Bad Guys zw-2

by Linwood Barclay

  “You’ll have to come in tomorrow and write something major,” Dan said. “I’ll leave a note for dayside to expect you.”

  I slipped the phone back into my jacket, feeling chilled and exhausted. It was only now, sitting in the Virtue, that it occurred to me that there was a chance that the car was not going to start. I prepared myself to dig my auto club emergency card out of my wallet. I slid the key in, turned it, and to my astonishment, the engine came on just like that.

  “You are one unpredictable piece of shit,” I said, backing the Virtue out of the doughnut shop parking lot.

  On the way home I detoured by Mercy General and went to the ER to find out how Lawrence was doing. There was a cop there, just standing around, who told us Mr. Jones was still in surgery, but he was either not at liberty to say anything more or simply didn’t know.

  A man who looked like the guy in the photo pinned to the bulletin board in Lawrence’s was pacing in the waiting area and, when he heard me ask the cop about Lawrence, approached.

  “Are you the one who phoned the restaurant?” he said.

  I nodded. “You must be Kent. I’m Zack.”

  He extended a hand to me. “Kent Aikens. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I didn’t know who else to call. Has Lawrence got family?”

  “Not local. I think his parents are dead, but he’s got a sister named Letitia out in Denver, I think. I’m going to try to locate her, let her know. And when…” He hesitated, not sure whether the word he was looking for was “if.” He composed himself and continued. “When Lawrence wakes up, I can find out from him who else he wants me to call.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Have you spoken to the doctors?”

  “They don’t want to tell me much. I’m not, you know, family.” He shook his head angrily. “I’m just the faggot friend, the only one who’s even fucking here. But they did tell me that the knife punctured his lung, among other things. They said something about his lung filling up with blood. I spoke to him, like, yesterday. He phoned me. We were going to get together this Friday night, go to a club or something. He mentioned you, that you were some reporter?”

  I nodded.

  “And that you were hanging out with him. He had good things to say about you.”

  I half smiled. “He’s a good guy.”

  Kent swallowed, turned away so I wouldn’t notice his chin quivering. I gave him one of my own business cards. “If you need anything, or can let me know how Lawrence is doing, please let me know. That has my work and home numbers on it.”

  Kent took the card without looking at it and slid it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Okay,” he said. “I thought, once he was through being a cop, there’d be less chance of this kind of thing happening. Working for himself, not chasing people down alleys, how could something like this happen?”

  “It happened at his apartment,” I said. “Someone came looking for him, most likely these people he’d been investigating. They killed another detective a couple of nights ago.”

  Kent took that in, said nothing.

  I said, “You have any other idea who might have it in for him?”

  He shook his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Lawrence is a good guy.”

  The sliding glass doors to the ER parted and in strode Detective Trimble. Kent caught a glimpse of him and turned away, muttering, “Oh, great. Our hero has arrived.”

  “What?” I asked. “You got problems with Trimble?”

  “I know the history,” he said. “Lawrence nearly died a few years ago because of that asshole. Look, if I find out anything, I’ll give you a call, okay?” And he walked over to one of the vinyl and chrome waiting-room chairs and took a seat, studying the pile of outdated magazines on the small table next to him.

  Trimble strode past me, nodded, and kept walking in the direction of the operating rooms.

  It was about one in the morning when I got home. The Camry was in the driveway, pulled up close to the garage. Angie had returned from Oakwood some time ago, I guessed, considering that Sarah had spoken to her when she phoned home from the retreat. I wondered whether my daughter might still be up, but when I came in and did a walkabout, it was clear that both she and her brother were asleep. All manner of interrogations could begin tomorrow, should I choose to conduct them.

  I phoned Sarah from the kitchen phone.

  “God, I’ve been waiting up for you, hoping you’d call,” she said from her hotel room. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s Lawrence,” I said. “Someone tried to kill him in his apartment. I found him. He’s pretty bad. I don’t know whether he’s going to make it.”

  Sarah waited a moment, and said, “Tell me everything.”

  I gave her the basics, that Lawrence’s attacker was unknown, that it might or might not be related to the smash-and-grab at Brentwood’s, that I had a major story to write first thing in the morning.

  “Do you want me to come home?” she asked. “I can bail on this thing. I don’t have to stay. We won’t be learning anything. It’ll all be bullshit, the way these things always are.”

  “No, no, it’s okay, there’s not much you could do if you came back.”

  “I could be with you,” she said.

  I felt a lump develop in my throat. God, it had been a long night.

  “Really,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  “And the kids? Is everything okay there?” Sarah asked.

