Nobody Move

by Philip Elliott

  They ordered a couple cocktails and Eddie eyed her handbag, which she’d set on the bar beside her.

  “Why you go to Prague?” she asked him while they waited for the drinks.

  He tried to conjure an answer. What country was Prague in again? Slovenia? Slovakia? One of those “Slov” countries around that area, he was pretty sure.

  “You want to know the truth?” he said. “Nothing brings me there except my finger and one of those model globes of the earth.”

  “I no understand,” she said, frowning in that expressive way Europeans have with their faces.

  “It’s true—I spun a globe of the earth, closed my eyes, and stopped it with my finger, and wherever it landed was where I was gonna go. That place was Prague.”

  Her manicured eyebrows crawled up her forehead. “You Americans, you are all so dramatic. Everything is like movie with you.”

  “You know, that’s probably the truest statement I’ve ever heard.”

  “What if your finger found the middle of the sea?”

  “Then I would’ve found a boat.”

  She giggled, one hand over her mouth as if laughter was a criminal offense.

  The cocktails arrived. Eddie’s was pink, just like the cocktail Dakota had brought him in the Pink Room a lifetime ago. His stomach sank, and he missed Dakota sorely.

  “You know nothing of Prague?” the European said.

  “Not a thing. I barely know what country it’s in.” He grinned and she laughed, her hand curling down to slap the air in front of him in a feminine gesture.

  “You are funny,” she said. “You American men try very hard to be funny but I am thinking you are the real deal, maybe.”

  “Honey, I’m as real as they come. Your turn—what brings you to L.A.?”

  “I am model. L.A. has many opportunity.”

  “Do you like it?”

  She gazed beyond him for a moment, considering the question. “Yes, but, it is not like movie. I come here thinking it would be more like movie, but really it is just a city, like any other city. But I do like it very much. It is maybe a little more … dull than I imagined. But more fun than Prague, and more opportunity for me.”

  “Lady, if you think it’s dull here, you’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd.”

  It was time to swipe the card. Eddie stood up.

  “I’m gonna pay a visit to the little boy’s room but I’ll be right back,” he said. He pulled out his chair and faked a stumble, knocking her cocktail and handbag onto the floor.

  “Oh crap, I’m so sorry,” he said, aware of the cop nearby watching now. “Let me get that.”

  He bent down to pick up her bag and glimpsed her purse. He was in luck—it had a flap opening rather than a zipper. He slipped his fingers inside and grabbed what he hoped was a credit card. He pocketed the card as he turned to face her with the bag in hand.

  The barman arrived looking irritated.

  “Sincere apologies, my man,” Eddie said. “I can clean that up for you.”

  “No, it’s not allowed,” the barman said, stepping through an opening in the bar.

  “Oh, well, okay. Hey, can I get the lady a fresh drink when you’re ready?”

  The barman nodded joylessly.

  The European was smiling coyly at him.

  Eddie said, “Sorry again. At least you didn’t get wet; that makes me feel better. I’m gonna drop these bags into a locker, visit the little boy’s room, and be back before you know it. When I get back, I wanna know your name.”

  He made for the lockers, hoping the “accident” hadn’t aroused any suspicions. The airport was thrumming with people of every creed and color. It took a minute to weave through them all. He paid for one of the big lockers on the bottom and squeezed one of the bags inside—leverage in case the meet with Saul went south. The other he’d be bringing with him.

  Nobody approached him as he walked away. He thought about leaving the airport right then and tossing the European’s credit card in the bin, but if she noticed the card was missing before she got on the plane, things could get messy. He’d finish his drink, slip the card inside her handbag, and tell her that he’d meet her on the flight.

  But first, it was time to call Saul.

