by Robert Ellis
Matt spotted the park, made a left on Tujunga Avenue, and after a block pulled over. He didn’t see anyone on the lawns and guessed that with the sun beginning to set, few people if any would venture off the sidewalks or away from the overhead streetlights. After all, there had been a murder here. The story remained above the fold on page one of the Los Angeles Times, with no end in sight. The girl’s death still had to be on everybody’s mind.
Matt checked his rearview mirror and saw the man in the silver Nissan waiting at the corner. Digging his cell phone out of his pocket, Matt pretended to make a call and started across the lawn, hoping that he looked preoccupied and distracted. He couldn’t afford to check his back. But once he disappeared behind the tree line, he shoved the phone into his pocket and began running toward the girl’s memorial as fast as he could. A full sprint all the way down the long row of trees. He stopped to catch his breath, glancing at the fresh flowers and battery-powered candles, all the notes and photographs. He thought about the girl’s father, the preacher with the gun who ended up in the backseat of his Mercedes with a crack pipe and a fifteen-year-old boy—but only for a moment or two. Then he slipped into the bushes behind the trunk of a large oak tree, drew his .45, and waited to see if the man in the silver Nissan was curious enough to get out of his car.
Five or six minutes passed before Matt thought he heard something. He knelt down and peered beneath the branches. And then he flashed a grim smile. He could see the man’s chubby legs in the distance. He was moving quickly, taking a few steps, then slowing down, then bursting forward again.
The man in the silver Nissan had picked the wrong day to get out of his car.
Matt parted the leaves slightly and watched as his follower appeared at the other end of the aisle and started up the row of trees. The guy seemed nervous. Jumpy. He kept checking his back. He kept slowing down, his eyes flicking left and right, and finally spotting the memorial just ahead. Matt quieted his breathing and became very still. They were less than six feet away from each other. He noted the gun in the man’s right hand, the .38. He could see the man turning his back to get a better look at the girl’s memorial. He could hear the man trying to catch his breath over the din from the freeway on the other side of the trees.
He’d picked the wrong day.
Matt raised his .45, took two steps forward, and pressed the muzzle into the back of the man’s head. The man yelped and nearly jumped out of his skin. Then Matt double-checked the lawn. It was starting to get dark. They were alone.
“Nice and easy,” he said. “Drop the fucking piece.”
The man tossed his .38 on the grass. Matt picked it up and slid it behind his belt.
“Now get down on your knees.”
“Please,” the man said in a shaky voice. “Please don’t hurt me. Why do I have to get down on my knees? What are you gonna do to me?”
Matt pushed him over, and he rolled onto his back. The man raised his hands, his entire body trembling in the grass. His eyes kept flicking between the .45 and Matt’s face.
“Who are you?” Matt said. “Why have you been following me?”
The man shook his head back and forth, like he didn’t want to talk about it. Like he couldn’t.
Matt prodded him with his foot. “Who are you?” he repeated.
The man shrieked and gasped for air. “I can’t,” he said quickly. “I made a mistake. If you let me go, I’ll never bother you again. I swear I won’t. Just don’t hurt me.”
Matt stood over the man as he chewed it over, his pistol aimed at the guy’s chest. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. He couldn’t get a decent read on the guy and wondered if he should just call McKensie and have him picked up and taken in.
“Are you working for Baylor?” he said.
“Just let me go. I’ll never bother you again. Please. You’re a cop. Do the right thing.”
Matt narrowed his eyes. “How did you know that I’m a cop? You’re working for Baylor. What does he want?”
The man remained quiet, refusing to speak.
Matt realized that no matter what secrets his follower might hold, no matter what answers, he didn’t like him. He took a step closer. He was losing his patience. As his left hand swept around his belt, he remembered that he had been put on leave. His handcuffs were on the chest of drawers in Laura’s bedroom.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen next. You listening, pal?”
The guy nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’ll only say it once. I’m gonna search you, mister. While I’m searching you, my .45 will be pointed at your chest. And that’s why you’re gonna lay back in the grass and pretend you’re dead. One move, one anything, and I’ll blow your heart out of your chest. Got it?”
The man must have been visualizing the gunshot. His eyes snapped wide open, and he nodded again, fast and nervous and scared shitless.
Matt held his gaze as he moved closer. “Be good, mister. Be smart. Play dead and live to see another day. Get stupid, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever fucking do.”
He knelt down and worked quickly. A one-handed search from top to bottom. He tossed the keys to the silver Nissan in the grass, the man’s wallet and his cell phone, his cigarettes and lighter and a pocketful of spare change, then checked his waist and legs for another weapon. When he felt satisfied that the man was unarmed, he grabbed the wallet, stood up, and backed twenty feet away.
The headlights from the cars and trucks on the freeway were bouncing off the trees and flickering through the canopy of leaves. After glancing back at the man on the ground, he opened the wallet and turned it into the light.
His name was Billy Casper, like the ghost, and according to his driver’s license he was from out of town.
San Francisco.
It seemed odd.
