by Jacob Stone
“So I’m not crazy after all,” she noted bitterly. “The bastard is cheating on me.”
“It’s worse than that.” Lemmon showed her the photos of the man Hardacher met earlier at the motel. She didn’t know who the person was, and he explained his suspicions about what her husband had hired the man to do. Her face crumpled as she made sense of what he was saying. It tugged at Lemmon’s heart to see that.
“Do I go to the police?” she asked.
“A police contact is trying to identify the man from the photos, but so far no luck. Unfortunately, the police won’t be able to do anything unless you’re able to give them evidence of a crime, which we don’t have yet.”
Lemmon suggested a course of action, which she agreed to. She would call her husband and tell him that she needed to go to San Diego right away on an emergency business trip, which was plausible, given her job. She would also give him a motel address that Lemmon provided, and he would hire a freelance operative to stay there as a decoy while he kept watch on Hardacher. It seemed likely that Hardacher would make contact again with the suspected hit man. Having his wife killed in a San Diego motel room would be an ideal solution for both Hardacher and the man he hired. The only question left was where the client would stay while this was going on, and Lemmon decided to put her up in his home. Polk would give him holy hell if he found out, no doubt making cracks about Lemmon opening up a home for wayward clients.
Corrine wasn’t too happy when he brought Wendy Hardacher home yesterday. While she didn’t go so far as make him sleep on the couch, she made sure there was no physical contact between the two of them last night, clinging to the edge of her side of the bed so their bodies wouldn’t touch. If they had, Lemmon probably would’ve gotten frostbite.
Lemmon casually read the day’s sports section as he chewed on another bite of scone and sipped more of his latte. He had his cell phone on the table, and the app Felger loaded on it was configured to beep when Hardacher’s car moved. His thoughts drifted from what the Rams needed in the upcoming NFL draft to how frightened Wendy looked when he asked whether she had any friends she could stay with while he continued the investigation. She was scared to death this suspected hit man would track her down, and so he offered to put her up. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he hadn’t done that. If Corrine wanted to be mad at him, fine. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else. And the hell with Polk and any cracks that jackass might want to make about it!
Lemmon smiled grimly, thinking of how Polk was pissing him off about something that the guy hadn’t even done yet. He needed to take some time off from work when this assignment was over. No question, he was going a little nuts in the head. Or maybe it was from thinking about Annie yesterday. The truth was he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. He made a decision. When this was done, he was getting in his car and driving somewhere remote and spending a week or longer away from stakeouts, cheating spouses, and insurance-fraud cases. Whether or not Corrine would want to accompany him would be a separate issue.
He took another bite of scone and settled in for what he expected to be a long day of waiting for his smartphone to beep.
Chapter 45
Natalie strategically took a sip of her iced tea to give her time to regain her composure. Never let them see you sweat, and that was especially true of Rachel. She loved her daughter with all her heart, but she could be so infuriatingly stubborn, even more than Morris. The only one she could think of who might have the edge on Rachel in the stubbornness department was Parker. A bull terrier!
The two of them were having lunch outside at a quaint bistro three blocks from UCLA, and Rachel had just dropped the bombshell that she didn’t want an engagement party. And of course now she was smiling pleasantly, as if she had only commented about what a perfect sunny April day they were having.
If Natalie showed any sign of weakness, she’d be lost. She took an extra few seconds to pat her mouth with a napkin, and commented about how she thought the engagement party question had already been decided.
Rachel pursed her lips as if she were searching her memory. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she said. “You did mention that you wanted to throw me one, but I don’t believe I agreed to it.”
“You’re going to make an excellent prosecutor one day,” Natalie said. “What exactly would your objection be to having one?”
Rachel made the same face she used to make when she was six and Natalie insisted she eat her broccoli. Nine years later she would become a full-fledged vegan with broccoli a staple in her diet.
“An actor I don’t know throwing a big, gaudy party at his Malibu estate,” she said. “No thanks.”