  Another night, another murder. Alison received a call from the station informing her that one more person had been killed in a manner that resembled the murders of the Texan, lawyer, and gas station victims. She rushed to the location, an apartment in Boyle Heights. After the movie earlier that day, Charlie had fallen asleep as soon as they got home, and, left with no leads to follow, Alison had opened the laptop and researched newspaper reports through the years while Charlie slept on her lap. She’d been looking for unsolved murders that matched the M.O. of those she was investigating. And she found them. A whole lot of them. Her search had proved even more fruitful when she widened it to include all of California, and then neighboring states. There had been a whole string of murders dating from 1987 to 2009 spread out across various cities of a band of western states from Oregon to Arizona. Then the trail went cold. As far as she could tell, nobody had yet connected the seemingly disparate murders, but connected they surely were. The details were too similar and specific to be coincidence, and all of the victims had been involved in the criminal underworld in some way. Alison was sure that the man she was hunting was some kind of assassin who’d retired only to be pulled back into the game after William Kane’s murder. And now he’d killed again.

  She entered the apartment, glad to be at the scene before forensics, and nodded a greeting at the officers inside. The apartment stank, and not just of death. She had to step over filth on her way to the body. And there it was: a man in his thirties with long blond hair and a sliced throat. The man’s shirt was drenched in blood, some of it still wet by the look of it. She noticed the wound in his sternum. There was no doubt about it: this was the work of her killer.

  “What do we know about the victim?” she said to anyone within earshot.

  “Nothing yet,” said a young male officer, stepping closer. “The old lady next door called it in after hearing a disturbance, but she knows nothing about him, and we can’t get a hold of the landlord just yet. I didn’t want to touch anything, but maybe he has some ID in his pocket.”

  “You did good. There’s nothing I hate more than a spoiled crime scene. Go tell the neighbor I’ll need to speak with her in a minute.”

  Alison took gloves out of her back pocket and stretched them onto her hands and searched the dead man’s pockets. Nothing. What did this man have to do with the Texan and the lawyer? Maybe he’d worked for one of them. Maybe he’d been one of the three men who’d pulled the trigger on Kaya White and William Kane and buried them in the forest. If that was indeed the case, that left two of those men alive—but not for long. She’d talk to the neighbor and let forensics do their thing. Hopefully they’d find a fingerprint they could use, though she doubted it.

  The neighbor was an old Russian lady with severe white hair and a voice ravaged by cigarettes, one of which she held in her hand currently, puffing at it every few seconds. The woman probably smoked in her sleep.

  “I tell the police already—I hear loud banging, men shouting, screaming. I call the police, the police come. What more you want from me.”

  Alison couldn’t help looking at the Russian dolls arranged in a line on a bookshelf. A doll inside a doll inside a doll … the sensation was familiar.

  Alison said, “Sorry to bother you again, but I’m hoping you might have seen or heard something that can help us. Maybe a name was mentioned?”

  The woman waved her hand briskly, dropping ash on the carpet. “No no, only screams. I see nothing, I hear nothing. I would like to be on my own now.”

  Alison glanced away and rolled her eyes. People could be so selfish in this city.

  “All right, I wouldn’t expect an old Russian like you to be any help anyway,” she said with calculated risk, and turned away.

  She had a han
d on the door handle when the woman said, “Wait. There was something.”

  Alison faced her. “Yes?”

  “A car, outside. After I hear the shouting, everything go quiet. I call the police and open the window to let some fresh air in before the police come. Then I see a car outside drive away. I remember because it was a beautiful car. Very old, but it looked like new. Maybe this car had nothing to do with it, I don’t know, but that’s all I saw.”

  “A car?” Alison stepped closer, excitement building inside her as she remembered something. “Was this car teal-colored with a cream roof?”

  “Teal? What color is this?”

  “Green, with a hint of blue.”

  “Now that you mention it, yes … the car was the same color as a beautiful lagoon on a tropical island.”

  Alison dug her phone out of her pocket and searched Google for images of a 1966 teal and cream Chevrolet Impala—the same car the old man in the liquor store in Indio had described that morning.

  “Is this the vehicle?” she said, holding her phone in front of the woman’s face.

