The Big Law (1998)

by Chuck Logan

  He had a little under twenty-four hours until the return flight to San Francisco tomorrow at 4:15.

  Off the concourse, he stopped at a store fussed up with Minnesota bric-a-brac and bought a black wool ski mask, a pair of warm gloves and a pair of Snow Pac boots. Too cold in those woods for his California tennis shoes.

  He inspected a stout canvas carry bag. Loon decal. Hefted it, felt inside. Should be big enough to hold the stuff. He bought two.

  Local time was 4:30 P.M. On a Tuesday. She'd be home at six. Came home after work during the week like clockwork.

  Catch her in the shower, like Psycho.

  Outside. Now for a cab. He gave the cabbie a street intersection for a destination. Cleveland and St. Clair. Close. Walking distance. He settled back in the seat. His main worry was that her car could be in the shop.

  Nah, she scrupulously kept up the maintenance on the Accord.

  The main problem was—and he'd wrestled with this the whole flight from California—just what was he going to do with her. His thoughts yelled back and forth like the cohosts on Crossfire.

  In one scenario he became her protector and patron, generously forgiving her betrayals, flying her off to a new life, and a lot of expensive cosmetic surgery, in northern California. That pact got sealed with great sex.

  The other method was less charitable. The pistol came out of the drawer of her bed table and Bang. End of story.

  But the gun would make noise. He needed another way of dealing with her.

  His mind still balked at the word kill. At intrusive techniques that broke the skin and let stuff leak out.

  Overpower her. Use a garbage bag and duct tape. Wrap her head. No mess to get on him. Wear the rubber gloves.

  The hard part would be talking to her. And not touching her. No sex, he told himself. NO SEX. Christ, that was a hardship after almost two months. But it couldn't happen. Fluids, fibers, body hair. Too risky.

  Get the draft of the story in her desk.

  Never take the gloves off.

  Could propose to her.

  Or kill her.

  The Rainbow Cab lunged through the snowy night as Danny gave Ida her life, took it back, gave it over again.

  Either way, around midnight, he had to be on the road to Lutsen. It would take four hours to get to the money pit. Another hours to dig it up. Get back to Duluth in the morning. Pack the money, then take it to a Wrap and Ship, have them repack it. If they asked, say it's books. They wouldn't ask.

  Here he paused.

  Four, five in the morning, when he came out of the woods. Broker would only be a few miles up the road. Sleeping.

  No. He had to be absolutely disciplined on this point. But God, it would be nice to be rid of the man. And his brat.

  Back to his schedule. The other reason not to dally up on the North Shore was because there was only one road in and out. Highway 61.

  He leaned back and fantasized about her fragrant hair, slightly sweaty, tickling, spread on his bare thighs…

  No. No. Think about the money. This was about the money. She had to go. Bury the money in his small oak woods—except for a few packets that he'd take to Reno—to celebrate.

  This time next week he'd be taking a break from sanding the floors, having a cool Coors and looking forward to his first trip to Las Vegas.

  So. Stick to the schedule. No detours. And drive the speed limit. A routine traffic stop would sink him.

  His eyes had become accustomed to foggy nuances of green growing things. And rain. The snow-swept outskirts of the Twin Cities looked foreign. Unfriendly. A billboard whisked by. "AT LEAST YOU CAN STILL SMOKE IN YOUR CAR." WINSTONS. Danny laughed.

  He felt like a visiting ghost. Thought of Ruby, the neighbor, her gifts of bread, wine and salt. Uh-uh. None of that shit.

  Focus on Ida. She would clean her desk, put on her coat and take the elevator down to the second floor, where she would get off, enter the skyway system and walk a short few hundred yards to the drafty, creepy Victory Ramp where she parked.

  When she entered the dark ramp she would slip her right hand in her purse and clutch the can of mace in her coat pocket. Unless she was packing "Roscoe." In her other hand she would hold her keys so the longest one protruded between her knuckles, as she'd learned in a self-defense class.

  She would approach her car from the rear and check the backseat. Then she would check the surrounding area, the shadows, the contours of the other cars. Only when she was satisfied there was no threat would she release the Mace and open the car door.

  He'd seen her do it dozens of times. He depended on her being a strict creature of habit. She'd be there. The house key would be there, hidden under the flowerpot near the garage. The car would be there.

  They wouldn't miss her until after noon tomorrow. By then he'd have ditched her car in Minneapolis. Be in another cab on his way back to the airport.

  It was going to work.

  Every minute was another mile closer. No talking. Just go in fast and get it done. Best to not even let her see his face.

  Do it and be free. He thought of the ocean and fog and palm trees. Ruby and her damn dead cat.

  No other way. Ida was a loose end that someone like Broker would tug at until she started to unravel and…

  They crossed the city limits of St. Paul.

