by Simon Wood
“Hey, Roy said not to hurt her,” the driver said.
Olivia could only see a fragment through the partition between the cab and cargo area, but from his voice, the driver wasn’t Roy.
“Fuck Roy,” Dolores said as she slammed the side door shut. “I’m not letting this bitch screw me. Get her legs.”
Olivia had missed the figure at the rear of the van, until his hands grabbed her ankles and yanked her across the floor. He wore a ski mask. He was slight, but Olivia felt his strength in the grip he had on her ankles.
“Let’s go,” Dolores barked.
The driver put the van in reverse, and it leaped backward.
Dolores clamped a hand over Olivia’s throat. “Who have you told? Cops? Your sister? Who?”
Did they know about Andrew? Panic seized her, but loosened its grip just as fast. If Roy was keeping close tabs on her, it wouldn’t be hard for him to see how much time they were spending with each other. If Roy knew anything or even feared anything, he would have made true on his threats and served her up to Finz. This was a bluff.
The van lurched forward, and Dolores’s grip lessened as she adjusted her balance.
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“I don’t believe you. You told your sister. You told her everything.”
“Of course she knows. She told me about Infidelity Limited.”
Dolores shook her head in disgust. “Once people start talking, it never stops. What about the cops? Did you tell them too? They’ve been circling you like flies on shit.”
Olivia slapped the woman’s hand away. “Only because of the mess you people made.”
Dolores slammed a fist into Olivia’s stomach. Olivia doubled up. The pain knifed through her, manifesting itself as white noise in her brain.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” Dolores hissed. “Have I made myself clear?”
Olivia managed a nod.
“Good.”
“Take it easy back there for Christ’s sake,” the driver said.
“You worry about the driving,” Dolores snarled back before releasing her grip on Olivia. “You know the drill. Strip.”
The masked figure released her ankles.
Fighting the van’s changing speed and cornering, Olivia clumsily stripped down to her underwear. Dolores inspected every piece of discarded clothing.
Once Dolores was finished with her search, she called out to the driver. “Tell Roy she’s clean.”
Olivia redressed under Dolores’s sneering smile. She peppered Olivia with gibes, but Olivia let them bounce off her. She wouldn’t be rattled. Eventually, Dolores gave up but underscored her satisfaction by muttering “bitch” under her breath.
The van drew to a halt after twenty minutes. Roy drew the side door open and smiled.
Roy helped Olivia out. His now-familiar Chrysler 300 was waiting for her. He opened the door for her to get in.
They’d brought her to the Golden Gate Fields horse-racing track. It was a nonrace day, so the parking lot was desolate.
As Olivia sat in the passenger seat, the van pulled a one-eighty and roared off, its job done. It was all very slick.
Roy got into the driver’s seat and turned the car around. “How are you holding up?”
“Like you care.”
“Hey, don’t be mean. We have a lot of work ahead of us, and I need you to be cool.”
“How can I be cool? I’ve got the cops breathing down my neck, and you want me to kill someone.”
Roy turned to her. “You’re tough, Olivia. You can handle the situation. And more.”
Roy wasn’t ridiculing her. He meant what he said, but the “and more” remark worried her. What other jobs did he have lined up for her?
Roy guided his car onto I-580, heading toward Oakland and San Francisco. He pulled an unsealed, letter-sized envelope from his door pocket and handed it to her. She knew what she’d find inside, because she’d produced the same documentation only weeks earlier. Somewhere, someone had fallen into the same trap she had. Out there was some sorry person, totally unaware that he or she had just set his or her own downfall in motion by signing the death warrant of someone he or she once loved. She poured the contents of the envelope into her lap. Clipped to a sheaf of paperwork was a head shot of a woman in her late thirties. From the formality of the picture, it had to be one of those office-wall pictures of staff members. Underneath the head shot was a daily diary of Amy Moore-Marbach’s movements. Whoever this person was, she was a homebody, spending most of her time at her house in Morro Bay. It explained why a door key was included in the package. Someone was obviously thinking of a home invasion–style intervention.
“Amy lost her job at an LA-based law firm and has also lost her lust for life. She has spent the last year watching daytime TV, eating Cheetos, and obsessively buying junk from the Home Shopping Network, much to the disappointment of her wife, Heather,” Roy said. “Heather Moore-Marbach owns a small chain of high-end gyms in Southern California, and she’s sick of underwriting her wife’s slacker lifestyle of the rich and feckless.”
There was more information beyond the daily movements, including a head shot of Heather, but Olivia couldn’t look at it, so she shoved everything back into the envelope. This was all a little too real, even though she knew she was only gathering information in order to set a trap for Roy, just the way he had for her.
“How am I supposed to do this?” she asked.
“Find a way in, corner Amy, do the deed, and get out clean.”
Roy made it sound beyond simple. Maybe it was to him. Kill enough times and it becomes second nature. Maybe simplicity was the best way of thinking about killing. Complexity gave the cops too many opportunities to catch you. She shook her head at the thought.
“You can do this.”
How many times had Roy had this conversation with his clients? Ten times? A hundred? And had one of those conversations ever been with Clare?
“What do I do about a weapon?” she asked.
