A Twisted Path

by Steve Winshel

  “Tell him Detective Prole would greatly appreciate five minutes of his precious time, or I can start listing the questions I’ve got for him, in a loud voice to your pal out front where the clients who are stupid enough to pay $600 an hour are waiting for the other douchebags who work here.”

  Unfazed, the assistant gave no hint of the pleasure she felt when she said, “Mr. Margolin’s hourly rate is $750 per hour. Were you seeking representation?”

  Prole decided it was good that she didn’t carry a night stick like when she was on patrol. The sound of the heavy wood thwacking against the woman’s head would have been too tempting to miss.

  “Get ‘im out here, smart mouth, or I’ll find out if you’ve got any unpaid parking tickets.”

  “Unfortunately, Detective Prole, I don’t drive. But I am happy to help you none the less.” She didn’t appear happy, but probably would have displayed the same affectation if she’d won a million bucks on a TV game show. “Mr. Margolin is ill today. He is recuperating at home, I believe. I can ring him and let him know you are looking for him, and perhaps set up an appointment for next week.” The smile that followed could have frozen sand.

  Prole ran a stream of expletives through her head but didn’t give the woman the satisfaction of having instigated a tirade. She gave the assistant her best “if looks could kill” look which seemed to work pretty well on most warm-blooded creatures. No effect. She put it out of her mind and headed for the elevator. Margolin’s house was a fifteen minute drive if traffic weren’t bad. She’d be there in thirty-five.

  Getting in her car and cutting in front of a guy in a Jag who’d just picked it up from the valet, she headed back out to Century Park East. Cordoza, who’d recognized a detective’s car in front of the building when he’d pulled in five minutes earlier, had stopped well behind to see who it was. He put his car in gear and followed from a distance. Perfect timing. It was that bitch Prole. No matter that a couple years earlier she’d made a few pointed remarks about his physical appearance when he’d hit on her after a few beers at a cop hangout. She’d been banging Furyk. He knew she was the lead investigator on the Wick case. Brant hadn’t told Cordoza much about what was going on, but even with a throbbing pain in his head and hand that Vicodin wasn’t dulling any longer, he could add one and one. Fucking bitch was in the middle of this. He’d decide later whether she needed to be part of the body count. For now, he followed.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Margolin didn’t resist Furyk’s pull, too disoriented from the sharp pain that made his nose feel as if it had swollen to the size of a small grapefruit. He’d never been hit in the face and was sure the nose was broken. He shuffled his feet quickly to keep up so Furyk wouldn’t be dragging him by the tie. The veins in Furyk’s hands stood out, inches from Margolin’s eyes, and it looked muscled and dangerous. He couldn’t take his eyes off the hand, the thick wrist with sun-lightened, matted hair. He hadn’t realized how strong Furyk was, and it scared him.

  In the den, Furyk swung the lawyer around and into the leather chair by the desk. The momentum of Margolin’s body would have pushed the chair back several feet on its rollers across the carpet, but Furyk kept the tie tightly held in his grip. Sitting suddenly, Margolin was jerked forward as Furyk held him in place. Letting go, Furyk put his hands on either side of the chair and leaned in close. Margolin could see a vein, like the one on Furyk’s wrist, pulsing on his tormentor’s forehead.

  “You…you can’t. You can’t do this. I’ll have you brought up on charges!” The threat squeaked out of Margolin, lacking the force of conviction he used with clients. Furyk said nothing, didn’t move, just stared. Blood dripped down the bridge of Margolin’s nose and he involuntarily flicked his tongue to catch it. He was too afraid to reach up and wipe it away.

  “I don’t know…what the hell…what are you doing? Why…” He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Without seeming to move, Furyk slapped him hard across the face. The embarrassment of being slapped, like a woman or one of the girls he and Wick used, was almost worse than the pain in his re-injured nose. His cheek stung and he felt deep down, past any pride or macho façade, that he was going to cry soon.

