The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  There was something more to her refusal to speak with the police, but I nodded my willingness to leave.

  Only Lou wouldn’t let me. “Hold the phone,” he ordered. “If we’re not reporting this, what are you going to do about it?”

  The question hung in the air until Lauren snatched it. “Don’t put Matthew on the spot, Lou. He’s done enough.”

  Lou’s large wet body turned in the tiny back seat. “If you don’t want the police then Matty has to track this down.”

  “Listen to me Lou, I don’t want Matthew to track anything.”

  Before their argument continued I jumped in. “I can check if anyone reported the incident.”

  “You mean check with the police and I don’t want them involved,” Lauren said adamantly. “I want to forget the whole damn thing, okay?”

  I turned around, stared out the window, jumped out of my car, rushed to the back, and took out a wrench. Ran back to her Toyota, removed the plates, returned to the bimmer and turned the key. “The police will get in touch with you anyway if they bother to trace the VIN number.”

  “I’ll deal with it then,” she said. “Let’s just leave.”

  Lou began to argue but Lauren shook her head and he pressed his lips together.

  I took a deep breath and pulled away from the curb. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To my house,” Lauren directed. “I don’t want to leave Ian alone. But first let’s stop so Lou can change his clothes. You too,” she added.

  “Matty...” Lou growled, unable to leave the argument behind.

  “Lou, listen,” I said, feeling my stomach knot. “If Lauren feels like she’s being followed again I’ll be on it. I promise.”

  Promises, promises. If the first don’t get you, the second one will.

  “They didn’t bother to catch their breath before Lou called,” I grumbled into the telephone. “I don’t understand it. They have no car, they’re home tending for a recovering suicide, the weather’s lousy, but Lauren’s being watched. Again. Where the hell could anyone follow her?”

  Boots tried to humor me out of my grouch. “Maybe there’s enough room in the house for someone to sneak around inside. That part of the North Shore is rich as hell.”

  “The house is big but no mansion.” I paused then added sarcastically, “They call it the Hacienda. Wrong part of the fucking country for a name like that.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “I only saw the outside,” I replied. “It was a dark and stormy night…“Auditioning to host a P.B.S program? ?”

  “Better that than this.”

  “Right, Matt Jacob in a tuxedo on G.T.N., Gonzo Television Network.”

  I smiled through gritted teeth. “Anything but this.”

  “Why? You’ll find out soon enough if Lauren’s fears are real. Do it and be done.”

  “You never say that about sex.”

  Boots laughed, “Maybe I don’t have to.”

  “Wise guy.” It was good to hear her voice. The storm had screwed with the airline schedule, and Boots had piggybacked a few more work days onto the delay.

  “I’m serious, Matt, what’s the big deal? It’s just a job.”

  The busman’s holiday wasn’t a big deal. Lauren was. She cast a powerful undertow, a pull I found disturbing—though unsure of exactly why. “They keep coming after me, and I don’t want to be drawn into their orbit. Let her go to the cops.”

  “You said she won’t.”

  “Yeah, but why not? Though she’s probably right about their usefulness,” I conceded, my own distrust of Blues bouncing to attention. “But this is different than just anyone asking me to take a case.”

  “It’s different, all right,” Boots said sharply. “This is your father-in-law and the woman he’s involved with. Lauren is bright enough to see the way Lou loves you. Hell, you’ve even begun to make me nervous about using the “L” word.”

  “I make you nervous about saying “love?”

  Boots caught her breath and my mind’s eye watched her bite her tongue. “Let’s save this particular conversation until we’re together,” she finally said. “Right now I’m having trouble with your attitude. You’re chewing glass about Lou and Lauren. You’re always Mr. Tolerant, but when it comes to Lauren there’s no saving grace. You attack her clothes, her kids, her age for crying out loud. The truth is, you sound like a jealous little boy.”

  “It’s not jealousy,” I replied with more certainty than I felt. “Something else is going on, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Then find out. Find out, because what you’re doing now isn’t working.”