“That’s for you to work out. I set the assignment, but you’re responsible for the execution of it.”
Execution? Is that Infidelity Limited humor? “You’re not helping me here. I don’t know the first thing about killing someone.”
“You’d be surprised what we’re capable of when we have no choice.”
That wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. She needed him to show himself. “If I get caught, you get caught.”
“That won’t happen. Infidelity Limited is very well insulated from our clients’ mistakes.”
“You bastard.”
Roy shrugged off the name-calling. “Look, you didn’t ask for this, but you find yourself in this position. Harsh, but you have to deal with it, because if you don’t, you will suffer the consequences.”
She shuddered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you can’t keep your shit together, then it stands to reason that the police will catch up to you. Should that happen, I have no option other than to protect myself.”
“By killing me?”
Roy laughed. “No. I have Richard’s murder weapon. I know the killer’s identity. All I have to do is provide the cops with the connective tissue to bind you two together.”
So Roy had the murder weapon. That probably made sense to him. Control the evidence; control the game. But holding on to the murder weapon also made him vulnerable. If the cops found it in his possession, he wouldn’t be able to explain it away, regardless of how well insulated he believed himself to be. At last, she saw a flaw in Roy’s game. All she needed to do was find out where he kept the evidence against her.
“When it comes to a weapon,” Roy said, “don’t use anything that can be tied back to you. So nothing from your house, like a gun that is registered to you. And whatever way you decide to do it, make damn sure you’re confident with it. No point in you playing with guns if you don’t know how to use them. Take your time with this. Don’t rush into it.”
“Ho
w long do I have to do this?”
“A month. Sooner is better because doubt will creep in. Any longer and you’ll never get around to doing it. As soon as I get the feeling you’re stalling, I start connecting the dots for the cops.”
There it was. The carrot to keep the donkey walking.
“You can do this, Olivia. Not only that, but you can come out the other side in one piece. I truly believe that. I can’t say that about everyone, but I can about you.”
“Why? Do I look like a cold-blooded killer?”
“No, you look like a survivor.”
It was a compliment, but it felt like an insult.
Roy pulled over to the side of the road. He leaned across her and opened the door. No ride home for her, then.
“I want to know something,” Olivia said.
“What is it?”
“Has Clare killed for you?”
“That’s not a question to ask.”
“Just answer the question. It costs you nothing.”
Roy nodded. “No, she hasn’t.”
At least Clare hadn’t lied to her.
“Happy now?”
“Not really. Why haven’t you used her?”
“Some people are best left with the threat that I will use them, while others prefer to get that monkey off their back. Clare’s a coward. She doesn’t face up to her responsibilities. You do.”
“And that makes me a killer?”
“Olivia, I don’t think you’re aware of your capabilities. Let’s just say I believe that killer is in your skill set.”
Olivia stepped from the car.
Roy smiled at her. “I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”
I bet you do, she thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Finz walked into the Old Spaghetti Factory in Concord for his lunchtime appointment.
“How many in your party?” the hostess asked.
She looked like she was barely out of high school. Seeing someone that young with responsibility always made him feel old. “I’m meeting someone. Bertholf.”
Every cop picked up an unofficial mentor during his or her career, and Detective Bob Bertholf was Finz’s. When Finz made it to detective, Bob was the one he listened to. His guidance made Finz the cop he was today. Bob was a cop for all seasons. He was what he needed to be at any given time. He could be hard and uncompromising with a belligerent suspect and kind and sensitive with a distressed witness. The greatest lesson he’d taught Finz was to just get the facts, record them, and let them build a case. Finz had worked with Bob for ten years before he retired.
The girl smiled. “Mr. Bertholf is here. This way, sir, and I’ll show you to your table.”
As restaurants went, the Old Spaghetti Factory always confused him. The chain touted itself as a family-friendly place, but its decor reminded him of a Wild West bordello. The restaurant was just under half-full, with the majority of its clientele consisting of young families. That put the level of table talk somewhere between whining and crying. The girl brought him to a booth toward the rear of the place.
Detective Bertholf slipped out from behind the table and crushed Finz’s hand in a handshake. “Mikey, it’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” Finz said, sitting down. “Damn, you look good. Where do you get a tan like that?”
“On the golf course and in Maui.” He patted his belly. “I’m carrying a few extra pounds, but that comes with not chasing assholes all day. Maybe you need to do the same. You look like an emaciated rat.”
“Enjoy your meals, gentlemen,” the hostess said.
Finz waited until the girl was out of earshot. “I see that you still like to have your sit-downs here.”
Whenever Bob had wanted to thrash out a case, he brought his team here. It became so commonplace that the manager had given him his own table. Finz remembered blowing entire evenings in here.
“Hey, I like this place,” said Bob. “It feels like home.”
The waiter introduced himself, and they ordered. Bob ordered spaghetti in clam sauce, while Finz went with a Cobb salad. He wouldn’t survive the afternoon with a bellyful of pasta sloshing around in his gut.
“You said you wanted to talk about an old case,” Bob said.
Finz handed Mark Renko’s file to him. “This was a case you responded to twenty years ago. It’s a fatal DUI. The driver killed himself after wrapping his vehicle around a power pole on Ygnacio Valley Road.”
