by Ken Douglas
“What? Oh, the hair. I felt like a change,” she said.
“It looks good on you.” He hadn’t had any trouble picking her out of a crowd of students, but then cops were trained to be observant.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“You were supposed to come down to the station and look at more photos.” He was studying her hair. Any second she expected him to ask why she’d done it.
“Now?” Maggie fought panic. She wasn’t ready.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’ve got a class.”
“How about after?”
“My last class gets out at 4:00.”
“Mrs. Kenyon.”
“I’m sorry, school’s important to me.”
“Alright, I’ll pick you up at 4:00.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Norton. I know how to find the police station.”
But she had trouble finding a parking spot that evening and didn’t get into the squad room with Norton till ten after five. “That’s a lot of books,” she said when she saw the stack she was going to have to go through.
“We could be here a while,” he said. “It’s a good thing I live alone.”
“Okay, let’s get started.” Maggie was glad she’d called Gay and told her she might be late. From the amount of mug books on Norton’s desk, it could be an all nighter.
Three hours later, eyes bleary, she turned a page and sucked in a quick breath.
“See something?” Norton said.
“That kinda looks like him.” It looked like Horace with the ferret face, only lots younger and with longer hair.
“You’re sure?”
Maggie looked at the picture for a few seconds. It was Ferret Face. She gulped. Part of her wanted to tell this policeman everything. Another part said to hold her silence and that’s what she did. Yes, he and that Virgil character had chased her on the beach, but what if it was only because they’d seen her in the paper? What if they were only going to mug her?
“It’s not him,” she said.
“You don’t look so good,” Norton said.
“It’s a little warm in here.”
“No it’s not.”
“I’ll be alright.” But she didn’t know if she would be.
“Make real sure it’s not him. Look hard.”
Maggie did. “It’s not him.” But it was Ferret Face, however that didn’t mean he was the one who did the killing in the mini mart. She couldn’t be sure, not for certain. She couldn’t name him for that. Besides, she’d look awful stupid if she said it was him and it wasn’t. If he had an alibi, like if he was miles away or something.
“Norton, phone,” a seedy looking detective from the other side of the room called out. “I’ll transfer it over.”
“Norton here.” He listened. “Oh no!” He sat as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. “I see.” He hung up.
“What?” Maggie knew it was bad.
“My mother took her life.” He was shaking.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” He looked at her, eyes misty. “My ex-wife died last year. A skiing accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We were young, had kids, then divorced. We never should have married, but she got pregnant, you know how it goes.”
“Yeah, I do,” Maggie said.
“The kids have been staying with my mother in Avalon.”
“I’ve been to Catalina. It’s nice. Good place for kids to grow up. Safe.”
“I’m going to have to take some time, go over there.”
“Of course.” Maggie wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how.
“I’ll have to get my cases reassigned, yours too.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” He was speaking as if every word was an effort. “A man named Larry Striker is the lobbyist for Nakano Construction. They build all over the county, office and apartment buildings of the ten to twenty story variety. It’s rumored they use a lot of Yakuza money. Yakuza, that’s like the Japanese Mafia.”
“I know who the Yakuza are,” Maggie said.
“Striker used to be a cop. Twenty years, rose to captain. He knows everybody. When he left the force he went to work for Congressman Nishikawa as his local administrative assistant. It was Nishikawa who got him the job with Nakano. You see, there’s laws, a congressman can only pay so much. With Nakano, the sky’s the limit for a guy like Striker.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was the kind of cop who wasn’t afraid of breaking the rules. He wouldn’t think twice about lying on the stand, lying to his boss, to the press, to anyone if it furthered his career. I’d imagine he’d be very valuable to a company like Nakano.”
“So, why are you telling me all this?”
“This guy you almost identified, Horace Nighthyde, he used to snitch for Striker.”
“Surely that’s a coincidence?”
“Maybe.” He stared across the room with a faraway look in his eyes. “Let’s look at what we have so far. When we pulled your ex in, he acted like the ballbuster he is in court, but as soon as we threatened him with a few hours in a holding cell, he started to make nice. He confessed he was working with Frankie Fujimori. They knew you were following him and were waiting for you to harasses him. Kenyon didn’t just want a restraining order, he wanted you arrested.”
“Swell guy.”
“You married him.”
“We all make mistakes.”
“Yeah, well, I know about that.” Then, “Fujimori wasn’t the only Asian in that store when he was killed. Ichiro Yamamoto, ex-employee of Congressman Nishikawa, was there too. He was Striker’s right hand when Striker was in the Congressman’s employ. He stayed on for a year or so, then he was caught in a bar with an ounce of cocaine and sixty-thousand dollars.”
“Let me guess,” Maggie said. “He said it wasn’t his.”
“You’re partly right. He owned up to the coke, but said the money wasn’t his. He wanted to cut a deal, said he had the goods on the Congressman. For something that big we called the DA and Assistant DA Norris Stover came right over. Yamamoto said the money was from Striker and Nakano, a regular payment which Nishikawa distributed among a few other congressmen to get them to vote against anything that has the government interfering in Western Africa.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Yamamoto claimed Nakano was supplying some oil company with weapons and that somehow those weapons were being traded for illegal diamonds.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Conflict diamonds. Diamonds mined by rebel armies. They use them to finance their wars.”
