Striking Back

by Mark Nykanen

  She considered a struggle, but his grasp was steely. She let the spray drop to the floor.

  “I didn’t go through a year of skin grafts and abrading to have you burn me with a bunch of chemicals. You know what that shit would feel like on my skin?” The question sounded earnest as much as angry, and she felt his grip gentle and his hand fall away. “Call the cops if you want to, but don’t spray me. I just want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “But what are you doing here?”

  “Here,” he bit back with equal emphasis, “is where I thought I might find you. Here is where I’ve been since four o’clock, sitting in my car.”

  If he intended this to reassure her, he’d failed miserably, reminding her instead of a batterer who’d once stalked her, a violation she hadn’t become aware of until he’d backed her into a corner of a parking garage with a long-bladed kitchen knife. A quick-thinking passerby had called the cops, and their sirens, more than anything she’d managed to say during those tense moments, had sent him running.

  “I don’t want you waiting for me outside or anywhere else. If you’ve got something to say, leave a message on my phone. You have the number. Or wait till group.

  “I could be dead by then, the way things are going.”

  Hard to dispute that concern, or his comment about a phone message. She didn’t check her office line on weekends. The men had other emergency services available to them. Five days a week with batterers was plenty for her.

  She glanced down at that canister of spray. It lay between them like unexploded ordnance.

  His eyes followed hers, and he bent over slowly to retrieve it, gripping the door frame for support. She had to rail against the impulse to snatch it away, or retreat. But he looked so frail, his movements so pained, that she did neither.

  As he straightened, he read the label, then handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she found herself saying. His courtesy made her feel less immediately threatened; but the poem hadn’t disappeared, and the scalpel with its surgically sharp edge lay, once more, at the base of the easel.

  “You’re wondering how I found this place.” She nodded, and he said, “You spend as much time as I do in my apartment, you go on-line a lot. So I started doing searches about you. I figured you’re telling me what to do, how I should act, I got a right to know who you are. Then your mom’s name popped up, and I found an interview she did with Art Weekly where she mentioned you. She said you were an artist, but not like her, that you painted and had a studio in an old brewery in Santa Monica. Didn’t need to be any great detective to go from there. I thought I might be here all weekend before you showed up.”

  He must not have seen anything about her stepfather. Saved by the Iron Age of information. John Appleton had died in the era of microfiche, not Microsoft, before search engines and instant crime libraries on-line. But with the work of Trenton and Warren, all of that was about to change.

  “You still shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I heard about Simmonds. It freaked me out, and I’m wondering what the fuck is going on.”

  “Would you please watch your language.”

  “Sorry.”

  Chastising him now, as she had during the intake, left her feeling if not at ease, at least in command. “I also don’t appreciate that you didn’t knock.”

  “I was going to. You opened—”

  “You tried the door. I saw the handle move.”

  “Force of habit.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know why I do it. I get in situations like this, I check to see if the door’s locked.”

  “’Situations like this?’ How many situations like this have you been in?” She spotted a slight furrow in the drumhead skin of his brow.

  “I don’t mean I’ve been in a lot of them, just that when I’m not sure I check a handle. Live through a fire. You’ll see.”

  She stared at him. Something wasn’t adding up. No, she told herself, it adds up.

  “You really should keep it locked.”

  “It was.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “What are you talking about? I definitely locked it.”

  He bent over to examine the antique assembly. “You might have thought you did, but look at this.” He pointed to a narrow bolt that sat above the catch. “See how it’s been jammed in there with that pin? It looks like a sewing needle.”

  A tiny silver speck glinted in the light. The lock, old as the building, had built up enough play over the decades for the needle’s narrow width to wedge the bolt in place.

  “I turned the key.”

  He pointed to the skeleton key. “Those things are worthless. They only have a couple of teeth, and sometimes they’ll turn even if they’re not engaged. If you got pliers, I could pull that needle out.”

  “Leave it in there,” she said, and he responded by straightening to face her.

  “Why? Don’t you want it to –”

  “I’ve already called the cops about something else, and that’s more evidence. In fact, we’ve got to get out of here till they arrive. This is a crime scene right now.”

  His eyes raced past her. “You find one of the guys here? Dead?”

  “No, nothing like that, but there’s something they’ve got to look at.”

  “You say they’re coming here? The cops? Now?”

  “Yes.”

  She hurried to the table where she’d dropped her shoulder bag, remembering how much she’d wanted to get out of here before he showed up and made the world outside her studio more frightening than the threats inscribed within. Now her fears had shifted back again, but even this recognition could not keep her eyes from the poem. Then she saw him limping over for a look.

  “I mean it. Get out. You’re not screwing up this crime scene.”

  He backed away, and she organized her armful and called 911, as she’d planned to before spotting him outside the door. She herded him into the hallway as the operator told her that a unit already had been dispatched because of the message she’d left Warren. She was transferred to the Detective Division, which linked her to Trenton, who was in a bar, or in one hell of a noisy house.