Bob thumbed through the file. “Jesus, blood alcohol of .32? This guy was seriously shit-faced.”
Finz had the file practically memorized. Unlike Richard Shaw’s case, Mark Renko’s death hadn’t been suspicious, just moronic. With a 0.32 blood-alcohol level, he shouldn’t have been able to drive. In fact, he should have been barely upright. That detail scratched at Finz. Maybe Renko hadn’t been driving.
“Do you remember the case?” Finz asked.
Bob nodded with a frown. “Yeah. The jerk might have survived if he’d been wearing a seat belt, but physics took over when he hit that pole. Christ, he was a mess. He was doing seventy when he went through the windshield. First responders didn’t even find him for the first ten minutes. He was that far away from the car.” Bob closed the file and slid it across the table, back to Finz. “Why the interest in a traffic fatality?”
“Renko’s wife, Olivia. Do you remember her?”
Bob shook his head. “Vaguely. I remember her being young, not long out of high school. The two of them were living in some fleapit apartment. She seemed sweet, while Renko’s rap sheet intimated he was a bit of douche, but that’s about it. What’s so special about her?”
“Her second husband, Richard Shaw, was recently murdered. He was bludgeoned to death after being lured out to a quiet location.”
“And she’s a suspect?”
“Yes. While Olivia certainly married up when it came to Shaw, it doesn’t look as if she married well on the nice-guy front. He was cheating on her with someone from work.”
“And you’re thinking she got her licks in as payback.”
Finz shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”
“A little excessive though.”
And that was where things fell down for Finz. It was hard to believe she’d kill her husband for cheating on her. Not to say it wasn’t possible; it was just hard to swallow.
The waiter returned with bread and drinks.
“I’m a little confused as to why you’re so interested in Renko,” Bob said.
“I have one wife with two husbands who died violently.”
“But one of those deaths was self-inflicted.”
“Was it, though?”
Bob cut off a piece of bread and took a bite out of it. “You’re wondering whether this wreck was staged.”
“Any chance?”
“If it was, I would have seen it and investigated. It was what it was—a fatal DUI.”
Bob’s answer didn’t disappoint him. He wasn’t hoping Olivia was a two-time killer or even a one-timer killer for that matter. He just wanted the truth, and if Olivia was responsible, so be it. The only disappointment he had was not having anything solid he could grasp. So far, everything was just vapor, giving him only a glimpse at the possible truth.
“I’ve read the report, and it gives me the facts, but not the details. Can you talk me through the investigation?” asked Finz.
“Jesus, this happened twenty years ago.”
“And you’ve got a rattrap of a memory. Nothing gets away from you.”
Bob smiled. “Not quite ready to let go of that bone, huh?”
“Not quite.”
“Okay. Give me that file back.”
Finz handed Bob the case file, and he flipped through it.
“For the stubborn people in the room, it went down like this. Renko met with buddies at the Flying Horse bar. It should have been called Flypaper for all the barflies it drew. Thankfully, it’s long gone now. He met them at eight and drank nonstop until throwing-up
time. He said he was leaving and got into his car. The Flying Horse, being the conscientious place that it was, didn’t give two shits that they let one of their patrons play automotive Russian roulette on the streets. However, according to Renko’s buddies, they did try to get his keys from him and get him a cab, but he wasn’t having any of it, and the rest is tragic history. Questions?”
“Where was Olivia that night?”
“Night school and then home. Home alone, I should add. If I were to break down a timeline, she could have intercepted him at the bar, but it didn’t seem likely. I do remember that she wasn’t all that cut up about Renko being dead. That said, Renko was an asshole—passing rubber checks, some credit card fraud. His death did her a world of good.” Bob then realized what he’d said. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m just saying she was better off without him.”
Finz smiled. “I didn’t say a word.”
“Good. I’d say that question was a swing and miss. What else do you want to know?”
“Did Olivia gain financially from Renko’s death?”
Bob choked out a laugh. “I don’t think so. The poor bitch ended up out-of-pocket. The Trans Am he destroyed wasn’t insured, and Olivia got the bill for the damage to the power pole. Is she set to gain anything from Shaw’s murder?”
“Four hundred and fifty grand in insurance.”
“Hmm. Not to be sneezed at. But that’s a second strike against you. Last chance to knock it out of the park.”
Finz had missed this back and forth with his old supervisor. It had been a long time since he’d had his investigation tested in this way. It made him feel like a rookie, but that wasn’t a bad thing from time to time. “The blood-alcohol level. The guy should have been catatonic. Any chance he wasn’t driving the car?”
“Witnesses in the bar saw him drive away, and you’ve seen the pictures of the wreck. If someone else was driving, there’d be two dead bodies. Third strike. That means you’re out.”
“Not quite. I’m calling a mulligan on that one.”
“You’re mixing your sports, but okay. Do over.”
“Anyone go after him to stop him?”
“Yeah, one of his buddies chased after him in his car to flag him down, but got nowhere. The kid took a chance too. He was .07 himself. If he’d finished his drink he left behind, he would have been over. That would have fucked his army career.”
