by Randy Rawls
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just wondering. Tell Bert I need to see him. It’s important.”
“Senior’s in there now, but should be out in a minute. Grab a seat if you’d like. As soon as he’s free, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks.” Abby sat on a loveseat and picked up a magazine. As she flipped the pages, she glanced at Beth. She figured Beth was about twenty-five. Tom’s sister would have been near that age. From what he said, she was gorgeous. So was Beth. Same name. Same age. Same reason for some guy to drag her in the bushes. A vision of Beth lying in a contorted position, naked and bloody, popped into her mind. She shuddered, stood, and began to pace, repulsed by the picture. God. Am I feeling a small sample of what Tom felt?
“You seem nervous,” Beth said. “This must be a hot subject.”
“It-it is,” Abby stuttered, dragging herself back to the present. “Ah…Beth. Do you work late very often?”
“Sometimes. It depends on Mr. Bernstein’s schedule. Usually not past seven or eight though. Why?”
Abby forced a smile. “No good reason. How’s the security in our parking garage?”
“Pretty good…I guess. I never gave it much thought. Is something wrong? Has someone bothered your car?”
“No…ah, yes. I think somebody keyed me. Well, it happened, and it could have been here.”
“That’s a shame. I—”
“Beth, I’m free,” her intercom squawked. “Anything on the docket for me?”
“Bert’s ready,” Beth said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
A few minutes later, Abby sat across from Bert, a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.
“So, how’s the affair with Jeffries going?” Bert said. “Figure out what he’s up to yet?”
Abby smiled. “Watch your choice of words.”
“So what’s he up to?”
“That’s why I’m here. Clear your calendar for about an hour. You need to hear all of it.”
“Oh.” Bert flashed a bright smile. “Sounds pretty serious.” He punched the button on his intercom. “Beth. I’ll be with Abby for forty-five minutes. Guard the door.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Abby said. “Well, don’t accuse me of rushing things. Tom is a complicated person, and it’s worth listening to.”
“Just lay out the basics—jury summation will do.”
Abby spent the next thirty minutes detailing almost everything she’d learned about and from Tom—the basis of his relationship with Charlie, the death of his sister, her unsuccessful surveillance of him out I-75, and her attempts to find out what he was doing. She left out the kiss and how he set her insides churning at times.
Bert stared at her a moment. “You’ve chosen your words carefully. Well done. But are you remembering that a lawyer must never become emotionally involved with a client? All objectivity is lost when that happens.”
“Damn you, Bert. You know me better than that.” She stopped. “Oh, shit. Was that outburst proof of your accusation?”
“You know that answer better than I. I’m only pointing out the obvious slant of your story.” He paused, appearing to reflect. “Since it bothers you, I’ll forget what I’m sure I heard. You gave me a nice biography, but what’s he really doing?”
Abby hesitated, wondering how best to present her conclusions. “I’ve thought about that a lot. I think he’s working with the police, helping them track the killers of Mary Lou Smithson. But, for some reason I don’t understand, he’s doing it on the sly. He doesn’t want me or anyone else to know.”
“Interesting hypothesis.” Bert turned so he faced his window toward the ocean and spoke in a musing voice, “I hope you’re right. It would explain his unusual actions. And I guess the authorities wouldn’t want it public they recruited a PI to do their job.” He paused and stroked his chin. “But what if that’s not why he’s being so sneaky? Suppose, instead of working with the police, he wants to beat them to the murderers. The death of his sister could be the catalyst for that. Maybe he feels he can’t trust the police and justice system to put the bad people away. Maybe, based on his military experience, he feels empowered to do it himself. Maybe he’s tracking the killers and eliminating them one by one.” He faced Abby. “Do you see where I’m going?”
Abby frowned. “Yes, but I have to say it sounds pretty farfetched. I mean, people just don’t go on vendettas these days. That’s something out of the old west. Tom wouldn’t do that.”
“No?” Bert’s eyebrows questioned her. “He gunned down three men in Dallas—three that he wanted dead.”
“I…” She hesitated, her brow wrinkled. “Suppose you’re right. Can you blame him after what happened with the cretins that murdered his sister?”
“That’s not for us to decide.” Bert smiled. “We made certain promises to honor the laws as written.” He paused and grinned. “Unless we’re turning in our legal objectivity.” He went serious again. “However, if I’m right, his actions could bring embarrassment to the firm. And you know Dad won’t allow that.”
“He— There was something in your tone that bothers me. Just what are you saying? You said you assigned me to this to help Jeffries because he saved your daughter, because you feel obligated to him. Are you now telling me your primary interest is saving the business from embarrassment? Am I your unwitting spy?”
“Easy, Abby. Of course not. Dad and I want to protect Tom. But we can’t ignore what would happen if he goes criminal. We acquire clients based on our standing in the legal profession. We keep them by winning cases. If we’re viewed as a firm that supports vigilante actions, that would make us legal outcasts. No big insurance company would look at us twice. And without them, we’re out of business.”
Abby was confused. “I understand that, but doesn’t loyalty have a position in your equation? Tom saved your daughter. Would you throw him over simply to save face for BGE and B? What happened to loyalty being a two way street?” She hesitated, staring at Bert, daring him to meet her eyes. When he continued to gaze out his window, she said, “Maybe I’m not the right person for this assignment.”
