The Kill Clause tr-1

by Gregg Hurwitz

  He lay on his mattress, examining the cottage-cheese ceiling. It reminded him of fresh-burned flesh. His thoughts pulled him back to Ginny on the coroner’s table, to the sight he’d beheld when he’d drawn back the hospital-blue sheet, to the sound the sheet had made being peeled.

  There were more pleasant images he could have fallen asleep to, but then, he didn’t have a choice.

  37

  HE WAS UP at first light, an old Rangers habit that reemerged in high-stress times. On the KCOM morning news, a less attractive and less ethnic reporter than Yueh carried the story of a double homicide in Hancock Park. William Rayner, of course, was mentioned by name, Ananberg described as a “young female teaching assistant.” Authorities were, predictably, “baffled”-Tanninospeak for get-your-cameras-out-of-my-boys’-faces-and-let-them-do-their-jobs.

  After showering, Tim flipped through the phone book and found the sole listing for VanMan Rental Agency. It was over in El Segundo, a few miles from the airport.

  He located it in an industrial stretch, held tight in the corner of a moderately busy intersection. The parking lot extended over a half acre, the office itself standing at the front near the sidewalk, small and functional, like a bait shack. Through the high chain-link fence, Tim saw row after row of vans of all types.

  Sitting in the car, he lost the hip holster, double-wrapping rubber bands around the grip of his. 357 and slipping it in his waistband. Then he retrieved a jacket from the backseat. He pulled a few flex-cuffs from his war bag and coiled them in his pocket.

  When he slid open the glass door and stepped up into the office, he felt the floorboards give slightly under his weight. A portly man in a yellow oxford shirt sat examining his schedule, one chubby finger tracing over the free Bank of America calendar pinned up on the cheap paneling behind the high front counter. He turned at the sound of the sliding door, his cheeks rosy, his bare scalp thinly veiled by a comb-over that had probably lost its conviction about the same time as the Carter administration.

  “Stan the Van Man at your service.” He rose and offered Tim a soft and slightly sweaty hand.

  “Big shop you have here,” Tim said. “You’ve got, what, fifty vans?”

  “Sixty-three up and running, four in the shop.” He beamed with pride.

  Probably the owner, probably not the full-time front counterman. Good.

  Tim searched the small office interior. A sun-faded Disney tourist poster curling out from its tacks on the wall showed a small girl astride Mickey’s shoulders in front of Sleeping Beauty’s castle, just as Bear had carried Ginny last July through the very same stretch of park. Several wood-framed photos on the rear desk showed off a cheerful, pudgy family; even the dachshund could have stood to pay Jenny Craig a visit. One shot showed the Van Man family gathered before a decorated Christmas tree wearing green-and-red sweaters. Everyone looked excessively pleasant.

  A bribe would probably not go over well.

  A messy Rolodex sat at the counter’s edge, the category cards sticking up in white plastic. AIRPORT. BUSINESS-TO-BUSINESS.

  INDUSTRIAL. TOUR GROUPS. TRAVEL AGENTS.

  “I’m a travel agent-Tom Altman,” Tim said. “We’ve spoken a few times…?”

  “Oh, you probably spoke to my guy, Angelo. I’m only here Saturdays, holding down the fort.”

  “That’s right, Angelo rings a bell. Well, listen, I booked a van for a family to head down to Disneyland-”

  “Disneyland. Our most common destination. Nothing like seeing a family get off the plane from North Dakota or Ohio, load up in one of my babies, and head on down to Mousetown.” His grin, genuine and untroubled, made Tim envious.

  “Must be gratifying.”

  “Mine drag me down there at least twice a year. You have kids yourself?” His smile lost a few watts at Tim’s expression.

  Tim’s throat clicked on a dry swallow. “No.” He forced a grin. “The old lady’s been pushing lately, if you know what I mean.”

  “Believe me, friend, I know that tune.” He winked and elbow-pointed at the framed pictures behind him. “I know it five times over.”

  Tim joined Stan’s hearty laugh as best he could.

  “So, Tom Altman, what can I help you with?”

