Hail Mary

by J. R. Rain

  How many more victims were out there? How many cases were unsolved thanks to Daddy sweeping shit under the rug?

  I didn’t know. I also didn’t know how much pull a homicide investigator had. There was, after all, only so much he could do, right?

  Unless he worked the case, I thought.

  Unless he worked the case, he could certainly manipulate facts and make evidence disappear. A homicide investigator also works closely with the district attorney’s office, whose job it is to convict. A district attorney could decide to drop a case if he or she felt so inclined, especially if there wasn’t enough evidence to convict.

  Or if he didn’t want to convict.

  Was it a coincidence that Bert Tomlinson, Gary Tomlinson’s father, had been assigned to my mother’s murder case? Or had he pushed for the case, knowing full well that his son was responsible?

  I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I was in my father’s immaculate office in downtown Los Angeles.

  My father was easily six inches shorter than me, but looked twice as mean. Or twice as psychotic. People talk about dead eyes. My father had them. Or they talk about glassy eyes. My father had those, too. Mostly, there was nothing behind them. They were devoid of any warmth or friendliness. Mostly, though, they were devoid of compassion. These were the eyes that looked down upon you from the chopping block or the gallows or, in his case, stared at you from behind a sniper’s telescopic lens. If someone were to tell me that my father was a serial killer, I wouldn’t blink twice.

  I know, I couldn’t be prouder.

  But you don’t pick your father, right? Mine just happened to be a sneeze away from a nationwide killing spree.

  For now, though, he ran one of the biggest P.I. agencies in Los Angeles. The original Knighthorse Investigations. My agency, to be clear, was called Jim Knighthorse Investigations. A subtle, yet, important difference.

  My father sat behind his desk, staring at me. Even when blinking, he still appeared to be staring. My father never seemed to master the social protocol of not looking too hard or too long at his subjects.

  “What can I do for you, Jim?”

  “I’m here for our weekly, father/son get-together.”

  “We don’t have a weekly father/son get-together.”

  “You think?”

  “You’re being facetious.”

  “I’m being something.”

  “What can I do for you, Jim?” he asked again.

  “I’m here about Mom’s murder.”

  He nodded. No expression. Nothing. I could have said that I was here to sell him a subscription to Psychopath Today. I fought to control myself. I knew this about my dad. His lack of empathy was nothing new. One percent of the world’s population are certified psychopaths. I was looking at one of them.

  “I think I know who killed her,” I said.

  Still no reaction, although he did cock his head slightly to one side. For my father, that was the equivalent of a “Holy shit!”.

  “And who do you think it is?” he asked.

  I told him about the age-progression photo experiment I had done, and about how the man in the photograph greatly resembled the lead homicide investigator’s son.

  “Did you run a background check on him?”

  “Two sexual assaults that were dropped.”

  “Dropped why?”

  “No clue.”

  “I’ll look into for you,” he said. “I’ve got friends at the DA’s office.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “What are the dates of the assaults?”

  “Bookended around Mom’s murder.”

  “A pattern of violence.”

  You should know, I thought.

  Instead, I said, “My thoughts, too.”

  “Could have been a coincidence that the father got the case.”

  “Or not,” I said.

  “The father somehow knew about the crime?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Hard to know at this point.”

  “So what’s your next step?”

  “I figure it’s time to talk to him.”

  Chapter Forty

  I was back at Leisure World.

  Sanchez had the night off from private investigating to work his real job as an LAPD detective. Slacker.

  Admittedly, I hadn’t been in the mood to come tonight. After seeing my soulless father, I had been in the mood to drink the night away, with occasional respites for puking up my guts.

  Except I wasn’t expecting to get a call from Tony Hill, head of park security at Leisure World. There had been another flashing. I’d asked if anyone had been blinded, and he told me to not be a smart ass and to swing by tonight.

  So I swung by, and now we were in my crime fighting van. There’s nothing I like more than sitting in a confined space with a hard-ass rent-a-cop with control issues.

  So I offered him a beer.

  “I can’t drink when I’m on duty. And I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be drinking in this van.”

  “So arrest me,” I said. I reached inside the mini-fridge and pulled out a Miller Lite.

  Tony Hill looked at it long and hard, then looked around as if anyone could see us, then said, “Fine. I’ll take one. But just one.”

  I grinned and handed him an ice-cold can. We sat back in the built-in swivel chairs. Like with Sanchez, we each covered one side of the van.

  “Tell me about the flashing,” I said.

  “Do I have to?” he said. He stared at the can of beer as he spoke.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He sighed and sat back, although his eyes did go back to scanning the big tinted window. As he spoke, he drank often. So often that he soon finished the beer. “Happened two nights ago. In fact, it happened the last time you were here with your friend. Maybe ten, twenty minutes after you left.”

  “Could he have known I was here?”

  “Don’t know, but I doubt it. Your van looks like any number of maintenance vehicles. Did you see anything strange that night?”

