Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  A king must remain above the fray, Connors thought, as he made a castling move with his king’s rook. Nuke was this rook, his insurance. The sacrifice move would be necessary to eliminate the swirling turbulence below him. Perhaps at a later date Nuke would have to be sacrificed, too, but, after all, there were two rooks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Perception Becomes Reality

  At seven P.M. sharp they met outside Brice’s office. Leal was a bit miffed that Ryan had paged both him and Hart reminding them to “dress nice.” As if we’d dress sloppy? he thought. He mulled over the events of the day in his mind, wondering if they’d catch any flack over rattling Martin Walker’s cage a little bit. But what the hell, he thought, sometimes you just gotta take the bull by the tail if you can’t reach the horns.

  Suddenly Brice’s door opened and he ushered them in, asking, “Where’s Smith?”

  Leal shrugged. “Guess he’ll be along shortly.”

  Inside Ryan was seated next to a big guy Leal knew was Murphy. Murph hadn’t changed much since Leal had last seen him, except the expanse of his gut seemed a bit more magnified. His cheeks had the red flush of someone who’d already had a couple at dinner.

  Ryan looked at them and flashed a thumbs-up. Turning, he introduced Murphy.

  “Glad to meet you,” Murphy said, rising to shake hands with Hart. “I know who I want for my partner.” He looked at the rest of them and laughed. “Wanna go out for a drink later?”

  “I don’t drink,” Hart said, extricating her hand from his.

  “That’s okay,” Murphy said, “I probably drink enough for both of us.” He laughed again and shook hands with Leal.

  Leal wondered what the three of them had been discussing behind closed doors. The “nineteen hundred, sharp” order obviously hadn’t applied to all of the team, but Leal figured he wouldn’t really have wanted to come in any earlier to listen to any more of Brice’s half-assed theories. Or his personal problems. Leal caught a glimpse of the framed photo on the desk of Brice, his wife, and their two sons.

  This one must be the one having the problems, Leal thought, looking at the fat, rotund face that stared back from the photo like a leering buddha, the strange-looking eyes enlarged behind the lenses of thick glasses. He remembered the kid’s name was Max or something.

  Brice returned to his position behind the desk and looked at Ryan.

  “You tell Smith to be here at nineteen hundred?”

  “He’s usually running on colored people’s time,” Ryan said.

  Murphy laughed out loud and grinned. Leal shot a harsh look at the man, then said, “Give the guy a break, why don’t ya? His wife’s almost due and he’s all excited about it.”

  “We ain’t here to get excited about nothing but catching a killer,” Brice said. He looked at his watch again, and said to Ryan, “Go call him.”

  Ryan started to get up when the door opened after a shallow knock and Smith came in.

  “Sorry, Lieu,” he said. “Heavy traffic.”

  “Nice of you to join us,” Brice said as he motioned Smith to the empty chair beside Hart. “Joe Smith, this is Bill Murphy. He was assigned the case before you guys.”

  Smith and Murphy shook hands.

  “All right,” Brice said. “I had a chance to go over all the report summaries thus far, and I got to say that you’ve done a pretty decent job of getting this investigation off the ground again. I also want to say that I agree with Leal that we should be looking at the husband more closely.”

  Leal raised his eyebrows. At last he’s seen the light, he thought, and knew he should keep his mouth shut. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “Why the change of heart, Lieu?” Leal asked.

  Brice stared at him before answering.

  “No change really,” Brice said. “Just going through basic investigative procedure. You always should look at the spouse in cases like this, but this time he happens to be a rather prominent citizen, not to mention an attorney, too. So we had to eliminate the random victim possibility first, understand, Sergeant?”

  The way he said “Sergeant” made it clear what he meant. Leal just nodded, figuring it was best to back off. He saw Hart widening her eyes in warning as she looked at him.

  “His alibi was rock solid,” Murphy said, after clearing his throat. “Don’t mean that he couldn’t have hired somebody, though.”

  “I want to start looking into that alibi,” Brice said. “Start focusing on this fucker.” He pointed at Hart. “What did the state’s attorney say?”

