A Fine Balance

by Susan Johnson

  After a couple weeks of refusals and hassle, Jack had finally agreed.

  But he worked alone he’d told Morrie. That’s why he’d flourished in undercover. Independent operations suited him.

  He’d also left himself a way out. If and when he decided to leave, Morrie had had to promise he wouldn’t get pissed.

  Which reminded him--he had to give Morrie a call about the key.

  Chapter 6

  Two hours later the low pitched opening bars of You Don’t Know How It Feels by Tom Petty interrupted the overwrought passion in the bedroom overlooking the ocean.

  “Don’t–you...dare–answer.” A breathy order.

  Jack smiled at the flushed woman beneath him racing toward orgasm and dropped a quick kiss on the judge’s pert nose. “Sorry, babe.” Morrie would just keep calling or worse, come over. He reached for his cell phone, the fluid rhythm of his lower body politely maintained. “You got my message.”

  “Fill me in.”

  “Not a good time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can’t say. I’ll call you back.” Jack dropped the phone on the floor. “There now.” His heavily lashed gaze swung back to the pretty face only inches away, a teasing playfulness in the heated blue depths of his eyes. “Now where were we?”

  Twenty highly gratifying minutes later, Jack rolled onto his back, grabbed a spliff and lighter from the bedside table and shoved himself up on the pillows. Lighting up, he inhaled deeply. Holding his breath, he handed the joint to the lady sprawled on her back beside him, panting like she’d run a marathon.

  “That wasn’t your–ex–was it?”

  Smoke exploded from his lungs. “Jesus,” he gasped. “You kidding me?”

  “Your tone…was–different.” A judge noticed subtleties like that after listening to people lie for years. “Some say you still miss”--

  “Some are fucking wrong.” He didn’t miss Sarah. As for Sarah calling him, Monty was keeping her busy. A man on the move–that was Monty. A born bureaucrat. Sarah’s mother must be pleased.

  “Was it a girlfriend?”

  He shot her a look. “Do I ask you about your husband?”

  “Point taken. I hear it’s going to rain tonight.” The end of the spliff glowed for a moment as she drew in the mellow weed.

  “Oh, hell. Sorry.” The brittle edge in her voice was unmistakable. “You surprised me that’s all.” He didn’t like to be reminded of his marriage. Too much had gone wrong. In fact, everything had gone wrong. He was living proof that the phrase, Opposites attract, was grossly overrated. “Actually, it was Morrie. Work stuff. Nothing that can’t wait.” He nodded at the spliff. “You done?”

  “For the time being. Is this Scully’s bud? I figured,” she said as he nodded again. Liz knew Jack. He didn’t talk about work. “Want some music?”

  “If you do.” She liked music more than he did. She liked people more than he did. The county’s youngest judge was a real extrovert. “Ivan’s new CD’s on top of the player.”

  Climbing out of bed, Liz crossed the moonlit room, selected some of her favorites from the stacked CD’s and as Jack Johnson’s Sitting, Waiting, Wishing took on a melodious presence in the room, she stood at the floor to ceiling windows and gazed out at the sea shimmering under a bright orange harvest moon.

  She often stopped by to see Jack when her husband was out of town. And he was out of town a lot. Business, he said. She didn’t ask anymore. It didn’t matter. They might even get around to a divorce someday. In the meantime, Jack was accommodating–always had been.

  “Hey.”

  She turned and smiled.

  “If you want to talk I’ll talk. Or listen. Whatever.” Sometimes he felt like her therapist.

  She shook her mop of dark curls. “I’m good. I was just admiring the view.”

  She hadn’t changed much since high school, he thought, watching her walk toward him. Although it seemed like a million years ago. Her small, curvaceous body was the same, her delicate beauty undiminished, her spirit slightly more subdued. Less carefree. But whose wasn’t?

