Robert leaned forward abruptly. “What, our work wasn’t good enough for you?”
“Your work was fine. Excellent, even.”
“Then we want in on the kill. You can’t deny us that. We won’t be denied.” Mitchell shot Robert a sharp look, but he didn’t catch the hint because he was watching Tim closely. “We can help you with your daughter’s case,” he continued. “With Kindell. Before we vote even, me and Mitch can pay him a little visit. Rattle his cage, bend his elbow, pop a testicle or two. We’ll get you whatever answers you want. Who knows—we could even have a hands-on chat with that prick public defender of his.”
Tim stared at them in disbelief, trying to order his thoughts. “That’s exactly the opposite of how we need to conduct ourselves.” If their faces were any indication, the anger in his voice was startling. “This is not a proceed-at-any-cost operation. It’s not about rashness and lawlessness. Neither of you have the first idea what the Commission is actually about, and you’re wondering why I’m reluctant to cut you into the action.”
To Tim’s surprise neither brother matched his anger. Robert dug at the ground with a stick. “You’re right,” he said softly. “It’s just that your little girl’s case, Virginia’s case, really”—his cheeks drew up in a half squint, half grimace—“really tore us up. It about broke my fuckin’ heart.”
Robert’s reaction was completely genuine—it had none of the manipulation Tim had sensed in so much of the brothers’ previous maneuvering. The expression of empathy surprised him so thoroughly that his anger deflated at once, leaving him with only the sorrow he saw mirrored back at him from both faces. He got busy playing with his bottle cap so his eyes would have something to look at.
“Now and then, no matter what you’ve seen, a case sails through all the chinks in your armor and strikes home.” Mitchell’s throat gave off a rattle when he spoke. “At least our sister lived a few years before getting taken. Not like your little girl.”
Robert’s face, lit with the distant glow of downtown, was stone-hard with either rage or sclerosed sorrow. “I saw her picture on TV, that clip they ran. The one of her in a pumpkin costume, too big, kept falling down.”
“Halloween 2001.” Tim’s voice was so soft it was barely audible. “My wife tried to stitch the costume. She’s not very domestic.”
“She was a great kid, Virginia,” Robert said with an almost aggressive adamancy. “I could tell, even just from what I saw.”
Tim understood for the first time that the brothers weren’t simply justifying their desire to kill criminals, but that they’d taken Ginny’s death personally, as they took each of the Commission’s cases personally. Their sister remained frozen in time, locked in a hellish script, to be rekilled in their minds every time a murderer escaped justice. While this made them flawed participants for a cause that called for objectivity and circumspection, Tim couldn’t deny a certain gratitude for their brute emotionality. He grasped at last the note of affection, even admiration, hidden in Dumone’s voice when he spoke of them. They mourned with a hurt-animal purity uncomplicated by law or ethic. Maybe they mourned as Tim and Dumone wished they themselves were capable of doing.
Robert’s words drew Tim from his thoughts. “She had the look, man,” he continued, “the one that the motherfuckers must get after, like she was too pure to stick around this shitty planet too long.” He drained his beer and hurled the bottle. It shattered against a pile of stacked metal sheets. “Beth Ann had that look, too.”
He tipped his face down into the waiting points of his thumb and forefinger, and he stayed like that, squeezing his eyes, silent. Mitchell leaned over, hooked his brother’s neck with a hand, and pulled him forward until the tops of their heads were touching, just above their foreheads.
Tim watched them, his face numb with dread. “It doesn’t get any easier,” he said. He had intended it as a question.
Robert pulled his head back. His eyes were red from being rubbed, yet they held not tears, but rage. The dark scaffolding creaked behind him in the wind.
Mitchell leaned back, propped on two elbow-locked arms, his face barely visible in the darkness. “The average sexual assault by an anger-excitation rapist lasts four hours,” he said. “Beth Ann wasn’t so lucky.”
After that they drank in silence.