  Furyk didn’t give him time to think about it. With the same hand he’d used to slap Margolin with his palm, he backhanded him on the other cheek. The sound wasn’t quite as satisfying, but the force of knuckles contacting soft, fleshy skin with a hollow echo was. Furyk could feel a migraine coming, anger egging it on, coaxing it to grow and take over. Still leaning in to Margolin, he stared into the man’s face, unblinking. Margolin, in frenetic contrast, rapidly blinked. Fear, anger, humiliation, all played on his face. Furyk wanted him scared, wanted him fearing for his life – professionally and literally. Fear would make him tell Furyk whatever he knew.

  “I know about the girls.” Furyk’s voice was low and cold. Margolin forgot the pain for a moment.

  “What girls? What do you mean?” It sounded hollow, an empty lie, and Margolin knew it was a feeble attempt. He wanted a few more minutes where his world had not yet imploded.

  “You’re shit. I should feed you to the girls you screwed over and let them spend some quality time with you tied up. But I don’t care about you. I want to know who you’re working with.” He said the last part in almost a whisper.

  Margolin tried to think. He looked side to side, as though there would be help. Someone with an answer, or a gun. He knew Furyk would hurt him. The anger spilled out of this man. But Brant would kill him if Margolin gave up the Sheriff. He had to hold out. Take the pain, be a man.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’m an attorney. What girls are you talking about?” He regained some confidence, picturing himself talking to a defendant. He could be in control. He sat up, bringing him slightly closer to Furyk and using all his discipline not to flinch. He even found the balls to reach up and straighten his tie. It didn’t matter that he looked ridiculous, the shirt pulled out and askew at the collar, drops of blood all over, his face swelling. He was Perry Margolin, champion of his clients, master of his den.

  Furyk punched him in the nuts with a blow that only traveled six inches, but his hammer-like fist struck through the point of contact and almost burst one of Margolin’s testicles. Eyes suddenly wide, a small sound like “unh” coming out of his open mouth as the breath instantly escaped, Margolin barely noticed as Furyk violently brought his forehead down on the bridge of the attorney’s nose. Margolin’s brain registered the pain and shut down before it reached awareness, denying him the appreciation of suddenly becoming unconscious. Furyk stepped out of the way as Margolin’s body slumped forward and slid out of the chair.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Cordoza followed Prole west, along Santa Monica Blvd. It was easy to stay half a dozen cars back in the heavy traffic without losing her, though Prole didn’t seem to be paying any attention. When she headed north on Federal, he knew where she was going. It was the same place Cordoza would be heading. If Margolin wasn’t at the office and she wasn’t heading downtown to the courts, the next best bet was home. He got a few car lengths closer so he could see what she was doing. Prole didn’t reach for the radio, but made a cell phone call. Not reporting her location to her boss, or she’d have used the radio. Maybe making an appointment for a bikini wax, or more likely a shave and haircut, since the bitch was probably a dyke and half a man. What he wished was that she was calling her buddy Furyk. That would be perfect – follow Prole to the Wick woman and whack them all at the same time. The thought made Cordoza smile and the shooting pain in his cheek made him steer into the car on his right. The jeep he almost broadsided cut hard to the right, taking out an orange cone from one of the constant L.A. road construction sites and flipped him off. Cordoza ignored the asshole and stayed on Prole.

  Fifteen minutes later he turned onto Margolin’s street after sitting by the side of the road for a minute or two, letting Prole get ahead. The curb was lined with cars and he parked two blocks back behind a large
SUV, of which he had his pick, and kept the engine running. He watched. Prole went up to the front door. Cordoza took the backup gun from his glove compartment and put it in his lap, then pulled out of the spot when he saw Prole going into the house. She had pushed the door open after knocking and ringing the bell, but it didn’t look like anyone had answered. She had her hand on the holster of her gun as she stepped in.

