by J. R. Rain
“This is perfect,” she said.
“I know.”
I reached behind my couch and found the remote to my sound system. I clicked it on and soon Marc Antoine and his Spanish guitar filled my small apartment.
I debated telling Cindy about Gary Tomlinson. But I decided against it. If she knew what I was going to do, things might not be so perfect.
Instead, I kept my thoughts to myself, and as the soothing music drew us together, as Cindy lay her head on my shoulder and little Junior and Ginger snuggled deeper between us, I closed my eyes and saw Mom’s lifeless body, the endless blood, and the old pain filled me completely. The old pain that never, ever went away.
Gary Tomlinson, I thought. I’m coming for you.
Motherfucker.
Chapter Forty-four
He was sitting at an outdoor table, drinking what appeared to be an iced latte, when I pulled out the little metal chair and sat across from him.
“This seat taken?” I asked.
Gary Tomlinson, who had been reading something on his phone, looked up at me, frowning. I knew the feeling. Strangers didn’t generally come up to you in California. A stranger comes up to you in California, they either want something or they’re crazy.
He sat back a little, clutching his phone, frowning. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that his peaceful Starbucks time was being stolen by a stranger.
“Here you are,” I said. “Enjoying yourself at Starbucks. Drinking your latte. Texting your wife or mistress or playing Angry fucking Birds. The world looks bright. The day looks bright. And then some asshole comes and sits across from you.”
He sized me up—which, with me, always takes a little longer to do. There was maybe a half dozen tables out here. We were off to one side and close to some plants and smaller trees. Opposite the trees was a Navy recruiting office. Birds fluttered in the trees above. Attracted, no doubt, by errant bagel crumbs. Or maybe they really were just angry.
“Do I know you?” he asked, blinking.
“We met a short while ago,” I said. “A memorable meeting for me. Maybe not so much for you.”
He was looking like he was about to get up. To prevent this, my right hand snaked out and grabbed his left forearm, pinning him to the table.
“Hey!”
Recognition still hadn’t dawned on him. He clutched his cell phone like a lifeline. Interestingly, there was little fear in his eyes. Just confusion.
“Who are you?” he asked.
In southern California, perfect days are a given. In southern California, perfect days were wasted indoors. The only other person out here had their back to us and was be-bopping to their iPod. The sun shone down. A small breeze meandered. Sweat stood out on Gary Tomlinson’s upper lip.
I released his arm. He stared at me. I stared at him. My heart was beating strong and sure. The heart of the just. He still didn’t look nervous. In fact, he was now looking oddly amused.
“Did I cut you off in traffic or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“So what’s your problem?”
I said nothing. It took all my control not to lunge over the table, grab his head and start smashing it into the table...and to keep smashing it until his skull burst open.
He continued looking at me. He was a big guy, although not as big as me. He had broad shoulders, although not as broad as mine. His hair was brown and cut short. His sunglasses were sitting on top of his head. His nose was small, as were his eyes. His eyes, I thought, were dark and too close together. His lips were narrow. In fact, I was hard-pressed to see any actual lip. The skin just seemed to stop at a slit. Maybe I was sitting across from Lord Voldemort.
As he watched me, as he studied me, recognition began dawning on him. And with that recognition, the smirk on his face deepened a little. I clenched my fists.
He started nodding. “Yes, we met a month or so ago. At my father’s house.”
“Bingo, fucker.”
“My dad had said you were looking into your mother’s murder. He was the detective on the case.”
I couldn’t speak. My heart seemed to be pounding inside my skull, pounding between my ears. He sat back a little more. As he did so, he adjusted the drape of his shorts.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” he said, and now he really did smirk. “I’m surprised you’re still looking into it. It happened, what, twenty years ago?”
“Good memory, asshole.”
“Well, my dad and I talked about it after you left. I even remember the case. It troubled him deeply.”
“I’m sure it did.”
His eyes were sky blue. So clear you could almost see his twisted thoughts. His eyes regarded me calmly, blankly, curiously. He looked at me the way a scientist might his lab rat. A scientist about to perform unspeakably horrific experiments on his subject. He continued to smile. A cold smile. An empty smile. A guilty smile.
“You killed her,” I said.
“Now that’s not a nice thing to say.”
He didn’t act like a man who was innocent. He didn’t even act like a man who was sane, truth be known. Anyone else would have been flabbergasted, shocked, confused and horrified to be accused of such a thing.
My left hand snaked out, hooked behind his head. In a blink, I slammed his face hard into the table. One moment he had been sitting there, smirking—the next, his head was bouncing off the table. In fact, the action was so fast that I’m pretty sure no one saw it.
“Holy fuck,” he said, holding his nose.
All it had taken was a little pain to wipe that smirk off his face. The vision I had of me slamming his head into the table had become a reality. Except it wasn’t his head. It was his face. And it wasn’t his skull that broke open, it was his nose. Clearly the Law of Attraction at work.
