“War is horrible, like a cancer on society.” She put the cigarette in her mouth but didn’t light it.
“Preaching to the choir.” I dropped the pad back on the table. “He’s gonna die soon. Like any day now.”
Susan Baxter lit her cigarette and blew a plume of smoke over the coffee table.
“He goes without you two talking, you’ll regret that the rest of your life.”
“Get out.” Tears welled in her eyes.
I left, softly shutting the door behind me. The guy who’d been reading the book stood in the front yard, watching me.
“You give a damn about her?” I said. “Or you just laying some pipe?”
“She’s my girlfriend,” he said. “We’re gonna join the Peace Corps together.”
“Then go in there and be nice, because she needs somebody about now.” I brushed past him, headed toward the VW.
“What’d you do to her?” he shouted after me.
I stopped by the driver’s door. “Tried to make a difference.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The traffic on the turnpike between Dallas and Fort Worth slowed to a crawl near the exit for Lone Star Park, the horse track and pari-mutuel betting mecca in Grand Prairie, on the western fringes of Dallas County.
I cranked the AC on high and watched exhaust shimmer through the air.
The midmorning sun looked like an egg yolk swimming in a pool of Crisco, and the Dallas skyline was barely visible only a few miles ahead, the rugged concrete-and-glass mountain range gossamer from the pollution.
Traffic inched along, the road narrowing near the Sylvan Avenue exit as yet another construction crew worked on the blacktop, enlarging this, rerouting that.
To the right lay Oak Cliff, one quadrant of the southern section of Dallas, an older part of town full of rolling hills and narrow streets lined with prewar bungalows and residents looking for cheap housing or a slower-paced lifestyle. To the left lay mile after mile of warehouses, stretching from the turnpike up to the Trinity River.
Another few hundred yards inched by. My cell phone rang.
“Yell-lo.”
“You are not a very conscientious employee, are you?” Anita Nazari’s voice sounded hollow on the other end of the line. She was going for angry but only managed petulant.
“I’m not your employee.”
“You took my money.”
A man behind me in an extended cab Ford pickup honked. I looked up. The traffic jam had broken.
“Why haven’t you checked in?” she said. “It’s been almost forty-eight hours.”
“Your guy’s been keeping me busy.” I decided that, while on the cell phone, it would be best not to get into the carnage that had occurred over the course of the last day or so.
“My guy?” The anger in her voice was unmistakable. “Are you referring to the madman who has been stalking me and my daughter for over two years? Is that who you are calling ‘My Guy’?”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
Frosty silence.
“He’s a pro, a seriously bad cat.” The skyline grew clearer the closer the VW got to downtown. “Might be time to take a little vacation.”
“I am a researcher. I have projects, a staff to consider.” She spoke slowly, as if addressing a child. “I cannot just leave. That’s why I hired you, remember?” She said the last as if she was speaking toa slow-witted child.
“Maybe call the police, then.” I tried to calm my anger.
“The authorities fill out forms, type things up.” Her voice grew quiet. “Or they put you on a list.”
I didn’t reply as I drove across the Trinity River, the full unblemished view of downtown now clearly visible in all its phallic glory.
The turnpike ended and offered several choices. Take Interstate 35 north and head to my motel room for a shower and a change of clothes. Take the interstate south and visit Mike Baxter at the VA. Tell him about his daughter, maybe put a good spin on the meeting, if that was possible.
“I didn’t realize you were a quitter,” Anita said.
“I’m not.” I thought about Ari’s Social Club, the next likely place to learn about her stalker.
“Let’s see…you told me you got fired from your last job, and now you’re quitting this one.”
I clenched the steering wheel until my knuckles were white but didn’t say anything.
“I need you to come to my house in Plano.” She paused. “There have been some developments.”
“What are you talking about?” I headed north on Interstate 35, past the bulbous Reunion Tower and the American Airlines Center. I could take the Dallas North Tollway and head to her house.
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“Downtown Dallas. Tell me wha—”
“I will see you in thirty minutes, then.” The line went dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
One hour later I parked in front of Anita Nazari’s house behind an elderly pickup truck full of lawn equipment. The Range Rover sat in the driveway.
I was late.
I’d stopped at a bookstore on Park at Preston, a few minutes away from Anita’s place. I’d bought a cup of coffee and the Dallas Morning News. Got caffeinated and caught up on current events. Then I had leafed through a copy of the glossy enquirer, People magazine, and learned the latest happenings among the one-named beautiful people, Britney and Brad and Angelina and the rest of the Hollywood crowd.
Call it a little “me time.” Call it I-don’t-like-to-get-bossed-around.
Call it whatever you want, no way was I showing up on her schedule.
After I’d finished with the coffee and magazine, I’d driven to the suburban Mediterranean-style house that Anita Nazari called home.
A Hispanic man stood in the front yard, emptying a lawn-mower sack full of clippings into a plastic garbage bag. He smiled and nodded hello as I walked up the sidewalk. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and gasoline exhaust.
My back ached from sleeping on the narrow sofa in the Winnebago. I was dirty and tired and pissed off.