  “I’ll be coming over,” he said above the din. “Warren’s not available. The uniformed officers that’ll be showing up any second won’t be entering your studio, and you should get out if you haven’t already. Wait in the hallway under the light. Or if you’re too scared, go on downstairs and get in your car; but you see those lights flashing on the patrol cars, I’d like you to make yourself available.”

  Wait in the hallway under the light? “You been here before?” she said.

  “What do you think? You alone?”

  Not this again.

  “No, a guy from my group’s here.”

  “A guy from your group? What’s he . . . wait. Don’t say anything. Give me fifteen minutes. And make sure you stay out of your studio.”

  She snapped the cell shut and headed for the stairs.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “They’re on their way now. Come on.” Taking the stairs two at a time till she saw him struggling to keep up.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “That would be a big mistake. They know you’re here, so I’d advise you to stay.”

  He swore, but she was too intent on negotiating the shadows and stairs to reprimand him. She waited for him at the second floor, not quite sure why. It certainly wasn’t the pleasure of his company. She’d never smoked, except for a little pre-teen puffing, but had an odd impulse to light up, fill the air with something other than her anxiety. At this rate, she’d be on Paxil, never mind Mommsa.

  “You scared?” he asked as he stepped on to the landing and she headed down to the main floor.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I am.”

  She didn’t believe him. Nothing in his profile, his intake, nothing she sensed about Barr Onstott hinted that
he’d ever tell a woman he was scared. He scared them. But she played along as she moved several steps ahead of him. “Of what?”

  “You got to wonder who’s next.”

  “Then why’d you come see me? If you heard about Chuck Simmonds, then you heard how I’m the big suspect.”

  His breaths came in bursts as he followed her down to the first floor. “You’re not killing them.”

  Was she absolutely paranoid, or had he just threatened her with what he didn’t say: You couldn’t kill them, but I could.

  As they moved toward the exit, the incessant surf music never ceased, surging guitar riffs and dark, sudden explosions of drums and bass. Always in the background, seeping into lurid awareness during the uneasy conversational lapses like sewage oozing up from a broken main.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she said as she picked her way through the pipes and fixtures and famished lighting.

  “I knew enough to find you on a Saturday night.” Said like he could find her again whenever he wanted.

  She hurried to the door, no longer caring if he kept up; distressed to see that he lagged only a few feet behind.

  Where are the cops?

  As she pushed open the heavy wooden door, a current of cool air passed over the back of her neck, which erupted in vicious little goose bumps. Her skin felt as crinkled as old aluminum foil.

  She saw emergency lights as two police cars wheeled around the corner. Barr limped up beside her, bent over for lack of air. She waved her arms for the cops and tried to keep an eye on him. But Barr looked helpless, and the concerns that had driven her from the building just moments ago seemed overdrawn. Then she realized that since their first meeting, her emotional response to him had bounced from pity to fear—from one extreme to the other.

  Four officers spilled out of the vehicles. One of them ran around the corner of the building, and his partner took up a position on the sidewalk right in front of the entrance.

  The two other officers approached them directly.

  “I’m the one who called,” Gwyn said.

  “You’re Gwyn Sanders?” the female officer said.

  “Yes, that’s me.” Happy, for once, to see the police.

  “Show me some ID, both of you.”

  “LA fucking PD,” Barr said so softly Gwyn thought only she could possibly have heard him. Wrong.

  “Who’s he? The one with the mouth?”

  “He can talk,” Gwyn said as she rooted through her pack.

  “Don’t get smart.”

  “Barr Onstott,” he said.

  “Look at me,” the female’s partner said, shining a light right in Barr’s face. He had to squeeze his naked lids closed. “The fuck happened to you?”

  “Fire.”

  Gwyn looked over at him. Barr appeared unruffled, but she couldn’t imagine having to put up with that day after day.

  “You two together?”

  “What do you mean?” Gwyn said.

  “It means whatever you want it to mean.”

  “Well, we’re not girlfriend, boyfriend, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “Why not?” The cop smirked.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Gwyn shook her head in disgust.

  “You don’t want to cooperate, fine. Turn around, hands behind you.”

  Gwyn had to drop her bag by the door, and as the cop slapped the cuffs on her, she had the most intensely pleasurable thought of what George Delagopolis would do to this officer on the stand. So sweet she stifled the urge to say, “You’re making a big mistake,” which, judging by her performance, wouldn’t have struck a novel note.

  Besides, Barr said it for both of them as he was cuffed.

  “Now, you two together?”

  Where do they find them?

  Barr said he’d dropped by to see her. The two officers conferred.

  A car passed, slowed down; both passenger and driver stared.

  “Inside,” the female officer said. “We’re not letting you two put on some big show out here.”

  Gwyn forced herself to take a steadying breath before speaking. “Would you please grab my bag?”

  “I look like your bellman?”

  “Just put it in my hands, please.”