“Oh.”
“But the investigation stopped dead in its tracks, because Yamamoto made bail and two days later someone shot Frankie Fujimori dead right in front of his eyes. All of a sudden Yamamoto says he was lying about the congressman and the diamonds. Apparently he’d rather go to jail, than have what happened to Fujimori happen to him.
“You think Nishikawa had Striker send this Nighthyde character to kill him? Nishikawa’s a war hero. He wouldn’t do that. That’s nuts?”
“You’re probably right. It’s just one of those things that bothers a homicide detective, you know, a coincidence.”
“Your Yamamoto character was probably lying through his teeth.”
“I admit it’s thin, but it’s something I would have followed up.”
“Do you think it should be?” Maggie didn’t want to admit that Congressman Nishikawa might be a crook. She’d met him at several functions. He was kind of a friend of Nick’s. He seemed like such a nice man.
“Yeah, but it’s not easy questioning people like Nishikawa and Striker without a lot more to go on.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes, sighed. “Look, there’s this guy, Lt. Wolfe. Billy Wolfe. He’s a weird duck, works alone. I can try and get him interested in this. Maybe he’ll take it on. He’s the only one I’d trust with i
t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Besides having to go up against the brass to get permission to question a congressman, we’re overworked, and it’s no secret if you don’t clear a homicide in the first couple of days, it’s almost never solved. We’re going on two weeks with this one, so most of the guys would put it on the back burner, even if Striker and Nishikawa weren’t potentially involved.”
“And this Billy Wolfe won’t.” Maggie fidgeted in her chair.
“He’s not like the rest of us. It’s not that he’s smarter. He just looks at things differently. It’s one of the reasons he works alone. The other is he doesn’t keep regular hours. He might work forty-eight straight, then we might not see him for a week. Sometimes he works nights, sometimes days, sometimes he sleeps at his desk.
“If he takes a case, there’s a high probably it’ll get solved. He has the highest clearance rate in the state, the nation I’d bet.”
“What do you mean if? Doesn’t he get assigned cases like any other officer?”
“Nope, he only takes on the ones that interest him.”
“How’s he get away with that?”
“He doesn’t take the easy ones. He gets an open and shut and he passes it on. Makes him very popular among the guys. The brass don’t like him much, but they keep him around because he hands them the hard ones on a platter. The press keeps his name out of the papers because he delivers good stories, usually slanted to put pressure on whoever he’s investigating, but they’re good stories nonetheless. They know he’s using them, but they can’t help themselves.
“I’ll talk to him, tell him what I have. If I can get him interested, we got a shot at solving this. If not, well, once the shooter finds out the case is gathering dust, he might forget about you.” Norton got up from his chair.
“Maybe we should just forget about the whole thing.” Maggie got up too. “I mean nobody’s going to be mourning for Frankie Fujimori.”
Norton met her eyes with his pale greys. Was it her imagination or did his faraway look go suddenly sadder? “It’s your call.”
“You can do that, let a civilian decide?”
“I’m going to Catalina in the morning. If I don’t interest Billy in this, ain’t no one else gonna run with it. It’s the way it is.”
“Why are you doing this?” Maggie felt as if the walls were closing in.
“The shooter didn’t do you in the store when he could’ve, so chances are he’s already forgotten about you. Hell, he probably just had a hard on for Fujimori like you did. I’m sure you got nothing to worry about.”
“That’s good.”
“But if the shooter was Horace Nighthyde-”
“What’s your first name?” Maggie said.
“Abel.”
“Abel,” she held our her hand. “Maybe you better have that talk with Lt. Wolfe.”
“I think that’d be best.” He took her hand, shook it.” Meanwhile, you be careful.”
“I will.” She hadn’t fooled him at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie inhaled the night as she walked down Pacific Avenue to the Porsche. She faced into the wind, took another deep breath. Late moon, gentle breeze, a nice night for a ride in a convertible. She punched the remote and smiled as the top came down. She’d never get used to that.
A car rounded the corner from First Street, rap music blaring from speakers loud enough to fill the Hollywood Bowl with sound. The car, chromed and lowered the way only a teenager could do it, cruised by and Maggie waved. The kid riding shotgun waved back, then flashed Maggie the thumbs up sign. She gave it back. Four kids having fun. Maggie envied them.
She reached the Porsche as the kids turned onto Fourth Street, taking their music with them. Then the night was quiet again. She got in, started the car and sighed to the sound of its powerful engine.
Going east on Ocean, she saw a liquor store on the other side of the street. She needed milk for Jasmine’s Frosted Flakes and she didn’t want to go to the convenience stores in the Shore, because she might be recognized, despite the head job. She made a fast U turn at Atlantic. A quick glance in the rearview told her the car behind did the same. She parked in front of Beach Liquor. The car behind, a shiny black BMW, slid on by, panther-sleek as it slowed, then parked in front of her.
