Insequor

by Richard Murphy

  What am I doing? He thought to himself. Why am I still here? He had always wondered what he would do if he ever met Marco Lowe again. All those years go, when Daniel had offered to set up a meeting in Hollywood, he had been initially appalled; but part of him had wanted to play the game. Take up the twisted offer to stare at the face one last time of someone who he knew had bought so much pain to so many lives.

  A movement by the front door made him look up; there was Lowe, he had a girl in his arm and was waving goodbye to another one. The movie star ambled across the car park to a sports car, opened the door for his date and then hopped in. Within seconds he was already around the corner. Jones started his engine.

  He tailed at a fair distance; he didn’t need to alarm Lowe and he already knew the route back to the star’s villa. Could this girl be in danger? Or was he looking to just get laid? Jones wasn’t sure if Lowe had put his killing behind him or, more likely, changed his MO but he had to find out if he was still active. Serial killers often quit or, more usually, get apprehended. It was a myth that they were desperate to be caught, playing cat and mouse games with the police leaving traces and clues. Jones had yet to meet the killer, and he’d met a few, who was just itching to be incarcerated. They got scared the same as anyone else; and when you did catch them they quite often cried for their mommies.

  The line of enquiry was officially closed but Jones wasn’t a cop anymore. The instruction to keep away from Lowe didn’t apply as it wasn’t backed up with a Civil Order; it had just come down from his captain and, at the time, he had been happy to oblige and go lose himself out east.

  So tonight Marco Lowe was fair game; as fair as the woman who had entered his car. They were heading out of the city now, away from the airport and the lights. Lowe pulled up in a back alley behind some warehouses. Jones drove straight past before dipping his headlights and turning back. As he got closer he switched the engine off and let the car creep up to the entrance.

  The sports car was half way down, about fifty yards away. The windows were steamy and music was playing; it was deserted around here. Jones wondered if Lowe came to this spot often.

  That’s when he heard the first scream. Without thinking he got out and strode towards the other car. As he got nearer he saw arms flailing at the windows, then a raised fist and another scream before it went quiet just as he got to the door and pulled it open.

  Inside Lowe was on top of the girl who was silent; her head was turned sideways, a bloodied lip shining. She gasped as Lowe held her down so he could see who had opened the door.

  Jones pulled out his gun, scarcely conscious, almost robotically. “Get out of the car,” he said.

  The girl was crying as Lowe eased himself off her, slid his back out of the door, and stood in front of the car with his arms raised.

  “Young, lady,” said Jones, “please get out of the vehicle.” Jones now noticed it was the girl who had almost recognised him. Damn. She was whimpering as she gathered her coat around her body.

  “What he was about to do to you, he did to others,” he said, all the while keeping the gun pointed at Lowe and his eyes fixed. She turned and started to thank him.

  “Don't look at me,” he said, making her jump. “Forget everything about me. And this. If anyone asks, he dropped you off home after you asked him.” She nodded, rubbed her lip and started to walk, quickly, down the street, her heels clacking on the pavement.

  When they were alone, Lowe managed a sigh and said, “What do you want, detective?”

  Jones stepped back from the car. “Get on your knees.”

  The man knelt down, keeping his back straight and his arms raised. “You're going to shoot me?”

  Jones blinked down at the gun. The last time he had took it out to shoot someone he’d been protecting Daniel.

  “That’s right. Any last words?”

  “No,” said Lowe, his eyes looking up and down at Jones. “You want me to confess? To beg for forgiveness? I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

  “It was a genuine offer,” said Jones.

  A greasy smile appeared on Lowe’s face. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “Really?” said Jones, and he shot Marco Lowe in the forehead.

  Lowe didn’t go flying back, like in one of his movies, and his head didn’t explode. He merely lurched to the right, his torso spiralling before tumbling to the floor.

  Jones turned and walked briskly back to his car, not looking back. Inside, he hit the gas and charged back into town.

  He stopped off at a deserted trashcan to dump the gun, then went straight to the hotel, showered, changed his clothes and took the ones he was wearing to another trashcan a few blocks away before sitting down and opening the mini-bar.

  Jesus, what had he done?

  Chapter 42

  General Stagg drummed his fingers on the desk before finally hurling the manila folder down.

  “Gentlemen, I am not impressed.”

  Around the room were his highest ranking officers and each one stared back like a dumb animal.

  “What have you got? Nothing,” said Stagg.

  Two men shared a glance whilst another stared at the floor. One older officer stared back with his jaw clenched.

  “Sir,” he said, “What you ask is not within our means. This is CIA territory. Espionage and infiltration of a foreign state – “

  “I don’t give a damn about the CIA! You get me that information. You find out what he’s doing. Dismissed.”

  The men all walked out of the room and Stagg sat back with his hands behind his head. A few moments later his phone rang and a voice at the end told him he had a visitor.

  “Rupert Brooks? Send him in.”

  Stagg hated civilians in his office; but he was running out of ideas. He had to find out what that son of a bitch was up to in Abraznia or he could kiss goodbye to the money he’d invested in Tulley’s partners.

