by David Freed
“And Janet Bollinger?” I said. “What about her?”
“She called me. She said she couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t mean to hurt her. Janet came after me. I just went to talk to her, that’s all. Just talk.”
“Talk about what?” Hub asked.
Crissy swallowed hard.
“About what she knew.”
“What did she know?”
Crissy couldn’t bring herself to respond.
Walker’s face was flushed. “Crissy, what did Janet Bollinger know that was so all-fired important you had to go see her in person?”
“She found out about Ray and me. I wanted her to keep quiet about it.”
“How did she find out?” Walker demanded.
Seconds passed. Crissy was panicking.
“How did she find out about you and Ray? I want an answer, goddammit!”
“She found out,” Crissy said meekly, “because Ruthie saw us coming out of a motel one night up in Carlsbad. Ruthie told Janet. I didn’t want you finding out, Hub. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Walker’s mouth fell open as the horrifying realization of all his wife had done washed over him.
“You killed Ruthie,” he whispered. “You killed my daughter.”
Crissy glanced around the room wild-eyed, like a trapped animal.
“You also threatened Janet Bollinger,” I said, “to make Janet change her testimony during Munz’s trial. All those years, enduring that guilt, knowing she’d sent an innocent man to Death Row, and finally she couldn’t handle it anymore. She told you she was going to finally tell Munz’s lawyer the truth and that’s when you went to see her. That’s why you sent him that back-off-or-die note, wasn’t it?”
Crissy’s teeth were clenched. The pistol was leveled at my head. Her gun hand was shaking.
“He’s lying, Hub. Don’t you see? He’s making up everything, to put a wedge between us. He tried to rape me. You weren’t here. I . . . I had to fight him off. Ask him. Go on. He’ll tell you.”
“You framed Dorian Munz, Crissy,” I said. “You stole his shirt and phone out of his locker and made hang-up calls to Ruth, to make it look like he was stalking her. Then you stabbed her, dipped the shirt in her blood, and planted it where you knew the police would find it, behind his condo. That’s why Janet Bollinger kept quiet all those years. She was afraid you’d kill her, too. And that’s exactly what you did.”
“That’s not true! She came at me! It was self-defense!”
Walker buckled and slumped to the kitchen floor. I moved to help him.
Blam!
Crissy squeezed off a shot that went high, shattering the glass cabinet over my left shoulder.
“Don’t you understand?” she said, sobbing. “I didn’t want to lose everything we had, everything we worked so hard to build. This life. Our home. Can’t you begin to understand that?”
“You mean everything you had, Crissy. Being married to a war hero has its perks, doesn’t it? Sure beats being a washed-up centerfold from the sticks.”
Her crocodile tears evaporated like an airbrushed illusion. In their place was a face I’d seen in many less-than-pleasant corners of the globe. The hard set of the jaw, the eyes gone flat and reptilian, drained of compassion. Crissy Walker’s exquisite countenance had morphed into that of a remorseless killer.
I knew by the angle of the weapon in her hand that her next shot would likely be in the direction of my head—most people unfamiliar with firearms tend to aim high—and that I had a second or two, at most, before she pulled the trigger.
I dove for her legs.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
She got off three quick shots that went high before I made contact, driving her back into the trash compactor. I had thought that my textbook tackle would separate her from the pistol, but it didn’t. She rolled on the floor and swung the Luger’s barrel toward me.
Time slowed to what seemed like a standstill.
There are two things I can truthfully say that I’d never done in my life until that moment. The first was that I’d never decked a woman before. The second was that I’d never decked a woman with my arm encased in a rock-hard plaster cast. I did both to Crissy Walker, clubbing her in the head. The blow rendered her instantly unconscious while the Lugar went skittering across the floor.
Walker leaned over, picked up the pistol, and aimed it at me.
“Nobody hits my wife, you son of a bitch.”
“I had no choice, Hub. You know it as well as I do.”