He turned back to his desk, an ingratiating smile on his face. “I disagree. You’ve done a great job, and I’ll let Dad know how valuable you are to the firm—as if he doesn’t know already.” He checked his watch. “From what you told me about Tom’s cautions against surveillance, we can probably put you back in the case pool. If he needs you, he can call.” He leaned back, appearing to think. “See Ashford. I assigned him a couple of cases I’d much prefer you handle. They’re tough enough to be perfect for you. Once you’re examined them, they’re yours if you say so.”
“Good. I’d rather get back to what I was hired for and leave Tom to his own doings.” Abby stood. “I’ll see Ashford now.” She started toward the door.
“But…” Bert said.
Abby looked at him.
“You’re still assigned to Jeffries.”
SIXTEEN
The ringing phone stopped Tom as he swung open the door to his garage. He hesitated, then decided to let the answering machine pick up. But he didn’t move, his curiosity holding him in place. Could be Charlie with news about Lonnie. Could be Abby telling him she’d changed her mind and would be trailing him all day. Could be a telemarketer selling the newest whatchamacallit, thingamabob, or whatever. Who knew—unless one listened?
“Jeffries, this is Detective Summers. You said you wanted to see the autopsy report on Mary Lou Smithson. We have it now. Call me, and we’ll set up a time for you to review it.”
The machine clicked off, and Tom stared in its direction. Damn. Should I call him now? He shook it off and muttered to the door. “Hell, I already know more than they do. They can wait.”
He continued out the door toward his car. Crap. I’d better get it over with. Don’t want them wondering why I lost interest. He reentered the house, picked up his wall phone, and dialed Summers’ line.
During the quick con
versation, Tom agreed to stop by the station in thirty minutes or so.
An hour later, Tom, Jim Richards, and Phil Summers sat in Richards’ office. Tom had taken his time getting to the station while rehearsing how he should handle the meeting. He had to exhibit the right amount of emotion at what he knew was in the report without giving himself away. He expected to be under scrutiny. Richards had not concealed his opinion of PI’s and him in particular.
After the appropriate small talk and warnings, Richards reluctantly passed a folder across his desk. “Here’s the report. You can read but cannot make copies. And I don’t want you making notes. Anything you take out of here will have to be filed in your memory.”
“Understood,” Tom said, nodding. “I appreciate your going out on a limb for me with this.”
“Of course, if you see anything you consider important, I expect you to point it out. Nothing is too trivial.”
Again, Tom nodded and said, “Understood. I was a cop, you know.”
“Yeah. Take your time. I’ll be here all day.”
As Tom scanned the pages, he knew Richards had kicked back and watched closely. He could also feel Summers’ eyes burning into him from his position alongside. An air of suspicion filled the room making Tom wonder how much research they had done. Since he hadn’t spotted anything, and no one had reported any unusual interest in him, he assumed they might have contacted Dallas. He could live with that. Some of his ex-coworkers might badmouth him, but they could only report rumors. And every police department was filled with rumors. Richards and Summers would have to consider that fact when weighing what they heard.
The report held nothing Johnny hadn’t told him as he talked for his life. In fact, Johnny’s words were far more informative than the dry medical language on the pages.
Tom slammed the autopsy on the desk and induced anger into his voice. “About what I expected. Street creatures raped and murdered her. Happens all the time, all over the country. Women of all ages are their targets, and there’s not a damn thing that can be done about it.”
“We track them. We arrest them. We put them in jail,” Richards said.
“Yeah, and some judge turns them loose,” Tom retorted. “Don’t get me wrong. I know how hard you work, but I also know it’s like shoveling snow during a blizzard. All you’re doing is shifting the problem while a fresh batch falls behind you.”
Richards picked up a pencil and tapped it on top of his desk. “You sound pretty bitter. Are you that close to the Smithsons, or…”
Tom stared, letting the clock tick thirty seconds away. “If you have something specific to ask, do it. I’m not good at charades.”
Summers, from beside him, said, “Are you tracking the killers?”
“Like you did the killers in Dallas?” Richards said.
Tom began to rise then caught himself and settled back into the chair. “I was a police officer in Dallas doing my job. That was the extent of my tracking the killers. And, if you haven’t learned it yet, yes, I did have a shootout with three of them. It was totally within my responsibilities as an officer of the law. I walked in while they were committing a crime, an armed holdup. In Texas, and I suspect the same is true here, a policeman is never off duty.” He stared at Richards then redirected his gaze at Summers. “I don’t see you disagreeing with me. Thank you for allowing me access to the report. Unless you have something else to talk about, I have things to do.” He rose and left the room.
* * * *
“Damn,” Summers said. “Guess I won’t be invited to his next backyard barbecue.”
Richards grinned. “I hope you will. I might be the one on the skewer.” He doodled on a lined pad. “What do you think? Is he involved?”
“My gut says yes, but I saw nothing to support it. His hands are either clean or he’s one cool sonavabitch.”
“Yeah. My feelings exactly. During your spare time, check in with him once in a while.”