•After Mitchell dropped him at his car, Tim drove back to his apartment cautiously, watching his signals and abiding the speed limit. The radio was abuzz with talk of the execution. From the faces of other drivers, he could tell who was listening to the news and who was discussing it on their cell phones. He even thought he sensed a different mood in the air, as if the city itself had received an adrenaline jolt, absorbed by osmosis from the fallout caused by Lane’s death. The night seemed exciting and excited, alive with the animation of risk and high stakes. A proximity to death always brought with it an attendant heightening of the senses.
Joshua was struggling across the lobby with an ornately carved picture frame. He paused when Tim entered, setting it on the floor. Blue TV light flickered in his tiny office, as always.
“Wait, wait!” he shrieked, as if Tim were fleeing. “I have paperwork for you.” He leaned the frame against the wall and disappeared into his small office, reappearing with a rental agreement made out to the ever-reliable Tom Altman.
He waited as Tim reviewed it, a finger bearing an immense agate stone coming to rest on the side of his chin. “Cute beard.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you hear about the guy who got his head blown up on the news?”
“There was something about it on the radio.”
“Right-winger.” Joshua’s hand rose to his mouth, shielding a stage whisper. “One down, fifty million to go.”
Upstairs Tim entered his apartment, taking note of the deadness of the air within. It took him about ten minutes with lukewarm sink water and a razor to eradicate his emergent beard.
He opened the window, then sat cross-legged on the floor and thought about what, at age thirty-three, he had in his life. A mattress, a desk, a gun, bullets. A car with fraudulent plates previously owned by a drug runner.
He cleaned his gun again, though it was already clean, oiling, polishing, punching the bore brush through the holes in the cylinder. Each punch of the brush he accompanied with a word describing what he could have done to Kindell in the garage. Murder. Slay. Execute. Sacrifice. Destroy. Slaughter.
The Lane execution had not just righted a judicial wrong, he reminded himself, it had brought him one case closer to Kindell. And to the secret of Ginny’s death.
After checking the Nokia, he was surprised by the keenness of his disappointment that he had no messages. Dray had not called since he’d left the notes at the house, which stung like hell. It also meant she’d gathered no further information on the case. When he called, he got the machine. He called back just to hear her voice again, then hung up.
He found himself dialing Bear’s number.
“Where the hell you been, Rack?”
“Sorting things out, I guess.”
“Well, sort faster. The disappearing act isn’t sitting so hot with Dray. Or with me.”
“How is she?” Only now did Tim grasp his true motivation for phoning Bear. Tim Rackley, Master of High School Social Dynamics.
“Ask her yourself,” Bear said. “And while we’re at it, what’s your new phone number?”
“I don’t have one yet.” Tim walked over near the open window. “I’m calling from a pay phone. Still lining out a more permanent place.”
“I want to see you.”
“Now’s not the greatest—”
“Listen, either you can agree to see me, or I’ll come track your ass down. And you know I will. What’s it gonna be?”
A breeze, contaminated with heat from the alley-backing kitchen below, swept away the dusty smell of the room, if only temporarily. Tim breathed in the amalgam of cool and breath-hot air. The distant touch of a headache cramped him at the temples.
�
��All right then,” Bear said. “Yamashiro, early dinner, tomorrow at five-thirty.”
He hung up before waiting for Tim to agree.
Tim lay on the mattress, enveloped in darkness. When he dozed off, he dreamed of Ginny. She was laughing at him, petite fingers covering her child-spaced teeth.
He couldn’t figure out why.
20
YAMASHIRO, A JAPANESE restaurant perched atop a hill in East Hollywood, looks down over its steep-sloped front gardens to the distant neon flash of the Boulevard and Sunset. Through the miasma of smog and car exhaust spread low along the Strip, Britney Spears threw a five-foot gaze from a building-side banner ad, all wide grin and vacant eyes, a Dr. T.J. Eckleburg for the aught decade.
