by Sean Black
He moved back into the corridor. He noted that there were no pictures on the walls. The absence made the place feel transient somehow, like the occupant was merely passing through rather than making a home for himself. He kept going, emerging into an open-plan kitchen and living room. Bookshelves lined two walls. That he hadn’t expected. Off to one side was a desk with an Apple computer. A small filing cabinet was tucked beneath the desk.
Apart from a couch, the main feature of the room was a weights bench. Lock had already noticed a pull-up bar clipped above the frame of the door that led into the apartment’s solitary bedroom. Krank liked to work out. That was good to know.
There were two windows each on the west and south sides of the apartment. One looked down into a small open courtyard; the other faced out onto California Avenue. All four windows had been cracked about six inches to allow in a fresh ocean breeze.
Leaving the computer for later, Lock walked into the kitchen area. The surfaces were clean. The dishes had been put away. He pulled open the dishwasher. The top rack was empty.
There was something in the bottom rack. It wasn’t dirty dishes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of gloves. If it was what he thought it was, he didn’t want his prints anywhere near it. Gently, he lifted out the heavy cardboard box of ammunition and placed it on the counter.
Magtech. Solid copper .223 caliber. Hollow point. Designed to circumvent legislation that prohibited armor-piercing bullets. Capable of making a very nasty entrance wound and a devastating exit wound. Plenty able to punch through most body armor. There were twenty in the box.
He laid it on the kitchen counter and looked at it, confused. Nothing about the apartment suggested that Krank had left in a hurry. The exact opposite. Everything had been left clean and tidy. There wasn’t even a stray dirty sock on the floor. Yet there was a box of armor-piercing bullets hidden in the lower rack of the dishwasher.
He left the ammo where it was for now and walked toward the bedroom door. It was ajar. He pushed it open. Unlike the rest of the apartment, which was wooden flooring, the bedroom was carpeted. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the bed. Perfectly made. A California king-size. The bed for a single man who had a lot of company. From what the ex-girlfriend had told him, Krank wasn’t averse to having more than one guest for a sleepover. The room looked hotel-occupant ready. Everything had been squared away. Just like the rest of the place. No family pictures. Nothing personal. Apart, of course, from the books.
Those turned out to be the most revealing part of the entire apartment. Helpfully, they were arranged neatly by subject matter, then by author.
The bookcase consisted of six shelves. The top two shelves were devoted to history, economics and politics. From a quick scan of the titles, it was clear that Krank’s economics and politics interests skewed toward the libertarian end of the spectrum. The history was mostly accounts of America from the 1960s onwards.
The third shelf was principally fiction. Ayn Rand featured heavily, with two copies of her defining book, The Fountainhead. The fourth shelf held more obscure titles. With some of them, the subject matter was obvious: Women Who Make the World Worse, Weak Link: The Feminization of the American Military, The Politically Incorrect Guide to Women, Sex and Feminism, Feminist Fantasies, Spreading Misandry: The Teaching of Contempt for Men in Popular Culture, and Taken into Custody: The War Against Fathers, Marriage and the Family. Other titles were more obscure, but a quick leaf through the pages confirmed the same subject matter.
The fifth shelf focused on self-defense, weapons, guerrilla warfare. Everything from owners’ manuals for a range of handguns to The Anarchist Cookbook and volumes on Krav Maga and close-quarters combat.
Lock hunkered down to take a look at the bottom shelf. He could immediately see why these titles had been placed where they would be difficult for a casual visitor to browse. They focused on American mass shootings from before Columbine all the way up to the Sandy Hook Massacre and beyond. He pulled a couple of titles out and flicked through them. Someone had underlined sections and scribbled notes in the margins.
Standing up, Lock felt a sudden chill. You could rarely infer too much from a person’s choice of reading. People read for escape. Little old ladies who wouldn’t hurt a fly could be big fans of gruesome horror without it signifying anything. This seemed different, though. Put all the titles together, throw in what he already knew about Krank, along with the case of shells hidden in the dishwasher, and he was more concerned about Marcus and his family than he had been before.
