Thursday's Child

by Teri White

  Finally they set off. Robert kept the pace slow enough so that neither one of them would get winded. After a few minutes, he started getting into the rhythm of the run and it felt good. Maybe, if he worked on getting back into shape really fast, the rest of his life would fall back into place at the same time. It was worth a try, anyway.

  Keeping pace at his side, Beau had been quiet for about as long as he could. “So tonight is it, huh?”

  “Yeah. Tonight is it.”

  “What happens then?”

  They ran in place at a corner, waiting for the traffic to pass. “Nothing happens. I’m done chasing around after Boyd, that’s all. Life can get back to normal.” They started across the street.

  “Can it? What about me? The detective and all?”

  “I don’t know what about you, Tonto.” He remembered his conversation with Marcello in Vegas. “You’re a complication.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They parted to get around a woman pushing a baby in a stroller. “Don’t sweat it,” Robert said when they were side by side again. “I can handle it.”

  Well, that sounded tough and competent.

  And why the fuck not? He was tough and he was competent. To hell with Rocco and his warnings. To hell with old man Epstein and his hired dick. This wasn’t some two-bit hood they were dealing with. Robert Turchek had a rep and it was a rep he’d earned honestly.

  Beau came to a stop suddenly and pointed. “Ice cream,” he said. “All this running makes me hungry. How about it?”

  “We’ve only been running fifteen fucking minutes,” he said.

  “I could really use some ice cream,” Beau wheedled.

  Robert wanted to argue some more; they were out here to run, for Chrissake, not to pig out on Haagen-Dazs. But then he gave up and followed Beau into the crowded little shop.

  Shit. You’d think he had adopted the damned kid or something. Here he was again, taking care, just as during all those years with Andy. Taking care, and because of that, he couldn’t get on with things the way he wanted to. Not that he had ever begrudged Andy the time and trouble; not at all. And, he admitted only to himself, he didn’t really mind all the trouble Beau was causing him. But it did sometimes seem that things were moving in sort of a vicious circle.

  He ordered extra hot fudge on his ice cream, just to help even up the score with fate a little.

  2

  George McBain, Boyd’s parole officer, was home sick with the flu, but when Gar called, he agreed to a visit. The house Gar parked in front of was a tidy bungalow on a quiet side street in Glendale.

  A plump white-haired woman opened the door to his knock. She didn’t seem to approve of this intrusion into her husband’s convalescence, but her greeting was polite as she led him into the tiny living room.

  McBain himself was as plump and white-haired as his wife. He was watching a nature documentary on TV, but he muted the sound as Gar came into the room. “Mr. Sinclair,” he said, half-rising to shake hands.

  “Sorry to bother you when you’re sick,” Gar apologized, sinking into a worn overstuffed chair.

  “Hell, I’m okay,” McBain said. His wife had left the room and he leaned forward. “If it was left up to me, I’d be back at work, but you know how it is with wives.”

  Gar nodded. “Well, this is a real crisis or I wouldn’t have come.”

  McBain picked up a pipe and began to fill it. “You’re the detective looking for the Epstein boy, right? I saw your name in the paper.”

  “That’s right. And I’m hoping you can help me find him before it’s too late.”

  “If I can help, sure.”

  “The name of one of your parolees has come up in my investigation. Danny Boyd.”

  McBain nodded. “Boyd is one of mine, yes. But I don’t see him involved in a kidnapping, if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

  Gar shook his head. “No. In fact, I don’t think that he’s necessarily involved directly with Beau at all. I’m really just hoping that he can point me in the right direction. But first I have to talk to him.”

  “And that’s where I come in.”

  “That’s it.”

  McBain finally got the pipe going and he puffed thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay, I’ll give you Boyd’s address. If you find out that he knows anything about this, you’ll let me know, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  McBain got up and excused himself.

  Alone, Gar stared at the voiceless picture on the television screen. A flock, if that was the right word, of penguins was waddling across an ice floe.