  “Not enough for a wiretap.”

  “Figures,” Brice said. “So we’re gonna start zeroing in on Martin Walker. His relationship with his wife, associates, any history of domestic violence, all that shit. Let’s see if Financial Crimes can give us anything, too.” He turned and looked at Leal. “Miriam’s old man called me. Said you talked to him.”

  Leal nodded.

  “The old guy was pretty impressed with you two. Feels you’re gonna get to the bottom of this.” Brice glanced at his watch again. “All right, it’s time to go downstairs and meet with the sheriff. Everybody take a five-minute break and hit the john. Make sure your hair is combed and your ties are on straight.” He stood up.

  What the hell, thought Leal. Is he losing it, or what?

  Martin Walker listened to the loud dialogue of some television program on the other end of the line and lit another cigarette. He hated waiting, and this was trying his patience even more. Finally he heard some fumbling and Richard’s voice came back on the line.

  “Sorry, Marty, I had to make another call.”

  “Well, why did you make such a big deal about me calling you at seven thirty then?” Walker asked, the anger and stress spilling into his voice. “I don’t appreciate being on hold for two minutes, either.”

  “You weren’t on hold,” Connors said. “And I told you, I had to page someone.”

  “Whatever. Now what’s the plan to get rid of these fucking cops?” Walker’s voice was close to cracking. He blew out a lungful of smoke. “You said you could handle things. Well, it sure doesn’t seem that you’re doing a very good job.”

  “Take it easy, Marty. I told you, I got it covered.”

  “How?”

  Suddenly Walker heard the sound of an electrical motor, followed by a slight vibration. Then he realized it was his garage door opener.

  “You okay, Marty?” Connors asked.

  “Yes, I just heard something.” He got up and moved to the upstairs windows overlooking his sloping rear yard and driveway. “My garage door is going up. There’s some kind of van down there.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Connors said. “It’s Nuke. I told him to drop by.”

  “What? I don’t want him here. What if my neighbors see?”

  “Will you relax. I told him to pull around to the back, just like the last time,” Connors said.

  Walker felt a shiver go up his spine. The last time had been when they’d killed Miriam.

  “Well?” Connors asked. “Look out the window again. The van’s out of sight, right?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. What is that big idiot doing here?” He took another drag on the cigarette. “And how did he get my garage door open?”

  “He has the frequency, remember? From the garage door opener in Miriam’s car.”

  Walker could hear the heavy sounds of footsteps on the stairs coming up to the second level. It sounded like more than one person.

  “Richard, is this your idea of how to handle things? Sending some big clown over here?”

  “Relax, Marty. Just go give the phone to Nuke. I gotta talk to him.”

  Walker sighed heavily and walked to the dining room and stood by the door to the circular staircase. He pulled it open and saw Nuke standing there grinning in a dark-colored shirt and his dirty Levi’s jacket with the sleeves cut off. The shirt was sleeveless, too, showing the obscene tattoo on the overdeveloped shoulder. Walker could see the two young stooges
behind him, the heavyset one with the exotropic left eye, and the skinny blond one with the collar-length hair.

  Oh, God, thought Walker. I hope none of the neighbors saw them come in. Luckily, he remembered, the garage was set under the bedrooms, and the cement reinforcement wall would block the sight of the van from his neighbor’s house.

  He handed the phone to Nuke and said, “Here, it’s Richard.”

  Nuke accepted it and spoke into the receiver, moving up into the dining room from the stairwell. The other two followed. Walker noticed that their hands looked funny. Slick and almost shiny, and he realized they were all wearing latex gloves. The wall-eyed one, Moose, moved forward and closed the drapes. Nuke set the phone down and looked at Walker.

  “You alone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Walker said. “Did anyone see you come in?”

  Nuke smiled and shook his head. The soft rubber squeaked as he squeezed his hands together.

  “What does Richard want?” Walker asked, wishing he had retrieved the snub-nosed .38 he kept in his desk drawer. He tried to make his voice sound forceful. “I said, what does he want?”

  “Shut up, bitch,” Nuke said. He moved forward and gave Walker a hard shove. “Bring the shit over here,” he said over his shoulder.