  Dropping into bed beside him, she rolled on her side and propped on one elbow, smiled up at him. His face was all fine bones and stark beauty, his eyes a tranquil blue in the tanned swarthiness of his face, his gaze in contrast reticent, guarded. Like a militant saint she’d said to him once long ago; both temperance and danger in the same package. He’d laughed and said, “A saint? Not likely, babe. Come here, I’ll show you.” But he was kinder than any man she knew, saint or not. “I’m really glad you were home tonight,” she said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  His soft, low voice did predictable things to her sensory receptors but she kept her voice casual because they both knew what they were doing. “If you’re ever busy just don’t answer the door. I’ll understand.” There–impressively adult and non-clingy.

  “I know.” Semi-monkish since his divorce, he didn’t go out looking for it.

  “Ah–there’s Ivan’s new song. God he’s good.”

  Jack smiled, touched her arm lightly. “Speaking of good.”

  She grinned. “And here I was trying to be sociable, chit chat–not be demanding, not put pressure on you.”

  “Really. Is that why you stopped by?” he inquired sweetly. “Because I’m such a good conversationalist?”

  She punched him hard.

  He pretended it hurt, then pulled her close and kissed her.

  A hush descended over the occupants of the large, moonlit bed. With Romberry engaging their cerebral receptors and pulsing through their nerve endings–with a mellow, all-over body buzz seriously enhancing sensation, the concept of good was put to the test. Pleasurably, passionately and at some length.

  Much later, with one arm around Liz, Jack lit up the last of the joint. Disposing of the roach a few moments later, he relaxed against the pillows, shut his eyes, let his mind drift.

  “Feel creative?”

  He opened his eyes, looked down and grinned. “Sure. Slow and easy or a high wire act without a net?” He laughed softly. “Why do I even ask?”

  Coming up on her knees in a surge of yoga-trained suppleness, Liz threw her arms around his neck, melted into his body and lifted her heated gaze to his. “Thanks.” A heart-felt whisper distinct from the feverish desire in her eyes. “For the company...for letting me have my way–for everything.”

  “No problem.” He lifted her easily, settled her on his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “What are friends for?” he said gently.

  When Liz’s everythings were satisfied and she fell asleep, Jack carefully eased away, rose from the bed and left the room. He glanced at the clock as he entered his study. Midnight. Practically daytime for Morrie. Since he wasn’t an insomniac though, this call was going to be brief.

  Morrie answered on the first ring like he did with his wife sleeping next to him. “Give me a second,” he whispered.

  Jack waited while he heard him walk the length of his tiled hallway. Morrie’s wife taught ceramics at the local community college. Then he heard a door shut which meant Morrie was in his gun room at the end of the hall. He collected. A lot of law enforcement did, but Morrie liked black powder firearms–muskets, muzzle-loaders, flintlocks and wouldn’t you know...re-enactment battles.

  “So tell me about this key,” Morrie said.

  Jack did, along with his plans for finding the lock it fit. “You probably won’t see me tomorrow. Just a head’s up. And someone should start checking out diesels in the county. Take a look at Carl’s tape. He’s positive the vehicle was a diesel. If nothing else we can eliminate the possibility it was a local hit.”

  “I’ll have Nibs get on it.”

  “I might go up in the hills tomorrow night. See what I can find. If I do, I won’t be back til Wednesday.”

  “Liz’ll miss you. Not that you should be sleeping with her,” Morrie grumbled. “A judge would be bad enough, but a married judge. What the hell you thinking?”


  “She’s talking about a divorce.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. She’s talking about a divorce that’s all.”

  “Just so you know–people gossip.”

  “So?”

  “So someone might decide a case is tainted because you’re a mite too friendly with the judge.”

  “I don’t talk business with her.”

  “What about her husband? You talk about him?”

  A small silence ensued in which Jack reminded himself how much he liked Morrie. It also gave him time to say more cordially than he might, “Since when did this area turn into the Bible Belt?”

  “I’m not preaching. Just advising.”

  Jack let out a breath. “Consider me advised.” Another breath somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “But Liz needs someone right now. I haven’t asked why. Life isn’t always simple. You know that. And she and I are old friends. You know that too. So if we’re done I’ll see you in a couple days.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t really want one.

