Crosshairs

by Harry Hunsicker

The man followed.

  Anita Nazari was by the sink, talking on her cell phone. She hung up and raised an eyebrow at me. “What did you learn?”

  I sat down at the counter but didn’t say anything. Moose entered the room. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both turned to Anita.

  She pointed to the man. “This is Tom.”

  “Hi, Tom.”

  “Anita, what’s going on?” He waved his hands. “Who is this guy?”

  “I’m worried about my safety.” She sat down by the laptop. “Apparently, I need to hire someone to share my concern.”

  “Are you taking drugs?” Tom said.

  “What?” Anita frowned.

  “I saw a story on 20/20 about doctors prescribing themselves stuff.”

  “Why don’t you just leave?” Anita said.

  “I came over to apologize. For yesterday.”

  Anita nodded.

  “You’re sure you’re not popping pills?” Tom said.

  “No.”

  I sighed and looked at my watch.

  “I’ll be around, Anita.” Tom glared at me. “If you need anything.” He exited by the back door.

  “See you later.” I waved at the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Anita said.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I shrugged. “Me and boyfriends have never gotten along.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “You are infuriating.”

  I nodded.

  Anita took several deep breaths before speaking again. “What did you learn at the house across the street?”

  I explained about the bloodstain, the illegal contractors, and the owner’s nervousness when the building inspector arrived. I played down the police part.

  “You were arrested?” Her mouth gaped open.

  “More like detained for a moment.”

  “You didn’t tell them about me, did you?”

  I shook my head as the sounds of a sitcom laugh track drifted down the back stairs.

  Anita looked at the ceiling and shook her head. “She’s supposed to be doing her homework.”

  “Kids today. When I was her age, we only had basic cable.”

  “Are you always this sarcastic?”

  “Only on days that end in y?

  Anita cupped her mouth with one hand and yelled at the stairs. “Mira.”

  A few moments later a girl on the brink of puberty clomped her way down the steps wearing oversized sneakers that made her already bird-thin legs look skinnier. She looked like she was going to speak but stopped when she saw me standing there.

  “Mira, this is my… friend, Mr. Oswald.”

  “Hi,” the girl said.

  “Hey, nice to meet you.” I grinned.

  “You have things to do other than watch television,” Anita said.

  “Are you and my mom, like, hooking up?” Mira resembled her mother, thick dark hair, a prominent nose, high cheekbones.

  I stifled a laugh.

  “The term is dating, as we’ve discussed before, and no, Hank, er, Mr. Oswald and I are not.” Anita sighed. “He is an employee, doing some work for me.”

  “What kind of work?” Mira frowned.

  “I’m like the yard guy but I don’t sweat as much,” I said.

  “You’re funny.” Mira giggled.

  Anita shook her head, clearly annoyed. “Mr. Oswald is checking on our security. We talked about how important that is before, remember?”

  “Oswald’s the name of the guy that shot the president, isn’t it?” Mira looked at me and then at her mother.

  “If you believe the Warren Commission,” I said. “Don’t worry; I’m not related to Lee Harvey.”

  “That’s good.” Mira smiled. “I feel safer already.”

  We both laughed.

  “Don’t you have homework and chores?” Anita said.

  Mira, still giggling a little, grabbed a purple knapsack from the floor and plopped it onto the kitchen table.

  Anita turned to me. “Now, what is your plan?”

  I didn’t reply. Therein lay the problem. I wanted nothing more than to find an out-of-the-way bar where I could sling drinks a few hours each week. I wanted to tell lies to naive flight attendants in order to sleep with them. I wanted to do anything other than the occupation for which I was most suited.

  What I didn’t want to do was to continue to investigate Anita Nazari’s strange threats or to track down Mike Baxter’s missing daughter.

  I rubbed my eyes and said, “I’ll need to borrow a car.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Professor sauntered down the alley behind Anita Nazari’s block. He kept the clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other, as he pretended to inspect the rear of the homes on either side.

  Each house had a wooden privacy fence protecting the backyard. The fences ran about three-quarters of the width of each lot before cutting in to allow the driveways to have access to the rear-entry garages. More than a few of the garages were open, displaying tiny vignettes from the canvas of suburban life.

  Women in track suits buckling up toddlers in car seats.

  Maids taking out the garbage.

  The occasional husband coming home early from work, dressed in the corporate uniform of the day, slacks and a golf shirt.

  The sheer material wealth displayed in the storage area of a typical suburban home fascinated him. Expensive motorcycles, outdated but still new electronic equipment, shiny sports cars, athletic gear, and enough tools and scrap material to build an office tower.

  In the middle of the block, a woman in a terry-cloth robe kissed a man in front of a Mercedes parked at an angle in the driveway. They were both in their late thirties, the picture of health and prosperity and all the good things this country had to offer to the upper middle class: bulging retirement accounts, steady jobs, plenty of material wealth, and a safe neighborhood in which to enjoy it all.

  They jumped apart when he walked by, and the Professor wondered where their respective spouses were at the moment.

  At the end of the block, on the corner, was Anita Nazari’s behemoth of a house.

