of the glider, in case I survived he might have come here to finish me. Or maybe there’s someone else wants to kill me too, and mistook him for me in the dark.”

  “The Medical Examiner says that he’s been dead less than two hours,” Wolfe says. “Which would put it 6:30 pm or later. Where were you since 6:30 this evening?”

  “I’d say I was talking to Agent Harrison in her car or just arriving at the jogging trail.”

  “You were sitting in her car?”

  “Actually we were pulled up side to side.”

  “So who can you think of would be angry with you?” Wolfe asks.

  “Detective, I have absolutely no idea.” Whatever ideas I do have I’m not sharing with this individual.

  “Could it be connected to the drug sale you were arrested on four years ago?”

  “I didn’t know it was a sale,” I point out, as I had been doing since the day I got arrested. “I was asked to drive a car. Deliver some cash. I suppose there could be some connection. But Roswell wasn’t part of that scene. I never carried a gun. Not my style. And somebody planted drugs at my house weeks after I was arrested.”

  “I shall look into that, Mr. Clay. Do you have any firearms in the home?”

  I shake my head. “Never owned a gun. Never borrowed a gun. Haven’t shot a gun since I was a kid.” This last was definitely a lie.

  “How about in your vehicle or the grounds?”

  I shake my head.

  “Have you ever had any firearms training, Mr. Clay?”

  “My dad took me to a shooting range when I was ten. He had a .22 - .410 over and under.”

  “How can we contact your father now?”

  “I guess a séance or Ouija board might do it.”

  Wolfe cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “He died 20 years ago leaving me and my mom.”

  “We corroborate that with your mother?”

  “She’s dead. Cancer. Fifteen years back.”

  “Sorry for your loss Mr. Clay.” Although Wolfe must’ve spoken that line many times in his career, I have the sense he means it.

  The man from the medical examiner’s office comes in and whispers to Wolfe that they’re taking the body away. I hear the man say that Roswell has an armed forces-issue sidearm on him. Wolfe looks at me.

  “Mr. Clay thank you for your time. Here’s my card, if any other details occur you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  I hold tight on an inner celebration. They’re not arresting me.

  “Detective Wolfe, can I have your candid assessment?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How does this look to you? Does it really look like I’m involved here, besides simply a victim?”

  Wolfe appraises me for a moment. “Right now I don’t see any connections. Most capital crimes occur between people who know each other. But it pays me to keep an open mind.”

  I nod glumly, not knowing whether to be encouraged or not. Wolfe picks up his iPad and stands, heading for my front door. On the porch he turns.

  “Mr. Clay, we need to search the premises thoroughly. It would be better if you stay away for couple of days. Also safer for you as I’m sure you understand. In case others are connected.”

  “I understand,” I say, not really thrilled about it. But it makes me happy my grow room is 5 miles away on a separate property. His use of ‘others’ is ominous.

  They had separated Montana and me for a lot of this. I hear her on the phone explaining to someone she is going to be late and to make dinner and yes your friend can stay over. The good little career mommy. How old is her son I wonder. She’d said little about him.

  Finally they are wrapping up. Montana, much to my surprise, tells me I can crash at her place one night if I don’t mind the sofa. Odd setup, but it will save me a hundred bucks. Either that, or I get to explain this scenario a couple more times to talkative friends. And I admit to feeling a certain crotch-level gravitational pull when I look at my new case officer.

  One of the uniform cops smirks knowingly. But this time she doesn’t let it pass. She gets up in the cop’s face and in a vicious whisper rips right into him. Big as he is, he is no match for the stream of logic, profanity and wounded female pride that she hisses in his face. Her jiggling boobs keep him docile. Use what you got.

  So they’re all gone now leaving me and her standing on the porch. I’ve been watching her reactions since we arrived, and I must say it’s a mixed bag. She goes from seasoned pro to concerned friend to frightened girl in a blink sometimes. Now we’re alone, she says she’s so so sorry. She gives me a hug that includes definite pubic contact. My hands lightly touch the contour of her slim waist. I ask why she’s sorry and get a shrug. “Well it could have been a friend of yours, coming to see you, ya know?”