She stepped out of the Porsche, eyes on the Beemer. Was it following her? No. Just another person who needed something at the liquor store. She was being paranoid. She shook her head and went inside. Still, with everything that had been going on, maybe being paranoid was a good thing. She passed the checkout counter, went to the back, to the cooler section, where she got a half gallon of milk.
She started toward the check-out, stopped. There was no one in the store, except herself and a young black kid behind the counter reading a computer magazine. Whoever was in the black BMW hadn’t come in yet. Why not? Were they out there waiting for her? That’s absurd, she chided herself. But still, they’d been out there long enough. There were no other stores open on the block. Either they were here to buy something in the liquor store or they were following her. Nothing else made sense.
Then, as if in answer to her question, a big man wearing an expensive suit came in the front. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, hair cut close, like he was in the military, but he carried himself with all the confidence in the world. Maybe he was an officer, a general or something. The driver of the BMW. Had to be.
She met his eyes and shivered under the cold stare. He appraised her the way no woman likes to be looked at, a leer, almost evil. Instinctively, she took a step back. She turned toward the coolers, turned into the next aisle and picked up a bottle of California wine as if she were interested in buying it.
She put it back, picked up another, studied the label without seeing it. He was coming closer. She heard the soft steps of his hard soled shoes on the cement floor. All of a sudden he was behind her.
“BV Private Reserve, 2009. Good wine, but a little young.” He had a rich voice. A baritone, almost musical. It terrified her, sent a cold wind up her back. She didn’t know why. There was no explanation for it.
“I’m just looking.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“If you need some help, I’m sort of an expert on California Cabs.”
“No, I can manage.”
“Really, I don’t mind.” Now he sounded like a vampire from one of those old black and white horror films. She wished he’d just go away.
“My husband’s the wine drinker.” She hoped he’d take the husband hint and leave.
“Not you?”
“No, the milk’s for me.” She held it up. It was so stupid, but she didn’t want him to think she was buying the wine for herself, didn’t want him to think she had anything in common with him, didn’t want him to think there was any chance, any way, she was going to continue the conversation.
“Milk.” He said it as if it were a dirty word, stepped away from her and went to the check-out where he bought a pack of Kools.
Kools? What kind of man smoked menthol? Not the kind who knew anything about California Cabs. Menthol and Cabernet, no way did they go together. He paid, turned and met her eyes while he was waiting for his change.
She looked away, but not before she caught his wink. It curdled her stomach. What was happening to her? Normally she’d be in the guy’s face, but instead she was acting like a lamb being led to the slaughter and she couldn’t help herself. There was something about the man. Something menacing.
The bottle of wine seemed hot in her hand. She put it back. Stalled for another minute, head down, staring at the labels on the bottles, till she was sure the man had enough time to get back in his car and be gone.
She’d been taking short, rapid breaths. She felt numb, her fingers and toes cold. She took in a deep breath, held it, willing her heart to slow down. She felt wrung out, she was sweating like she’d just done a mile flat out on the sand.
How could some
one affect her that way? She thought about all the photos she’d just seen in the police station. Thought about the young Horace Nighthyde. That must have been it. She’d been looking at all those pictures of criminals and it must have made an impression on her subconscious. Deep down she’d been expecting someone to come after her. Especially after being chased on the beach that way. She’d let her paranoia run away with her.
Pretty dumb.
The man in the BMW had probably been just what he looked like. A guy who was out of cigarettes. He’d seen a woman get out of a Porsche. Saw her at the wine section when he came in. Was intrigued, started a conversation to see where it might go and when it didn’t, he left.
She took the milk to the check-out, paid for it and went back out to the Porsche. The Beemer was gone. She’d been right, after all. It was just a coincidence that the guy followed her through a U-turn and then into the store.
She got in the car, pulled on the shoulder harness, thinking about Nick now. He’d probably tell her the man was following her. Of course, he didn’t believe Oswald killed Kennedy, thought James Earl Ray was innocent and was convinced the Queen was responsible for the death of Diana. Nick would keep a good eye on the rearview mirror. Maggie decided she would too.
She started back down Ocean, made a U at the next intersection and continued on toward the Shore, Pacific Coast Highway and the ride along the seaside to Huntington Beach and her new home.
She gasped. It was there, parked on the right, the black BMW. She grabbed a quick look as she passed it, then looked in the rearview as it pulled away from the curb and came up behind her. So he was following her, after all.
Soon she was at the Y junction. Go right and Ocean continued along the beach till it dead ended at the river that separated the counties, Los Angeles and Orange. Go left and you went up Second Street, through Belmont Shore.
She saw the Belmont Pier up ahead, thought about Darley and Theo. The duplex she’d lived in with Nick was only a couple blocks away. He wouldn’t be home, but Gordon would be.
She put her right blinker on, but went left at the last second. She didn’t want to involve Gordon. She’d call him someday, after her new life was running smoothly. Sometime before the baby was born. But now was too soon.