Tightrope

by Teri White

  TIGHTROPE

  The Blue Maguire and Spaceman Kowalski Mysteries

  Teri White

  Thanks to Ellen, Jennie, Ruth:

  For help above and beyond.

  Yes, I used to walk the highwire every night

  Yes, I used to walk the tightrope

  But it got too tight.

  I walked the straight and narrow line

  My head was spinning round

  I worked without a safety net

  But it was such a long way down.

  —JUSTIN HAYWARD

  PROLOGUE

  The alley was so dark.

  Tran paused at the mouth of the seemingly endless tunnel and peered into the inky blackness. He looked, knowing even as he did so that it was totally absurd, because there was no chance of seeing anything—if, God forbid, there was something to see.

  His mouth was suddenly dry. He could taste only the cotton-like aridity spawned by fear.

  He told himself that the fear was there simply because the alley, running between an abandoned whorehouse and a bland facade that could have belonged to almost any business, seemed so unnaturally still. It was a silent island in the midst of the noisy chaos that was swirling throughout the rest of the city. Death, violent death at least, was rarely quiet, and Saigon was dying. The streets were jammed with frenetic crowds, many of the people carrying everything they owned, all of them caught up in the same hysteria. The reason behind this wave of terrified humanity was simple: The Americans were leaving.

  Tran was not surprised that they were going. He was not even startled by the undignified manner of their departure. This was no victorious march home, such as the disciples of John Wayne were accustomed to making after their wars. Not this time, not this war. Instead the brave sons of democracy were running, as panicked and afraid as everyone else in the city. They seemed almost pathetically desperate to shake the mud of this stinking little lost cause from their jungle boots.

  But who could blame them?

  Certainly not Tran. He wanted to get away just as much as they did.

  Ngo Tran was not, after all, an idiot. No one rose to the exalted rank of general, even in this army that sometimes seemed to be inspired by Gilbert and Sullivan, by being stupid. He’d known for a very long time what the end of this great Yankee adventure would be. Must be. So Tran, in his shrewdness, made careful plans.

  He took a firmer grip on the small leather satchel tucked under his right arm and made one tentative move into the abyss. As he took the step, Tran wondered if perhaps his nearly paralyzing reluctance to proceed stemmed from greed rather than fear. Maybe what he wanted so desperately to flee from were not the unknown dangers of this damnable alley, but actually an all too clear understanding of what awaited him on the other side.

  His partners.

  Tran spit into the chasm.

  He still wished that it would have been possible for him to do this alone, instead of having to bring the others into his perfect plan. But as Tran was wise enough to admit, even to himself, there was no other way. He had needed them, still needed them. What good was a fortune if he got left behind in this godforsaken place? His country was dead, yes, but there was no reason for Ngo Tran to perish as well.

  The foreigners had helped him to “liberate” the priceless package he was holding so tightly and now they would do even more. His Yankee “buddies” would make it possible for him to live long enough to enjoy his share of the wealth.

  In America.

  Tran let a faint smile touch his lips. He liked America much more than he liked Americans. His days of advanced military training in Fort Lee, Virginia had given him a lasting appreciation of the good life available to the lucky. Big Macs. Television cops and robbers. Baseball. Soon all of that and much more would be his permanently. Even now, his wife and two children were packing for the journey.

  He gave his body an angry shake. Enough of this foolishness. His partners were waiting for him and they were not patient men. Especially the lieutenant. Gathering his courage and tightening his bowels, Tran walked into the alley.

  The blackness swallowed him immediately. On both sides, within an arm’s reach, solid walls rose, unseen but still forbidding.

  A phrase came to him suddenly, something a CIA operative once said—“Feeling like a blind rat in a dark maze.” Tran had not then, or since, been entirely clear about the analogy, but at this moment the feeling was real enough.

  Abruptly, without being able to see anything, without even really hearing a sound beyond that of his own tentative footsteps, Tran was aware that someone waited just ahead. He was no longer alone in the alley.

  “Who?” The single word came out in a strangled whisper that was hard to recognize as his own.

  There was no reply. Not one that came in words, at any rate. But there was the unmistakable sense of someone moving toward him. Tran thought fleetingly of turning to run back the way he had come. Before thought could become action, however, the unhappy realization dawned that someone was standing there, too, waiting.

  Tran exhaled, making a low, keening sound deep in his throat. Who was waiting? His partners? It was easy to believe it of those tall, smiling cowboys, who spoke so easily and stank equally of cinnamon mouthwash and duplicity. Or did the threat come from someone else? Ky’s people, perhaps. Had the theft been discovered too soon?

  He didn’t know. And, painfully, he recognized the truth that soon it wouldn’t matter, not to him.

  Tran dropped the leather case and the fortune that had been his for such a short time. A man more westernized might have used these last moments to reflect bitterly on the basic unfairness of life. Tran, however, fell to his knees and bowed his head. Quickly he made the sign of the cross. The least he could do now was exit this unhappy world with dignity. He was still an officer and also descended from a royal line.

  But at the penultimate moment, his courage and his faith both deserted him. He scrabbled for a hold on the pavement and tried to crawl away. A sob escaped him.