  “Nothing strange enough for me to think a flasher was on the prowl.”

  Tony Hill held up the empty can. “Got another?”

  “Got lots.”

  I opened, reached, grabbed, shut, and handed him another cold one. He said, “I could get fired for drinking on the job, except I kind of make the rules for our department.”

  “Maybe you should make the rule that on nights of flasher surveillance, you can knock back a minimum of two.”

  “Four.”

  “Or four.”

  We both drank to that, and I think I might have just helped to add a new bylaw to Leisure World’s security.

  “So who did he expose himself to this time?”

  “Three women.”

  “Where?”

  “They were leaving their singing group.”

  “Any other groups going on tonight?”

  “More singing lessons, which is why I wanted you to come tonight.”

  “Sounds like our boy knows the park schedule.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Who heads the singing group.”

  “Mr. Micliwski.”

  “Mr. McWho?”

  “Micliwski. He’s Polish. Lives right there, in fact.”

  Joe Hill leaned over and pointed to the same small apartment I had watched the old man exit from with the young man. A house not very far from Poppie’s. A house in the hub of the flashing hits.

  “Oh really?” I said.

  “Sometimes his son helps out.”

  “I see,” I said. “Can the ladies describe the flasher?”

  “The usual. Kind of tall, thin, long dark hair. Wore a bathrobe.”

  I studied the small apartment. There were a lot of lights on. Every now and then, a shadow stepped in front of the window. I looked at my cell phone. It was getting on about the time I had seen the old man escort his son out.

  We drank and watche
d, and I kept my suspicions to myself.

  Sure enough, at about the same time the door opened and the same old man walked out. The same medium-sized and stooped old man. Another man followed. His son, I presumed. The same young man we had seen the other night.

  The same tall young man.

  Tony Hill was leaning in my direction, watching the scene from the house. “Yeah, that’s his son. A singer, too, like his old man. We get to know everyone who comes and goes from this park.”

  “I believe it,” I said.

  Like Sanchez and I had done a few nights ago, Tony Hill dismissed the younger guy immediately and watched the old man head back into his home where, I assumed, a few older ladies were waiting to finish up their lessons.

  Except, I wasn’t watching the old guy, I was watching the young man who had crossed in front of the van and was now heading for the same parked car we had seen the other night.

  I watched him get in, start the car, and slowly drive away.

  I eased off the lounge chair and, ducking, headed through the small doorway and back into the front seat.

  I started the van and, despite Tony Hill’s protests, followed.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “The kid?” said Tony Hill. “I’ve met him a number of times. He’s like twenty-two.”

  “Perving knows no age,” I said. “I think.”

  “I don’t know. Seemed nice enough.”

  “How long ago did the flashing start?”

  “Six months back. Maybe. I can check.”

  “How long have he and his grandfather been giving singing lessons?”

  He thought about it as we cruised at a good distance behind the kid. “Shit,” he said.

  “Six months ago?”

  He nodded. “Seems about right.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Charlie, I think.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “And why isn’t he heading for the exit?” said Tony Hill.

  “Where does this road lead?”

  “Deeper into the park.”

  “Are there back exits?”

  He shook his head. “None that we allow visitors to use.”

  “You guys run a tight ship.”

  “The park is five hundred and thirty-three acres. We have to run a tight ship.”

  “That’s a lot of old people,” I said.

  “And a lot of visitors.”

  The vehicle, a Volkswagen something-or-other, turned right into what appeared to be another parking lot. The park was full of such parking lots. His vehicle slowed and turned towards us in one of the spots.

  I drove slowly past. “Don’t look at him,” I said.

  Tony Hill didn’t like it, but he looked forward, although I knew every fiber of his being wanted to turn and look.

  “He’s watching us,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “This isn’t my first car chase.”

  “Car chase?”

  “Slow-moving car chases count, too.”

  I turned right down the next street, then turned into another parking lot. I slipped in next to a Dumpster. I ditched the lights, rolled down the windows and killed the engine.

  “What are we doing?”

  “We’re listening.”

  “Listening for what?”

  “Let’s see. Or hear.”

  It was just past 9:00 p.m. and Leisure World was perfectly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I was certain I could hear a car start up and pull away. Five minutes later, that’s exactly what happened. We couldn’t see him, but we could hear him.

  “He’s moving again.”

  With the headlights still off, I pulled out of the parking lot and nudged my way slowly toward the street.

  “There,” said Tony Hill, pointing.

  A pair of brake lights appeared in the far distance, just as the vehicle hung a right.

  “What’s over there?”

  “The amphitheater.”

  “Is there a concert going on?”

  “No, but there’s a play being performed. The old geezers are putting on The Grapes of Wrath.”

  “When’s it over?”

  Joe Hill checked his cell. “Right about now.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  The outdoor amphitheater was bigger than I expected.

  According to Tony Hill, it seated 2,500 people, and by my estimation, there were probably fifty people presently in attendance.

