by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“I know you do, Harvey,” she said, surprising me with the matter-of-fact tone of her voice. “I’ve known for a while. I was beginning to wonder, though, when it would occur to you.”
I swallowed. I fidgeted. I shifted the receiver to my other ear.
“How long have you loved me?” I asked.
“You’re the detective now,” she replied. “You figure it out.”
There was a long moment of silence. I found myself imagining what she was wearing, where she was sitting, the expression on her face. For that moment, I didn’t give a shit about Lauren Parkus or her secret or why she killed herself. I wanted to go home and investigate this new mystery.
“Goodnight, Harvey,” she said softly. “I’d better hear from you tomorrow or I’m calling the police.”
It might have been the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.
I hung up the phone, closed the drapes, and turned off all the lights. I pulled a chair over to the window so I could peek between the drapes and not be seen. Then I sat down in the chair, took out my gun, and set it on the table next to my can of Diet Coke.
I sat there like James Bond in that scene from Dr. No and the one thirty-five years later in Tomorrow Never Dies. Just a man in a chair with his drink and his gun, waiting for danger to arrive.
It was a longer wait than I expected.
I was driving a ‘50s T-bird convertible down the Las Vegas Strip. I made a left turn at the Desert Inn, and drove around back to my place.
I drove into the garage, which was also my living room and my office. You’d think a private eye living and working out of his garage would be pathetic, but it was actually very cool.
One of things that made it cool was my assistant Carol, who had breasts the size of watermelons, really big watermelons, and was waiting for me with a tropical drink.
I climbed over the door of my car instead of opening it. It was a lot more trouble, but it was one of the carefree, cool things I did that made me irresistible to women.
“The casino called for you, Dan. They’ve got trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
She showed me a picture of Lauren.
“They say she’s gonna jump, unless you can help her,” Carol said.
I took the drink and downed it in one gulp and suddenly I was on the roof of the Desert Inn, standing a few feet behind Lauren, who stood on the edge, her back to me, the wind whipping her dress.
I approached her slowly. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Arlo is back. He going to tell them everything.”
“I’ll find him,” I said. “I’ll stop him.”
“That’s not going to change anything.”
“Your secret will be safe,” I said. “No one will know anything.”
She turned her head and looked right at me. Her gaze was blinding.
“I will,” she said. “I can never forget it now.”
And then she jumped.
Chapter Eighteen
I’m not sure exactly which sound woke me up. It was either Lauren’s body hitting the pavement or the explosion from the motel across the highway.
I whipped open my blinds and saw flames engulfing the room I’d rented at the Sno-Inn Motel and licking the hood of my rented LeSabre, which I’d parked right out front.
It was a huge fire, so hot I could feel it from fifty yards away, behind a pane of glass. And I could hear it, howling in the night, embers snapping in the cold air like cicadas on PCP.
Even so, I still had a hard time believing it. This didn’t happen in real life. This didn’t happen to me. But that was my room and my car on fire. And once the reality sunk it, I was angry at myself, because I’d slept through it.
I’d missed my chance to catch Arlo by surprise when he came to hurt me. I’d missed the moment of glorious satisfaction when Arlo realized how I’d tricked him, and how much smarter I was than he’d ever be.
I’d missed my sweet victory.
I should have been looking out the window when Arlo sped by and lobbed his Molotov cocktail through the window of my empty motel room.
I should have been out there in the street firing my gun at his Lumina as he sped off. I should have shot out his tires and sent his car careening out of control. I should have dragged him from the wreckage, made a citizen’s arrest, and been a hero.
But that wasn’t what happened, because I was asleep, dreaming I was Dan Tana in Vega$. Dan wouldn’t have let this happen.
I looked out the window at the frightened people running out of their motel rooms in their underwear, and the flames igniting the Sno-Inn’s wood-shake roof, and I realized something else.
The flames were meant for me.
Jolene told Arlo where I was staying and he went there to kill me. No one had ever wanted to do that before.
I’d assumed that Arlo would try to scare me off with a good beating. My plan was to catch him when he snuck into my room across the street. When he came out, I was going to smack him on the head with my gun, then kick him once or twice after he hit the ground, just so he’d know what it felt like.
I didn’t expect Arlo to toss a bomb into my room.
And if I’d been awake when it happened, I know I would have run out in the street without thinking and started shooting BBs at his car. And he probably would have made a U-turn, mowed me down with his Lumina, and laughed about it all the way back to his mobile home.
So, maybe it was a good thing I slept through it.
I took a sip of my flat Diet Coke and watched the motel burn and my rental car get scorched and listened to the sirens in the distance.
Actually, it was kind of cool.
This was the kind of thing that happened to Matt Houston and Jim Rockford and Dan Tana all the time. And now it was happening to me.
The only thing left was to be knocked unconscious and get shot in the arm, and then I’d really be one of the guys; though, to be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to either experience.
All in all, this turn of events wasn’t so bad. In fact, I decided I should be pleased with myself and my cleverness. The trick I played by renting two motel rooms, and sticking my car in front of the vacant one, had actually worked. I wasn’t in the room that was on fire. I was alive and unscathed. I’d outwitted my adversary.