  “I’ll stick it inside the door. After that, I’m all out of favors. Studio’s on the third floor, right?”

  Gwyn, still greatly irritated, said nothing.

  “Yeah,” Barr said.

  “That’s where we’re going.” The officer pushed open the door.

  “We’re not supposed to go inside the studio,” Gwyn felt compelled to say. “Detective Trenton told me that we needed to get out of there.”

  “Tell me,” the officer snapped, “do I look like Detective Trenton? Anyway, I didn’t say we were going in the studio. I said we were going up there.”

  She pushed Gwyn forward. Not hard, but it made her stiffen with anger.

  They climbed back up the stairs. Barr suffered audibly, breathing hard as he trudged along without the use of his hands. He had to rest on the second landing. The cops gave him a minute, then they were all back in motion.

  The female officer parked them under the hallway light and poked her head in the studio. A few seconds later she walked back over. “You do the paintings?”

  Gwyn didn’t respond, had a strong feeling where this was going.

  “They’re ugly.”

  Great, so she’s a critic, too.

  Gwyn found herself actually looking forward to the detective’s arrival, but then again, she’d made other mistakes today.

  The surf music suddenly fell silent, leaving an absence, oddly unwelcome, in the air, filled almost immediately by someone climbing up the stairs. Someone slow, to judge by the labored tread. She could hear his breathing as he drew closer to the third floor. Man better lose some serious poundage.

  Then she heard more people piling into the building.

  “Hi,” Gwyn ventured as Trenton lumbered up.

  The detective ignored her and walked directly into the studio. He stayed in there for several minutes as a half dozen cops carrying packs and cases assembled in the hallway. Forensics.

  When Trenton emerged he nodded at their commander, who led his unit inside. The detective walked down to where Gwyn and Barr still stood cuffed.

  “She get mouthy?” Trenton said to the female officer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gwyn had all she could do not to object, but there’s no winning an argument when they’ve got you in handcuffs.

  “With her you got to get used to it. Take them off,” he added with a quick tug on Gwyn’s cuffs. “His, too.”

  The officer removed the cuffs, and Trenton assigned her to cover the emergency exit at the end of the hallway. He directed her partner to the front stairs and told them both to look out for the news media. “I don’t want them in the building. They know that downstairs, but if anyone slips in, send them right back out.”

  Gwyn was already on the phone calling Delagopolis, who actually answered. She brought him up to speed quickly, and he told her not to bolt.

  “They might be hoping you’ll try to walk out of there to force your arrest as a material witness. Hang in there. Say as little as possible but try to appear cooperative. And make sure you don’t give them a bunch of attitude. I’ll have my associate down there as soon as possible.”

  As she hung up, Trenton said, “Your best friend’s waiting downstairs. You know, the one with the hair. She’s not the only one, either. This whole media thing could get a lot worse if you don’t cooperate.”

  Gwyn took Delagopolis’ advice and said nothing.

  “Okay,” Trenton pulled out a notebook, “what time did you get here?”

  She stuck to the facts as Trenton ran her through all the obvious questions.

  “What about the scalpel? You touch it?”

  “Just for a second. I tried not to touch anything after I read that poem. Except my stuff that I took in there.”

  “Whi
ch was?”

  “A shoulder bag, cell phone, pepper spray.”

  “And then you got out?”

  “Not right away. After I left that message, he came by, so I didn’t leave right then.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

  “Onstott,” he fixed his eyes on Barr, “what were you doing here on a Saturday night? She invite you down?”

  “No,” Gwyn said emphatically.

  “I’m done with you for now. Quiet.”

  Barr offered Trenton the same line he’d given Gwyn. He’d been scared by the news of Simmonds’ murder. Trenton didn’t look like he was buying it, either. Still, for a guy who didn’t appear to suffer fools easily, he didn’t question Barr closely, didn’t pounce the way he had at Mommsa’s when Pants had tried to play cute. Maybe Barr’s injuries cut him some slack. It worked with her, ping-ponging from anger to sympathy every time she saw him.

  Trenton sidled away without saying a word, still taking notes as he entered her studio.

  As she sat down with her back against the wall, her cell vibrated and she struggled to her feet to get the phone out of her pocket. “Hi, Hark.”

  “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking of you.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that, but this isn’t a great time.”

  “Oh. You’re not alone, are you?”

  “No, it’s not that. Something happened at my studio and the cops are here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She heard a scramble on the stairs and looked up. “Oh-no, there’s a TV crew, too. A cop’s kicking them out, but they’re going to be waiting for me outside, I’m sure.”

  “Are you okay?” Hark repeated. “You want me to come down there?”

  “I’m fine. No, don’t come here. They’ll just hassle you, too. How about if I call you when I get out of here, unless it’s real late?”

  “Ring me anyway. I’m not going to be sleeping after this. Your voice will keep me awake for hours now.”

  She could hear the smile in his words, and as she hung up she would have seen herself beaming if there had been a mirror nearby.