  The Senator had contacted him several months ago after sounding out Loman. His spies had told him that Grey had managed to crack the secret to creating antimatter in reasonably large enough quantities that the energy companies where getting nervous; and when they got nervous Tulley got nervous. So he’d called Stagg.

  The two had been friends since college where they’d been in the same fraternity after which they’d both graduated and gone their separate ways. Both followed in the same footsteps as their fathers and their fathers before them.

  Over the years they’d kept in touch and always looked out for each other’s interests along with their own. Tulley helping grease the wheels of industry and commerce, making them both successful men. Stagg helping to steer defence spending and strategy, along with the occasional piece of ‘heavy’ work.

  The robot had been an oddity that had both of them vexed. When it first appeared, way back when, there had been mutual suspicion about what part each of their respective arms of government knew. When it transpired neither had any knowledge, the game changed into one of understanding and making sure they recognised any opportunity if it came along.

  Throughout, Stagg had assigned whatever resource Daniel and that damned Toby had wanted. Likewise, Tulley had been one of their biggest voices in the Senate; helping pass legislation and keeping the Attorney General in check whenever he had needed to. All the time waiting and watching for the right moment.

  The potential discovery of a new energy source had been one such prospect. But not one to be nurtured, one to be quashed; the two friends had invested too much of their savings and pension pots into oil and gas companies. Big business had been courted, lobbying money accepted; but that was the ‘American Way.’

  Now he had to find out how far Daniel’s plans had evolved. His own men had not been able to gain access to the inner secrets of the Abraznian government; but maybe this man had.

  Rupert Brooks eased himself through the door and casually took up a seat opposite the general. “So good of you to see me, sir, I’ve come a long way.”

  “Not a
t all, Mr Brooks. They tell me you’re writing a book on our friend Daniel and his robot.”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “So what are you after? An interview? Plenty of other people have written books about them.”

  Brooks grinned, stroked his chin and took out his notepad. “This book is going to be different. I’ve got access to all the key players.”

  “Even Daniel?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he doesn’t give interviews anymore and I doubt he’d give one to you especially. Aren’t you the person who first revealed his identity to the world?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Stagg leaned forward. This Brit had balls, if nothing else. “I’m going to need to see you play some cards now, son.”

  Brooks straightened, nodded. “I might have access to Jones.”

  Stagg raised an eyebrow, “Really?”

  “Ever heard of the di Conti affair?”

  “Yeah, Hollywood star. Messed up those girls but they couldn’t pin it on him. I’ve read Jones’s file; he was unlucky.”

  “Well, now he’s in trouble. He had a falling out with Daniel and then headed back to LA several months ago. Lowe got shot the same weekend and now LAPD think Jones had something to do with it.”

  “Son of a bitch. Why the hell didn’t I know this?”

  “LAPD are keeping it quiet for now; last thing they need is another crooked cop but I have sources.”

  “What sources?”

  “Cleaners, janitors. Where you find workers you find people easily motivated by money. That’s why we work, right?”

  “Not in my case,” said the general, “but go on.”

  Chapter 43

  “Jones, let’s recap from the top, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Jones. He was sat at an interview table, downtown. Across from him sat Detective Smith from Homicide and Detective Blackwell from Internal Affairs. Both men were staring with intense seriousness. But Jones was relaxed, almost nonchalant as he leaned back in his chair and spread his fingers on the table.

  “I got back to L.A. on the Thursday on a chartered jet. I spent two days at the Melwood Hotel, and then took a cab downtown to see a couple of friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Some old cop buddies; Jack Molby and Dave Kochansky. They’ve confirmed all this.”

  “We know,” said Blackwell, “we just want to hear it from you.”

  “Sure, Bill,” said Jones, casting a smile at the Internal Affairs officer. He could see that first name terms were something Blackwell didn’t enjoy.

  Jones proceeded to tell them about his evening at ‘Brewsters;’ a bar popular with local cops. He’d watched the game – the Eagles had won 16-12, sank a few beers with his buddies and then strolled back at around 11.30pm as per the hotel lobby security camera. There were witnesses aplenty, bar receipts and even a waitress who recalled him casually flirting with her. It explained the gap between his plane landing and his checking in and there was nothing to place him anywhere near Marco Lowe between the hours of 10 and 11pm.

  In truth? The cops were old buddies, the waitress an old girlfriend. When he’d told them about Marco Lowe, the killings and the real reason he was re-assigned Jack and Dave had almost finished his plan for him. And cops could keep secrets.

  Blackwell probably knew what he was up against, because it hit him every time he walked into a different precinct to investigate some foul-up or another. It was a wall of silence; of disingenuous cooperation. Maybe he wanted to pick the story apart, maybe he wanted to break down the walls, but he wasn’t showing it. He rounded up the interview, shook Jones’s hand and muttered something about having to get back to HQ. When he had left Smith gave Jones a pat on the back.

  “Thanks for your cooperation, I’m sure this will all blow over real soon.”

  “Let’s hope. I just want a quiet life.”

  “Sure.” Smith opened the door, “How have things been going with that robot guy?”

  “Daniel,” said Jones, “is having a hard time. So I decided I needed a break.”