About two years back, Tim and Bear had collared a fugitive who’d injured Kose Nagura’s wife in a jewelry-store heist, and the restaurant manager had shown his gratefulness in the form of ceaseless imploration for them to dine at his restaurant free of charge. Despite their discomfort at the place’s specious high-class ambience and raw-fish fare, they tried to take him up on his offer at least once every few months to avoid insulting him. Besides, the drinks were good, the view from the hilltop bar was the most spectacular in all of L.A., and the building—an exact replica of a grand Kyoto palace—had a certain majestic appeal.
Tim wound his car up the precipitous snaking drive to the restaurant and left it with the valet. As usual, Kose seated him at the best table immediately upon his entering, a four-top at the restaurant’s southeast apex, where glass wall meets glass wall, providing a panoramic view of the smoldering billboard-and smog-draped buildings below—a view of the L.A. that the Mastersons deplored. The crass money-and fame-grubbing sprawl of middle-class aspiration for stardom, an asphaltopolis that raised child stars as tall as buildings and rewarded greed and ruthlessness, a town where rapists and child-killers could gorge their appetites in like company.
Tim played with the straw in his water glass, waiting for Bear, rehearsing all the dumb things he knew he was going to say in hope of discovering better wording. A couple to his left was holding hands across the table, casually, as if their easy-found affection were something to be taken for granted, something found everywhere, like frustration, like smog, like aspiring actors. He sensed the deep tug of his need to be with his wife. He reframed his thoughts, deciding what he would impart to Bear, the messenger. A white flag, perhaps.
Bear appeared, a large form in gray polyester pants and a just-mismatched blazer, stretching past one of the sliding shoji walls leading from the inner courtyard. Tim stood, and they embraced, Bear holding him for an extra beat before sliding into his chair.
Tim nodded at Bear’s rumpled suit. “You’d better hurry up and get that thing back on the body. The wake’s at seven.”
“Clever.”
“Court duty?”
“Yup. Tannino found out I bet against Italy in the World Cup last year, so he stuck it to me. Two days before I can go out-of-pocket again.” Bear’s face seemed to move and settle into an expression of weariness. “There’s no way for me to say this, so I’m just gonna spit it out.” He paused. “If you don’t knock off the strong, silent routine, Dray’s gonna figure out she’s fine without you.”
“What does that mean?”
“While you’ve been MIA, Dray’s been going through Ginny’s stuff, getting out of the house, seeing friends. She doing this on her own. You sure you want her to?”
“Of course I don’t want her to. But we don’t know how to do it together.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’re knocking yourself out trying.” Bear picked up the paper-hat-folded napkin, then set it back down. “Are you having an affair?”
Tim fought to find impassivity. “Bear, I understand you’re trying to help, but this isn’t really—”
“What? My business? Let me tell you what is my business. You may not embarrass your wife. It’s your right to embarrass yourself all you want, but Dray’s been through enough. You’re not gonna drag her through more.”
“Bear. I’m not having an affair.”
“I talk to Dray every day. And I’m getting a weird vibe from her when your name comes up, like she doesn’t trust what you’re up to. Plus, if you hadn’t Houdinied on her, I hardly think she’d need—” He stopped. Pulled the napkin from the table and smoothed it across his lap, eyes lowered and regretful.
“She’d need…?”
Bear’s hands paused. “Mac. She’s had some really bad nights. Mac slept over a few times—not like that, just on the couch—to see her through.”
“Mac?” Tim snapped his chopsticks apart and frictioned off the splinters. Hard. “Why didn’t she call you?”
“Because I’m still your partner first and foremost. Mac’s one of hers. And that’s the wrong damn question. The correct question is, why didn’t she call you?”
“What’d you tell her?”
“What do you think I told her? That she was being a fucking idiot, that she should have swallowed her pride and called you, like you should have swallowed your pride and called her.” Bear took no note of the glances from neighboring tables. He shook his head, disgusted. “You’re both stubborn, spiteful people who will die alone.”
Tim continued to work the chopsticks back and forth, harder. “We decided we needed to take a little time off. We were tangling up in each other.”
“Have you really not seen her in five days?”
