Not until he was good and dead.
Justin, thought Marcel, are you ready for this?
Marcel again opened the console, this time withdrawing a book, a volume entitled Homicide Defense: Law and Cases. He began reading through the index. When he found what he was looking for he opened the book to that chapter. It was titled, “Justifiable Homicide: When It’s Okay to Kill.”
He read and re-read the chapter. Then he contemplated how to make it happen. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. Looking for something to make notes on, he decided on the McDonald’s napkin. He wrote:
Justifiable homicide.
Reno’s ticket to hell.
Chapter 54: Dr. Zastrow
The girls were on their own and thriving with school and new jobs. It was time for Chloe to go home, which she did that morning at Denny’s when the waitress called Andrew and Chloe went out in front of the restaurant, sat down on a green metal bench, and waited.
She was done running. Besides, there was more.
Something new, a serious something new, was happening to Chloe. She was losing gaps of time in her life—several hours and more—where she had no recall of what she’d done and where she’d done it. She went with Andrew to see Dr. Donnelly Zastrow, a psychiatrist with a specialty in multiples. He’d been recommended by Dr. Ingram. Dr. Zastrow remained calm even in the face of Chloe’s upset. He said he suspected fugue states. He explained a fugue state was where one of her personalities took over Chloe for a period. This helped explain the loss of hours, the mystery charge card receipts, the unexplained phone calls to numbers she didn’t recognize, the nights out at restaurants she couldn’t recall. Over the following week, Dr. Zastrow’s organization made tests and scans and measurements. Organic explanations were ruled out one-by-one. The problem was not her brain. The problem was her mind.
Dr. Zastrow tugged at his beard and pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up onto his nose. He was reflecting before answering Chloe’s question.
Then, “More than anything else, what you suffer from is an identity disorder. At one time it was called multiple personality disorder.”
“Will I ever get better?” Chloe asked. “Will I recover?”
“There are therapies, some of which you’ve already encountered.”
“Is there a rating scale, so I know how bad I am? Or how good?”
“Dissociative states happen on a spectrum. Imagine a horizontal line. A scale of zero on the left end to a hundred on the right end. Let’s say your dissociation is fifty. Is that enough for a different personality to come forward and take over? Yes, in some people. That’s what happened in your case.”
“I was a fifty?”
“More like an eighty. At least, you were—are.”
It horrified Andrew. “But is this something she was born with?”
“No. Most often there is a traumatic event, often sexual, that causes the host’s personality to split. Multiple personalities appear. No, your wife wasn’t born with it.”
“Can a personality take over and take her away from me again, even if she wants to be home now?”
“It’s possible. But Chloe will work very hard to integrate her identities. So there’s hope, as long as she does the work I’m giving her.”
Andrew stood up, his fists clenching and unclenching, a desperate look pulling at his face. He dug out his credit card to pay the psychiatrist for the session, but the doctor raised a hand.
“Andrew, I would like to extend our session today an extra hour. I want you both to tell me now. What happened, who was involved, and how it ended. It has ended?”
Chloe looked at Andrew, who nodded at her.
“No,” said Chloe, “it hasn’t ended. Reno is still alive.”
“Tell me the story. Now, please. Chloe goes first.”
Chloe nodded and smiled. “This is good. I can tell you what I know, and I can tell you what someone else has told me. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I want everything you have.”
It was almost five o’clock in Dr. Zastrow’s office when Chloe and Andrew finished with the story. Dr. Zastrow had stopped them once for coffee and once for a restroom break. Now he sat back in his tall chair, looking them over and nodding. “Anyone tired?”
They both raised their hands.
Dr. Zastrow wrapped it up. “It seems, Chloe, that one of your alters has been modeled after a real person. Maddy—are there two of them?”
She knew she looked perplexed. “There is a Maddy inside me, but she isn’t talking anymore, not since I returned home. Or maybe she is, and I don’t know. It’s very frightening to think.”
“I’m sure it is. You might have other personalities you aren’t aware of.”
“That’s scary,” she said.
“And what about Justin Maybe?”
“Justin is always there. Waiting.”
“If you can ever talk to them as Chloe, that will be huge. Personality unification can happen.”
“What’s that?” asked Andrew.
“That would be where Chloe and the others would all talk with one another and become one person. Then she is unified.”
“Cured?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I would love nothing more,” Chloe answered.
“You have some good people in your life. Andrew sounds as if he’s ready to do anything to help you.”
“Andrew has accepted that I am the way I am. He’s good with that. A bit more housecleaning and I’m free of Reno.”
A look of concern crossed the doctor’s normally calm face.
“Reno? What happened to that psychopath?”
Andrew looked down at the floor. He appeared to study his feet. Dr. Zastrow fastened his gaze on Chloe.
“Reno is still around and still abusing people. However, he’s moved to San Diego where the Vietnamese girls come up from Mexico.”
“And you know all this how?”
Andrew looked up. “My investigator.”
“So Marcel has him pinpointed for you? Has anyone thought about calling the police on this person?”
Andrew answered, “The police won’t help. He’s too smart. He insulates himself from his entire enterprise. Little people get arrested, sex slaves get arrested, but nothing happens to Reno. And it won’t.”
