by Don Travis
My gaze moved from the blade to the hand grasping the hilt, then traveled up the inert arm. Tarleton lay crumpled in the corner. I knelt at his side. No pulse. The body was warm and blood was everywhere. Fresh blood. My knee was soaked in it. I recoiled and got to my feet. This killing was less than half an hour old. As I stood gawking at violent death, I noticed the tip of the gunny’s bayonet. It was coated with gore.
“You put up a fight, Sarge. Semper fi.” I reeled out the door.
The backyard was still deserted, but there was a trail of blood leading from the darkroom to the back fence. I hoped the fucker died.
Sudden noises from the side of the house startled me. I whirled in a shooter’s stance. I was preparing to move my finger into the trigger guard when a uniform emerged around the corner. Instantly, I pumped my gun hand into the air. The astonished cop, a middle-aged veteran gone careless, yelped “Police!” and clawed for his weapon. A second officer yelled the same warning and added “Drop your weapon!”
I complied immediately. A cop’s bullet is no less lethal than a criminal’s. My S&W hit the grass with a thud. “I’m a PI. Former cop.”
“On your belly. Hands on your head.”
I knew better than to object. Aiming a weapon at an officer of the law is a fast way to die. It would take very little to escalate this thing. Turning slightly in order to fall nowhere near my pistol, I went prone, my hands clasped at the back of my neck. In seconds my arms were twisted behind me. Steel bracelets bit into my wrists.
“There’s a dead man in the shack,” I said. “Murdered.”
“You kill him?”
“Not me. I came to meet him.”
“Then how come you got blood all over you? Your pants are soaked in the stuff.”
“I checked to see if he was still alive.”
The veteran’s partner, a young man probably just out of the academy with pumped arms and tapered torso, tore my wallet out of my pocket. “Shit, this guy’s the private eye Enriquez told us to watch for. Vinson.”
“That’s me.” I spat out a mouthful of grass.
“Why didn’t you say so?” The senior officer grabbed me by the arms and yanked me to my feet.
“Things were a little tense. Thought it better to simply obey orders.”
The cop I’d almost shot moved in front of me and compared my flesh-and-blood features to the photo on the driver’s license in his hand. His nameplate read “Findlay,” which virtually described him: black Irish going to pot. He squinted as he read. He probably had glasses stowed away somewhere on his equipment belt but was too vain to use them.
“Yep, it’s him. Guess you are an ex-cop, Vinson. Most guys woulda started protesting and ended up getting their butts shot off.”
“You’re right. For eight years before I got shot. It wasn’t an experience I care to repeat.”
“What about this murder? Is it Tarleton?” Findlay motioned with his head for his partner to check out the shack, but he made no move to free my wrists from the handcuffs.
“Yeah, it’s Tarleton. How do you know him?”
It was obvious he considered freezing me out but changed his mind. “Had a few complaints from the neighbors. He was a little too fond of the booze. Chased a couple of citizens with a bayonet when they came over to complain.”
“Yep, he’s dead,” the second cop confirmed as he rejoined us.
I nodded. “Point of exit’s over there. There’s a trail of blood from the darkroom to the back fence. They probably came in the same way. Yeah, they. It would have taken more than one to deal with Tarleton. He might have been rum-soaked, but he still knew his business.”
“You want me to call it in?” the junior officer asked.
“Naw. Enriquez will be here any minute. He can handle it any way he wants.”
As if calling the devil up out of hell, Gene arrived, trailed by his current riding buddy, a sandy-haired six-footer named Carson.
“What’s going on? How come you have my ex-partner trussed up?”
“Your partner?” both street cops asked at once.
“Unless you’ve got a good reason not to, let him loose and tell me what’s happened.”
They saw to the shackles; I did the filling-in part.
Gene kept me there until the crime-scene unit arrived. After I showed them where I’d walked and everything I’d touched, Gene and I retired to the front porch to discuss the situation. After we’d wrung every detail dry, I shook my head.