  “Well, I was driving by, saw your sign, and remembered I had a client I hooked up with your racket here who never ended up paying me my booking fee. It’s not a huge amount of money, but it’s been happening to me more and more lately. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me the total amount of the rental so I could send him a bill?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Stan slid an immense book that looked like a jail ledger over in front of him. “Name and date?”

  Tim couldn’t remember if the Stork had also driven the van to the Commission meeting the night before the Debuffier execution. “Daniel Dunn. February 21.”

  “Let’s see…” Stan’s tongue poked out of his mouth slightly as hescanned down the enormous page. “Don’t see it.”

  “Try the twenty-second.”

  “Here we are. He rented out one of my Econoline E-350s. He had it back before eight. That’s $62.41 for the day.” He smiled, again with pride. “Here at VanMan, we log every cent, every inch.”

  “You charge mileage? We take a slightly higher booking fee for charges over a hundred bucks.”

  “No mileage charge unless they exceed seventy miles a day. And let’s see. Odometer was at 45,213 when Dunn picked it up…” Histongue emerged again, along with a calculator he pulled from an over-stuffed breast pocket. He poked at the keys with the end of a well-chewed pencil. “Fifty-seven miles. Sorry, friend.”

  “I remember he rented another van first, but he brought it back because it gave off a rattle.”

  “It sometimes happens,” Stan said, a bit defensively. “Rattles are tough.”

  “Well, maybe he put on more mileage with that van, pushed the total over a hundred.”

  “I doubt it if he traded it in.”

  “Would you mind checking for me?”

  Stan’s stare took on a bit of suspicion.

  “I’m sorry, things are just kind of tough right now in the travel-agency business, what with the Internet and everything. I can use every cent I can pick up right now.” Tim figured a guy who kept his records in a jail ledger probably hated computers.

  Stan gave a little nod. His puffy finger scanned down the page, then back up. “Here it is. Six miles.” He gave an exaggerated frown. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You helped me clear up some paperwork anyway.”

  They shook hands again. “Thanks for the business,” Stan said.

  “Sure thing.”

  Tim sat in his car for a moment, figuring. The Stork had arrived with the van at Debuffier’s the morning of the hit. The Stork had probably picked up the van, then returned home to load up his black bag of tech gear. He probably hadn’t taken the bag with him to pick up the van; it was conspicuous as hell, particularly since the Stork could barely lift it himself. He would have parked his own car far away from the rental office so no one could ID it later, and Tim couldn’t imagine him leaving his beloved and priceless trinkets unattended in his trunk in this part of town while filling out bullshit paperwork.

  I even took back the first van they rented me because it gave off a distinctive rattle.

  An obsessive perfectionist like the Stork would have turned the van around at the first sound. Why had it taken him three miles to hear the rattle?

  Because he was going somewhere else, completing a shorter round-trip. Like driving home to pick up his black bag.

  Then he’d returned to VanMan and switched rentals before heading to Debuffier’s.

  Six miles.

  Three miles each way to the Stork’s house.

  Three miles from VanMan Rental Agency.

  Tim started driving in a widening spiral, looking for everything and nothing, recalling what he knew about the Stork. A pharmacy Rx sign in a strip mall caught his eye, and he p
ulled into the lot, passing the usual suspects-Blockbuster, Starbucks, Baja Fresh.

  He pictured the Stork’s round face, his sunburned scalp and flat nose. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s called Stickler’s syndrome.

  The Stork took plenty of prescription meds, but, in Tim’s experience, patient-confidentiality issues, DEA security, and his own lack of contacts in the field made tracing drug records next to impossible. Plus, the Stork was wise enough to be exceedingly careful about how he acquired his drugs. It was doubtful he’d be so foolish as to use a nearby pharmacy, if he used a pharmacy at all.

  Tim closed his eyes.

  The Stork’s house was likely within a three-mile radius of where Tim sat.

  A connective-tissue disorder that affects the tissue surrounding the bones, heart, eyes, and ears.

  Somewhere an optometrist had to have a file containing the Stork’s lens prescription, but again the Stork would know not to leave telling records anywhere near his house. Plus, his glasses looked as if they hadn’t been updated since the sixties.

