“You’re not looking so hot, counselor. Should I get you two subpoenas and call you in the morning?” She didn’t mind that he was miserable. The guy was going to let his meek little client take the fall for a murder and whether he knew what was going on or not, he wasn’t doing much to make Merrill’s life easier. “Who messed up your Brooks Brothers suit today?”
Margolin hesitated. He’d had time to find anything frozen that could reduce the swelling in various parts of his body, but he hadn’t yet figured out exactly what he was going to do to point blame away from himself and toward Wick – and Brant. He had to be smart or he was just going to end up dead. The minute Brant thought he’d squealed, it was over. He held the peas tighter to his face. The cold hurt in a better way than Furyk’s telephone shot had. “An intruder. He came to the door and pretended to be a repairman. Forced himself in.”
Prole put the gun back in the holster attached to her belt. “Cut the shit, Margolin. Furyk called as he was leaving. I assume he beat the crap out of you. You want to press charges or tell me what you told him? Either way’s fine with me.”
Margolin was relieved she didn’t know about Brant yet. He wanted her to get out, to give him time to think. Playing dumb now would get him in trouble later. He had to admit to being involved, but only as a pawn. Blame Wick and Brant, but just Wick for now. Avoiding the implication of being caught in such a brazen lie about the intruder, he pulled a Cuban Missile Crisis maneuver and just pretended he never said it. “Carl was doing some horrible things, unethical behaviors with some of his clients. I became aware of it and tried to stop him.” He thought about pushing the Merrill issue, throwing some blame her way – maybe she’d found out and Margolin could argue he thought she’d killed Carl in a rage. But looking into the face of the police detective who seemed almost as pissed off as Furyk, he decided to keep the lies simple. “I thought maybe Merrill had done it, but…”
His voice trailed off, noncommittal. She wasn’t buying any of it. Her hands went to her hips and she stepped toward him menacingly. Under normal circumstances, he would have smiled and been lawyerly. But all he could think of was how Furyk had hit him every time he moved toward him. She looked capable of the same.
“You’re full of shit, Margolin. I know it, and you know I know it. Just because I’m short on some facts doesn’t mean I’m not gonna bust your ass and put you in a cage with some of the scumbags you couldn’t get off.” She pointed a finger in his direction, just a few feet away. “Think carefully before you lie now. Is there someone else involved? Someone who’s a big shot, who’s got pull at the department? I’m telling you, if you bullshit me I’ll finish what Furyk did.” She didn’t really mean it, but he looked scared enough to buy it.
Margolin’s mouth opened, but no sound yet came out. He seemed to be thinking what to do, to lie or confess. She was betting on a lie. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned to the window behind and to the right of where Margolin sat. Before her eyes could compensate for the glare, the glass shattered at the same instant she heard the distinctive pop of a pistol firing. A glass frame on a picture hanging on the far wall opposite the window fractured and fell to the ground an instant later. Prole kept her eyes on the window as she ducked and an arm was already reaching in, a heavy black gun in the hand. It fired three times in rapid succession and Margolin’s body jumped. One bullet hit the top of his left ear, creating a quarter-sized hole as it entered the skull. The second hit his shoulder, tearing muscle but not fatal. The third struck Margolin’s throat as the force from the first two shots began to spin him in the chair. It tore out a chunk of esophagus and skin the size of a small ball. The flesh there came away easily, like bark off a tree, and blood gushed heavily. Dead from the first shot to the head, Margolin slowly slumped and toppled off the chair.
Before the third bullet had passed through Margolin’s neck, Prole had her hand on her gun and was switching off the safety. Eyes still on the arm in the window, she saw the gun turning toward her. She dove to the right as three quick shots rang out after the brief pause while the gunman, whose face still had not come into view, recalculated his target. The bullets missed, though the last might have hit her if she’d stayed still. On the ground, gun raised, she returned fire twice, hitting the window where the gunman had been. But he was gone – seven total bullets, no reloading. She belly-crawled across the floor toward the window, coming in from the side. Barely avoiding the glass on the floor, she slid up the wall and pushed her gun through the opening, ready to blow away anyone she saw. But there wasn’t anyone. Bushes on both sides, trees ahead, going toward a neighbor’s house that looked like a forest in the back. The gunman had planned his escape.