“So far as the extortionists knew, Del was cooperating. He cancelled the meeting with the DA, and that should have satisfied them for the moment. But they came after me and took Tarleton down. Why?”
“Because you’re a pain in the ass and you’re getting too close. Tarleton’s a clean-up job. Who knew he was meeting you?”
I shook my head. “No one I know of. Of course, he could have told someone, but I doubt it. He was too seasoned a Marine to go around flapping his lips.” I reconsidered that statement. “He was selling me information for a thousand dollars. He claimed he knew who stole the negatives from Emilio. Maybe he thought his silence was worth more to someone else.”
Gene shook his head. “Dumb move. Did he say who the thief was?”
“No, he wanted his money first.”
“Okay, let’s go over everything again.”
After he led me through my story one more time, Gene relieved me of my handgun to test for recent firing—even though at this point Tarleton’s murder looked like a stabbing rather than a shooting. Then he released me before returning to the backyard to rejoin his team.
I pulled away and drove down the dusty street, uncomfortably aware I had not been completely truthful with my old friend and partner. There was someone who knew about my call from gunny. At least, he’d stood at my side and heard Tarleton say we had to meet.
Had Paul returned to my life out of concern for me… or for something else?
Chapter 25
I RATIONALIZED my suspicions away by the time the Impala reached downtown. If Paul had been involved in this mess, he wouldn’t have pulled away over my confrontation with Professor Sturgis. He’d have remained close to keep tabs on me regardless of anything and everything. True, he asked questions, but about a whole host of things, not just Del’s case. That was natural; he was training to be an investigative journalist. If he had insinuated himself into my life in order to spy, he sure was doing it in a roundabout manner. But maybe he was just there to gauge the temperature.
I had trust issues ever since Del betrayed me. I hoped for the best but expected the worst and was seldom disappointed. So maybe my willingness to believe, or at least suspect, Paul’s betrayal was born of that mindset—a matter of connecting dots that were in reality only spots dancing before my eyes.
As I prepared to turn into the parking lot on Copper, I spied a TV news van. The Tarleton murder, no doubt. How had they tied me to it so fast? Not wanting to face television journalists while wearing blood-soaked trousers, I headed straight home. Something else was bothering me, and this was the perfect opportunity to pursue it—right after changing clothes.
William Mackson had quit his job at the Ship-n-Mail. Maybe his excuse about joining the chess club was perfectly valid. But then again, maybe it wasn’t. Kyle Hewitt would rattle the cage at the post office, but I wasn’t certain he would be as aggressive with the privately owned mail drop’s staff.
The Eldorado principal, although none too happy to see me again, told me what time Mackson’s last class of the day ended. He also grudgingly checked to see if the kid had a club meeting of any kind afterward. That one was easy. Billy Boy didn’t belong to any clubs—no school-sanctioned after-hours activities of any sort.
Lounging around a high school campus these days wasn’t easy for an adult, but I found the security cop on duty and chatted him up. We had a couple of mutual friends at APD, and he’d heard about my shooting. That gave us something to chew on while I kept my eye on the door to the chemistry lab where Mac
kson was finishing his scholastic day.
When the bell finally rang, an astonishing range of young men and women spilled out of various buildings. Astonishing because some of them didn’t even seem to have reached puberty while others were already young men and women, at least physically. This was the age when Mother Nature played weird tricks on unsuspecting youngsters.
I pointed out William Mackson as he passed, but the cop didn’t know anything about the kid. I thanked him for his time and company and excused myself, claiming a need to get out of the parking lot before the traffic rush began. The cop laughed aloud. Too late.