  The woman squinted into it, and met Alison’s gaze. “That’s exactly it.”

  18 | The Good, the Bad & the Ugly

  Outside the apartment block, a red sun was slowly dropping away from the earth. Thick warm air wrapped its arms around Alison. She unlocked her unmarked police car and got into the driver’s seat, leaving the door open.

  She grabbed the radio. “This is Detective Alison Lockley issuing an urgent request to all units: Be on the lookout for a lone white male driving a teal and cream 1966 Chevrolet Impala. The suspect is wanted for multiple murders and likely armed and dangerous. Radio immediately upon sight of a vehicle matching this description but do not attempt to engage the suspect. That’s a teal and cream 1966 Chevrolet Impala.”

  The officer she’d spoken to in the apartment exited the building as two more arrived. He exchanged some words with the other two.

  Alison waved him over.

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “I am?”

  “You are.”

  “Where we going?”

  “I don’t know yet but I’ll need the back-up. Hop in.”

  He glanced down the street. “What about my patrol car?”

  Alison whistled at the two officers outside the apartment block. They looked over.

  “Can one of you get that squad car back to the station, please? Officer …” She looked at the officer next to her window. “What’s your name?”

  “Bukowski.”

  “Me and Officer Bukowski here have somewhere to be.”

  “Who’s asking?” said one of the officers, stepping toward Alison’s car.

  “Detective Alison Lockley. And I’m not asking.”

  The officer nodded reluctantly.

  To Bukowski: “Get in.”

  Bukowski got into the seat beside her. “What’s this all about, Detective?”

  “I put a B.O.L.O. out for a vehicle, a teal and cream sixty-six Impala. Soon as someone spots it we’ll be racing to the location. The suspect will be armed and won’t go down easy, and I might not have time to wait for back-up.”

  Bukowski nodded, his forehead creased in an extremely serious manner that made her want to chuckle. Up close like this she saw that he was even younger than she’d thought. Probably a rookie.

  “What’s he suspected of, Detective?” Bukowski said.

  “Murder. And a lot of it.” It did nothing to relax his expression. “You ever pull your gun on someone, Bukowski?”

  “Yeah … once.”

  Christ, he was a rookie. “Good. All you’ll have to do is point your weapon at the suspect and I’ll do the rest. If the situation looks bad you’ll cuff him and I’ll drop him if he tries anything.”

  He nodded. “I can do that. So now what?”

  “Now we drive around and look for the car while we wait.”

  “You mind if I smoke in here, Detective?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll let you this time since I’m dragging you around.”

  Bukowski put a smoke between his lips and patted his leg. He patted the other leg. Now he was groping at his shirt.

  “Jesus, here,” Alison said, and held out the golden Zippo she’d found under the lawyer’s desk. She’d kept forgetting to take it out of her jacket and was quickly getting used to having it there.

  “Thanks,” Bukowski said after exhaling a plume. “The fuck, is that made of gold?”

  “Long story. You hungry? ’Cause I’m starving.”

  “There’s a decent burger joint around the corner.”

  “They got anything vegan?”

  Bukowski frowned. “I dunno.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Alison turned the keys and pulled out onto the street. In the distance, the giant globe of the sun had almost vanished behind the twinkling skyscrapers, the sky above them pink like a wound.

  Eddie approached the restaurant with a pistol in his waist and a knot in his stomach. The million-dollar bag was over his shoulder, heavy as ever. The sun had set over Los Angeles and the freaks and losers would soon come out to play. Not that anyone would much notice in Beverly Hills. The restaurant was painted white and a massive neon sign ran along the length of it spelling out “The Long Goodbye” in an ’80s, Miami Vice kind of script, the tail of the “y” in “Goodbye” curling beneath the final “e” and trailing behind to underline the entire title. It looked good: minimal and cool.

  Eddie hesitated before he opened the restaurant doors. It occurred to him suddenly that this might be the last doorway he’d ever pass through alive.