  “You quit? Sounded like a good gig.”

  “I think it’s time I retired.”

  Smith gave him another friendly pat, “Alright for some. Take care and remember…anything you need.” He gave a wink and Jones strolled out through the desks of officers and into the streets.

  Outside the hot Californian air flowed thickly into his lungs. Car horns sounded and somewhere overhead a chopper flew by. This town was starting to get to him already and he’d only been back a few days. It hadn’t been since he’d left L.A. that he realised how much he hated it.

  Everywhere he looked he saw pictures selling dreams. Whether it was on the TV, on a billboard or a shop window…even on the side of buses. Ludicrous smiles, white teeth and twinkling eyes. Everything was promised to you here…you only had to step onto the sidewalk.

  The city was a living organism belching out desires and promises to anyone who dared open their eyes and look. It was the oldest joke in town that every waiter was an unemployed actor, just waiting to be discovered. But the joke didn’t end there; each cab driver, each shop assistant, each hot dog guy; they were all here chasing aspirations that existed only for the very few.

  He had often wondered how a city could survive on hope, but after many years had come to the conclusion it was human nature to be blinkered. Everybody’s life was a narrative of their own making and nobody’s had an unhappy ending. The ‘right here’ and ‘right now’ were just parts of a story that was going to have an amazing, and glorious conclusion. Because that’s how the human mind works; and L.A. nourished it.

  As he walked around a corner though, something across the street caught his eye and he stopped. Looking down from across the road was Marco Lowe’s face; twenty-foot-high and dressed in some kind of space suit promoting his latest flick. The face was chiselled, the hair perfect and the eyes looked as they always did…fake. Big brown discs of emptiness. Someone had photo-shopped a star into the corner of his pupil making it look as if he was staring into deep space. Jones knew that look; had seen it a dozen times when he and Lowe had exchanged pleasantries.

  The pavements were full as people passed by going about their business. Some with dogs, some with kids. But he ignored them all, focusing instead on a man about fifty feet away who was stopping every so often to check in shop windows or stare at his phone. Trouble was he was doing it exactly in time with Jones; who was a professional.

  He stepped into a computer games shop doorway startling some kid before skirting around the side and behind a stand. Then he waited. This guy was smarter than he looked. Seeing Jones enter the store he must have guessed he was onto him and dropped back. Damn! Why didn’t he pick a grocery store? Okay, just buy something, anything; you could have been picking it up for a nephew.

  He walked to the front and picked up a magazine, he wasn’t sure which one and then headed out of the store and continued up the street. As he neared a bus stop he managed to spot the man’s reflection in an advertisement. He stopped, looked at his watch and then, casually, started to read the timetable.

  He wasn’t sure which bus was coming along but he was going to get on it and see just how close this guy was sticking. If it was Internal Affairs, then they’d probably call in an unmarked car to takeover; and that would be difficult to check from the bus.

  After a few minutes a number 52a swept around the corner and Jones put away his phone and joined the jostling queue. He didn’t look back until he was sat down, facing forward, his eyes nonchalantly checking his phone. Then, from the extreme of his view he saw the figure get on board, pay for a ticket and take a seat near the front just behind the driver. He didn’t want to make eye contact, so he still hadn’t taken a proper look at the face; all he could see now was the back of some unkempt brown hair.

  As they headed out of town it occurred to Jones he didn’t know where they were headed and if he alarmed the man he may jump off at the next stop. But whe
n they got onto a main road and started out toward the ocean, he knew he’d have some time. He stood up and lurched forward, the rocking motion shunting him ahead faster than he would have liked. As he got close to the stranger recognition kicked in and he plonked himself down in the seat next to the man.

  “Rupert Brooks,” said Jones.

  Brooks looked startled momentarily before, an innocent smile crossed his face. “Good grief, Mr Jones, you startled me.”

  “What are you doing in my town?”

  “Oh come now, it’s not your town anymore, is it?”

  “No,” said Jones, “not for a long time. Don’t think I understand the place. But you’re not here for my story, are you?”

  “I’m here to help. You need something from me and I need something from you.”

  “What could I possibly need from you, Mr Brooks?”

  “The evidence I have that places you with Marco Lowe at a bar on the night of the shooting.”

  Jones looked around to see if anyone was in hearing distance. Save an old lady sat near the back absorbed with her thoughts and a couple of kids sat chatting, there was nobody.

  “Let’s talk,” said Jones.

  Chapter 44

  The bar smelled cheap but the liquor was expensive. Some dinner jazz ambled along in the background but Jones didn’t hear it. They were in Pasadena and even though it was late morning a few seasoned drinkers were sitting with their quarry. This was the sort of bar were everyone came in with their own struggles and didn’t want to be disturbed whilst they were swamped by them.

  “I thought you didn’t drink?” said Brooks.

  Jones paused, the bourbon glass inches from him his chin. “I fell off the wagon.” It hit the back of his throat with a warm relaxing splash. “Go on,” he said.

  “Well, like I said, the evidence I have places you at the bar Lowe was last seen in on the night of the murder a little after ten o’clock. Have you anything to say about that? Off the record, of course.”