For The Love Of Laurel

by Patricia Harreld

  She used the bathroom. A glimpse of herself in the mirror made her groan. Her eyes looked slightly puffy and her hair was a tangled mess. She’d deal with it later. Right now, she didn’t care how she looked—she just needed caffeine.

  Walking down the stairs barefoot, she went into the kitchen and stopped. Dylan sat in the nook eating and reading the newspaper. He looked up, and his eyebrows arched in mock surprise.

  “Tough night?” he said, returning to the paper.

  “Productive night.” He wore a long-sleeved dress shirt and jeans. “You’re dressed as if you couldn’t decide if you wanted to play cowboy or businessman today.”

  “I guess my schizophrenia is showing,” he said, still concentrating on the paper.

  Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she realized she didn’t care that he was seeing her sans makeup and combed hair, and in her favorite chenille robe long since faded from plum to lilac.

  She leaned against the counter and sipped the coffee. “What are you eating and why here?”

  “A turkey, bacon, and avocado club sandwich. Mari invited me to sample her homemade croissants.”

  “Too bad she didn’t just take some over to your apartment,” she said, “because you are the last person I want to see right now.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” He turned a page.

  The lingering aroma of bacon made her hungry. She pulled a package of bacon out of the fridge, put five rashers on a paper plate, and popped the plate into the microwave. Next, she took out the mayo and three slices of turkey. “Any avocado left?”

  “I don’t know. You can have some of mine.”

  “No, thanks.” She cut a croissant in half and slathered it with the mayo then added the turkey, a slice of tomato, and some lettuce leaves. When the bacon was done, she blew on it to cool it before putting it on the sandwich. She licked some residual grease off her fingers and picked up the plate, becoming aware that he was watching her.

  “What are you looking at?” Her tone was cross.

  He shook his head. “Nothing.” He picked up the Want Ads section and held it between her and him, effectively hiding his face.

  “Looking for a job?” she said.

  “You sound hopeful.”

  She didn’t answer but took her food and started out of the kitchen.

  “About last night . . .” She stopped short.

  “What about it?” She didn’t turn around.

  “What did you think you were doing? You said you had a productive night. I’m curious what you meant by that.”

  Now she turned to him. “I’m sure you are, but you’ll never know.”

  “I have ways of making people talk.”

  She guffawed. “Oh, Dylan, stop it. You and I both know you’d never resort to torture. However, just in case I’m wrong, I’ll ease your mind. I was reading Dr. Gunderson’s emails.”

  Sometimes the truth comes in handy. It’s the last thing he’d expect.

  Sure enough, he just gave her an indulgent glance, and went back to reading the paper.

  Dylan walked out of the house and caught a glimpse of two long, tanned, shapely legs before Laurel pulled her robe around them. She was sitting in the porch swing, eating her sandwich.

  “Shall we talk now or later?” he said, walking down the three steps to the grass and turning to face her.

  “Never. I see nothing to discuss.”

  “Except that’s twice you’ve broken the law lately—twice that I’m aware of. I let you off easy with my apartment, but when you start fooling with others’ property, that’s a different matter altogether and you know it. What did you hope to find in Gunderson’s office?”

  “Not nearly as much as I actually found.” She looked at him for the first time.

  Was she playing him? He couldn’t tell. But now he really had his suspicions. Damn stupid Gunderson. Maybe she did tell me the truth to throw me off the track. If she had read the emails between him and Gunderson . . . On the other hand, she didn’t seem eager to talk, and he was sure she would demand an explanation.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get presentable. I don’t like to look like an old hag for more than half the day.” She got out of the swing and went inside.

  As she closed the door, he said, “This conversation isn’t finished.”

  “Screw you.” She slammed the door closed.

  After she had showered and brushed her hair into some semblance of respectability, she went to her computer and put in Gunderson’s email address. Her hands shook when it hit her what she was doing, but she had to see if there was more information in the other emails. She didn’t consider the possibility she could get emails from Dylan’s computer. She acknowledged she had been fortunate to get to Gunderson’s. What if Gunderson had gone into his office this morning and noticed the blinds were closed, or if not that, something else she’d overlooked that showed someone unauthorized had been in his office, and he’d changed his password?

  She took a deep breath and entered his username and password. It worked. “Open Sesame!”

  She didn’t waste any time and went directly to his correspondence with Dylan from oldest to newest, skipping the one she read last night.