“Spare time?” Summers said. “I have spare time? Why, thank you, chief. You’re so generous.” He stood. “First, I have a tattoo artist to find. I may already be second in line.”
“Or if Jeffries grabbed Grayson, you may be too far behind.”
* * * *
That night, the four thieves again occupied the black Ford Expedition. The driver, as before, parked and pointed to a 7-Eleven across the street. “That’s our objective. Same as the others, one clerk working. Take a good look from here, then we’ll move in.”
The others stared, watching the lone employee walk among the rows. From where they sat, his boredom was evident.
“Since Johnny failed us again, we’ll split the duties like we did on the last job. But, we rotate numbers. Izzy, you’re One. You take the counterman tonight. Geda, you’re Two, and you got the three position, Laury.”
They nodded, never taking their eyes off the target.
“Grab all the cash you see. The amount’s not the most important thing. The training is what counts. We have to hone our technique so when we start hitting banks and armored cars, we’re perfect. That’s when the big money will come in.”
“Yeah,” Izzy said. “That’s when I’m gonna have some fun at the Hard Rock Casino.”
“The hell you will,” the driver exploded. “You’ll live exactly as you did before—all of you. I’ve told you. Normalcy is the secret to success. No matter how much money we accumulate, we act normal. Now concentrate on tonight.”
“Yessir,” Izzy said. “Forgot myself.”
The driver stared until Izzy lowered his head. Once he was sure Izzy had learned his lesson, he said, “We’re ready to climb the next rung on the training ladder. Izzy, I’m giving you the honor of registering the first kill. Do it just as we practiced. Make sure he’s dead before you leave.”
At precisely midnight, Izzy, Geda, and Laury burst through the front door of the 7-Eleven.
The clerk looked up from beside the cash register, a half-smile on his face, followed by a startled expression, then fear.
Izzy rushed to the counter and swung the bat. It cracked against the clerk’s head, driving him down onto his knees, where he toppled over.
“Damn, One,” Geda said, frowning. “You prob’bly broke his head.”
“Just do your damn job, Two,” Izzy said as he ran around the end of the counter. He pulled up as he came alongside the clerk. Blood ran from his mouth and ear and it would have been obvious to anyone else that he was dead. But not to Izzy. He was oblivious to all except his mission for El General. Ignoring the gore, Izzy pulled his pistol and held it twelve inches from the back of the clerk’s head. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger, sending brain matter splashing under the counter, and spraying across the floor in front of the entrance.
Izzy stood, opened the cash register, and grabbed cash, hurriedly stuffing it into a plastic bag he brought with him. When he had it all, he turned and called, “Two, Three. Let’s haul ass.”
They rushed to the front door, skirting the gore, then walked like any other customers to the idling SUV.
As they drove out of the lot, the driver said, “Excellent. Just under two minutes. I heard the shot. Did you take out the clerk?”
“Yeah,” Izzy said. “They’ll have to take fingerprints to identify him. His face is all over the store.”
“Good. We’re almost ready. Next jobs, Geda and Laury get blooded.” The driver smiled.
SEVENTEEN
The next day, mid-morning, Richards and Summers sat in the briefing room with the other detectives on duty. The room was small and stuffy and the chairs uncomfortable. Pale green paint covered the walls and its age was obvious by the dates scrawled on it by bored policemen. The lights had been dimmed and a grainy video, slightly out of focus, of a robbery in progress played on a portable screen. It was the inside of a 7-Eleven. The clock accompanying the pictures showed the time to be midnight.
Three men wearing dark clothes, ski masks, and gloves burst into the place. Two of them peeled off while the thi
rd confronted the counterman. Without hesitating, the thief swung a ball bat, hitting the employee alongside the head. When the man dropped, the thief moved to his right and went out of camera view.
“Here’s the rest of it from a second camera.” The briefing officer hit a switch.
The scene repeated itself from a different direction, viewing the scene from over the clerk’s shoulder. It picked up the three thieves inside the store as they separated, displaying the one who approached the clerk, and registering the viciousness of his swing. He then disappeared, but reappeared behind the counter where he knelt over the counterman’s body. The thief took out a pistol, and, holding it about a foot from the employee’s head, pulled the trigger.
The video continued as the killer cleaned out the cash register. Then he moved out of the picture, and the movie concentrated on the body.
After a moment of no movement, the briefer turned the system off. “That’s all the action. We have another partial shot of the same thing. It shows the other two working between the displays. It looks like they were making sure there was no one else in the store. It ends with the three of them walking out like they didn’t have a care in the world.” He hesitated, looking around the room. “Total time in the place, one minute, fifty-eight seconds. They worked with military precision.”
Captain Jonas took the podium. “This is the third robbery that we know of with this M.O. But it’s the first where they shot the counterman. Since there’s nothing in the video to justify it, we must assume they planned it that way. If so, they’re getting more blood-thirsty and our problem is growing.” He paused and checked his notes. “The second victim lived through his clubbing, but he’s in no condition to help. The surveillance tapes show just what you saw here—thieves working as a unit, as if executing a preconceived plan. And each time, they hit places with only one person on duty.”