  Cordoza drove by the house and went down two more blocks and turned north onto an even quieter side street where none of the houses were visible from the road. He pulled over and cut the engine. He could easily walk back to Margolin’s house using the streets, but could also cut through the backyards and wooded block if he needed quicker retreat. Tucking the gun behind his back, under the shirt, he pulled himself out of the front seat and started to jog back to the Margolin house. Every step sent a shock through his entire body, settling on his swollen, aching face.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  While Margolin moaned toward consciousness after being out for just a couple minutes, Furyk looked out the window at the backyard and wondered why he was so angry. It was an unnecessary introspection. The rage was always there. But there was usually a more obvious trigger. A pedophile pimp seemed reasonable enough, but there was something more. Felicia and the other girls were weak. Not because they lacked strength – anyone who could survive on the streets, much less being rented out for sex, rape, beatings, and probably worse had resilience at the very least. They were weak in the way that the powerless are weak. Wick and Margolin had taken away their choices, erased even the sketchiest of optimistic futures. He looked back at the lawyer, starting to gag as he woke, surrounded by a multi-million dollar house, lying on carpeting that probably cost more than Furyk’s two cars combined. It was the casual way people with power eviscerated others, and not for some grand prize. Doing corporate battle with an equally educated and equipped enemy, winner take all, was a fair fight with a goal that justified the means. But stealing dignity and leaving these girls to be fragments of who they might become, just for a night of fantasy or role playing or perversion, was more than unethical – it was unbalanced. A high price paid by the girls for a small gain by the men. Furyk thought to the time he spent as a teenager in a facility for troublemakers. Not just kids who’d been caught shoplifting or skipping school too often. Psychopaths and rapists and violent offenders who were too young for real jail, instead housed in a place where they could hone their skills and practice on the weak, the powerless. Wick and Margolin, and whoever was helping them and giving them access to people like Cordoza, were the ones who made such places possible, who created the world where such things happened. Furyk felt his anger rise again as Margolin’s eyes fluttered open and his retching increased for a stretch then settled into a hoarse cough.

  Furyk crossed the room and came to a stop on the fingers of Margolin’s left hand. He could feel the fingers start to crunch beneath the heavy shoes. He ground the heel a half turn, snapping two of the fingers, and stepped back. Margolin howled in pain, still on his back, holding the injured hand with his other.

  “Stop, stop it…you’re going to…if you…” Margolin stopped, knowing it didn’t matter what he said.

  “I’ve got all day. At least until school lets out and your dead best friend’s daughter comes home. New question. Why did you want Merrill to take the fall? Why not look for the real killer?”

  Margolin moaned and rolled over so he was face down, then pulled himself up to his knees. Furyk kicked him hard and sharp in the shoulder, not enough to knock him over but enough to cause a bruise and keep him off the tennis court for a couple of weeks. Margolin twisted to the side as the blow took his mind off his fingers – and broken nose and swollen testicles – for a brief moment. He didn’t know what part of his seemingly ravaged body to hold on to. Tears came to his eyes and he sat on his haunches and looked up at Furyk.

  “I don’t know what you, I mean, I believed Merrill…” Furyk’s eyes bored into Margolin and he picked up the phone from the desk. It was lighter than the old fashioned handsets that had some heft. It was some kind of digital black thing, fancy and full of buttons. He swung it across his body and hit Margolin above the temple, knocking him backward. Furyk made it more of a love tap, not wanting the lawyer to go out again, but making the point that the time for bullshit was over.

  “Bullshit time is over,” he reinforced.

  Margolin, surprised that his experience of pain could actually increase at this point, didn’t require more convincing. “Okay, god, please, okay. Enough…please, don’t hit me again.” The whining was enough to deserve another smack but Furyk refrained.

  Margolin swallowed, ignoring the tears that continued down his face. He pulled himself back onto the chair, struggling to keep it from sliding away and trying not to use the hand with the broken fingers. He sat in the small pool of blood that had accumulated on the seat during the effort.

  “We set her up. Carl was becoming…unstable…dangerous. We thought he was going to make a mistake.” There were a hundred details Furyk wanted to know about what they had been doing, but he didn’t want to listen to a speech from Margolin. He wanted the bloodied scumbag to tell him just the main points – why was Wick killed with Merrill being blamed and who else was involved. Margolin appeared to understand at some level that this wasn’t the time for explanations or long confessions. He just wanted Furyk to stop.

