Night Tremors

by Matt Coyle

  For the first time ever, I blessed the politicians up in Sacramento. Not even a gang as vicious as the Raptors wanted to take on the State of California and smoke in a bar. Or at least the bar owner didn’t want to and was tough enough to make the Raptors comply.

  I clipped off twenty or so shots with the camera without using the flash. The images would be a bit fuzzy, but the moon and the lights in the parking lot gave just enough illumination to make them identifiable. After a few minutes, both Lunsdorf and the woman flicked their butts into some ice plant that rimmed the parking lot.

  Shit.

  It would have been too easy if they’d just dropped the butts where they stood. Time to go to work. I put the camera away, took off my coat, grabbed a long-handled trash picker and paper grocery bag from the passenger seat, and got out of the car. Police always collect potential DNA evidence in paper bags because the evidence can collect mold in plastic. I didn’t expect the cigarette butts to sit long, but I wouldn’t take any chances.

  The night had some bite to it, made that much colder without my coat. I wore jeans and a Dickies work shirt that had the name “Dave” above the left pocket. A Charger hat wore down low kept my head warm and gave me some cover.

  I walked down the parking lot to the ice plant and zeroed in where Lunsdorf had flung his cigarette butt. There were at least fifty butts in the area, but only ten or fifteen that looked fresh. I plucked them up with the trash picker and smelled them for the scent of smoke. Only seven passed the smell test. Good. A small number for Buckley’s friend at the DNA lab to test.

  The good news was that, although Lunsdorf’s DNA was not in any known database, his fingerprints would be. He’d been arrested a couple times and his prints would be in the FBI’s IAFIS database. So, if I’d found the correct butt, his fingerprints would be on it, and the DNA on the butt could be linked to him.

  I went back to my car and secured the paper bag with the cigarette butts in the trunk. While I was there, I pulled up the floor panel that covered the spare tire. Wedged next to the tire was a small duffel bag. The bag was gray, but it may as well have been black. It was where I kept my off-the-record tools. It held a lock-pick set, a blackjack, and a slim jim. For black-bag jobs. Bob Reitzmeyer didn’t know about the bag. Neither did Buckley. They had never asked me to step over the line. That was my choice. I didn’t use the contents of the bag often, but every time I did, I broke the law. I tossed the duffel onto the passenger seat.

  I’d taken care of my professional task. Now I had a personal one to handle. I got into the Mustang, drove down the parking lot toward The Chalked Cue, and parked next to the Trans Am.

  The man who owned the Trans Am had taken my gun away from me. A gun that I’d never fired and probably never would. Maybe never could. But I’d been a cop. Your gun was a piece of you. The man had taken my gun. A piece of me was missing.

  Now was time to take it back.

  My late father had told me long ago that sometimes you had to do what was right even when the law says it’s wrong. Two years later, he was pushed off the police force for doing something wrong that I don’t think even he thought was right. I didn’t allow myself that cover. I just did what needed to get done. Tonight, I was just doing what I wanted done. No greater good involved.

  I pulled out the slim jim and the lock-pick set from the duffel bag. The slim jim was a two-foot-long flat metal rod, about an inch and a half wide, with a plastic handle on one end and a hook cut out of the metal on the other. It was used by locksmiths to open car doors with keys locked inside. And by car thieves and rip-off artists. And by me. The slim jim only worked on older cars with the door lock on top. Like a ’70s Trans Am. I could have used the lock-pick set on the car, but the slim jim was quicker. I’d need the picks if there was no latch for the trunk inside the car.

  I put my coat back on against the chilled December night. The Trans Am was parked in the second row of cars in front of the bar, so I had cover from a pickup with oversized tires. I scanned the parking lot. Empty of people. I sidled up to the passenger side of the Trans Am where I had more cover, and checked the interior for a blinking light in the dash, signifying an alarm. Nothing. I tried the door handle. Locked. I slipped the hook end of the slim jim between the weather strip and the window near the lock, and gently wiggled it up and down during descent. I felt the hook latch onto something and saw the door lock move slightly. Bingo. I smoothly pulled up the tool and the lock clicked up.