“I see. Interesting,” Natalie said. “My plan was to only invite relatives and friends and anyone else you wanted. And the party would be understated, not gaudy.”
“Sorry, no, it’s not for me. I don’t even understand the point of having an engagement party. I think a small wedding will be sufficient, assuming we don’t elope.”
Natalie opened her mouth to argue with her daughter, but closed it again as the waitress arrived with their food—a garden salad with extra chickpeas for Rachel, and a Caesar salad with grilled salmon for her. As the waitress arranged the plates in front of them, Natalie caught the wisp of a smile that flitted on Rachel’s lips. She understood then what her daughter was up to.
She waited until the waitress left, then said, “I’ll make you a deal. If you let me throw you the engagement party, I promise to be hands-off on the wedding plans. Not a peep from me about it.”
Rachel’s wisp of a smile showed briefly again. She asked, “Including the invitation list?”
“Yes.”
“Deal.”
Natalie took a small bite of her lunch and chewed it carefully before addressing Rachel again.
“Well played, Daughter,” she said.
Rachel’s wisp of a smile expanded into a full-out grin. “Thank you, Mother,” she said.
Duncan sat at a nearby table, eavesdropping on their conversation. He had followed another couple to the restaurant thinking they might be what he needed, but shortly after the waitress had taken his order he decided they wouldn’t be right. He was disappointed, of course. He had invested over an hour spying on them, but after a promising start, he realized they weren’t married or engaged or didn’t have even have any interest in each other, besides easy hookups. But he needed to eat and this place seemed as good as any, so he ordered a roast beef and cheddar sandwich. His ears perked up shortly afterward when he heard the woman nearby ask her daughter about an engagement party.
He had noticed the two of them earlier, when the hostess brought him to his table. How could any guy not notice them? They were obviously mother and daughter, given how much they looked alike. Both slender, dark-haired, and beautiful, the mother dressed professionally in a blouse, skirt, and flats, and the daughter in a polo shirt, jeans, and tennis sneakers. He had a special reason to notice them—or at least the mother, given how much she looked like his mom, although her hair was darker and she was older than his mom was when she died. But she had similar delicate features and a softness in her brown eyes that flashed him back for a heartbeat to when he was a nine-year-old boy and his mom was kissing and hugging him good-bye for the last time. It was spooky in a way.
Since hearing the word engagement Duncan started thinking about making the daughter one of his victims. She was more than just beautiful—a knockout, and it would have to destroy any guy lucky enough to be her fiancé to watch her being stabbed and cut to death. There was something else about her that made him want to choose her as one of his victims. One way that she was very different from her mom was her flinty gray eyes. They showed a certain strength, toughness, and self-confidence. They were the eyes of someone who knew she had a happy life ahead of her, and Duncan found himself wanting to see those eyes weak and pleading for him
to spare her. Whenever he could, he snuck peeks at her, and soon found himself thinking he might enjoy killing her even without needing to force her lover to watch her die.
The waitress brought over his food and he ate leisurely, wanting to make sure he finished after the mother and daughter he was eavesdropping on. They were circumspect in their conversation, talking in soft tones, and Duncan had to strain to hear what they were saying and at times he missed not only words, but whole sentences. He wanted to catch their names, but if their names were said, he missed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught them leaving the table. If they noticed him glancing their way, they didn’t show any indication of it. He waited until they left the patio area before dropping enough money on the table to cover his bill, then stood so he could follow them. A look at their table showed that they paid their bill with cash instead of a credit card, so he wasn’t able to get either of their names that way.
He spotted them on the next block hugging, and watched as the mother got into a car and the daughter stood waving good-bye, a big grin on her face. Duncan turned away and acted as if he were studying the bistro’s menu that was posted outside. He didn’t want the woman to see his face when she drove by. He couldn’t shake the thought that if she did, she’d know what he was planning.
