Blind Side

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Blind Side Page 8

by Josh Lanyon


  “That’s their story!” Ashe glared at him.

  “Sure, but it seems to be corroborated pretty thoroughly. I talked to a lot of people yesterday. Friends of your mom, neighbors, the mailman, the kid who delivered her groceries, the lady who did her nails at the beauty salon—”

  “I didn’t ask you to do any of that!”

  Taylor hung on to his restraint. “I’m not completely sure what you are asking me to do.”

  Ashe cried, “Did you bother to notice that Zamarion has a prison record, or were you too busy investigating me?”

  “Yes. I noticed he’s got form, including a conviction for manslaughter.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “That he can be a violent guy.”

  “Exactly! That is exactly right!”

  “Ashe.” Taylor stopped. Tried for a reasonable tone. “He did his time, and there’s no indication that he’s been in any trouble with the law since. I don’t know what happened regarding your mother’s will. It’s clear you don’t think Zamarion has any right to this property. And I guess that’s understandable. But unless the two of you can reach some agreement, it seems like that’s a fight that has to be made through the courts. From what I heard yesterday, there doesn’t seem to be any doubt you would win that battle.”

  “Yes! That’s what I said. So why are you lecturing me?”

  Taylor sighed. “Because being angry about Zamarion coming for your inheritance doesn’t give you the right to harass him or try to set him up.”

  Ashe scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No!” But Ashe seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

  “Here’s what I think. I think you’re in a hurry to sell this property. I think you want to get back to Josip and making movies. Zamarion is standing in the way of that. And I think you decided the best way to deal with a ‘lowlife’ like him was turn the law on him by accusing him of things like threatening to kill you, trying to run you off the road, and setting fire to this house. He’s already got a record and a reputation.” Taylor shrugged.

  “You are so wrong.”

  “Honestly? Nothing would make me happier. I don’t like feeling manipulated. Or used.”

  Ashe gaped. “Used?”

  “Yes. You presented me with a portrait of a bad guy, told me you were afraid for your life, and set me loose. I think you hoped I’d eliminate your problem for you.”

  This was the part that most troubled Taylor. The suspicion that Ashe had thought Taylor might push Zamarion into doing something that landed him back in prison—or worse.

  Ashe’s hands were shaking. He dropped the coffeepot, which shattered, spilling glass and coffee over the counter and floor.

  He screamed, “I am afraid for my life!”

  The dripping silence following that shriek was almost as loud as the scream itself. As protests went, it was pretty convincing.

  “Yes, I’m trying to fight fire with fire, you’re right. And I’m sorry if you feel used.” Ashe’s eyes filled with tears, and his voice got choky. “But for fuck’s sake, Taylor, you’re the only person I know who could deal with something like this. Maybe he didn’t try to set fire to the house, but he did try to run me off the road. He did threaten to kill me. Not once. Three times. He is going to kill me. But he’s smart. He’s been through the system. He knows how it works. He knows how to play it. So no one believes me. Even you don’t believe me. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to die.”

  Taylor wavered. He had walked into that house convinced he was being manipulated, but now he wasn’t so sure. Ashe was frightened to the point of near hysteria. He wasn’t faking it. He also wasn’t denying he had lied again and again.

  Now what?

  The thought must have been there on his face to read because Ashe said hopelessly, “Taylor, if you won’t help me, I’m dead. It’s that simple.”

  Maybe it was that simple. Probably not. He kept coming back to the heart of the matter: he had promised to be there if Ashe ever needed him, and it was pretty damn clear that Ashe needed someone. Taylor seemed to be it.

  He watched Ashe cry, mopping feebly with a paper towel at the coffee dripping off the counter onto the floor. Ashe shook his head hopelessly, wiped his face on his shoulder, mopped at the coffee some more.

