Cherry Beach Express

by R. D. Cain

  “And there isn’t a person out there who doesn’t think you did it, you know. Everyone just assumes you beat this guy to death because of Josie. And now she’s going to be visiting Daddy in jail until she’s thirty.”

  Nastos took a breath, trying to slow things down. “Listen, I don’t really know what to say here, but I need you to stay positive. I’m coming home — no jail, not even for one day. I’ll be on bail until I get cleared, then I’m going to sue their asses off. After this trial is done, I’m going to retire and take a job with your uncle at the insurance bureau. I’ll be on the pension and making a good income and —”

  “What the hell are you saying, Nastos?” she interrupted. She was practically shouting now. “You’re on trial for murder, for fuck’s sake.” She started again, this time trying to hush herself. “You’re going to rot in a jail cell until you’re sixty-five. You need to think about today, right now — this isn’t the time for daydreaming. You’ve got to be thinking about Josie and me so we don’t have to go through the rest of our lives without you. You have to snap out of this.

  “You’ve been a bitter, tired man for the last few years, then you get charged with murder, and now it’s all ponies and rainbows. How about a reality check?”

  She only got sarcastic when she was really pissed. There was no arguing with her when she was wrong; there was certainly no point in trying when she was right. “How’s Josie?”

  “She sleeps with me every night. She usually comes in after the first round of night terrors, when she wakes up screaming. Her grades are a mess, and she’s peeing the bed for the first time in years.”

  His eyes welled up and his voice betrayed his emotions. “Our little baby.”

  “She knows we love her, Nastos. She’s going to get better. It would just be a lot faster if you were here with us. Sometimes a little girl just needs her daddy.”

  “Sometimes a daddy just needs his little girl.”

  CHAMBER MUSIC FROM A QUARTET was the only sound that could be heard as the car came to a stop on the darkened and desolate street. He opened the glove box, moved the nine-millimetre Glock pistol out of the way and pulled out a small leather pouch. With a twist of the key, both the car and the music died and he stepped out onto the roadway. North was dressed in a black suit and overcoat. After reaching back into the car, he put the small leather pouch in a lawyer’s satchel, gently closed the car door and began walking to Carscadden’s office.

  He passed businesses that were closed for the night, a dry cleaning store and a hair salon that was actually an after-hours booze can that hadn’t opened yet, using the angled glass to make sure no one was behind him. No traffic, no people, no stray dogs, nothing. He walked up the steps to the front door of Carscadden’s office.

  Inside the small leather pouch were lock-picking tools. The deadbolt was installed well, which actually made it easier to pick. Getting a lock open is all about control of the cylinder. The torque wrench goes in at the bottom of the lock, the circle-like portion. Shaped like an exaggerated hockey stick, the longer portion sticks out sideways. North pressed down gently with a finger while he inserted the pick over it and into the pins. He pushed them up from front to back to front again till they all came clear of the cylinder. Like magic the cylinder spun and the lock was open. Had the lock been poorly installed or just old, he would have had to stop it from jiggling around to control it better. The ace who installed this lock made picking it a ten-second job.

  There was no tone from a security system, so North placed his satchel on the floor inside the door and got to work. He methodically ransacked the office, prying open the desk drawers, going through the cabinets, slowly destroying the place. He found the Nastos file he was looking for and put it down on Carscadden’s desk. He took out a portable scanner no larger than a pen, with a roller wheel on each end. He flicked a switch and one side came alive in a bright green light. As he rolled it down the pages, it was scanning everything on the paper.

  He went through the folder page by page, copying everything. Once all of Carscadden’s notes were copied, he put the file back where he had found it. The work portion of his visit finished, North began working for himself and searched the less obvious places this time: the freezer in the kitchenette, the back of the toilet, the pockets of the jackets hanging in the closets. He peeked under the desks, sofa, searched absolutely everywhere.

  North was driven by more than a work ethic. Everyone has secrets, large and small, habits or needs from time to time, that are best kept to oneself. How many lawyers had been known to smoke a bit of weed or snort the odd line? How many judges or cops too, for that matter? Everyone had something going on. A little rush of excitement from shoplifting some petty trinkets, maybe just a propensity for visiting the occasional body-rub parlour or picking up a working girl. Everyone had something that gave them a bit of a rush. North found it very exciting to learn what someone’s curiosity was. Not only was it thrilling for its own sake, but if you found the right person, with the right soft spot, you could even make yourself a bit of extra spending money. And that would be just fine for North, because the soft spot he had — cocaine — was getting pricey these days.

  Before leaving for his next appointment, North took the time to smash in a few drywall panels and topple several pieces of furniture. The only thing he didn’t do was smash any window glass; the last thing he needed was to attract the public when he had one more stop to make.

  NORTH SAT IN HIS CAR as the last of the cocaine worked its way through his body. The sun had left the sky for the first of the evening stars to mark some of the universe’s constellations. Streetlights sparked to life. North saw things differently while on coke. He watched the imperfect surface of roadway glisten from his angle of observation. She walked out of the house. Between the slowly lightening universe and the road’s refraction of the offset lighting, Angela Dewar appeared in front of him. She drew from him conflicting emotions, lust and loathing. She had everything of value in this world, while circumstance had taken everything from him. And there she was, with her perfect life.

