by J. R. Rain
I studied the small apartment. There were a lot of lights on. Every now and then, a shadow stepped in front of the window. I looked at my cell phone. It was getting on about the time I had seen the old man escort his son out.
We drank and watched, and I kept my suspicions to myself.
Sure enough, at about the same time the door opened and the same old man walked out. The same medium-sized and stooped old man. Another man followed. His son, I presumed. The same young man we had seen the other night.
The same tall young man.
Tony Hill was leaning in my direction, watching the scene from the house. “Yeah, that’s his son. A singer, too, like his old man. We get to know everyone who comes and goes from this park.”
“I believe it,” I said.
Like Sanchez and I had done a few nights ago, Tony Hill dismissed the younger guy immediately and watched the old man head back into his home where, I assumed, a few older ladies were waiting to finish up their lessons.
Except, I wasn’t watching the old guy, I was watching the young man who had crossed in front of the van and was now heading for the same parked car we had seen the other night.
I watched him get in, start the car, and slowly drive away.
I eased off the lounge chair and, ducking, headed through the small doorway and back into the front seat.
I started the van and, despite Tony Hill’s protests, followed.
Chapter Forty-one
“The kid?” said Tony Hill. “I’ve met him a number of times. He’s like twenty-two.”
“Perving knows no age,” I said. “I think.”
“I don’t know. Seemed nice enough.”
“How long ago did the flashing start?”
“Six months back. Maybe. I can check.”
“How long have he and his grandfather been giving singing lessons?”
He thought about it as we cruised at a good distance behind the kid. “Shit,” he said.
“Six months ago?”
He nodded. “Seems about right.”
“What’s his name?”
“Charlie, I think.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“And why isn’t he heading for the exit?” said Tony Hill.
“Where does this road lead?”
“Deeper into the park.”
“Are there back exits?”
He shook his head. “None that we allow visitors to use.”
“You guys run a tight ship.”
“The park is five hundred and thirty-three acres. We have to run a tight ship.”
“That’s a lot of old people,” I said.
“And a lot of visitors.”
The vehicle, a Volkswagen something-or-other, turned right into what appeared to be another parking lot. The park was full of such parking lots. His vehicle slowed and turned towards us in one of the spots.
I drove slowly past. “Don’t look at him,” I said.
Tony Hill didn’t like it, but he looked forward, although I knew every fiber of his being wanted to turn and look.
“He’s watching us,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“This isn’t my first car chase.”
“Car chase?”
“Slow-moving car chases count, too.”
I turned right down the next street, then turned into another parking lot. I slipped in next to a Dumpster. I ditched the lights, rolled down the windows and killed the engine.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re listening.”
“Listening for what?”
“Let’s see. Or hear.”
It was just past 9:00 p.m. and Leisure World was perfectly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I was certain I could hear a car start up and pull away. Five minutes later, that’s exactly what happened. We couldn’t see him, but we could hear him.
“He’s moving again.”
With the headlights still off, I pulled out of the parking lot and nudged my way slowly toward the street.
“There,” said Tony Hill, pointing.
A pair of brake lights appeared in the far distance, just as the vehicle hung a right.
“What’s over there?”
“The amphitheater.”
“Is there a concert going on?”
“No, but there’s a play being performed. The old geezers are putting on The Grapes of Wrath.”
“When’s it over?”
Joe Hill checked his cell. “Right about now.”
Chapter Forty-two
The outdoor amphitheater was bigger than I expected.
According to Tony Hill, it seated 2,500 people, and by my estimation, there were probably fifty people presently in attendance.
“The amphitheater is designed primarily for concerts. We even had Pat Boone here a few months ago.”
“Very nice.”
“You a fan?”
“Who isn’t? Anyone Elvis opened for is all right in my book.”
“We might get his daughter next month. Debby.”
“Lucky you.”
From the van, which I had parked near the entrance, we could see some of the stage and about the first third of the amphitheater seating. People seemed to be deeply engrossed and generally enjoying themselves. The lights were low and the stage was brightly lit.
We were both scanning the parking lot. I had parked in some shadows and killed the engine. The lot was surprisingly full. I wondered where the rest of the 2,450 guests parked. The VW had been a neutral color. Neutral colors mean nothing to me. Hell, they might as well be called blah, because that’s what they look like to me.
But I knew what a Volkswagen looked like, and soon I spotted the sucker in the far corner of the lot. I pointed it out to Tony Hill, whose first instinct was to charge it.
“Easy, tiger,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be better to catch him in the act?”
“I’d rather not.”
“How about just before the act?”
“A little better.”
We waited. There seemed to be some movement in the little Volkswagen, but I couldn’t be sure from our distance.
“So what’s his M.O.?” asked Tony Hill.
“He ditches his clothes for the robe in his car, flashes the old folks, slips away somewhere, then works his way back to his car.”
“Where he changes again and waits for the heat to die down.”