I rang the bell.
Anita Nazari opened the door. She wore a white terry-cloth robe that stopped midthigh. The robe was cinched at the waist, exposing cleavage encased in a yellow bikini top. Her hair was wet, kept out other eyes by a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of her head.
“I’m sorry about what I said on the phone,” she said.
I stared at her.
“I’m under a lot of pressure. From this man…and work.”
“So you took a mental health day?” I nodded at her clothing.
“The cable people came earlier. I decided to take the morning off. Maybe the afternoon, too.” She shifted her weight, and the robe came open another notch. “Please come in. I am truly sorry for my attitude earlier.” She moved to one side of the entrance, and I stepped inside.
The house was quiet. She shut the door behind me as the lawn mower started up. Just another morning in suburbia.
“Would you like something to drink?” She headed toward the kitchen, the back of her thighs a captivating sight underneath the short robe.
“You said there was a new development?” I followed her into the rear of the house.
She didn’t reply or stop at the kitchen. Instead she glanced over her shoulder once, a strand of damp hair dangling in front of her eyes. She opened the sliding glass door leading to the patio and stepped outside. I did the same.
The patio was flagstone, covered by an overhang from the house. Outdoor speakers played music softly, the Dixie Chicks singing about wide open spaces.
A built-in outdoor fireplace was to the left, an expensive-looking gas grill to the right. In the middle was a glass-topped table and chairs. A ceiling fan swirled overhead, keeping the shaded area relatively cool.
Anita slipped off the robe and dropped it onto a chair, her skin glistening with oil. She tossed her sunglasses onto the table next to a pager and a cell phone before heading to the pool.
“Stop,” I said.
She stopped.
“Why am I here?”
“I need someone to protect me.” She turned to face me. “Why is that so hard to understand?”
“You hired me to investigate the guy who was threatening you.”
“And I don’t like quitters, either,” she said. “You’re not a quitter, are you, Hank Oswald?”
“No. But I’ve investigated, and my advice is to call the police.”
She turned, walked the few remaining feet to the pool, and dove in. Her body sliced through the water like a tan shark. She shot to the other end of the pool without coming up for air, did a flip turn while still underwater, and kicked her way to the middle before surfacing.
The pool was not deep at that point, coming only to where her legs connected to her torso, a stretch of light brown skin bisected by the yellow bikini bottom. Water sluiced down her chest and abdomen, sparkling in the sun like a thousand carats of molten diamonds.
I could smell the dried sweat on my body mixed with the greasy aroma of the IHOP from earlier that morning. Felt the texture of day-old, slept-in clothes. I imagined myself back at the Studio Six, taking a long, hot shower before getting fresh jeans and a clean shirt.
The music changed, another Dixie Chicks tune, this one about missed opportunities and “a home that might have been,” the lyrics all the more plaintive because of Natalie Maines’s remarkable voice.
Anita let herself fall backward into the sparkling water, drifting languidly toward the far end of the pool.
“There haven’t been any new developments, have there?” I stretched my neck, working a kink out.
Anita rolled over and swam to my end of the pool. She stood up, the water coming to her knees now. “You and I are much the same, you know.”
“I seriously doubt that.” I tried to look at her face, not the rivulets of water tracing paths across her flawless skin.
“Outsiders, looking in.” She scratched the inside of one thigh. “I could see it in your eyes the first time we met.”
“I’ve checked you out. You never stay in one town for very long.”
“There’s safety in movement. I learned that early on,” she said. “Old habits die hard.”
“Why is this guy after you?”
She walked up the steps leading out of the pool, stopping when we were a few inches apart. “Do you ever get lonely, even in a city as large as Dallas?”
“I’m a burnt-out and barely employed private investigator who lives in an extended-stay motel.” I could smell her skin now, chlorine, sweat, tanning lotion. “You tell me how lonely I get.”
“I try to talk to Tom about all this …” She shook her head slightly. “But his world revolves around football matches and beer with his buddies after work.”
“Tom’s a man of simple tastes.” I kept my eyes focused on her face instead of her cleavage. “So why do you hang out with him?”
“He’s a kind and decent person.” She crossed her arms under her breasts. “Unfortunately, nice people don’t understand the dark side of human nature.”
I nodded but couldn’t think of anything pertinent to add to her simple statement of fact.
“Tom doesn’t make me feel safe.” She stared at the ground, eyes vacant, going to a dark crevice on the outer fringes of her consciousness, the point in time when things went from good to bad, a sliver of her soul I could never get to in a thousand years of trying.
“Real safety is an…illusion.” My voice grew hoarse as I tried to control my breathing. I always wanted to go to that shadowy spot in a woman’s soul. I was a fixer, a righter of wrongs, and it galled me to think I couldn’t smooth the wrinkles of her existence and make it all better. “The best we can hope to do is keep the barbarians at the gate one day at a time.”
“I’m sorry to get you involved. You didn’t even want to get messed up with me, my problems, anyway,” she said. “I-I’ll call the police.”