  Tim reversed his thoughts, considering the banal, the seemingly harmless. What are activities people do near their home? Which of these leave records?

  Grocery shopping. Post office. Library.

  Weak. Difficult. Maybe.

  Tim opened his eyes again, gripping the wheel in frustration. Across the lot the yellow-and-blue sign caught his eye. He felt a quick surge as something in his mind crossed over, connected.

  Now and then I’ll rent black-and-white movies when I can’t sleep.

  He got out, his step quickening as he approached Blockbuster. The stenciling on the door said they were open until midnight, but the classic-movie section was anemic at best. Even Tim, hater of old movies, had seen most of the twenty or so black-and-white videos leaning on the shelves.

  The acne-crusted kid at the counter was wearing his visor backward and sucking a Blow Pop.

  “What’s the best place to rent old black-and-white movies around here?”

  “I don’t know, man. What do you want to watch those for? We just got the new Lord of the Rings.” The Blow Pop had stained the kid’s mouth green.

  “Is there a manager here?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m it.”

  “Would you mind suggesting another video-rental store around here?”

  The kid shrugged. A passing customer with an abundance of facial piercings leaned on the counter, chewing her lip. “You an old-movie nut? Go check out Cinsational Videos. With a ‘cin’ like in ‘cinema,’ get it?”

  The manager removed his Blow Pop and brayed laughter. “Sounds like a porn shop.”

  “It’s the only place around here for that stuff. They don’t got it, you gotta head up to the West Side, like to Cinefile or Vidiots or somewhere.”

  Tim thanked her and asked for directions, which she explained with dramatic gestures and clanking jewelry.

  Six blocks over, two down, on the left. Tim parked up the street. A quiet area, mostly apartments. The store, a stand-alone square building, was set back from the street behind four slanted parking spaces and a streetlamp. Glass front door, windows cluttered with posters-a lot of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. The hanging sign was flipped to OPEN. Someone had Magic Marker-ed in the times; on Mondays through Saturdays, the store didn’t close until 1:00 A.M. The late hours matched the Stork’s inadvertent description and would likely necessitate a security camera inside.

  The front door knocked hanging chimes when Tim entered. A kid with movie-star looks sat on a stool, engrossed in a video playing on a nineteen-inch TV on the counter in front of him. No customers.

  Tim glanced above the counter and found the security camera-cheap Sony model from the eighties, run on VHS tapes. It hung from a ceiling bracket, angled across the counter at the front door. Glass front door. And visible through it were the two center parking spaces, most likely where someone would park late at night.

  “Someone called me earlier in the week, said something about a problem with your security camera. I wanted to take a look.”

  “On a Saturday?” The toothpick the kid had been working in his mouth bobbed with his words, his eyes never leaving the screen. Clint Eastwood gritted his teeth, scowled, and shot through Eli Wallach’s noose.

  Tim took note of the narrow door behind the stool-probably a small office. Above the knob was what looked to be an autolocking double-cylinder, requiring a key on both sides.

  “Yeah, well, my crew’s been slammed lately. I wanted to see what the problem was so they’ll know to bring any necessary parts next week.”

  “Necessary parts? Like what? I installed the thing myself. It’s working fine.”

  Tim’s rising irritation was directed as much at himself as at the kid. With a younger worker, he should have played the authoritative angle, impersonating a police officer or a deputy marshal. But now that he was committed, he couldn’t exactly back up and start over.

  “Well, the owner called me last week and asked me to come by. I might as well make sure everything’s okay.”

  The kid shifted on the stool, his eyes leaving the screen for the first time. He looked obstinate and mistrustful. “My dad never told me about anyone coming by. He would’ve.”

  Tim raised his hands as if to say What the hell and turned to leave. When he reached the door, he threw the lock and flipped the sign so it read CLOSED.

  The kid had gone back to his movie, but he sensed Tim’s presence and looked up. He caught sight of the front-door sign, and his hand darted beneath the counter and came up with a dinky. 22. Tim closed fast, his left hand sweeping out, catching the gun at the barrel and angling it away from both of them. His right hand pinned back his jacket, revealing the. 357 tucked in his waistband.