  “All right,” Taylor said grimly. “I have a lead on Zamarion. I’ll try to talk to him. If that doesn’t work… I don’t know. One thing at a time.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Taylor.” Ashe dropped the sodden paper towel on the floor, came to him, put his arms around him, and Taylor stood motionless. He felt sorry for Ashe. He was also repelled by him. Not an attractive combo. He let Ashe hug him, then carefully disengaged, trying not to look like he was backing away.

  “Okay. It’ll be okay. I’ll let you know what happens. In the meantime, stick close to home. And don’t be afraid to call the sheriff’s if something spooks you.”

  “I won’t. And I have my father’s pistol.”

  Taylor’s heart sank.

  “Right. But you don’t want to pull a weapon unless you’re prepared to use it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll use it,” Ashe said. “When the time comes.”

  It took Taylor all morning and part of the afternoon to locate Mike Zamarion.

  He finally tracked him down through his former parole officer from a youthful felony assault and battery conviction, which led to the parents of Anne Zamarion, which led finally to Anne herself.

  “Who are you?” Anne questioned when Taylor finally managed to get through to her at the North Hollywood art supply store she managed.

  “My name’s Taylor MacAllister. I’ve been hired by Ashe Dekker to see if some agreement can’t be reached with Mike over the house on Foothill Road in Carpinteria.”

  “What agreement?” demanded Anne.

  “That’s what I’d like to figure out. It’s better for everyone if this can be resolved without the expense and stress of a court case, don’t you think?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “What did you say your name was?” Anne asked.

  “Taylor MacAllister. My company was hired by Ashe to see if some compromise can’t be worked out.”

  “Taylor…MacAllister?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll have Mike call you back.” She disconnected.

  Taylor was doubtful about ever hearing voluntarily from Mike, but about an hour later, as he was sitting in a North Hollywood Starbucks, drinking coffee, watching the rain bounce off the green umbrellas on the small patio, and wondering if there was any other fucking Christmas song besides Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You,” his phone rang.

  The profile of Unknown Caller popped up.

  “MacAllister.”

  A raspy voice said, “This is Mike Zamarion. I hear you’re trying to find me.”

  “I am,” Taylor said. “Can we meet?”

  “Not so fast. What is it you want?”

  “Just to talk. Ashe hired me to see if there was maybe a friendly way to resolve this situation.”

  Zamarion laughed. There was a lot of ambient noise in the background, like he was on a cell phone while driving. “I doubt that!”

  “What is it you doubt?”

  “A peaceful resolution.”

  Taylor asked patiently, “Why’s that?”

  “Because your boyfriend is a fucking sociopath, in case you didn’t know it.”

  Taylor didn’t answer. He’d had a number of enlightening phone conversations that day. Zamarion’s former parole officer actually thought pretty highly of him. She believed that Zamarion was a victim of environment, bad temper, and bad luck. He was apparently, among other things, a talented artist, and had things gone a different way, could have had a very different life.

  Which kind of went without saying.

  Anne Zamarion’s parents also seemed to believe that, despite a fondness
for booze and broads (Taylor’s words, not theirs), Mike was a good-hearted, talented guy that Fate just seemed to have it in for. They believed Mike’s manslaughter conviction was a great injustice.

  Taylor, liking to know who and what he was dealing with, had read the court case, and wasn’t convinced. He thought Zamarion was probably smarter than the average bear, but also probably more prone to violence.

  Zamarion said, “He destroyed that will, you know. Alice wanted me and the girls to have the house. He didn’t care until he ran out of money. He sure as hell never cared about Alice.”

  “Families are complicated.” Taylor had good reason to know.

  Zamarion snorted. “Greed isn’t. He wants what he wants, and he doesn’t care who he has to hurt to get it. Which you—” He broke off.

  “Okay. How do we resolve this? Because let’s be honest. You’re not going to get that house. You can make life difficult for Ashe, and maybe that’s your goal, but you strike me as a practical guy. Maybe we can reach some arrangement which actually brings benefit to you and your family.”

  Zamarion began to laugh. It was kind of unnerving. “Are you for real?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”

  “Suppose you fill me in?”