  Melancholy, nostalgia—he dared to call it love—informed his thoughts about Ida. Not enough to deter him but sufficient to serve up images of their relationship. Sadly, he realized she would be glad to see him. She'd think he'd come back for her. He shook his head. Probably why she tried to help that bastard Broker. See if she could get him back. He shook his head. The world was going to lose one great piece of ass.

  They were making good time on clear main streets. Unplowed side streets looked treacherous. He'd have to drive carefully. Fog had preceded the snow. The branches were cased in exquisite sleeves of ice. Stalactites of ice drooped from eaves. Quaint, but after California, how could anybody live here.

  Deep into Highland Park now. The driver pulled over to the intersection. Danny gave him a fifty and told him to keep the change. Big spender.

  Checked his wristwatch. 5:30 P.M. It was time. He turned and walked to Sergeant Street. Walked right to her house. Dark, except for the light she always left on in the kitchen.

  Go in now, or wait?

  No hesitating now, go straight for the house key and get in. Standing around would draw attention. But it was doubtful anyone would be watching the street. The homes presented the posture of snowbound fortress, turned inward, hunkered around their hearths.

  His tennis shoes went silent in the snow. The air shocked his Santa Cruz contact lenses. The sidewalk, front steps and driveway were cleanly shoveled. A flower bed ran along the side of the house, and at the back, where it turned into the backyard, a terra-cotta pot was turned upside down. He reached down and—shit, the damn thing was

  frozen solid. Danny kicked the pot, shattering it. The key ring caught the slick side door light.

  No wasted motion now. Quick to the door. The key slid in, the tumblers turned. He was inside. He set his bags on the floor. Took off his shoes, so he wouldn't track snow. Then he went into the bag and took out the ski mask, slipped it on. Kept it rolled on his forehead for now. Put his stuff in the broom closet by the door.

  A tidy cinnamon warmth circled his senses. The clean bewitching spoor of Ida. Everything in its place. Fighting off the memories, he crossed through the kitchen and entered the living room. Stepped on? One of her goddamn puzzles. Pieces stuck to his socks. He kicked them free and continued to the all-season side porch where she kept her computer and writing desk.

  The computer sat on a table like the family shrine. Motion on the screen lent a votive flicker. Her screen saver swam in the darkness. Coral, oranges, purples—a lazy, turning cyber jellyfish.

  He tested the drawer on her antique writing table. Unlocked. Thank you, Ida. He eased it open and by the shifting light of the screen at his elbow, p
icked through the stacked folders. Underneath her 1997 income tax folder, he found the familiar black cardboard jacket. Squinting at the label he himself had immodestly pasted on the cover. "Untitled. A novel by Tom James."

  As he closed the drawer, his hip jarred the computer table. The screen saver jittered off and was replaced by a blue field on which huge hot orange type screamed:

  Wanted for questioning in

  the death of Caren Angland

  Wonder—surprise—slowly withered into shock.

  What the fuck?

  Then disbelief. Right there, staring at him. His old face, shaggy hair, glasses, quiet smile, liquid blue eyes behind the glasses frames. Gushing sweat, growling, spitting; he noted the page's address:

  Broker@aol.com

  His eyes whipped down the screen, reading the copy block. If you have seen this man contact the Cook County sheriff's department in Grand Marais, MN. Phone numbers.

  No, he thought. No.

  Then. Broker.

  Stealth deserted him. He kicked at the computer and, fortunately, only tangled his stocking foot in the chair, which spun across the room on casters and smacked against a tall, potted dwarf pine.

  His heart pounded in his throat. Acid sweat burned his eyes.

  Bright light pinned him to the wall. Shadows. Like jungle vines, flashing across the living room, his body. Headlights. A car pulling into the drive. He dropped to a squat. Not ready. A muted sound of a car door closing. Not ready for this. Not now.

  Needed time to…

  Key turning in the door, the slight groan of the hinges, and he felt the draft of cold air as the door opened. He was moving, his veins seething with battery acid, muscles on fire.

  "What the hell?" Her surprised voice, instantaneous with the flick of the kitchen light.

  62

  Ida froze, a bag of groceries in her arms, overcoat collar turned up, crushed tam cocked on her head. Shock made her long face into a noirish shadow-catcher. The whites of her oval eyes enlarged—processed—man coming at her—

  "What have you done?" he hissed, bursting out of the dark living room, scattering puzzle pieces into the kitchen light.

  She was halfway to a startled scream, dropping the groceries, reaching in her purse—then: "Oh my God." Horrific recognition on her face. "Tom?"

  Cans popped and rolled on the floor. Desperation took the chilly scent of damp celery, the skitter of burst coffee beans on waxed linoleum. He stooped, swept up a can and threw it, through the kitchen doorway, across her living room, into her porch. It slammed her computer table, shaking off the screen saver. The lurid wanted poster glowed in the dark.

  He faced her, leaner than she'd ever known him, more dynamic. A force to be reckoned with. He pleaded, "I would have done anything for you. I would have given you a new face. And you betrayed me."