Prole pulled open the window and jumped through, determined to give chase. She ran toward the trees, looking for a glimpse of any movement. Not a thing. Maybe he went back out front, to a waiting car. She hesitated a second, not sure where the odds would put him. Goddamnit, she thought. Goddamnit! Keeping the gun trained toward the trees, she pulled her radio out of its strap on her belt across from the holster and called it in. Another dead body, another uncaught killer. Or maybe the same one. Police work was starting to suck. She turned her anger to Furyk.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Shooting the lawyer felt good. Missing Prole with the last three shots pissed Cordoza off. He easily made it to his car and pulled away smoothly, drawing no attention on the quiet street. The couple of turns through trees and around three back yards would have lost Prole, who couldn’t have seen him even if she’d crawled out the window instead of going around the front of the house. There would be cops on the way within minutes but no one looking for him. One more down and a couple left – he’d have to ask Brant about Prole. He dialed the number.
Brant answered his office line on one ring. He had caller ID. “Gimme good news, you sonofabitch.” Cordoza didn’t take it personally. He liked the Sheriff, as much as he could like anyone. Brant was brutal and successful, more adept than Cordoza at manipulating others and being occasionally diplomatic, but no less cold in his soul. He’d managed to make full use of Cordoza’s skills over the years and the payoff – in money and freedom – was the balance Cordoza never thought he’d find in a world that didn’t appreciate his brand of detachment from human warmth and willingness to do anything he felt like.
“The lawyer’s dead.” Cordoza still had trouble driving and holding the phone. His ability to shoot left-handed was fatal for Margolin but only a small obstacle for Cordoza. The Vicodin on the seat next to him rattled and he realized after the adrenaline of the killing and quick run to escape, he needed a few more. “Prole was there. I took a few shots but didn’t get her. She didn’t see me.” He waited for a response.
Brant knew Prole was on the case, but not how close she was. Everyone knew Furyk had nailed her, so he had to assume that with Furyk sticking his nose into things, she was up to speed – or would be soon, depending on whether Margolin folded like the pussy Brant knew him to be. He should’ve split his head like a melon when they were in the park.
“What did the lawyer say to her? Did he spill anything?”
Cordoza was surprised by the lack of anger about Prole. “I dunno. They were only together for a couple of minutes before I busted him up. Coulda said something, but from what I saw, he was begging her not to hit him.” He paused and Brant listened to the car sounds coming over the line as Cordoza got on the busy east bound Santa Monica freeway headed downtown. There was more coming, he knew.
“He was pretty beat up before I killed him. Looked like it’d just happened. Not enough time for Prole to do it…though she probably coulda done that kind of damage.”
Brant sucked on his teeth while thinking about this. Who would have beaten Margolin before Prole got there? It could have been some other pissed off girl, like the one who shot Wick. More likely it was that asinine director who liked to beat up Wick’s girls. But that still didn’t sound right. He found a spec of the mor
ning’s tacos between two molars and worked it out by pulling hard on it. The piece of meat or salsa came loose and he rolled it to the tip of his tongue. Then he realized it had to have been Furyk at Margolin’s place. Furyk shaking the tree to see what would fall down. He spat the small, hard bit of food onto the floor.
“Fucking Furyk. He did that, must’ve been there before you.” Brant had to prioritize, stay one step ahead. “Do Prole later, she doesn’t know shit. Get to Furyk. And Wick’s wife. Get to them now.” He growled the last part and hung up, trying to think how he could find where Furyk was and where he had taken Merrill. Cordoza wouldn’t figure it out, he’d just put the bullets in them when the time was right. Hard to find good help. Brant went to the computer and typed in Furyk’s name. He needed a hook.
