A Twisted Path
By Steve Winshel
Copyright 2011 by Steve Winshel
Chapter One
Wick lay on the cold tiled floor of the kitchen. Copper pots swung gently from their hooks above the marble island where his wife had prepared meals for over a decade. Moonlight flickered off the bottom of the largest frying pan, catching the last fading glimmer of life in Wick’s eyes. Eleven stab wounds covered his upper torso and shoulders, defensive cuts sliced his hands where he’d held them out to fend off the blows. Lying on his side, legs slightly curled, his hands slowly stopped clawing at the small, deep wound in his neck. His thoughts were incoherent, battered by the violence and the surprise that had preceded it. Calm came as his gaze turned to the swaying frying pan, slowing with each swing. The glint no longer caused him to blink when it shined in his eyes, too weak even for this involuntary movement. His last thought was of Merrill, how he loved her no matter what. Broken, fragile, Merrill. The pain of guilt and the sureness of the hell that awaited him didn’t reach consciousness before he died.
Merrill knelt behind him. One hand reached aimlessly toward the hole in her husband’s throat where the last few bubbles of blood quietly subsided as his chest stopped moving. The other hand held the thin, sharp knife she used for dicing carrots. Merrill slumped back on her heels, brown hair hanging in her face. The knees of her red plaid pajama bottoms began to feel sticky as the blood covered the few inches between her and Wick. She didn’t turn even at the sound of bare-foot steps in the hallway leading to the kitchen and then the screams of their sixteen-year-old daughter.
Chapter Two
Bill Furyk sat in his car across from the club in downtown LA. Lots of short black dresses waited in line behind a velvet rope. Guys in ripped jeans and rocker shirts or five thousand dollar Armani trying to look cool enough to get in. Furyk watched from across the street, the fire hydrant providing a convenient parking spot. Cop habits died hard, even when you didn’t have a badge anymore.
A couple came out of the club, the guy tall and lean and wearing a vest with no shirt. Tight black pants, shoulder-length black hair and sunglasses. Showing off broad shoulders and muscled chest. The girl was in uniform; short black skirt displaying long but very pale legs. Tattoos on each ankle, probably one on her buttocks but above what there was of the hemline. Spiked heels and hair. The boyfriend pulled her across the two-lane street, assuming the heavy traffic flow of lookers and cruisers would stop. They did, with a couple of horn blasts. They headed toward Furyk, the guy giving him a hard stare once he saw there was someone in the car. At the last second they veered to the left and keyed open the bright green Hummer parked directly in front of Furyk. The guy kept the hard stare on him, probably defending his turf because Furyk had taken in a full view of the girlfriend when they’d crossed. Furyk didn’t care, but held the stare. The guy climbing into the absurd SUV broke the contact. Brake lights, then reverse lights, and the Hummer backed up slowly, and into the nondescript Honda Accord Furyk used when he was shooting for anonymity. It wasn’t a car people noticed or remembered.
The Hummer’s brake lights came back on and the guy jerked it into drive, pulled up a couple feet, and slammed to a stop. The driver’s door flew open. No danger of getting hit, since all traffic had stopped behind a silver Lexus that couldn’t believe its luck in finding someone pulling out right in front of the club. The guy jumped out and was at the space between his car and Furyk’s in two strides. The shades came partway off as he looked at his bumper. Pristine as the day he got it. Then back at Furyk, whose hood now had a scrape caused by the Hummer bumper that was a foot higher than any other car on the road. Furyk hadn’t reacted; had barely taken his eyes off the front door of the club. He was there for a reason. But his heart was beating a little harder as the guy came up to the window and made a sharp rapping noise with the rings on three fingers of his left hand. Furyk, keys in the ignition letting him use the electric windows without having to start the car, let it down a few inches. He was still able to see the front door of the club with the guy standing there.
“Asshole, you scratched my car!” with a finger pointing in Furyk’s face, coming a couple inches into the window. Furyk’s silence just pissed him off more.
“Get out of the car, bitch.” Furyk turned his gaze to the front and flipped on his headlights. They gleamed off the perfect surface of the Hummer’s fender.
