Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  Mark chuckled low. “Shareena Johnson. Mmm,” his lips went tight. “Poor girl. Six-years-old. Looked younger. Real cute. Three months ago she watched a dude take five in the chest right out in front of her apartment. Bad scene.” He hit his blinker and scooted over a lane. “We brought her in to the station for questioning. We were hoping to get a description of the shooter. Turns out, whoever did it was in a car, just driving by. Smoked this guy, bad. Didn’t get much out of her. Took two hours and a department shrink. Still nothing.” He took a breath checking the rearview, looked back forward. “Her mom came in, brought Floppy. Shareena sat there hugging on it like her soul was inside it, rocking back and forth, sucking her thumb. Floppy was her bestest friend in the whole world. It was horrible, but she calmed down enough to finally give us a description of the drive-by vehicle. Even then, all she said was black and red, shiny wheels.”

  Nia nodded, interested.

  “Next day, the mom calls. I answer. Shareena left her Floppy at the station.” He grinned in sad reflection. “I remember thinking I have to find Floppy. I gotta find Floppy. I started to panic. Looked all over for the fucking thing. Finally found it in the women’s bathroom. He was just sitting there on top of the paper towel dispenser looking at the world with those stupid googley eyes, like he was waiting for Shareena to come back. I promised the little girl’s mom I’d bring the doll back to her. But,” he laughed even deeper, more miserably. “I never did.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Nia asked.

  “This job, this town—everything’s a resource. Everything. I knew the Floppy doll was my key. If I ever had to come back to that place, it’d get me in. It was my leverage. They don’t like cops around there. You saw them, you heard Darius.” He looked at her. She looked back. “I was right, though. We got in, didn’t we?” He shook his head sliding the car over to take the exit ramp. “It’s sad. These people—they don’t have anything. No job. No fathers. Dodging bullets on the way home. Rent’s always due. So fucked up, man. Somehow, a tiny girl’s plaything becomes the most valuable commodity—a goddamn Floppy dog. We couldn’t have paid our way into that housing place, but bring Shareena Johnson back her Floppy dog—now, that’s something. That’s why I kept it. I had to sell my soul to do my job.” He looked at her. “Welcome to L.A. Central, rook.”

  Nia looked down, then back up. Mark had just described her entire childhood with perfection. He could have written it in a book. This man knew her from the inside out. She blinked, shook her head, asked, “Did you catch them?”

  “Who?”

  “The shooter. Red and black car, shiny wheels.”

  Mark grinned shaking his head. “Nah—they’re out there somewhere, just like all the rest of them.”

  Nia reached for his hand on the gearshift, but stopped, pulled back. She couldn’t do that. They were partners. That was wrong. Mark noticed and they made eye contact, both feeling something brew—something taboo.

  14

  Neiman Residence

  Mark wrapped his day at the precinct at seven o’clock, then hit the gym, showered, and left. Returning home, he banked his Camaro into the parking lot at the Villas at Tuscany Bend, found a spot and slipped easily in. A bottle of Glenfiddich sat in the passenger seat. He’d grown accustomed to whiskey over the years, and tonight would be a good time to indulge.

  This place was home, had been for the past several years—a trendy L.A. spot in the La Brea Park district with clay shingles, adobe-style visages and uptown living units packed in under multiple rooflines and tiny balcony coves. Trees and fountains lined meandering stone walkways. It was a comfortable, picturesque community that overlooked Hollywood in the distance.

  Mark fell in love with the community at once and he’d made a hundred memories here. The women were Hollywood gorgeous and the neighbors were L.A. upscale. But evermore, he was feeling like the place had served its purpose, and the time to move on was getting nearer. He’d spent his thirties here. Now at thirty-seven, he was feeling ready for that huge lifetime achievement. A woman, marriage, a family. It was getting time to grow up.