  Two minutes later Jack was in bed.

  A second after that he was out like a light.

  Chapter 7

  The fixer brought some news to his employer the next morning he knew wouldn’t go down well.

  It didn’t.

  “Godammit! Do I have to do everything? A kid brother? Tell me this is your idea of a joke.”

  A dead-eyed look without humor from the man seated across the desk.

  “Crap.”

  “Miguel called. He heard talk at some bar where the illegals hang out. He said he couldn’t ask for details without giving himself away, but there’s a kid up in those hills.”

  With the news fully assimilated, an icy look entered eyes nicely nipped and tucked by San Francisco’s best plastic surgeon. “Someone is going to take care of this problem I presume.”

  “It’s already in the works.” The asshole’s temper was wasted on him. He wasn’t the one who’d missed the kid.

  The man in the ten thousand dollar suit held his fixer’s gaze...briefly. No one beat Hayes for cold hard looks. “Look, I’m not blaming you.” His success as a lobbyist was predicated on his ability to read body language et al. “But the people who pay us expect results. Not the Keystone Cops. Go up there yourself. Supervise the goddamn thing so this nightmare ends for good. Pete’ll fly you up.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I hope like hell it is.” Juice and connections only went so far with the heavy, behind-the-scenes people pulling the strings. And with his fifteenth century Tuscan villa being remodeled and bleeding money, not to mention his lifestyle stateside that required huge sums to maintain, a screw up wasn’t an option. “Don’t call me until you have good news. And no excuses,” the lobbyist muttered. “Or we might find some people we don’t want coming after us.”

  “Yes sir. Roger that, sir.”

  “Damn it, Hayes, don’t give me glib. We’re talking real hillbilly motherfuckers on the other end who think they rule the world with God’s full sanction. A lawless bunch. Blow-up-the-world kind of nut jobs. They make their own rules. Understand?” At times like this he wished he’d never gotten involved. But the money was hard to turn down. Impossible to turn down. “Now, how about a little goddamn sincerity?”

  “I’ll take care of it. It’s a kid. How hard can it be?”

  The man seated in the custom leather desk chair exhaled. He could feel the tension in his shoulders melt away. “You’re right. No details though. Just let me know when the job’s done.” He had a trophy wife, a second family, young kids. This was too close to home.

  “I’ll send you a bouquet of roses as a sign.”

  “Amusing.”

  The heavy-set ex-cop shrugged. “There’s nothing amusing about this business,” he laconically said. “Never has been. Never will be.”

  A dip of a sleek head. Then an attempt at a smile. “I understand. And thank you, Hayes. I know I don’t say that often enough.”

  Or ever. The guy’s scared shitless. “Not a problem. It’s business. Neither of us is looking for a friend.” Hayes came to his feet, his prizefighter body carried lightly. “I’ll call you in a day or so.”

  Chapter 8

  Six hours later Luis heard men crashing through the brush, heard their voices. They were close, not afraid of showing their hand. Hunters who didn’t need to be cautious because there were so many of them, because they were well-armed, because they were protected by someone important.

  And he was just a kid.

  Luis sat pressed against the back wall of the cave, his gaze trained on the narrow slit of sunshine penetrating the dense undergrowth obscuring the entrance. His grip was slippery on a Chinese version of a 9 mm Glock. Nerves. Sweat stood out on his forehead despite the chill of the cave, a faint tremor shook his hands. His heart was pounding.

  He didn’t know what they’d do if they found him. Jorge hadn’t said. But he knew the men were dangerous because his brother had told him and made sure that he understood: If I’m not back by dark, run.

  He wished he could see who was out there. It wouldn’t be so scary. He’d know how close they were, how many, whether he recognized anyone. But a few minutes later when he heard the heavy tramp of feet pass the mouth of the cave he shut his eyes, flattened himself against the stone wall and held his breath instead.

