A Twisted Path

by Steve Winshel

  It was a different touch from the punch on the shoulder just a few hours earlier. Furyk didn’t turn around. He was trying to place the dead man in his house, trying not to go grab a few Vicodin, and trying not to turn around and kiss Prole. Two out of three. When he turned, Prole was gone.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  It was only a few blocks from the Wick house to the comparably priced Margolin home. Felicia walked it, only losing sight of the Mercedes’ taillights once. She’d hesitated in her hiding place for only a moment, torn between running away and walking up to the house where Wick had died. In the end, the urge to follow the lawyer was inexorable.

  Staying on the dim sidewalk, she was unnoticed by anyone glancing out a dining room window. The long, curving drive where the Mercedes was parked crunched under her feet, the perfectly formed gravel mimicking the sound of a forest bed. The black hood of the car ticked lightly as the engine settled down. She put her hand on it, but the temperature was only slightly warmer than the night air. Margolin had been with Merrill for hours. Inadvertently bold, Felicia passed by the front door and went to the side of the house where flickering lights shifted the shadows from the hedges next to the window of the living room. She moved against the stone edge of the house and slid along the corner like she’d seen burglars do on a thousand television shows and movies. Peering inside, hand cupped around her eyes to eliminate the reflection from the window, she saw an enormous television against the far wall. Huge L-shaped couch, lounger, tables for snacks, and throw rugs flung around the hardwood floor. Sprawled on the widest section of the couch a young girl about Felicia’s age was wearing earplugs attached to an MP3 player. A remote control rested on her stomach, slack hand barely keeping it from sliding off. Felicia could see the girl’s eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. The television, volume loud enough to confirm to anyone standing just outside the house looking in that the teen drama on the screen had a hip soundtrack, was ignored by the sleeping teen.

  Felicia scanned the room and her breath caught in her throat. Standing in the doorway, seeming to look straight into Felicia’s eyes, Margolin stood silently. It was a trick of the angle at which she looked in the window. He was looking at the girl on the couch. His head slightly cocked, there was a half-smile on his face. Margolin walked quietly – it looked quiet from Felicia’s perch – until he was standing behind the girl. He looked for a full minute, then gently reached out and stroked her hair. It was a soft, intimate gesture and it made Felicia sick. She turned quickly and her head banged the window, lightly and with little force. She caught a glimpse of Margolin’s head jerking up, eyes wide.

  She ran from the side of the house, ignoring the driveway and cutting across another hedge separating the Margolin house from its neighbor. An outside light came on, casting a shadow of Felicia’s form on the ground in front of her as she ran. She cut toward the street and raced down the sidewalk, hearing the sound of the Margolin front door open, too late for him to see who had been standing outside the window. But not too late for the headlights from the Sheriff’s cruiser coming from the other end of the street to pick up the form of a slim girl, boyish figure in worn jeans, running past the darkened houses in terror.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The next morning, Furyk was woken from a deep, Vicodin-induced sleep by the incessant ringing of the phone. It rolled over to voicemail after four rings, but whoever was calling was persistent. He’d starting to climb out of the fog-shrouded chasm of sleep twelve rings ago, and had no idea how many he’d missed before that. He’d had no concern about a pharmaceutically aided unconscious nap after the attempt on his life; if the guy had used a back-up, Furyk would already be dead, and no delayed second attempt was likely to happen so soon after all the commotion with the cops. He’d needed sleep more than he needed a few hours of worry, and there was nothing he could do until he had more information on who the guy was.

  Thick-lipped, he struggled for the phone and got it mostly to his ear.

  “Yeah?”

  “Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty.” Prole must have enjoyed knowing she’d woken him. He blinked enough times for the blur to clear and the numbers on the clock to resolve. It was 7:48 a.m.

  “I didn’t order a wake-up call. Whatcha got?” He started to clear his head and sit up, putting a pillow behind his back and rubbing his hand across his chest to get some blood flowing.