He held his nose, which bled between his fingers. The hate in his eyes was pure. That he would act on his hate, I had no doubt. In fact, I was counting on it.
“Burn in hell,” I said, and got up and left.
Chapter Forty-five
I was sitting with Sanchez in the visitors’ parking lot at UCI.
We were in the northeast lot, which abutted the faculty parking, which also happened to give me a great view of the social science building where Cindy Darwin not only taught but also had an office.
A heck of a strategic spot.
“And you really bounced his head off the table?” said Sanchez.
“It seemed like the thing to do,” I said. “An impromptu head slamming.”
“So much for subtly,” he said. “Ever consider calling Detective Hansen?”
The day was bright and warm. The students that strolled along the cement paths that connected the many buildings were all wearing shorts and tee shirts.
“And tell him what?” I said. “That I have a twenty-year-old picture of someone who had shown an interest in my mother on the day she was murdered?”
“Someone who happens to resemble the detective’s son. A son who has a history of violent crime.”
“And what would Hansen do with that information?” I asked.
Sanchez thought about it and sipped from his Coke. The windows were down in my Mustang, but it was still warm enough for both of us to sweat. “Probably file it away. Get to it when he has some free time. When less pressing matters have been taken care of.”
“And when are a homicide detective’s less pressing matters ever taken care of?”
“Almost never. But he’s a friend. He would get to it when he could.”
“I can’t wait that long,” I said.
“You’ve waited twenty-two years.”
“That’s when I didn’t know who the killer was.”
“And you do now?”
I nodded and felt the sweat trickle down through my hairline. “As sure as I can be.”
“Sure enough to bounce someone’s head off of a table.”
“Sometimes you gotta kick the hornet’s nest,” I said.
“Or break its nose,” said Sanchez. “He’s got to be nervous.”
I nodded. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“You think he’ll make a move?”
“We’ll see.”
“And you think his move might be directed towards Cindy?”
“He’s a monster,” I said. “Monsters can do anything.”
“So what’s next?” asked Sanchez.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“The monster to reveal himself.”
“And until then we watch Cindy?”
“Yup. One of us. At all times. And if we’re both busy, I’ll hire someone.”
Sanchez pointed toward Cindy’s building. “Does she know we’re watching her?”
“She knows. She doesn’t like it. But she knows.”
Sanchez shrugged. “And what if he never rears his ugly head?”
“He will,” I said.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll keep kicking,” I said. “And keep breaking. And did you just say ‘rears his ugly head’?”
“Me talk pretty.”
Chapter Forty-six
It was two weeks before I received the phone call I was waiting for.
I was been in my office making a list of my favorite European beers. I had just decided that tops on my list was Guinness Dry Stout when my phone rang. I set my pen aside, pleased with my list.
“Knighthorse Investigations.”
“Mr. Knighthorse, it’s Bert Tomlinson.”
I took in some air, collected my thoughts. “The same Bert Tomlinson whose son raped and murdered my mother?”
“We need to talk.”
“Boy do we.”
“Not here. Not over the phone.”
“At the police station, perhaps?”
“No. Neutral ground. There’s some...information I need to tell you about your mother.”
“Sure,” I said, knowing he was full of shit. “When and where?”
“Tomorrow. Do you know where Irvine Lake is?”
“Yup.”
“There are some park benches along the east side. This time of year, it should be quiet.”
“Sounds like a great place for an ambush.”
“I’ll be there alone. You have my word.”
“Is that the same word you used to uphold the law?”
“I’ll be there alone, Knighthorse. Please be the same. We need to talk.”
“We need to do something,” I said. “What time?”
“Seven p.m. Dusk.”
“Sounds spooky.”
“See you there, Knighthorse.”
And he clicked off.
I sat quietly at my desk, digesting everything, listening to the sounds of the traffic outside, to my own beating heart, to the small hum of the mini-refrigerator cycling on.
I then reached for my cell and dialed the only number I could think of dialing.
Chapter Forty-seven
Cindy was asleep and I was alone on her balcony, drinking.
It was coming on midnight and I’d had a few hours to think about my rendezvous with Bert Tomlinson tomorrow at the east end of Irvine Lake.
It was a set-up, certainly. I knew that. And he knew that I knew that. Hell, Ginger and Junior knew that.
So, why would I go?
Good question.
I was drinking an old-school Michelob, which is what my poor Mexican neighbors drank in Inglewood. Whenever I saw a bottle of Michelob, with its tinfoil top, I thought of old Mexican men sitting around on plastic chairs outside their houses, drinking and laughing and having a damn good time. They didn’t act poor. They acted...content. Happy. Not to mention that they always seemed to have strong familial bonds that I never understood. I would play catch with myself, tossing a football or baseball or golf ball, and sometimes watch the Mexican men drinking in a circle, laughing or talking seriously, and I could feel their bond from across the street.
The only bond I had ever had like that was with my mother. My father didn’t know how to bond. He knew how to intimidate and kill, but not bond.
