Try Fear

by James Scott Bell

  He spun around like he’d heard a gunshot.

  Appropriate.

  Up close, he looked closer to twenty than thirty.

  He took out one of his earbuds.

  “Hi,” I said.

  His close-set brown eyes did a little side-to-side move. Like he was trying to recognize me.

  “What?” he said.

  “Harassed any nuns lately?” I said.

  He swallowed. “What?”

  “I know about the e-mails.”

  “Um, I think you think I’m somebody else.”

  “I know who you are.”

  His eyes widened with urban paranoia. “Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but just leave me alone.”

  “But you don’t leave other people alone, do you?” I said.

  He kept his eyes on me as he fished out his keys. Then he turned toward the door of the Malibu. I stepped in front of him and leaned on the door.

  His face broke out in full-on fright. He ran toward the library screaming, “Help!”

  I started after him.

  “Help!” he shouted again. And then a car leaving the lot almost hit him. It screeched to a stop and the driver leaned on an angry horn.

  It came so close Earbuds slapped his hand on the hood, then ran right up to the library doors. “Help!”

  The car, a black LaSabre, stayed put a second. The driver was looking at the backside of Earbuds and maybe saying something through the passenger window.

  I started after Earbuds myself.

  Then stopped. I saw the front plates on the LeSabre.

  Oklahoma plates.

  My mind kicked on its alarm system.

  The driver turned his head and looked directly at me. He had black hair in a bowl cut, with straight-edged forelocks. Glasses with black rims. Pudgy. Drew Carey’s less successful brother.

  And the worst poker face in the world. His eyes got owl-big behind his lenses, his mouth opened, and then he burned rubber out of the lot.

  175

  MOVIE CAR CHASES are ridiculous, of course. And not half as dangerous as the real thing done by complete amateurs.

  But one thing this one did was confirm I had the right guy. How many Oklahomans at a branch library flee in fear when they see me?

  Sister Mary had advanced the theory that her tormenter was from her home state. I believed it now.

  I caught up to the LeSabre at Jefferson. He started ignoring the lights.

  So did I.

  At Adams he almost hit a woman in a crosswalk.

  So did I.

  He sped right through the red.

  So did I. And saw, as we passed the Met Medical Center on the left, a cop car about to turn right out of the lot.

  I gave the black-and-white a huge honk and waved at him to follow.

  Then scorched over the double yellow lines for good measure.

  The cop car made a beautiful U, its lightbar flashing.

  The LeSabre hopped onto the freeway, heading east.

  So did I.

  So did the cops, starting with the siren now.

  I stayed with the LaSabre and called 911. I told dispatch I was chasing a possible felon who had almost killed a woman and was now heading east on the 10. I gave her the make of the car and the Oklahoma plate number and answered a few more questions and clicked off.

  Traffic was semi-heavy. Oklahoma was trying to weave in and out and get an advantage. Dork. Nobody drives like L.A. drivers. We do this every day. He wasn’t pulling away from me, and never would.

  The cop car, on the other hand, was getting pretty impatient.

  It was now a double high-speed chase. The kind that shows up on the news, live.

  Good. The more the merrier.

  176

  OKLAHOMA TOOK THE Harbor Freeway south, back toward Exposition Park and USC. In effect, he’d done a horseshoe.

  Traffic was lighter here and he stepped on the gas.

  So did I.

  So did the cops. I kept wondering when the rest of the cavalry would get here.

  The answer was Slauson. Another black-and-white got on and joined the festivities.

  At Manchester, we got the attention of a Chippie on a motorcycle.

  We convoyed to El Segundo Avenue, where Oklahoma decided to hit the street again.

  Bad choice.

  He went east, and just past Avalon ran right into road work and a jam.

  In front of us, on the left, was, of all places, Magic Johnson Park.

  Which is where Oklahoma headed, right over the curb. I followed. He was Larry Bird on a fast break. I was Magic running him down.

  The cops were the referees, blowing their whistles.

  And then it got deadly.

  177

  OKLAHOMA FISHTAILED ON the grass between two California oaks. The LeSabre was now facing me, two cop cars and a California Highway Patrol officer.

  For a long moment nobody seemed to breathe.

  Then, calmly, Oklahoma got out of his car and walked around to the trunk.

  Out of one of the cop cars’ speakers came a warning to stop immediately and get facedown on the ground.

  What happened next you probably saw, like half the nation did later that night. It was caught by a Mr. Frank Jones of Watts on cell-phone video.

  That’s how I viewed it, anyway, because the moment I saw Oklahoma step out with what looked like an AK-47 in his hands, I dove to the floor of my car. My face did, that is. My poor, abused keister stayed seat high.

  But I could hear the gunfire. The pinging of rounds into my car, and over it.

  What Mr. Jones’s vid later showed, fuzzy though it was, was a fattish man in glasses and bad hair blasting the living tax dollars out of two police cars.

  And wounding one highway patrol officer.

  And walking steadily forward, firing from what turned out to be a 100-round drum magazine. Doing so with a confidence that belied his looks.

  Then the return fire starts, with me right in the middle.