I also knew for certain that I was really onto something, that Arlo Pelz was afraid of what I might know, what I’d detected.
Then I realized the most important thing of all.
Now Arlo Pelz thought I was dead.
***
I took my ice bucket and went outside to join the frightened Sno-Inn guests as they watched their rooms and their belongings burn.
No one noticed me blending in to the crowd; they were all busy watching the flames devour the motel. I moved among them, eavesdropping as they shared their stories with one another about what they heard and what they saw.
A couple people heard a car peeling out just before the fire. One guy actually saw what he thought was a Pontiac or a Chevy speeding away, but no one got a license number. No one saw anything that would lead the police to Arlo Pelz.
The gnomish manager of the Sno-Inn was the biggest help of all in distracting people from the real perpetrator. He was marching in front of the inferno in his underwear, screaming that the asshole motel-owner across the highway was responsible for the blaze. In fact, the enraged gnome had to be restrained by two men from beating up his competitor, a spindly old man who made the mistake of coming over to offer his condolences.
By the time the fire engines showed up, the motel had all but burned to the ground and the fire had spread to the trees, transforming them into enormous torches. While the firefighters battled to keep the fire from spreading into the surrounding forest, and sheriff’s deputies moved through the crowd taking statements, I worked on my story.
The ice bucket I’d grabbed on impulse turned out to be an inspiration. Just by carrying it around with me, I looked like a guy in shock. And it made a
nice prop for my story, which was that I left my room to get some ice, heard a screech of tires, and then saw my room ablaze.
The deputy asked what I was doing in Snohomish, and if there was any reason someone might want to do me harm. I told him I was here on vacation and that I was a night-shift security guard in a gated community in Southern California. Why would anyone give a damn about me?
I didn’t have to sell him too hard on that one.
I could have told him I was investigating the blackmail and subsequent suicide of Lauren Parkus, and that I suspected ex-convict Arlo Pelz, a dark memory from her druggie past, was responsible for this. But like any half-decent private eye, I didn’t do that. I wanted Arlo Pelz for myself.
So, for the second time that week, I lied to the law and was surprised how easy it was for me.
I told the deputy I wouldn’t be in the Snohomish area very long and gave him my number in LA. He asked if there was anything he could do to help me. I said I still had my wallet in my pocket when I went to get the ice, so I was in decent shape. In fact, I explained, I’d already reserved a room across the street for the night, so they wouldn’t have to worry about me. Which was fine by him. He had plenty of other guests a lot worse off than me to deal with.
I managed to get an incident report number from him and the name of the officer who’d be in charge of the investigation to pass along to Swift Rent-A-Car. I had a feeling they’d want more than my word to explain how their LeSabre had become a giant ashtray.
I hung around for another hour or two, looking suitably spooked, watching them douse what was left of the fire, and then slipped back to my room.
I called Swift Rent-A-Car and gave them the bad news. Because I’d taken all the insurance they’d offered, I was off the hook as far as damages went. They asked, hesitantly, if I wanted another car and I passed. I didn’t want to press my luck with the company, especially since I couldn’t be sure my next car wouldn’t meet a dire fate, too. So I rang up one of their competitors, EconoCar, who agreed to send out their courtesy shuttle to pick me up in an hour.
I didn’t have much to pack in the meantime. I’d sacrificed a suitcase, my clothes, my shaving kit, and my copy of Anita Shreve’s book to the flames, all things that could be easily replaced or forgotten about. All I had left were the clothes on my back, my wallet, a return ticket to LA, a few pictures of Lauren, and my gun.
I had everything I needed.
So, I went and stood outside in the drizzle to wait for courtesy shuttle. As dawn broke over the top of the smoldering trees, I watched the firemen pick through the smoking rubble where the motel once stood.
The Sno-Inn was gone and all because Harvey Mapes came to town and asked a few questions. I can’t really explain why, and I know it’s sick, but it made me incredibly happy.
***
I picked out a blue Crown Victoria from EconoCar that looked just like an unmarked cop car, drove to a hardware store, and bought a sledgehammer and roll of duct tape to replace the ones I lost.
I drove out of town to the muddy road that led to Jolene’s mobile home and pulled off into the weeds. I took out the duct tape, dropped the roll around the handle of the sledgehammer, and went the rest of the way on foot.
I took my time, stopping every few moments to listen and look around. When I got to the clearing, I slipped behind a tree, pulled out my replica Desert Eagle handgun, and peered around the edge of the trunk.
Everything was exactly like it was the day before. Even the Lumina was parked in the same spot. The only sound I heard was the half-open front door of the mobile home creaking in the breeze.
My guess was that they were still asleep, and that Arlo accidentally left the door open when he crept back in after fire-bombing the Sno-Inn.
And now he was sleeping soundly, convinced his troubles were over. He was about to find out how wrong he was. Harvey Mapes was ready for payback.