  Killing the engine he sat staring down at the round, sport-style gage cluster, looking at nothing. It was Nia. There was no fooling himself. She was so fierce in her constitution; it made him wonder about himself. He’d always considered himself to be so well put together, spending time on upscale trends, being that sharp-dressed man with the hot ride, the hot place, the hot lifestyle. Then she entered his life, this young girl seven years his junior with a cop’s intuition and the bearing to match. She was a kid, and yet she was as much man as he.

  He chuckled ridiculously rearranging his thoughts. Was this some natural course that all humans toiled with, this idea he wasn’t precisely where he belonged, or was it something deeper? He looked up almost gasping.

  Why was he thinking about Bernie Dobbs, suddenly? Maybe on some unconscious level, his disdain for the man he’d once known as partner had created an attachment to him. Maybe Bernie was the model that Mark chose as how not to live his life. Bernie was a broken, restless guy, a full-blown alcoholic who’d created nothing for himself, and who’d only suffered defeat from his reckless, personal choices.

  Jesus, was he taking that first step toward becoming a Bernie Dobbs?

  He looked up at the rearview mirror, seeing only himself, knowing that the world did not see what he saw. It did not see the self-doubt, the fitful need to evolve, to grow and become something better. He leaned forward staring into his own eyes. Here it was, the crossroad—would he change and become something more, or shrink and whither as Bernie Dobbs had?

  Mark scoffed at himself, snatched up the bottle of Glenfiddich and got out, shutting the door and walking off.

  He strode into his floor-level apartment, flipped on the lights, tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter, threw open the cupboard and pulled down a glass tumbler. Three ice cubes and a foil seal later, he poured the luscious golden-brown whiskey in and moved into the living room. Sitting down on his dogleg sofa, he fobbed on the aqua tank lights in the corner and washed the place in the peaceful glow of his exotic fish tank. He flipped on the TV—reruns of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. In his field, the show was always good for a laugh. Sipping, he melted back a little wiping his mind clear and closing his eyes.

  His cellphone rang on the coffee table, jerking him back. He picked it up. The caller did not display, but it was local. He grunted and answered, “Yeah.”

  The voice that came through was unnaturally low, abrasive, braided with lubricant. It had spit in the throat, all popping and gory. “Mark Neiman.”

  He sat up on the couch. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  He waited for an answer. It finally came. “I know something.”

  Mark squinted. His question went unanswered. “Okay—what do you know?”

  “I know about Graves.”

  “You have information, then,” he guessed.

  “Information. Yeah.”

  “You want to talk.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you know I was looking?” Mark asked.

  “You,” another pause, more haggard breathing, “aren’t hiding.”

  “No, I’m not. So, tell me.”

  “No. No phones.”

  “A meet,” Mark said.

  “Yes. Alone.”

  Mark felt his skepticism grow. “Why alone?”

  “Don’t want people.”

  “I need a name.”

  The guy breathed over the phone, loud and jagged. It made Mark slowly recoil as he listened. “Warner,” the voice said.

  “Warner?”

  “Warner Theater. Huntington Park.”

  “No. Your name.”

  “I’ll be there before you.”

  Mark squeezed the phone in his hand. “I’m not coming without a name.”

  “Then don’t.” The line ended.

  Mark lowered the phone, sat looking at it in his hand. No name. Come alone. What did it mean? It smacked of a dangero
us situation. He swiped through his contacts, landed on Nia Helms. He wondered if he should call. He’d learned not to operate alone. They were partners. But he didn’t have a choice. Coming to a decision, he slipped the phone into a pocket, gulped the Glenfiddich, and got up to leave.

  The theater was off Pacific Boulevard, a busy part of town. Shops, clothing stores and little eateries were lined up for blocks. Cars parked right off the street all sitting diagonal against the curb. People were out in droves. The night was young, but dark.

  He found a parking spot and got out looking around. He had no idea who he was looking for, but he had a feeling he’d know when he saw them. The theater was half a block down, so he moved that way wanting to make himself visible. Coming to the ticket booth he stood out by the street dodging a crowd as they moved by. He was under the big neon red movie sign sharking his gaze back and forth, across the street. Traffic moved by going both ways. People moved in coagulated, little herds. It created an atmosphere of activity, all social but oblivious. It made the guy staring back at him from across the street stand out like a sore. He had a dark gray hoodie that masked his face in perfect shadow. He was still, only looking back at Mark as if possessing some strange understanding.