  The video shows Oklahoma getting peppered with an AR-15 and shaking for two seconds, like an abridged version of Sonny Corleone at the toll gate.

  Then crumbling to the ground.

  Suicide by cop, they later said. But not to me. They screamed at me and got me out of my car at gunpoint, then smashed me into the ground, cuffed me, and screamed at me some more.

  Not that I cared. My butt was safe. I had no fresh holes in me. I could wait this one out.

  Face on the ground, I could see a man behind an oak tree, peeking out, holding a cell phone and shouting “Day-uhm!”

  178

  THEY HELD ME for six hours at South Bureau, questioned me up and down. I told them to get in touch with Detectives Fronterotta and Stein and Zebker.

  Finally, they let me go. But not before telling me I’d be on the hook for emergency services and maybe even reckless driving. I didn’t care about the money, or the citation. I felt horrible about the CHP officer. When they said he was in stable condition I felt better than I had all day.

  I was now up to seven bucks.

  I counted my blessings.

  179

  ON THE TUESDAY following the shoot-out, I got the info that the shooter’s name was Milton Markley. Last known address, Oklahoma City. A computer programmer.

  And until his death living in a rented house in a remote part of Canyon Country.

  In said house, in the crawl space, cops found an arsenal that included an illegally modified Heckler & Koch HK 41, two Glock semi-automatic pistols, 400 bottleneck rifle cartridges, 900 rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition, two improvised explosive devices, and one Kevlar vest.

  In the trunk of his LeSabre they found a Mauser hunting rifle with scope, and several rounds of ammo. Ballistics confirmed this to be the rifle that shot Sister Mary.

  Reconstructing Markley’s computer use, a detective found him to be an expert user of several violent games, including the latest version of Grand Theft Auto.

  Nice. />
  They also found a skin cream he was using for a rash running down his neck. It had a strong, semi-sweet smell. Stein wanted me to know that. Maybe he thought it would make me feel a little better about my methods of investigation. Though he did tell me not to go door to door with any more tire irons.

  They also found a computer file containing links to and clips from every Internet mention of the trial of Eric Richess.

  In the kitchen, laid out on the table, was a map of L.A., with markings in red of locations for St. Monica’s, the downtown courthouse, Nick Molina’s neighborhood, and several places in the Valley I knew well.

  The guy had been following me.

  “Almost like he was making it a big game,” Detective Stein told me two days later at the station. He’d debriefed Sid about his gamer theory, and now had something else to add—that Markley killed Douglas Aycock and took his name with him. To assume the role. At least, that’s what he wanted to talk to Sister Mary Veritas about when she arrived.

  Only she was no longer using the Latin. Or the Sister.

  She was now simply Mary Landis, from Oklahoma City. She wasn’t wearing her habit, of course. A hoodie and jeans. It was the first time we’d seen each other since she left St. Monica’s.

  “I did know him,” she told Stein in the interview room. “In high school. He was a year behind me. He was one of this group of gamers led by Doug Aycock. Doug was the charismatic one. Milton was more of a follower. I was on the basketball team and he was the manager and scorekeeper. He seemed nice enough. Then he gave me a ride home one night after a game but instead of taking me home to Deer Creek he took me out toward Tinker Air Force Base, and we ended up off the highway on a dark, dirt road. He told me he loved me. He tried to kiss me and then tried to do more than that, and I ended up slugging him in the face a couple of times and he cried like a baby. Then I jumped out of the car and ran back to the road, and jogged all the way home. And he was suspended because my dad went down to the school and made sure they knew.”

  “And you never saw Markley after that?” Stein said.

  “Never,” she said. “This is all so bizarre.”

  “But not as uncommon as you may think,” Stein said. “Obsessives are on the rise for some reason. National stats on it, it’s just about everywhere. They often carry around a slight for years before it fully festers and bursts.”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Maybe when he heard I was a nun?”

  “Might have snapped him,” Stein said. “How do you think he heard?”

  Mary looked at me.

  “Publicity from previous cases,” I said. “It’s what happens when you work with celebrity lawyers.”

  180

  MARY WAS STILL shaking her head outside the station. I filled her in on everything else, just as I’d gotten it from Detective Lonnie Zebker.

  “It seems Eric and Fayette are falling all over themselves to make deals, and trying to implicate each other,” I said. “Isn’t marriage a wonderful thing?”

  “I still can’t believe he did it. He was such a cool liar.”

  “He’s singing now. Trying to drag Turk Bacon down and Jamie MacArthur with him. Claims Bacon’s guy, remember the Mafioso-looking guy from Addie Qs? Claims that guy killed Morgan Barstler. A real web. Well, good luck to Eric. The politicians have levels of protection we mere mortals don’t.”

  “So who vandalized your car?” she said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Oklahoma Kid, part of his game. Maybe Bacon had it done to keep me believing Eric was innocent. Leave the impression the real guy was out there. Or maybe it’s just a sign that I need a new car. Especially now that the engine block has bullet holes.”

  “In your lovely Benz?”

  “I’m in a lovely Buick now. Rental.”

  “Whatever happened to Nick Molina?” she said.

  “He skipped town, as far as we know. I’m sure he got scared of the whole thing coming down on him and took off. Right before we got to him.”