We waited some more. Ten minutes later, applause didn’t necessarily erupt from the amphitheater, but it did spring forth energetically.
The VW’s driver’s side door opened. A dark shadow slipped out. The shadow worked its way near some trees and shrubs that surrounded the exterior of the amphitheater.
“Did you see that?” I said.
“Hard to miss.”
Theater-goers began trickling out. Husbands and wives, small groups, big groups, and individuals. Many got into their cars, but a few headed toward the far end of the parking lot. Toward the figure hiding in shadows.
“He’s near the shuttle pick-up, which will be here in a few minutes.”
“Then I suggest,” I said, opening my door quietly, “that we catch ourselves a flasher.”
Tony Hill looked at me sideways. “Why do you sound like you’re enjoying yourself?”
“What’s not to love?” I said. “Adventure, intrigue, free willies.”
“Brother. Let’s go.”
We both got out of the van, and slipped in behind some of the exiting theater-goers. Tony Hill and I fell back, keeping mostly to the shadows. Up ahead, a nearby pool of light with a bench was undoubtedly their destination. The shuttle pick-up.
But between theater-goers and the shuttle pick-up was a dense row of bushes.
Still walking with the group and ducking a little to keep a low profile, I saw movement in the bushes. So did Tony Hill, who suddenly broke into an all-out sprint. Although the head of security had me by about twenty years, he didn’t have a gimp leg, and soon he was covering ground much faster than I coul
d.
He might have also been driven by adrenaline. I’m sure he was taking it personally that the residents had hired outside help. I’m also sure, having been around the guy a few times now, that he took it personally that such attacks were taking place under his watch.
And so it really came as no surprise that when I saw the lanky young man step out of the shadows, wearing only a light-colored bathrobe and a black wig, Tony Hill was in an all-out sprint.
One of the old ladies turned and saw Tony Hill running and screamed. Another woman saw the young man in the robe and black wig and screamed. A third turned, saw me and screamed, too. Hey, what did I do?
Finally, the young man, in the very act of exposing himself, turned and saw the older security guard bearing down on him. He screamed, too, just as Tony Hill tackled him to the ground.
While the two rolled around in the grass, with the flasher’s robe spilling open, I wanted to scream, too.
Chapter Forty-three
Cindy and I were at my apartment.
Ginger and Junior were snuggled on the couch between us. The patio door was open, and through it we could hear the sounds of the surf crashing, seagulls squawking and music playing.
“Why don’t we ever hang out at your apartment?” I asked her.
“Because your apartment is much cooler than mine,” she said. “And your apartment always feel like...an escape.”
“An escape from what?”
“Life. Pressure. Expectation.” She drank more of her wine as she gently ran her long nails down Junior’s back and up Ginger’s stomach on the return trip. “Not to mention, I always feel completely and totally safe here.”
We sat quietly, our stomachs settling. I had made a homemade pizza using two Boboli crusts, a half dozen vegetables, sundried tomatoes, tomato sauce mixed with olive oil and fresh garlic. Oh, and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. My stomach, I knew, was busy sorting through the mélange of vegetables, spices and sauces and would be busy for some time. Cindy’s stomach tended to settle a little more quietly than mine.
Girls.
Cindy sat with her feet and legs tucked under her in a way that made my own gimp leg hurt like hell just looking at her. It was late evening on a Thursday night, and the street sounds weren’t quite as clamorous. The wind that meandered through my open balcony door was tinged with brine and salt and car exhaust. A heady combination. From where I sat, I could just make out a bright red star that I was certain was Jupiter. Then again, what did I know? I’m just a dumb jock.
“This is perfect,” she said.
“I know.”
I reached behind my couch and found the remote to my sound system. I clicked it on and soon Marc Antoine and his Spanish guitar filled my small apartment.
I debated telling Cindy about Gary Tomlinson. But I decided against it. If she knew what I was going to do, things might not be so perfect.
Instead, I kept my thoughts to myself, and as the soothing music drew us together, as Cindy lay her head on my shoulder and little Junior and Ginger snuggled deeper between us, I closed my eyes and saw Mom’s lifeless body, the endless blood, and the old pain filled me completely. The old pain that never, ever went away.
Gary Tomlinson, I thought. I’m coming for you.
Motherfucker.
Chapter Forty-four
He was sitting at an outdoor table, drinking what appeared to be an iced latte, when I pulled out the little metal chair and sat across from him.
“This seat taken?” I asked.
Gary Tomlinson, who had been reading something on his phone, looked up at me, frowning. I knew the feeling. Strangers didn’t generally come up to you in California. A stranger comes up to you in California, they either want something or they’re crazy.
He sat back a little, clutching his phone, frowning. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that his peaceful Starbucks time was being stolen by a stranger.
“Here you are,” I said. “Enjoying yourself at Starbucks. Drinking your latte. Texting your wife or mistress or playing Angry fucking Birds. The world looks bright. The day looks bright. And then some asshole comes and sits across from you.”