  Walker did a little stutter step to regain his footing, then turned and tried to run into the living room. But Nuke grabbed him, snaring his shirt. A second latex-covered hand closed over the top of Walker’s face.

  Walker tried to scream, but couldn’t. A huge arm had circled his throat, cutting off his air. He reached up, scratching furiously at the arm. He heard Nuke grunt, almost like an animalistic hiss. Or roar. Walker felt himself being lifted off his feet as the powerful grip around his neck tightened and his air was cut off. He stuck the burning end of the lit cigarette to Nuke’s forearm as he struggled for a few more moments, kicking and scratching until the myriad of black dots that swarmed before him leapt up and engulfed his consciousness.

  Undersheriff Lucas was standing just down the hall from the conference room, watching their approach. Lucas was a waspish man with brown glasses and a neatly trimmed haircut. His slender right hand held the bowl of an unlit pipe, and his other hand rested in the outside pocket of his suit, the thumb outside. Leal thought the guy looked like he was trying out for an ad in Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  “Who’s this man?” Lucas asked, pointing the pipe stem at Murphy.

  “That’s Bill Murphy,” Brice said. “He used to work on the Walker case and was here for a meeting.”

  Leal watched Lucas give Murphy a quick once-over. The big man’s face seemed to stretch into a nervous smile and it looked as though he was trying to hold in his massive stomach.

  “I think we’ll just go with these four,” Lucas said, waving his hand. “Thank you, Murphy.”

  Murphy sputtered some reply and turned to go, his huge gut billowing outward again. Leal silently chuckled. Lucas opened the door to the conference room and ushered them in. Several sets of large wooden chairs had been placed around an oval table. Sheriff O’Hara sat at the head, while a thin guy with a ponytail leaned over him. The thin guy held a towel and an eyebrow pencil. A white bib covered the sheriff’s shirt, and the jacket of his blue suit was draped over a nearby chair. Leal could see the large circles of sweat under each of the man’s arms.

  “Please, Sheriff, hold still,” the thin guy said. His voice was a couple of octaves above tenor. “I’m trying to eliminate some shadows. And remember to keep your chin tucked when we shoot.”

  The sheriff grunted as the thin guy leaned back, studied him, and picked up a powder puff and makeup brush. In the corner two men were setting up some video equipment. One held a camcorder on his shoulder. The other had a camera mounted on a tripod base. A television monitor sat on the table. A third man in a dark brown suit came forward to talk to Lucas. “Are you almost finished, Henry?”

  “He’s about as good as I can get him, Mr. Tillis,” the thin guy said.

  “Okay,” Tillis said, looking at Leal. “Let’s do the Latino guy next. Can you make him more swarthy?”

  Latino guy? thought Leal. What the hell is this?

  Henry moved over toward Leal, his makeup brush and powder puff poised for action.

  “Touch me with that and I’ll shove it up your ass sideways,” Leal said, his voice pitched low and tight.

  “Goodness,” Henry said, recoiling.

  “Dammit, Ted,” Tillis said. “How the hell am I supposed to get this right if your people won’t cooperate?”

  “Take it easy, Glenn,” Lucas said. “Now listen to me, all of you. We’re going to tape this meeting tonight, and I expect each of you to cooperate in the fullest. Is that clear?”

  A murmur of lukewarm assent went through the group. Henry moved forward, more cautiously this time, and handed Leal a green bib similar to the one the sheriff had been wearing. Leal blew a slow breath out his nostrils and tied it around his neck.

  “Sit down and close your eyes, please,” Henry said.

  “Do it!” Nuke shouted as he used his superior weight to force Martin Walker’s body to the floor. “Do it now!”

  Moose came forward, his left eye staring off at some odd angle as he fumbled with the purple Crown Royal bag he was holding, spilling the contents on the rug.

  “Which arm?” he asked.

  “Who the fuck cares,” Nuke said. He face was a contorted mask of rage. Walker’s body flailed effetely, his legs making spasmodic kicks.