“Your car’s fine. Better than mine. Go home.” The guy couldn’t believe Furyk didn’t care about the gouge in his own car. Must be a complete wuss, a coward. Now he was going to pull this jerkoff out of his crappy little beater and mark up his face. The passenger door of the Hummer opened and the girl came around her side. Not to tell the boyfriend to get back in the car and let’s go home. To watch. In the light of the high beams Furyk had switched on, she looked pasty and the smile on her lips looked mean. She leaned against her car and put a leg up on the bumper – probably scratched it more than the bump into the Honda had. Her skirt rode up and the guy had new ammunition.
“You lookin’ at my girl, asshole?” Spittle flew through the open crack of the window as he leaned close. Furyk rolled the window up, both to avoid the spray and to drown out the heavy breathing as the guy got more worked up. It would end with the guy giving him the finger and stalking off. Maybe. Furyk looked back at the club, wanting to make sure he didn’t miss anything during this interruption. There was a pause, the guy deciding what to do next. Furyk could feel the transition, the tension getting ready to ebb. And then the Lexus hit his horn and flashed his lights. He wanted the parking space. It was fuel on an open flame. Furyk watched the guy’s face contort as he stood and headed back to the Hummer. He didn’t give Furyk the finger; a bad sign. He opened the driver’s door and reached in instead of getting in. Another bad sign. Furyk’s headlights made for the perfect spotlight as the guy came onto the stage he’d created in the middle of the street, carrying a baseball bat. Metal bat. No tradition, Furyk thought. Only little league teams used metal instead of the classic, better-feeling wood. He started to get a pain behind his left eye. Control, that’s what he needed right now. He had work to do, and letting some moron break his rhythm was a waste of time. Let the guy get his revenge, show off for his girl. Another ding on the bumper from a bat wasn’t a big deal; Furyk was going to have to get the front end buffed anyway because of the scratch. But the guy went past the gap between the cars and headed for the driver side of the Honda. That meant shattered glass, a new window, and maybe even some scrapes and splinters in Furyk’s face. The pain behind his eye ramped up a notch and he felt the anger start pushing in his gut. It only took a second to make itself felt, like an on-off switch. The guy was only a step away now and still coming. Too close. The bat swung up to his shoulder and as he shifted its momentum to swing it forward in time with the last step that brought him right up against the Honda’s door, Furyk pulled the door handle in and pushed with his shoulder, hard. The bottom of the door cracked against the guy’s shin, not enough to snap the bone but enough to stop his forward motion and the beginning of the swing of the bat. Furyk pulled the door in a foot as the guy bent over in pain, then pushed it open again. This time the window frame smacked the guy across the forehead, sending him back into the street, still empty as the Lexus waited for its spot. Pain and surprise played on the guy’s face. Still on his feet but swaying, the bat hanging loosely from his right hand. Before the rocker could decide what to do, Furyk was standing in front of him. The guy was two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. Furyk felt the anger evolve into rage, rage at this jerk who had made a scene for no reason, maybe blowing Furyk’s whole night of work. Rage at having to deal with another asshole who had to show the world what a tough guy he was. Furyk raised
a fist to give the guy a cross-cut blow across the face he wouldn’t forget for weeks after the swelling went down, and stopped. He fought the rage. Cops, delays, a night of answering questions. It wasn’t worth it. His hand shot forward and he grabbed a clump of hair on the guy’s chest and pulled him forward hard. The guy followed without resistance, dragging the bat. Furyk turned to the girl, who was still standing in the gap between the cars.
“Get in.” Her mouth hung open and he repeated the order. She disappeared around the passenger side. Furyk, still pulling the guy, spun him around as they got to the open Hummer driver’s door. He pushed him up and in, grabbing the bat as the guy’s body flopped into the plush leather seat. Keys were still in the ignition. He was recovering from the surprise; the pain in his leg and forehead made him mad. But the ease with which Furyk had manhandled him into the car made reason win out.