  September 1, 2010: GA wants you to be ready when he returns. He figures to be out of country for at least a year. Hopefully less, but he isn’t counting on it. DK

  Reply: September 2, 2010: I’ll be ready but if all goes as planned, I won’t need to do anything. MG

  September 5, 2010: Sorry not to get back to you sooner, but LA has apparently decided GA’s absence is a good time to start her own business. God knows what or why, but there it is. She’s been looking at office space for days. My thoughts were on knowing where she was at all times since she is always a target, especially when GA is gone. I finally had to call in a debt and get a friend to accidentally meet her in a bar she sometimes goes to, try the pickup routine and hope she mentioned she was looking for an office. She did, and he offered her one in his building at a good rental price. Problem solved. Haven’t been in touch with S of S yet. Will let you know. DK

  September 9, 2010: Talked to S of S this a.m. He has taken a wait and see stance. The infiltration seems to be working. DK

  September 12, 2010: Any problems for GA? MG

  Reply: September 12, 2010: None we’re aware of, though he hasn’t been in contact. He might not be able to be in touch because of the locale. DK

  Reply: September 13, 2010: There are always ways. He’s resourceful. Give it a few more days. MG

  September 20, 2010: Hard to wait but finally S of S got a satellite communication with one word: Neutralized. DK

  Reply: Who? MG

  Reply: He didn’t say, but that’s one down, three to go. DK

  That was all. Laurel signed off and sat thinking. Why emails? Couldn’t they just call each other rather than leave a record that even she was able to access? Unless, at the time, one of them was somewhere unreachable by phone. If that were so, would a computer work? GA had to be Gerald and LA, herself. But what did it all mean? Neutralized? As in killed? Something Gerald was involved in? It certainly didn’t tally with the father she had known. But it was hard to ignore the initials.

  She wanted an explanation. She remembered the Tae Kwon Do scene in the living room when Dylan wouldn’t tell her anything. This time she had proof in writing. She hadn’t meant to let Dylan know what she’d found, but now she had to.

  She typed in his email address and wished she could see the look on his face when he realized she had it.

  Dear DK, I’m ready to talk now. Or, I should say, listen while you talk. I’ll have Mari make pizza—hope you like bullpucky with extra cheese and a thick crust. Be here at eight sharp. If you’re late, you’re fired. LA

  Dylan logged on to his email. The first one was from Laurel. Shit, shit, shit. He had never given her his address. He opened it. DK? LA? A not-so-subtle way of showing him she had read the correspondence between him and Gunderson.

  Th
is could ruin everything.

  Chapter 10

  William Steadman sat at an outside table near a bar at the edge of San Diego Bay. He’d rather be inside where he could hear the country music coming through a pair of massive speakers, but from where he sat, all he could hear was the intermittent pounding of bass. There were several other tables, but no one was taking advantage of them. Stupid putzes had bought into the no-smoking law in California. At first, there had been some resistance, but when people began to get thrown out and even fined for lighting up inside a public place, the damned idiots surrendered instead of sticking up for their rights.

  William liked cigars and didn’t want any trouble, so whenever he came here to grab a beer or three, he played the game. Seemed like all his life he’d played the game, until one day he decided he’d had enough.

  He chugged half his beer, and then set it on the table too hard. He was getting a real buzz. In one way, he loved the feeling, but it had its drawbacks. Heavy drinking always made him think of home.

  He didn’t miss anything about Louisiana except his mom. She always sang “Billy Boy” to him. Even now, he whistled the tune often. She knew every verse, and it made him feel special because that was her pet name for him: Billy Boy. His pa just called him Billy Bastard whenever he was pissed and drunk, which was most of the time. William could still feel the belt hit his back if he thought about it.

  He remembered the cat they’d had. She was a good mouser. But his pa hated cats in general and every time she had kittens, he’d drown them, saying he didn’t want them running all over. Billy had asked him why they couldn’t just give them away. His pa had accused him of being soft like a girl. “Sometimes I think you’re queer, boy, way you talk.” The funny thing was, William thought now, Pa was right without knowing it. He figured if the son-of-a-bitch had known what his son would grow up to be, he’d have drowned him at birth, too.

  One day, his pa hit him too long and too hard. By then, Billy was a muscular eighteen-year-old. He’d fought back and ended up killing the slime ball. Realizing he felt no remorse, he’d walked into the kitchen where his mother was cooking up a fine-smelling possum stew and told her what he’d done. William recalled she didn’t even react. Maybe she was relieved. He’d told her he loved her, but had to get out, promising to write as soon as he knew where he would be. He never did. Was she still waiting for that letter? Was she even alive?

  He relit his cigar and puffed a few times, watching smoke rise and disappear. He recalled riding the rails to California.

  California.

  He had seen pictures of it in a magazine at Zeke’s Barber Shop. He’d dreamed of becoming a famous movie star but was quickly disabused of that notion and took whatever work he could get. He didn’t have many skills but was a quick learner.

  He’d rented a hole-in-the-wall apartment and invested in a black and white TV, determined to listen every night to the way the actors pronounced words so he could lose his thick Southern accent. He could feel people looking at him as if they thought he was stupid when he spoke. He’d practiced and practiced his el-o-cu-tion, a fine word that he liked to separate into syllables every time he said it—a word that meant he was just as smart as uppity Californians. He was gratified when he no longer spoke differently. Everybody else treated him better, too. Still, if he got over-excited or angry, that damned Loosiana drawl snuck back into his speech as if it were just waiting to remind him he wasn’t as far from home as he thought.

  He let the cigar go out, went back into the bar, and then ordered another beer. He stood for a few minutes, taking in mumbled conversations and occasional shrill laughter. Patsy Cline sang about falling to pieces. He tipped his beer to the speaker and went back outside.

