Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

I missed him so much.

I shook my head to clear my eyes, pushing sentimental thoughts out as I parked on a side street. First I unloaded the shotgun and then reloaded its magazine, leaving the chamber empty, and slid it carefully backward by the barrel over the seat into the rear cargo space.

Taking off the Security hat, I got out of Molly and opened the hatchback to put the shotgun and vest back in their places. Then I bent over and stretched, working the kinks out before I drove back into the City. This time I ignored the Sausalito route and stuck to the freeway. I was feeling too good about saving the kid and the five grand in my pocket to want to darken the day again with negativity.

Five grand. That’s what Mira had said. My cop sense prickled again, but refused to disgorge. My subconscious churned and bubbled. I let it be for the moment. Likely I would be processing this weird little situation for some time, but I had plenty of open cases on my mental books from back in the cop days. Not everything got solved, or when it did, lots of details never surfaced. I gave a deliberate mental shrug and tried to put it behind me.

Pulling out, I hung a U and accelerated, enjoying the press of the seat against my back and the nimble sensation of Molly’s tires on the road. I felt a bit let down now that I had no Audi to follow, no excuse to shatter traffic laws for a higher purpose.

The city skyline from this side was gorgeous as the overcast had lifted and broken in places, patches of sunlight pushing through and shining on the grimy bay and crowded landscape. Seabirds perched on the Golden Gate, watching the endless traffic. As I exited the bridge over Fort Point, a pelican dove and came up with a struggling fish, flipping it into his mouth, and my stomach growled. The bagel and cup of coffee had long since vanished.

On the other side of the bridge the restaurants of the Marina District called to me but I ignored them. Parking there was hell anyway, the prices high, and besides, Cole lived there, and I wanted to forget about him right now. A few minutes more would bring me back to Molly’s own space in the cozy Mission District. I speed-dialed Udupi Palace and put in a delivery order for curry, betting I would be at my office in time to meet the runner and pay in cash. Mickey wouldn’t have enough left from the twenty I’d fronted him.

I made it to Molly’s parking space just ahead of the scooter, paid and grabbed the bag, and then knocked on the walkout. When Mickey opened it I slapped his reaching hand, and then locked the door by habit behind me.

“Come upstairs and eat like a human being,” I said. “And afterward, you go home and shower. If I can smell you over the curry, you’re pretty rank.”

“Okay, boss. You gonna get paid for this job?”

“Of course,” I said lightly as I climbed two flights to the top floor, Mickey huffing behind. “I got a check.”

“Hope it’s good,” he grunted.

“Don’t I always take care of you?”

Mickey mumbled something under his breath.

“What? I didn’t catch that.”

“Didn’t mean for you to, boss.”

Probably something juvenile, sexual, or both. “Open the window and sit down.” I pointed at the back side of the house, then opened the opposite door to the balcony that overlooked the street. Between the two I got a nice airflow that kept Mickey’s B.O. away. Only then did I set the food on the kitchenette table and hand my helper the Vindaloo, his favorite. Containers of Basmati rice and Mulligatawny soup came out next, and two packets of naan. For me, the butter chicken.

It came with biodegradable bowls, plates and cutlery. San Francisco was serious about its environmentalism.

Over fantastic South Asian flavors, I swore Mickey to secrecy again and told him about the case, leaving out only my wayward and unrelated thoughts. When I was finished with my food and story, Mickey said, “Let me see the check.”

“You’ll get paid, Mickey. Don’t worry.”

He made an impatient motion. “I know that, boss. Just show me.”

I unfolded the precious piece of paper and set it carefully on the table where he could see, but kept a finger on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. It was just that he had curry all over his hands and his sweatshirt front.

Mickey wiped his fingers and then fished the business card out of his pocket, setting it down next to the check. “Notice anything?”

I stared at it a moment, then rotated it to line up with the check. “The handwriting on the card...the number is Mira’s. They match the check. But the words...almost, but not quite.” I picked it up and brought it in close to my eyes. “And the pen and pressure is slightly different.

“So?” Mickey stared expectantly, triumph that he had gotten ahead of me written on his face.

“So if Mira passed it to Cole, why wouldn’t it all be in her handwriting? And the words are not written in Cole’s hand either. Did she lie? Who would write on the card except her or Cole?” I sat back.

“You know what?” Mickey pulled out a sheaf of papers and unfolded them. “Her home phone records...” He looked them over. I could see notes scribbled up and down the right margins. “Calls to the alarm center just like she said, but...” He tapped the marked entries.

I craned my neck to look. “Five seconds. Seven seconds.”

“Yeah. Too short to be asking for the info like she said.”

“But long enough to claim it was a wrong number, maybe chat for a few seconds, but most people don’t really have a good sense of time. She wanted to make the calls to support her story, but she didn’t plan well enough to make sure she stayed on the line an appropriate amount of time.”

Mickey nodded.

“Good work.”

“What do we do about it?”

I pressed my lips together. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? But...” he trailed off.

“But what? What have we got? A strong hunch? The cops will just laugh at us. I can pass this observation on to a friend in the department, but if I do that I’ll have to explain everything, such as why I didn’t turn the girl over to them at the warehouse. And how do we know the kidnappers weren’t threatening Mira the whole time? They could have given her a script to run through, and this might have been her trying to deviate from it, to gum up their plan? No, Mickey. We saved the girl,”—I was feeling charitable right now so I included him—“and we got paid. That’s it. Mira might have been dirty somehow, but three kidnappers are dead, and I never got the impression she wasn’t genuinely frightened for Talley.”

“Okay. You’re the boss. Mind if I keep digging?”

“Off the clock, I don’t care what you do.”

“Aww...”

“You’re lucky I keep you in high-end graphics chips, Mickey. You could never afford those on your own.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.”

“I’ll be giving you a bonus on this one anyway, Mick my man. The handwriting...that was a good catch.”

Mickey beamed.

“And what about the Audi? Did you run it?”

“Dead end. Stolen just this morning over in Hayward.”

I made a disappointed sound. “Oh, well.” I wiped my hands on a paper napkin. “Now go shower and put on some clean clothes. You stink.”

His face fell and he scratched self-consciously under one arm, then stood up with sad eyes.

I felt like I’d kicked a puppy. “Sorry, but it’s true. You’ve been down there for days. Go on. Go home, say hi to your mom for me, and tell her you did a good job, and you made some money. Come back tomorrow. I’ll clean the food up.” Suddenly I was desperate to have him gone and the place to myself for a while.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I heard him shuffle down the steep stairs to the bottom level.