  Fuck it, everybody dies eventually. He pushed open the heavy door and crossed the threshold into the entrance foyer. Instantly two men were upon him.

  “Woah, take it easy,” he said.

  One of them took the bag from his shoulder while another pushed him against the wall and spread his legs. Shit, they were gonna take the gun; he’d been hoping Sawyer would be the one to search him. He tried to peer inside the restaurant but the man searching him held him in place.

  “You didn’t really think you were gonna get this inside, did you?” the man said, holding the pistol by the barrel next to Eddie’s face.

  “No, but stranger things have happened. I know a guy who survived a bullet to the head and the very next day slipped on a wet tile coming out of the shower and broke his neck. Died instantly. So, me keeping that gun wasn’t out of the question.”

  “It was rhedorical,” the man said.

  “Rhedorical?”

  “A question not s’posed to be answered.”

  “You mean rhetorical.”

  “No I don’t. Keep your mouth shut and follow me.”

  The man stepped in front of Eddie and walked deeper into the restaurant. He was broad-shouldered and stocky with a blotchy tattoo of something indistinguishable on his neck. Eddie followed him, the other man carrying the bag of cash behind them.

  Eddie passed through the foyer into the large oval-shaped dining area. Jeweled chandeliers sparkled all over the ceiling; a hundred bottles glistened behind a white marble bar to the left; small round tables circled the room, longer rectangular tables in the center, each covered in white cloth; a giant mirror ran along the circumference of the room, creating a sensation of infinity. A space had been cleared in the center of the room where three men stood beside a small round table. The chubby man sitting at the table picked up a cup and sipped.

  “Eddie. Glad you made it,” Saul said, setting the cup down on a saucer. “And with my money, I presume.”

  The man behind Eddie went to Saul and dropped the bag on the table.

  “Where’s Dakota?” Eddie said. And where the hell was Sawyer?

  “I killed her and ate her heart,” Saul said.

  Eddie stared at him.

  Saul smirked. “I kid, I kid. She’s alive and well.” He waved a hand and one of the men standing beside him d
isappeared into the kitchen area. He waved again and another lifted the bag of cash onto a nearby table and began taking out the bundles and stacking them.

  “Cup of tea, Eddie?” Saul said.

  “Give me a real drink, for fuck sake.”

  Saul smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His smiles never did. “You’ve earned that much.” He wagged a finger and his waiter, who Eddie remembered was named Marcel, seemed to materialize out of the wall.

  “The Springbank,” Saul said.

  Marcel nodded and hovered silently away. He passed through the kitchen doors as the man who’d gone into the kitchen area a minute before returned, Dakota shuffling along before him with her hands tied and duct tape over her mouth. Her gaze found Eddie but did not linger. She looked … distant, and her eyes and cheeks were red, from crying, probably. But she was unharmed. Relief surged through Eddie, and with it a new sense of urgency. Only now did he become fully aware of the thought that had been scratching the back of his mind since the night before—the thought that had said Dakota was already dead.

  The man counting the cash finished the task. He placed the bundles back into the bag and zipped it shut and said something into Saul’s ear. Saul nodded, never taking his gaze off Eddie.

  “Have a seat, Eddie,” Saul said, gesturing toward the empty seat opposite him.

  “I’ll stand.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  Saul’s men were staring at Eddie, looking like they’d love nothing more than to bruise their knuckles.

  Eddie sat in the seat. This close to Saul, he could see the small pearls of sweat permanently on the man’s fleshy face, smell the man’s musty cologne.

  “It all comes down to this, doesn’t it, Eddie?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The meet. The money for the girl. The last-ditch attempt to save your skin. We’ve all seen this a thousand times.”

  The guy thought he was in a fuckin’ movie. “Well, it’s certainly a first for me,” Eddie said.

  “What do you think I’m going to say next?”

  Playing games, as usual. “I don’t know, Saul.”