  She winced. “Why did Milton choose that time and place?”

  “We’ll probably never know,” I said. “I think it juiced him. It was a real street scene, a game. You have to move fast, make quick choices. He may even have scoped out the place before, thinking we’d be back. And I wonder if he was shooting at me, and not you.”

  “Why would anybody shoot at a lawyer?”

  She smiled then and it seemed so real and natural, but at the same time kind of sad.

  “So how’s the shoulder doing?” I said.

  “It’s sore, but it works,” she said.

  “Does it affect your hook shot?”

  “I haven’t tested it yet.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine Sister Mary Veritas without her full range of motion.”

  “Just Mary,” she said.

  “Uh-huh. So where have you been?”

  “A place in Eagle Rock. A crisis-pregnancy house.”

  “Oh yeah? When’s the bundle of joy due?”

  “Funny, Buchanan.”

  “You still driving that old Taurus?”

  “I took the bus.”

  “The bus? Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

  181

  AS I DROVE her back to the Valley I said, “So is this permanent? This new—what do you call it—non-nunship?”

  “Close enough,” she said. “I am to continue to reflect, but I think I realize this is not to be my vocation. That happens sometimes. It’s for the good of all concerned.”

  “So what will you do?”

  She paused. “I think I’ll go back home for a while. My mom and dad want me to. I can sort of regroup.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” I said. “Then you can come back to L.A. and set up shop as an investigator. I’ll be your first client.”

  She didn’t answer. But her silence said that wasn’t going to happen. It would be a clean break.

  We both knew that.

  When I pulled up in front of the yellow, two-story house in Eagle Rock, I said, “I want to say good-bye to you before you go. Maybe take you to Subway.”

  “I don’t need such extravagance,” she said as she got out of the car.

  “And I’ll want you to send me a postcard from time to time,” I added. “From Oklahoma City itself. Make sure there’s a tractor in it.”

  “Just work on your jump shot,” she said. “You need one.”

  She turned quickly and headed up the walkway.

  182

  THE NEXT COUPLE of days were as empty as a congressman’s promise. I sort of sleepwalked through them, coming to life only on the afternoon I introduced Kate Richess to Fran Dwyer and Kylie.

  They hit it off immediately. Kate and Fran were very much alike. They had copious amounts of caring that had to pour out. I played some Frisbee with Kylie in the backyard as the two women watched and talked on the patio.

  And thought maybe a house and a yard and a child and a wife were good things to have. Now. Time to move on.

  I moved on. At six-thirty that evening I met Kimberly Pincus at Morton’s on Figueroa, downtown. Best steaks in the city.

  And the company wasn’t something to shake a gavel at, either. Kimberly was as dazzling as ever, and making a good argument.

  Not verbally. But in every other way, she was calling me off my mountain and back into the real world. It was time. Time to allow myself to get together with someone again.

  When you put it down on paper, Kimberly Pincus was the one. She had everything. Looks, intelligence, drive.

  Yeah, it was time. I even had a Grey Goose martini in honor of her. We toasted and clinked glasses.

  “This,” she said, “is a good thing.”

  “The martinis?”

  “You and me, stupid.”

  We got caught up on our lives. Kimberly was mowing them down in court. She said she had not lost a motion or trial since my seat-belt victory. “You inspired me,” she said. “Now I’m dying for another shot at you.” She took the pic
k with her olive on it and placed it between her teeth for a moment. Then it disappeared into her mouth.

  “Maybe I’ll pick up Jamie MacArthur as a client,” I said, “and you can help the poor dumb prosecutor who gets assigned to the case.”

  Earlier in the week, MacArthur had held a press conference denying any knowledge of accounting schemes. Eric Richess had squawked from the jail, pointing the finger at the councilman. MacArthur, looking tanned and confident, said he was working with the controller’s office and was ready to clean house. It sounded to me like he was getting ready to throw Regis Nielsen under the bus. It was going to be fun and games throughout the summer. Just the kind of show L.A. eats up during the dog days.

  Over our steaks Kimberly and I talked about trial work and juries, cops and robbers, liars and truth tellers. We traded good-natured jabs and laughed at absurdities. Like the time she had a DUI trial and the young, nervous defense lawyer opened his cross-examination of Kimberly’s test expert with, “Are you truly qualified to give a urine sample?”

  In short, we had a good time, and I needed that. I needed it to wash out the stench of Eric Richess.

  We ended up back at her place, and sipped wine and watched the city from her window. The lights mesmerized. Not just the brights of Disney Hall, but also the pinpricks in hills, in Angeleno Heights and across the border of Hollywood, and the river of headlights and taillights ebbing and flowing on the freeway.

  “What do you think?” she said. “Can we own this town or what?”

  “Shall we just rule it from here?”

  She smiled. “Sure. Maybe we can put in a moat, keep out the common folk.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Marie Antoinette,” I said.

  “Am I?”

  “Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

  Kimberly winced, put down her wineglass, and kissed me.

  “Stay,” she whispered.

  I knew if I did, it’d be one of those things that changes your life forever. Kimberly Pincus was not a one-night stand. She was a forever changer.

  Forever…