I didn’t reply, trying to ease my breathing. My head felt light, dizzy.
She kissed me on the lips, her hand sliding up my arm to the back of my head.
I pressed my lips to hers for a moment and then pushed her away. “Sorry.”
“You’re right. This isn’t the time or the place.” She crossed her arms under her breasts again and hugged herself.
“Last time I got involved with a client it turned out badly for everybody.”
She nodded and returned her gaze to the ground.
I cleared my throat. “The bad guy’s taken out the only witness.” I decided to get back to business and tried not to stare at her breasts, now even more prominent with her arms pushing them up. “He’s pretty connected, seems like.”
“What other avenues of investigation are left, then?” She walked around me and grabbed her robe.
“I have a slim lead.” I followed her inside, remembering Fedora’s mention of Ari the Dallas mobster. “It’s tough to not leave any trail.”
“Then pursue it.” She pulled a container of orange juice from the refrigerator.
“I thought you were going to call the police.”
“You think they’ll help?” She poured a glass of juice without offering me any. “Or even understand?”
“You keep changing your mind; gives me a headache,” I said. “I’m going back to my place and clean up a little.”
“Wait.” She disappeared through a small door by the refrigerator. A few moments later she emerged carrying a Nordstrom shopping bag. “You’re registered under your own name at the motel?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should clean up and change here.” She pointed to the far side of the family room. “There’s a full bath in there.”
She had a point, but I didn’t want to admit it.
“What’s that?” I pointed to the bag.
“I bought Tom some clothes the other day. No particular reason. But I think they might be more useful if you took them and didn’t go back to your motel for a while.”
I debated the choice for a moment and then took the sack and headed to the bathroom. The shower felt great, and the clothes, a black ribbed T-shirt and designer jeans, though not my style, fit pretty well, including the Cole Haan loafers.
Ten minutes later I emerged in a cloud of steam, hair damp, ready to head to Ari’s.
Anita was standing in the hallway, still wearing the robe.
“I expect to be kept posted this time,” she said. “I want to know of your activities.”
“If your phone’s not ringing, it’s me.” I walked out of her house and headed to Dallas.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Professor increased the flow from the tank by a few milliliters, feeling the pure oxygen fill his lungs. He looked at the IV bag hanging from a hook on his closet door. It was three-quarters empty, nearly ten grams of pure vitamin C coursing through his veins now, binding with the poisons there, cleansing his system.
He’d upped his dose of magnesium, too, until he felt his bowels rumble and knew he’d reached his tolerance. Any more would do little good combating the insecticide he’d ingested.
He wished he’d been able to draw out the experience of dying for the Gypsy, but that wouldn’t have been the act of a professional.
He smiled and closed his eyes. Felt the pains in his thoracic cavity lessen a fraction as the antioxidants did their work. The second contractor was dead. The mission secure. The drip of the IV and the hiss of the oxygen tank were soothing, restful.
The buzzing startled him. He opened his eyes, and looked from side to side as he sat up, trying to remember where he was.
Dallas. The rented room. The IV bag still had a quarter to go. He must have dozed off for a moment.
The buzz sounded again. The cell phone they’d given him, only for use in emergencies. He looked at his watch. Noon Wednesday, the next check-in not due for another day.
He yanked off the oxygen mask. The phone was in a small black bag in the cor
ner. He got off the bed and lost his balance, falling to the floor.
The IV ripped from the vein in the crook of his elbow. Blood dribbled down his forearm. He found a discarded alcohol wipe next to the bed and stuck it on the wound, folding his arm to hold it in place.
Buzz.
He crawled to the bag and unzipped it one-handed, flipping open the Motorola. “Yes?”
Silence like in a long, empty hall, electronic echoes, faint crackling. Then a man’s voice said, “Hold one moment, please.”
The Professor leaned against the wall and stared at his spattered blood on the floor, a forensics nightmare if it ever came to that. After what seemed like an eternity, the voice of his employer came on the line.
“You were hired to do a job, weren’t you, sugar?” Her voice contained a mild rebuke hidden under the usual languid drawl.
“Are you not satisfied with my performance?” The Professor moved the phone from his mouth for a moment and cleared phlegm from his throat. “You called me off, remember?”
“You were supposed to take care of this doctor and her research days ago.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line sounded angry now. “To end her threats and what they represented to our people.”
“You don’t know what it’s like in the field.”
“I know you were told to stay away from her until things were clear and you ignored a goddamn direct order.”
He didn’t reply. She had never sworn before. He wondered for a moment how they’d known about his breach of orders, but the question didn’t linger in his mind very long. They always knew. They were in the knowing business.
“Procedures. Goddam procedures. Now I have to fill out a form.” The woman’s voice had lost all traces of southern charm, sounding now like the GS-14 the Professor imagined her to be. “I hate to fill out forms. A fucking paper trail for this type of thing. Can you imagine?”
He shut his eyes. “You’ve really left me no choice.”
“The situation is under control.”
“Please.” The use of the word pained him. Begging now. He had no other option. Even with his reputation, the offers were precious few these days for a man with his skills.
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