EQMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I got to my hands and knees and coughed as if my lungs were filled with white-hot gravel. In desperation, I scanned the streets, hoping someone had seen the beating he had just given me. Maybe they'd get involved, call the cops. But it was almost one A.M. in a quiet residential neighborhood. The houses were all dark, and the only cars on the street sat empty by the curbs.

  I was alone.

  Malcolm White walked over to me as if he had all the time in the world. A few drops of blood speckled his Coke-bottle glasses. My blood. He slipped them off, wiping the lenses clean on the hem of his shirt.

  Unable to get to my feet, I resigned myself to sitting on the sidewalk and looking up at him. “Was that kung fu?” I asked, gasping for breath. “A little Northern Shaolin, perhaps?"

  White shook his head. “No. Japanese karate."

  I rubbed my ribs. “Really? Because it sure felt like kung fu. Usually when I'm taking a butt-whupping, I can tell the difference."

  He didn't laugh, didn't crack a smile. Instead, Malcolm White whispered, “This is for Kelly.” Then he dropped to one knee, like a genuflecting Catholic, and hit me once more. It was a hard right hand, square to the base of the chin.

  And, as the lights faded inside my head, I asked myself if taking this case had been such a good idea.

  * * * *

  The first time I laid eyes on Rebecca King she was half naked and dripping wet. The afternoon sun shimmered off the Olympic swimming pool at Arizona State University as healthy young coeds freestyled across the lanes. I barely noticed them. Rebecca King held my full attention.

  "Miss King,” I said, holding a beach towel open for her.

  She hugged the edge of the pool, gazing up at me from the water. Her blond hair was wet and slick and her eyes were an icy Nordic blue. She was twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, but those eyes gave away an experience beyond her years.

  "Do I know you?” she asked.

  "Only by reputation."

  She tilted her head, giving me a quizzical glance. To her, I probably looked like an older grad student or a young professor, strolling poolside in his swim trunks and ASU T-shirt. I tried to blend into my surroundings whenever I could.

  "We have some mutual friends,” I said. “Ashley Powell mentioned you might have use for my services."

  "I ... I wasn't expecting you so soon."

  "I believe in being punctual. Especially when money's involved."

  Water dripped off every inch of her as she climbed out of the pool. She had the broad shoulders and muscled thighs of a competitive swimmer, but her body hadn't given up any of its womanly curves. I followed the slope of her full breasts past her flat stomach and down to her lush hips. She definitely had the goods to fill out a swimsuit. Conducting business at the pool had been my best idea in a long time.

  Draping the towel over her shoulders, I whispered in her ear as if we were lovers. “I hear you have a problem. You want to tell me about it?"

  "Right here? Now?"

  "Sometimes, the best place for a secret is out in the open. No one listens in if they think you've got nothing to hide. Now come on, let's have a seat."

  We found a table in the shade of the fitness center and sat across from each other. I sighed when she swathed herself in the towel, taking away my view.

  "So tell me about your stalker,” I said.

  "Wait a minute, I don't know anything about you. I don't even know your name."

  "And you never will. That's the arrangement. If you want a private investigator with a license and an office and a spunky secretary, go grab the yellow pages. Or you could always call the cops."

  "No,” she said, the word like a knife slash. “No police."

  I smiled. “You got a little secret you want to keep under wraps? Maybe something on the shady side of the law?"

  "You don't get to ask questions like that,” she said, some steel in her voice.

  "Fair enough. Tell me about your stalker."

  She hugged herself with the towel and the harsh Nordic eyes gave way to a little girl's dreamy stare. “I noticed him a week ago outside my dorm. The way he was dressed, I thought he might be a professor. Dockers and a generic polo shirt. Thick glasses. A sweater-vest kind of guy. You know the type?"

  I nodded. “Go on."

  "It was night, maybe nine o'clock, and I was keying in the access code for my building. He called my name and started walking towards me. At first I waited for him, thought maybe I knew the guy. Then I noticed the way he was moving—all stiff like. And his hands were balled up tight into fists."