Matt went through his cards but didn’t find a license for the gun or anything that might identify Casper as a private investigator. Just twenty-three bucks, two credit cards, and an ATM card issued from Wells Fargo Bank. But it was the wallet itself that Matt found the most telling. The leather was cracked and worn out. Most people would have replaced it a long time ago. Billy Casper hadn’t.
“How’s business, Billy?”
Casper didn’t say anything, his big eyes still locked on Matt and the .45 pointed at his chest.
Matt tossed the wallet in the grass and stepped closer. He looked at the clothes Casper was wearing: the frayed shirt collar, the wrinkled slacks, the same striped tie that he’d seen before. As he looked back at the big man’s face, he noted the two-day beard and the hint of body odor wafting in the air. When he checked his hands, his fingers, he didn’t see a wedding band.
And then a pair of images surfaced in Matt’s mind, uninvited and ill timed—the before and after shots of Heidi Bachman’s daughter, Kim. He could see each photograph so clearly. He tried to concentrate on what the girl looked like before her murder. He tried to think of her drinking that beer at the bar in the French Quarter and laughing with her friends. He tried to push away the second photograph, the close-up of her face that had been taken at the coroner’s office. He tried with all his might but knew that like the victim’s mother, he too would never be able to see the girl any other way again.
He looked at Casper. Just the sight of the man brought on a torrent of anger. He tried to settle down. He turned away, then turned back. He could hear those words playing in his head again.
She weighed less than a hundred pounds.
When he finally spoke, he saw Casper flinch and knew that something about his own voice and demeanor had changed. It was the mainspring inside his gut, he figured. The main wheel. Something about the way it turned had changed enough to frighten Casper. The safety switch was off.
Matt filled his lungs with air and exhaled. “You’re not a private investigator, Billy. You’re obviously not law enforcement. You’re just a guy with a gun who keeps winding up in my rearview mirror.”
&n
bsp; Casper pricked up his ears and froze, then began stammering. “Please, Jones. You’ll never see me again. I swear.”
Matt laughed, then knelt down beside Casper and lowered his voice as he thought it through. “Why would Baylor pull you out of San Francisco? You must have a history. You and the doctor must go way back. I’ll bet you know everything. I’ll bet that you’re a part of everything. You know what he did because you were there. It makes sense that he would have needed help.”
“Jesus Christ, Jones. Please. I don’t know anything. Put the fucking gun away.”
A moment passed, the light churning through the tree branches, the candles set on the ground glowing like a campfire. The wind had picked up—a dry, unforgiving wind—and Matt listened to the rushing sound of the leaves as he turned and gazed at the memorial to Faith Novakoff. Her picture had been stapled to the trunk of the tree where she lost her life.
Hallowed ground, he kept thinking. Hallowed ground. She seemed so innocent. So young and pretty.
He turned back to Billy Casper, who had been watching him. “Where is he, Casper?” he said in a dark voice. “Where’s Dr. Baylor?”
Sweat had begun to drip from the big man’s forehead, and his shirt was stained across his belly and underneath his arms. He couldn’t stop trembling, shivering in the heat.
Matt pointed the .45 at his chest and slapped him across the face. “How does he pay you? How do you communicate? When was the last time you talked?”
Casper shook his head back and forth. Matt slapped him again, harder this time. Then again and again.
“Where is he, Casper? What does he want with me?”
The big man shook his head one more time, still refusing to say anything. Matt felt himself losing control, thought about that safety switch, and decided to roll with it. He traded the .45 for Casper’s .38 revolver, left a single round in the cylinder, and gave it a spin. Then he cocked the hammer with his thumb and moved in.
“It’s not your night,” Matt said. “It’s not gonna work out for you, Billy. You’re not gonna make it.”
Casper panicked, his eyes glassy. “No, no, no.”
Matt jammed the muzzle into his mouth. “Where is he?”
Casper clamped his eyes shut and started weeping, mumbling, writhing on the grass. “No, no, no.”
Matt pulled the trigger.
It felt like the air had been sucked out of the entire park in a single instant. A long moment passed. Just silence, just stillness, and that din from the freeway on the other side of the trees that seemed to have faded into nowhere—into utter silence.
Casper opened his eyes, batting his lids as he gazed up at the light in the trees. Matt grabbed his chin, turning his head back and staring at him face to face.
“Where’s Baylor, Casper?”
The weeping came back like rain, and Casper couldn’t seem to catch his breath or swallow. “Please, Jones. Please.”
“Fuck you, Casper.”
Matt gave the cylinder another spin, pulled back the hammer, and jammed the muzzle into the man’s mouth.
“Where is he?”
Casper’s body wriggled in terror. “No, no, no.”
Matt pinned him to the ground and pulled the trigger. His heart almost stopped, and he grimaced. He watched Casper’s body freeze up, then start squirming beneath him when he didn’t hear the sound of a gunshot.
Matt didn’t care anymore. Casper was in on it. Things were in motion. It was too late to stop.
“Where is he?” Matt said. “What does he want with me?”
“I’ll go away, Jones. Jesus Christ, I’ll go away.”
Matt gave the cylinder a third spin and jammed the muzzle into Casper’s mouth. “Where is he?”
When he pulled back the hammer, Casper’s eyes spun out like a slot machine, and he soiled himself. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his words garbled.