  “Not a fucking clue.”

  Taylor opened his mouth, but he was suddenly aware that he didn’t have a fucking clue. Something was going on here that he didn’t understand.

  The windy silence between them stretched, and then, startlingly, Zamarion hung up.

  “What the hell?” Taylor stared at his phone.

  He thumbed through his Recents, found Unknown Caller, and tried phoning back. The cell rang and rang.

  Nobody home.

  He thought about calling Will—that was his default—but Will had enough on his plate today. No point rubbing in the fact that the partner who should have been sharing the drudgery of that survey was busy wasting time they didn’t have.

  He thought about ordering a sandwich to-go, wondered what the hell he should get Will for Christmas, considered his quickly dwindling options for getting hold of Mike Zamarion.

  His cell rang. Unknown Caller was back.

  “Bad connection?” Taylor asked.

  “You have no idea.” Zamarion’s voice dipped.

  “What?”

  “If you want to know what’s really going on, bring twenty grand in cash to lifeguard tower eleven on Carpinteria State Beach. If you’re not there by seven o’clock, don’t bother showing up at all. This is your one and only chance.”

  “You’re dream—”

  Zamarion disconnected again.

  “Shit.” Taylor glared at his cell screen and saw that while he had been speaking to Zamarion, Ashe had phoned.

  He muttered his exasperation, checked his messages.

  Ashe’s recorded voice sounded contrite. “Hi, Taylor. I should never have involved you in this. Can we just forget the whole thing? Don’t try to contact Zamarion. It’s not worth it. I don’t want to live with knowing something happened to you because of me.” He gulped audibly. “Let’s just… Consider yourself fired, okay? And…why don’t you come by for a drink tonight. For old times’ sake. Say seven o’clock?”

  Taylor groaned. Behind the long counter, the baristas eyed him doubtfully. Taylor put his hand up in a don’t-mind-me gesture, and phoned Will.

  Whereupon his day went from bad to worse.

  Lunch with David Bradley? Seriously?

  Not that Will was lying. Will did not lie. Even when it might have made life easier for both of them. But of all the fucking gin joints in all the fucking world, did he really have to walk into a restaurant where goddamned Lt. Commander David Bradley happened to be eating lunch? It wasn’t even lunchtime!

  Was the universe trying to tell them something?

  To make it worse, Will had sounded so guilty and nervous and apologetic.

  Was that how Taylor made him feel? Was he the bad guy here? Because he really, honestly hadn’t thought there was a bad guy, just bad luck.

  It kind of took the heart out of him, thinking that maybe Will was starting to feel beaten down and misjudged. Especially since Taylor had been thinking he was doing such a good job of letting go of the past. God. The last thing he wanted was for them to start that kind of bitchy, barbed interaction so many couples seemed to devolve into.

  Was that where they were headed?

  Maybe once he’d sorted out Ashe’s problems, and the gauntlet of Webster Fidelity was behind them, he and Will could sit down and just…talk. Like they used to. Before they’d left the DS. Before everything got so complicated.

  Before it was too late.

  * * * * *

  Will called as Taylor was leaving the office.

  “I’m ten minutes out. Don’t leave without me.”

  “Meet me there. I can’t afford to be late.”

  Will said urgently, “No. Taylor, no. Listen to me. I heard from Stuart Schwierskott a little while ago. Ashe Dekker is not who you think he is. He’s not the guy you used to know.”

  “I’m not the guy he used to know either.” Taylor lowered his phone to greet Euphonia, who was trotting across the rain-slick bridge. “You’re supposed to be parking in the lot, Nee.”

  Euphonia, returning to the office to make sure all signs of the godawful gold duck on the lobby wall were eradicated before another sunrise, called cheerfully, “Good night, Agent MacAllister.”

  He raised the phone to his ear to hear Will saying, “…not to mention he’s got expensive habits.”

