by Brett Baker
“Did Stebbins find out who the other client was?”
“No. He’s fucking sleeping with one eye open though, that’s for sure.”
“Who’s the lady you sent to my apartment a couple days ago?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Newsboy said. “Stebbins would never let a woman work for him. Couldn’t have been one of us. Maybe that’s the other client.”
I nodded, but said nothing. If this badass client turned out to be Toilet Brush I’d feel quite relieved to have eliminated her. However, with the original client and Stebbins both intent on killing me, I couldn’t rest. According to Newsboy, Stebbins had run out of hit men, but if he could convince a former SEAL to kill for him, then I suspected he wouldn’t have much of a problem finding someone else to do the same.
“How do I know you’re not making this up? If someone was beating the shit out of me I’d make something up if it made them stop.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Newsboy said. “That’s not how you’re made. You’re a fighter. You’d just find a way to crush them. But I don’t fucking care if you believe me or not. You want to think I made it all up, go ahead and think that. Makes no difference to me.”
“It should make a difference to you,” I said. “If I don’t believe you then the beating resumes.”
Newsboy lifted his arms straight out to the side, tilted his head back so he was looking up at the sky, and said, “Beat me! I don’t care.”
Just as I reached down to pull him up to his feet, I heard a gunshot. It ricocheted off the brick wall of the building, throwing a shard of brick over my shoulder. Two more shots rang out back-to-back as I turned around and saw a black minivan tearing down the alley toward us. Manny. More shots popped as the minivan approached, none of which hit anything other than the wall.
“I thought Manny was just a driver,” I shouted at Newsboy.
“He’s driving isn’t he? Apparently he shoots, too.”
“You better make him stop,” I said. “I’m not in the mood for this bullshit.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“Figure it out, asshole. You better figure it out!”
Two more shots as the van moved within two hundred feet of us. I turned toward the door to the store, but it had no handle on the outside. With no cover, I ducked down to make myself smaller, just as a volley of shots rang out. Newsboy squatted, but his heft kept him from getting very low, and the grotesque sound of a bullet burrowing into the fleshy thickness of a human body immediately followed the next shot. Newsboy turned toward me and just beneath the mouth bloodstains near the top of his shirt, a small bright red circle formed in the middle of his expansive stomach. His eyes filled with panic, and he covered the wound with his left hand as he stumbled toward me.
Three more shots rang out, and as the van approached within dozens of feet I spun Newsboy around, held his arms behind him, and used him as a shield. Manny fired off a couple more shots, both of which hit Newsboy center mass. With the van only feet away, I had no idea how to stop it. I didn’t want Manny to get away, but I had no interest in latching on to a speeding vehicle as it passed. Instead, just before the van passed in front of me, I shoved Newsboy into the middle of the alley, while delivering a thunderous kick to the butt to help propel him. He began to fall to the ground just as the van hit him and tossed him up into the air, where he landed on, and broke the windshield. Manny instinctively slammed on the brakes, but at the same time he veered the van sharply to the left and hit the brick wall head on.
I looked down at my body to make sure I hadn’t been shot, and then I raced to the van. Ten feet away, I stopped and ducked closer to the ground in case Manny intended to greet me with a bullet. I waited for a few seconds and when he hadn’t shot at me I approached the door. Through the side window I saw him hunched over, his forehead resting against the steering wheel. Newsboy had come through the windshield, and his back rested against the dashboard. I punched Manny in the side of the head to see how he would react. He didn’t move. I placed one hand on each side of his head and gave a quick twist, snapping his neck and killing him instantly, just in case the impact with the steering wheel didn’t do the job. I hustled down the alley, away from the van, and then squeezed between two buildings on the opposite side and came out on the next street.
Five minutes later I returned to my car, and drove away.
I believed everything Newsboy told me. I often had to decipher truth from fiction while working for The Summit, but Newsboy spoke with such ease and confidence, and he seemed so defeated in his demeanor, that I didn’t doubt his story. He seemed like a man who had had enough and just wanted to be left alone. Although he didn’t provide names, and it still wasn’t clear whether Toilet Brush was the second client or not, at least I knew that all of the attacks on me weren’t random.
Since I had no idea what to do next, I decided to stay with my original plan for the day, and go see Cleo Flume. She might be able to reveal something about Chamberlain’s intentions, and, if not, then we would probably have an uneventful meeting.
And sometimes uneventful is the best I can hope for.
28
Chapter 28
Women, by nature, are not objects of suspicion. Perhaps that’s because we’re thought of as the fairer sex, or maybe it’s because we don’t do as many truly screwed up things as men do, but whatever the case, whenever someone reports a suspicious character it’s a safe bet that the character is male. I’ve used this lack of suspicion to my benefit more times than I can count during my time with The Summit. As a woman I’ve gained access to places that would have been impossible if I were a man. And strangers will usually trust a woman more than they will trust a man.