Chapter One Hundred
It was still daylight saving time and dusk didn’t settle in until after 7:00 p.m. Furyk sat with Merrill in the quiet backyard of Hamid’s house, the ever changing makeup of the family members inside having shifted again once the late afternoon meal had been finished and the evening supper still a couple hours away. A few last rays of bright sunlight flashed through the trees on the neighbor’s property, making Furyk squint for another moment until the sun dropped another millimeter and the sky was light but softer. They each held a glass with hot, strong tea, the sweet scent carried by the tendrils of steam curling up into the cooling air.
There was a lull, but it was deceptive, like the quiet after a gladiator has fought multiple opponents in a stinging clash of swords and dust only to take a breather while his opponents circled him and looked for an opening. The quiet of the late afternoon, the calm of the house, the gentleness of the silence between them now was as false as the smile on a shark smelling blood. Furyk knew Brant wouldn’t let anyone live who threatened exposing him. He didn’t have anything to nail Brant with yet other than Margolin’s coerced confession. Though Furyk believed it, no one else would just go on Furyk’s word. He’d have to get Margolin to go on the record, hopefully before Cordoza killed the lawyer or found Merrill. He didn’t know that one of the messages on his unanswered cell phone was Prole with news of the murder.
Merrill had her eyes closed. She hadn’t taken any medication, she claimed, since the previous night. Her head was clearing. Her face looked calm, the teacup in her hands giving her a quiet elegance. Furyk watched her, thinking how delicate the features, how slight the build. Sandals on her feet, legs crossed, she looked almost happy. He hated throwing cold water on her one quiet moment. “Merrill.” She opened her eyes and gave him a smile.
“Your friends are so nice. Much different from mine.” She sipped her tea and grimaced at how strong it was.
“Merrill, what Carl and Margolin were doing involved a lot of people. Some of them are very dangerous. You’re not safe.”
She took another sip. “You know, you get used to it after a while.” No grimace this time. He wasn’t sure if she was talking about the tea or even listening to what he was saying. “I first met Carl when I was just a lost kid. I wasn’t happy at home. You know, like any teenager, upset about the dumbest things. My parents were great, especially my dad. He really loved me. But I was, kind of, messed up. So they took me to Carl. Dr. Wick.” She looked away from Furyk and her smile faded as she told him in a regular voice without a hint of rancor.
“I was just sixteen. He prescribed a sedative after my third session. I didn’t really remember a lot about that time, just that I looked forward to our weekly meetings so much. They were almost like dates.” She giggled, and it would have been sweet if it hadn’t been horrible. She sighed. “I just started remembering more of the details a few weeks ago. Funny how the mind works.”
A few months after her third session, when the medication was helping so much and they’d gotten into the habit of hugging hello and goodbye, the teenaged Merrill had a breakthrough session with Dr. Wick.
They didn’t start the session that day with the usual “what are you feeling.” Dr. Wick was sitting at his desk instead of the chair opposite Merrill’s regular spot. Merrill came in and wasn’t sure what to do – sit, stand and wait, give him a hug. Wick stood and came over to her, taking her hand.
“Merrill, today we are going to take an important step. The trust we’ve developed will allow us to make an advance in your treatment. Potentially a breakthrough.” Merrill trembled slightly, not sure what this all meant. “We are going to use hypnosis to stamp out some of the thoughts and feelings that still haunt you.”
Hypnosis. Merrill didn’t know anything about it except that someone could make you cluck like a chicken. She was scared. Wick knew what she was feeling; had anticipated everything.
“You don’t have to worry. It’s just a way to relax, an altered state. There’s nothing a person does under hypnosis that they wouldn’t do when they were awake. Nothing.” He smiled paternally at her and led her by the hand to the small couch they never used.
“Sit here, and turn toward me.” He sat next to her and their legs touched lightly. She expected a silver watch on a long chain or a spinning wheel. He reached around her and put several pillows against the couch, then gently pushed her shoulders back so she was still sitting upright but resting comfortably in the corner of the couch, facing him. He held up a finger, a few inches in front of her.