Dr. Zastrow nodded. “Unless?”
She didn’t respond to him. There was no ‘unless,’ not for Zastrow to know about.
“All right. Then we’re done here.”
They shook hands with the doctor and left.
It was getting late, and she had a plane to catch.
Chapter 55: Chloe Constance
She flew into San Diego and took a Lyft to La Jolla. Once inside the hotel, she wasted no time, tossing her suitcase on the caddy and settling with her laptop at the small desk.
Chloe had brought along a bag containing papers and receipts, which she now scattered in front of her, framing her laptop with chaos. But every few minutes her gaze came to rest on her Visa card statement. It had been waiting in her email when she went online that morning. The Visa bill was much more troubling than anything else on her desk. It listed charges for airfare to Vietnam. Charges for three nights in the Hanoi Hilton. Charges for a restaurant in San Diego Old Town and a Vogue designer in La Jolla. The problem was, she had no memory of making any of these charges, though she had images. Images of Justin following a man, stalking him, making ready to strike. But something held him back. Chloe violently shook her head when she realized: Marcel had turned her back. It wasn’t the right time, Marcel told Justin. Marcel said he had been listening in on Reno’s phone calls. Marcel had said he would call when Justin could pursue Reno. Marcel had tried to dissuade her, but it was no use. He couldn’t blame her. There would be no peace for her until Reno no longer walked the earth. However, Marcel told her, if you insist on Justin striking, then at least let me set up the best time and place.
As of yesterday, Marcel had Reno in his sights
. Reno had been heard making dinner reservations for that night.
Chloe wiped a bug off her computer screen. The phone buzzed.
She punched ACCEPT.
The familiar voice of Marcel said, “Please let me speak to Justin Maybe.”
When Chloe heard the words, “Justin Maybe,” Justin came forward. His eyes narrowed and his jawline grew firm. He pulled himself fully erect in the desk’s swivel chair and spoke with the voice of a man ready to do battle.
“This is Justin Maybe.”
“Tonight at Hammond’s Grill, your man is dining with a woman at table eleven. They have just walked in. He is wearing a black suit. They will wear wedding rings and pretend to be husband and wife, but they are not. This man is Reno.”
“Current description, please. No telling how this man is disguised.”
“Receding gray and brown hair that comes to a point in front and fair skin. Goatee. Green eyes with heavy bags. We’re thinking contact lenses. In the airport this morning, they saw him wearing tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a cat’s eye ring on his right pinkie. But it’s your man.”
“Airport? He’s been to Vietnam again?”
“Roger. He’s bringing the girls in through San Diego now.”
Justin recited. “Table eleven, dark gray hair, goatee, green eyes, tortoiseshell glasses, cat’s eye ring is Reno. Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Success is?” asked Justin. He wanted to know his goal.
“Chloe told me she wanted Reno eliminated when I found him. That’s none of my business, and you got none of this from me.”
“Certainly.”
“Return straight back to the hotel tonight upon completion. I will call you and ask for Chloe. Chloe will answer. Are we clear?”
“Consider it done.”
“Then Chloe will return to Andrew in Chicago?”
“I’ll make sure she goes home.”
“Goodbye. Good luck, Justin.”
Justin went into the bedroom and shrugged out of Chloe’s clothes.
He slipped into black jeans, a black turtleneck, and removed Chloe’s watch. He placed it in Chloe’s overnighter inside a roll of black socks. He withdrew five, twenty-dollar bills from her purse and tucked the money into his left front jeans pocket. He left the wallet in the drawer.
He removed the KA-BAR knife from the suitcase and slipped it inside his turtleneck sleeve.
In the bathroom mirror, Justin ran his fingers through Chloe’s blond hair. Back to the bedroom where he lifted a locked box out of the suitcase. He spun the combination and opened the lid. Gently, using both hands, he removed the black wig. Back to the bathroom mirror. Ever so carefully, he settled the wig over Chloe’s natural hair. From the same box, he made another withdrawal, this time an eyeglass case. He removed the metal frame eyeglasses and placed them on his face. His twenty-forty vision became twenty-twenty. He knew Chloe’s vision uncorrected was twenty-twenty, but he didn’t know why his own would be imperfect. There were certain differentiations such as this that no doctor could explain. Dr. Zastrow had come the closest: “Your alters are not only separate personalities, but they are also separate people in some respects, too. They might have different heart rates, different blood pressures—but all inside the same host body.”
He stepped back from the mirror and studied himself.
Satisfied, he went to Chloe’s overnighter yet again. He removed a black jacket. Within each waist pocket was a cowhide glove. He pulled it on and turned up the collar. He was assuming stealth mode.
Downstairs in the elevator. Then, stepping through the glass doors and turning up Staley Street in the La Jolla business district, Justin headed north. He would reach Hammond’s in about thirty minutes of walking, which meant he would arrive at 8:30.
Then he would find table eleven.
He pulled the collar of his windbreaker higher when he walked under street lights and while crossing streets. He imagined he was a turtle, stretching out and retreating, never allowing his profile to be seen, never allowing anyone to observe his face behind the eyeglasses and below the dense black hair.
