Nocturnal

by Nathan Field

  “Because of the noise?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grinned and reached over the side of the bed again, digging in her handbag. This time she pulled out a black metal tube, longer and fatter than the gun barrel. “Ta-da!”

  “You got a silencer?”

  Her back straightened proudly. “Only the best nine millimeter recoil assisted silencer on the market.

  I laid the gun on the dresser and took the shiny cylinder from Lucy’s hand. I placed the silencer next to the gun, staring at the foreign pieces of hardware on the cheap wood veneer. It looked like an assassin’s tool-kit. “Where did you get this stuff?”

  “A guy I used to know in Vegas. He got me a good deal. And don’t worry, the gun’s completely untraceable.”

  “How do I know it won’t blow up in my face?”

  “It’s not a grenade,” she laughed. “And he’s an old friend. He wouldn’t sell me a dud.”

  I started pacing the room, struggling to hold it together. She’d never stopped using me. But my heartache could wait. First I had to put the idea of murder out of her head. “This doesn’t solve anything.”

  “What do you mean? It does solve everything. You were worried about firing a gun in a quiet neighborhood. The silencer takes care of that.”

  “No, Lucy, it doesn’t. It muffles the sound, but there’s still a loud pop.”

  “Bullshit. Why do you think they call them silencers? And besides, I’m not asking you to shoot him on the sidewalk. He’ll be in a deserted school, with the nearest neighbors half a mile away. Your shots won’t even set off the dogs.”

  I was shaking my head, but her point was well made. Truth be told, I knew nothing about silencers. I just wanted to weasel out of the deal any way I could.

  And in a flash, Lucy was onto me. She sat up, her eyes shining furiously. “You goddamn coward,” she seethed. “You were never serious.”

  I looked down at my feet, unable to defend himself.

  “I knew it,” she said, getting off the bed to retrieve her discarded clothes.

  She was already into her underwear by the time I mustered a response. “Lucy, slow down. I have been serious.”

  She marched around the bed to confront me, shoving her face in mine. “You’re a liar, Peter. I can see it in your eyes – that gun scares the crap out of you. You were never going to kill Sterling. You were just stringing me along to keep the sex on tap.”

  “And you were stringing me along so I’d do your dirty work.”

  “Don’t twist this around. I asked for your help because I thought you cared about me. My life is in danger, remember?”

  I turned away from her, suddenly conscious of my nakedness. I picked my clothes up off the carpet, dumped them on the bed. “So you say,” I muttered, stepping into my boxers.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a coincidence, that’s all. You only mentioned the death threats after I refused to kill him the first time.”

  “You think I’m making this up?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve embellished a little.”

  She stared at me. “Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. She went back to her side of the bed. I watched as she wriggled into her chocolate-brown sweater dress that always made me want to grab her ass with both hands.

  “It’s murder, Lucy,” I said. “Be realistic.”

  “I’ve been realistic all the way through,” she said, pulling up her knee-high boots and crossing the room to the vanity unit. She rummaged in her cosmetic case, locating the right colored lipstick and applying it with cool detachment. Giving every impression I’d already ceased to exist.

  I looked at the gun on the dresser, then back at Lucy, watching her fingers work through her blonde hair, teasing it into shape. I moved behind her, seeking her attention in the mirror. “You really think he’d kill you?”

  Her eyes stayed on the job, brushing powder over her cheeks. “I don’t think Peter, I know. He drove his last wife insane, and he’s planning on going one better with me. But look, don’t worry about it. I just wish you’d been honest with me from the start. That way I could’ve made other arrangements.”

  “I haven’t been completely dishonest, okay? I thought about going through with it, I really did.”

  She turned around. “We both know that’s a lie. You’ve got the equipment, the time and place, everything you need to make it work. And now you say it’s not good enough?” She paused, shaking her head again. “I can’t trust you anymore. When you agreed to help me, I was totally in awe of you. I thought – here’s a man who truly loves me, who’s not afraid to make sacrifices to be with me. But now I just feel stupid. Stupid and used. So thanks a lot, Peter.”