The clamor of chattering adolescents and the roar of hyped-up engines made a dizzying mélange of color and noise. Clouds of dust, overly rich carburetor fumes, and an occasional diesel exhaust added to the general confusion. A sizeable portion of the country’s oil imports could have been eliminated had these kids formed an orderly exit line, but some serious machismo was on display in this vast parking lot. Lead feet fed accelerators too much gas, wheels rolled mere inches, heavy brake action brought vehicles to a standstill only millimeters from crushing fenders. It was a massive game of chicken. Everyone tried to rev a motor louder than their neighbor’s, even if the neighbor drove a muscle car with quad pipes. The internal combustion engine, like the Colt revolver of old, was a great equalizer. Some of the geeks turned into raging bulls within the isolation of their vehicles.
I suddenly felt old. Back in the dark ages, I used to go on eager display like that too.
Ahead of me, Mackson walked straight toward a line of motorcycles. To my surprise he stopped beside a late-model green Kawasaki Vulcan power cruiser. I shouldn’t have been so surprised. His brand-spanking-new leather coat looked to be fake to me, but it was meant to mimic a biker’s jacket. Mackson’s Kawasaki was not brand-new, but Mackson was brand-new to the Kawasaki. He fished around in saddlebags studded with chrome doodads we used to call fiddly bits and came up with a fish pot for a helmet—in other words, a cheapie. He threw a leg over the beast and staggered as he took the weight between his knees. The kid was definitely not an experienced rider. Even so, he was out of the lot before I could get my car in line to play double dare with a bunch of drivers with more testosterone than brains. I expected the curses, but the guy who yelled Pops at me was a little over the top.
By the time my Impala hit the street, Mackson was nowhere in sight. Gambling he’d go home, I headed for the address written down in my pocket notebook.
The Mackson family’s residence was located in a low-income housing project dropped right in the middle of an affluent Northeast Heights neighborhood. Billy had parked his shiny new wheels in the driveway of a house that looked exactly like the one to the left and the one to the right except for the personalized clutter attending each. The kid emerged from the house, now dressed in fake leather pants as well as the new jacket.
There is a perfectly logical explanation for why bikers prefer leather duds, other than wanting to look like outlaws. Leather not only protects against the wind and cold better than most materials, it’s also tougher, saving a guy a couple of yards of skin in case of a wipeout. Given the awkward way Mackson fought the machine as he backed down the steep incline of his driveway, I prayed the plastic jacket would hold up like real cowhide.
Billy appeared oblivious to my tail as he drove straight to Jill’s, a fast-food teen hangout on Eubank near Los Altos Park. I ordered a milkshake from curbside service and watched him through a big plate glass window as he sat inside eating what I suspected was a juicy burger and soggy fries. That explained his acne but not his skinny build.
Mackson ate alone, an island around which his schoolmates moved as though he were nothing more than an obstacle in their path. I could see his head move each time the door opened, although I don’t think he was expecting company, merely desperately craving it.
He ate as slowly as he could, but eventually Billy went back to his bike, attempting a little swagger. He failed miserably. As the kid pulled on his jacket and swung a leg over the machine, he stumbled and nearly fell. Glancing around to see if anyone had noticed, his eyes landed squarely on me. If anything was needed to convince me William Mackson had a guilty conscience, the shock twisting his features at that moment did it. He pulled on his helmet and hit the bike’s electric starter, but he wasn’t totally in control as he zoomed toward the exit. The Kawasaki ended up halfway in the street before he managed to come to a full stop. A car approaching from his left gave a sharp blast on the horn and swerved around him.
That was more than Billy could handle. The machine got away from him. He sideswiped the divider and did a somersault over the handlebars. He wasn’t going fast enough to do much damage, but the fall had to hurt. I halted behind his overturned bike and put on my flashers to keep traffic from running up my tailpipe. By the time I got out of the car, Billy had picked himself up and was limping toward his bike. The panic on his sallow features stirred some pity in me. The kid was a loner using a big piece of machinery he couldn’t handle in a pathetic attempt to fit in. Mackson probably didn’t even like motorcycles.
“Let me help you.”
He flinched from my touch as if it were poisonous. “I-I’m okay.” He came down on his ankle wrong and grunted.