  A sudden blinding light exploded in the alley and Tran instinctively closed his eyes against the glare. He could still hear too clearly the sound of bullets dancing along the alley toward him. As the first of the hot metal slugs hit Tran’s legs, his bladder released.

  The line of lead moved up and down his body once, twice, again. Through it all, Tran kept his eyes closed and so denied himself even the small satisfaction of knowing who his killers were.

  1

  It was the third straight day of rain, not the usual order of things in December, and the squad room had taken on a faint and persistent odor of damp. The effect, wetness mingling uneasily with the ordinary smells of the detective enclave, was not pleasant.

  At least, in honor of the season, an attempt had been made to add a little cheer to the surroundings. Someone had kindly installed a small plastic Christmas tree in one corner of the room. It was adorned, although that word seemed misapplied here, with seven purple Styrofoam balls, three clumps of tinsel, and a pair of handcuffs. The weight of the cuffs bent the undersized tree dangerously leeward. On top, the traditional angel had been replaced by an upside-down Dixie cup. There were no gifts around the base of the tree, only a crumpled McDonald’s bag.

  Blue Maguire scowled at the tree once more. This had been a very long morning, filled almost entirely with overdue reports that had to be written. He didn’t mind the typing so much, but the effort involved in trying to decipher the scrawl his partner called handwriting (another instance of a word sadly misapplied) was wearing on both the eyes and the nerves.

  It might have eased the chore a little at least if Spaceman Kowalski himself had been present to interpret and also to provide a target for Blue’s increasing hostility. Unfortunately, Kowalski had taken the day off to
deal with some family business.

  Families, Blue thought bitterly, were a pain in the butt. He was probably very lucky not to have one cluttering up his landscape.

  “I’m looking for a guy named Maguire.”

  The slightly nasal female voice broke into his petulant reverie. He looked up from the page of hieroglyphics he was laboring over. “I’m Detective Maguire,” he admitted.

  His first impression was one of youth—an impression he seemed to receive from others more often with each passing day. Straight hair that fell below her shoulders, faded tight jeans, and a Mötley Crüe teeshirt all combined to make him think that the woman was young.

  She gestured vaguely toward the stairs. “They told me down there that I should talk to you.”

  “Pull up a chair.” He had a headache and was feeling distinctly unsociable, but after all, he was a civil servant. And at the moment, even dealing with a member of the great unwashed public beat ruining his baby blues over Kowalski’s damned chicken scratches any longer.

  As she sat, he had the chance to take a better look and to realize that his initial impression had been wrong. The woman was older than he’d thought and than she wanted to be. In her late twenties, probably, with makeup applied sloppily and too thickly in a vain attempt to hide the lines beginning to show.

  His gaze seemed to make her nervous. She reached for and lit a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke across the space between them.

  Perfect, Blue thought, wearily waving it away. Just what the room needed. One of these days he really was going to hang a “No Smoking” sign over his desk, instead of just threatening to do so. He wasn’t entirely convinced that Spaceman would then follow up on his threat to move his adjoining desk out into the hall.

  “What can I do for you, Miss—?”

  “Wexler. Marybeth.”

  “What’s the problem, Miss Wexler?”

  “This guy I’m living with is up to something.”

  Terrific. Being up to something was a second class felony in the state. Blue was really getting ticked off at his partner for choosing this day to disappear. “Like what?”

  She looked mildly annoyed at his stupidity. “How am I supposed to know what? I’m not a cop. But he acts real suspicious.”

  Well, that was only a misdemeanor.

  His headache was getting worse. Blue leaned both elbows on the edge of the desk and massaged his temples. What the devil had he said or done lately that would make the desk sergeant mad enough to send this particular fruitcake up here? “Could you be just a little more specific?”

  The brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Let’s start off with something easy. What’s the man’s name?”

  “Wolf.”

  “Wolf? That’s it?”

  “Yeah.” She removed the cigarette from her mouth long enough to gnaw a bit of nail from one finger. “At least, that’s what he calls himself.” She brightened as an idea struck. “Maybe it’s like a nickname or something.”

  “Maybe. How long have you known him?”

  “A week. A week yesterday.”

  His thought about the great unwashed public had been more or less a joke, but now Blue noticed a faint ring of grime around Wexler’s neck. Maybe she had just showered too quickly this morning. And every other morning for the past six months or so. “A week? And you’re living with him?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “You never heard of love at first sight?”

  He realized with some surprise that she was making a joke.

  “Besides, it’s not really like we’re living together. We’re just both staying in the same place. Cheaper that way.”

  “Uh-huh. Has Wolf actually done anything illegal?”

  “Maybe. Probably. How do I know? He keeps going out at weird times. And he’s all the time making phone calls.”

  “To whom?”

  “I don’t know to whom, because he makes me leave the room, even if I’m right in the middle of a television show. Why would he do that, unless he’s up to something?”

  “Maybe he has a wife.”

  Scratching idly at some point just below her left breast, she considered that briefly. Then she shook her head. “Nope. Not this guy. He’s too damned wild to have a wife.”