He sized me up—which, with me, always takes a little longer to do. There was maybe a half dozen tables out here. We were off to one side and close to some plants and smaller trees. Opposite the trees was a Navy recruiting office. Birds fluttered in the trees above. Attracted, no doubt, by errant bagel crumbs. Or maybe they really were just angry.
“Do I know you?” he asked, blinking.
“We met a short while ago,” I said. “A memorable meeting for me. Maybe not so much for you.”
He was looking like he was about to get up. To prevent this, my right hand snaked out and grabbed his left forearm, pinning him to the table.
“Hey!”
Recognition still hadn’t dawned on him. He clutched his cell phone like a lifeline. Interestingly, there was little fear in his eyes. Just confusion.
“Who are you?” he asked.
In southern California, perfect days are a given. In southern California, perfect days were wasted indoors. The only other person out here had their back to us and was be-bopping to their iPod. The sun shone down. A small breeze meandered. Sweat stood out on Gary Tomlinson’s upper lip.
I released his arm. He stared at me. I stared at him. My heart was beating strong and sure. The heart of the just. He still didn’t look nervous. In fact, he was now looking oddly amused.
“Did I cut you off in traffic or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“So what’s your problem?”
I said nothing. It took all my control not to lunge over the table, grab his head and start smashing it into the table...and to keep smashing it until his skull burst open.
He continued looking at me. He was a big guy, although not as big as me. He had broad shoulders, although not as broad as mine. His hair was brown and cut short. His sunglasses were sitting on top of his head. His nose was small, as were his eyes. His eyes, I thought, were dark and too close together. His lips were narrow. In fact, I was hard-pressed to see any actual lip. The skin just seemed to stop at a slit. Maybe I was sitting across from Lord Voldemort.
As he watched me, as he studied me, recognition began dawning on him. And with that recognition, the smirk on his face deepened a little. I clenched my fists.
He started nodding. “Yes, we met a month or so ago. At my father’s house.”
“Bingo, fucker.”
“My dad had said you were looking into your mother’s murder. He was the detective on the case.”
I couldn’t speak. My heart seemed to be pounding inside my skull, pounding between my ears. He sat back a little more. As he did so, he adjusted the drape of his shorts.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” he said, and now he really did smirk. “I’m surprised you’re still looking into it. It happened, what, twenty years ago?”
“Good memory, asshole.”
“Well, my dad and I talked about it after you left. I even remember the case. It troubled him deeply.”
“I’m sure it did.”
His eyes were sky blue. So clear you could almost see his twisted thoughts. His eyes regarded me calmly, blankly, curiously. He looked at me the way a scientist might his lab rat. A scientist about to perform unspeakably horrific experiments on his subject. He continued to smile. A cold smile. An empty smile. A guilty smile.
“You killed her,” I said.
“Now that’s not a nice thing to say.”
He didn’t act like a man who was innocent. He didn’t even act like a man who was sane, truth be known. Anyone else would have been flabbergasted, shocked, confused and horrified to be accused of such a thing.
My left hand snaked out, hooked behind his head. In a blink, I slammed his face hard into the table. One moment he had been sitting there, smirking—the next, his head was bouncing off the table. In fact, the action was so fast that I’m pretty sure no one saw it.
“Holy fuck,” he said, holding his nose.
All it had taken was a little pain to wipe that smirk off his face. The vision I had of me slamming his head into the table had become a reality. Except it wasn’t his head. It was his face. And it wasn’t his skull that broke open, it was his nose. Clearly the Law of Attraction at work.
He held his nose, which bled between his fingers. The hate in his eyes was pure. That he would act on his hate, I had no doubt. In fact, I was counting on it.
“Burn in hell,” I said, and got up and left.
Chapter Forty-five
I was sitting with Sanchez in the visitors’ parking lot at UCI.
We were in the northeast lot, which abutted the faculty parking, which also happened to give me a great view of the social science building where Cindy Darwin not only taught but also had an office.
A heck of a strategic spot.
“And you really bounced his head off the table?” said Sanchez.
“It seemed like the thing to do,” I said. “An impromptu head slamming.”
“So much for subtly,” he said. “Ever consider calling Detective Hansen?”
The day was bright and warm. The students that strolled along the cement paths that connected the many buildings were all wearing shorts and tee shirts.
“And tell him what?” I said. “That I have a twenty-year-old picture of someone who had shown an interest in my mother on the day she was murdered?”
“Someone who happens to resemble the detective’s son. A son who has a history of violent crime.”
“And what would Hansen do with that information?” I asked.
Sanchez thought about it and sipped from his Coke. The windows were down in my Mustang, but it was still warm enough for both of us to sweat. “Probably file it away. Get to it when he has some free time. When less pressing matters have been taken care of.”
“And when are a homicide detective’s less pressing matters ever taken care of?”
“Almost never. But he’s a friend. He would get to it when he could.”