“Secure your weapon, Walker! Do it now!”
I looked behind me, expecting to see the SWAT team. What I saw instead was Major Kilgore from across the street. He was kneeling behind the corner of the breakfast bar, hairpiece askew like he’d slapped the rug on in a hurry, leveling his M-14 rifle at Walker.
“Do me a favor,” I said “Don’t ask him to cut down his trees. Now would not be a good time.”
Walker slowly lowered the pistol.
I reached over and took it from him.
“You OK, Colonel?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly, then covered his eyes with both hands and sobbed.
Crissy was unconscious, but her pulse rate and respiration were normal. I saw no outward indication of injury.
“I heard shots,” Kilgore said, standing and slinging his rifle. “Somebody want to tell me what the hell’s going on over here?”
I stuffed the Luger in my waistband and walked past him without answering.
Outside, on Hillside Drive, the morning sun shone down warm on my face, like manna from the Buddha himself. Sea gulls circled lazily overhead. They looked suspiciously like members of the crew that had made off with my turkey burger and chili fries.
I decided to forgive them.
SWAT CHARGED in with their assault carbines and submachine guns locked and loaded like they were storming downtown Fallujah. I’d called Detective Rosario to tell her that the situation inside the Walkers’ home was secure, but you know what they say about boys and their toys.
I waited behind a sheriff’s cruiser parked outside, along with Rosario, her partner, Lawless, and Marine Kilgore, who’d grudgingly surrendered his rifle to the detectives, while members of the tactical team made entry. They reemerged five minutes later without having fired a shot, with both Hub and Crissy in handcuffs, and Ryder, wearing a Cinderella nightgown, under the protective arm of one of the deputies.
The Walkers were led to separate patrol cars. Crissy appeared woozy but was apparently functioning just fine under her own power. Hub hung his head. Dozens of neighbors had come out to watch.
“Check it out, dude,” said one young man standing near us in board shorts and an “I Scored High on My Drug Test” T-shirt. “That chick? She was Playmate of the Year, like, before the Civil War.”
“I’d still totally do her,” his friend responded.
Kilgore went to chase both of them off his lawn.
Hub and I locked eyes as he was driven away. He nodded. I nodded back. I’d like to think it was a gesture of appreciation on his part, and respect on mine.
“He had no clue who his wife really was,” I said.
“What man ever does?” Lawless said, ambling toward his unmarked Crown Vic parked up the street.
Rosario turned to face me. “You did good, Logan—for a flight instructor. Maybe you should think about becoming a cop.”
“I’m a little old for that, but I do love doughnuts.”
She smiled.
“My department owes you big time.”
“How ’bout buying me a new airplane?”
“Hey, I’d cut you the check, but we’re hacking back right now on everything, what with the economy. They won’t even pay us overtime.”
I dug my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and nodded. After years of lurching along on life support, the economy remained a joke. I would’ve laughed, but I couldn’t afford to.
“Anyway,” Rosario said, “if you come up with any good ideas
on how we could help you out, within reason, you’ve still got my number, right?”
“That I do.”
“Can I give you a lift to your car?”
“It’s only a couple of blocks. I could use the exercise.”
“You and me both.” She hesitated, searching my eyes. “You stay safe, Logan.”
“You, too, Detective.”
“It’s Alicia.”
I smiled.
She walked toward the Crown Vic as her partner cranked the ignition.
“Hey, Alicia?”
She turned to look back at me.
“If things don’t work out for me on the ex-wife front, you owe me a burrito.”
“Consider it done.”
I watched her drive away just as the first TV news van pulled in. A reporter with big hair and too much makeup jumped out with her cameraman and began trying to interview anything that moved. She looked less like a journalist than she did a day spa receptionist. Hungry for their fifteen minutes, Hub Walker’s neighbors were only too happy to fill her in on every salacious detail of what they’d just witnessed.
Not me.