  Boots was absolutely right; something wasn’t working and part of it was me. “Okay, lady, you got it. Your intrepid sleuth will gird his loins and mount his white steed to make certain his father-in-law’s squeeze is safe.”

  “Well, don’t gird them too tight and make damn sure you only mount a horse.”

  “You understand I’ll be expecting my reward when you return. Which is when, by the way?”

  “It’s nice to know you still think of me as a reward,” Boots answered, somber slipping into in her tone. “I’ll be home late Friday night. Meet at the condo?”

  I didn’t like our goodbye, but then, there had been a lot of the conversation I didn’t like. I hung the heavy black Bakelite receiver on its squat base, watched my wall hanging cat clock wag its tail, and brought a Bass back to the kitchen table. Substance substitution. Most other times I’d have gone directly to dope. Might still, I realized, after two long pulls failed to relieve my tension.

  I played with the tightly packed joint for a long time before lighting. I was angry about chasing my own tail around weed and alcohol. Mad at myself for allowing Lou and Lauren’s relationship to rock my life. Truth was, I was feeling hostile toward everyone. Boots’s complaint and her quasi-tell pissed me off. Lou’s proprietary, paternal proclamations pissed me off too.

  But mostly I was angry at Lauren. For no real reason and, unfortunately, I knew it.

  I also knew there had been something creepy about the damage done to Lauren’s car, and her refusal to report it. Which meant strapping on my holster and crawling closer to someone I wanted farther away.

  Still, the thought of my holster had me reaching under the bed for the ‘.38. I could never entirely shake a sheepish sense of absurdity every time I seriously thought about the way I made my living. Something I considered whenever I found myself on my knees groping under the bed—which fortunately wasn’t too often. Most of my work for Barrister Simon took place in libraries or Government agencies. Even did a stint as a mall-man.

  But once in a while I stumbled into something different, usually reeling out in worse shape than when I began. Those cases blew off any smile. When I thought about them, I became grimly conscious of the weight that the custom Bakelite grip placed in my left hand. And conscious of a sick sort of pleasure.

  But Lauren’s undertow was not going to lead me toward any abyss. This was going to be an exercise in futility, a harmless waste of time.

  Still, I spent most of the day smoking cigarettes and drinking beer while mindlessly cleaning my gun.

  “Lou asked me to ring you up,” I said, trying to sound as friendly as possible. It had been a longer night than afternoon with more dope than I’d really wanted, but I was determined not to let it slow me down. “He told me you’re feeling watched again.”

  “Oh, Matthew. I expected your call yesterday so you’ve caught me by surprise.”

  I automatically listened for reproach, but all I found was my drug-over. “If this is a bad time I can always call back.”

  “No, it’s fine. Just give me a minute to switch phones.”

  Lauren shouted over an MTV promo, asking someone to hang up the receiver when she got upstairs. I cradled the black Bakelite between my shoulder and ear and vainly fought the aspirin bottle’s child proof lid.

  A bored, sullen, voice mumbled into my ear. “My ma sa
id you were the dude who picked me up at the bar.”

  “If you’re Ian, I’m the dude,” I concurred.

  “Yeah, I’m Ian. Well, thanks for the help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, then Lauren’s loud, “I’ve got it now, Ian.”

  “See you around, I suppose,” he added before closing down the line.

  “Did he thank you?” Lauren asked. “I don’t think he remembers too much about that night.” She paused momentarily then said, “He won’t talk about it with me.”

  “He thanked me.” I gave up struggling with the aspirin, lit a cigarette, and pulled the receiver from my cramped neck.

  “I feel pretty uncomfortable asking for more help,” Lauren began. “I probably wouldn’t…”

  I expected her to dump it on Lou.

  “Except I really don’t know who else to ask,” she finished, taking the weight.

  “I don’t imagine Lou would be too happy if you hired a different P.I.”

