Dangerous Times (19 page)

Tommy marched over to him. He lifted him by
the throat and said, “Tell me where the money is,” thick fingers
putting the pressure on.

Kirk’s hands fumbled blindly over the
countertop behind him. In a fit of desperation, his arm swung
around. With it, a flash of steel was followed by the crack of
bone.

Tommy reeled and toppled back onto the
floor, the scissors driven deeper into his skull.

Kirk collapsed down against the cabinets,
chest heaving, pain racing through him. Eyes on the lifeless body
that jerked across the floor like a windup toy gone berserk.

Chapter
55

Kirk stood at the bathroom mirror, dressed
in the clothes he had taken from the closet: brown suit, beige
shirt and maroon tie. Shoes were a little too tight, he thought.
Then using the scalpel he had found in a drawer, he carefully
sliced the bandages from his aching head.

“Damn it,” he mumbled. There was dried blood
in his hair. Kirk turned the water on and ducked his head under the
arched faucet. The cool stream soothed the ache, and a pinwheel of
reddish water swirled into the drain.

He grabbed a towel and patted his hair,
telling himself he had to get out of here before someone comes in
and sees the body. Tommy Shee, he thought as he left the bathroom.
Where had he come from, and what was he after—money, Kirk
remembered him saying.

He avoided the pool of blood as he passed
the body. On his way to the door he noticed a bulky manila envelope
with a property list on it. He hurriedly dumped out the contents.
Kirk slid the wallet and phone into the inside pocket of his suit
jacket. Lifting the watch he checked its accuracy with the wall
clock: 2:55. It was a match. But day or night, Kirk asked himself.
He turned to the window and saw the darkness flooded with mist.

He put the watch on his wrist. Then heading
for the door, all he wanted to do was get himself home.

Chapter
56

Nurse Betty Ruiz was in Earl Sinclair’s
room. His parents had called her in because of the blood that had
seeped through their son’s bandages.

The boy lay heavily sedated, motionless
while the R.N. cleansed his battered face. When done, she dressed
it with a fresh layer of ointment, gauze and adhesive.

Earl’s parents thanked her.

“Oh,” Mrs. Sinclair said. She pointed at the
wall. “Just before you came in, we heard some noise next door.”

“I’ll take a look,” the little nurse
answered as she left the room.

A moment later, the Sinclairs heard Betty
Ruiz’ shrill cry for security.

Chapter
57

Kirk stood in a dark patch of fog. He wanted
to go home but didn’t know where it was. He couldn’t remember what
it looked like. Couldn’t even remember if he lived with
someone.

He moved closer to the back wall of the
hospital, into a misty pool of light. Kirk pulled his wallet and
studied the driver’s license. The photo looked like him. But the
name, Frank Lester Moore. It meant nothing to him. And the Los
Angeles address: Armacost Avenue.

Don’t panic, Kirk told himself. He’d had an
accident and his memory was clouded. His name was Frank Moore and
he must be in Los Angeles. Okay then, he thought, he would have to
find someone who could tell him how to get to Armacost Avenue.

Kirk pocketed the wallet. Phone, he
realized. He would call the operator and ask if she knew where—

Alongside him, a rear exit door clanked
open. It swung out slowly toward him, and a pistol crept out at its
edge. There was only one thing in Kirk’s mind now. He had killed
Tommy Shee and had to escape this place.

He gave the door a hard shove, pinned the
wrist against the jamb and twisted the gun from it, hearing,
“Hey-hey-hey!”

The security guard kicked the door wider. 23
years old, first week on the job, and he’d had his weapon taken
from him. “Shit!” he cried out.

Rubbing at the pain in his wrist, he saw his
attacker on the run, a shadowy figure that vanished in the fog.

Chapter
58

Hicks had gotten the call from the
receptionist on his way to Bettina’s. Frank Moore, gone. Returning
to the hospital, the detective raced his car up 7th, emergency
lights igniting the mist.

“Motherfucker!” he hollered as he punched
the dash. The Art Blakey CD skipped in the player. Hicks snapped it
off and swerved into the hospital lot. He hit the brakes and came
to a stop next to a line of parked patrol cars, their headlights
left on.

Hicks added his to the foggy crime scene,
eyes on the coroner’s team, dusting the Cadillac, taking photos of
Ling’s shattered head.