  I scanned the lot again, then ducked into the car. Empty Budweiser cans and fast-food wrappers were strewn on the floor below the passenger seat. This guy was a cheap date and a slob. The car smelled of stale beer, a combination of cigarette and marijuana smoke, and BO.

  I’d only been inside ten seconds and I already wanted out. But I still had work to do. If my gun was in the car, I was going to find it. I opened the glove compartment and five years’ worth of paper car registrations and take-out menus flopped out. I rummaged through the remaining debris. No gun. I looked under the passenger seat and sifted through more beer cans. Nothing. Same for under the driver’s seat and in the backseat.

  I went back into the front seat through the less-exposed passenger door to see if there was a latch for the trunk. I shimmied my torso across the seat and reached underneath the steering wheel in search of a trunk latch. Nothing. When I moved back to the passenger seat, the ashtray caught my eye. It was open a crack, and there was a small, folded piece of paper among smashed cigarette butts. I pulled it out and unfolded it. The address to Trey Fellows’ hideaway was written on it. 5564 Candlelight Drive. Nothing else. I folded the paper up again and put it back in the ashtray, then exited the car.

  Had Eric Schmidt, the Raptor who’d visited Trey with Alan Rankin, given the Trans Am owner the address, or had someone else? Someone on LJPD? I didn’t have time to figure out who or what it meant now.

  I went around to the trunk and pulled the pick set out of my pocket. I put the tension bar, a small, L-shaped piece of metal that looks like a flat Allen wrench, into the bottom of the key slot. Next the rake, another thin strip of metal that is shaped into a couple waves on the end, went into the top of the lock. I pulled the tension bar to the right while I moved the rake back and forth. One by one, the rake moved the lock pins into place and the key slot moved toward horizontal. I pulled out the tension bar and rake, replaced them with a flat-head screwdriver, twisted it up to vertical and the trunk lid popped open. The whole thing took less than a minute.

  I pulled the lid up and looked inside. The trunk was more of a mess than the front seat. More crushed empty beer cans, a crowbar, a Phillips screwdriver, discarded newspapers, work gloves, a heavy chain, and a baseball bat with a small dark stain on the head that could have been dried blood. It could have been something innocent as well. My bet was on the blood.

  On top of the mess were hundreds of fresh pine needles, like a tree had recently been shoved into the trunk. I guessed biker gangs celebrated Christmas too. At least the trunk smelled better than the rest of the car. I pulled up the floor panel and checked the spare tire well to see if the Raptor used my hiding place. Nothing. Just the tire. I closed the trunk.

  I hadn’t found my gun but I may have found something more valuable, the Candlelight address on the piece of paper in the Raptor’s ashtray. If only I knew what it meant or what to do with it. I went back to my car and put the lock-pick tools back in the duffel bag, then went around to the trunk to put away the bag. A voice grabbed my attention as I opened the trunk. I peeked around it and saw the big Raptor with the scar talking to Steven Lunsdorf outside The Chalked Cue fifty feet away. Lunsdorf had been the Raptors’ de facto shot caller since the real boss had been in prison. I wondered if Scarface was his enforcer. He fit the role.

  I pulled the blackjack from the duffel bag, quietly closed the trunk, and crouched down behind my car. I had time to get into the Mustang and drive away before the big guy made it back to his car. That would have been the safe and smart thing to do. Th
e pain in my ribs as I crouched down reminded me that I hadn’t been safe and smart the last time I’d been to The Chalked Cue. It also reminded me of where the pain had come from.

  I raised up a few inches so I could get a good look at the bar. The big one was still talking to Lunsdorf out front. I still had time to exit unnoticed.

  I stayed put behind the car.

  Lunsdorf handed something to the big Raptor, then went back inside the bar. The big dude held something between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe a small piece of paper. He studied it and then put it in the top pocket of his leather jacket. He scanned the parking lot and then headed in my direction.

  I felt the blackjack’s cool leather in my hand. The weapon was a leather strap with powdered lead in one end. I’d never used it before. Not even as a cop. If I did now, I could be looking at jail time if the Raptor pressed charges. It wouldn’t matter that he had attacked me before. I was lying in wait. Serious time.