  The Professor stopped and pulled out his clipboard, pretending to take notes regarding the status of her privacy fence.

  The rear gate opened.

  The Professor reached underneath his jacket for the Ruger.

  A young girl, maybe ten or eleven, stepped into the alley, carrying a brown grocery sack. She had a music player fastened to the waistband of her shorts, the white earpieces in place.

  The Professor felt his spine stiffen as he realized who the child was.

  Mira, Anita Nazari’s offspring.

  He tried not to stare, concentrating on his clipboard instead.

  “Hi.” The girl placed the sack on the pavement.

  “Hello.” The Professor scribbled gibberish on a piece of scratch paper.

  “What are you doing?” She pulled the earpieces out.

  “I’m with the city.” He lowered the clipboard and smiled. The girl was a miniature version of her mother, long limbs, angular face, olive skin.

  “Why are you looking at our house?” The girl picked up the sack and hugged it to her chest.

  “I’m looking at all the houses on this block, not just yours.” He willed himself to be professional even as he thought of what would become of this girl. Children shouldn’t have to pay for the sins of their parents.

  Mira didn’t respond. She carried the sack to a green plastic canister about four feet in diameter and maybe a meter tall.

  The Professor pointed to the object. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a composter.” Mira dumped the contents of the paper sack inside. “My mom and me are making compost for the yard. It’s organic.”

  “Doing things the organic way is good.” The Professor stuck the clipboard under one arm as if his work were finished.

  The girl stared at him for a few moments before speaking again. “You’re the building inspecto
r, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” The Professor forced a smile. An unusual term for a young girl to come up with so easily. “How did you know that?”

  “My mom’s new friend, Hank, he told my mom that the building inspector was down the street.”

  “Hank is your mother’s boyfriend?” The Professor asked, wondering how far he could push.

  “Oh, no. He works for my mom on account of she likes to have people around so she can tell them what to do.”

  “Well, then it’s a good thing she’s got Mr….” The Professor raised an eyebrow.

  “Oswald.” The girl nodded thoughtfully. “Like the man that killed Kennedy.”

  “Mr. Oswald. Hank Oswald,” the Professor said. “It’s good that he’s—”

  “We went to the Sixth Floor Museum this semester,” Mira interrupted him. “It’s in Dallas, where they have the window where the real Oswald shot the president from.”

  The Professor nodded, torn between listening to the girl’s ramblings and processing the information that Anita Nazari had actually hired someone such as Oswald.

  “And my friend Suzy, she, like, totally has this crush on this guy named Ben and they so got busted in a closet, like, totally making out.”

  “Bad news for Suzy, right?” He stuck his ballpoint pen into his breast pocket.

  “Why do you wear those funny sunglasses?”

  “The, uh, light bothers me.” The Professor touched the frames of his shades instinctively, nonplussed at her verbal curveball.

  “Hank doesn’t wear sunglasses.”

  “What job does…Hank do for your mother?” He regretted the question as soon as the words left his lips.

  Mira frowned and crossed her arms. A jet spewed a thick contrail on the far horizon as a Suburban sped down the cross street a few dozen feet from the back of Anita Nazari’s home. A few awkward seconds passed.

  “I must be going. Other houses to inspect.” The Professor tapped his clipboard. Rule One of covert operations: If you suspect your cover is blown, get out as soon as possible. He walked toward the cross street.

  Mira inched backward to the gate. “Mama hired him to make her feel safe.”

  “Feel safe?” The Professor stopped. “Sounds like she should call the police.”

  “No.” The girl’s voice was soft. “Mama would never do that.”

  “I could call the police for you, if that would help.”

  Mira shook her head. “Hank will take care of things. He’s tough, I can tell.”

  “What is it that makes your mother feel unsafe?” Another less than discreet question, but at this point, what did it matter?

  No response.

  “Is there anything I can do?” He smiled.

  “I-I-I have to go. I need to finish my homework.” She opened the gate but kept looking at him. A second later, she was gone.

  The Professor stared at the fence around Anita Nazari’s house. Although new, it was wooden and flimsy and provided no real protection save from prying eyes.

  “Safe?” he said. “No one is ever safe.”

  He turned and walked back down the alley.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I slammed the door of the lime green Volkswagen Bug. A perfectly nice Range Rover sat by the curb. Anita Nazari’s second car, the one she bought on a whim for her fortieth birthday, had white leather seats, a lollipop-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and an oversized flower sticker on the back window.

  Beggars, choosers, and all that other stuff.

  I cranked on the ignition. The speakers blared out 1980s Madonna before I slapped the OFF button. I pulled out of the meticulously kept garage and backed down the driveway, waving at Anita standing by the back door of her suburban castle with the metaphorically leaky moat.

  I drove out of the alley and then down the street past the house under construction. No activity was visible. The homeowner and two city officials appeared to be gone.

  At the cross street, I put the transmission into park and evaluated what I knew.

  Somebody was threatening Anita Nazari on an ongoing basis.

  The latest incident was yesterday, a fairly sophisticated action requiring planning and surveillance.

