A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) (29 page)

"Hard to swallow?"

She nodded. "I'm feeling lost. Michael turns out to be dead. The bogeyman of half my life turns out to be nothing. This guy Ferrin…I don't even know who he is, but it turns out he's the one who wants to kill me. Then Jim gets a call this morning and he won't tell me what's happening, just mumbles something about people having connections, making life hard for us. What's going on, Marty?"

I gave her the rundown I'd offered to Julie and intercepted many of the same questions. And, like Julie, she had the same kind of controlled dismay on her face.

"Listen, I know it seems like we're starting over again, but we're not." I said. "We thought we knew who we were dealing with and we were wrong, which is why we were running into walls. Now we know who we're up against. Lawrence has connections. But so do we. I'll get on the horn with some friends of mine, guys in the department and the prosecutor's office who weren't any friends of Jim or Lawrence Ferrin. We'll nail them to the wall. You're not going to have to worry about any of them soon."

She gave me a wan smile, trying to look reassured for my benefit, but it had been another pep talk. And we both knew it.

Once we got up to the apartment, Julie gave Amanda a hug and got her settled in. I camped out in the office and made some calls to find out what I could about Kransky's predicament, Jim Ferrin's current status in the world, and what--if anything--anyone knew about his son. But either the old man's reach was longer than I thought or there just wasn't anything to know, because no one had any answers for me. I sighed in disgust and went back out to the main room. The two were on opposite ends of the couch, talking. I looked in the refrigerator for something to drink but the inside of the thing was white, cold, and empty.

"Since you've been with me for the last day and a half, I think I know the answer to this," I called to Julie, "but you don't have anything to drink do you?"

She looked over. "I don't cook."

"I...never mind," I said. "We still have drinks in the car, right? In the cooler?"

She shot me a look.

"Ah, of course we do. I'll be right back. Lock the door after me."

They waved and I headed downstairs.

. . .

"You see Singer, yet?" Jackson said. "Or Jailbird?"

Taylor held his phone in one hand, a pair of Zeiss binoculars in the other, scanning the parking lot across the street. He spoke without putting them down. "No. And if the old man hears you say Jailbird, he'll cut your balls off."

"Sorry," Jackson said without a hint of apology. He was eating pistachios and Taylor could hear him cracking the shells over the phone. "I was referring to Target One, Sergeant Taylor."

"Don't be an asshole. Okay, there's Singer. He just came out of the building."

"He leaving?"

A pause. "No. Looks like he's screwing around with the car. Anything on your end?"

"Nothing."

They held the line open while Taylor kept the binoculars locked on the parking lot. A minute passed, with nothing but the sounds of chewing filling the line.

"Jackson, could you please put the phone down while you eat? You sound like a fucking cow."

"Yes, SIR. Right away, sir--hey, hey."

"You got something?"

"Hell, yes. Target One pulling up to the loading dock, plain as day. White panel van, red logo on the side."

Taylor tossed the binoculars on the passenger's seat and started the truck. "It's go time. Give me five, then drop the hammer on Jailbird. Let's get done with this shit."

. . .

I pulled out the cooler full of drinks that I could thank for starting my amorous romp with Julie, then looked around inside. My car was full of the crap that seems to accumulate on any trip: used tissues, crumpled up receipts, a soda can or two, gum wrappers. I put the cooler down and started scooping the garbage and shoving it in a bag. I wasn't much good as an investigator; the least I could do is keep my car clean.

I was on my knees on the passenger side, trying to reach a plastic cup that was maddeningly out of reach when the whole car bucked and shook, accompanied by the scream of metal on metal. My head smacked against the bottom of the dash and stars shot across my vision, but I had my gun halfway out of the holster as I scrambled backwards and away from the car.

An old GMC was half-in, half-out of the space next to mine. The part that was half-in was actually in
to
the back fender of my car and had lifted it about eight inches off the ground. A guy hopped out of the GMC. Short, trim, close-cropped dark hair sprinkled with gray.

"Shit, man," he said, looking at my fender. "Damn."

I gave him a once over, then slid the gun back in its holster and came around to the other side. I stared at the side of my car. I was too amazed to say anything at first: I had driven almost three hundred miles the day before without getting hit by so much as a mosquito. I pull into a parking lot in Arlington and someone causes two thousand dollars worth of bodywork to my car. I looked at the monstrous truck.

"What the hell?" I said. "I know that thing is big, but you weren't even close."

The guy closed his door and bent down to look at the damage, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker. "Don't look too bad. You pull the fender out right there, bet you could still drive the thing. Here, let's give it a shot."

"Hey, don't touch that," I said. "We have to call the insurance company."

"Sorry, friend," the guy said, placid. It looked like his pulse had barely lifted a beat despite having pushed his bumper a foot into my car. "No insurance. I mean, I'm sorry and all, but you can drive it, right?"

I took a closer look at the guy. He had sweat on his upper lip and smelled heavily of the kind of faux-aftershave body spray they sell cheap at the drugstore. The way he held himself, the set of his shoulders, looked familiar and bothered me. "You have any ID?"

He looked surprised. "I'm not going to give you my license, man. I can pay cash, if you want. What do you say?"

"I don't need cash," I said. "I need a name. And you're going to give it to me."

"Fuck that," he said, looking angry. But with a trace of a smile at the same time. The arrogance, the overall look...something clicked. I reached for my gun.

Things happened fast. I heard the deep-throated roar of a big engine from across the street and glanced over to see a blue Mustang rocket into the far side of the parking lot. In that second, a fist caught me on the side of the face, above the cheekbone. The guy was carrying brass knuckles, a roll of quarters, something. It felt like a bat wrapped in blanket. Which is to say, soft but not nearly soft enough. I bounced off the trunk of my car and slid to the ground. I could hear, but things were going black real fast.