  “Your little friend last night isn’t someone you should have been playing with. Just got out of County the other day. Long rap sheet, time for manslaughter, second-degree murder, and some other shit that isn’t as interesting.” She waited, but Furyk had nothing to add. “Calvin Waddle. Great name. You know him?”

  Furyk shook his head, hoping it would clear the haze some more and also answer her question. “Nope. New to me. Why was he in lock-up – and why was he out?”

  Prole laughed and there was a small snort in it. “That’s kind of weird. They had him for a drive-by, witnesses and everything, but it went south and they kicked him.”

  Furyk knew crap like that happened all the time. Scared witnesses, even though everyone knew the guy did the crime. Even some who would lie to support a made-up alibi. Nothing odd about it.

  She read his mind. “Your buddy Ching, the little nickname he gave himself, was a trigger man. Gangbanger and all that, but he freelanced. He had a reputation for being up for almost anything. Or anyone.”

  That stood out, that a guy who had extracurriculars in addition to his regular mayhem would step out of lock-up that easily. She read him again.

  “Kinda funny that he’d show up on your doorstep on his first day of sucking free air. Ya think?”

  He did. But still no idea why this guy would be trying to put a bullet, and then a knife, in him. “Okay, let me take a look at his sheet, and the cases on him. See if there’s anything connecting me.”

  This time Prole snorted without the laugh. “Yeah, sure, just come on down and I’ll buzz you in. Want me to set you up with some coffee and an assistant? Doughnuts?” She was busting his chops, but Furyk knew she’d give him the files and access to the department computer. She had a dead body, and whether she gave a damn about Furyk’s well-being or not, she was motivated to get this thing off her desk.

  “I’ll be down in an hour.” He heard the click and headed for the shower.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The previous night, Brant had gone to Margolin’s house to read him the riot act. Ching’s death, which he heard about within five minutes of it being called in, was a problem, not because the Sheriff gave a damn about him, but because it put Furyk on alert. No way for the ex-cop to connect the attempt on his life to Wick’s death or Margolin, much less to Brant himself, but stirring him up was dumb. Furyk was a screw-up and Brant would have been happy to see him dead for reasons that went beyond the Wick mess, but Furyk had also been a skilled cop and not as stupid as he could have been. If he was still breathing, it put Brant at risk.

  Seeing the girl running across the lawns didn’t mean anything by itself, but under the circumstances it stood out like a blood stain on a white carpet. He’d roust the lawyer later – instead he’d followed the girl a couple blocks until she cut behind a small house that led to two streets and an alley. He couldn’t have caught her unless he called in a second car. But he’d gotten a decent look at her.

  Back at Margolin’s house, Brant tapped on the front door with the butt of his flashlight. The porch light was on and he knew someone was looking through the keyhole. The door opened to Margolin in his stocking feet, bewildered look on his face. Five minutes earlier he’d convinced himself no one had been outside the window when he’d been watching Cheyenne sleep. Brant’s appearance at the door shook his confidence.

  “Sheriff, I wasn’t expecting you. Why didn’t you call before…” Brant ignored the blunt admonishment and pushed the door open. Before he could brush by Margolin and step into the hallway, a movement caught his eye. Brown hair, blue eyes wide, slim girlish figure jus
t beginning to blossom beneath the torn jeans and t-shirt with the name of some band on it – the girl who came out of the room to the left and was standing ten feet behind Margolin looked familiar. She had Merrill Wick’s cheeks and eyes. But Brant also caught a resemblance to the girl he’d just chased three blocks down the darkened residential streets.

  Margolin saw Brant’s gaze diverted and turned around quickly. “Cheyenne, honey, you should go to bed. It’s getting late.” Cheyenne didn’t move, still groggy from having just woken, unwilling to admit that seeing a policeman standing at the door brought back hard memories of just a few days earlier. Margolin used a stronger voice. “Cheyenne, upstairs dear. I’ll check on you in a little while.” This time the girl looked at Margolin and pursed her lips in a teenage sneer, but put the ear buds back in so she could hear the music and headed to the staircase.