  “Sure,” I lied, thinking about Trevor’s surveillance of Angie, my surveillance of Trevor and Angie, Angie’s mysterious visit to Trixie’s, Paul’s drinking binge.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  20

  I was tired enough to have slept for a week, yet I mostly tossed and turned during what was left of that night. I had a few things on my mind. There was my daughter, who was making secret visits to my dominatrix friend while being stalked all over town by a possibly unstable admirer. There was my son, who, at the age of sixteen, was getting into the booze, a behavior that put him in the company of most sixteen-year-old boys, and evidently my daughter’s stalker was supplying him with the stuff. My new friend lay in the hospital after a near-fatal stabbing. I had impulsively spent $8,900 that we didn’t have on a car that started only when it felt like it, plus another small fortune on a new wardrobe. And there was the fact that I was lying to my wife about just how serious things might be on the home front because it would involve disclosing that I was violating the privacy of a member of my own family.

  At least I had those new clothes to wear.

  By seven, I was sitting at the kitchen table, that morning’s Metropolitan spread out on the table before me, reaching for my coffee and reading the headlines without registering them.

  Paul showed up first, since he had to be at high school before Angie had to be at her first class at the university. He looked tired and bleary-eyed.

  “Sit down,” I said.

  “Just let me grab some juice,” he said.

  “Sit down,” I said, using my Angry Father Voice.

  He came over, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from me. He had that look of feigned bewilderment, as if to say, “What could you possibly want to speak to me about?”

  I said, “You look a bit rough this morning.”

  He swallowed. “I’m good. Just a bit tired is all.”

  “What did you do last night?”

  “Hung out here. Had a couple of friends over.”

  “What’d you do?”

  Paul hesitated. “Uh, just, I don’t know, watched some movies, played video games.”

  “What do you think the chances are, if I go look out back between the garage and the fence, that there’s still a six-pack there?”

  “Huh?”

  “Shall we go look? I know it was there yesterday afternoon, and I have a pretty good idea who left it there, and I’m betting it’s gone.”

  Paul looked at the table. “It’s gone.”

  “And I’ll bet most of it
’s been thrown up or pissed away by now,” I said.

  Paul swallowed again. No denials there.

  “You got a fake ID?” I asked.

  Paul feigned indignation. “Oh my God. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course not. You’re a teenager.” I took a shot in the dark. “Let’s see the ID.”

  Paul sighed, took his wallet from his back pocket, opened it up, tossed a piece of plastic across the table at me. It was a reasonably good facsimile, as long as you didn’t look too closely, of a driver’s license, with Paul’s picture on it. It would have to be pretty dark in a bar to fool anyone with.

  “This says you’re twenty-one,” I said. “You’re barely shaving.”

  “I shaved two days ago.”

  “Let me guess. You look too young to fool many people with this, so you get your older friends, Trevor Wylie included, to buy your beer for you.”

  Paul said nothing. I slipped the fake ID into my pocket.

  “Jeez, Dad, you know what I had to pay Trevor for that?”

  “No, what?”

  Paul decided it was better not saying. I said, “Trevor’s what, four or five years older than you? And he’s your buddy?”

  “He’s okay.”

  “That kid’s using you, being nice to you, buying your beer for you, to get close to your sister.” I paused, got very serious. “Don’t let people use you to hurt your family.”

  For a moment, Paul’s eyes looked scared. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody. He just likes Angie, that’s all.”

  “You better hope so,” I said.

  “And jeez, why are you coming down so hard on me about this? You didn’t get this way with Angie.”

  “Angie wasn’t drinking when she was sixteen,” I said.

  Now it was Paul’s turn to smile. “Yeah, right. I’ve got so much shit on her, you’ve got no idea.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, thinking maybe the comment had to do with more than just underage drinking. Maybe it had to do with Trixie. Paul and Angie confided in each other about a lot of things.

  “She’s no angel, Dad. I mean, she’s okay, but if you think she’s always been Little Miss Perfect or something, well, sorry.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Oakwood?” I asked. “With people out there?”

  “Huh?” said Paul. “Neither one of us want anything to do with that place again. Listen, I have to get ready or I’m going to be late.” And he got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen without even bothering to get his juice.

  And Angie walked in.

  “Hey,” she said. She gave me a once-over. “Hey! You’re not wearing any of your stuff from last night.” She sounded hurt.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I got in real late, I think the bags are still in the car.”

  “I don’t believe it. You didn’t even bring in your stuff?” She took a yogurt out of the fridge, peeled off the lid. “Gee, good thing I helped you pick out a new wardrobe. You can’t even bring it inside.”

  “It’s not like that,” I said. I told her about Lawrence.

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “Is he gonna make it?”

  “I’m going to call the hospital in a little while. I’m guessing the first few hours will be pretty critical.”

  She was still shaking her head in disbelief. “Man, that’s so freaky.”

  “Yeah. Well, so,” I said, thinking that a lot of freaky things were going on around here lately. “Where did you go after we split up last night?” Trying to make it sound like regular conversation, not an interrogation.

  Angie shrugged. “Just around. Did some studying with some friends.”

  “Oh yeah.” I took a sip of my coffee. “These friends taking the same courses you’re taking?”

  “Yep.”

  “Uh-huh.” I watched Angie get out a slice of bread, drop it into the toaster, then root around in the fridge for some jam.