  Lauren chuckled briefly, “I know better than to try. I also know you think I’m overreacting.” Again she spoke without condemnation.

  “I’m honestly not sure what I think, Lauren. I’m surprised that you haven’t spotted someone following you. Six months is a long time,” I said, pushing the image of her car from my mind.

  “Yes it is,” she agreed. “But common sense doesn’t erase the chill. I’ve only spoken to Lou about feeling followed, but it’s more than that. It’s like a laser beam of hatred trying to bore into me.

  “It’s incredibly strange. During a part of my life in the seventies I became involved with different spiritual movements, searching for something I thought was missing. Most of the different groups were benign, people like myself looking outside for answers that really come from within. But I ran into a few situations that weren’t quite so harmless. People who really just wanted to play with your head behind their gentle smiles. People who wanted power for the sake of it.”

  Her voice became distant as she traveled back in time. “It’s virtually a mental rape.”

  “This is happening now?” I asked, struggling with images of Charley Manson and his ‘family.’ “It’s been a real long time since any of that world actually exists.”

  “Tell me. But I can tell you it’s not succeeding and it won’t. No one can make me feel anything that’s not truly coming from me. I’ve worked too hard and paid too high a price for that to ever happen again. But trust me, someone is trying to get into my head.”

  I was glad she couldn’t see my face. I sucked in a deep breath and tried Boots’ advice. Make this a regular job. After all, Lauren was completely serious. “So when you feel followed, it’s not actually a physical stalk?”

  Despite my effort Lauren caught my doubt. “You’re humoring me, aren’t you?”

  “No, but I’m not big on feelings that really seem ethereal,” I admitted.

  “I don’t blame you for your skepticism. But someone is physically out there and watching me. I’m certain of it.”

  “Are there people in your life who were involved with your spiritual searchings way back then?”

  There was a small pause. “I was really only talking about one individual.” There was another, longer pause. “Why do you ask?”

  “Could this person be stalking you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He’s been dead for more than a decade. Someone tried to rob him on the street and he resisted. Stabbed to death.”

  So much for spiritual power. I’ll stick with a good pair of sneakers. “And you still can’t think of anyone else who might want to hurt you?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone disliking me to the degree I’ve experienced. I have no idea who’d spend the time and energy to traipse after me. But I’m telling you, this is absolutely real. And really quite frightening.”

  Her fear was communicable. For a moment, my cynicism vanished, the image of her tortured car once again bubbling to the surface. “Okay, Lauren,” I said shaking my head but keeping the resignation from my voice. “I’ll find out if anyone is really out there.”

  “That’s very encouraging, but there’s another problem. I can’t afford to pay you. Of course I’ll eventually…

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to charge,” I interrupted. “Couldn’t even if I wanted. Lou would kill me.”

  “We won’t tell him. I don’t like charity.”

  “I’m not talking charity. I prefer to do this as...” I groped for words, “a friend.”

  “That’s very sweet, but we’re not friends. And I’ve already asked you for too many favors.”

  “Then think of it as a favor to Lou. There’s just no way I’ll take your money.”

  There was enough silence to give me time to work on the aspirin container.

  “You know, Matthew,” Lauren began regretfully. “I feel terrible about the timing of all this. I keep wishing we met under different circumstances.”

  And right then I wished we’d never met at all. “Me too,” I lied. “What finally happened to your car?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Junked.”

  “How are you getting around?”

  “I’ve been using my oldest son Stephen’s car. He lent it to me until I get a cheap rental.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “One of those truck things. A silver and black Cherokee.”

  “Well, tell me a couple of places you’ll be going today and roughly when you’ll be there. Same for tomorrow and the day after.”

  It took Lauren a couple of minutes to organize and relay the information. “There may be other stops but these are the ones I’m sure about. Do you want to meet somewhere?”

  “No. I want you to go about your business and leave the rest to me.”

  “You’re familiar with the North Shore?”