Hicks slid out of the car and slammed the
door. He leaned back against the fender and massaged his forehead.
Good thing, he thought, not being here when Ling’s body was found.
Bad thing, he complained to himself, Frank Moore’s a killer on the
loose an’ everybody knows it.

Diaz strolled toward him. Hicks thinking the
sucker always looked the same: clean an’ perfect, like a pretty-boy
TV cop.

The 5’10” patrolman halted before the 6’4”
detective and said, “Sorry, we’re all out of tickets to the
circus.”

Always with the dumb-ass jive talk, Hicks
thought. “Too bad,” he said, straightening from the fender. “I was
looking forward to gettin’ a laugh outta you clowns.”

“Funny guy,” Diaz said. “You’re off duty.
What’re you doing here?”

Play nice, Hicks told himself. Get some
information outta the sucker. “Came by to visit the Sinclair kid,”
he answered. Then asked, “Waddaya got here?”

“What do you care?” Diaz said.

“Hey man, I’m a cop. Put off-duty, but that
don’t mean I can’t sniff around, maybe be of some help.”

“You, a help?” Diaz snickered. “Your friend
Burns comes on duty at eight. Wait until then, call him and he’ll
have what you need to know.”

“Diaz, please, a small favor,” Hicks said,
capping his anger. He got out the phone Ling had given him.
“Finally got myself a phone. Take the number, in case one’a you
need me for somethin’.”

The patrolman looked at him doubtfully, then
said, “Aw, what the hell.” He took out his pen and pad. Hicks
displayed the number on the phone’s screen and Diaz copied it
down.

“Thanks, man,” Hicks smiled, hoping he would
get a call if there was any news on Frank Moore.

Diaz said nothing. He turned and strolled
back to Ling’s Cadillac.

“Motherfucker,” Hicks mumbled. ‘Nother
Hispanic who’s got it in for Blacks, he said to himself.

Hicks opened his car door, leaned in, took
hold of his two-way radio and put it into his coat pocket. He then
went to Diaz’ patrol car. With its headlights glaring at the foggy
crime scene, he knew he wouldn’t be seen.

Hicks didn’t have a computer in his car. To
strangers it would expose him as a cop; and it was just as well
because a computer would get in the way of his CD player.

He didn’t want to ask anyone in the hospital
for the information, didn’t want anyone to know he was after Frank
Moore. Hicks got on Diaz’ computer, brought up Frank Lester Moore’s
driver’s license and wrote down the Los Angeles address.

Chapter
59

“And he ran off that way,” the security
guard pointed.

Hicks looked through the mist, to where it
thickened into a foggy blur of trees.

The guard leaned close to the detective and
whispered, “See anything?”

“No,” Hicks said. He turned to the youthful
pinkish face. About the same age his son would be today if he…Then
asked, “How old’re you?”

“Uh—twenty-three,” the guard answered,
surprised by the question.

“Need a favor,” Hicks said.

“Really…” The pinkish face tightened with
interest.

“Anybody question you yet about the escaped
suspect?” Hicks asked him.

“I’m supposed to go out front and answer
some questions,” the guard told him. “But I don’t know anything,
except what happened out here.”

“That’s the thing,” Hicks said. “We can’t
let anybody know what happened between you and the suspect. And
nothin’ about what’s happening now between you and me.”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“I’m on special duty for Homeland Security,”
Hicks said with a deadly serious look. “The man I’m after’s a
terrorist, an’ he’s mine, mine alone,” the detective explained.
“Other cops go chasin’ after him, the whole deal’s gonna fall apart
and get screwed up.”

“Wow…” the guard responded wide-eyed.

“Whoever questions you, you gotta say you
never saw the guy, an’ no mention of us,” Hicks repeated for him.
“Can ya do that?”

“Well, sure I can,” the guard said
confidently.

“Thanks, man,” Hicks smiled. “You’re doing
our country a favor.” The detective put his eyes on the guard’s
holster. “Leave your holster behind when you go out there,” Hicks
told him. “They’d sure ‘nough ask why it’s empty.”

“Okay,” the guard nodded, “that’s okay.”

“Wha’d the guy take from you?”

“Forty-five.”

“What else about the pistol?” Hicks wanted
to know.

“Smith & Wesson. Stainless. Model, uhh,
45…4506.”