  “Wild?”

  Marybeth Wexler shifted in the chair, wriggling thoughtfully. “I don’t mean he like boozes a lot or does drugs. Not that kind of wild. Wolf is just different than any guy I knew before.” She looked for an ashtray on his desk, didn’t see one, and crushed out the butt under the four-inch spike heel of her shoe. “Wolf is real quiet. He don’t say much at all, and even when he does, his voice is soft. You get what I mean?” She waved a hand helplessly. “He’s like an animal. Quiet and real sneaky.”

  “Okay. But you still haven’t told me about any crime this man might have committed.”

  “No, but—”

  Blue shrugged. “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Nothing the police department can do.”

  She was silent, staring past him at the Christmas tree. “I think he might kill me,” she whispered finally, the words almost swallowed up by the noise of the squad room.

  “Kill you?” Blue didn’t want this. They already had enough dead bodies littering up their caseload. “Why do you think that? Has he threatened you? Or hurt you?”

  Across the room, someone laughed loudly and suddenly. She was startled by the noise. When her attention returned to Blue, she chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “No, nothing like that. But sometimes when he looks at me, I get scared. His eyes are a funny color. Like cold steel.” She was spitting the words out machine-gun style. “He can give you a chill just by looking at you. Like when somebody walks over your grave.”

  Blue occasionally got fed up with how stupid people could be. It made him tired just trying to deal with them. “Why don’t you just leave?” he said.

  “Leave?”

  “Miss Wexler, you’ve known this man for only a week. You claim he’s up to something illegal, and most of all, you’re afraid of him. So why the hell don’t you just split?”

  The expression on her face gave him the impression that she had never even considered that option. “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe I could do that. But I think it might be a good idea to wait until after Christmas. It’s the pits to be by yourself over the holidays. Especially since I’ve got no place else to go. And sometimes Wolf is okay. He gives me a little money. And he’s good in the sack. At least, he was the first couple days. Now, he don’t seem to care about that no more. He’s stopped screwing me. So it’s almost like a little vacation.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Hell’s bells, I guess a broad would have to be crazy to walk out on a deal like that, right?”

  Blue shook his head slightly. “Whatever you say.”

  She stood, smoothing the front of the garish teeshirt. The prissy gesture seemed almost comically incongruous when contrasted with the rest of the picture she presented. “So, I guess it’s thanks anyway.”

  Blue stared at her. “You be careful,” he said.

  She grinned suddenly, a surprisingly good-humored and attractive smile. “I’ve been careful for a long time,” she said. “It’s a way of life for some of us.”

  Blue smiled too, though not really at her. “For all of us, Miss Wexler.”

  She nodded and turned to leave, her heels making sharp little clicks on the floor. Blue watched until she was out of sight, then picked up the report he’d been working on before the interruption. By the time the sound of her footsteps faded, he’d forgotten Marybeth Wexler.

  2

  The Little Saigon Café was on Third Street, tucked precariously between a synthetic wig shop patronized primarily by hookers and transvestites, and a storefront Buddhist temple. The temple belonged to an obscure sect, mostly Americans, leftover weirdos from the 1960s.

  Lars Morgan parked the rent-a-heap brown Ford, perfect in its blandness, across the street from the café
. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalks, except one young and very drunk Hispanic man who had paused to urinate against the side of the temple. Whether his action was a religious statement or merely the result of a full bladder wasn’t clear.

  The rain had stopped, for the moment at least. Instead of getting out of the car immediately, though, Lars lit a Gitane and sat where he was, staring through the dirty windshield at the small stucco building.

  It wasn’t exactly nerves that kept him sitting there. More like anticipation. Over the years, Lars had created, not without pain, a philosophy to live by: Life was much like a chess game. It was a trite way to think and he knew that, but it was also useful because it kept him careful. He had learned his chess in a jail cell in some emerging African nation that he could no longer remember the name of. If it even had the same name now, which he doubted.

  Essentially, the game appealed to him because of its sense of order. He liked that. Planning and strategy were paramount to him, so he never liked to rush his next move, even when he knew exactly what that move was going to be. Part of the pleasure in life was to savor these quiet moments. It was like foreplay, kind of. The comparison made him smile.

  When the cigarette was gone, he flicked the butt out into the gutter almost jauntily. Time for the White Knight to make his opening move.

  The drunk had finished peeing and was now making his erratic way toward Alameda. He’d forgotten to close his fly. More important, as far as Lars was concerned, he didn’t seem to take any notice at all of a man getting out of his car and carefully locking the door. With crime the way it was these days, it made no sense to take chances.

  As Lars crossed Third and headed toward the café, he ran one hand through his dark blond hair. Getting shaggy, he realized, time to visit the frigging stylist again. And whatever had happened to plain old barbers?

  Closeup, the Little Saigon was clearly a dump. This was not where the beautiful people of Los Angeles came to satisfy their faddish taste for Vietnamese cuisine. A hand-lettered sign in the front window apologized for the fact that the place was closed and invited the prospective customer to return at another time. Lars couldn’t imagine anyone bothering to come here once, never mind twice.