“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll talk, Jones, I’ll talk. Just don’t pull the trigger.”
Matt eased the gun out of Casper’s mouth and watched as the big man tried to pull himself together. His chest was heaving, and it looked like he was taking a leak in his pants.
“Where is he, Casper?”
Casper wiped the tears off his cheeks, his hands quivering. He rolled onto his side and leaned on an elbow. When he spotted his cigarettes and lighter in the grass, he looked at Matt for permission, then grabbed them and tried to light up through the jitters. It took several tries. Once he managed to touch the flame to the end of the cigarette, he took a deep drag and exhaled. His eyes were wagging back and forth across the grass, his wheels turning. When he spoke, his voice sounded weak and tired and drenched in hopelessness.
“I have no fucking idea where he is, Jones.”
“That’s not good enough, Casper. Not tonight it isn’t. It won’t even buy you another five minutes.”
Casper looked at him as he took a second long pull on the smoke and exhaled. “It’s not my job to know where Baylor is. It’s not in my job description.”
“Then how do you get paid?”
Casper paused again, taking another quick drag. “You don’t get it yet, that’s all.”
“Get what, Casper?”
“Who I’m working for.”
“The doctor.”
Casper shook his head, staring back at Matt with an odd glint in his eye. “Nope, it’s not Baylor. I’ve never met the man in my life.”
Casper crossed himself, as if not meeting the doctor had been a blessing.
Matt gave him a long look. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So if you’re not working for Baylor, who’s signing your checks?”
“That’s the hard part. You’re not gonna like it.”
Matt pointed the .38 at Casper’s head and pulled back the hammer. “Who is it, Casper? Who’s signing the checks?”
“Life isn’t easy, Jones.”
“It sure beats dying. Now tell me who you’re working for. And don’t say it’s McKensie.”
Casper turned, met his eyes, and held the gaze. “I don’t know who McKensie is,” he said finally. “I’m working for your father. Your old man. M. Trevor Jones, the King of Wall Street.”
Time stopped.
And everything about the night turned wretched, even the dappled light from the trees and that swirling wind that seemed to choke up in midair.
If Casper had mentioned anybody else, any other human being, it could have been a play. If he had, it could have been a play.
But not now.
Matt released the hammer and lowered the gun. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before Casper lit another cigarette and finally started talking again. He couldn’t feel anything. The blow had hit him too hard and too deep. Everything about the moment seemed too close and too real.
Casper cleared his throat. “It was the security cameras,” he said in a low voice. “The cameras picked you up at your old man’s place in Connecticut the last time you were there, Jones. I was given your name and a photograph and some idea of where you were. But the truth is, I didn’t really put it together until I saw you, until I did my own research. You look just like him. Now everything makes sense.”
“Everything makes sense?”
Casper nodded slowly. “Your father wants to know that his reputation will be kept safe. He wants you to stay away from him and his family. He wants some assurance that you’ll never come back to his house again. That you won’t make any more phone calls to his office, or attempt to reach him in any way.”
“That was a long time ago, Casper.”
“Yes, it was. You’d just come back from Afghanistan. But things have changed over the past five years. You’re starting to make a name for yourself. Pictures of your face have been printed in every newspaper from here to New York City. Your name and image are all over TV and the Internet, and have been ever since you took your first case. What was the kid’s name? The three-piece bandit? The kid who was out of work for so long and had a wife and newborn son?”
“
Sean Hudson.”
“That’s it—Hudson. That story’s still running, Jones. And now we’ve got an LAPD lieutenant and two detectives out of Hollywood who gunned down your best friend and murdered his partner. Even worse, we’ve got a nationwide manhunt underway for a doctor, a madman, who likes to rape and kill college girls. You see where I’m going, right? Your father would like you to consider changing jobs to something with a smaller profile, or better yet, something with no profile at all. You need to cut the guy a break and see it the way he does. You need to put yourself in your father’s shoes. Like I said, I did my research—enough to know what’s what and who’s who, and after that, I’m pretty sure I can fill in most of the blanks. Your father’s a brand name, a VIP, Jones. It would embarrass him if you were to come forward now. It would hurt his reputation if anyone knew that he abandoned his wife and son. It would damage the brand if anyone found out that your mother died of cancer, and your father didn’t care enough to help either one of you out. It’s an old story. It’s easy enough to understand. His second wife came from money. She didn’t have the looks your mother had and probably couldn’t match her personality or intelligence. But her father was in the business, had connections, and made things happen for him. Your old man did exactly what a lot of people who are smarter than everybody else do every day. He saw an opportunity and he took it. And look what happened. Jesus Christ, look how it paid off. According to Money magazine, he’s worth more than a billion dollars.”
It hung there, twisting from the tree in the dark of night.
The words. The pain. His mother’s angelic face. Matt could feel her arms around him as he sat on her lap. He could hear her voice, so gentle and soothing, as he snuggled in and laid his head on her soft breast. But he could also feel the jolt he’d taken as he watched his father walk out the door with his suitcase. He could still see the man getting into his car and driving off without even looking back. He could still remember the sound of his mother’s tears as he woke up in the middle of the night and heard her weeping through the wall.