  Mark stiffened. This was his contact.

  The guy across the street sank back submerging himself inside the crowd making Mark perk up, struggle to follow him with his eyes. A passing bus rattled by blasting the street with sound, and when it was gone, so was Mark’s guy.

  “Shit,” he muttered, trotting across the street. A car came to a stop honking its horn, but Mark only moved forward, intent. Coming to the opposite sidewalk he looked north, then spun and looked south. A slice of motion among all the rest faded into an ally, way down. He sprinted that way, following.

  The alley was narrow and dark. Detritus collected where the breeze had deposited it. Mark’s senses prickled his skin. He dare not pull his gun, but he held its grip at his side and went headfirst into the dark.

  The sounds of the street faded as he moved on, eyes darting left, right, ahead. He’d lost his target. Sneering he bolted forward. The ally spilled out into a back parking lot loaded with parked cars. Buildings stood to all sides. He inspected wildly looking for shadow, motion, anything. There was no sign of his target.

  Anger speared through him. Why was the guy running? What game was this?

  Mark got down on his knees, started scanning under the cars. There were only night shadows and the smell of engines. No feet. No ducking forms. A noise jerked him back up and he looked toward the far side of the lot. A gray hoodie, almost invisible in the night, bolted for the corner of a building, toward another ally.

  Mark jerked his weapon and shouted, “Freeze, asshole!”

  The guy halted, back turned to him, hands up. Mark trotted over to him. “Take off the hood.”

  The guy slowly lowered the hood revealing a full head of dark hair.

  “Turn around.”

  He turned. It was a Mexican kid. A teenager. “Why’d you call me?” Mark demanded.

  “Huh?”

  Mark squinted at him, full of sudden doubt. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I wasn’t doing nothing, man.”

  “You ripping off cars?”

  The kid’s face wrinkled into despair. “I’m sorry, man. I won’t do it again.”

  “Jesus,” Mark said, stuffing his firearm away. “Get the hell out of here, man.”

  The kid took off in a full sprint leaving Mark standing in a back ally parking lot, befuddled. Whoever had called had bailed on him, didn’t show. They also knew his phone number, his name, where he lived … everything.

  Mark looked back at the ally from where he’d come and sneered, “Home.”

  Returning home, Mark swung the Camaro into the parking lot and braked to a sudden stop. Frowning angrily, he got out, gun in hand.

  At the door, he turned the lock quickly and threw the door open, weapon up. It was dark. He swiped a hand to the wall kicking on the lights. Everything seemed fine. Nothing was out of place. No signs of anyone.

  Yeah, bullshit. Someone’s here.

  He closed the door, locked it. Leading with his gun he slunk into the living room. First, he fanned the weapon toward the sliding glass door to his patio alcove. The hanging louvers were still, no movement. He stepped toward them and parted them open with a violent swipe of his hand. They rattled and clinked. No one was out on the patio. None of the outdoor furniture had been knocked over or moved. He checked the door lock. No one had come in or out this way.

  He spun to the hallway. It was dim, but silent. He pressed forward slowly, then shot into the hallway. Nothing. His bedroom was just paces away. He moved there listening for feet whispering on carpet, breath issuing from across the threshold. Pausing, gun up, he punched open his door and flicked the light on. Scanning left, then right, everything was just as he’d left it.

  He turned his head toward the bathroom. The door was closed. He moved to it quietly and then tapped on the door with his gun. “You’re dead, if you’re in there,” he shouted, expecting to hear his warning returned—a plea, a whimper, a threat, whatever. But nothing came. He opened the door, looked in. No one was here, just a closed shower curtain and his reflection in the full mirror pointing a gun back at himself. He suddenly felt ridiculous and lowered his gun.