Tim felt a sudden heat in his cheeks. He took a sip of water, got a mouthful of lemon. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”
The waiter came up, and Bear ordered quickly for both of them without looking at the menu, naming the spicy shrimp simmered in sake, crab cakes, and seven-spice mussels. He’d been coming here more than once every few months, that was clear. Probably taking the occasional date.
When the waiter left, Bear fixed Tim with an apologetic stare. “Look, I’m just saying you should call her. You need each other. And she needs you—that house went from full to empty in a hurry. Can’t really blame her for wanting someone around in the wake of all this, even if it is Mac sleeping on the couch. And while we’re at it, when are you coming back to work?”
Tim looked up, surprised. “I’m not coming back, Bear. You know that.”
“Tannino’s wondering why he’s having so much trouble reaching you. He’s pulled me into his office twice this week to make clear he hasn’t accepted your resignation.”
“He doesn’t have a choice.”
“What are you doing, Rack? What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I’m just dealing with things on my own for a while.”
For the first time Tim could remember, he didn’t recognize the look in Bear’s eyes. “Let me add to the list of things that I will make my business. You can’t embarrass me. Not as your partner. And you can’t embarrass the service.” Bear leaned back, crossed his arms. “I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure it out if I want to.”
“You’re overreacting. There’s nothing going on.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have a phone.” Bear’s voice was firm, driving. “So what was the bulge in your pocket when you hugged me? It hasn’t been that long.”
Tim had instinctively grabbed his cell phones so as not to leave them unattended in the car with the valets. An unforgivable oversight. “Picked it up this morning. 323-471-1213. Don’t give the number to anyone.”
“Why all the cloak-and-dagger?”
“There’s still a lot of fallout from the shooting, media hounding me, so I’d just as soon stay under for a while.”
“Really? I haven’t seen anything lately. Everyone’s whipped up about the Lane assassination now. You hear about the guy who pulled that off? They’re snake eyes on leads—guy must have been an ice-cold professional.” He shook his head. “Cranium ventilation. They always can find a new trick.”
Tim shrugged. “It’s not so bad. One less mutt on the street.”
B
ear’s forehead furrowed into a wrinkled pane.
Tim looked down, played with his straw. An emotion rippled through him that took him a moment to identify. Shame. He realized he was giving off nervous energy, so he dropped the straw, placed his hands on his knees.
Bear pointed at him with a chopstick. “Don’t let Ginny’s death eat you away. Don’t let it corrupt you. There’s enough ignorance out there. The one person I don’t expect it from is you.”
The waiter arrived with their food, and they ate in silence.
•A funeral procession passed by while Tim idled at the stoplight at Franklin and Highland. The hearse led, somber and dignified, and a convoy of rain-polished cars followed—Toyotas, Hondas, and the obligatory drove of SUVs. Seized by an impulse, Tim pulled out behind the last car and followed the line of vehicles to the Hollywood Forever Memorial Park. He parked a block and a half away. By the time he’d made his way through the solemn front gate and over the first grassy hill, the ceremony was under way.
He watched from a distance, the mourners arrayed in black and gray, diminutive like figurines. When the sun managed to knife through the smog, Tim donned sunglasses to cut the glare. The presumed widower shovel-turned a scattering of rocks and dirt into the open grave, and, despite the distance, Tim could hear it patter on the unseen casket. The man collapsed to a knee, and two young men stepped forward quickly, chagrined, to help him up. He managed as best he could, a patch of mud weighing down his wind-flickering trouser leg, the sun glimmering off his cheeks.
A murder of crows swept in and blanketed an overlooking sycamore, where they looked on, sleek and inauspicious. Tim waited several minutes for the birds to depart, but they didn’t, so finally he turned his back and headed down the too-green slope toward his car.
21
“…KCOM’S HAVING A field day, with around-the-clock updates and polls. On Hardball, Chris Matthews hosted Dershowitz, two senators, and Mayor Hahn for a roundtable discussion, and a particularly vivid argument brewed on Donahue yesterday morning during a segment titled, ‘The Lane Slaying: Terrorism or Justice?’”
The Kill Clause Page 21