  Gar was trying his damnedest to work himself into a party mood. This was the anniversary of the date on which he and Mickey had moved in together, so they were celebrating with dinner at Il Giardino’s in Beverly Hills. Pasta and then battuta, all washed down with a good red wine. It was an evening that they’d planned for weeks.

  He wasn’t feeling really festive because of the hours he’d spent—wasted—sitting in front of a cheap motel near downtown, waiting for Danny Boyd to show up. Which Boyd never did.

  Mickey, of course, looked beautiful and extremely desirable in a very short white dress that sparkled under the lights. Every man in the place had watched her walk across the room to their table. Gar knew that they were all wondering what a woman like that was doing with him.

  Well, let them wonder.

  The dinner was delicious, and listening to Mickey tell him about her encounter with Mr. Cruise the night before almost took Gar’s mind off business. Almost. But he still found himself glancing at his watch frequently, although he tried not to.

  During dessert, Mickey finally gave up. “What’s the matter, Gar?”

  He gave a guilty shrug. “I’m sorry, Mick. It’s just this damned case. I can’t get it out of my head. I know that something is going to happen tonight, I just know it, and I’m scared for Beau.” He wasn’t quite sure where the hell the word “scared” had come from, but, thinking about it, he didn’t change it.

  She slowly licked frosting off the spoon, which probably made more than one male in the dining room groan inwardly. “In that case, Sam Spade, maybe you should be out there doing something about it, instead of sitting here.”

  But he shook his head. “No. We’ve been looking forward to this. I want to be here.”

  Mickey fed him some cake from her spoon. That should make the horny males watching them grit their teeth. “I’ve been looking forward to spending an evening with you, yes. All of you. And, frankly, darling, your body is here, but your mind is somewhere else.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. He took a sip of coffee to wash the sweet taste of the frosting from his mouth. “Damn it, I don’t want to be obsessed by this case.”

  She laughed softly. “Gee, can you choose your obsessions? I can’t.” She patted his hand. “I think you should go. I’ll sit here and finish my dessert, maybe have some more coffee, and then catch a cab home.”

  “I can’t do that,” he protested, although it was exactly what he wanted to do.

  “Of course you can.” She leaned closer and whispered, “We’ll finish the celebration whenever you get there. No matter how late it is.”

  “Promise?”

  She smiled and he felt a lurching in his gut. “Absolutely.”

  He felt only a little guilty as he left her sitting there.

  There was a light on in Danny Boyd’s motel room.

  Gar thought about it for a moment, then decided that he’d had enough of this sitting-around-and-waiting shit. It was time for some direct action.

  He gave a solid rap on the flimsy motel door, a cop’s knock, which an ex-con like Boyd would recognize immediately. It was nearly a minute before the door slowly opened. Danny Boyd was tall, blond, handsome in a rough-hewn way. Clean him up a little and any mother would be glad for her daughter to bring him home to dinner.

  “What?” Boyd asked.

  “We need to talk, Boyd,” Gar said.

  “S
how me a badge.”

  “Did I say I was a cop?”

  Boyd frowned. “Then who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Trying to find a missing kid named Beau Epstein.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You have heard of Marnie Dowd, though, right? And Camden Hunt?”

  Boyd had started to close the door, but now he paused. “Marnie Dowd is dead,” he said.

  “And so is Camden Hunt.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Shit, I didn’t know that. Guess that explains why he never returned my calls.”

  “I guess. He was killed in the same way as Marnie. Probably by the same person.”

  Boyd frowned. “You ain’t trying to pin the rap on me, are you? I had no reason to off either of them.”

  “No, that’s not why I’m here. I’m just trying to follow a trail that goes from Dowd and Hunt to you and then maybe to the killer.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  Gar sighed. “Who do you think might have killed Marnie?”

  “Marnie was a hooker,” Boyd said. “It could have been a john.”