  The best place to coordinate the action was the house under construction.

  The amount of blood at that location indicated that someone had either been severely wounded or had died there, more probably the latter. Logically, that meant either the instigator of the attacks or another interested party.

  Since the operation appeared to be the work of a professional, logic again dictated he or she was not the victim. Which meant the other party was. Which meant there was a body somewhere yet to be discovered by the authorities, or I wouldn’t have been cut loose.

  The question now was whether the instigator of the attacks had enough easily accessible resources to properly dispose of the body. If yes, then a search would be futile. That was the only avenue open to me at the moment, though, so I decided to proceed as if the attacker had been operating in haste.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel of the VW and tried to figure the best place to stash a body in the suburbs.

  Back in the day, I knew a guy who knew a guy who could make a corpse disappear for two grand, no questions asked, so long as you delivered the stiff to the right place, usually a block or two from one of the government housing construction sites in West Dallas. The fact that I could remember the name of the first guy, and what bar to find him in, bothered me more than a little.

  I put the car in gear and drove off, looking for construction sites.

  Before the postwar population explosion, Plano had been a farming community, a minor stop for the trains headed north from the bustling metropolis of Dallas. In the sixties, Dallas, a city with no real reason to exist other than the dogged determination of a handful of pioneers, began to grow exponentially, gobbling up more and more blackland prairie.

  The result was a huge amount of construction needed to feed the explosion of human beings, an ever-growing splotch on the map like the zombie virus in some bad sci-fi movie. Dots blossomed here and there as existing towns succumbed to the people plague, followed quickly by a flood in the empty areas that used to grow corn and sorghum.

  Anita’s street was one of the northernmost in that particular subdivision. I drove clockwise, in widening circles, looking for a likely spot.

  To the south and west lay a developer’s demented vision of Western European architecture, street after street of mammoth new homes on tiny lots, built to resemble English castles or French châteaus with the occasional Italian villa thrown in for a little Mediterranean flavor.

  A few blocks east, across Coit Road, was an older development with a real neighborhood feel to it, the houses modest but much more appealing with mature trees lining the streets and children’s toys lying about in most of the front yards.

  Six blocks north, Anita’s subdivision stopped abruptly, replaced by flat pastureland stretching to the horizon, dotted by the occasional scrawny post oak. I imagined I could see the Oklahoma border in the distance.

  The boundary was on an old farm-to-market road that was under construction, apparently being widened. The street leading from Anita’s subdivision dipped, and the Volkswagen rattled over the temporary asphalt.

  On the far side lay a series of concrete pipes, each maybe thirty feet long and ten in diameter, resting in front of a long ditch running the length of the road as far as I could see in either direction. New sewer lines to contain the tons of wastewater generated by the new subdivisions.

  I maneuvered across the road and stopped on the shoulder. This far north, the traffic was minimal, an occasional pickup every minute or so.

  I got out and locked the VW. The air smelled like fresh-turned earth and fertilizer. The sky was cloudless but hazy, the color of faded blue jeans that needed a wash. A thunderstorm was visible far to the south, probably over downtown Dallas. Within a few moments, sweat dribbled
down the small of my back.

  I approached the first pipe. Weeds grew tall along the curve resting on the ground. There was a gap of about three feet between sections.

  I stepped into the space between the nearest two pipes and looked each way. To the left, about a hundred yards away, a small obstruction lay on the bottom, like a lumpy sack of something. The something was too far away to determine what it was.

  I got back in the VW and drove west, counting until five pipe sections had passed.

  I exited the car again. Stuck my head in the nearest tube. Waved away a cloud of flies, disturbing the heavy odor of spoiled meat wafting in the still air.

  The lump was a body, laying facedown.

  I took a deep breath, held it, and dashed inside. I flipped the corpse over, disturbing a mass of flies.

  The man’s face was gray like the concrete upon which it rested, his midsection swollen with the gases of decomposition. His mouth was closed in a tight little grimace, in sharp contrast to the ragged cut where his throat should have been. He wore jeans, heavy work boots, and an old U2 concert T-shirt. Popmart 1998.

  I suppressed my gag reflex as much as possible and felt his pockets. Nothing in three out of the four, not so much as a penknife or a lighter. In the rear right, I found a wallet. I pulled it out. Opened it. Three twenty-dollar bills, two fives, and a one. No ID, no credit cards, no insurance info.

  I ran out of the tube gasping for air and heaved in a couple of lung-fuls, sweat pouring down my face. A flatbed truck carrying stacks of Sheetrock lumbered by on the farm-to-market road; otherwise no sound disturbed the hot afternoon.

  I examined the wallet in the sunlight. It was worn and sweat stained, much like you’d expect after residing in the back pocket of a construction worker. I looked in each crevice several times before tossing it on the ground.

  I said, “Crap.”

  Nobody heard me but the flies.

  I dashed back inside the tube and started over, this time pulling off the man’s work boots and finding nothing but dirty socks, before sticking my hands all the way into his pockets.

  The flies were not happy.

  Again nothing, except a wad of lint in the left rear, which I removed because I wanted something to show for my effort.