  “She was supposed to…well, Carl had her on medication. We told Carl to dope her up because she was starting to suspect what was going on. It would be better for her to be out of it, easier to control. He agreed with us. She was always easy to control anyway.” Margolin couldn’t look Furyk in the face. “But she had to be out of it enough that she’d believe she killed Carl.” Margolin looked down at his shoes. Tears hit them and gave them an additional shine. “Someone was going to kill Carl, and Merrill would get a few years, too doped up to object, and everything would…everything would go on.” He was on the verge of sobbing. “I didn’t want to kill Carl, I think we could have…” He couldn’t go on.

  Furyk was disgusted, but it was nothing worse than he had heard before. Later he’d get the details about the operation. Right now, he wanted to know one more thing.

  “Give me a name.” Margolin looked up quickly. There was a plea in his eyes, and Furyk ignored it. He reached for the phone again.

  Margolin cringed. “He’ll kill me. Please.” The tears again.

  “And you don’t think I will?”

  Margolin didn’t think he would, but he knew Furyk would continue to hurt him. Maybe that was worse. He swallowed hard. A fork in the road.

  “Brant,” he croaked.

  Furyk was stunned. He put the phone down and leaned toward Margolin. “Say that again.”

  “Sheriff Brant. He’s the one who decided Carl had to die. He…he’s been part of…since we had a problem with a client once. He helped out, and then, he’s been part of it.”

  Protection from the L.A. County Sheriff. Any problems with “clients” complaining, Brant could straighten it out. Or if a girl got hurt, or disappeared, he could make it go away. Furyk didn’t know the extent of their enterprise, but it was probably brutal. Brant wouldn’t have a problem with that. He’d revel in it. He’d enjoyed running Furyk out of the Police Department, even though they were separate forces. Furyk wouldn’t turn the other way when one of Brant’s guys went too far. Blow jobs in the back of cruisers, ripping off cash from street thugs – those were minor, though not anything Furyk was interested in. But Brant’s boys played rough and covered up crimes that should have put them in the same jails as the scum they collared or framed. And Cordoza had been Brant’s favorite.

  Margolin could see Furyk was done beating him. “Please, please don’t tell Brant I told you. He’ll kill me.” He felt a shift, a change in the playing field. He knew he couldn’t get Furyk to let him off the hook, but Margolin was going to find a way to blame Carl and Brant. He just needed a little time to put h
is thoughts together. He might survive this.

  Furyk ignored him. Brant had sent the guy, Ching, the other night to kill him. He’d sent Cordoza to take care of Felicia and Merrill. His phone rang. It was Prole. He walked out of the den as he answered.

  “Get to Margolin’s house, the lawyer. He’s got a story to tell you. I won’t be here.” He hung up before she could tell him he better be there or she’d kick his ass. He needed to get to Merrill first.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Prole opened the door, pissed that Furyk was a step ahead of her and bloody furious that he’d been and left. She knocked and rang first, then heard a faint call from inside. Furyk never made any faint noises, so that was reasonable cause to enter a house. Damn near an invitation.

  Inside the foyer, the house looked faintly familiar. She knew where the kitchen and living room were, and the layout of the second floor at the top of the stairs in front of her. It was the same as the Wick house. The noise she’d heard resolved itself into a moaning sound, coming from a room off the living room, opposite from the kitchen. In the Wick house it had been a study. She headed toward the noise, amplified by the emptiness. She drew her gun, tired of walking in on dead bodies.

  The room was a den, clearly Margolin’s little office-away-from-the-office. Dark wood paneling, expensive carpet, fancy furniture and, like every home in Brentwood she seemed to walk into, a bloody body in residence. Only this one was still breathing.

  “Detective, please. I need some help here.” Clearly, she thought. He was slouched back in his chair behind the desk, a bag of frozen peas held to his nose and forehead, a more traditional icepack resting on his left hand, and what appeared to be a towel with ice wrapped in it sitting in his lap. Or more like his crotch. The guy was a mess.