The gas station across from the strip mall with the sandwich shop was okay for casing the job. Ching wanted a look at the guy first, size him up and see if he was going to be trouble. If Brant wanted this guy dead instead of the woman at the big house in Brentwood, then something was up with him. Didn’t matter exactly what, but Ching didn’t want any surprises. The photo he’d downloaded and memorized at Kinkos – paying cash for the use of the computer and access to the Internet – had been easy to find. Furyk had been a cop. Ching even knew his home address, paying $29.99 to some half-scam web site to look up the private listing. Jail nowadays was like a credentialed training school. Ching’d picked up all kinds of skills taking computer courses during his occasional stays in the joint.
What did surprise him was when the Honda that pulled into the gas station around eight o’clock parked next to the air pump and the man himself got out. Ching had been perusing the soft drink selection through the window of the station and kept his attention there while Furyk got out of the car. Kind of dark, good chance to gut-stab him now, he figured. Nobody at the pumps and the clerk inside was watching a small TV toward the back of the store. Ching bent down to re-tie the laces on the spotless white sneakers he’d changed into for the job and gave Furyk a sidelong once-over. Guy was decent sized, walked like a cop, and probably knew a few moves. No gun Ching could see. He gave it a little thought.
Furyk crossed toward the island where no cars pumped gas and angled between Ching and the first pump. Ching stood up as Furyk passed less than five feet away.
“Evenin’.” Big smile.
Furyk gave a nod and didn’t slow down. Ching’s hands went into the pockets of the extra-large Lakers jacket over his sleeveless t-shirt. Still no cars in sight as Furyk’s back was toward him. Ching pulled his right hand out of the jacket pocket. The gun was in the other pocket. The only thing in his hand was a cigarette he put in his mouth and headed into the store for a light. Even if he’d thought Furyk would be easy to take down, he knew there were security cameras keeping an eye on the pumps. No sense making it easy for Brant to stiff him on the cash because a tape showed Ching taking a guy out.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Merrill didn’t remember going to bed or how she got undressed or under the covers. She woke around 8:30 p.m. and looked at the blue numbers glowing on the digital clock. Her lips felt heavy and there was a slight throbbing in her head as she lay on her stomach. She didn’t know if it was night or day.
Pulling herself up, trying at least, she turned toward the window to see if it was light but the drapes were pulled shut. She looked down at herself and was surprised to see she was wearing a nightgown kept in the closet but rarely worn. Slumping back onto her stomach, the jolt of the pillow on her head increasing the throbbing, she shut her eyes tight to try to clear her mind. She got snippets of images, Perry talking to her and giving her the pills to help her calm down. Then the images would blur and fade until she shook her head and tried again to focus. Perry explaining that it wasn’t her fault, that Carl had been unfaithful and she wasn’t to blame for a sudden, passionate outburst. A crime of passion, he’d said, like a line from a movie. She hadn’t objected. But she knew she hadn’t killed Carl. She couldn’t have. Reaching for the memory of that night, one that had seemed so clear and definite a few hours ago, she felt a curtain being pulled over it. Her lids felt heavy again, and the momentary waking that was like a coma patient coming to consciousness for a few minutes receded. She slipped back into a dreamless sleep, erasing any memory of these few lucid moments.
Margolin stood from the quietly upholstered easy chair in the darkest corner of the master bedroom and silently crossed to Merrill. He adjusted the covers up over her shoulders and closed the door behind him as planned his schedule for the next day.
Chapter Sixty
An hour later, Furyk had closed the books for the day and helped Jimmy put away all the meat and condiments. He shut the lights five minutes after Jimmy left and headed across the near-deserted street to get his car and head home. The pumps were self-serve after 9 p.m. Other than a VW Bug with a cute 20-something whose green hair matched the fake flower in the plastic vase in the car and who ignored Furyk, the place was empty. As long as none of Carlito’s friends tried to jump him, it was a calming, pleasant evening.
