by Bob McElwain
Brad shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Josie gave him a quick glance. “Peron didn’t give your name. I was just fishing.”
“You sonofabitch! Why me?”
Exasperated, Brad rose and began pacing slowly. “I’m in a box with no place to go. When Peron said there was somebody else, yours was the last fit for a name,” he finished lamely.
“Shit! That don’t make it. I must’ve done something.”
“I am curious why you want Overnite Air, unless maybe to expand some kind of illegal operation.” Brad leaned on the back of his chair, watching Tuckman intently. “Why do you want an airline losing money?”
“I told ya before. That ain’t your business.”
“Humor me.”
Tuckman sighed, replaced his glasses and leaned back in his chair. “How come I don’t just toss your ass out of here?”
Brad shrugged.
“Ok.” Tuckman leaned forward once more. “In the last ten years, I ain’t got a dime for my twenty-five percent. I plan to get me a whole lot real soon. That airline could easy make big bucks; it could be the biggest thing on the west coast. All I gotta do is reschedule the whole operation and change some rates.”
“I don’t get it,” Brad said.
“It’s the same in a lot of businesses. Take trucking. Ya got the rigs, the drivers and maybe some warehouses, but nothing to haul today. So ya pick up a load that maybe’s only even money, or worse, just to keep the drivers happy and the trucks rolling. Pretty soon, ya look around and ya got no time to haul a money load; you’re all contracted out for break-even stuff. I seen guys go under.
“That’s what’s wrong with Overnite Air. They got a bunch of runs going out light or even empty. All I gotta do is make sure the schedule’s right, so the planes are loaded. Maybe I have to use some trucks to haul to a central site and shut down some smaller offices.”
Brad glanced at Josie. “Don’t look to me for financial evaluation,” she said. “I’m no expert, but he does make sense.”
“So where’s that leave me?” Brad said disgustedly, sitting back down.
Tuckman was all business now. “Thirty thousand dollars richer, maybe enough to pay Walden. Ya gotta take my deal.”
“I’ll go for fifty thou,” Brad said to Tuckman.
“That’s a bunch of crap! The most trouble ya could cause me would be maybe forty. Where’d you get that number?”
“It’s what I owe a friend.”
“You’ll take forty or forget it. And that’s ten more than I figured. I ain’t interested in your troubles.”
Brad rose, turning to Josie. She also stood and they started toward the door.
“Ok. Ok!” Tuckman surged to his feet and lumbered around the desk. “Ya’ll sign a total release?”
“Yeah, but I’ll need cash.”
“Where the hell am I gonna get cash?”
“Can you picture me in a bank with a check?”
“I see what ya mean. But it’ll take time.”
* * *
An hour later they watched the same truck and driver that had picked them up, drive off down the alley. The money was a comfortable bulge inside Brad’s shirt. In the car, he handed the fat envelope to Josie. “Get this to Amanda.” He unbuckled the money belt, counted out some bills and stuffed them in his pocket. He tossed the belt into her lap. “What’s there is yours. When it’s gone, I’ll find more.”
“That doesn’t leave you much, does it?” She looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read.
“Won’t need much. I’ll be free, dead or behind bars before I can spend what’s in my pocket.” He started the car and drove off.
As he approached a small shopping center, Josie said suddenly, “Pull in here.” He did. “Park over there,” she demanded, pointing. He watched her disappear into a K-Mart. When she came out, she had a box, paper and string. Then she was gone again, into the post office. She clung to the semblance of a smile when she returned without the box; it was not reflected in her eyes. “I mailed it to Amanda. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Where to?”
“Let’s get something to eat. Then we’ll—”
“You’re out of it,” he interrupted firmly.
“Why?”
“Up to now, we’ve done what seemed reasonable.”
“What you’re planning is unreasonable?”
“I’ll do whatever needs doing,” he said grimly. “Don’t think you’ll much like it.”
“You’re probably right, but I’m staying.”
“There’s your license.”