  “Schwierskott? What are you talking about? Why are we suddenly working with Schwierskott?”

  “You’re not listening to me,” Will cried.

  Taylor, remembering his reflections earlier that afternoon, stopped walking. He said quietly, “I’m listening.”

  Rain pattered on the leaves overhead. There was a short in the Christmas lights strung around the miniature golf course, and the windmill and pagoda appeared and disappeared in red-green lightning flashes.

  “Taylor, he’s setting you up. This is a trap.” Will sounded as out of breath as if he was running on foot from San Diego.

  Taylor looked skyward. “Who? Zamarion?”

  “No!”

  “Ashe. Right. Of course.” He controlled his restiveness.

  “Yes, Ashe. He’s in hock up to his eyeballs with gambling debts.”

  Taylor was silent. He’d known—suspected—that Ashe was so desperate for money, he was willing to lie, cheat, and steal from Zamarion in order to sell that house. But it wasn’t likely Zamarion would be complicit in that, so how did it fit with Taylor meeting him on the beach in less than thirty minutes?

  Besides, Ashe had told him not to meet with Zamarion.

  “Don’t worry, Brandt. I won’t turn my back—”

  “No,” Will said. “You still don’t understand. I think Ashe hired Zamarion to kill us.”

  “What? That’s crazy.”

  “No. Hear me out. The Russian mafia is huge in Croatia. You know that. You’re the one always talking about the Russians and organized crime. And you know who has a finger in that cabbage roll? Mikhail Bashnakov.”

  “I know, Will…”

  Will was still talking, stumbling over his words in his hurry to get it all out, and that desperate haste was unexpectedly convincing. Maybe more convincing than his words. “He’s coming up for trial. Bashnakov. We’re being deposed in January. What do you want to bet he’s trying to eliminate loose ends? Witnesses? I think he called in a marker with Dekker. I think Dekker hired Zamarion to take us out. Remember when we ran into Gretchen Hart before we went to Oregon? I think that’s the connection.”

  “The actual witness is Hedwig. Bashnakov wouldn’t bother—”

  “We’re witnesses to the attempt to take Hedwig out.”

  “They weren’t trying to take her out. They were trying to take her baby.”

  “And then take her o
ut.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “The hell we don’t.”

  Was Will having a nervous breakdown? Because this was the most far-fetched, Machiavellian… Well, actually, it sounded like the kind of scenario Taylor would come up with. Russian crime was something he knew a little about. Except this scenario didn’t hold together.

  He said firmly, “I’m not saying you’re wrong about Bashnakov wanting us out of the way, but Ashe working with Zamarion? It makes zero sense. What does Zamarion have to gain?”

  “Money. Of course.”

  “But if that’s the case, why’s he asking me for twenty thousand dollars?”

  “You think these assholes wouldn’t double-cross each other? Or even triple-cross each other?”

  No, he didn’t think that.

  Taylor said, “Either way, we need to hear what Zamarion has to say. Correct?”

  A pause—because they both knew that was correct.

  “Wait for me,” Will said. “Do you hear me, MacAllister? Whether you’re right or I’m right, Zamarion isn’t going anywhere. Wait.”

  True. Whether Zamarion was waiting for a payoff or an ambush, he would not leave because they showed up five minutes late.

  “And counting,” Taylor said tersely.

  * * * * * *

  There was no sign of Zamarion on the rainswept beach.

  No sign of anyone.

  The seaside sentinel of lifeguard tower eleven stretched up, a tall and boxy silhouette against a sagging sky.

  The wet sand was cool and slippery beneath their feet as they approached, pistols at low ready, from opposite ends of the long, vacant beach. In front of them, white-capped waves crashed against the shore with a sharp crack and withdrew, shushing. The rain tasted briny. Taylor blinked the blur from his vision.

  He reached the bottom of the tower first. Will joined him, saying, “Maybe I guessed wrong.”

  “About?”

  “Zamarion being willing to wait.” Will sounded rueful.

 

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