Cross Cut

by Rivers, Mal

  I got myself together and headed right, which would take me round front to my Lexus, but I didn’t get very far. Three men in leather jackets stood in my way. I didn’t recognize any of them, but I initially guessed they were Dantura workers. People who got their hands dirty.

  “Sorry guys, no change,” I said.

  “You think you’re funny?” the one on the left said. He was bald, and had broad shoulders. The one in the middle was a few inches smaller, slim and flat jawed. The one to my right was the pretty boy. Perfectly styled brown hair. He didn’t look like a fighter.

  “You should stay away, my friend,” the pretty boy said.

  “I just wanted a drink,” I said. The guy in the middle took off his jacket and the big guy punched his right hand into his left palm.

  “There’s no need for this,” I said.

  The pretty boy backed off. “Take this as your warning. Stay away.”

  With that, the big guy came running. His steps were heavy and careless. I dodged the right hook with ease. Too much force behind it, with no accuracy or purpose. As his right arm went behind me, I followed up with a shot to the left kidney. I’m no martial artist, and my hand to hand is average compared to my rifle accuracy, but I still know my way around a brawl. The big guy winced a little, stammered forward, then I stamped forcefully with my right foot at the back of his left heel, fracturing the calcaneus and the force passing through to the primary anklebone. He fell to the ground and probably did some damage on the way down. He was writhing in pain and trying to clutch at his ankle.

  The slim guy looked hesitant at first but soon retrieved a knife from his pocket. It was a plain pocketknife, about an inch in length. I could state for the record that it is illegal to carry such an item concealed. I often ignore said rule myself, but I have a permit to carry a concealed firearm in the state of California. I could go on to state that I could’ve used my P230 here with good cause, but I saw no reason to.

  He came at me with several preliminary lunges. The key to disarming amateur knife wielders is all down to timing and watching their initial attacks. Not long after they’ll make a lunge with more commitment and distance. It’s then when they expose their position for too long.

  When the lunge came, I took one step to the side as his right arm missed my own by an inch. I gripped his wrist and pulled his arm back around him. I heard the creak in his shoulder when it wouldn’t budge any further, followed by a scream, then the clattering of the knife on the floor. I picked the knife up and carried it in my hand, waiting for the pretty boy to decide his next move.

  He retreated two steps and fumbled at the back of his pants, and I knew exactly what for. Before he could even make his arm straight, I threw the knife at his leg and got him in the thigh. He immediately dropped his Glock and fell backwards, wincing and handling the knife half buried in his thigh muscle.

  I looked behind me to make sure the other two weren’t going anywhere. They looked preoccupied so I walked over to the pretty boy, who was most likely the leader of this pathetic threesome. Funny how those who fight last are not only the worst, but are also the ones calling the shots.

  I looked down at him and said, “It’ll be fine, just go see a doctor. Now, who are you? Do you work for Cristescu?” I said while half looking back to the fire escape. If Cristescu had sent these guys, no one was watching them or backing them up.

  The pretty boy said nothing. I’m not a man for cruelty and please don’t think less of me, but just mildly tapping the knife stuck in his leg didn’t seem like torture to me. Seemed more like an incentive.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He cursed at me some more and gave no real answer. I pressed the knife again.

  “Dantura?” I said.

  “No—”

  “Then who?”

  “No one.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I got out the picture of the mystery man. “You work for him?”

  “That’s—”

  “He sent you?”

  “We just got paid to do this. We don’t belong to anyone.”

  “Who paid you then, this guy?”

  “No—”

  “Who then? And where?”

  “In Mid-City—we followed you here. Nothing personal.”

  “It never is till you have a knife in your leg. Who paid you?”

  He squirmed a little and said, “That guy you were with—in the bar.”

  I looked at him straight, trying to see if it was a dodge, but it seemed too strange to be one. It was then I looked back and recognized the slim guy. He was sitting by the counter when I walked into the bar. Goddamn Midge the Vulture. He had paid these morons to come after me—but why? Was he talking crap all along? Was it all just a set-up? I felt a little enraged, but also a little stupid. Never trust a CI, Flores had told me that.

  “How much did he pay you and how did it happen?” I asked.

  “Couple a hundred bucks. Before you even came in he set the deal, then he paid us after.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing to us, but he was talking to another guy. I think he was talking about it too.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know, but, he sounded European.”

  “European—you mean, Romanian?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  A voice came from behind me. The slim guy was still writhing on the floor. He muttered in a low tone. “Ah—”

  “What?” I said.

  “Armenian. The guy was Armenian.”

  With that, things were making sense. Midge the Vulture had sold me down the river before I’d even met him. No doubt he had spun an amazing tale just to string me along. But then I got to wondering whether it was a tale at all. As he said, he had no allegiance. Perhaps he really was just feeding legitimate information while watching from afar—half truths, perhaps. Not that I would ever trust him again, and Flores would never hear the end of it.

  To make sure, I took the wallets from all three of them. In the slim guy’s crusty leather wallet there were a bunch of twenty dollar bills, one of which I recognized because the corner was missing—I had given it Midge. Midge had paid these goons with my money, and he in turn had been paid by the Armenian buddy of his.