  Margolin pointed to the front steps, not an order but a plea to have the conversation outside. Brant let him and they moved into the cool night air, the door closing almost shut behind them as Margolin pulled until the frame touched the door.

  “You have a visitor tonight? Other than Wick’s daughter?” Brant said it with a scoff. Margolin took a second to get it.

  “Did you see someone? Outside the window?” He sounded nervous, which didn’t make Brant any more confident.

  “Yeah, a girl. About the size of your houseguest.” Brant let it sink in. They both knew it probably wasn’t a random Peeping Tom. Margolin rubbed his hand over his face, ignoring the moisture that was soaking his socks as he stood on the stones wet from the sprinkler that had been running a few hours earlier.

  “And Furyk’s fine. He killed a burglar tonight.” This one left Margolin completely confused until he saw the mixed anger and concern in Brant. This was turning into a mess and it had to be nipped in the bud. Margolin tried to think. Brant’s patience wasn’t up for it. “Girl looking in your window, Furyk involved, and Merrill pleading insanity. You really fucked this one up, Counselor.”

  Margolin wouldn’t look Brant in the eye. He let the barb hang in the air, then took a deep breath. If Merrill pleaded insanity, at least that closed the book on Wick’s death. That’s what Brant wanted. Margolin didn’t want to disappoint the Sheriff, not again. But the hole was only going to get deeper if he lied.

  “Merrill didn’t do it. I’m sure of that now.”

  It was as if the air had been sucked out of the entire neighborhood, leaving a heavy vacuum. Margolin hoped the breath in his lungs would last until it returned. Brant’s eyes widened and the blood jumped to his cheeks.

  “You goddamned stupid sonofabitch.” His hand reflexively went to his holster and Margolin was sure he was going to die on his own front steps, looking out on the lawn

  the team of Japanese gardeners had tidied up that afternoon. He couldn’t help notice that one of the hedges had been cut a little ragged.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  The night had been cool and Felicia huddled close against the door of the antique shop. The entrance was an alcove just a half-block north of San Vicente Blvd. She’d run more than a mile after bolting from Margolin’s house, sensing more than seeing that a car was following along. She never turned back to find out, but cut across lawns, scraping herself in the dark against well-trimmed hedges and brambles from native California bushes. As she’d come to the business section of Brentwood, she had turned up the first dark street and found a protective spot. So close to the city of Santa Monica, famous for its welcome mat to the homeless, it was unusual for a nice spot like this to be unoccupied. The smell of urine in the doorway confirmed most nights it was haven to someone else without a place to stay.

  Warm air seeped from under the door and it was a brief sanctuary from the night. Early morning now and damp from the dew that was aided by the almost perceptible ocean breeze, Felicia was miserable. The long-sleeved shirt she’d thought to bring with her was in the ratty nylon bag left behind in one of the many alleys she had cut through last night. All her possessions, which were mostly dirty underwear and a brush with half the tines missing, were gone. Cold and dirty even by her standards, she just wanted a bath. And something to smoke. Arms wrapped around her legs, goose bumps on every inch of exposed skin, she hung her head and tried to summon up tears. Only drops of dew moistened her cheeks. She closed her eyes tightly, squeezing out the images that haunted her, but instead they came as if bidden by her efforts to deny them. Wick, smiling at her, offering her help. His office, where she was safe. No one could hurt her there. The picture on his desk, turned toward the room instead as if to prod a person to remember that life could be full and complete. It was a picture of Wick and his wife, their daughter between them, Wick’s hand on her shoulder. Smiling, everyone. Sitting in the patient’s couch, Felicia could see it. It made her sad, but hopeful. Wick would help her, wanted to help her. She was one of the lost souls he felt driven to save, one of the abandoned young women whose lives had led them to drugs, running away, rape, and worse. He put his hand on her shoulder, just like the girl in the picture. She felt safe. And he leaned closer, touching her cheek with the back of his hand, stroking it gently and saying soothing things. Safe.