  "What did you do?"

  "I got inside fast. He pounded on the door a few times, shouting my name. I ran to the nearest phone and called campus security. But by the time they arrived, he was gone."

  "But not gone for good,” I said.

  "No. He showed up a week later, did the same thing. And I spotted him when I was out with my friends at Casey Moore's. We were on the patio one night, having a few drinks, and he drove by—very slowly. He had his dome light on inside his car. I think he wanted me to see him."

  "What kind of car?"

  "A Neon. Navy blue, maybe black."

  "Did you get the plate number?"

  "No. I was too freaked out."

  "Okay. What else?"

  She gazed down at the tabletop. “I told my friend Bobby Riggins about it. Bobby's on the football team. Defensive tackle. He sits the bench most games, but he's a big guy. Tough too. Anyway, Bobby said he would take care of the guy for me. But ... I don't know what happened. Bobby won't talk to me. He's in the hospital with four broken ribs and a punctured lung."

  She went mute. Behind us, college girls splashed around in the pool.

  "What exactly do you want me to do, Miss King?” I asked. “Find out why he's bothering you? Find out who he is?"

  "I don't care who he is,” she said coldly. “Just make him stop. Any way you can."

  * * * *

  The next seventy-two hours dripped by at a convict's pace.

  I followed Rebecca King from a distance as she trekked across campus from one class to another. The first day wasn't bad. It was cool for an Arizona spring, and the university was full of green grass, shady trees, and beautiful young girls. But soon, the boredom kicked in.

  Fifteen hours every day, I watched Rebecca King's back. When she finished her classes, I tailed her to the grocery store, the coffee shop, the laundromat. Wherever she went, I was there—her constant shadow. I checked faces in the crowd and cars in the street, always on the lookout for the “sweater-vest guy” she had described.

  It wasn't until midnight on a Tuesday that I hit pay dirt.

  A secluded bench sat a few dozen yards from Rebecca's dorm, hidden among thick palm tress and creosote bushes. For hours, I camped out on that spot, watching and waiting.

  I was about to call it a night when I spotted him. He was marching towards Rebecca's building, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Mr. Sweater Vest. Mr. Coke-Bottle Glasses.

  He was a painfully average-looking man, someone you wouldn't look at twice. Just under six feet tall, he had thinning brown hair and narrow shoulders that slumped forward like a desk jockey's. He didn't seem to be the kind of guy who'd put a college football player in the hospital. But I tried hard not to judge a man on first impressions. I'd learned that lesson the hard way.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then rattled the door. Finding it locked, he circled around to the east entrance and rattled that one too. When neither door granted him access, he stood for a long time, staring flatly into the bricks of the building.

  What was he thinking?

  Instead of confronting the man, I crept behind him as he broke away from the dorms and walked to a parking structure on the south end of campus. I kept to the shadows and treaded lightly so he wouldn't hear me. These were things I was good at.

  He drove a blue Neon, just like Rebecca had said. From my hiding place behind a pillar, I made a mental note of the plate number, then watched him pull o
ut of the lot and into the empty midnight streets.

  "Gotcha,” I whispered.

  * * * *

  Three o'clock the next afternoon, I drove a mile from my hole of an apartment to a gas station I'd never been to before. I fed two quarters into a pay phone and punched in Rebecca's cell-phone number.

  "Hello,” she answered, almost shouting. Behind her, I could hear the soundtrack of campus life—student chatter, laughter, radios in the quad. Meanwhile, I inhaled exhaust fumes and listened to revving engines.

  "I found your boyfriend,” I told her.

  "Who is he?"

  "One Malcolm White. Thirty-seven-year-old resident of Scottsdale, Arizona. Single, no kids. Lives alone and works as a case manager for a temp agency. You ever hear of him?"

  There was a five-second pause. I counted. When she finally answered, her voice was strained. “No."

  "Sure you haven't. But that's your business, isn't it?"

  "Just tell me what you found out."