He had remembered something else too. A detail the girl upstairs had told him.
He walked into the bathroom, switched on the light and looked up at the ceiling. He put down the toilet lid, put his foot on it, and tested his weight as he stood on it. He reached his hand up to the ceiling. There was no sign of any water damage. No sign of any leak. And no sign of any repair. The plaster was slightly faded and matched that of the walls on either side.
He got down, and walked out of the apartment, pulling the door closed behind him. The corridor was empty. He walked to the end, pushed through into the stairwell, and took a flight of stairs to the next floor.
Pushing open the door, he walked down to apartment 4C, and knocked. The girl he’d met outside lived there. She had told him she was going to run errands and had let him into the building. She hadn’t mentioned a room mate.
He knocked again. He could hear someone walking to the door. ‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’
The door opened to reveal an elderly man in jeans and a baggy T-shirt. He stared at Lock. ‘What is this? Who let you in?’
‘I take it you don’t share this place with a young woman called Kimberley?’ Lock held his right hand at chest height. ‘About so high. Spiky blonde hair. Has a French bulldog.’
The look on the man’s face gave Lock his answer. A minute later he was back in Krank’s apartment, picking up the box of cartridges from the dishwasher. A minute after that he was standing in the bright sunshine on California Avenue. ‘Kimberley’ and her dog were nowhere to be seen.
39
Gretchen stood on the corner of California and 3rd Street. Though she was still holding the puppy’s lead, the animal was gone. She tapped Krank’s number on the screen of her cell phone and waited. He picked up immediately. An elderly couple walked past her. She stood side on so that she had a view of the apartment building that she had just let Ryan Lock into.
‘What’s up?’ said Krank. ‘You get everything?’
‘You got someone looking for you. Think it’s the same guy that MG’s parents hired. His name’s Lock.’
When Krank next spoke, he sounded panicked. Gretchen enjoyed it. He wasn’t the ice-cold character he liked to project. He was alpha for sure, but he could still behave like a total pussy. ‘He didn’t catch you in the apartment, did he?’ Krank asked.
‘I was on my way out. But we had quite the talk about you.’
‘You did what?’ Now Krank sounded apoplectic. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Chill,’ she told him. ‘I told him I lived upstairs and gave him a false name.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that. What if he figures out you’re lying?’
Gretchen rolled her eyes. Krank was such a worrier. He talked a good game, but sometimes she wondered if he was actually capable of putting his plans into action. ‘And how’s he going to do that? Relax. It’s fine. I got everything you asked me to pick up. I’ll be back at the house in an hour.’
40
Tarian Griffiths laid the phone on the kitchen counter. Teddy, already nursing the first Scotch of the day, stood next to her-ex-husband, Peter. Both men were expectant as they waited for news of how her call to Marcus had gone. Like everything else in her life with both men, it had fallen to her to actually do something about the mess they were in. Just once, she thought, she would have liked to be with a man who took charge of the situation rather than wringing his hands or pounding down whisky like they were abou
t to stop distilling the stuff.
She managed something approaching a smile. ‘He’s coming over tonight.’
Both Teddy and Peter looked relieved. Tarian wasn’t certain that she was. She still wasn’t even sure this was the right thing to do. Part of her thought they should have gone with their initial gut instinct and called the police. After all, if Marcus had hurt someone . . .
She had spent an hour or so searching the internet for any report of a USC co-ed being murdered or attacked. Apart from a couple of stories that were a few years old, there was nothing recent. With the restraining order in place, she didn’t dare contact the girl directly to make sure she was okay. Although the court hadn’t prohibited her from such she didn’t want to raise suspicions.
Teddy had been the one to talk her round. What if Marcus hadn’t done anything? What if there was a perfectly innocent explanation for the blood on his shirt? Maybe he’d gotten into a bar fight. If they called the cops and they asked him about, she would have lost her son for good. He’d never trust any of his family again. Wasn’t it better that they confronted him themselves? If they didn’t believe his answers, Teddy had argued, then they could call the cops.