She didn’t answer.
“You wouldn’t like jail.”
She still did not reply. Her gaze remained fixed on the sky over the Hollywood Hills. Slowly she turned to face him, placing her hand on top of his. “I want you to take me with you and run.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m tired of waiting.”
“For what?”
“Freedom, maybe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be grown up so I’d be free to do what I wanted. What I did and saw in Nam messed me up inside. I lost track of what freedom was.”
He took both her hands in his. He didn’t notice her efforts to hide the pain from his grip.
“When the Cong tossed me into that black hole in the ground, I finally began to understand. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know all of it. But freedom’s an idea, something to reach for.
“When Gerald was murdered, I ran to a freedom beyond a cell. But it was only a bigger cage, filled with things I couldn’t do or hope to have.
“Now I’m back. I’ve had a taste of freedom of a different sort. I like it. There’s people I can love, things I can do and dreams to dream. It’s bounded by death or worse. But I mean to have it.”
“Or you’ll die trying?” Josie shivered.
“Whatever, but I’m through running.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said with finality.
“I could leave you right here,” he said.
“Don’t do that.” Again he became lost in the blue of her eyes.
“Guess I’ll have to feed you then.” He released his grip, started the car and drove from the parking lot. He didn’t notice Josie rubbing her hands briskly to restore circulation.
* * *
In the early afternoon, the coffee shop was nearly empty. Brad and Josie took an isolated booth against the far wall. When the plates had been removed and fresh coffee served, Brad tried to remember what he’d just eaten. Had it tasted good?
“So,” Josie said, “we’re looking for the head of a heroin smuggling ring, someone who has decided to quit, at least for now. Someone who’s killed everyone involved.”
“What about Gerald?”
“Perhaps it’s the same person. Gerald may have found out what Lydia was doing and died because of it. It’s possible he wanted in on the operation.”
“Suppose you’re right? The question is, who is the killer? Rinolli comes to mind.”
“Possible. Let’s put him at the top of the list.”
“It’s a short list. Who else is on it?” he asked.
“It’s probably someone we don’t know about and wouldn’t suspect if we did. If Sgt. Walters is right, it’s a police officer.”
“Lt. Stratford? He’s on my case.”
“He’s a possibility, but only that.”
“There’s Walters.”
“Sarcasm isn’t going to get us far.”
“How about that narc, Feldersen?”
“Come on!”
“Yeah, you’re right. I just feel boxed.” He paused, then a slight tight smile settled on his lips. “If it was Rinolli, I could get real interested in going at him.”
“He wouldn’t close down because of you. He’d have had you killed.”
“Expect you’re right.”
“Lydia was your wife. Could there be anything there?”
He shrugged again.
“Look,” she began, enthusiastic now. “You were married to her. Maybe you know something you don’t recognize as significant.”
“Like what?”
“Something personal. Something she wouldn’t share with most. How did you meet her?”
“We were both pretty active supporting the war in Vietnam. My dad was always quick to salute the flag. Guess I took my direction from him. Anyway, I was really into it. Busy hating the guys skipping out to Canada and the long-haired types protesting. Lydia was around a lot. Looking back, I don’t know why. She didn’t seem to believe in much of anything.”
“How did you get involved? Sexually, I mean?”
“I don’t see how this can help.” He could feel his face flush.
“I’m not going to be bruised by something that happened four years ago. How did you connect with her?”
“She was beautiful. Probably the most beautiful girl I’d ever been close to. Fellas were always around, their tongues hanging out. One night, after a big ball game I’d won with an interception, we ended up in her apartment.” He paused, remembering and editing what was to come.
“It was a new experience for me. No fondness or gentleness. Just waves of exploding sensation. Over the next few months, she kept me busy.”
“Did you love her?”
“I thought so. I know now, she didn’t love me.”
“I wonder why she married you?”
“I haven’t a clue. But then I didn’t understand a lot of what she did. One Thursday afternoon, she picked me up from school and told me we were going to Vegas; she wanted to get married. I guess I only went along for the ride.”