  “Enough.” Throughout the years I lived in The Hub I’d come to appreciate New England’s craggy coastline. Before the car accident, Chana and I frequented a jazz club in Beverly. We usually managed to get lost, often exploring the surrounding affluent towns under moonlit, marijuana cover. The last I’d heard the club had burned down. Seemed appropriate, somehow.

  “I’ll pick you up today and if I do it right you won’t know I’m around. In fact, try to forget I’m doing this at all. I don’t want you to inadvertently scare anyone off.”

  “You really don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” It began as a lie but came out true. Despite my mixed feelings about Lauren and Lou’s relationship there were worse things to do than keeping an eye on a beautiful woman. Also, I often forgot how much I liked to work. The smell of a hunt never failed to sneak behind my usual lethargy. Or, in this case, my discomfort.

  After we hung up I finally pried the lid off the aspirin and spilled the pills all over the floor.

  The glare of the sun didn’t hurt. In fact, the cool sea breeze hit like a first day furlough. I drove to Manuel’s, switched cars, then rode the sedan back to a sub shop where I bought enough bad food to fry my arteries.

  I returned to my apartment and studied my notes along with a detailed map of the North Shore. Lauren’s town, hamlet, really, hugged the ocean. If I rushed I could pick her up at home, the Hacienda, but now the distant echo of seventies spiritual yearnings subverted my hunt head. I heard the couch call and felt a channel surfer’s finger-itch. For a moment I rationalized that if I left the house before the itch subsided I might accidentally shoot someone. Hell, I felt like shooting someone. It just wasn’t easy getting right with my father-in-law’s Big Romance.

  But I’d promised. Lauren planned to pick up Lou from the commuter station in Magnolia later that afternoon. Plenty of time to amble my way up the coast and find her, them, there. But it wasn’t until I offered myself that languid, stoned amble, that I pulled together a cooler of beer, a small stash, binoculars, smokes, and an old Ross Macdonald myster
y.

  My mood lightened when I passed the thirty-five foot Madonna blessing the stretch of highway that led to the abandoned horse track. The church always knew who lived where. Here, it was working class and Hispanics—the same for the connecting towns beyond. One of them used to have an oceanfront amusement park, but it was replaced by condos built for urban dwellers ready to have kids. Sadly, the town forgot to throw in a decent school system. They also forgot that the sky overhead was wall-to-wall aircraft stacked to land at Logan. Now, the burg’s oceanfront view translated into available storefronts and rooming houses for the itinerant elderly. An unfortunate example of “location” being nowhere at all.

  I lit my joint when I passed Mary Baker Eddy’s birthplace. And felt its kick by the time I drove by her adult home. This was one of the very few times I regretted not having my cell phone on. I’d heard Mary was buried with a telephone and I wondered if she’d take my call. But, by the time I reached the outskirts of Magnolia, I realized Mary probably had an unlisted number.

  I had plenty of time before Lou’s train and used it to search for an artful lookout. I picked a spot up the hill, lucking into an exiting sleek, green Jag. Though we were on the summer’s downside peering into very early fall, the town, like so many in the area, bustled with visiting pink and green clad boaters. Very different from the snowy winter when the population shrunk to a fraction of its summer size—which was exactly how the ritzy year ‘rounders liked it.

  With five to go before the train’s arrival, a silver and black Cherokee double parked in the station’s lot. My eyes combed the slow moving traffic, but no one stopped or even looked for a parking place. I reached into the back seat, grabbed the binoculars, and checked for anyone staked or suspiciously loitering. Nothing caught my eye. Manny’s heavily tinted car windows kept me well hidden so, when the train pulled in, I focused the glasses toward the platform.

  Lou bounded out of the last car wearing pleated linens and a white windbreaker. When he turned in my direction I saw the bright multi-colored shirt and dark suspenders—a long reach from his typically tired threads. My stocky father-in-law looked downright sporty. He also looked as if he had lost weight.