The seed of doubt Teddy had planted was all she had needed. Tarian had called Peter and they had agreed they would talk to Marcus together. But in order to talk to him they needed to persuade him to come home, and the way he had stormed out last time, Tarian knew that wasn’t going to be easy. They needed some kind of bait.
Marcus had a trust fund that had been part of her divorce settlement with Peter. They were co-signatories. Most of the money wouldn’t come to Marcus until he was thirty. It was one more thing that had driven a wedge between Tarian and her son. Marcus wanted the money now.
She had dropped a hint to Marcus during her phone call that they might have reconsidered. She hadn’t said anything upfront, just that she, Teddy and Peter wanted to discuss some financial matters with him, but first they needed to know he was stable enough to make good choices.
It had worked. After some discussion at the other end of the line, presumably with his ‘friends’, Marcus had told her he would be there at seven o’clock sharp.
‘How did he sound?’ Teddy asked.
‘Yes, was he okay?’ said Peter.
Tarian wasn’t sure how to answer. He sounded the way he had for the past year or more. Distant. Disconnected. The only time he didn’t sound like that was when he was screaming at them and blaming them, her in particular, for ruining his life.
‘He sounded like . . . I dunno, like Marcus.’ She looked at Teddy. ‘I don’t think the children should be here tonight. You know how he can get.’
Thankfully Teddy didn’t argue. ‘I’ll see if Sylvia can take them.’
Sylvia was Teddy’s cousin. She lived in West Hollywood. She was a little on the flaky side but the kids loved her and it would be only one night. ‘We should call Dr Stentz.’ He was a psychiatrist Marcus had seen before. ‘See if he can come over.’
Peter held up his hand. ‘Already did it. He’d be happy to help us.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Tarian said, ‘what about asking Ryan and his partner if they could be here?’
‘Ryan?’ said Teddy, staring at her over the top of his crystal tumbler as he drained the last of his Scotch.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Mr Lock, then. That better?’
Teddy tilted the glass and crunched loudly on an ice cube. He glanced at Peter. ‘She has the hots for him.’
To his credit, Peter cut him off. ‘I don’t think that is helpful.’
‘Should we ask him to come over, or not?’ said Tarian.
‘I can handle Marcus if he gets overexcited,’ Teddy said.
Teddy ‘handling’ her son was what worried Tarian. Teddy wasn’t the most diplomatic of men at the best of times. Mix in the best part of a bottle of whisky and it was a recipe for disaster if he and Marcus started to go at it. ‘That’s what concerns me, Teddy,’ she said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Teddy shot back, his hackles rising.
Tarian bit her lower lip hard to stop herself responding. She didn’t need a row with Teddy. Not on top of everything else.
‘If I could say something,’ Peter said quietly. ‘If Marcus has hurt someone and these security consultants become aware of it, won’t they go the police?’
Teddy could barely keep the sneer out of his voice. ‘They both signed a non-disclosure agreement. I made sure of it.’
Peter wasn’t knocked off track. ‘I’m fairly sure knowledge of criminal activity trumps any NDA. And even if it doesn’t, if they do go to the police or the DA then suing them for breach of contract hardly matters.’
Despite his mild, almost meek manner, Tarian had forgotten what a voice of reason Peter could be. She’d never felt the excitement with him that she had with other men, but in a crisis he kept a cool head, unlike Teddy. ‘You’re right. We can’t get them involved.’
‘So what about the shrink?’ said Teddy. ‘Don’t we have the same problem with him?’
‘Patient-doctor confidentiality is a little more robust,’ said Peter. ‘He can claim an ethical exemption. In any case, if Marcus has hurt someone, we’ll have no choice but to go to the authorities, will we?’
Tarian looked from Peter to Teddy and back again. The weight of the question hung in the air between them. Could she turn in her own son? ‘There’s probably a simple explanation for all of this. Isn’t there?’