  “What the fuck you doin’ in my bed, bitch?” It was shrieked at her in a voice shattered by paranoid delusions and years on the street. Felicia jerked her head up and the rising sun blinded her. It looked as if a huge bird was about to pounce on her, wings spread and sharp beak poised. The filthy army blanket hanging over the woman’s shoulder as she loomed over Felicia spread wide with her arms and the gray-streaked hair that fell to her middle back was wild with dirt and grease. The shopping cart behind her was overflowing with recyclable bottles and glass, held in place by an enormous bedroll the color of dung. Felicia tried to push off the ground and past the chimera, but her legs were cold and stiff from the night. She stumbled, brushing heavily against the woman who outweighed her by double and catching a stench that made her own body odor seem affable. Banging into the cart, which elicited a furious, expletive laced death threat from the woman, Felicia broke into a stilted lope and then caught her rhythm as she bolted toward the main street. Instinctively, she headed back to where she’d been the night before. One thought was on her mind: she must talk to Merrill Wick. Her hesitation from the other night was gone. She needed absolution.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Brant didn’t shoot Margolin that night. He would have preferred to squeeze the lawyer’s pale, fleshy neck instead, until the lips turned purple and the eyes bulged. But he didn’t. Leaving Margolin standing in the quiet neighborhood, trembling slightly from the combination of fear and dampness, Brant turned his back and headed to his cruiser. Over his shoulder he threw an order at Margolin.

  “I’m sure you’ve got Wick’s patient records. Put ‘em on a laptop and be at my office at noon.” He wasn’t worried about Margolin being seen at the Sheriff’s department – one scumbag lawyer or another was always begging for favors or making promises. Margolin wouldn’t stand out. Brant left rubber on the road outside the house and started thinking about the next move with Furyk.

  By morning he’d made up his mind. Furyk wasn’t stupid and would try to backtrack on Ching. No reason to think he’d make a connection to Brant or the Wick case, but Furyk was goddamned persistent. Brant knew from experience you don’t shoot a bear without making sure it was dead. He’d have to go after Furyk again and get it done right. No goddamned wild cards floating around. And after Furyk, Margolin would be next if he didn’t get this shit straightened out. Merrill needed to take the weight for her husband’s death, whether she did it or not. Margolin could make that happen. Brant’s focus needed to be on making sure Margolin understood that. Plus get Furyk killed. And find whoever really killed Merrill Wick and shut that prick’s mouth.

  Brant shook his head as he finished shaving in front of the enormous mirror in the high-ceilinged master bath where he did his best thinking. Goddamned mess, taking up his time and costing him money. His salary
paid for about half the huge house he lived in with his ever-complaining bitch of a wife. The other income paid for the rest, including the vacations, shopping trips, and little bank account in the Caymans. Holding up the skin on his neck so he could get the last spot that still had shaving cream on it, he scraped too hard as he thought about how much of other people’s shit he had to scrape up. The razor burn appeared immediately, not bleeding but rough and angry. He cursed under his breath and put Margolin out of his mind for a moment. Furyk and the real killer – that’s what mattered right now. One thing at a time.

  Toweling off his face with one of the sixty-dollar scraps of cloth his wife blew their money on, he ran through a mental list of Ching replacements. There were a couple of guys on the street right now who could do the job. Maybe a group effort was needed. Gangbangers in a car doing a drive-by, not caring about who saw them. Crude, but it would probably work. Shit, Furyk would be too careful for that. Brant thought more expansively. This wasn’t the first crime he’d orchestrated and his skills were well-honed. Furyk needed – deserved – special handling. And then he got it. Just the thing for an ex-cop, a perfect way to die. At the hands of someone on the force. Brant had just the guy.

  The first smile of the day settled on his lips and he liked what he saw in the mirror. With Furyk’s fate settled, he turned his thoughts to finding Merrill’s killer. That would start with looking at Wick’s records.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  In an irony that would not have been lost on either man had they been aware of it, Furyk and Brant were poring over computer records at the same moment to find answers to very different events from the previous night. Separated by several miles of Los Angeles sprawl, they each slid a mouse across a pad and searched personnel records containing the private histories, misfortunes, and tragedies of people neither cared about.