  “It was a hit, Boyd.”

  Boyd shook his head. “Man, I just can’t get into this. I don’t know nothing about Marnie getting killed or Hunt. I never heard of that Epstein kid.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’ve got things to do. Places to go.”

  “You might be next on the killer’s list, you know,” Gar said as the door started closing again.

  Boyd paused. “Anybody comes after me, he’ll be fucking sorry.” The door closed firmly.

  Great. Tough prison talk. Boyd was an idiot.

  And, Gar knew, the hitman they were dealing with wasn’t that stupid.

  He went back to his car, swallowed a pain pill, and settled back to wait for Boyd to come out.

  Boyd led him to a darkened warehouse down by the docks. Gar drove past the building for half a block or so, then made a U-turn and went back. He parked at the far side of the building. Boyd had already disappeared inside.

  Something was going on in the warehouse. There were several other cars—all of them newer and fancier than Boyd’s—parked nearby. Gar couldn’t really convince himself that whatever Boyd was into here had a damned thing to do with Beau Epstein. But at the same time, he also still had the feeling that something was going to happen tonight, and since Boyd was all he had, this was where he’d stay.

  He got out of the car and walked around to the rear of the building. After a quick tour of the premises, he stood in the shadows and lit a cigarette. He stood there and thought about the many pleasures he was missing out on by being here rather than at home with Mickey. He wondered, when all was said and done, whether Beau Epstein would appreciate the sacrifice.

  Probably not.

  It was about thirty minutes before another car appeared, cruising slowly through the lot, its lights off. Gar didn’t like that much. The car didn’t stop where the others had, but moved on into the shadows. Inside the car, he could see two dark forms in baseball caps. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it out. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him. Just as he’d known it would, something was going to happen. And he was going to be in on it.

  A moment later, the door opened and the driver got out, fleetingly illuminated by the inside light. He headed for the building. The passenger stayed put, sliding down into the seat until all Gar could see was the top of the baseball cap.

  Now Gar wished that he had a gun. But who went armed to an anniversary dinner? Or maybe he should try to find a phone and get some backup. But it could take him a long time to find a working phone in this neighborhood. It was pretty stupid of him to be out here alone, with only his cane. Unfortunately, it was a little late to be worrying about that.

  Keeping to the darkest edge of the lot, he started moving toward the newly arrived car. One part of him wondered if maybe he should do something to warn Boyd, but hadn’t he already tried to do that? Boyd thought he could take care of himself, fine. Gar’s only job was to find Beau Epstein.

  He was willing to bet that the slouched-down figure in the passenger seat was the missing boy.

  Finally, he reached the car from the rear and peered in. Beau—if it was actually him—was staring straight ahead, both hands over his ears. Assuming that the door was unlocked, Gar figured that he could reach in, grab the boy, and be gone before—

  His silent planning got no further, because all of a sudden there was the unmistakable feeling of cold, hard metal being pressed against the back of his head.

  “Move, motherfucker, and you’re dead.” The voice was quiet, almost gentle, and for that reason all the more threatening.

  “Okay,” Gar said. “I’m not armed. All I want is the kid. That’s Beau Epstein in there, right?”

  “Shut up,” the voice said.

  Gar realized that the boy in the car had turned around and was watching them. He couldn’t get a good look at the face, but he was even more sure now that it was Beau.

  The boy shook his head, not at him, but at whomever it was with the gun.

  Gar thought he heard the man sigh, then, abruptly, his cane was kicked out from underneath him. He lost his balance and almost fell flat, catching himself at the last minute on the car. It was a hell of a time to be embarrassed, but he could feel heat flooding his face.

  “Without looking back,” the quiet voice said, “I want you to walk away. One glance back and you’re dead. Is that clear?”

  “Very clear.”

  “I’m glad. Now move.”