Neither man answered.
41
Gretchen heaved the last of the backpacks onto the kitchen table. As Marcus and the others busied themselves stacking the contents of the other two packs on the floor, ready for deployment, Krank opened the drawstring of the last. He began to take out boxes of ammunition. He stacked them neatly in blocks on the table. When he was done, he stood back, puzzled. ‘You’re missing a box,’ he said.
‘That’s not possible. I took everything that was in the apartment.’
‘You must have panicked when you saw that guy snooping around,’ said Krank.
Gretchen glared at him. ‘I’d already moved everything out before I even ran into him.’
Krank scraped an index finger down the block of boxes in front of him, counting off as he went. ‘There were nine boxes of these. I can only count eight.’
Gretchen rolled her neck, reaching up and probing at a knot in her upper back with her right hand. ‘Maybe one box fell out. I’ll go check the trunk.’
She skipped past him and out of sight. Gretchen never sweated this kind of stuff. That was why they needed her. No matter the situation, she could always be relied upon to stay calm.
Outside, she hit the clicker. The trunk popped open. She peered in. Nothing. Apart from a first-aid kit, and a spare handgun she kept in its carry case, the trunk was empty. She slammed the trunk shut and opened the rear passenger door. She checked the back seat and under the front seats. She closed the rear door and opened the front passenger door. The glove box was empty. Maybe Krank’s count was off.
Then she remembered. Shit. She had been clearing the dishwasher, and thinking what an idiotic hiding place it was when the puppy had started barking. As she’d gone to see if there was someone outside the apartment she had kicked over a bowl of water she’d put down for him. She’d closed the dishwasher door and cleaned up the mess. The puppy was still barking and circling by the door. She had grabbed the final backpack, left to put it in the car, and when she came back she’d forgotten about the last box of shells.
One her way out, after running a final check, which hadn’t included the dishwasher, she had run into that private security creep hired to babysit Marcus. The ammunition had gone clean out of her mind. Then, of course, she had let Lock into the building.
Gretchen speed-walked back inside the house. Krank was in the kitchen, busy drilling Marcus about how to handle dinner with his parents. Krank wasn’t going to like what she was about to tell him. ‘I fucked up,’ she said. ‘
That last box is still in the apartment.’
Krank swiveled slowly to face her. Marcus and the others fell silent, and stared at their shoes.
‘You did what?’ said Krank.
Gretchen stood her ground, legs evenly apart, chest out, chin tilted up. ‘You heard me. I didn’t pick it up.’
Krank’s eyes narrowed. ‘You let that guy into the building. Which means he would have been in the apartment. And if he was in the apartment he would have found them.’
Gretchen shrugged. ‘So what if he did? Lots of people have stuff at home that they shouldn’t have. Guns. Blow. You had a box of ammo. Maybe you’re planning for the zombie apocalypse.’
‘Armor piercing,’ said Krank. ‘Illegal.’
Gretchen couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing.
‘This shit isn’t funny,’ said Krank.
Her hand swept out, taking in all the gear stacked in the kitchen. Body armor, Bushmasters, handguns, incendiary grenades that Krank had conjured up from God knew where. ‘With what we have planned you’re worried about being arrested?’
Krank took a step toward her. Gretchen lowered her hand. It fell to the knife clipped onto her belt. Her fingertips stroked the handle.
‘If I’m arrested this is all over. Or if they find this place. What about that? It’ll all be over before we’ve gotten started,’ said Krank.
Gretchen stood her ground. ‘No one’s going to find anyone. No one knows about this place. Or any of this. So why don’t you stop acting like you have your period and chill out?’
The others were waiting to see how Krank would react. Would he freak out or stay calm? If it had been Marcus or Loser who’d admitted to a slip like this he would have been screaming by now. He wasn’t, though. His hands were bunched into fists and he was angry but he hadn’t gone crazy. He seemed to be thinking. After a few long moments of silence, he turned to Marcus.
