Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“What about Jasmine? What about your baby?” He got up too, went to her, took her hands. “What about them?”

“It’s so unfair.”

“Yeah, well you know how that goes. Besides, we don’t know for certain they had anything to do with that. It could just be coincidence.”

“Norton said he doesn’t believe in coincidence,” Maggie said. “I don’t either, not anymore.”

“If you want to raise Jasmine and your baby here, you have to forget it.”

“I hate it.”

“I’m sorry, it’s the best I can come up with.”

“What if he doesn’t go for the deal?”

“He will.” He looked into her eyes, gave her hands a squeeze. “You’ll see. He’ll think you’re doing it for Margo’s money. That’s something he can understand. It’ll be over, really over.”

“I really, really hate it.” She let go of his hands, backed away, slumped on the sofa. “But I guess I don’t have any choice.” She looked fragile.

“I know it seems lousy, but sometimes you have to go with the flow. I’ll see Striker first thing in the morning. Then you can get on with living your new life.”

He came over to the couch, sat next to her and put a hand on her stomach. “I don’t feel anything.”

“You will soon.”

“It’s going to change your life, this baby.”

“My life’s already changed.”

“Yeah, I guess it has.”

The front door burst open and Jasmine and Sonya poured in. They were home from school. “Girl’s night out,” they squealed in unison.

“What?”

“Sonya and I decided you and me could go to the mall with Gay and Sonya,” Jasmine said. “We’re gonna have dinner, then the movies after.”

“Oh, we decided, did we?” Maggie said as Gay came through the front door. “And it’s you and I, not you and me.”

“Yeah, me and Sonya. So, you should hurry.”

“Alright.” Maggie threw her hands up in mock surrender.

“I’ll get my coat.” Jasmine ran into her bedroom with Sonya right behind.

“Do you have a cell phone?” Gordon asked Gay.

She patted her purse. “Got an iPhone. I take it everywhere.”

“Keep an eye on the rearview. If you see a black BMW or anything else that looks suspicious, call 911.”

“You’re not coming?” Maggie said.

“Girls night out,” Gordon said. “Besides, I’ve got a call to make. You know, to set up that meeting for tomorrow.”

“What meeting?” Gay said.

“We’re ready,” Jasmine said as the girls came out of the bedroom.

“She can tell you all about it when there’s no little ears around,” Gordon said.

“I hate it when adults do that,” Sonya said.

“Tough break.” Gordon saw them out. The sun was hanging over Catalina Island, twenty-six miles away. It reminded him of Norton’s mother and Wolfe’s wife and son. Nobody should get away with murder.

He got Nakano’s number from information, made an appointment with Striker for 10:00 the next day. Then he stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, just for a minute. He opened them as the sun was going down. Hungry, he decided to walk up to Johnny Rocket’s and get a burger. He liked the ’50s art deco decor, the jukeboxes on the tables, the young crowd and the good food.

Horace sat outside at the picnic tables in front of the Taco Bell on Fourth Street in Long Beach and watched the sunset as the cars went by. On the table in front of him was his usual, five tacos and a large Pepsi, but he couldn’t eat. Half a day had passed since he’d talked to Ma on the phone and he was still seething. Someone had turned him into the IRS. It burned him. With every fiber in his being, he wanted to know who’d done it.

Lucky he thought fast. Telling Ma he was going to Mexico with Sadie bought him a few days, but it wasn’t enough. Once those IRS guys got their teeth into you, they never let go.

Maybe Striker could help him out. Those Jap business types he worked for must have plenty of high powered accountants on their payroll. Already feeling better, he chomped down on a taco. But that woman better be dead the next time he talked to him. He didn’t want to have to explain why she was still walking around if he was gonna ask him for help with one of those accountants.

He jumped from the table, grabbed the bag of tacos, gulped at the Pepsi on his way to the van. He could be at her place in thirty minutes. He ate as he drove, his mind on fire. He saw himself knocking at her door. She opens it. He pushes her inside, sticks her with the knife, then he’s outta there.

Then the mind pictures screeched to slow motion. What if the kid was there? Could he do another? What choice did he have? His earlier plan had been to sneak in around midnight, do the woman and get out of the apartment without anyone the wiser. But now, with this tax thing, he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. He wanted to call Striker as soon as possible, get the feds off his back.

In Huntington Beach, he parked on PCH, got out of the car, walked around the fenced complex to the bike trail that ran along the beach side of the condos. It was dark now.

A couple of kids, teenagers, a boy and girl, passed him on Rollerblades. He turned and watched as they zoomed along the concrete trail. Young love, he understood that. It’s what he had with Sadie. Somebody pumping a mountain bike was coming fast, whizzed by the blading teens. In an instant it was past. Horace spun around, grabbed onto the fence and scrabbled over it, landing like a cat on the other side.

He darted a look around. Nobody had seen. He stood and started for her condo, swinging his arms as he walked, as if he had every right in the world to be where he was.

Her condo was dark. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder. Still no joy. He had the picks out and the door open in seconds.

“Anybody home?” He pulled the Beretta out of the shoulder holster. “Anyone home?”

Again, no answer.

He holstered the gun, pulled the knife out of his hip pocket. He pushed the button, flicked it open, closed it, did it again. There was nothing for it but to wait. Sooner or later she’d come home and that would be it. He closed and flicked the blade open again.

Elvis was playing on the jukebox as Gordon left his tip on the table. He’d had the burger and fries, finished up with apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Seldom did he eat so much, but tonight he was ravenous. His emotions had run the gamut the last couple of days, from the unbelievable low when he thought he’d discovered Maggie dead behind the Whale, to the exaltation that shocked through him when he discovered her at the other end of his gunsight only last night.

And he’d spent the day as a cop. Something he hadn’t done in years and it wasn’t over. Tomorrow he would face down Larry Striker and make everything okay for Maggie. He’d never felt so alive.

Outside, he inhaled the night air, looked to the heavens, sighted the Big Dipper, the only constellation he could identify. A slight breeze was blowing as he jogged across PCH at the Main Street light. He waved to the security guard, got a nod and a smile back.

He walked along the fence, the bike trail and the beach on one side, the walkway through the condos on the other. He ran his fingers through the chain link, like a kid would a picket fence on his way to school just before summer vacation. He felt like a kid, too. And it was a change he liked. Somewhere along the line he’d blinked and gotten old.

Close to Maggie’s condo now, something moved in the bushes outside the front door. Gordon stopped, hand still on the fence. Often times he sat on his front porch and watched the cat from next door stalk a bird across the street at the beach. The animal could sit forever without moving a hair. He was that cat now as he took silent breaths, waiting, watching.