  The small schoolyard fight may have hurt my feelings, but at least now I knew I was after not one, but two mystery men.

  If they were together, we had double trouble. But, at the same time, we had two people to run at.

  23

  I had no qualms about leaving the goons out in the alley. I told them I’d call an ambulance, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.

  I arrived back at the beach house at 2.45PM. Regardless of events and the dilemma we were in, Ryder had still gone down to the pier. I can’t fault her and I won’t. We all need our own place. But for God’s sake, she could at least do some visible work.

  It crossed my mind that I was sore. It most likely had something to do with the fact I had spent the day being stabbed in the back by a snitch; being intimidated by a gang boss; and being attacked by a bunch of thugs. All in a day’s work for me, while Ryder had sat on her backside, pondering things over with no visible results like her damn slow pressure cooker.

  My brooding was all very well, but perhaps I should have reserved judgment until she got back. Besides, I had a few phone calls to make.

  Phone call number one was to Flores. His desk phone rang out for a while and the second time I called someone else answered saying he was out for the rest of the day. It wasn’t important; I just wanted to give him hell for not warning me about Midge the Vulture.

  Phone call number two was to my buddy, the one whose cabin was keeping Melissa. He’s a licensed private investigator and works security from time to time when firms need special input. He’s also a great guy, the only person outside the beach house I would ever leave a dollar to in my will. His name is Sullivan Groves. Sully to us. We use him occasionally when there’s too much legwork, or things l
ook too hot to handle. Now was definitely one of those times, on both accounts, and I didn’t seek Ryder’s approval.

  He has a strong, cheery voice. He answered, “Hey, Ader, what’s happening?”

  “Where do I start?” I laughed.

  “Oh, that’s how it is. How’s Mel holding up?”

  “Not sure, I’ve not paid a visit yet. I could use a hand, you busy?”

  He paused. “Well, I’m on a job at the moment, but it doesn’t have a time stamp.”

  “Good. When can you get here?”

  “I’m out at Hollywood, be an hour at least. Damn, my FasTrak is seeing some action on the tolls.”

  “You know we’re good for it. See you in an hour.”

  He hung up. I spent the remaining ten minutes washing my face in the kitchen and drinking orange juice.

  I was on the sofa when Ryder came through the French doors. She seemed startled at first but soon regained her calm.

  “This is becoming a habit,” she said. “Surely you haven’t been able to interview all the past victims of the—killer.”

  “You kidding? Forget all that, something else has come up and I didn’t know how to play it. It needed a bigger brain than mine, so here I am.”

  “Indeed,” she said. She was wearing a summer yellow button-down shirt and navy blue jean shorts. No fishing hat this time and her hair looked greasy. “I will be down in ten minutes.”

  It was actually fifteen. In any case, she sat at her desk without her blazer. She looked at me and said, “You appear to have been rough housing. What happened?”

  I’m not sure how she managed to see it. The goons had barely made a dent in me aside from a scratch across my ear. I gave my day to her, word for word. I spent a while glamorizing the alley fight.

  She sat back for a while with her eyes closed, head tilted to the ceiling. She let out a breath every ten seconds, which meant she was in deep thought. When she opened her eyes, she said, “It appears we have pierced a fair amount of our coincidences. How can we verify what that confidential informant told you?”

  “Well, I told Sully to get down here pronto. I figure the only way to do it is to go there, to Gillham and Mane, and check it out. Sound good?”

  “Yes. I would suppose the best approach would be ignorance, although we have no idea whether the operators are aware of our knowledge of such a thing.”

  “I think it’s damn likely. That Midge is a goddamn snake.”

  “Quite. No doubt you recollect my advice last night, especially regarding Erik Cristescu.”

  “Yeah, you said not to act recklessly. I thought I was going about it the perceptive way.”

  She sighed.

  “What have you been doing all morning anyway?” I asked. “Did you ever find the fake Lynch?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. There were a few possible candidates that looked promising, but the agencies don’t keep great records.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t an actor.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “So where do we stand?”

  She leaned forward. “At the moment, not on firm ground. If what you have learned today is verified, we have several options and a general path to success.”

  “So our prime angle, if it is confirmed, is that Lynch was killed because of the goings on at Gillham and Mane, and our mystery man, his gang or his Armenian friend used that in turn to get at Melissa?”

  “Perhaps as a theory, but we do not know who or which party killed Guy Lynch for certain. Indeed, we do not even know who the man in the picture is, nor are we acquainted with this so called Armenian man. Even as a mere theory, it seems farfetched either of them undertook such a broad and effective venture. And if they have no connection whatsoever to Erik Cristescu, there is no motive.”

  “We’ve been through that. Midge told me these sister clans—”

  “Yes, yet he could not identify the man in the picture.”

  “Yeah, well—maybe he lied.”

  She frowned slightly. “You said yourself he has no obligation to anyone. An impartial truth teller for profit will only resort to skullduggery if he himself is in harm’s way.”