The San Diego Post had featured an ad touting the cuisine and music at Hammond’s. Young readers had responded and fallen in love with the place. It featured large sandwiches, thick salads, European and American wines, and the best beer from local microbreweries. The bands that played were decibel-busting on the low end, making them perfect for dancing and all but destroying conversation on the bandstand side. On the restaurant side were twenty-three tables, each situated and screened to provide the most privacy possible and relief from the heavy music on the other side of the club. Medium-loud conversations were possible along with a hunger-crushing menu; the restaurant sold out seven nights.
Justin entered Hammond’s and went left to the noise zone. He strolled up to the bar and paid for a draft beer. He gulped it down and ordered another. Turning his back to the bar, he assumed the look of a young man checking out the talent on the dance floor. He nodded in time to the music and moved his waist as would a man on the prowl. “Adorable,” said a woman to her friend who sat two stools down the bar. With a toss of her blond curls, she indicated Justin. Her friend turned on her stool and stole a look. She swiveled back around with a huge smile on her face. “Who is that?”
Justin knew of their attention, and he returned the first girl’s look. Their gazes connected, but he glanced away. He wasn’t interested, his look said.
Pilsner glass between thumb and index finger, he moved away from the bar toward the inside wall. He took up a position where he could look, at an oblique angle, into the dining room. Counting tables front to back, his gaze came to rest on what could only be table eleven. He studied its guests without looking at them. Several times he laughed and smiled and appeared to be talking to someone just outside the line of sight of eleven’s diners. But there was no one there. Justin was a skilled actor. One needed that art. Even now, laughing and appearing to speak to a friend offstage, he drew upon his talents.
But he left his initial position. Thirty feet further along the wall was another doorway opening into the dining room. He sought that out and found he now had an unobstructed view of the back of his target’s head. His pulse quickened. This was becoming easier by the minute.
The waiting began. He would attack Reno alone, no witnesses around, at the moment he was least expecting it. The diners finished the salad course, and Reno puffed at his e-cig. A waitress hurried over, spoke to him, and he stuck the vape inside his shirt pocket. Five minutes passed. The diners looked around at the others diners, avoiding each other’s eyes. Then came the main course and they resumed eating. Heads bobbed and turned in subdued conversation. While Justin watched, he was careful to move around as if looking for someone. He scanned the dance floor; he returned to the bar for another beer, he veered back along the wall to his vantage point.
Then it happened.
Reno was large and moved fluidly when he slid out of the booth and made his way to the restroom. Justin knew the man would be difficult if he allowed him momentum by counterattack. It was Justin’s job to see that didn‘t happen.
He crept through the doorway and followed his prey into the restroom.
Two other men were there. Reno had opted for the far stall since the door was closed. As Justin bent to wash his hands, he surveyed the room in the mirror. One man finished with the air dryer and left. The other moaned and passed gas at the urinal. He finished up and left without washing.
Now Justin was alone with Reno, the man about to be date-stamped.
In one practiced move, he inserted both hands into the side pockets of his windbreaker, found the gloves, and wriggled them onto his hands. He whipped the KA-BAR knife from his sleeve. Then he edged along the wall farthest from the stall until he was facing the locked door. He knew the lock was penetrable and that his man would be caught literally with his pants down.
With two steps, he covered the distance to the stall and kicked the door i
n, hammering Reno and bouncing his head off the tile wall. Then Justin had his knee on the man’s shoulder. The man squirmed and scissored his legs but didn’t cry out. Justin’s knife punctured Reno’s chest. With the concentrated strength of his upper torso and arms, Justin twisted the knife up and into the heart. When the blood was flowing, Justin withdrew, leaving the knife buried in Reno’s chest.
Justin looked down at the dying man. “It’s the same thing you did to those Vietnamese girls. You killed them. It might take them years to finish dying, but you set it in motion. How’s it feeling now, Reno?” Justin stepped backward out of the stall.
Off came the gloves, into the pockets, as he swiped paper towel from the dispenser. Using the towel to grip, he opened the door to the restroom and then wadded the paper and inserted it into his jacket pocket.
He slipped out of the restroom and exited the dining room.
Out into the night, removing wig and eyeglasses when he was certain no one was watching, and then he quickened his step as he made his way back to Staley Street and the hotel.
It was October. The night was cool, low fifties. The bead of sweat above his eyebrows evaporated.
At the hotel lobby, the desk agents were busy, bent to their computers, their hands, and fingers engaged with keyboards. Justin strode to the elevators and punched his floor. Once again inside the hotel suite, he removed the windbreaker and sat at the desk. He crossed his hands and waited for the phone to ring.
Twenty minutes later, the call came from an airplane high above the California desert.
“Let me speak to Chloe Constance, please.”
Justin’s eyes fluttered, and his posture relaxed into her own—middle-aged female attorney with a controlled demeanor. She was back from that place where she went when Justin came.
“This is Chloe Constance,” she said.
“Wrong number. Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s all right. Goodbye.”
The call ended. She hung up. Then she sat, listening.
The Fifth Justice (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 10) Page 20