  They were frozen together, motionless, Tim’s gun revealed but not drawn, the other weapon pointed between NEW RELEASES and FRANK CAPRA.

  Tim braced for the gunshot, but none came.

  The kid was breathing hard, a spill of blond hair down across his right eye.

  “Don’t do anything,” Tim said, his voice dead calm. “I’m as nervous as you are.”

  After another moment he twisted the. 22, slowly, and the kid released it. Tim slid out the cartridge, cleared the bullet from the chamber, and handed the gun back to him.

  “Step back from the counter, please. Thank you.” Tim let his jacket fall back over his gun and walked around to the other side. He patted the kid down gently, using his knuckles. “What’s your name?”

  “Sam.”

  “All right, Sam. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to rob you. I just need to get my hands on your security tapes from the past few weeks. Could you please open that office door? Thank you.”

  Between a tiny desk and a large, lined wastepaper basket sat a cabinet with a row of security VHS tapes, marked by date. Above the cabinet a Sunset Boulevard one-sheet, probably hiding a safe, fluttered with the breeze from the AC vent.

  “Why are there two tapes for each date?”

  Sam was trembling a bit. “They only fit eight hours on each, so we split them, day and night. We recycle them every month or so.”

  “All right, Sam. I’m going to borrow the night tapes. Is that okay?” He waited for Sam to nod.

  “Shit, man, if that’s all you want, you can keep them. Just get out of here.”

  “Okay. In a second. Will you help me put them into this bag? This one here? Thank you.”

  They silently loaded the tapes into a plastic wastepaper bag, then Tim stepped back, fisting it like a cartoon robber. He pulled the toothpick from the kid’s mouth, turned him around, and cinched a flex-cuff around his wrists.

  Pulling out his Nextel, Tim dialed 911. “Yes, hello, I’ve accidentally locked myself in the back room of Cinsational Videos in El Segundo, and I’m trapped. Can you please send help?”

  He stepped out into the store proper, shut the door behind him, then jammed the toothpick into the keyhole and snapped it off. He pull
ed the tape from the security camera overhead. On his way past the counter, he paused, the movie credits catching his eye. He counted out four hundreds and laid them on the floor behind the counter, then unhooked the VCR and tucked it under one arm.

  He hurried nonchalantly to his car and drove away, Cinsational’s CLOSED sign peering out after him.

  •Back in his apartment, Tim watched tape after tape on fast forward, a process more tedious than time-consuming. The tapes were color and surprisingly good quality, providing a clear angle encompassing the counter and front door.

  He lucked out on the fifth tape, February 4 at 12:53 A.M. Nearly forty minutes passed without a single customer, then a car pulled up and took one of the front spaces, its headlights shining into the store interior. When the driver pushed through the front door, Tim recognized his distinctive conformation. The Stork poked around off camera, reappearing when he shambled up to the counter with three videos. He paid cash and left, climbing into his car.

  When the car backed up, Tim saw it clearly, bathed in the streetlamp’s glow-a black PT Cruiser. With its forties-style narrow hood, rounded fenders, and sloping liftgate, it seemed a perfect, slightly embarrassing match for the Stork’s aesthetic.

  Tim froze the frame, leaning close to the screen. The license plate was lost in one headlight’s reflection off the glass door. Rewinding, he slowed the tape just as the Stork pulled up. Again the plate was illegible, bleached out in the headlights’ gleam. When the Stork turned off the car, the grill fell immediately into shadow, backlit by the streetlamp. Tim let the tape play, watching for the enhanced spill of light from the door when the Stork entered; it illuminated the dark grill for a split second, still not enough for Tim to read the license number. He inched the tape forward and back but couldn’t make the plate resolve.

  He reached Dray at the sheriff’s station. “Tim?” He could hear her shifting the phone, and then she spoke in a hushed voice. “Bear’s bringing the heat. There were deputy marshals all through the house last night, searching through our stuff.”