I relied on these advantages as I parked my car a block away from Cleo Flume’s address. Although I didn’t know if she had given my name to Chamberlain, I decided to assume that she did until she convinced me otherwise. And if she’d passed along my name, then she might know me, or what I looked like. I didn’t want to scare her off without talking to her, so I decided to avoid parking in front of the house, which might attract attention from people inside the house.
As I approached the house the garage door opened, and from the street behind me a black BMW convertible pulled into the garage. Behind the wheel a woman with straight, shoulder-length blonde hair and sunglasses looked in my direction, but proceeded into the garage. I didn’t want to accost her as she got out of her car, so I continued walking and passed her house. I walked for another minute before turning around. She had closed the garage door and I saw no sign of her outside, so I walked to the front door and knocked.
She answered the door seconds later, absent the sunglasses, but with a peeled orange in her hand. I didn’t notice a change in her expression when she opened the door and looked at me, so I assumed she didn’t recognize me. She gave me a smile that seemed genuine, and opened the storm door.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Cleo Flume. Is this her residence?”
“What do you want with Cleo?” the woman asked.
“I’m a reporter with the Fresno Bee, and we’re doing a feature on strong, independent women, and a friend of hers suggested that Cleo might have some interesting insights.”
“Why don’t you just call her?” Cleo asked.
“I actually just called the number I have for her and no one answered. I’m just returning from interviewing another woman, Mary Sanchez, who lives just the down street, and I figured I’d stop by and see if I could catch her.”
The woman paused for a moment and stared at me, as if deciding whether or not to believe my story. “I just got home. Your timing is perfect.”
“You’re Cleo?” I asked.
“I am.”
“Oh great! So nice to meet you.” I extended my hand to her, but intentionally refrained from giving my name. “Do you have some time to talk?”
“Well my husband will
be home in about an hour, and then we’re going to lunch. But I can certainly chat until then.”
“Perfect,” I said. Cleo held the storm door open for me, and invited me in.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Cleo said. “I’m Cleo Flume, but you already know that.”
“You’re right. I do already know that. And since your husband’s not home, I think now’s a good time to tell you that my name is Mia Mathis.”
Cleo’s jaw dropped and every speck of color left her face. She immediately brought her hands in front of her in a defensive posture, and palpable tension filled the room.
I reached toward her and touched her hand. “Judging by your reaction, this isn’t the first time you’ve heard my name. But I just want you to know that I’m not here for any malicious reason. What you do with your life is your business, and I’m not at all interested in busting you on anything or making things difficult for you. I just have questions to which you might have answers. I’m not here to cause problems for you. I need you to understand that. I’m here for my benefit, because you can help me. Hopefully, neither your husband nor anyone else will ever know I was here.”
Cleo tilted her head slightly to the side, gave me a quick fake smile, and blinked her eyes so many times that I knew whatever she was about to say wasn’t the truth. “Listen, Ms. Mathis, I don’t know what you think you know about me, or what you’re trying to imply, but I can assure you that I’m not at all hesitant to talk to you. We can talk about anything you want if you’re here to discuss empowering women. However, I’m sensing some underlying motive, and, frankly, I’m not playing games, so if you don’t want to tell me why you’re here, then, please, turn right around and leave.”
I nodded to indicate that I understood. “Cleo, I’m not into games. I’m into answers and facts. And if we can just chat for a few minutes I think you can help me with both.”
“I’m not interested in helping you,” Cleo said. “You entered my home under false pretenses. If you’re not here to interview for me for the newspaper, then please leave, Ms. Mathis.”
I expected Cleo to appreciate my forthrightness about my intentions after I entered the house. I hoped that mentioning her affair up front, and letting her know that she had nothing to worry about, would put her at ease. So much for my theories about women and suspicion.
Time for a different tactic.
“I know you were present when Abner Chamberlain died. The men who found his body saw you driving away from the scene. They forgot to mention it to the police, but at my urging, I suspect they will. I’m not threatening you, Cleo, but I need answers, and I’m providing you a choice. You can give answers to me, or you can give answers to the police. Whatever is said between you and me stays between you and me. Whatever is said between you and the police…well, I think you know.”
Cleo walked away from me. I had no intention of leaving her house, but following her into the living room didn’t seem the right thing to do either, so I stood there, motionless. She sat on a well-cushioned couch, crossed one leg over the other, and began peeling segments away from her orange.
“I’m not going to shout across the house,” she yelled. “Either get in here or get out.”
I hustled into the living room and sat in a chair diagonally from her. She looked off into the distance and absently disassembled the orange. She looked at her watch, and then leaned forward.
“I wasn’t there when he died. So don’t think I’m a murderer or I had him killed or anything.”
“I don’t think that, actually,” I said. “I suspect this goes much deeper than any sort of lovers’ quarrel.”
“Why do you think that?” Cleo asked. “I mean, you’re right, but what gives it away?”
“He’s too high profile and the situation is too suspicious. Not many women would have the training to plant a bullet right in the middle of the forehead. It’d be a pretty lucky shot if you’re not a marksman. And I’m sure he made plenty of enemies in his line of work, so it only makes sense to look there first.”