“But even married, she was involved with others?”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“You mentioned finding her with a woman. How did you learn about the others?”
“I stumbled across her diary. If you like that sort of thing, it made good reading. Maybe that’s the real reason I enlisted.”
“Sounds like quite a girl.”
“She was the closest thing to total animal I’ve ever known. She did as she pleased and didn’t give a damn about consequences.”
“Did she name names? Mention particular events?”
“It was more a mental garbage bag. The only names were those she made up. She called me Squarehead. Guess I didn’t measure up.
“Real events were mixed with fantasy. The daydreams were ultra erotic, mostly pretty sick. In describing real events, she’d say how she felt and what was missing, the things she wished had happened. All of it was gross.”
“Was it all erotic?”
“I didn’t read much.” He was blushing again. “But there was a lot about power. Like she wanted to be queen of the world. She was fascinated with death and torture and such.”
“Do you think she was still keeping a diary when she was killed?”
He shrugged. “Seems like the cops would have found it. And if there’d been anything in it, Walters would have told me.”
“Where’d she keep it?”
“She had a hidey hole in the bottom of a closet in the hallway.”
“Why don’t we go take a look? Even if we don’t find a diary, we might turn up something. The police were conducting a murder investigation, and she was the victim. They weren’t looking for evidence of a smuggling operation.”
Brad didn’t reply. He seemed to be trying to decipher a coded message in the pattern in the Formica tabletop.
“You’d rather take on Rinolli, wouldn’t you?”
“He can wait.” He looked steadily at the tabletop. “I’d rather not open a can of dead worms, is all.”
He rose slowly, adjusted the brown Stetson and walked with Josie to the cashier.
Brad drove. He stopped by a pay phone in the next block. “Best let Walters know what’s happened.”
She nodded and left the car. When she returned, he asked, “What’d he say?”
“ ‘Thanks’ and ‘Now get that man’s ass out of town.’ That’s a direct quote.”
* * *
Brad drove slowly past the homes which backed up to Lydia’s. Stopping in front of a large green house, fronted with massive shade trees, Brad left the car. If he remembered correctly, an older couple without children lived here and both worked. At the front door, he knocked several times. Satisfied no one was home, he made his way into the back yard as Josie drove off.
Lydia had added panels of fiberglass all around the top of the six-foot block wall. The massive swimming pool was an extension of her sexual playground. Examining the panels, he found the end of one that was loose. He knocked it free and scrambled over the wall. He carefully replaced the panel; it would hold for a time.
Four years ago, there had been a key near the pool cabana. He dug with a stick. The plastic container was there. Moments later, he snapped the police seal on the rear door and used the key. He walked quickly to the front door and opened it two inches to let Josie know he was inside.
He was still examining the door when she entered. The police seal had been broken, but not by him. As she closed it behind her, she said, “Someone was in here. As I pulled up, a heavyset man ran to a gray Buick. The driver took off like the proverbial bat. He must have seen you when you came over the back wall.”
“Why did he run?”
“He wouldn’t, if he had a right to be here.”
They moved swiftly through the house. There was no sign anyone had been looking for anything.
“Let’s get to it,” Josie said.
Brad walked to the linen closet in the hallway, hesitated, then opened the closet door. The shelves were unfinished cedar. The bottom shelf held only a pair of sheets and a blanket. He tucked his fingers into a small notch at the back of the shelf. When he tugged, the shelf slid forward exposing a three-inch gap between it and the concrete floor. He explored with his fingers, then withdrew them suddenly. He stood, wiping his hands roughly on his pants. “They’re there,” he said, not looking at her. He turned and left the hallway.
Minutes later Josie entered the living room, sat down on the couch and spread five journals out on the coffee table. She ordered them by date of first entry. She pulled a small notebook from her purse and began reading. She made occasional notations.