Once the car drove past him, he continued after the daughter. She had a two-block lead on him, but he made up the distance quickly, staying thirty yards behind her. If she was driving he would’ve been out of luck, but the fact she was walking told him this was kismet. That she was meant to be one of his victims. The idea of it fixed in his mind, and he found himself wondering what her fiancé was like. No doubt one of life’s most fortunate and beautiful people. He had his plan and all that, but he was going to enjoy himself with these two, especially watching the flinty look in her eyes crumble to dust. Nobody had the right to be that damn cocksure of their future!
He followed her to the UCLA campus and then to the law school building, and he watched as she jogged up the stairs and went inside. He thought of several schemes he could use to get her name, but decided they’d be too risky. He took a deep breath and stood motionless, trying to calm the thoughts ricocheting through his mind. As much as he wanted to claim her as one of his victims, he had his plan, after all. He had to be smart about this.
He’d come back to the campus. If it was meant to be, he’d find her again; if not, he’d move on to other victims. C’est la vie.
For now he would do more hunting. Later, he’d get ready for tonight.
Chapter 46
Madison, Wisconsin. October 2006
Dan Skerrit hustled the three beers back to the booth, then slid in so that he sat across from Duncan and Wainwright. Wainwright didn’t hesitate to pick up the beer that had been left in front of Duncan. He guzzled down half of it before setting the glass down.
“The boy ain’t of legal age,” he explained.
Skerrit laughed. “Frank, you suddenly become a paragon of virtue?”
“Damn straight.” Wainwright licked his thick, rubbery lips, then picked up the glass and finished off what was left of the beer Skerrit had bought for Duncan. He wiped a jacket sleeve across his mouth. “The boy’s my grandson. Someone’s gotta look out for him.”
That was rich and it should’ve been enough to get anyone who knew Wainwright as well as Duncan did to bust a gut laughing, but it didn’t even crack a smile from him. He sat as serious as could be.
Skerrit leaned halfway across the table and, keeping his voice low, said, “Tell the truth, Frank. You just want to keep this boy skinny enough so he can wriggle his ass through broken basement windows.”
Skerrit broke out laughing so hard that he had to wipe a tear from his eye. He wrestled his wallet from his back pocket and offered Duncan a twenty-dollar bill.
“Just ’cause your grandpa is a cheap bastard don’t mean you should suffer,” he said. “Buy yourself a shot, a beer, or whatever you want. Nobody here will bother carding you.”
Duncan took the money and shoved it into his front pocket. He knew Skerrit was right. There wasn’t a single person in this dive bar who would care about a sixteen-year-old buying himself an alcoholic beverage, but Skerrit wasn’t handing him the money out of the goodness of his heart. He was doing it so he could talk over the nitty-gritty details of the job without Duncan around.
“I’ll stay,” he said.
“The boy’s all business,” Wainwright remarked with a note of pride in his voice.
Whatever disappointment Skerrit might’ve felt, he kept in check. He didn’t even ask for the twenty dollars back. Instead, he sat back and took a drink of his beer. Wainwright picked up the beer that had been bought for him and took a long drink. Duncan suggested they quit lollygagging and get down to business.
“Might as well,” Skerrit agreed. He leaned halfway across the table again, and keeping his voice low, he told them that he knew about a coin collection he wanted them to steal. That he would pay them 5000 dollars to do the job. He didn’t have to keep his voice low. Conversations from other booths and at the bar—both heated and otherwise—had collected into a loud clamor that would’ve drowned him out even if he were talking in his normal voice.
Duncan asked, “How much are these coins worth?”
Skerrit made a face as if Duncan had just insulted him. “Five grand’s not enough for you?”
“Depends how much they’re worth. You’ve been taking advantage of us, Dan. I think it’s about time we start getting twenty cents on the dollar for what we steal for you.”