  “Stop calling me Peter,” I said, hearing the pathetic whine in my voice. “We can talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said crisply. “We’re done.” She snapped her cosmetic case shut and headed for the door, twisting her neck to make a final inspection of the room. When her eyes fell on the gun, she moved towards the dresser. I darted across the room to block her way.

  “What are you doing?” she sighed.

  “Why do you still need the gun?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “I’ll get rid of it for you.”

  She laughed. “And how’s that going to help? Please. Just get out of my way.”

  I felt my skin prickle with shame, afraid of asking the question. “Are you going to shoot him?”

  She shrugged. “I might have to. Or my friend in Vegas knows a guy. Don’t look so shocked. The fact you won’t step up doesn’t change my situation. I’ve still got a husband who wants to kill me, and I intend to do something about it, with or without your help.”

  She tried to reach around me, and I grabbed her arm. Lucy cut me a fearsome look, filled with disgust and loathing for the spineless chicken-shit I’d turned out to be. And I deserved it.

  I kept hold of her squirming arm. “Listen to me,” I said. “You can’t shoot him yourself, you’ll go straight to jail. And there’s no way I’m letting you hire some anonymous hit man.”

  “Have you listened to word I’ve said? It’s me or him.”

  “I’ll do it,” I blurted, surprising myself.

  Lucy stopped squirming. Her eyes tunneled into mine. “Don’t play games with me,” she warned.

  “I’m not. I’m serious.”

  “You’re going to shoot him. You’re going to kill Sterling.”

  I nodded, swallowing hard.

  “Within a week,” she added.

  My eyes slid away.

  “Within a week,” she repeated slowly.

  “Yes, okay.”

  Lucy nodded. I could tell she didn’t really believe me. I didn’t really believe me, either. I only knew I didn’t want to lose her.

  “Don’t call me until after it’s done,” she said.

  She removed a full clip from her handbag and tossed it on the bed. Then she left the motel room without another word. Leaving me alone with the gun, the bullets, and the silencer.

  Everything I needed to save our relationship.

  Everything I needed to kill a man.

  15. “Are you sure it was his body inside the car?”

  Despite the detectives’ prying questions and hostile air, their visit had given me a useful clue. Phone records.

  I’d been telling the truth when I said the phone line was shared. My phantom office partner had contributed half the monthly rate, allowing for unlimited local calls, and then paid on top for long distance. Every month I left the phone bill on his desk with the extras highlighted, and the correct money would be waiting for me the following evening. My office partner might have turned out to be a ruthless killer, but he always paid his bills on time.

  Energized by the lure of a lead, I dug out the last few months of phone bills from the filing cabinet and began scouring them for yellow marker. There were a number of highlighted calls to Palo Alto u
nder the local toll section. Two, sometimes three calls a month, all to the same number. Obviously the real Ralph Emerson. I hadn’t given them a second thought at the time, and why would I? They were such tiny amounts, less than a buck in most cases.

  The only other highlighted call was to a Sacramento number, back in July. I remembered pausing over the number at the time, thinking it might belong to me. But of course, I hadn’t spoken to anyone from my home town in eight years.

  From memory, the first three digits, 786, indicated a Roseville number. A few miles west of Granite Bay, and a few notches down the desirability scale, but still a reasonably wealthy suburb. Good schools, clean sidewalks, and a long waiting list at the local golf club. I’d never known anyone from Roseville, it was strictly a nuclear family zone, but staring at the number on the bill, I knew the killer hadn’t dialed it by accident.

  He’d wanted me to notice.

  From the very beginning, his actions had been deliberate and precise. Setting up Ralph Emerson as my bogus office partner, taunting me with the name Johnny, referring to sins of the past in the doctored screenplay – they all held a special meaning, some obvious, others less so. And it seemed I was the reluctant centerpiece in his elaborate design. That’s why I’d been spared – he needed me alive to appreciate his handiwork. My downfall was being set up as the grand finale.