  So I follow Montana’s Jeep back over the hill to San Jose. Why do I agree to go home with her? First of all, underneath all her official demeanor I feel she’s still my friend, and right now I can use being around someone who knows me. Plus which there are other possibilities that might have occurred to her as well.

  South of Camden off 17, we wind through curving residential streets, lots of trees, RVs parked beside garages, no more than a couple Chevys up on blocks. Her place is all lit up, hip hop music playing from the first room in the hallway, the door of which slams as we come in. Montana walks around switching off lights and cursing about the power bill. She opens the bedroom door letting the music get loud then goes inside. For a second I get a glimpse of a Monroe poster on the wall in there. Montana’s kid has taste.

  Alone, I have a minute to look around. Suburban living room, adjoining kitchen separated by a high counter and some bar stools. TV, not a large one, on a low bookshelf, entertainment center, not fancy, couple dozen DVDs, plus stacks of books. Botany, biology, entomology, marketing, Web design, Photoshop, InDesign, a couple dozen on similar threads. Makes me think junior is in school, college I reckon, given these topics. I gotta give Montana props for that as a single mom.

  On the door of the kid’s bedroom a printed sign: Actual Parent Wanted. On the floor by the sofa there’s a scuffed electric guitar case covered with band stickers, a trashed-out skateboard. Place isn’t too neat, not dirty either, looks like ordinary life. No parole officer shit that I can see.

  In the kitchen where most people would have a toaster oven is a small aquarium. Glass looks clean, bubbles coming up from a small fake diving suit, a dozen medium-sized fish in it, some quite colorful with long streamers from tails and fins. On the fridge is a chore list headed with the name Thor. Hah! She named her son after a Norse God. Or it’s a nickname. Door off the kitchen leads to a stoop, steps, a concrete driveway. Garage in back, door’s down, garbage cans, recycling, a tall hedge. Welcome to your American life.

  Music comes up as the kid’s door opens. Montana makes a few closing remarks on their conversation and shuts the door. I manage to ease over to the sofa so I’m sitting there all innocent when she turns to look at me.

&nb
sp; “Kids,” she says shaking her head. “Want something to eat?”

  “I’m fine really,” I say. She disappears into the hall, I hear her rummaging through a closet. She comes back carrying an armload of sheets blankets pillowcases and tosses them on the sofa. Whoop dee doo, looks like I get to sleep in the middle of Grand Central Station.

  “What time the kids get up?”

  “Seven,” Montana replies. “I’m usually gone by then. She grabs a remote from the coffee table, presses a couple buttons and some music starts. Lush jazz singer, Jackie Ryan. I wonder if Montana’s setting a mood. She plops down on the sofa, at the other end. Deep breath. She turns to me, a smile.

  “Excuse the official layer in my office. If I don’t keep that steely glint, people walk all over me.”

  “The job.”

  She nods, “Yes.”

  “Looks like you have things well in hand though. I was thinking earlier, you’ve got it together.”

  She smiles, looking at her hands, a little flustered. “I try. I have tried.” She looks at me, for a second I see her lip quaver. “I have tried so goddamn hard. To make it all. Come out right.” After a moment of softness, her face is a mask again. Full lockdown. But her voice stays soft enough. “What have you been doing Clay? Not what’s in your file.”

  I look at her. Sincere? Playing me? Oh well.

  “After Mom died things were rough. No idea what Wade is doing anymore. I trained up in gliders, I teach flying now. After I got out, the school hired me back. Things have been smooth enough until today.”

  She glances at me, searching, then guarded quick away. “I sometimes wondered about you. Those first few years. I almost got married. He was an asshole, I moved out. Seems there’s never a good man around when you need one. Or when someone needs a good dad.” She nods imperceptibly toward the kid’s door. Guitar, skateboard, college books, kid must be interesting.

  “Montana?” She looks over. “Why did you invite me here?”

  She laughs like I’d lobbed an easy one. “We’ll you’re always broke, aren’t you? The cops turfed you out of your place. Sorry there’s no guest room, I need my home office.”