Brad could not watch; reading those diaries was a task he was glad to ignore. A room at a time, he searched the house. Every item was carefully examined. He removed each drawer and examined the drawer itself, then the cabinet, as he’d seen Josie do at the hotel. His methodical efforts did not include returning anything to its proper place.
Two hours later, he’d found nothing unexpected. Lydia had collected a wide variety of sexual toys he had not seen before, but he had seen no suggestion of smuggling. He’d found a stash of grass and another of coke, overlooked by the police, but only usable amounts, nothing saleable. The Polaroid shots of groups of people entwined in sexual embrace demonstrated she had been interested in quantity and a variety of activities. He suspected some of the video tapes by the recorder and camera might also be records of sexual activity. He did not test this theory.
When he came up on the gun rack, he stopped. His glance was locked on the dark brown stain that contrasted sharply with the ermine white carpet. He knew it had been bright red, as blood had flowed from Lydia’s body. The whole of it grabbed tightly, and refused to let him think of anything beyond bright red turning dark brown on a white background.
Finally, he shook his head and looked up at the gun rack. He reached out and opened the ornate hand-carved doors. The weapons were expensive. Two hand-engraved shotguns were the most impressive pieces. A variety of handguns were prominently displayed. The scoped 30-06 was a notable piece. None were what most women would choose.
As he closed the cabinet, he looked at Josie in the living room. She was writing in her notebook. Remembering a bottle of bourbon he’d found, he walked over to her, laid the Polaroid shots on the coffee table, then
turned toward the kitchen.
She was a gun freak, all right, he thought. He sat down at the kitchen table with a light drink, remembering how often she’d fired at a bush or tin can in the back yard. He also remembered the neighbor’s reluctant resignation; they’d heard it before and calls to the police had proved futile. He wondered, idly, as he sipped his drink, what had happened to her nickel-plated, pearl-handled .38 revolver. When he’d known her, it was her favorite.
Abruptly he stood and moved back to the gun rack, trying to ignore the dark brown stain on the carpet. The back of the cabinet was lined with velvet. Behind one empty slot, there was a slight impression. He reached for the .32 and moved it to the empty slot. It fit the impression well. He examined the velvet behind where the .32 had been. There was a fainter, larger impression, unnoticed at first glance. Thoughtfully he returned to the kitchen. Lydia’s nickel-plated .38 had been hanging in that gun rack until recently.
He was still thinking of the missing pistol when Josie joined him. Even in the growing dusk, the harsh lines of her face were clear. There was an indefinable expression in her eyes, bright and hard. As she sat down across from him, her tightly drawn lips stretched even further. She grabbed a glass and poured a hefty dose of bourbon.
“As you said, she wasn’t a very nice woman. To put it kindly, she should have been put away.” She handed him one of the diaries and pointed. “As near as I can determine, she wrote this about three years ago.”
Brad willed himself to look where she had pointed. He read aloud, “When he came to the car window, I reached beyond his hands, grabbing his wrists.” Brad looked up at Josie, pleading. She was looking at the pool in the backyard; she would not meet his glance.
He bent his head and continued reading silently. He had trouble identifying even simple words. “It seemed like years passed before Luie fired three times. I was filled with the feel of it, the greatest high ever. The shots sounded like one continuous rolling crash of thunder. Blood exploded all over the blue silk shirt I’d bought him for his birthday.”
Brad could not continue. He remembered the blue shirt. It had been one of Gerald’s favorites. He’d been wearing it when Brad had taken the .45 from him in the bar the night he was killed. He felt cold, even as sweat beaded on his forehead. He also looked out at the pool, not wanting to look at Josie. “Her own brother?”
“It would seem so.” Josie shivered slightly. Her voice was cold, her face pale, older somehow, in the growing darkness. “She had quite an imagination. Sometimes it’s difficult to know whether she’s describing something in her mind or something that really happened. But that section is a description of a real event. Gerald was shot three times in the chest, just as she describes.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Do you have any idea who Luie might be?”