  Her long legs, in two-inch heels, strode adeptly down the stone steps of her porch to her car. She had her back to North, which suited him just fine when she leaned forward to put her gym bag deep in the car’s trunk.

  He watched her get in the car, start it and pull out of the driveway. After a few minutes, North got out of his car and walked across the street carrying his briefcase. Cool air entered his lungs with a menthol-like bite that he found invigorating. Or maybe what he found invigorating was excitement from what he was about to do.

  He stopped at her front door and put his suitcase down. It was a standard deadbolt, so again he pulled out the medium torque wrench and a pick with a large hook. It took all of thirty seconds for him to push the pins out of the way and twist open the cylinder.

  A tone sounded when the front door opened and, courtesy of the lines of coke North had done just an hour ago, he set to work calmly and efficiently with no monkey on his back to make him fidgety.

  He closed the door behind him and opened the suitcase on the floor. He pulled out a small device and with a quick series of motions he ripped the alarm box out from the wall leaving the wires connected, attached alligator clips to the exposed wires and turned the device on. Within five seconds it had communicated with the alarm box and deactivated the alarm, silencing the tone.

  He had never been tempted to sell his electronic items to fuel his recreational drug use. He knew them to be the tools of his trade and to hock them would be a short-term fix for a long-term amount of pain. Also North was not an out-of-control addict. He would never choose drugs over food; he never let himself go too far. He needed little more than six hundred a week for his modest habit, which he could handle with his current income level and modest lifestyle. A few days without using wasn’t a big deal either, but after a week he’d become anxious for a hit.

  No
rth found the home office. He barely noticed the girl’s doll house and stable of toy horses on the floor behind the door and opposite the computer. He turned on the desktop computer and while it fired up he had a brief snoop in the living room, examining the series of pictures on the mantel. One showed Dewar and a young girl hugging in a park. Another showed Dewar graduating from law school, a third with Dewar hugging her girlfriend. She certainly had good taste in women. A doctor, very impressive.

  The computer was ready and North began searching for files. R vs. Nastos. He clicked Print All. The printing would take a while so he decided to complete a more detailed search. Koche might consider it a little off script, but North began installing audio bugs and two small video cameras. The first camera contained the master bedroom and ensuite bathroom doorway in its field of view. The second captured the shower and the area in front of the bathroom’s vanity. The positioning likely had little to do with the Nastos trial. A small micro-cam can go anywhere, but North felt light fixtures and smoke detectors were the best places.

  He searched everything, including her underwear drawer and night table. He had been expecting some private sexual items, but was rather disappointed. However, what he found in her jewellery box moments later nearly stopped his heart in place. Under the white gold bracelet and matching diamond earrings was a photo. And in the photo was Angela Dewar hugging and kissing Detective Nastos, the man she was prosecuting for murder.

  North stood still, considering what to do, then remembered his pocket scanner. He took a copy of the picture and returned to the computer. It had finished printing the Nastos file, so he logged on to the net, accessed his home computer remotely and checked the video feeds. Both his cameras were placed perfectly. He could already imagine seeing her glistening, naked, wet body after she stepped out of the shower.

  “This one is free of charge, Detective Koche.”

  16

  September 28, 2011

  WHEN HIS CELL PHONE RANG, Nastos had to remind himself of where he was. Carscadden’s place. It was dark and the bed was cold without his wife next to him. Madeleine? His hand banged into the bedside table as he grabbed his phone. He flipped it open and the screen was too bright to read the time or the name of the caller, but it was early — he had been in a deep sleep and it was still black outside.

  “Madeleine?”

  Silence.

  “Madeleine? Who is this?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, sport: I bet she’s a real fun ride.”

  Nastos sat up in bed and turned on the dim light at his side. He checked the display screen, but all it said was Unknown Caller. “Who the fuck is this?”

  “I had the pleasure of your wife’s company earlier this evening. Tall, blond, nice ass . . .”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. “You just signed your own death warrant, asshole. When I —”

  “I’m right outside.” The man interrupted. “Look out your window.”

  Nastos got to his feet and threw the curtain back. He had to go back to turn off the bedside light to cut out the glare, then he scanned the street below. A man stepped from the shadows of an alley and walked under a streetlight. He waved slowly.

  “I’m right here, tough guy. You want to come talk, here I am.”

  Nastos never had the chance to kill Irons before someone had done it for him. In part, he felt that even the chance to kill the man, the opportunity to fantasize about it, had been robbed from him. This was like Christmas.

  He eyed the phone again. Set-up written all over this. That voice — the homeless guy? It was another line of bait to lure him out past curfew so he could go to jail.

  “You haven’t been out with my wife — you’re full of shit.”

  The man allowed himself a small chuckle. “Maybe you two aren’t on speaking terms. You should call her and ask.”

  Nastos thought back to the conversation he had had with her earlier in the evening. The buyer turned out to be a pervert who works for the local news. “I’ve had enough people fucking with my family to last a lifetime.”

