by Max Austin
“This’ll do,” he said.
“Do for what? Why are we outside in the dark?”
A sedan whizzed past on Sixth Street. Vic waited until the noise subsided before he said, “We’ve been bugged.”
“What?”
“A bug. Probably in your office. I’ve been thinking about it all the way back from Santa Fe, and that’s the only place where we—”
“You were in Santa Fe? On that job?”
“Somebody else was there, too. It has to be a bug. That’s the only way he could know where I’d be.”
“What happened up there?”
“The target had a big dog. I was close enough to do both of them when somebody shot the dog with a rifle. Somebody out in the dark. One shot. Took out the dog, then nothing else.”
“What did you do?”
“I finished the job.”
“While this sniper was watching?”
“Didn’t know if I’d ever get another chance. Think how many bodyguards Troy would’ve hired if I’d let him go. I put two in his head and got the hell out of there. But all the way home, I’m trying to figure out how somebody’s following me.”
“That doesn’t mean my office is bugged—”
“There’s more. That guy in Phoenix? The one who drowned? He was dead when I got there.”
Penny took a second to absorb that. “So it was an accident?”
“I thought so at the time. Now I think somebody got there just before me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I should’ve. I told myself we got a lucky break. Harry had a heart attack, he’s a poor swimmer, whatever. But now I think somebody’s been listening to us.”
“In my office.”
“Maybe our homes, too. But your office is the place where we talk about these jobs.”
“How could someone get in my office? We’ve got all kinds of security—”
“We can sort out that part later,” he said. “For now, we need to figure out who’s listening.”
“How do we do that?”
“We set a trap.”
Chapter 7
Vic could tell Penny was nervous when he arrived at her office the next morning. She was standing behind her desk, decked out in a red suit with her trademark short skirt. In her three-inch heels, she was nearly as tall as him. Her welcoming smile faltered as she glanced down at the cue sheet on her desk.
Vic winked at her. It seemed to help.
He gestured toward her chair, but she shook her head. She wanted to remain standing for this performance. Her hands were on top of her desk, fingertips resting on the sheet. She’d scribbled some notes in the margins, but Vic couldn’t make them out from across the desk. He sat facing her and crossed his long legs.
“Good morning, Penny. How’s business today?”
“Slow so far. What about you? Any news?”
“If somebody’s following me, I can’t catch him. I drove all over town. Nobody’s behind me.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone follow you?”
Vic thought she was speaking too loudly and over-enunciating, the way Americans talk to foreigners. Maybe their listener wouldn’t notice. Hell, maybe he was a foreigner.
Vic had racked his brain all night, trying to come up with anyone who’d want to pull these stunts, and why. What could the killer get out of beating Vic to the punch? He still didn’t have a clue.
“Maybe we ought to lie low for a while,” he said.
Penny looked down at her cue sheet.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “I’ve got an easy job for you, right here in town.”
“No way. There’s too much heat.”
“Okay, but we’re passing up a big payday.”
“We can’t afford to make any noise.”
“This one couldn’t be quieter. A man alone in a vacant house. I’ve even got the keys.”
“What?”
“I’m holding the paper on the house,” she said. “Guy named John Francis was facing child porn charges and used the house as collateral. I should never bail out perverts.”
Penny seemed to be settling into the dialogue. It helped that the stuff about John Francis and his house was true. If the listener checked, he’d find plenty of news coverage about the fruitless search for Francis. The next part was a little more creative. Vic smiled encouragingly as she launched into it.
“I got a tip he’s back in town, and he’s sleeping in that house.”
“Didn’t you change the locks?”
“Of course. But he’s got some other way into the house. People have seen lights inside, late at night.”
“The electricity’s still on?”
“It’s still furnished. The house is in limbo while we hunt him.”
“Why don’t you send a couple of your boys over there to tag him?”
“I don’t want him brought in,” Penny said. “A client wants him gone. He’s willing to pay enough to make it worth losing the bond.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred grand.”
“Wow.”
“He doesn’t want Francis to go to trial.”
“Why not?”
“The client’s son was victimized by Francis. They’re worried about his name coming out in court.”
“Ah.”
“Doesn’t matter. You say it’s too soon, that’s good enough. I’ll tell the client we’ll pass.”
“Hold on,” Vic said. “You know how I feel about bastards who abuse kids. Always happy to take one out of circulation. You think this asshole will be there tonight?”
“I’m sure of it,” Penny said.
“Give me the address and the keys. I’ll go over there tonight and take care of him. Can I just leave him there when I’m done?”
“Sure. I’ll go there tomorrow and ‘find’ the body.”
“Might hurt the property values. If you’re gonna end up owning this house—”
“We’ll clear enough to pay for a cleanup crew.”
“I’ll try to keep it tidy.”
Penny grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Vic. Always the professional.”
She jingled the keys as she handed them over, exactly as scripted. He hoped the bug picked up the sound. He was proud of that little touch of realism.
“What’s the address?”
