Linwood Barclay - Bad Guys

“Hi! Long time no hear! How’ve you been?”

“Good, pretty good. You?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Business good?”

“I think I’m recession proof. No matter how bad the economy gets, there are guys who need to be tied up and spanked. You called the wrong line if you want to book a session.”

“No, this is personal.”

“You think spanking isn’t personal?”

“Point taken.”

Trixie and I don’t exactly occupy the same worlds, and I don’t mean that to sound judgmental. She’s in a line of work my kids would call “sketchy” and maybe even a little bit dangerous, not to mention very possibly illegal. But her straightforwardness, honesty, and willingness to help me when I was in trouble once, made her a friend.

“Listen,” I said, “I haven’t touched base with you in a while, and thought I’d call. It was nice, when you were next door, we could have a coffee now and then.”

“Usually when you were having some sort of crisis,” Trixie said. “Does that mean you’re having one now?”

“I guess you could say I’m a bit stressed.”

“Nothing like when you lived next door, I hope.”

“I’m not trying to duck a murder charge, if that’s what you mean.” I told her about the night before, with Lawrence.

“How does a normal guy like you find so much trouble?” Trixie asked.

“It’s a gift. And then there’s this thing with my daughter.”

“My mind’s gone blank. Your daughter…”

“An-”

“Angie! Yes. How’s she? Still interested in photography?”

“Not enough that we’ve put a darkroom into the house, like we did when we lived in Oakwood. She’s pretty busy, anyway. This is her first year in college. With all the studying and assignments, there’s not that much time for hobbies. She’s living at home, heading downtown for her classes, taking a mix of things, but kind of leaning toward psychology, I think. She’s got a couple of psych courses.”

Trixie said, “Maybe, if she takes enough of them, she’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with you.” I smiled. She went on, “So, what’s up with her?”

I told her about Trevor Wylie.

“I think you’re making a big thing out of nothing. So there’s a guy who likes her, she’s not interested. Eventually, he’ll get the message.”

“You’re probably right. But showing up at her friend’s place, out of nowhere. Sounds like he had to be following her, don’t you think?”

“Look, Angie’s a smart kid, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“She knows how to take care of herself. If she thinks there’s a real problem, she’ll tell you.”

“Maybe,” I said, not with much conviction.

“Listen, she’ll be okay. How’s Paul? Still gardening?”

“Not quite as much as before we moved. He still gets his hands dirty now and then, but he spends a lot of time in front of the computer now. And he’s working on getting his driver’s license.”

“Next time you’re out this way, let me know. We’ll get caught up.”

“I’m actually headed out that way today, around lunch, with my detective friend, to go to a government auction.”

“Lunch today won’t work. My first client’s coming around then. Which reminds me, I’ve got to iron my Girl Scout troop leader outfit, and dig out my matching stilettos.”

“Girl Scout leaders wear stilettos?”

“This one’s going to be. Oh shit, that reminds me, I hope I still have some of their cookies around. I put a box in the freezer…” She was on the cordless and I could hear her walking around the house. “Here we go, yeah, I’ve got them. Gotta give them time to defrost.”

“Your client likes to eat Girl Scout cookies?”

“Well, let’s just say they help complete the scene for him.”

“I should let you go,” I said. “Thanks for listening.”

I puttered around the house for the next three hours, until I heard a car pull into the driveway. I stepped out onto the front porch and saw a blue four-door Jaguar sedan. Lawrence was easing himself out the front door.

“The Buick’s in the shop, getting a new rear window,” he explained. I locked up the house, got into the Jag, buckled up, and ran my hand over the leather upholstery, the walnut inlays in the dash.

“Nice,” I said.

“Used to belong to a Jamaican guy ran the drug trade in the north end. Agents busted him, seized pretty much everything he owned, and I got it when they auctioned it off. You looking for a Jag?”

“I don’t know that I’m looking for anything, but if I were it wouldn’t be a Jag. Head office says we can’t afford one at the moment.”

“Head office?”

“Sarah.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t even bring my checkbook, in case I get tempted.”

“Yeah, well, if you change your mind, let me know. I’ve got mine, you could pay me back after.”

“I don’t know. Sarah was sort of weakening toward the end there, talking about a convertible, but I think she was briefly delusional. She really doesn’t want me to spend the money.”

“This is one of those times when it pays to be gay. I don’t get pussy-whipped,” Lawrence said.

“No significant other?” I asked.

“I’m seeing a guy, name’s Kent. Runs a restaurant, Blaine’s, on the east side. He’s thirty-six, a white guy.”

“Really.”

Lawrence smiled. “I met him before I quit the force, but didn’t really hook up with him till recently. Might work into something, never know.”

On the highway heading out to Oakwood, I said to Lawrence, “Okay, here’s a hypothetical. Someone you know might, and it’s just might, be being stalked by someone. She thinks this guy has been following her, he shows up wherever she is, and it kind of freaks her out, but he hasn’t done anything dangerous, or threatened her, nothing like that.”

Lawrence listened.

“And she’s not really making a big deal of it. She says the guy’s just a pest, nothing to worry about.”

“Okay,” Lawrence said. “But it seems like a big deal to you. What do we know about this guy?”

“Well, he’s twenty or so, I gather, seems to be living on his own, his parents are out west or something, kind of a computer geek, into the whole Matrix look, the sunglasses and long coat, not badlooking according to those who’ve seen him, but a loner.”

“And how long has he been following your daughter?”

I was about to remind him that this was a “hypothetical” case, then figured what the hell. “Doesn’t sound like a long time. Couple weeks, maybe. Calls her cell phone quite a few times every day, calls the house. He called at breakfast yesterday morning, I had to field it because Angie didn’t want to talk to him. Angie, she’s going to college now, and I think he’s-”

“He got a name?”

“Wylie. Trevor Wylie.”

“Okay.”

“And he’s shown up, just the other night, outside of one of her friend’s houses, like it was just a coincidence, but this was clear across town.”

“So he would have had to follow her there, that’s your thinking?”

“I guess.”

“He’s got a car?”

I shrugged. “I’m guessing yes, but I don’t know.”

“What’s she said to him? Your daughter. Angie, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t think she’s told him to drop dead or anything. She’s not like that. But she’s probably given him the brush-off, bordered on rude. When she thinks it’s him calling her cell, she doesn’t answer. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have gotten the message by now.”

“Some people often don’t read the signals very well.”

I looked out the window. We were approaching the Oakwood exit, and from the highway you could see the hundreds of new suburban homes, each one barely distinguishable from the next.