“8-shot.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Comin’ through a doorway like you did,”
Hicks advised him, “or passin’ some open doors, like in a hall, you
keep your weapon close to the chest, not stuck out in front for
somebody to grab.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

“Could save your life,” Hicks said, becoming
impatient again, thoughts shifting to his ticket to freedom. Alone
out there on foot.

“Take care,” Hicks said as he started
away.

“You too, sir,” the security guard called
after him in a whisper. He watched the detective move off toward
the trees and disappear into the fog.

Chapter
60

The lamppost lighted the mist, and the park
bench was damp with moisture. Kirk wanted to sit, but not bad
enough to get his suit wet; wondering now what had happened to his
coat. It should have been at the hospital with the rest of his
things.

Funny though, he thought. He couldn’t
remember if he had worn a coat. He must have, in this kind of
weather.

At the far end of the bench there was a
folded newspaper sticking up out of a full trash can. Kirk went and
got it. Daily Breeze it was called, a paper he had never heard of.
He spread it open on the bench and sat.

Shoes a little too tight, he loosened the
laces. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. Why would he have bought a
pair of shoes that didn’t fit him? It was then that Kirk noticed
the stenciled print on the trash can: San Pedro Parks Dept.

He slid the front page of the newspaper out
from under him. “Jesus,” he groaned. He wasn’t in Los Angeles. What
the hell was he doing in San Pedro, in a place he had never been
before?

Operator, he reminded himself. Kirk pulled
his phone, but then decided not to make the call. He was a lost
person. Get transferred to the police—arrested for murder within
minutes, he feared.

“Damn it,” Kirk said into the mist. It had
been self-defense. Maybe if he hadn’t panicked, stayed and
explained what had happened.

The phone still in his hand, it rang.

Kirk searched the keypad. His own phone and
he didn’t know how to work it, telling himself to get it right; had
to be someone who could help him. Green button, he thought.

He connected and said Hello.

“‘Scuse me,” she yawned. “Must’a got the
wrong number.”

“Don’t hang up,” Kirk rushed, “I need
help.”

“So do I,” she said. “Been up all night with
my own troubles.”

“I’ve had an accident,” he told her. “I’m in
San Pedro and don’t know how to get home.”

“San Pedro,” she said. “You the guy in the
hospital, one with the tattoo on your arm?”

Tattoo…Tommy Shee had seen it. And Kirk saw
it again when he had put his clothes on in the hospital room. He
eyed his suit sleeve, as if trying to peer through it.

“Hey!” she snapped in his ear. “Ya still
there?”

“Sorry; yes.”

“I called to hear my husband’s messages,
thinkin’ the phone would be in his hospital envelope. So since you
must’a come back to life and grabbed Frank’s phone, I got a
question.”

“Hold it,” Kirk said. “I’m Frank, and it’s
my phone.”

“Whadda coincidence,” Ty laughed. “Frank’s
partner and ya got the same name and phone.”

“Same name?” Kirk said. “I don’t know
another Frank, and I don’t have a partner.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Ty groused. “I’m
out’n front’a his redhead’s place. Somebody’s in there. Must be
her,” she kept going. “And I don’t see my cheatin’ husband’s car
around anywheres. So why don’cha save you and me a lotta time.
Where’s Frank and the money?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”
Kirk said. “I don’t know about the money. Don’t even know how I
ended up in the hospital,” he added unhappily. “If you know
something—anything—please, tell me.”

“You’re gettin’ to me,” Ty said. “Sounds
like you could be tellin’ the truth.”

“Yes, I am,” Kirk told her.

“Must’a been the conk in the head that done
it.”

“Must have been,” he said.

“I believe you,” she sighed.

“Thank you,” Kirk said with relief.

“Since ya don’t know nothin’, I guess y’know
what that means.”

“No, what?” he asked.

She hung up on him.

“Damn it!” and he searched the keypad. He
had to get her back.

The phone rang. He connected. “Don’t hang up
on me again,” he pleaded.

“Oh, I’m—it wasn’t me,” she said. “This is
Emily. Is Frank there?”

Kirk was hopeful at the sound of the
youthful, innocent voice. “This is Frank,” he said.

Emily hung up.

Kirk stopped himself from throwing the phone
into the trash can. He returned it to his suit jacket, and he
shivered in the cold. He had to get moving, find a warm spot where
he could work on his memory.