  He had gotten a crank call. Nothing more.

  He took a huge sigh and stepped back toward the hallway trying to control his own pulse, bring it back down. It was all for naught—the suspicion, the jolt of panic, the feeling of madness—and somehow, he knew sleep would be difficult tonight. It made him angrier. So stupid.

  He finished the night off with another Glenfiddich, another episode of some ridiculous rerun, just enough to put his mind back into neutral, and went into his bedroom. He put the gun down on the headboard, within arm’s reach as was his habit, turned off the lights to his bedroom and crawled into bed refusing to let paranoia overpower him. He would sleep tonight, if it was the last goddamn thing he did. He refused not to sleep. His eyes closed and he felt himself sink into the mattress, felt his body relax, felt all his pieces return to calm.

  His sleep was fitful. There were dreams that played out like fractal moments, all glued together by blank spots in his memory. And they felt so real, so undeniable, like pieces of reality that he could not wake to. He could not control what was happening to him no matter how hard he tried.

  At first, there was suffocation, the scent of something terribly rank like rotting onions covering his face, infesting his lungs. And there was a dark, faceless man hovering over him.

  Next, it seemed he was being dragged across the floor mumbling incoherently. He remembered grabbing at the walls, but his arms were like stones. Nothing would react to his will—hands wouldn’t grab, muscles wouldn’t contract. There was only carpet burn, then something like cement or blacktop.

  He was in a car or, perhaps, a van, hearing the sound of wind against the windows, feeling the road bounce and grind underneath him. And for some strange reason, like a shot of abstraction, his mind flashed toward that closed shower curtain as if it had held the answers to all his questions.

  Then he was in a strange, ancient place full of echoes and distance. The pungent, organic stench of body odor and mildew was all over him in this place. Something was rotten. He felt hands on him moving him around, placing him on something like a table. Then he blanked out consumed by the overwhelming dread that his life was in danger, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Why. The hell. Couldn’t he …

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  Fade to black.

  15

  William, Nutjob

  The state held his entire life in hock. It was time to reclaim it.

  The Volkswagen was first. It was only the second car he’d ever owned. He’d gotten it a long time ago, hoping to blend with a society that judged him. But that society had since proven flawed. It was, in fact, a d
espicable thing. Now, let them look upon him with whatever disgusting eyes it chose.

  With enough in assets and state subsidies to trade the VW off in one fell swoop for something new, no questions asked, he drove straight to the dealer and did so for an Acura TLX—very sleek, all raunchy. Driving it proved a sweeter thing than he’d expected. No more rattle trap.

  Now, it was time to go home and reclaim that, too.

  He parked at his complex and killed the engine. The car’s animal purr quieted. The place looked oddly different, yet unsettlingly the same. Taking a breath, he got out and went inside.

  Standing inside the renovated warehouse-turned-loft, the place was perfectly still. It hadn’t been lived in for one-hundred and eighty days. He could hear the ghosts of an unperturbed present echoing in here. Those voices had always been silent, but not anymore. They’d been stirred, and William had to wonder how much closer to his nature he’d stepped. The state’s attempts to silence those voices had only made them greater. Now he was forced to face them himself. It scared him, made him wonder how much louder they would become, how much more resounding they’d echo in this place, before they made him snap.

  First things first. He’d have to at least attempt to be normal. His checklist was simple. First, don’t kill anyone.

  Next, he cleaned the place. He’d left it in immaculate condition when Oaks had him transferred to the nuthouse, but dust had settled on all the surfaces in a thin layer.

  His portraits were gone. They’d taken them, stolen his family. He stared up at a blank wall with a glum expression hiding the rage underneath. It was where his father’s legacy once hung. He seethed in his own silent way. It was ironic, he thought. Nothing made the need to kill more plump and ripe than six months of remedy. It seemed as though those thoughts would grow so juicy in his mind that they’d squeeze his brain through his ear holes. He snarled and shook his head violently, shaking them away. He needed distraction, something to occupy him. He would reclaim his job next.