“No, you’re not. You twisted your ankle and banged up your knee.” I pointed to a rip in his new britches spotted with blood. “You get in the car. I’ll wheel your bike back to the restaurant. You can pick it up later.”
“No, I can ride it home.”
“We do it my way, or I’ll call a cop and report an accident. What happened, anyway?”
He tried to smile but failed. “Not used to my bike yet. I’ll be all right.”
“Have it your way.” I pulled out my cell phone.
“What are you doing?” His voice bypassed panic and went straight to frantic.
“I’m calling the cops to report an accident. Of course, if we stand here arguing much longer, I won’t need to. Someone will do it for us.”
His eyes went wild, scanning the street in both directions. “O-okay.” He hopped over to the bike and inspected it for damage as I lifted it upright.
“Seems okay.” I mounted the machine and hit the starter. The motor caught and the beast rumbled beneath me. “Get in the car. I’ll park the bike and alert the manager so he won’t report an abandoned bike.”
Actually I tipped the guy twenty bucks to keep an eye on it until Mackson could pick it up later.
No cops had arrived by the time I waded back through the traffic stacking up behind my Impala, so we pulled away without trouble. Billy tried not to let it show, but he gave a barely suppressed sigh of relief. A peculiar odor flooded the cabin. It took me a moment to realize it was fear leaking out through William Mackson’s sweat glands. I hit the button to lower the windows. The kid’s wet upper lip and dripping forehead decided my line of attack for me.
“Okay, Billy, I’ll make you a deal. I won’t report you to Detective Enriquez or Inspector Hewitt if you tell me all about it.”
“About what?” The kid’s question came out as a whine. One more little push would probably do the trick, so I pulled out my cell again. “Don’t do that.” Mackson reached out as if he was going to snatch the phone from my hand. Then he drew back. “You promise? You promise you won’t tell?”
“I promise, providing you tell me everything, including names. But I can’t keep them from finding out as a result of their own investigation. You need to be prepared for that eventuality.”
“Oh shit,” he moaned. His side of the car grew more pungent. The fake leather jacket wasn’t helping his perspiration problem.
“Who approached you?”
His shoulders slumped. “Guy from school. He knew I worked at the Ship-n-Mail.”
“And?”
“And he told me he wanted me to do something for him.”
“When was this?”
“The day after you came nosing around.”
With a lot
of prompting, Billy Mackson’s story emerged. A kid named Milt Zorn had struck up a conversation with him. Starved for companionship, Billy had responded eagerly. After only a couple of hours of bumming around together, Milt moved on his target. All he wanted Billy to do was to watch a certain box in the store and give any mail addressed to it to his new friend. It was okay because John Wilson, the box holder, was Milt’s stepdad. He was supposed to pick up some important mail while Wilson was out of town, but his stepdad forgot to leave the key with him, so Milt needed Billy’s help.
Billy had put up a weak struggle until his new friend said his stepdad had this neat motorcycle for sale cheap to the right buyer. How cheap? How much did Billy have? He’d managed to save three hundred dollars from his job. That would do the trick. So Zorn got a thick envelope full of worthless paper plus Billy’s three hundred dollars, and Billy got a valuable motorcycle plus a probable criminal record. I felt sorry for the kid.
“Billy, you realize you’re in a spot, don’t you? And I’m not talking about breaking federal laws by stealing mail.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your story doesn’t hold up. You already told me there were instructions to forward mail from the box, so you knew the request from this Zorn guy wasn’t kosher. Now, you’re mixed up in an attempt to blackmail a prominent lawyer to influence a witness’s testimony in a double-murder case.”
“What? I-I didn’t know. I just—”
“You just stole the payoff envelope and messed up the police’s opportunity to identify the blackmailer.”
“Oh man! But I didn’t steal it. I just gave it to the owner’s son… or stepson.”
“How do you think that’s going to turn out? Look, you’re the low man on the totem pole, and you’re probably telling the truth when you say you didn’t know what was involved. Nonetheless you participated, and you’re going to have to face up to it.”