  My life would be irrevocably changed by one stupid decision. I’d already made one of those decisions in my life. Ten years ago, I’d chosen not to pick up my wife from the library, and she’d been raped and murdered. I couldn’t throw away the sliver of a life I had left.

  I crouched back down and waited for the Raptor to get into his car and drive away. Five seconds later, I heard a key go into a lock and a car door open and shut. The engine didn’t start right up, and I worried that the Raptor might have seen or sensed something wrong about the inside of his car. Maybe there’d been order in the mess. Maybe I hadn’t put every empty Bud can in its proper place. Or maybe he was lighting up a cigarette or a blunt.

  A footfall behind me told me I’d been wrong on all counts. “Waiting for somebody, motherfucker?”

  I recognized his voice. I wondered if he recognized my back. Then I felt cold steel on my neck. The end of a round cylinder of cold steel. “Stand up slowly, asshole.”

  I’d felt the barrel of a gun pressed against my skin before. Two people had died that night, but not me. Had my luck run out? I did as I was told and the gun barrel stayed pinned to my neck. I kept the blackjack flat against my right leg.

  “Think you can sneak up on me?” Apparently not. “Rock picked another dumb motherfucker to do his dirty work. Too bad for you. Start walking to the bar.”

  I didn’t know who Rock was, but it didn’t matter right now. I started walking slowly. If we made it into the bar, I’d either come out on a stretcher or in a body bag. I had to get the gun off my neck and make a move. Or just make a move and hope I was faster than his trigger finger. A quick movement would probably get me killed. I prayed a quick sound wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I let out a sharp groan, stopped walking, and slowly hunched down and loudly hyperventilated.

  The gun barrel lifted away, and I spun around and swung the blackjack at the Raptor’s head just as the butt of the gun came down at my own. The blows landed at the same time. His had been a miss, hitting my left shoulder instead of my head. Mine, a direct hit to his forehead, just above the left eye. He staggered against his car, and I slammed the blackjack down onto the wrist of his gun hand. He yelped. The gun clattered to the ground, and he grabbed his dangling hand with his good one. I smashed the blackjack against his left temple. He hit the ground like a sack of cement falling off the back of a truck.

  I grabbed the gun and pointed it at the Raptor. My hand shook. Not from the adrenaline coursing through my body. From fear. Not of the man lying below me. Fear that I’d have to fire a gun at a human being. Again.

  Fear that I wouldn’t be able to.

  I lowered the gun. No need to fight the fear. The man was out cold. Blood oozed from a lump on his temple. He looked dead. I checked his throat for a pulse. Nothing. Shit.

  I moved my hand and found it. Alive. Whew.

  I examined the gun, then put it in my coat pocket. A wheel gun, but not my Ruger .357 Magnum. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Not as powerful as the Ruger, but deadly enough at close range. The serial number had been filed off. An untraceable gun for a biker hitter, or a throw-down gun for an unscrupulous cop. Or protection for a shaky PI who might never have the nerve to use it.

  The adrenaline evaporated and left an empty echo inside me. My shoulder suddenly throbbed. Maybe it had throbbed all along but the adrenaline had covered it. I used my right shoulder, the good one, to lift the Raptor up off one ass cheek. I pulled his wallet from his back pocket, flipped it open, and found his driver’s license. Wayne Delk, forty-two years old. I pulled out my iPhone and took a picture of the license.

  I put the wallet back in Wayne Delk’s pants. Then I remembered the piece of paper Lunsdorf had given him and pulled it out of his top pocket. The paper had been ripped from the bottom of a piece of notebook paper. An address was scrawled across it in masculine handwriting. 1635 Long Branch #6.

  Sierra Fellows’ address.

  Voices came from the bar and moved toward the parking lot. I crouched down and slid around the Trans Am to my car, got in, and turned on the ignition. I backed out with the lights off. If I’d turned them on, they would have spotlighted Delk slumped up against his car. I eased my way out of the parking spot, pointed the car toward the exit, and turned on the lights.