Driving home he ate the turkey sandwich he’d fixed for the guy on the cell phone who ordered it just before closing between rants at his secretary and then walked out without so much as a nod at Furyk. Furyk had added a little melted cheese and it was pretty much just the way he liked it.
Turning into the driveway as he took the last bite and the second splotch of Russian dressing hitting his shirt, he cut the lights and coasted to a stop. Old habit – kill the lights and let your eyes adjust before getting out of the car. Keys in one hand, bag of extra bread that was still fresh but wouldn’t be tomorrow, in the other, he pushed the driver’s door shut with his foot. The motion sensor on the outdoor lamp midway along the path between the driveway and the front door usually didn’t kick on until he was just about under it. He passed the spot where it usually flicked on with an audible click and nothing happened. Without looking up he made a mental note to replace the bulb – sixteen bucks for a high-powered lamp that lasted a thousand hours. Seemed like a lot of money. He got to the front door and keyed the slot for the deadbolt, missing it the first time in the dark and getting it right the second time. As he turned the deadbolt and pulled out the key to move it down to the main door lock, he thought about stopping by the store to pick up the bulb the next morning. He knew it was sixteen dollars because he’d been doing his books a couple weeks ago and noted the expense. As the key went into the slot and he started to turn it to open the door, the incongruity reached his consciousness. He’d replaced the bulb right around then. It shouldn’t have burned out.
Most people would be pissed off, go check the light, and plan on taking it back for a refund. Furyk’s instincts were different. He made the subconscious decision that the attack would come from outside, the light disabled to hide anyone approaching from the street or yard, not to cover someone who was already in the house. He turned and pushed in one motion, ducking his head as the door opened. There was almost no sound preceding the rush of air that creased his right ear and splintered the wood on the frame of the door. A second bullet was right behind, and would have hit his shoulder if he hadn’t twisted into the house.
Ching kept walking toward Furyk as he shot, pissed that the guy had made the sudden move but confident he’d gotten him in the shoulder with the second one. Guy spun a little as he hit him, that had to be why. He kept walking from the street, across the small yard, in the dark. No one was around. Nice neighborhood. He saw the door swing partially shut, but not enough. Half a dozen steps and he’d be able to use the knife.
Chapter Sixty-One
Margolin backed out of the Wick driveway and made a T-turn in the street to get back to his house. The headlights swept the front lawn and created cones of luminescence cutting into the deep darkness, made an inky blue on the moonless night by the shadow of large oaks bordering the yard. Two flashes of light shot back at him, startling Margolin. Set close together, they had an eerie quality that forced him to jerk his foot onto the brake. Unaware of how tautly strung he had been, he could feel his heart beating heavily in his chest. He squinted into the night and the reflection of the deer’s eyes held him still, the creature motionless on the manicured grass. They were as common as squirrels in the neighborhood and Margolin was glad it hadn’t bounded across the street in front of him. Damn things caused thousands of dollars of damage to cars on these streets every year. He tooted the horn a couple of times and the deer turned and took two steps then bolted over the hedge behind it and disappeared. Margolin eased back into the street and headed the few blocks home.
Across the street, hunched between an Escalade and a much smaller but more expensive sports car parked on the curb, Felicia watched. She hadn’t eaten since
bumming a sandwich off some businessman downtown, before going to the street where she could see Merrill walk from the courthouse to the car. She’d felt sick then, nauseated, as Margolin had stood by Merrill with his arm around her. Now she shook slightly, not because of the light breeze but because of the sight of Margolin again. Margolin here, now, in front of her. And walking out of this house. The house she hated, the men she feared. She crouched and waited, not sure whether to run forward toward her fate or back into the dark, to hide and run away again.
Chapter Sixty-Two
The gap in the door in front of Ching was about half a foot. That meant the guy had been able to push it closed some when he stumbled through, probably freaking from the pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder. But he couldn’t close it all the way, either because he was too afraid to have the sense to try closing it or was lying on the floor of the foyer, cowering in pain and knowing he was going to be dead soon. Didn’t matter to Ching. He’d close the door himself after slipping through and then finish the job. Just in case some neighbor walking their dog happened by. He kept moving and put his right shoulder into the gap, the hand holding the knife now instead of the gun. The gun was back in the Lakers jacket. He kept the knife down near his leg but pointed upward, commando style, just in case the guy was standing around the corner to the right and wanted to be brave or something.