  “Then come out and we can talk about it.”

  “Not a chance, you want to breach me.” Nastos said. “Pretty cowardly, if you ask me. You come up here, it’s nice and private.”

  The man on the other end of the phone was silent. Nastos watched out the window, studying him, trying to memorize his mannerisms, but he was barely moving, giving him nothing.

  He repeated, “You’re a coward, whoever you are.”

  “Nice try, Detective, but I’m the one driving this train.”

  This guy feels protected. Someone has got his back . . . Koche. Who would Koche get to do this? Not a cop, it would be too big of a risk. A shit-rat, or a retired guy, one of the two. It could be anyone.

  There was a stalemate between the two men, but then the stranger broke the silence. “Well, maybe I can come up for a second or two. Buzz me in.”

  Nastos stared in disbelief as the man began walking toward the building. He crossed the street, but kept the phone line active. Nastos studied his movement, the sound of his breath. Not a wheeze, not even a change in the cadence as he became active. He was fit.

  Nastos turned the hall light on to find the door-release buzzer and pressed it right away. He held it for ten seconds, then waited by the door. He figured he was legally fine to step into the hallway, but he didn’t want to reveal himself too early. He considered waking Carscadden, but before he could finish the thought he heard the elevator chime. His heart was racing; he felt light-headed and had to take some deep breaths.

  A man emerged from the elevator wearing a Halloween mask: a red devil with yellow teeth and long black lips wisping up the sides of the face in a gruesome smile.

  Nastos stepped into the hallway, allowing the door to close under its own weight. It might have locked — he didn’t care. Nastos dropped his phone to the ground and the fight was on.

  Nastos swung hard with his right fist, but the man stepped in close, allowing Nastos’ arm to wrap around him. Nastos took two hard strikes to his stomach and stepped backward and looked down, then the devil shot his head up, shoving Nastos’ jaw back into his head. Nastos fell back into the condo door with the devil on top of him. They exchanged punches and kicks, but the devil was slowly out-manoeuvring him. He was a skilled fighter. Nastos protected his face — hell, with the mask on the stranger was basically fighting blind — but it made no difference. Nastos started taking shot after shot to the face, ears and jaw. The guy was going for a knockout.

  Nastos tried everything — kicking, rolling, punching — but he couldn’t land a solid hit; it was like fighting air. A hand closed around his throat, warm and sweaty; it didn’t so much squeeze as slowly begin to press down into his neck, suffocating him. He grabbed hold of the mask and tried to use it as leverage to shift the man off of him, but it was useless. The best he could do was lift a side to reveal something of a neck tattoo, some lettering. With the pressure on his neck, he couldn’t suck in any air, not even through his nose. Panic washed over him as he began to see stars, followed by the beginnings of blackness.

  The condo door bucked violently into both Nastos and the assailant, once and then twice. Nastos had long given up on getting the hand off his neck and dreamily grabbed at the devil’s head with both hands. He managed to gouge an eye. The third strike from the condo door was full force and connected directly with the devil’s head. The man careened into the far wall and got to his feet, trying to shake out the cobwebs. Nastos rolled onto his side and was sucking in air when Carscadden burst into the hallway. He took a swing at the devil who avoided it easily and ran down to the far staircase. He disappeared, leaving only a closing door. Click.

  “What the fuck was that?” Carscadden asked.

  “That’s what a corpse looks like when it doesn’t know it’s dead yet.”

  17

 
September 29, 2011

  CARSCADDEN AND HOPKINS SAT IN the ransacked office. They had balanced a twelve-inch tv monitor in some law text books that were propped up on his smashed desk. Carscadden sat on what was left of an end table while Hopkins sat in the swivel chair, the sole survivor amongst the furniture. Pictures were tilted on kicked-in walls and the cheap panel door to the closet was missing completely. Carscadden and Hopkins speculated for a moment about where an entire door would wander off to, before deciding to drop search-and-rescue operations for the time being.

  Their priority was to watch the video that Ms. Hopkins was starting. It had been her idea to have an internal video camera system installed after Carscadden’s work began with his previous client, Mr. Kalmakov. She figured that it was only a matter of time before both she and Carscadden were murdered by the man’s goons upon his conviction and she wanted there to be some kind of record. Carscadden had thought it was a brilliant idea. He didn’t blame her for banking that he would lose — anyone with a brain had thought the same thing.

  The cameras were small pin-hole lenses stationed throughout their office space hooked into a digital recorder hidden in the ceiling. It recorded seventy-two hours continuously before recording over itself. Since its hard drive was no larger than an iPod, someone would have to look for it specifically to find it — and they obviously hadn’t.

  They watched a man pick the front door lock and get right to work. He photocopied files, trashed the place, then searched again in finer detail. Near the end, Carscadden felt he had seen enough and he stopped the video with a freeze-frame of the suspect’s face. “Recognize him?”

  “Not the maid,” she replied. “You like ’em bustier.”

  He smiled. “Not the appliance guy either — you like them shirtless.”