  The Sacramento phone number was another carefully inserted clue. And while I hated the thought I was jumping through hoops, with Bruno still missing, I really didn’t have a choice. The number was my only lead.

  I quickly conjured up a credible front, took a deep breath, and dialed.

  A woman answered on the third ring. Her voice was elderly; mannered. “Good afternoon, Piper residence.”

  My brain froze on hearing the name Piper. I forgot my opening line.

  “Is someone there?” the woman said.

  “Yes, hello,” I said, regaining my composure. “Mrs. Piper?”

  “No, I’m afraid Mrs. Piper is indisposed. What is this regarding?”

  “It’s an insurance survey we’re conducting, ma’am. Mrs. Piper’s name came up on our database. Every respondent wins a prize, so it’s in her interest to participate. Perhaps I should call back later.”

  “I wouldn’t waste your time,” the woman advised. She wasn’t frosty, just matter-of-fact. “I can tell you now, she won’t be interested in answering your questions.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d prefer to hear that from Mrs. Piper herself, if you wouldn’t mind. Just so I can tick the right boxes.”

  “I’m sorry, but my word will have to do,” she said, a little less cordially.

  “It’ll only take a few minutes. There’s no obligation–”

  “–Please, don’t call here again.”

  She cut me off before I could make an even bigger nuisance of myself. She’d let me off lightly, really. Even I was offended by my pushy salesman’s act. But who was the Mrs. Piper she was protecting?

  Right away I logged into an online directory and searched for Piper in Sacramento. There were only nineteen hits, and I quickly spotted the number I’d just dialed. It belonged to Margaret Piper from Romney Drive, Roseville

  Margaret. The name of Sterling’s first wife. I remembered her haunted appearance from the Piper family portraits. But why the hell would the killer want me to contact Sterling’s first wife? A woman I’d never met?

  I contemplated my next move. Calling back wasn’t an option. Margaret’s gatekeeper knew my voice, and she’d sounded as sharp as a tack. She wasn’t going to hand over the phone, no matter what accent I tried on. But somehow I had to get in front of Margaret. She was my only link to the killer, my only link to Bruno. All roads led to her door.

  Turning away from my computer, I noticed a murky grey light had crept into the office. I wheeled my chair to the window and fingered open a slat. The mid-afternoon sky was a solid charcoal block, hanging over the city like a dark frown. Below me, pedestrians were hugging the inside of the sidewalk, and the road had thickened with taxis. A rare October downpour was just minutes away.

  As I watched the hypnotic trails of people and traffic on the cloud darkened street, my vision started to blur. My head gently butted the blinds, and I gave a little start. Rubbing my eyes, I realized sleep needed to be my next priority. It was well past my usual bedtime, and after the tumultuous events of the past twenty-four hours, my body was telling me it had had enough.

  The comfort of my own bed beckoned, but I had to see the stakeout through to the end. There was still five hours of daylight left. For Bruno’s sake, I had to clutch at every straw.

  I made sure the door was locked, and then retrieved my Glock from the spare desk, tucking it under my belt. Then I slipped off my shoes and lay down on the threadbare carpet, using my duffle coat as a pillow. Closing my eyes, the sound of the rain helped to quieten my thoughts, and the gravity of sleep pulled me under.

  My eyes blinked open to a persistent chiming. I lifted my head, straining to read my watch hands in the dark. Nine-fifteen. At least I was back in a familiar time zone.

  I staggered to my feet with a groan. My cell was aglow, trembling on my desk. I snatched it just in time, hitting the green button to accept CC’s call. “Hey,” I croaked, my mouth full of sand.

  “Hey to you, too. Have you been sleeping all that time?”

  “No. Just a few hours. Are you still at the apartment?”

  “Of course I am, sweetheart. Where else would your girlfriend be?”