I called Savannah and told her I was Los Angeles-bound. Would she mind picking me up downtown at Union Station? I hoped to be there in time for supper.
“Lucky you,” Savannah said. “I’m in a rare cooking mood. What do you feel like eating?”
“Surprise me.”
“You hate surprises, Logan.”
“And you love them. The yin and the yang, the balance of life. The Buddha’s all about balance, Savannah—as long as it doesn’t involve borscht. You weren’t thinking of making borscht, were you? Because I hate borscht. More than I hate surprises.”
“Did I ever make borscht when we were married?”
“Not that I recall.”
“I’ve never made borscht in my life, Logan. I’m not about to start now.”
“Good. Just so we got that straight.”
“Call me when your train’s a half-hour out. I’ll come get you. Come hungry.”
“You can count on it. See you tonight, babe.”
She sighed like I’d made her day.
San Diego may well be America’s Finest City. I couldn’t wait to leave it, though, not with a home-cooked meal and Savannah waiting for me in LA. I dropped off the Escalade at Enterprise’s downtown office and hopped a taxi to the train station, but not before stopping off at a vintage record store on 6th Avenue where I snagged CDs of the The Three Tenors in Concert and Pavarotti’s Greatest Hits for my spook buddy, Buzz.
I made a mental note to buy Mrs. Schmulowitz the grandest bunch of white daisies I could find when I got back to Rancho Bonita.
Twenty-seven
Time, scientists tell us, accelerates the older we get—or, at least, the perception of time. Makes sense. When you’re three, a year is one-third of your life. When you’re forty-three, one year is, well . . . Look, I was no math major, but you probably get the concept.
Nearly three months had passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye since the Ruptured Duck and I had made our “hard landing” in San Diego. Plenty had occurred since.
Formally cleared of any criminal wrongdoing, Hub Walker had filed for divorce. His wife, Crissy, remained in the county lockup, awaiting trial for the murders of Ray Sheen, Janet Bollinger, and her stepdaughter, Ruth.
Mrs. Schmulowitz had recovered from her tummy tuck. She’d called it correctly: except for the scar and a few stretch marks, her new abs could’ve passed for those on a prepubescent Nubian princess.
Sadly, my tired old Cessna remained grounded. Larry had made substantial progress putting the Duck back together, but he was still waiting on sundry parts, many of which were on back order. With no airplane, my only student, Jahangir Khan, had left me to enroll at “Air Worthy,” the slick new flight school across the field, where would-be pilots learned to fly on shiny new Cirrus SR22’s. They attended ground school in a real classroom, practicing on state-of-the-art computer simulators while swilling free coffee and munching free cookies from Mrs. Fields. Free cookies. Whoever said life isn’t fair sure knew what they were talking about.
And, as if that were not distressing enough, my cat remained missing, while the woman of my dreams continued to remain my ex-wife. Savannah and I had agreed to take things slowly, spending alternate weekends together in our respective cities, gingerly feeling our way toward what we both hoped would be an eventual reunion.
“I remember how you told me she was your sister when she first showed up here, and how I fell for it,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, refilling my glass of lemonade. “Boy, am I a schlemiel or what?”
I was hanging out in my landlady’s living room, taking a brief break from painting the exterior of her house. In lieu of other viable employment prospects, she’d insisted on hiring me as her resident handyman until I could regain my financial footing.
“I just didn’t want to offend you, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”
“Offend me? Bubeleh, people in their seventies get offended. Folks my age, we’ve seen it all. Lemme tell ya, when you’ve been hitched to a man who insists on dousing himself every weekend head-to-toe in Chanel, who then goes traipsing around the basement wearing your girdle and brassiere, as my third husband was extremely fond of doing, nothing fazes you, and I mean, nothing.”
She turned on her ancient Magnavox television, picked up a pair of ten-pound barbells and began doing bicep curls in black Lycra bicycle shorts and a New York Giants athletic T-shirt that was knotted at the waist. An antediluvian Gidget.