Skerrit was a skinny man with a long nose, pointy eyes, a weak chin, and a generally unkempt appearance, all of which made Duncan think of a sewer rat. Anger shrunk Skerrit’s eyes to even tinier dots, and he bared his teeth the way a cornered rat might. He turned to Wainwright.
“Can you believe the nerve of this punk kid?” he demanded, his voice strained. “Frank, don’t tell me you want to walk away from five grand?”
Wainwright had gotten quiet. He had also taken his switchblade from his pocket and opened the blade. Skerrit didn’t see that, but Duncan had. While Wainwright couldn’t have used the knife from where he was sitting, he could if he got out of the booth and sat next to Skerrit. Duncan didn’t put it past him to do that. Wainwright had been in an exceptionally ornery mood the last couple of days.
“I think the boy’s got a good point,” he said, very quiet-like. “The money you paid us for those other two jobs seemed kind of light. Why don’t you tell us what the coins are worth?”
“It doesn’t matter what they’re worth.” From the way Skerrit started eyeing the exit he must’ve seen the open switchblade in Wainwright’s hand. “The fence I’m using is paying twenty-five cents on the dollar of the appraised value. I can pay you six grand, but that’s it.”
“Ten,” Wainwright said in his soft, murderous tone.
Sweat had beaded up on Skerrit’s forehead and under his nose. “All right, eight grand,” he agreed. “That’s as high as I can go. As it is, you’ll be cutting my own margins down to almost nothing, and I’ll be lucky to make a grand out of this myself.”
Duncan was convinced Skerrit was lying. He probably had a private buyer already lined up, and would be bypassing a fence altogether. Wainwright should’ve stuck firm to his ten-grand demand, but it was evident from the smile on that wrinkled his face that he was satisfied with what Skerrit was offering. Eight grand, along with what they made from the other two robberies, would keep Wainwright in booze and whores for months. Wainwright closed the blade with his thumb and put the knife away. He relaxed back in his seat.
“Why don’t you tell us about this job?”
Skerrit handed over a sheet of paper that had all the information. What he had joked about earlier with Duncan needing to stay skinny so he could get through a small window hadn’t been a completely random thought. The latch for one of the basement
windows had been broken by one of the local tradesmen who got paid by Skerrit to break window latches, and that was how Duncan was to gain access into the house.
“Any dogs?” Duncan asked.
“There are no dogs.”
“There was one on the last job you sent us on.”
Skerrit’s nostrils flared to show his annoyance. He crossed his bony arms over his even-bonier chest. “So I made a mistake with that one,” he stated stubbornly.
Duncan said, “You weren’t the one bit on the ankle.”
“You’re walking around just fine now. And I paid you an extra five hundred for that scratch.”
It was more than a scratch. Wainwright didn’t want to bring him to a doctor and stitched Duncan up himself. The wound had gotten swollen and pussy, and Wainwright broke into a doctor’s office to steal antibiotic samples. It had only been the last three days that the swelling had gone down and Duncan was able to put any weight on the foot.
Wainwright asked, “Any guns in the house?”
“None.”
“All right, then.” Wainwright finished up his second beer, sucked in his gut, and squeezed himself out of the booth. Six years ago when Duncan met Wainwright, the man had been lean and lanky, but over the last year he had grown thick around the middle. Age catching up to him, as well as all the booze he’d been drinking.
Duncan followed Wainwright out of the bar. He got behind the wheel and as Duncan drove them back to the motel where they were staying in Madison, Wainwright commented that if this job went well, they would be flush with cash.
Wainwright sat back in the passenger seat and drank rye from a bottle, his thick eyelids closing fast. “We’ll spend another month or two doing jobs around here,” he murmured, his voice drifting as if he were about to fall asleep. “Come winter, we’ll head to Florida. I got a contact there who’ll set us up on jobs. If things keep going well, we’ll even drive to Orlando and spend a week or two in Disney World and let you play around there. How’s that sound, boy?”