  It took more restraint than I’d shown all night to keep me from flooring the gas before I cleared the exit. My eyes stayed in the rearview mirror the whole way out. No commotion yet. I exited onto Clairemont Mesa Boulevard and gunned it for home.

  Sierra Fellows’ address on the piece of paper in Wayne Delk’s pocket.

  I whipped out my phone and called Trey Fellows. Voicemail.

  “Trey, get you and your sister out of her apartment. Go to a hotel. Don’t go home or back to Candlelight. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  I prayed he was still alive to hear the message.

  Home would have to wait. I got onto 805 South, took it to I-8 West all the way to Ocean Beach. I had the accelerator pinned on eighty the whole way. Long Branch was just off Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, the main artery into OB. The street was away from the OB bar scene, but parking was still scarce. I had to park nearly a block away from Sierra Fellows’ apartment building. I got out of my car and hustled down the street.

  The night was cool and had the tang of an ocean breeze in it. My coat pocket felt heavy, and I remembered the gun I’d taken from Wayne Delk. With the serial number filed off, I didn’t have to worry about Delk reporting a stolen gun to the police. I just had to worry about Wayne Delk. I wasn’t even sure he’d gotten a good look at my face. If he had, I might spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and keeping my back to every wall.

  The heft of the gun told me it was loaded, but I pulled it out and checked the cylinder to be sure. All five slots full. I hoped they’d remain that way when I checked on Trey and Sierra Fellows.

  A couple of twenty-something dudes stumbled along the sidewalk across the street, high-fiving each other and uttering “bro” every third word. No one else on the street. No Choppers parked in front of Sierra Fellows’ apartment building. At least, not yet.

  Sierra’s unit was the front one on the second floor. The building had five units on top and bottom and staircases at each end. I walked tight to the building underneath the second-floor balcony, all the way down to the far end. I wanted to approach from the back side in case someone was inside the apartment waiting for me or Trey to come up the nearest stairs.

  I made it to Sierra’s unit and peeked through the window where the blinds separated. No one in the living room. TV on. A shadow moved in the doorway of the lone bedroom. I shoved my hand in my pocket and felt cold steel. My breath caught in my throat. The shadow moved through the door and its human likeness followed. Sierra Fellows. Alone. She lugged a suitcase with both hands along her right side.

  I backed away from the window and knocked on the door. Silence except for the sound of the TV. I knocked again and moved my face close to the door. “Sierra, it’s Rick Cahill. I’m the guy wh
o called Trey and warned him. Open the door. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

  I caught a slight movement of the blinds out of the corner of my eye. I stayed still so as not to spook her. The front door opened the width of a chain lock and Sierra’s face appeared. Pretty, as I remembered. But scared. “You’re that jerk from the restaurant. What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry about that.” I sounded sincere because I was. At times, my job called for me to manipulate and use people. Sometimes it didn’t bother me. Sometimes it did. Looking into Sierra Fellows’ frightened eyes, I now felt ashamed. “I was trying to get some information and should have been straightforward about it. But right now I want to get you out of here.”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  I showed my PI’s license. “I’m sure Trey’s mentioned my name.”

  “He has.” She nodded. “I just called a cab. It should be here in about ten minutes.”

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. But we have to leave now.”

  She unlocked the chain and let me in.

  “Did Trey say where he was going?” His glass bong sat on a coffee table. He’d definitely fled in a hurry if he left behind his bong.

  “No.” She shook her head and looked down to her left. A lie.

  “Sierra, I can help Trey, but you gotta tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know!” Shrill. Frightened.

  “Let’s go.” I didn’t have time to argue the truth out of her. Wayne Delk or some of his Raptor pals might show up any minute. I didn’t figure to get lucky twice in one night.

  I picked up Sierra’s suitcase with my left hand and pain from my gun-butted shoulder almost made me drop it. I switched the suitcase to my right hand. Sierra grabbed a coat from a hall closet and followed me to the front door. I peeked through the blinds and didn’t see anything threatening, then opened the door and stuck my head out. Clear.

  “Leave the lights on and lock up,” I said to Sierra, then sentried the balcony, looking down at the courtyard from the handrail.