I felt, rather than heard, the slim figure crouch next to me. Lips moved close to my ear. "Name's Taylor, asshole."

And then I was out.

. . .

He hadn't wanted to hit her, but there wasn't much time.

He'd made the big GMC easily, squatting in the parking lot across the street like a tank. But his father would've sent more than one of his flunkies to handle the job. So there was a second car. Probably driven by the guy he'd spotted wandering around GW's campus trying to look like a student or a parent, but looking exactly like what he was: an ex-cop.

So, with Amanda out cold, he put his gun on the older one, the lawyer. She, at least, cooperated, and both were wrapped like Christmas presents in under a minute. He drug them into the bedroom, then ran back out to the foyer, leaving the front door unlocked. Eyes darting, he scanned the little hall. There was a utility closet to one side of the elevator. The lock was stubborn, but he had the door open in a few seconds and ducked inside. The smell of bleach and orange-scented disinfectant filled his nose as he crouched in the dark, watching through a crack in the door. He heard and felt the rumbling of the shaft gears long before the elevator door opened.

It was the clown from the campus, just like he'd thought, coming out of the elevator holding something in both hands like a gun, but smaller. A Taser. So, his father wanted him alive. He smiled and waited for the idiot to move into the apartment, then slipped his gun into its holster, pulled out a Benchmade folding knife, and followed. Might as well make this one quiet.

. . .

I came-to feeling like my head was split in half. Cinders and chunks of asphalt ground into my back, so I guessed I was still in the parking lot. One leg was bent underneath me and after a second I could tell I was under the bumper of my own car, so I hadn't been moved.

Weak, I inched my way from underneath the car and unwound my leg from its pretzel shape. The motion made my head wobble painfully, too much, and I puked to the side. I groaned and pawed my way to my feet, using the bumper as a crutch.

The GMC was gone. I held my watch up, trying to move my head as little as possible. Not twenty minutes had passed since I'd come down from Julie's rented condo. A couple quick pats on the way up told me what I didn't want to know. I groaned. Gun, wallet, and keys: all gone. I was dead in the water.

Or maybe just dead, depending on what was waiting for me. I felt stupid and reckless, angry at myself for being taken in the parking lot so easily. I limped to the entrance of the apartment, trying not to panic. There was no one in the lobby and I hurried to the elevator.

It opened at Julie's floor. I hurried across the foyer and listened at her door.

Nothing.

I pushed the door wide and saw nothing in the hall. I took a sniff, hoping not to smell cordite or something worse, then padded down the hall into the living room.

Face-down on the carpet in front of the fireplace where Julie and I had made love just hours ago was a large man, a white guy in a black pea-coat. A full moon of blood was spread into the carpet beneath him, originating from his throat, which had been slashed. One arm was bent awkwardly under his body. I searched him quickly, keeping half an eye and ear out for someone coming out of the bedroom or office.

The guy had a .38 stainless Smith and Wesson still in a shoulder rig, a speed-loader in a pocket of the windbreaker, fifty-four bucks in a wallet with no ID, and a cell phone. A handful of pistachios rattled around in the other pocket. I filched the money and the phone and felt a hell of a lot better with a gun in my hand. Wincing a little at the blood, I gave his face the once-over, but didn't recognize him at first. White, mid-forties, broad in the face and the gut. Then I thought about how the guy who had slugged me had looked familiar and some things clicked into place.

I left him and headed down the back hallway, feeling sick. The office was clear, but I almost lost it when I saw a body on the bed. Then I saw movement.

It was Julie. A ream of duct tape bound her head and foot, wrapped around her wrists and ankles sloppily. Another length of it covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide, the whites showing, and she was yelling or screaming behind the tape. I shoved the gun in a back pocket and ripped the tape away.

She gasped and started crying. "Oh, God. Marty."

I worked on the rest of the tape, having to cut it with my teeth to get it started, and ripped it away frantically. I finally got it off her and then wrapped Julie in my arms as she shuddered and cried. I stroked her hair and patted her back until the shaking stopped. She pushed me away. Tears streaked her face, but her voice was steady.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," she said. She grabbed my head with her hands. "You've got to get that bastard."

"Was it Lawrence?"

She closed her eyes, opened them. "It must be. He kicked through the door right after you left. He had Amanda tie me up, then dragged both of us back here, like he was waiting for you. Amanda tried to make a run for it, but he hit her. She looked out cold to me."

"Then someone came in?"

She started to shake again. "I was so scared, Marty. I thought it was you and I tried to scream. He was out in the living room and I heard a fight. He came back a minute later, covered in blood. God, I thought it was yours."

I kissed her. "Not me. I'm right here. Little worse for wear, but alive. He took Amanda?"

She nodded. "He carried her out like a sack."

I grabbed her hand. "Okay, I'm going to need you to keep it together. The guy whose blood was all over Lawrence is out on the living room floor. We're going to head outside and we'll get you someplace safe."

"What about Amanda?" she asked, then her eyes widened as she took a good look at my face. "And, oh my god, what happened to you?"

"It's all wrapped up in the same thing," I said. "We were set up, but so was someone else. They just didn't know it."

"Where's Amanda, then?"

"I'm not sure," I said, pulling her to her feet. "But I think I know someone who has a good idea."

. . .

I got Julie outside, shielding her from the body of the guy on the floor of the apartment. She was a tough lady, and as both a prosecutor and public defender had seen more than her share of gruesome crime scenes, but those had been photos. The real thing was different and not an experience she needed half an hour after being assaulted and tied up by a lunatic.

"Now what?" she asked, hugging herself as we stood on the sidewalk outside the complex.

"I need some room to maneuver," I said. I tried to keep my voice steady, but every second that passed we were losing ground on Lawrence...and whatever he wanted to do to Amanda.