  “The amphitheater is designed primarily for concerts. We even had Pat Boone here a few months ago.”

  “Very nice.”

  “You a fan?”

  “Who isn’t? Anyone Elvis opened for is all right in my book.”

  “We might get his daughter next month. Debby.”

  “Lucky you.”

  From the van, which I had parked near the entrance, we could see some of the stage and about the first third of the amphitheater seating. People seemed to be deeply engrossed and generally enjoying themselves. The lights were low and the stage was brightly lit.

  We were both scanning the parking lot. I had parked in some shadows and killed the engine. The lot was surprisingly full. I wondered where the rest of the 2,450 guests parked. The VW had been a neutral color. Neutral colors mean nothing to me. Hell, they might as well be called blah, because that’s what they look like to me.

  But I knew what a Volkswagen looked like, and soon I spotted the sucker in the far corner of the lot. I pointed it out to Tony Hill, whose first instinct was to charge it.

  “Easy, tiger,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be better to catch him in the act?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “How about just before the act?”

  “A little better.”

  We waited. There seemed to be some movement in the little Volkswagen, but I couldn’t be sure from our distance.

  “So what’s his M.O.?” asked Tony Hill.

  “He ditches his clothes for the robe in his car, flashes the old folks, slips away somewhere, then works his way back to his car.”

  “Where he changes again and waits for the heat to die down.”

  We waited some more. Ten minutes later, applause didn’t necessarily erupt from the amphitheater, but it did spring forth energetically.

  The VW’s driver’s side door opened. A dark shadow slipped out. The shadow worked its way near some trees and shrubs that surrounded the exterior of the amphitheater.

  “Did you see that?” I said.

  “Hard to miss.”

  Theater-goers began trickling out. Husbands and wives, small groups, big groups, and individuals. Many got into their cars, but a few headed toward the far end of the parking lot. Toward the figure hiding in shadows.

  “He’s near the shuttle pick-up, which will be here in a few minutes.”

  “Then I suggest,” I said, opening my door quietly, “that we catch ourselves a flasher.”

  Tony Hill looked at me sideways. “Why do you sound like you’re enjoying yourself?”

  “What’s not to love?” I said. “Adventure, intrigue, free willies.”

  “Brother. Let’s go.”

  We both got out of the van, and slipped in behind some of the exiting theater-goers. Tony Hill and I fell back, keeping mostly to the shadows. Up ahead, a nearby pool of light with a bench was undoubtedly their destination. The shuttle pick-up.

  But between theater-goers and the shuttle pick-up was a dense row of bushes.

  Still walking with the group and ducking a little to keep a low profile, I saw movement in the bushes. So did Tony Hill, who suddenly broke into an all-out sprint. Although the head of security had me by about twenty years, he didn’t have a gimp leg, and soon he was covering ground much faster than I could.

  He might have also been driven by adrenaline. I’m sure he was taking it personally that the residents had hired outside help. I’m also sure, having been around the guy a few times now, that he took it personally that such attacks were taking place under his
watch.

  And so it really came as no surprise that when I saw the lanky young man step out of the shadows, wearing only a light-colored bathrobe and a black wig, Tony Hill was in an all-out sprint.

  One of the old ladies turned and saw Tony Hill running and screamed. Another woman saw the young man in the robe and black wig and screamed. A third turned, saw me and screamed, too. Hey, what did I do?

  Finally, the young man, in the very act of exposing himself, turned and saw the older security guard bearing down on him. He screamed, too, just as Tony Hill tackled him to the ground.

  While the two rolled around in the grass, with the flasher’s robe spilling open, I wanted to scream, too.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Cindy and I were at my apartment.

  Ginger and Junior were snuggled on the couch between us. The patio door was open, and through it we could hear the sounds of the surf crashing, seagulls squawking and music playing.

  “Why don’t we ever hang out at your apartment?” I asked her.

  “Because your apartment is much cooler than mine,” she said. “And your apartment always feel like...an escape.”

  “An escape from what?”

  “Life. Pressure. Expectation.” She drank more of her wine as she gently ran her long nails down Junior’s back and up Ginger’s stomach on the return trip. “Not to mention, I always feel completely and totally safe here.”

  We sat quietly, our stomachs settling. I had made a homemade pizza using two Boboli crusts, a half dozen vegetables, sundried tomatoes, tomato sauce mixed with olive oil and fresh garlic. Oh, and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. My stomach, I knew, was busy sorting through the mélange of vegetables, spices and sauces and would be busy for some time. Cindy’s stomach tended to settle a little more quietly than mine.

  Girls.

  Cindy sat with her feet and legs tucked under her in a way that made my own gimp leg hurt like hell just looking at her. It was late evening on a Thursday night, and the street sounds weren’t quite as clamorous. The wind that meandered through my open balcony door was tinged with brine and salt and car exhaust. A heady combination. From where I sat, I could just make out a bright red star that I was certain was Jupiter. Then again, what did I know? I’m just a dumb jock.