  "I caught him creeping around your building last night. Ran his plate and did a full background check—credit report, criminal records, the works. Turns out your guy is spick-and-span clean. He got a parking ticket two years ago, but that's about it. Now why would a guy like that give a nice college girl so much trouble?"

  "Did you find out where he lives?” she asked.

  I pulled a computer printout from my back pocket. “Got his address right in front of me."

  "Are you going to make him stop?"

  "I can talk to him,” I said. “Put on the tough-guy act. That usually works."

  "I don't want usually. I want him to leave me alone."

  "In that case, I get nasty. But getting nasty is risky. And risky is going to cost you. Let's say another five thousand on top of what you're already paying me. In cash."

  There was another pause; this time it lasted a good ten seconds. She held her breath the whole time. “Fine,” she said. “Another five thousand. I'm good for it."

  "Oh, I know you are,” I said. “I did a credit check on you, too. Tell me something, where does a young college girl get so much money?"

  The line clicked dead. I guessed Rebecca King wasn't in the mood for sharing.

  * * * *

  Midnight rolled around, and I got dressed for the part—black cargo pants, black T-shirt, black boots.

  The address on the printout led me to a modest neighborhood in Scottsdale, a city known for its trendy restaurants and million-dollar homes. In contrast, Malcolm White's abode was a ‘fifties track house built in typical Arizona ranch style. It was a dinky place, maybe two bedrooms, but it had been freshly painted and its lawn was green and well kept.

  I cruised by slowly, then parked a few blocks away in the dark corner of a Quickie Mart. Before getting out of the car, I reached under the passenger seat and lugged out the .357 Smith & Wesson.

  No, I told myself. The gun stays. After all, this was just a reconnaissance mission. No moves would be made tonight.

  I slid the gun back under the seat, thinking about Rebecca's friend, the one in the hospital with the cracked ribs and torn lung. I hoped leaving the pistol wasn't a big mistake.

  An alleyway snaked behind the old neighborhood. I followed it, counting off houses until I reached White's place. The rear gate was locked, so I pulled myself up over the fence and dropped silently into his backyard. I immediately scanned the grass for dog feces or chew toys and was grateful not to find any. The last thing I wanted was some overgrown Rottweiler sniffing me out.

  I crept closer to the house, checking the windows and doors for signs of a security system. As far as I could tell, they were clean. There were no sensor lights, either. Getting into White's place undetected would be a cakewalk.

  Satisfied with my scouting mission, I took the front gate through White's carport, edged past his Neon, and walked out onto the driveway.

  That's where my heart came to a full and complete stop.

  "Did you get a good look at the place?” asked Malcolm White. He stood at the end of the drive, arms crossed over his chest. Yellow light from a nearby street lamp gleamed off his thick glasses.

  "I came to talk,” I said, lying through my teeth.

  White let his arms uncoil down to his sides. “If you wanted to talk, why didn't you approach me last night at the dorm?"

  I tried not to show my surprise. Either I was getting sloppy in my old age or this guy knew how to spot a tail. “You're going to stay away from Rebecca King,” I told him.

  "Stay away?"

  "That's right."

  "You want me to stay away?” said White. Anger bubbled inside of him, rising to the surface. “After what she did."

  I wanted to ask exactly what Rebecca had done to him, but White never gave me the chance. He marched straight at me, his fists clenched into knots of bone and rough flesh.

  "After what she did,” he said again, shouting now.

  One word flashed in my mind, like a blinking Christmas light. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I should've brought the gun.

  "Relax, pal,” I said, holding up my palms, the international signal for Calm down. But it was all an act. I was playing possum so he would hesitate. Too bad it didn't work.

  White closed the distance between us so quickly I had to step back as I threw a right cross. The punch caught him dead between the eyes but didn't have any weight behind it. White's head barely jerked backwards.

  He bulled forward, smashing me with an elbow strike, then following up with a back fist to the nose. I heard the cartilage crack, and my blood squirted the lenses of his glasses.

  When I finally got my hands up to protect my face, he caught me with a solid side kick to the ribs. Not once but twice. The first kick sent me tumbling backwards. The second one put me on the ground.