I had been starved for such connections...and then I met Cindy. With Cindy, I finally felt at ease. I finally felt at home. I never told her that, granted. You can’t tell someone something like that. It puts too much pressure on them. But I knew it in my heart. She was my rock. She was my family.
She and Sanchez. And maybe even Jack. And now Junior.
I’m weird, I thought, and drank again, deeply, from the old-school bottle of Michelob.
So why should I go and put my life on the line when I knew damn well it was a set-up? The answer was easy. At least, easy for me.
This was my chance to get answers. This was my chance to finally put this forever to rest. Something was going to go down tomorrow. One way or another, answers would be given. Lives would move on...or lives would end.
Tomorrow would be closure.
Blessed closure.
The bottle was empty now, but I still occasionally tilted it back and drank the hidden drops. Only one bottle tonight. No hangovers. I needed a clear head. Clear mind. Fast reflexes.
Tomorrow.
These past two months had been hard. And hard on my relationship with Cindy, too. And hard on the little things. Like relaxing. Like thinking about something other than my slain mother. My painting and reading had gone out the window. Yes, I paint. Not very good, granted. But it was a release for me. I saw the world the way I see the world. I painted with colors that suited me, that were alive to me.
For the past two months, color was gone from my life. I had been consumed by this, even in quiet moments with Cindy, with Sanchez, or with anyone.
This was unfinished business.
Tomorrow, it would be finished.
I thought about all of this and more as I crossed my ankles over the balcony railing and half-closed my eyes. Half-closed, because when I closed them all the way, there she was. Pale and dead and drained of blood, her hand reaching under her bed, to a box of my childhood things.
Why had she been reaching for the box?
I would never know, but I knew I had been her last thought in this world. She had thought of me while an animal stole her life and hurt her so bad.
And so I sat like that, with my eyes half-closed, waiting.
Waiting for tomorrow.
Chapter Forty-eight
I was to meet Bert Tomlinson, retired LAPD homicide detective, at 7:00 p.m. Which is why I got there at 6:00 p.m.
It had been raining earlier in the day, which, in itself, was cause for celebration. I drove slowly through the park, around the curve of the lake, and, sure enough, there was no one here. The park said it would close at dusk, but I didn’t see anyone here to enforce such a closure. Besides, there was nothing to actually close. Unless, somehow, they drained the lake.
I ended up in a back parking lot. From there, I found a narrow dirt road that led deeper into the dense shrubbery. Irvine Lake is surrounded by a lot of stunted trees that did their best to look like woods. The undergrowth ranged from sparse to dense, and was populated by a lot of spiky plants that looked like a cross between cactus and something from Venus. On the lake before me, tethered to a floating dock, were some generic rowboats that visitors could rent.
I appeared to be alone, but I knew I wasn’t.
With my van mostly buried in ferns, creosote, huckleberry, gooseberries and sages, and surrounded by bent and twisted oaks, firs and pines, I studied the layout before me. I could clearly see the main road that led into this section of the park. The picnic tables were before me. I counted three of them.
I looked at my watch. Fifty more minutes.
I moved into the rear of my van and fetched three recorders. Each recorder, I knew, could record up to four continuous hours.
Perfect.
I next slid the side door open and waded through some milkweed and sugar brush, and stepped out into the picnic clearing. I crossed the sparse grass and, at t
he picnic tables, I did my best to hide the recorders in nooks and crossbeams along the underside of the tables, making sure the duct tape didn’t cover the mouthpieces.
I pressed ‘Play’ on each of them.
From here, I could smell the lake, which didn’t smell very clean. Then again, lakes rarely smelled clean. The light rain helped the smell. The rain smelled fresh and invigorating and seemed to fall straight from heaven. Maybe it did.
With the light rain came something else. A scent. A hint of perfume. A soft suggestion of flowers mixed with...what? Citrus? Yes, citrus.
I knew the scent well. In fact, I had smelled it not too long ago at the cemetery, too, although I pretended I hadn’t.
It was my mother’s perfume.
The hair on my neck stood on end and a strong shiver coursed through me. The skin along my forearms rippled in goosebumps. I stood there silently, feeling as if an electric current was moving gently through my body. I didn’t know what was happening, but I liked it.
I stood like that until the feeling went away, and when it did, I saw him driving along the dirt road, his lights out.
Bert Tomlinson.
Chapter Forty-nine
As far as I could tell he was alone.
The park was significantly darker, and the sky between the trees was a deep purple. As far as I could tell, we were alone in the park. That is, alone to the naked eye.
He’s out there, somewhere, I thought.
Bert Tomlinson parked his Cadillac near the benches. The older Tomlinson got out of his car and walked around and ran his hand through his gray hair. He exhaled mightily. He checked his watch often, and once or twice I saw him adjust something under his armpit.
A shoulder holster.
A gun.
He checked his watch again, and I checked the time on my dash. It was almost seven.
Show time.