He was halfway through the door and could feel one of the splinters from the spot on the frame where his first bullet had shattered the wood. It scraped his ear and he had time to think it better not leave any blood or some CSI-watching cop would get a sample and that wouldn’t be any good. The thought was interrupted by the blunt concussion of the door as it slammed into his body, instantly dislocating his left shoulder where it made impact. Ching’s head caught the rest of the force, dampened somewhat by his now oddly-bent shoulder. The six-inch jag of wood that had lightly scratched his right ear an instant ago now plunged deep into the meat of his neck. He grunted in surprise and pain, the knife starting to slip from his hand. Even through the agony on both sides of his body he instinctively tightened his grip.
Furyk pulled the door back as quickly as he had swung it forward with the full weight of his body. He didn’t know the size or shape of his attacker, only that when in doubt, you assume he’s the biggest, strongest, sonofabitch in the world. Furyk had slipped behind the door to his left, the opposite of what the shooter would expect, as the second bullet barely missed his shoulder. He purposely left the door open – there was no time to get the gun he kept in the nightstand by his bed and closing the door would have been only a brief deterrent sending his attacker to a window or other point of entry where Furyk couldn’t track him. Close-in fighting was his best chance and he knew the man wouldn’t expect a return attack to come so quickly.
He saw the glint of the knife, the lamp in the living room offering the only light in the house, and the twisted expression of pain on the man’s face at the same time. Ching sensed Furyk’s position and tried to turn his head but couldn’t move. The fragment that impaled his neck hadn’t started bleeding heavily and had missed muscle, but kept him from moving. Looking forward, Ching swung his right hand up and across his body to slash at Furyk, the pain in his shoulder intensifying from the movement. Furyk stepped inside the wide stroke and blocked any impact with his left arm and elbow. The step toward Ching put him inches away, so close he could smell the cordite from the gunshots that still emanated from the barrel. He twisted to his left, rotating like a dancer so his back was against Ching and then slid his right hand along Ching’s arm that was holding the knife. The move was so quick Ching had no time to try to bring the knife back down and into Furyk before there was a strong grip around his wrist. Furyk held tight, controlling the knife hand and then swung his head back hard at Ching. The shorter man took the brunt of the butt in the forehead and bridge of his nose and the shock and pain were not as much as Furyk had planned. Unable to use his left hand, crippled by the dislocated shoulder, Ching still tried to claw at the jacket for his gun. Furyk twisted hard again, in the same direction he had a moment ago to get position to control the knife, and pulled Ching from the door and over Furyk’s right shoulder. Furyk didn’t know about the splinter from the door and the move brought Ching off his feet and tore through muscle and nerve as he was dislodged violently from his impalement. Furyk held on tightly to Ching’s wrist and let the man’s weight carry him to the ground as they spun. He could feel the bone snapping in the wrist and the knife fell limply to the floor. Ching’s body hit the ground and his head flopped unnaturally, control over his neck muscles lost and blood flowing rapidly. Through the pain and fog of knowing he’d been beaten, Ching still held the shred of dignity that kept him from giving up. As Furyk moved to pick up the knife, Ching continued to fumble with his left hand for the jacket pocket that now rested on his stomach. The shooting pain in his shoulder was worse than the compound fracture in his right wrist, but he focused only on moving it toward the gun. His head still, eyes facing the wall, the life pumping out of him, he grasped at the satin material and found the opening. His palm found the grip and he clamped onto it, forefinger seeking the trigger. Furyk had the knife now and came around to the side where Ching could see him. There was enough light for him to see Furyk’s face and the look was stone cold dead. It was a look Ching had seen, one he had worn. He pulled on the gun, wrestling to get it out of the pocket in time and blow that look off Furyk’s face before the knife could be plunged into his chest. There was a sharp retort and Ching stiffened, the bullet tearing through the thin material and entering his sternum just above the diaphragm. It tore into his heart and he died before the shock of the accidental firing could reach his brain.