I was light-headed with excitement, my heart pounding. This was the most exciting thing I’d ever done. And the most dangerous. But I had surprise on my side.
The front door was open, so I wouldn’t need the sledgehammer. I left it by the tree, took the duct tape, and made a break for one of the stripped cars. I waited a moment, then went forward a few yards to the discarded couch.
And so I went, from tree to junked car to picnic table, slowly working my way closer, copying moves I saw Don Johnson use a thousand times on “Miami Vice.” I dashed and I spun and I crouched my way to the mobile home and up the steps to the door. I flattened myself against the wall and tried to catch my breath.
This was the big moment. Time to burst in and take Arlo Pelz down. I’d force Jolene at gunpoint to bind Arlo’s wrists with the duct tape and then I’d lead him away. I’d do that bit I’d planned earlier, where I’d threaten to execute him unless he talked, and then once he told me everything he knew about Lauren, about the drugs and whatever else, I’d deliver him to the police, where he’d be charged with attempted murder, blackmail, and extortion. Lauren would be avenged and I’d be well on my way to a successful career as a private detective.
All I had to do was step through that door, where Arlo could be waiting with a sawed-off shotgun to blow me in half.
That wasn’t going to happen, I assured myself. Arlo thought I was dead. He wasn’t expecting any more trouble.
Unless he heard me drive up. Unless he saw my ridiculous Don Johnson dance across the clearing. Unless he knew I was standing right outside his door.
My mouth was dry, my body was covered with sweat, and, much to my surprise, I was hard. I looked down and I could see my erection, poking against my pants.
It had to be the adrenaline, because I certainly wasn’t horny, so thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches and dog shit and Roseanne wouldn’t make this untimely tumescence go away. I didn’t want to stand there and wait for the adrenaline rush to go, because I needed it to overcome my fear and insecurity. I had to go in, hard-on or not.
But did I really want to confront Arlo with a big boner? How could he take me seriously with that poking out?
Because, I told myself, you’ll be holding a big, fucking gun.
A toy gun, I countered.
Yes, I agreed, but he doesn’t know that.
I decided I had a good point. Fuck the boner. It’s not like I’d wet myself. The hard-on simply meant I was surging with manhood. Dangerous manhood.
Maybe it would scare him. Maybe it would make him think I got off on the violence. And if it didn’t, I could always pistol-whip the son-of-a-bitch. God knows he deserved it.
I took a deep breath.
I eased open the door with the toe of my muddy shoe and spun into the room in a firing stance, my toy gun and my stiff penis aimed directly at Jolene’s corpse.
Chapter Nineteen
Somebody had shoved Jolene’s head through the big-screen TV, slashing her neck open on the jagged, broken glass. There was blood everywhere, only now it was no longer red, but black and flaky.
She was still wearing her bathrobe, which was now drenched in the shit and piss she expelled when she died, which also accounted for the horrible smell that suddenly hit me and the fat horseflies that buzzed around the room.
I started to gag and, without even bothering to check if I was alone, I ran into the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. I kept gagging until there was absolutely nothing left inside me and I was hugging myself in agony, my cheek resting against the rim of the toilet.
My ribs felt as if they’d splintered apart, sending shards of bone ricocheting into my internal organs. The pain was so bad I thought I was going to faint, my face in the toilet.
But in a few minutes, the worst of the pain ebbed, and I reached out to the sink for support and staggered to my feet. I ran some cold water and splashed my face to revive myself. At least my hard-on was gone, and I feared it might never return.
I stood very still.
I could hear the flies buzzing around and the front door creaking.
No, murdered, because of me.
If she hadn’t met Harvey Mapes, she’d be alive. She wouldn’t be sticking out of a TV set, her body rotting in her own blood, shit, and piss.
The thought made me gag again, and I hunched over the sink, my mouth wide open, but there was nothing left to heave, except maybe what was left of my rib cage.
This was a nightmare. I’d been hired to follow a cheating wife. That’s it. Now I was in a mobile home in Snohomish, Washington, with a corpse. This was the life of adventure I’d always wanted but I never thought it would feel, look, or smell like this.
I straightened up, looked at my reflection in the mirror, and ordered myself to leave the bathroom. I couldn’t stay here, as much as I wanted to. I couldn’t hide from what was in the living room. It had happened. Now I had to deal with it. Coolly. Calmly. Professionally.
The first thing I had to do was make sure I was really alone.
I picked up my gun off the floor and, breathing through my nose to avoid the stench, stepped out into the hall. I didn’t look in the living room. I put it off by checking out the bedroom first. The only thing that’d changed since I’d last seen it was that Arlo’s tennis shoes were gone. I checked the closet and behind the bureau. There was no place for Arlo to hide in here, and I was reasonably certain he wasn’t outside.
Now there was only one more place I could go.
I put my gun in my holster and, breathing through my mouth, staggered back into the living room. Again, I tried not to look at the body. I studied the room.
My coffee cup was where I’d left it and so was hers. It didn’t take a forensic expert to see that she’d died only a few minutes after I was gone.