  Another smoker stood looking out over the water. He turned when he became aware he had company.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Nice evening.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Well, have a good one.” The man threw his cigarette in the water and went inside. William felt disappointed. He’d hoped the guy was flirting.

  He recalled a bar like this one, but at that time, you could still smoke in bars. He’d smoked cigarettes at that time—didn’t start cigars until later. As he sat at the bar staring at nothing, a man had slipped onto the stool next to him and ordered a Dewar’s. He’d drained it in one gulp and signaled for another.

  “You wanna make some good money?” the man had asked as his next drink came.

  William had heard him but didn’t answer. The guy obviously wasn’t talking to him. He’d checked the guy out in the mirror behind the bar. The guy’s reflection looked at William’s.

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked you if you want to make some good money.”

  “You a pimp?”

  “No.”

  William had turned to look at the guy who now stared directly at him. “Doing what?”

  “About what you’re doing now plus a little extra.”

  “I’ll pass. I don’t need the law after me.”

  “Who said they would be? I’m Ben Carruthers, by the way.”

  “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  “No. Just being polite. If we’re going to do business together, we should at least know who we are dealing with.”

  “Well, we ain’t . . . aren’t doing business together so I don’t need to introduce myself.”

  “You’re right about that, Steadman.”

  William had dropped his beer. What was left of it ran off the bar onto the floor. The bartender shook his head and got a mop.

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “I get paid to know. Paid very well. And so will you. Just one job. Real easy.”

  William had ordered another beer and thought a bit. “Naw,” he’d said. “Not worth it. I ain’t hankerin’ to go to jail.” Goddamn accent. Settle down, William, he’d silently ordered himself.

  “Would it make any difference if I tell you I know you’ve killed two men and I have evidence?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Carruthers had given him what his mother called the evil eye. “Well, first was your dad. The local police always thought it was you, leaving so quick and all, but your mommy insisted she did it in self-defense. She never went to jail, in case you care.”

  William had felt a sharp pain in his chest. His mom had taken the rap for him and he’d never even written or called her. Christ almighty.

  “Then, there was the guy in the bar—you like bars a lot, don’t you—who heard your accent and made the mistake of calling you Bayou Bill. That was a particularly nasty murder.” Carruthers had shaken his head slowly and clucked his tongue.

  How could he know these things? William had been terrified. If he had evidence, he could find evidence from any random murder and use it to implicate William.

  “What do you want me to do?” he’d said, resigned to the inevitable.

  Carruthers had pulled a picture out of his pocket. It was a good-looking woman in her twenties. “She frequents a bar downtown. A lot of sailors on leave are there and she doesn’t mind saying yes to some of them. Her old man found out and he’s not too happy. He’s decided she needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “He wants me to kill her?” William had said in disbelief.

  “No. Just make nice with her, get her to go with you out to the alley behind the bar, and act like you’re going to rape her.”

  “Act? But don’t really do it?”

  “Right. Her father wants her to stop the reckless behavior.”

  “Why doesn’t he just tell her?”

  “If that was an option, he would. But he’s afraid it would just make her all the more rebellious.”

  “How does he even know about it?”

  “Not important.” Ben had opened his jacket and flashed William a .38 in a holster. “So, do you wanna make a hundred grand for an hour’s work, or end up as fish food in the bay?” He’d pulled an
envelope out of his shirt pocket and put it on the bar. “Five thousand up front, the rest when it’s done.”

  William got incensed every time he thought about how dumb he was that night. He should have demanded a contract, but five K was too much to pass up. He’d done what he had to do, but Carruther’s boss was out of the country incognito. Carruthers had assured him he would get the balance soon, but it never happened.

  It wasn’t until he saw an article in the newspaper about Gerald Avidon’s death that he knew he was gonna be rich. He opened the paper he kept with him most of the time. There were several pictures spanning a twenty-year period. In one, Avidon was getting in a limo and the door was held open by the chauffeur. It was Ben Carruthers. William didn’t know if Carruthers had kept the money designated for him or if Avidon just hadn’t paid it, but from what the article said, Avidon was well-respected, a pillar of the community, one of the good guys. Blah, blah, blah. And he was loaded. He just didn’t seem the type who would hire someone then not pay them. William assumed Carruthers pocketed the dough.

  He concentrated on the newspaper and read the article for maybe the fiftieth time. Then he took a slug of beer and began to plan.

  He was owed ninety-five grand. With interest, it would be one nice piece of change. He could demand as much as he wanted. Now that he knew who the main player was, he intended to get it one way or another, even if he actually had to rape the rich bitch after all.

  Satisfied he had a plan, he went back inside for another beer, whistling “Billy Boy” under his breath.

  Chapter 11

  As promised, there was pizza. Dylan arrived five minutes early and he could tell it wasn’t the kind Laurel had mentioned. It smelled too good. Mari showed him into the dining room. A formal pizza dinner?

  “Please get yourself a drink and join Laurel on the indoor patio,” Mari said. Her tone was polite, but without its usual warmth.