The gunshot startled Furyk and he stopped. He saw the man’s body stiffen and then relax. Knife now in his left hand, Furyk bent quickly over Ching and grabbed the wrist twisted in the jacket pocket. He pulled out the hand, the gun still tightly in its grip. The would-be killer was clearly dead, but Furyk took no chances. He unwrapped the fingers without touching the gun and used the material from the jacket to toss it down the hall a few feet. He stay hunched over the body, looking at the man’s face. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Prole was the third cop on the scene. She beat the homicide detectives, coroner, and photographers because Furyk had called her right after 911. It was a courtesy – she’d find out the next day and would be pretty pissed she’d missed the excitement. He’d hoped she’d bring leftovers but she arrived empty-handed except for a smirk. The patrol guys only knew enough to secure the scene before the real cops arrived and they were flustered when Prole stepped over the body in the hallway on her way to the kitchen. Furyk had made coffee and there was a mug waiting for her on the counter. No beer in sight.
“So you were so demoralized I’d blown you off, you had to take it out on the pizza delivery boy?”
Furyk noticed she’d changed from what she had been wearing earlier that evening. Even a hint of lip gloss. He was going to ask her if she had a date for later but held back on the jibe. He decided to assume it was for him.
“I saw him before – a few hours ago. Parking lot across from the sandwich shop when I got there earlier. But he didn’t follow me home.”
Prole took the mug of coffee and blew the steam. “’Cause you’d of noticed, huh?” Sarcastic, but also the truth.
“Never saw him before that. Maybe a gangbanger with a buddy I put away for a while, just getting out now. Something.”
“Yeah, something, I’d guess.” The sarcasm stayed. “So you beat the crap out of him, stabbed him in the neck, broke his wrist in half, and shot him in the gut. Not enough time to dismember him?”
“I believe you’ll find he shot himself.” Furyk paused. “Clearly a suicide.”
Prole coughed out some coffee as she laughed. “How come you keep showing up? Wick, now this. You miss the excitement of police work?”
Leaning ag
ainst the doorframe leading to the living room, he shook his head. “Nah, just a few of my colleagues.” Flirting with Prole while there was a dead guy in his hallway made Furyk feel like a modern Renaissance man. But he knew it was more about trying to shake off the terrifying, almost intoxicating effects of being in close combat with another man and surviving. Furyk had no illusions about being the better man – only that he had been lucky. Lucky that the first and second bullets had missed him, lucky the killer’s shoulder had dislocated instead of just bruising, lucky that the gun had gotten tangled in the extra large jacket. He’d helped that luck along, with instinct and training, but a lot of dangerous men with much more honed skills than his were dead because they’d been short on luck at the wrong time. His heart had slowed to its normal pace, almost, and he knew the scene from tonight would play in his dreams.
Furyk stretched his neck and back, a sharp pain shooting into his hip. The quick move into the house, the force of the door he slammed against the intruder, all had pushed muscles into action without warm up. Old pains, left over from an earlier life, had awoken. Without thinking he touched his pants pocket for the tin with the pills but only a few coins rattled. He’d left them by the bed.
“Okay, I know I’ve got a few hours of questions to deal with when the homicide guys get here. You don’t need to babysit me.” He moved to take her cup of coffee away. Prole squinted into his face and examined his eyes. Nothing would ever shock Furyk, she knew, but she could read the tension.
She handed him the mug. He turned to put it in the sink with his own. “Try to remember where else you may have seen him. We’ll run the prints, see about his rap sheet.” Furyk stayed at the sink and washed the cups, the water running lightly. “And get some rest. He may have pals who want to swing by and check out the guy who butchered their friend.” She walked up behind him and put a hand on his arm. “Seriously, get some rest.”
A Twisted Path Page 13