Cleo nodded her head and ate the last orange segment. “Is it safe to assume that you found your name in his cabin? That’s why you’re here?”
“Exactly,” I said. “My name, address, phone number, all in a woman’s hand, and beneath all of that the word restrain, written in what appears to be a man’s handwriting. My contact information is your handwriting, I’m guessing.”
“You’re right,” Cleo said. “I’d heard that you might have the knowledge to keep this from happening.”
“By this you mean 3650, right?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. The forestry bill. Abner talked about almost nothing else over the past few months. He wanted to do whatever it took to defeat it. He knew that it was written in such a way so that its main purpose seemed rather benign, but that it would have certain unintended consequences. Well, maybe not unintended, because the people behind the bill knew exactly what they were doing.”
“How’d he try to stop it?” I asked.
“He must have talked to two hundred people about this over the past few months. Other members of Congress, state legislators, other activists, businessmen. He talked to pretty much anyone he could get to listen. But it’s a forestry bill. It’s not sexy. It’s not important. People barely pay attention to stuff like that, so no one was willing to risk any political capital to stop it. And outside of the movement, the public doesn’t even know the bill exists. A forestry bill? Good luck getting any average voter to pay attention to that. They’d prefer to just go along with their head in the sand, until one day they pick their head up and look around and wonder, ‘Where the hell did all the forests go?’ Abner had foresight to know that’s how things would turnout. Those are the questions we’d all be asking ourselves one day. So he wanted to stop it.”
“And you told him I could stop it?” I asked. “What makes you think that?”
Cleo sighed and looked away from me. I thought I saw a tear form in her eye, but she blinked twice and it was gone. “Abner had this thing, this talent I guess you could call it, where he could make everyone think they were his best friend in the entire world, but really they knew nothing about him. He’d engage with people and ask questions about them and their lives. People love to talk about themselves. He would talk to someone and any time the conversation moved in his direction he’d deflect and redirect back to the other person. So someone could talk to him for an hour and come away not knowing anything more about him than they did at the beginning. But they wouldn’t even know it. They’d think they just connected with him and had become friends.”
“Okay,” I said, not hiding my perplexion.
“I didn’t know he did that. I’d known him for a little while, just sort of casually, and then we started this, this,” Cleo paused and looked up at the ceiling as if the word she was searching for would be hanging down.
“Affair?” I suggested, the word seeming obvious to me.
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s still hard to think of it like that, even though that’s obviously what it was. Even when we started this affair, I didn’t know how closed off he was. We’d talk about everything, his family, my job, current events. Whatever. The only thing we didn’t talk about was the movement. He said he needed a separation from it. He tried to compartmentalize. And we’d been together about three months before I noticed that I didn’t really know him. He never told me anything. And the only reason I noticed is because when he opened up with me, it was like a whole new world. I came to know him more deeply than I could have ever imagined. He even told me that he finally felt like he didn’t need to hold back with me. He could be himself. And only then did I realize that he wasn’t just compartmentalizing the movement from the rest of his life, he was keeping his entire life away from the rest of the world. Even his thoughts on the movement had a public side and a private side. If anyone knew just how revolutionary his beliefs really were, they might not have followed him.”
I nodded,
but still had no idea why she felt the need to tell me all of these things. I just wanted to know why she thought I could restrain the bill. I was just about to remind her of my question, when she began talking again.
“I’m telling you all of this because it’s important for you to know that Abner didn’t take any of this lightly. The movement, this bill, his relationship with me, he was serious about all of it. But not until he let me in did he seek my advice on issues relating to the movement. So we’d been seeing each other three months before I ever even heard of H.R. 3650. And one night he’s telling me about it, and I’m listening, and he’s so passionate, so angry, so charged up about it. But he feels so helpless. No one cares, no one pays attention, no one will do anything. He called it a freight train. It was too powerful to stop, and everyone ignored it until it got in their way. And as he’s telling me about it he mentions Congressman Green. Talks about what an asshole he is, and how he’s never done anything for the environment, despite representing one of the most beautiful districts in the country. I’m listening to him, and I just feel giddy. Up to this point he didn’t know I knew Bruce Green. And then to be able to tell him that I knew him, and that I might be able to help…” Cleo yelled, threw her arms into the air, and started stomping her feet on the floor. “It felt so fucking good!”
I smiled at Cleo’s excitement. In my line of work it’s rare to encounter someone as genuinely happy as Cleo was at that moment.
“So what did you do?” I asked, hoping that the question would extend her happiness and not end it.
“I went back to Bruce. I called him the next day, told him that I missed him, that ending our affair was the worst thing I’d ever done, and that I had to see him right away. Men like Bruce love having their ego stroked. They’re like little boys who never grew up. Insecure teenagers, really. They want to be told they’re great, that they’re like no one else in the world, and that you can’t resist having sex with them. And once you do that, it’s up to you how much you want to take from them.”