  He did as ordered, leaving the cane where it was, and moving slowly. Just as he finally reached the end of the lot, he heard the other car drive away quickly. Stumbling as he went, Gar finally made it to his own car, and managed to be after them in only a moment. It wasn’t clear what he planned to do if he caught them, but having come this close, he just couldn’t let them get away without doing something.

  The Saab ahead of him turned off onto a side street. Gar, remembering a shortcut, headed through an alley in pursuit, punching the accelerator.

  The plan worked perfectly. Sort of. His car collided with the Saab at the end of the alley.

  His car did a slow bounce off the other and then died. The Saab, meanwhile, faltered, did a sort of half-spin as if the driver had lost control momentarily, and then took off.

  All he could do was sit and watch it go.

  And wish to hell he’d noticed the license number.

  Saul Epstein took a gulp of his brandy. “You actually saw my grandson. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes. I’m sure the boy I saw was Beau.”

  “But you didn’t get him.”

  “Not yet.”

  Epstein was quiet for a minute. “And you believe that he is actually in the company of this killer willingly?”

  Gar shrugged. “It’s hard to say. All I know for sure is, he was sitting in the car alone. He made no attempt to escape. Of course, for all I know, he might have been tied up. Or drugged. Whatever.”

  Epstein nodded and sipped more brandy. “Perhaps I should start to make some arrangements for Beau’s return.”

  “Arrangements?” What was he going to do? Throw the kid a “Welcome Home” party?

  Epstein set his snifter down decisively. “I want to have a doctor on hand. A psychiatrist. To offer help. And also to prepare the groundwork for a legal defense, if that should prove necessary.”

  Gar was reminded suddenly that he was dealing not only with a distraught grandfather, but also with a very powerful man. A man who knew how to pull all of the strings to get what he wanted. Under normal circumstances, it was the kind of abuse of privilege that would annoy him. But in this case, he wanted whatever it took for Beau to come out of this safe and whole. “Maybe you should do that,” he said.

  He downed the rest of his brandy and then finally went home. As promised, Mickey was waiting and they finished the anniversary celebration.

  He kept
one ear attuned to the phone, just in case.

  19

  1

  Beau couldn’t seem to stop shaking. And he was afraid that any minute he was going to throw up all over the car. Robert, meanwhile, just kept driving, swearing, and muttering under his breath. Already an enormous bruise was visible where his forehead had hit the steering wheel in the collision. He hadn’t really blacked out, but he drove like a man half-drunk or something.

  Beau swallowed hard, tasting bile and fear.

  The car stopped at a red light.

  “Can we go home now, Robbie?” Beau asked softly.

  Robert glared at him. “What’re you? Dumb or something? No, we can’t go home now. That guy saw the car, which means he maybe got the license number. Right this minute, the cops are probably camping on my front porch. I figure that asshole with the cane was the detective your fucking grandfather hired. You beginning to get the picture here, dummy? No, Beau, we can’t go home now.” He made a sharp left turn, causing several other motorists to blow their horns angrily, which he ignored or maybe even didn’t hear. “In fact, I can probably never go home again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beau said. “This is all my fault, isn’t it?”

  “Damned right it is.”

  Beau shut up then, figuring that Robert was only going to get mad at anything he said, so it was better to say nothing. If he was lucky, Robert wouldn’t push him out of the car here in the middle of Sunset Boulevard.

  They rode around for nearly another hour in silence, before Robert finally pulled into the parking lot of a run-down motel in a neighborhood Beau didn’t know at all. Robert drove way around to the back so that the car couldn’t be seen from the street and turned the engine off. Then he leaned back against the seat with a sigh. “Christ, my head is killing me.” He poked at his right side carefully. “And I think I must have bruised a rib or something.”

  Beau didn’t say anything.

  Robert glanced at him. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. My seat belt was fastened.”

  “That’s terrific.” Robert pushed and shoved at the smashed-in door until, with a grinding noise, it opened slowly. “Well, you just sit here all safe and sound and seat-belted, while I go get us a room.”