“Merrill, I want you to look at my finger. Concentrate on it, nothing else in the room, just my voice and the tip of my finger. Follow it as it moves.” He slowly moved it side to side and his voice sounded deep and comforting.
“Just relax, your eyes open, and picture a beach. Yes, eyes open, a daydream, where the waves are gently breaking on very white sand. Follow my finger with just your eyes; don’t move your head.” She did as he asked.
“Now see yourself stepping into the surf, just your toes at first, the water warm and lapping against your ankles as it runs up the sand. Take another step, up to your knees.” She had thought it would be dumb, getting hypnotized or picturing some silly scene, but she felt relaxed, unworried. She really could almost see the beach as she followed his finger moving slowly back and forth.
“Now you can close your eyes, but keep listening to my voice. Step further into the water, the waves so gentle, rocking you lightly. You’re up to your waist. It is warm and your toes feel squishy in the wet sand under the waves.” Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened. She was totally aware of his voice and the closeness of his leg to hers, but it didn’t bother her. A tiny part of her thought “this is hypnosis…I don’t feel like clucking,” but she ignored that part and went deeper into the water.
“Merrill, now I want you to go all the way in, up to your chest. There is no pressure from the water, it is like you are floating in air. All the way in.” She did and it felt wonderful. Wick was quiet for a moment, then his voice started again and it was closer, right next to her ear. “Float, Merrill, let the waves lap against you. Let your feet come off the sandy bottom and the water take you out, out into the sea where it is warm and safe.” She actually felt her feet coming off the wet, cool sand and she began to float. Then she felt his lips on her cheek and she flinched. His voice was in her ear again, comforting and soothing. “It’s okay, Merrill, you’re free now, safe. Warm and safe.” She relaxed and did not flinch when his lips touched her cheek again, then brushed against her eyes. The scent of his aftershave was stronger now, and the slight stubble of his beard felt like sand against her face. It felt good.
His lips moved down her face, toward her mouth. They brushed against her lips, sticking a little to the gloss she had put on just before coming into his office. She didn’t move. A hand was on her shoulder, gently massaging. The hand slid down her arm, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Her eyes were still closed, but she could feel every nerve in her body. His other hand gently touched her leg, then was gone. Suddenly she felt pressure on her chest and Wick’s hand was there, stroking one of her breasts. They were small, too small she thought even for a sixteen year old, but he
cupped it and gave a gently squeeze. She breathed in sharply and he stopped, his hand returning to her leg. She thought about what he’d said, that hypnosis didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. And how she trusted him and didn’t want to disappoint him. She took his hand off her leg and slowly put it back on her breast. This time he was the one who inhaled quickly and she suddenly felt his lips against hers, pressing gently, then more firmly. His tongue darted into her mouth and she caught her surprise and then returned the touch. She still felt relaxed, calm, but there was a tingle now, between her legs, and she squirmed. He pulled back from the kiss and she slowly opened her eyes. He was just a few inches away and watching her carefully. Very carefully. She didn’t know if this was still hypnosis, but it didn’t matter. He waited. And then she smiled. He leaned in to kiss her again and she closed her eyes and imagined the beach again, floating. Something tugged inside of her, a part of her that wanted her to pull back, to stop, but she ignored it and it went away. She squirmed and tried to move closer to Dr. Wick, but he put both hands on her shoulders, gently.
“That’s enough for now, Merrill. You’ve done very well. Very well. Now I want you to picture swimming toward shore, long smooth strokes.” She was disappointed, but let him lean her back. When he let go, she felt empty, alone. Afraid. His voice continued, though. “Swim toward the shore. See me waiting there, waiting to give you a warm, thick towel. Waiting to dry you off and take you back home.” She slowly swam toward shore and by the time she had walked up the sand and into the waiting towel, she knew the hypnosis was over.
When she left the session that afternoon, she tried to kiss him goodbye. He gave her a stern look but relented when she flared with anger for a moment. He knew it was just disappointment and rewarded her with a hug. The next week they did hypnosis again, but this time she floated in the water for a long time and he joined her.
A Twisted Path Page 21