  In my half-awake state, I thought she was just being loopy CC. Then I remembered the cops. “Shit, I forgot to warn you.”

  “Yeah, you did. I didn’t know what kind of girlfriend you wanted me to play.”

  “What kind did you go for?”

  “Ex fiancée. Things didn’t work out, but we still like to fool around.”

  “Jesus, CC. They can probably check that sort of thing.”

  “Let them check. There’s no law against lying to the police. You were with me Wednesday morning, that’s a fact. The rest is none of their business.”

  I exhaled deeply, thinking she was probably right. My alibi checked out – that was all that mattered.

  CC wasn’t finished. “More to the point, what the fuck is going on? Ralph Emerson’s been murdered? The same guy who was stalking you?”

  “It’s complicated…”

  “–And now someone else is after you?”

  “Can we not talk about this over the phone?”

  “Whatever. You owe me an explanation, Sam. It sounds like you set me up as bait.”

  “You were a decoy, not bait. I’ll explain everything soon, okay? Just not over the phone.”

  “Okay,” she sighed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  I checked myself. “Sorry. I really appreciate your help, CC.”

  “As long as I’m appreciated,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah, what should I do with the car.”

  I gave it some thought. It would be quickest if CC drove the car back to the office so I could hit the road immediately; but I was also in urgent need of a shower and a change of clothes. With my dark glasses and scarred face, getting a foot in Margaret Piper’s front door was going to be hard enough without smelling like a bum.

  “Leave it where it is,” I eventually said. “Unless you’re coming into the city now.”

  “Nah, I don’t start till eleven. I haven’t even showered yet.”

  “Okay, no problem. I’ll take a cab.”

  “Won’t your mystery stalker get suspicious?”

  “Probably, but he wasn’t biting anyway. I’ve moved on to plan B.”

  “Oh, so now we’re onto plan B. Any chance you’re going to fill me in?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Figures,” CC mumbled. Despite her weary tone, I could tell that part of her was getting off on the intrigue. “Do you need me to do anything?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered. And CC – try not to mention this to anyone.”


  “There’s no danger of that,” she laughed. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

  The rain had stopped when I walked out of my office building onto Ellis Street. The sidewalks glistened under the streetlamps and neon signs, car tires flicked through the light sheen on the roads, and the smell of wet concrete clung to the cool night air. Preparing to hail a cab, my stomach suddenly growled like a bear stirring from a long hibernation. I hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and now that my hunger had my full attention, food quickly replaced hot water as my first priority.

  Seeking instant gratification, I drew up my collar and walked a couple of blocks to a greasy spoon that served a $6.99 all day breakfast. I planned to wolf down a year’s worth of cholesterol and drain a pot of coffee before heading home to change.

  The Ellis Street Diner was run by a Cuban couple who specialized in fatty American classics, embracing everything that Californian Europhiles and health-obsessed TV chefs ignored, from biscuits and gravy to deep fried catfish. The padded booths, faux-marble tabletops and peeling linoleum floor might have been retro diner clichés, but there was nothing cute or ironic about the Ellis Street Diner. It was about good food and basic service, not hipster fashion.

  Accordingly, the diner attracted a downbeat nighttime crowd – beggars, drunks and chronic insomniacs; security guards, cleaners and parking attendants. Even the pimps and hookers steered clear – it wasn’t a lively meeting place for the city’s wild and wacky characters. It catered for people who ate alone and in silence, chewing slowly, staring into their coffee mugs, and savoring the warmth coming from the kitchen

  The diner was nearly full when I entered. I wasn’t the only customer wearing dark glasses, but my scarred face attracted the usual combination of squints, scowls and second glances The truly downtrodden didn’t care who they offended, and I actually preferred their bare-faced stares to the people who nervously looked away or widened their eyes in horror, like I was about to go for their necks.

  I slid into a booth and nodded a silent hello to my favorite waitress, Iris, who was busy wiping down a nearby table. Her wide face grew wider. “The usual?”