Penny looked down at her sheet and read it off, loud and clear: “Twenty-nine-thirty Candelaria. Off Rio Grande Boulevard by the nature center.”
“Beautiful area,” Vic said. “How come all these assholes have such nice houses?”
“If they were poor, nobody would pay our prices to make them go away.”
“We do deal with a certain class of clientele.”
“If you don’t count the perverts.”
“One less pervert tonight,” Vic said, wrapping it up. “There’s a football game on TV that I want to watch. It’ll go until eleven or so. Soon as it’s over, I’ll head over to his house.”
“Sounds good, Vic. After this, we can take a cooling-off period.”
“I could use a break. Let’s say tonight’s the last job for a while.”
She nodded. Vic pointed at his ear, reminding her to speak aloud.
“Sure, you can take a long break. Months, if you want. I’ve got plenty here at the office to keep me busy.”
Vic fought off the temptation to say the address again. Their listener was bound to have some way to play it back. Instead, he got to his feet. They’d covered everything in their script. Time for him to go.
“I’ll call you when it’s done,” he said.
“I’ll wait up.”
Chapter 8
Albuquerque’s North Valley is where you live if you’re rich and want to maintain an illusion of rural life. Buy yourself a green acre, erect a simple eight-bedroom mansion, get a couple of horses, and, voilà, you’re lord of the ranch.
Such thoughts grumbled in Vic’s head as he drove south on Rio Grande B
oulevard at dusk. The road was only two lanes through this area (with a speed limit of 25 mph, for shit’s sake), and it wove among Tuscan villas and Mexican haciendas and open pastures. Some horses here, a few sheep there, even a llama or three.
“So bucolic,” he said aloud. “No wonder I got allergies.”
Vineyards and lawns were fed by a centuries-old system of irrigation ditches that brought water from the Rio Grande. The river was just out of sight to the west, lost among the winter-bare cottonwoods.
To the east, the snow-dusted Sandia Mountains blushed pink from the setting sun. One Spanish word every Albuquerquean knows is “sandia,” which means “watermelon.” Each day at sundown, the mountains show how they got their name.
Nice, but Vic was busy watching his mirrors. Not once did he spot a tail. If somebody showed up at the porn trafficker’s house tonight, it would have to be the person who’d heard about the “hit” over a bug in Penny’s office.
Vic had hours until he needed to set up, but he wanted to look over the house and grounds while there was still some daylight left.
South of Griegos, Rio Grande Boulevard widens to five lanes. The houses along the curbs are more modest, and whole neighborhoods branch off the side streets. Vic kept to the slow lane, watching his mirrors. Most vehicles had their headlights on now and it was harder to see the other motorists, but he still got no sense of being followed.
When traffic stopped for a red light at Candelaria, he turned on his blinker. A sign at the curb pointed toward the river. “Rio Grande Nature Center.” He’d been there once or twice. The museum had an arched entrance that looked like a metal culvert and windows overlooking a pond where ducks and geese paddled. Vic thought it was the kind of educational place he would’ve taken his kids, if he’d ever had any.
Behind him, somebody honked. The light was green. Vic goosed the Cadillac and swung it onto Candelaria, feeling embarrassed.
“Daydreaming,” he mumbled. “I must be slipping.”
The Cadillac crept along the residential street. Most of the houses were decorated for Christmas, but his destination was dark.
He drove past, to where the street dead-ended at the entrance to the nature center. The parking lot was gated for the night. Trees and underbrush grew right up to the road.
“Look at all the nature,” he said as he wheeled the car around. “It’s fucking everywhere.”
The vacant house was brown stucco with white wood trim, what’s called Territorial Style, with a flat roof and a covered front porch. The place looked well maintained, and Vic wondered whether Penny had a crew stopping by to tend the grounds.
He locked the Cadillac and strolled to the house, keys jingling in his hand. He went up the driveway and let himself in the back door.
A musty smell hung in the chill air. He went from room to room, resisting the urge to flip on the lights. Most of the furniture was covered with white cloths to protect it from dust, so the place seemed filled with squat ghosts. The walls were uniformly bare. Vic wondered if the porn king sold off his artwork before he vanished. Probably gave the money to Penny to get out of jail.
After he’d checked every room, Vic went back to the living room and located the thermostat. He heard a furnace roar to life somewhere in the house. The house would be comfortable by the time he returned late tonight.
He pulled the sheet off a wingback chair that stood next to a lamp table in a corner of the living room, far from any windows.
Nice place to sit and wait.
Chapter 9
Except for one fumbling-in-the-dark bathroom break, Vic spent four straight hours in that chair. It fit his lanky body nicely, but there was no danger of him dozing off. Quite the opposite. At times like these, he went into a trance state. Still and alert, mind blank except for the listening, the waiting.
Finally, well after 2 a.m., his guest arrived.
The first sound was a clink, a metallic tenor note Vic took to be the lock on the back door. He hadn’t bothered to dead-bolt the door, hadn’t wanted to make it too hard for the expected intruder.