  My daughter. Doing the small-talk thing with Daddy. Making her breakfast. Talking about homework. Getting ready for class.

  And a few hours earlier, she’d spent the evening with a dominatrix. Who was, I reminded myself, my friend.

  I decided to try a different tack, come at things from another direction.

  “So, have you thought any more about what you might want to do when you finish college?” I asked.

  “I dunno. There’s lots of time. I’ve got three more years.”

  “Yeah, but, you know, you must have some ideas rattling around in your head. Lines of work you might want to get into.”

  “There’s lots of things,” Angie said. “There’s photography; sometimes I think advertising might be interesting. Or something where I’m working with people. I think I’d like working with people.”

  I nodded. “You’d like to work with people.”

  “Yep.”

  “What kind of work would you like to do for people?”

  Another shrug. “All kinds of things, I guess. Who knows? Why all the questions about my future?”

  “Just interested, is all. I’d just like to see you get into a line of work you’d enjoy, that makes you happy, that offers lots of opportunities, that’s financially rewarding, that’s something that would make your mother and father proud.”

  Angie looked up at that last one. “Huh? What, you want me to become a doctor or something? Because I can tell you right now, I am not planning to become a doctor.”

  “I’m not saying you have to become a doctor. All I’m saying is, you’ll want to get some kind of job you can be proud of, and I’m sure if you’re proud of it, your mother and I will be proud of it, too.”

  Angie stirred her yogurt, getting the fruit down on the bottom mixed into the rest of it, and studied me for a moment. “Dad,” she said.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Are you, like, drifting into another one of your spells again?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, when you start getting hyper-concerned about everything? Because, like, you’re totally impossible when you’re like that. I mean, I can understand you getting freaked out about Lawrence and all, but everything’s fine here at home.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Never mind, we won’t talk about it, subject closed, conversation over.” I looked back down at my paper. “We just want you to find a career that will make you happy.”

  “Dad!”

  “Okay, never mind. Forget it.” I decided to move to another subject. “How’s this thing with Trevor? He still bothering you?”

  Angie sighed. “He called me, late last night.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He says, we’re meant to be together. That forces that might try to keep us apart are, what did he say, acting in vain.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Weird, huh? He’s so fucking intense. Says I remind him of that chick, the one in the Matrix movie, jumps around in slow motion kicking the crap out of guys. She is kind of pretty.”

  “You know, there are things we can do. We could get, I don’t know, a restraining order or something, or-”

  “Dad.”

  “We’ve got legal experts at the paper, I could ask one of them-”

  “Dad.”

  “They could probably give us a name. In fact, I met this police detective last night, he might even-”

  “Dad!”

  “Huh?”

  “Dad, stop it. Okay? Trevor’s a pain, but I’ll deal with it. It’s not like he’s psycho or something.”

  I wanted to tell her. That Trevor had been following her the night before, first to the coffee shop where she met the young man, then to the mall, then part of the way out to Oakwood. And I was working up to it, thinking, okay, she could get as mad as she wanted, but it was important that she-

  “Jeez, Dad, maybe you should start snooping on him, like you did with-”

  The Pool Boy.

  I waved my hands in the air. “Okay, okay, okay, never mind. I’m so
rry.”

  We didn’t speak for a couple of minutes. She ate her toast across from me. I listened to every chew.

  “There is something funny, though,” she said softly. “Like, funny weird, not funny ha-ha.”

  “What?”

  “There were times last night, when I was driving around, when I had this feeling, I don’t know. This is totally weird. Like I was being watched.”

  “Really.”

  “And I looked around, figuring it might be Trevor? You know? Because he’s been so weird lately? But I didn’t see him.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah. I’m probably just freaking out. This is what you’ve done to me. This is the kind of person you’re turning me into.”

  Angie rinsed her dish and put it in the dishwasher, then went into the front hall. She called to me, still sitting in the kitchen, “Can I have the new car today?”

  “I’ve got to get it looked at today. Half the time, it doesn’t want to start.”

  “Great.”

  And then I heard the muffled sound of a cell phone, and I could hear her rustling through her bag. “Hello?”

  Then: “Stop fucking phoning me, okay?”

  I took the shopping bags out of the Virtue and put them up in my bedroom, then locked up the house and got into the car. It started, but I wanted to be sure the problem wasn’t going to recur, so on the way into the office I stopped at Otto’s Auto Repair, and found Otto under a Mustang that was up on the hoist. Otto had looked after our cars, off and on, for the last fifteen years.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I got myself a new car,” I explained, “and I’ve been having a little trouble with it.”

  “Let’s have a look,” he said, and walked out the bay doors with me as I led him over to the Virtue.

  “Whoa,” he said. “This is one of those hybrid cars.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s the extension cord?” And Otto started laughing.

  “That’s a good one, Otto,” I said.

  “You really should have talked to me before you went out and bought one of these. I mean, they’re good on gas and all, but they’re a bit hinky in the electrical department. Sometimes they don’t want to start.”