  After her first fear, seeing who it was, she stood her ground. Coolly assessing him, she fired back without miss

  ing a beat. "You sonofabitch, you never called."

  He flipped the light switch off, then on again. "How do you want it, Ida, off or on? You always like it off. Let's leave it on, okay?"

  So she could look at him. He couldn't help opening his wallet, showing her his new California license.

  "I was right," she said in a dull voice.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "That it was you; I recognized you, because of your voice," she said evenly.

  Danny puffed a little. "I look different, don't I?"

  "Yes." Same even voice. Trying to put him at ease. Up to something.

  He pointed to the computer. "Explain that."

  Still very cool, as if they were discussing a story in the office, she asked, "How did you get on to this?"

  Danny grinned. "I hacked into the newsroom network with your password and read your e-mail."

  "Not bad," said Ida.

  "So what's he up to?"

  "He wants to talk to you. He thinks things like that"—she jerked her head at Broker's Web page—"will make the FBI give you over. He thinks you took some money…"

  But she was just making conversation to throw him off. Look at her, backing against the sink, inching toward her purse.

  "Uh-uh." His hand shot out, faster than hers and stripped the purse from her grasp and—holy shit—closed his hand around the small compact pistol with the recessed hammer, jammed it in his belt.

  "Tom, it's me," she stated. He wanted her to be more scared.

  "Don't call me that," he said emphatically.

  "Okay, Danny."

  "That's better."

  "Did you take some money?"

  Like she was working or something. Ida, get a clue.

  "You don't want to know," he said frankly.

  "C'mon, you can tell me," attempting the old cajoling voice, her alley cat voice.

  "Believe me, Ida, it's better you don't know."

  "Tell me, Danny."

  "How much is it worth to you to know? How much would you pay?"

  "We could work it out," she said. And for a moment it was like the old days, their secret sharing.

  News.

  "Oh, for sure, we'll work it out. But how much?" Looking at her. And her opening her coat, shifting around, sending out a fleet of little sex gremlins.

  "How much do you want?" smearing the tense air with hormones.

  "All there is."

  "You got it." Putting that great lilt in her voice.

  "That's fair," he said leisurely. "Okay. I hid the money, I'm going to get it when I leave here. No one knows except you…"

  "Real smart, I'm impressed," she said.

  "Nah, that was just logical. I'll tell you what smart is. Killing Caren Angland was smart. Yeah." He relished her eyes getting wide. Now there's some NEWS for you. "I pushed her in. Why in the hell Angland hasn't told somebody, I don't know. He tried to stop me. That's how I got shot."

  "That's a hell of a story," she managed to say in a dry husky voice.

  "No it isn't. It's a secret. There's a difference." He took a step forward, so their bodies brushed. Felt the squirm of passion. Sadly, because that was definitely out. Fluids. Hair.

  Eloquently, her eyes noticed the latex gloves.

  He half turned. "The thing about a secret is—they

  only work as long as the person who hears them lives to tell about it."

  Her face composed a scream. But no sound. It was a diversion, because her sharp left knee pistoned up and caught him—almost—in the balls. He took the attack mostly on his right thigh. Enough to knock him back. Pawing for balance, he ripped a shelf off the wall over the stove. A scatter of tea bags flew across the counters, the floor. But then he lunged forward, caught her as she dashed for the door.

  His hands shot out to beat the real scream to her throat. He felt it like water inflating a thick hose. Had to choke it off with both hands. All those weeks working the hand springs really paid off now.

  "You?" she managed to gasp. Swinging with her free arms, pummeling his outer arms. Fighting back. He whipped his right elbow as hard as he could and felt the sharp pain as it connected with her cheek.

  Now the left side of her face matched her chin. She went loose, flopping. The body going slack inside the thick coat, twisting, thrashing. Her legs went out from under her and he forced her down, clamping one hand over her mouth. With the other he felt for something to use as a weapon. Felt a hard cylinder. A can.

  Between a skewed lock of her hair and the back of his left hand he saw a wedge of her cheek and one cloudy eye. Pinpoint bright in the overhead light, he saw her long lashes, individual hairs, the liquid in the corner of her eye. Smelled the hair rinse she'd used in the shower this morning. Body lotion. Her sharp animal scent. Finally, here was fear, a forest fire of it boiling out of her armpits.

  The thick crush hat was still on her head and that's where he brought the can down with enough force to split a round of spaghetti elm.

  Ida Rain arched once and collapsed.

&
nbsp; Danny straddled her, gasping for breath. Not think

  ing. Just pictures. The side door was open, and he could see through the open door, across the driveway and into the neighbor's kitchen windows.

  See her keys still hanging below the doorknob.

  Finish the job. Like someone who criminally misunderstood CPR, he kneeled on her chest with both knees and pumped his crossed hands down on her mouth and nose, clamping off her breath, he kept this up for minutes as her strong body fought back independent of her unconscious brain.