  As the footsteps faded, he began breathing again, opened his eyes and surveyed the thick growth of redwood saplings with relief. It was a tight squeeze getting through–even for a kid. An adult would have to be real small. He tried not to think about how someone could shove the barrel of an automatic weapon through the thicket and spray the interior with lethal rounds.

  He knew about firearms because Jorge sold guns to workers who wanted protection for the harvest raids. His brother saved the money he made on his sideline. Now that their mother was dead the cartel could no longer hold her hostage in Mexico. Jorge had been planning to stay in the states and make a life for them.

  A man in Sacramento sold his brother the guns. The man could be trusted, Jorge had said. He’d written the address for Luis and put it in his backpack. In case of an emergency. They both knew what that meant.

  Tears filled Luis’s eyes.

  Then a rough voice bellowed, “Jesus fucking Christ! I want him found! He’s only a kid! He ain’t a Navy Seal!”

  They were back. Luis froze.

  A tsunami of fear washed over him.

  He was alone. In enemy territory.

  And this wasn’t a video game.

  This was for real.

  Chapter 9

  Twenty miles south, Jack was sitting on the stoop of Leo’s locksmith shop, waiting for him to finish his lunch across the street and open up. Leo’s hours were flexible. Like a lot of businesses here. The hippie culture was alive and well in town despite the passing decades and the tourists who flooded in every weekend and grumbled about the irregular shop hours.

  Since Doc Peterson had come over from Ukiah for the autopsy, Jack had spent the morning at the morgue and contrary to expectations, the autopsy proved useful. Doc Peterson had found the top of an index finger–pretty much intact--in the deceased’s stomach. Which might explain the grisly death visited on the victim.

  Since bodily functions grind to a halt soon after death–stomach acid included–there’d been minimum deterioration to the digit in the ensuing thirty hours. They’d get DNA for sure, Doc had said, maybe fingerprints.

  Calling Morrie with the good news, Jack asked him to keep it to himself until he had time to gather information on the key. He had a good feeling about the key’s significance and Morrie, bless his other fine qualities, didn’t run a real tight department. The office was plagued with leaks. Whether deliberate or simple negligence was debatable.

  As expected, Morrie agreed to the delay, so here he sat, watching Leo amble across the street, crunch over the parched grass on the empty lot and stop in front of the small, weathered building used for grain
storage a hundred fifty years ago.

  “You know the door’s open.”

  Jack smiled. “I’m polite.”

  “Since when?” But the wiry old man had a twinkle in his eye. “Come on in. How’s your Ma?”

  Jack stood. “She’s good.”

  “Keeping busy?”

  Jack knew what he meant. His father had been killed two years ago working for Doctors without Borders in the Congo. “You know Mom. When isn’t she busy with the mini United Nations at home needing attention?” Over the years, in missions around the world, his father had rescued five orphaned children who’d become part of the family. “Go see her sometime. She loves to talk old times.”

  “I will. The grape crop good this year?”

  “Yeah. Prime. One of the better growing seasons.”

  Jack waited while Leo turned on the lights over his work bench. He was eighty and didn’t move real fast. But he knew everything there was to know about keys and local history and was still sharp as a tack.

  Once he’d settled himself on the stool behind the high counter, Jack slid the plastic bag toward him. “I found this key in a dead guy’s shoe.”

  A glance down, the light shining off his bald pate, then Leo looked up and said, “Mailboxes, Inc. over in Willits.”

  “No question?”

  “Nope. I see these keys a lot. The illegals want duplicates made for their buddies. See this?” Leo pointed at a small stamped icon. “That’s the box number.”

  Jack leaned forward, a puzzled crease to his brow. “Number?”

  “Pictograph. Everyone minding those pot fields ain’t literate.”

  Jack stood back. “That was easy.”

  Leo smiled. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

  “I thought it might take more than a second.”

  “Bring me something hard next time and it might.” Leo shoved the bag back toward Jack. “It’s about that time again ain’t it,” he said with a grimace. “Dead bodies everywhere.”