“Go home.” The guy’s sunglasses, still in place, nodded up and down once. Furyk slammed the door shut and headed back to his car. The Hummer backed up, bumping the Honda again but clearly without malice, and pulled into the street. A few seconds passed as Furyk got back in his car and the Lexus pulled up. It slowed but did not stop and then shot away. The spot didn’t seem so prime anymore.
Furyk tossed the bat in the passenger seat and killed the headlights. Looking over at the club, he shook his head. Nobody was trying to bribe the bouncer, who wasn’t checking the list or watching the door. All eyes were on Furyk. Silence for a few seconds, and then a cheer went up from the line. Applause and whistles. The throbbing in Furyk’s eye persisted. He keyed the ignition and cut into traffic. The night was blown. Nothing but a new bat to show for it; metal. The kid who lived down the street from Furyk, who lingered outside his door on half a dozen occasions before working up the nerve to knock, would be disappointed. She just wanted to know if her father was really out of town on business trips, missing birthday parties and her quinceañera celebration. Furyk had already found out the absent dad wasn’t doing much traveling, but had a penchant for staying at downtown hotels with sweet young things he’d meet at the clubs. Tonight he was planning on have a chat with the guy. It would have to wait.
Chapter Three
The 911 call was made by the daughter who’d found her mother in a stupor sitting next to Wick, the apparent murder weapon in her hand. The police got there in under six minutes – standard response time for that neighborhood. The assistant coroner on the scene put the likely time of death within half an hour of the time of the daughter’s call but nothing definitive until the autopsy. The teenage girl, the high cheekbones and deep blue eyes marking her as the dead man’s daughter, was berating her mother in the living room. No tears, but lots of anger. Detective Sunny Prole thought she was going to have to separate them. The mother sat on the couch, a distant look in her eyes and not saying anything. Prole guessed it was a tranquilizer, though she’d have to find out whether the woman took it before or after gutting her husband. The girl was leaning in, long blonde ponytail shaking as she put her finger in her mother’s face and chastising her in a surprisingly mature voice.
“I hate you, you pathetic…” the girl searched for words, face bright red. Nothing seemed harsh enough and she let it hang. “You hated him, I know you did, you…” Prole put a hand on her shoulder and the girl whirled around like she was going to hit her. Prole stood her ground, looking the girl who was as tall as she was straight in the eye.
“Sit. No, over there.” She directed her to a large chair, probably costing more than Prole made in a month, on the other side of the room. The girl looked at the badge hanging around Prole’s neck, then at the two patrolmen in the room, and went to the chair. Arms folded, she glared at her mother as she sat down hard.
“Bitch. Goddamn bitch…” Prole didn’t interrupt – as long as the girl didn’t hit her mother, it was interesting to watch the interaction. The mother hadn’t even followed the girl’s movements or appeared to know she was being abused. Maybe she was used to it.
The doorbell rang and one of the cops answered it. Crime scene workers, photographers, and evidence guys showed up within a few minutes of each other. After Prole checked out the kitchen, leaving one of the patrol guys to keep the girl off her mother, she walked back into the living room as the front door opened without the bell ringing. Expensive suit, nice haircut, very calm guy in his fifties walked in like he owned the place and she knew the family lawyer had arrived. She immediately identified him as a prick. Just what she needed – goddamn ambulance chaser cutting into her investigation.
He picked her out just as immediately as the lead investigator and didn’t bother offering a soft, manicured hand in greeting. Just a smile full of unstained teeth.
“Detective, I’m Perry Margolin, Mrs. Wick’s attorney. Please don’t plan on asking her any more questions this evening.”
Chapter Four
Furyk woke with a start, body rigid. The sheets were wet again, the sweat from his body soaking through to the mattress. He didn’t remember the dream, had no idea if it was the same one that jerked him awake at least once a month. But he knew what brought him out of it. A barking dog is an irritant; a yelping dog evokes murderous intent. One more shriek pierced the heavy silence of the humid night air and Furyk leapt out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat he’d confiscated earlier that night. Jaws clenched, he took a few steps toward the back door leading out to the high bushes obscuring the house next door. The yelping sound was like ragged fingernails against an emery board and his nerves jangled.