A floorboard creaked. The intruder was sniffing around, making sure he was alone, exactly as Vic had done. Except this guy was doing it in the dark.
Only two ways into the room where Vic sat: the front door, which he faced, and an arched doorway to his right that connected the living room to the dining room and the kitchen beyond. He shifted ever so slightly in the chair and pointed the silenced pistol at the archway. With his left hand, he reached for the switch of the lamp next to his chair. He waited that way long enough that his shoulder began to ache. But he didn’t move.
The moonlight shifted and a shadowy figure stepped through the archway. About Vic’s size, dressed in black.
“Freeze.” Vic hadn’t used his voice in so long, it came out croaky. He cleared his throat and added, “Stay right there.”
He snapped the lamp switch and the room flooded with light. He showed the man his pistol and said, “Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
The intruder held his empty hands high. White guy, mid-twenties, not much more than a kid. Dark hair cut close to his scalp. He wore a black leather motorcycle jacket over a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, tight black jeans and boots.
“What are you, a Hells Angel?”
The kid smiled. If he was worried about the gun, he sure as hell didn’t show it.
“Turn around,” Vic said. “Put your hands on the wall. You know the drill.”
He did as he was told, casual about it, as if he’d been frisked before. Vic rested the silencer behind the kid’s ear to make sure he stayed still, then went over him with his left hand. Before he found it on his own, the kid said, “Inside pocket of my jacket.”
Sure enough, a .45 was in the pocket. Big old Army pistol. Vic backed away, tucking it into his belt.
“Okay. Turn around.”
He did, moving slowly and keeping his hands high. They stood staring at each other, six feet apart. The kid had a crescent-shaped scar on the left side of his forehead. Thick eyebrows that rose into arcs as he smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“We got the same eyes.”
“What?”
“Our eyes. That pale blue like the eyes of a wolf. We both got ’em.”
Vic felt a dip in his stomach, as if he’d driven too fast over a bump in the road.
“I always thought they’d be the same,” the kid said, “but I never could tell from a distance. Not until we were face-to-face.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The younger man laughed. He caught himself, tried to wipe the smile off his face, but couldn’t manage it. Vic was getting annoyed.
“I’m doing this wrong. I should introduce myself. My name is Ryan Mobley.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?”
“My mother’s name was Lisa Mobley. That ring a bell?”
That queasy sensation again, as if Vic’s stomach knew what was coming, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.
“Lisa Mobley.” His voice was raspy. “In Tucson?”
“That’s right.”
Feeling wobbly, Vic braced himself for the knockout punch.
The kid said, “You’re my father.”
Vic’s brain shorted out. Images flashed from those desert days in Tucson, twenty-five years ago: Lisa Mobley’s bright smile. Her little trailer on the sandy outskirts of town. Sweat-soaked sheets and cigarettes and moonlight.
There was a reason Ryan’s sly smile looked so familiar. It was the same one Vic flashed at the mirror every morning after he shaved. Their faces were shaped the same, and there were those unmistakable eyes.
He met the kid’s eager gaze, and said, “Aw, hell.”
Chapter 10
Not the reaction Ryan Mobley had hoped for, not even the shock he’d expected. Vic Walters mostly looked pissed off. At least he hadn’t shot him. Yet. The silenced pistol still pointed at Ryan’s midsection.
“
What is that, a .22?”
“What? Yeah, a Ruger. Why?”
“Not much of a gun.”
A crease deepened between Vic’s eyebrows.
“I assure you, this gun is perfectly adequate to the task.”
“It looks like a BB gun.”
“Doesn’t matter how it looks. Only how it works. This piece I took off you, what’s it weigh? Four pounds? Good for cracking walnuts. I gotta carry a gun all day, I don’t want it tugging down my pants or ruining the lines of my suit.”
“That makes sense.” Ryan smiled. “So, um, maybe you want to point it somewhere else?”
Vic’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that?”
“I just told you I’m your son. You don’t want to shoot your own flesh and blood.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I look at you, all I see are complications.”
Ryan felt the smile slide off his face. The old man wasn’t making this easy.
“Maybe you need to get to know me.”
“I don’t find that helps the situation when it comes time to shoot somebody. I get too cozy, I might hesitate.”
“And your profession doesn’t allow for any hesitation.”
“What do you know about my profession?”
“Lots.”
“From bugging the office?”
“That, and following you around for the last couple of weeks.”
Vic frowned. He’d been a busy man the past two weeks.
“Just so we’re clear here,” he said. “That was you in Phoenix, at the swimming pool.”
Ryan tipped his head to the side, smiling, but he didn’t confirm anything. For all he knew, Vic and Penny Randall had bugged this whole house.
“Last night in Santa Fe? With the dog?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s a damn shame about the dog. But that’s the way it goes sometimes.”
“A shame about the dog,” Ryan said.
“Yeah.”
“What about the dog’s owner? Isn’t it a shame, what happened to him?”
“Guess it was his time to go.”
“He had help.”