  Nuke flopped the limp man over onto his back. Moose rolled up Walker’s left shirtsleeve and tied a rubber band around his bicep. He then uncapped the syringe and tapped it twice, looking at the fluid reservoir.

  “Just fucking do it,” Nuke said. “I don’t give a shit about air bubbles.”

  Moose nodded and began scanning Walker’s bare arm.

  “Shit, man, this fucker’s veins ain’t coming up.”

  Nuke grunted and released his grip from around Walker’s neck and watched the flabby shoulders slump lifelessly to the floor. The phone, next to them on the floor, was repeating in a computerized tone, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

  Nuke squeezed Walker’s cheeks together and touched a thumb to the hooded, blank-looking eyes. No reaction.

  “Shee-it,” Nuke said. “Gimme that phone.”

  After Henry had finished prepping each of them, the “meeting” began with O’Hara back at the head of the table, Leal and Hart on one side, and Smith, Ryan, and Brice on the other. Leal had taken particular pleasure in watching Brice get the fluffy treatment. It almost made the whole thing worth it. But, Christ, he thought, what a waste of time.

  “Which way should I look?” O’Hara asked.

  “Never mind that,” Tillis called out. “Just look forceful. Like a leader. We’re not taping any dialogue. We’re going to use a voice-over for this spot.”

  “So we can talk about the Cubs?” Leal asked, smiling.

  “Knock off the shit,” Brice said.

  “Aww, I thought it was pretty funny,” O’Hara said, smiling. “I’m a Sox man myself.”

  “Cut it, Dorry,” Tillis called out. The cameraman stopped filming and assumed a relaxed position, the camcorder canted on his shoulder. The brightness of the lights was unbelievable, and Leal felt a trickle of sweat run down from his armpits. Henry darted between each of them, dabbing at their faces with some gauzelike material.

  “Can’t afford a shiny nose,” he said to Hart, who smiled.

  Asshole, thought Leal.

  “Don,” Tillis said. “Come over and take a look at this, please.”

  O’Hara rose ponderously, his face drooping, and went over to the television monitor.

  “See how you keep picking up that stack of papers and doing this?” Tillis bounced his own papers on the table a few times. “It makes you look nervous, and hence, what? Insecure.”

  “Well, dammit, I gotta do something with my hands, don’t I?”
>
  Tillis patted the sheriff’s shoulder. “I know, Don, but remember, we’re talking image here. People are going to see this for maybe thirty seconds, and we want you coming off looking totally in control. Let’s try it again, and this time, hold a pen. Write something when I tell you, then use it as a pointer, like you’re a teacher calling on some students.”

  O’Hara nodded.

  “And let’s get a couple shots of you doing this,” Tillis said, steepling his hands. “Let’s practice that a few times, okay? Remember, perception becomes reality.”

  The sheriff nodded again and Leal saw the sweat stains were starting to seep through the underarms of O’Hara’s suit. For the first time that evening Leal felt sorry for the old man. Jumping through hoops at a dog and pony show, he thought, and wondered if he’d do the same if he wanted something that bad. But after all, perception becomes reality.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Night Moves

  Everything had changed now, due to Nuke’s steroid-accelerated mood swing. Snake hated him when he was heavily into the cycle. And now with Moose doing the shit, too, it was like tiptoeing around in a volcano. He watched as Nuke talked with the boss on the cell phone. Snake could see that even the big man was nervous now. Shit, we’re on damage control, he thought as he eyed the sumptuous furnishings in the house. For Snake, who was an inveterate burglar, it was closely akin to being in heaven.

  “Okay, boss,” Nuke said. He spat a loop of tobacco juice on the rug. “Yeah, that ain’t gonna be no problem. We’ll get right on it.”

  Snake listened intently as Nuke repeated the instructions back to the boss over the phone, stopping when he was apparently directed to go back over important details. “Get his files, Rolodex, and pack a bag. Take him outta there, and go park his car up at O’Hare.” Nuke stopped. “But ain’t they gonna find it up there?” He paused and listened. Snake could hear the faint humming of Connors’ voice coming over the line. “Oh, okay, I see. The wallet…uh, okay…Yeah, I got it, boss.”