  “Right—” I said, pretending to understand. “Of course, all this completely avoids the Cutter. Hell, the way it stands now, we probably won’t be coming anywhere near him or her.”

  Ryder picked up her right hand and adjusted her hair slightly and sighed. “I somewhat doubt that. If the murder of Guy Lynch was an imitation, it is based on knowledge far greater than can be achieved from reading a newspaper article. In any case, we were hired to find out who killed Guy Lynch.”

  “Like that will matter. Once—I mean, if, we blow the lid on the meth lab at Gillham and Mane, they’ll probably not want to pay us anymore. Which also leads to a good point. How many of them inside the company know about it, and, depending on the answer, why did they agree to become our clients?”

  “They signed a contract, what we unearth during the process is none of my concern. As for who is involved, I would assume not all were party to something clandestine. If they were, they would have collectively steered clear of me. There is, of course, another problem. If Melissa’s actions are made public in the press, Gillham and Mane may not be as cooperative as we’d like. Haste is required.”

  An hour later Sully arrived and was sitting on my sofa drinking beer, while I had the black leather chair, pulled back toward the aquariums. Giving my sofa away is an honor few people receive.

  Ryder and Sully exchanged pleasantries for a while until we got down to business. Ryder herself explained the majority of everything, including the items of concern that we had kept from the authorities, while I chipped in here and there.

  When we had finished, Sully slouched back against the groove of my sofa and said, “Hell—I don’t think I get it. So your killer from twelve years ago is dead—except the killings have started up again—the latest victim is called Lynch, and he might not even have been killed by the Cutter, and amongst all that, Melissa has been framed as the killer? Sounds like a bad case of The Truman Show to me.” He paused and leaned forward, furrowing his brow. “Lee Lynch is definitely dead, right?”

  I nodded and said, “What the army record says.”

  “They can be fudged,” Sully said.

  “Seems dumb to question it, but we can make sure by finding the guy that shot him.”

  “Hmm,” Sully mumbled. “So this other Lynch—Guy—is the name just coincidence, or was he linked to Lee Lynch somehow?”

  “We can’t be sure,” Ryder said.

  “Think it’s possible he’s related?”

  “We tried that angle, he has no family,” I said.

  “Huh, no family at all?” Sully said.

  “Nope. All he had were foster parents.”

  “Ah,” Sully said. “I think I’d like to go deeper into his background. I get the feeling there’s more to him. What else?”

  Ryder put her elbows onto the desk. “I think it would be advisable for you to find Zeus Higgings and get his account of Lee Lynch. And then, depending on time, look into the family and friends of the victims we’ve discussed.”

  “Fine by me,” Sully said. “Can I ask what you think is going on here? Normally you seem to have an idea and we play to it, but you haven’t said anything.”

  Ryder sighed and looked to the ceiling. “I think there’s a somewhat higher call to all the events that have come to pass. And that includes twelve years ago. When a train of coincidence grows to such length, it can no longer be considered as such. As you mentioned earlier, everything seems to have come together, on one single week. Everything is connected, this I have come to realize. When we approach the truth to this, I have no doubt we will know who the killer is, and what relation they have to all the parties involved.”

  Sully looked at me, and we were both thinking the same thing: that wasn’t really an answer.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go poke around Gillham and Mane, under the guise of just being there
to ask the staff about Lynch. I get the feeling if I find something suspicious, Sully and I will have to check it out come nighttime.”

  Ryder rose from her chair and nodded agreeably. “Very well. Sully, you will join us for dinner?”

  “Sure will.”

  “Good. We will reconvene then.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I have a phone call to make,” she said.

  “Okay—”

  I didn’t pry into it. It’s seldom worth the trouble.

  24

  Sully and I stopped for a drink and a bite to eat before we went our separate ways. There’s a diner a mile north of the beach house that makes Reubens that I’m rather partial to.

  We took our food outside and sat at a bench by a park where children were playing and mothers were watching them. A small girl was flying a kite while she ran around in circles. I smiled. I liked kids but I could never see myself having any. Ryder, you’d be surprised to know, also liked kids, but I’d be damned if I could see her with them.

  Sully had a daughter. Ten years old, called Sumia. Sully was divorced now, but on good terms with his ex-wife. He sees Sumia regularly and often shows me pictures. He had been a cop in the LAPD during the time I was in places like Afghanistan and Iraq. He reached Detective, First Grade, before calling it a day.

  We were both eating Reubens and drinking plain old water.

  I took the first bite, and then said, “Why do you want to check Lynch out so much? You’re not going to find anything.”

  “Kind of the point,” he said, biting at his pickle. “Even the most dedicated hobo has a family trail. Both of his foster parents happen to be dead and that’s it, sounds fishy to me.”

  “You think he’s related to Lee Lynch, don’t you?”

  “The only angle that works for me. Of course, why he wound up dead I don’t get, but—” he took a swig of water from the bottle. “Surprised Kendra never thought of it.”

  “She probably has,” I said. “I think she has an angle already, she just isn’t saying anything. You know how she is; takes every dime of information I get and waits on it till the last moment.”