“Shut up, shut up…” barely audible through gritted teeth. He wanted to crash through the brush and beat the dog to a pulp. Heart beating hard, sweat dripping between chest muscles rigid with anger, he held back. Held back from the violence that fought its way to the surface; held back from screaming the obscenities the neighbors deserved. But reason and discipline kept him in check. His grip loosened on the bat and his neck muscles relaxed. He hit the switch on the thermostat next to his bed. The cold blast from the central air conditioning hit him like a spray of ice and a shiver worked its way up his spine. Three o’clock in the morning and it was still eighty degrees out. He could see the blinking red light on the answering machine on the other side of the bed. Ignoring it, he padded toward the master bathroom, the cold hardwood floors retaining the chill from earlier in the day when the A/C had been on continuously. The conflicting sensations of sweat, shivers, and the coolness on his feet made him feel alive. A long hot shower and then two minutes under an icy stream would get him ready for work in a few hours, would calm him down.
Furyk let the water heat to unbearable and stepped in. His skin almost instantly went red and he held still, waiting for the bite of pain to subside and the deep relief of heat and steam to edge out the sting. He left it on until he felt the subtle change, a little less hot water signaling he was draining the supply, then twisted the knob all the way to the left. The change from steam to ice was instantaneous and shocking. He leaned forward against the tiled wall of the shower and counted to a hundred and twenty, determined not to flinch while the bitterly cold water scalded his skin. Rivulets ran down his shoulders, some catching in the furrow of the long scar on his left side that ended just below the tan line. When a girlfriend or temporary companion traced her finger along its route and asked its origin, he always came up with a new story. Like how he got drunk in a cantina in Uruguay and a beautiful young hooker lured him back to his hotel. He awoke the next morning in the bathtub filled with ice, a bandage where they had removed his kidney. Total crap, the kind of urban legend you hear about but never really happens, but the girls ate it up.
He got to 120 and shut the cold water off. Standing in the shower, goose bumps over his entire body, he let the sensation run its course. He watched himself walk to the sink below the mirror and pick up the Altoids tin sitting next to the empty beer bottle. Extra minty. He flipped open the metallic lid and dry-chewed two Vicodin. Six left. He’d have to refill the prescription. Letting the air dry hi
s body, he stared into his face dispassionately. The brown hair looked almost black when wet. A few too many lines in his face for his age. Craggy. Nondescript unless you looked really close. Then there was an intensity, something that made tough guys not dismiss him. Maybe it was just the rage he kept at bay. He looked in his eyes, green with a faint yellow around the pupil. He looked like crap, but at least it matched how he felt.
Dry now, he pulled on gray sweat pants from the bedroom closet and arranged the comforter across the bed so it appeared made. That was the extent of his housekeeping. Hands on hips, he thought about a cigarette, more to kill time so he could avoid the answering machine, but he’d quit last month again and he’d go at least six months before even considering a back-slide. He closed his eyes and thought about driving up to Mulholland in the Boxster convertible in the garage next to the Honda, no one on the road and wind and bugs in his face. A minute passed, then another. He was calm. He headed to the bedroom and the blinking red light.
Chapter Five
The sound of the helicopter outside told Prole all she needed to know about the speedy start of news coverage that would only increase in its frenzy. From the looks of the house and the expanse of lawn, the victim had plenty of cash and probably plenty of friends, so there’d be a lot of people interested in following the story. The lawyer must have seen the house on television or gotten a call from one of the neighbors – he may even have a group rate for representing anyone in the neighborhood who killed their spouse or embezzled a few million dollars. Prole stood her ground in the face of his warning not to talk to the wife but he went around her – ballsy, since Prole was pretty good at getting in the way despite being petite. But the guy had a right and she didn’t want to screw anything up in the investigation by making a procedural error. There was plenty of evidence and even this guy wasn’t going to be able to talk the woman out of a few nights in jail starting right now.
A Twisted Path Page 1