  "Was that kung fu?” I asked, gasping for breath. “A little Northern Shaolin, perhaps?"

  Ten seconds later, Malcolm White knocked me unconscious. But right before doing so, he whispered something. The words ricocheted in my skull as the darkness came to claim me.

  "This is for Kelly."

  * * * *

  I woke up in a hospital emergency room, a little flashlight shining in my eyes.

  "Welcome back to the living,” said a woman's voice.

  The haze cleared from my vision and I was able to make out her face. She was Asian, with deep crow's-feet and streaks of gray running through her hair. Genius that I am, I noticed her scrubs and stethoscope and deduced that she was a doctor.

  "What happened?” I asked.

  "Funny,” said the doctor, putting her penlight away. “I was going to ask you the same thing. All we know is, you have a mild concussion, a few bruised ribs, and a broken nose. My guess is, you had some sort of strange ballroom-dancing accident."

  Outside of the examining room, I heard people coughing and moaning, waiting in the lobby for their turn. “How'd I get here?"

  "Some guy dropped you off. He left before the security guard had a chance to talk to him. Drove a Dodge Neon, if that means anything to you."

  I shook my head, pretending it meant nothing.

  "Not a big talker, eh?” said the doctor. “That's okay, it's not my job to make friends with you.” She took hold of my head and pressed her thumbs against my cheekbones, close to the broken nose. Even through the clotted blood, I could smell her latex gloves.

  "What's going on?” I asked.

  "Before we do anything else, I need to set this nose in place. Otherwise, you'll look like a gangster for the rest of your life."

  "Is it going to hurt?"

  "What do you think?” she asked.

  * * * *

  After signing half a million medical forms, I called a cab from the lobby and stepped outside to wait for it. A cool breeze swept across the hospital parking lot, pulling along the scent of desert flowers and citrus blossoms. Of course, having cotton balls shoved up my nostrils, I could barely smell any of it.

  I must have been quite a sight with my red, swoll
en nose and purple, punch-drunk face. Luckily, I'd worn a black T-shirt instead of a white one. Blood doesn't show up on black fabric so much.

  Yeah, really lucky, I thought.

  Waiting for the taxi, I let my mind wander through the facts of the case. Two names kept repeating themselves over and over. Bobby Riggins and Kelly.

  Ten minutes later, my cab rolled into the parking lot and pulled up to the curb. I dug a twenty from my wallet and slipped it to the driver.

  "Keep the meter running."

  I jogged back into the hospital, bypassing the ER for the regular admissions ward. Fortunately, the front desk was empty, but the computer was up and running.

  I sat down behind the monitor and scanned its screen for anything having to do with patient records. Finding an “Admittance” folder, I clicked opened the program and typed “Riggins” into a search prompt. There were a few patients with that last name, but no Bobbys or Roberts.

  Next, I typed in “White, Kelly” on the chance that Kelly and Malcolm were related. One hit appeared on the screen. A Kelly White had been admitted to the hospital almost two weeks ago. She was still booked in the ICU.

  "What do you think you're doing?” said a husky woman's voice behind me.

  "Fishing,” I said, swiveling in the chair. I immediately locked stares with a middle-aged gal whose blue/black hair practically screamed “dye job.” She wore a nurse's scrubs, but the pen behind her ear and the carpal-tunnel brace on her wrist told me she was the ward's receptionist.

  "Those records are for hospital staff only,” she said sternly.

  "No problem,” I said. “I'm just on my way out."

  * * * *

  A sick wheezing sound reverberated through the empty stairwell of ASU's Language & Literature building. I hunkered down on the landing, listening to heavy footsteps trudge towards me.

  "You're late for class,” I said. “How come you didn't take the elevator?"

  A beefy kid hauled himself up the stairs, gripping the handrail, his square jaw clenched tightly. He was a typical jock, in a Cowboys jersey and a baseball cap pulled down almost to his eyes. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Have you ever ridden the elevator in this place? You'd have better luck betting on the Cardinals."