“She’s a very intelligent lady, that lady of yours—and that body of hers? Oy gevalt, I only wish I could’ve had a figure like that,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, grunting on the down-curl. “You know, normally, I’d say what’s done is done. It’s over. OK, so it didn’t work out. Az och un vai. Tough luck! Wipe your hands and walk away. But I got a good feeling about you two kids. I really do.”
“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”
“Of course, I’m right. I’m always right when it comes to love. I’ve been right five times.”
I gulped down the rest of my drink.
“I’d better get back to work before my paintbrush dries out. Thanks for the lemonade, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”
“Pitcher’s in the ’fridge, bubby. Come in and get more whenever you want.”
“I may do that.”
As I walked outside, Mrs. Schmulowitz was knocking out a new set of preacher curls while Judge Judy was laying into some loser on TV for cheating his 300-pound girlfriend out of a Kmart gift card.
Kiddiot was sitting on the back porch.
A joyous whoop came rushing up from somewhere deep inside me as I gathered up my cat and hugged him.
“Where’d you go off to, buddy?”
Wherever he’d been, he appeared not to have missed many meals there. Kiddiot was as porky as ever. I kissed him repeatedly, and even though he was never one for public displays of affection, he kissed me back, licking me on the cheek. Then he remembered he had an image to maintain, dug his rear claws into my chest, and demanded to be let down.
“Mrs. Schmulowitz, look who finally decided to come home!”
She pushed open the screen door, looked down and gasped with delight.
“Mazel tov! The Moses of Rancho Bonita has returned! Wandering around forty days and forty nights—only a lot more than forty, but who’s counting, am I right? Where have you been, you meshugana butterball? We’ve been worried sick about you!”
Kiddiot rubbed against her legs, rolled over on his back playfully—then ran off when she stooped to pet him. He hustled toward my garage apartment and hopped in through the cat door like he’d never left. For a butterball with fur, he moved pretty good.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, wiping happy tears from her cheeks, “that cat could stand to drop a few pounds.”
I called Savannah to tell her the news. She was thrilled.
KIDDIOT WAS dozin
g on the small of my back that night when we were both jarred awake by the sound of someone jiggling our front doorknob.
I grabbed the .357 and rolled out of bed, while Kiddiot took cover under the box spring.
The door-jimmying got louder, more frenetic. Whoever was outside seemed little concerned that I might hear them. I cocked the revolver’s hammer as quietly as I could, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then flung open the door with both hands on the grips.
There stood Savannah, cloaked in a dark-colored trench coat with the collar up. In her hand was a door key. Her heart must’ve been in her throat given the terrified expression on her face.
“Jesus, Logan.”
“My bad. It’s OK, it’s OK. You’re OK.”
I set the revolver on a shelf and pulled her close to me.
“I don’t think this key works,” Savannah said, breathing heavily, trying to calm herself after nearly getting shot.
“I’ll get you a new one first thing tomorrow.”
She pulled away from me, glanced down at my nakedness, and offered me a wry smile.
“You gonna invite me in, flyboy, or you gonna just stand there, whistling in the breeze?”
I let her in and closed the door.
“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, Savannah, but what are you doing here? I thought it was my turn to come down to LA this weekend. Or am I confused?”
“You’re not confused.”
“Then you must be.”
“Why am I confused?”
“It hasn’t rained in months, it’s seventy degrees outside, and you’re wearing a raincoat.”
She undid the belt and let the coat fall to the floor.
“Who said I was?”
She was wearing nothing underneath but skin.
I watched her slip into my bed, the filtered moonlight highlighting her curves under the sheets like the bas-relief of a Greek goddess.
“I have an excellent idea,” Savannah said.
“Better than that raincoat?”
“Why don’t you come in here and join me?”
“That is an excellent idea.”
She was soft and warm, and when she snuggled close, we melded perfectly. Some couples just fit together better than others.
