Cicero's Dead (21 page)

“Reggie?” No response. I could hear Clipper move
closer to the office. “Reggie!”

“Must be out,” said a second voice.

“No, he’ll be in his office, writing,” declared
Clipper. “Thinks he’s Dostoevski.”

Before I could move, he leaned in, the light from
the hallway framing him, creating a grey silhouette. I held my breath, sweat
running down my face, trigger finger twitching against the cold steel in my
hand. Clipper turned around and went back into the hallway.

“He has to be downstairs,” he said.

“Loco tio,” said one of the bikers.

I could hear the three of them push through the
door, then the creaking of the stairs as they descended into the labyrinth.

Bobby moved closer, his face, too, dripping with
sweat. “Now,” he said hoarsely.

I grabbed the computer and we hotfooted it out the
back door. Outside, the air was crisp and cool, it felt like heaven as our
sweat dried quickly. In the distance, halfway down the hill, I could see
Bobby’s blue van; a comforting bulk. I carefully placed the computer inside one
of the cabinets. Quickly, we changed back into our civilian clothes, as if that
would somehow erase the memory of what had transpired.

Nobody followed us. I tried to imagine the look on
Arnold’s face when he discovered his uncle lying there on the cold stone floor,
his skull cracked open. We drove back to Beachwood and descended back toward
Franklin. I was reassured by the sound of Bobby’s engine, the gears changing,
the throttle first loud then soft.

“Make the left on Franklin and keep straight for a
couple’a miles.”

Bobby nodded and we cruised on in silence. Somehow
the nighttime foot traffic seemed completely fascinating. It was so good to be
off that infernal hillside. After a while, Bobby spoke, “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“We gotta get a big breakfast. I want the
blueberry pancakes.”

“Make the left on Melrose.”

I guided Bobby through the same residential
neighborhood I’d driven with Brad the night Ron told me his story; it was a
bitter, hollow feeling. I looked at the charming bungalows, small yards with
glowing porch lights, the unattached garages and palm trees that floated upward
like sentinels.

Finally, Bobby rumbled onto the 101 and headed
south, turning off on 4th Street. We drove past my office and continued on
through the warehouses and the new condos until we came to Traction Street. We
parked and went into Abel’s Market Diner. It was just past 3:00 a.m. As always,
Bobby was true to his word and ordered a complete heart attack breakfast. So
did I. He plied the jukebox with an endless stream of quarters; each song sounded
better than the one before: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Creedence, the Chi-Lites and Stevie
Wonder.

Bobby nodded slowly. “I don’t remember cracking
his skull.”

I didn’t say anything. It was necessary.

Chapter III – Never
Ask Anything Stupid

We drove back to my office,
parked around the corner and went in the front door. The building was deserted
but, just in case, we avoided the elevator and took the stairs. The janitors
never leave the air on and it was stuffy, smelling of cleaning products. We all
but stumbled into my office, extreme fatigue now wrapping its arms around us as
our adrenaline took a temporary holiday. In my line of work, it was always
temporary. I flipped on the lights and checked my email --
 
spam advertising narcotic pain pills and
penile enhancers. Neither of which I needed.

Bobby made some more coffee and I washed my face
with cold water. Sleep was calling and I was having trouble ignoring it. I sat
down on the sofa and Bobby handed me a cup of tar.

He grinned. “If that don’t keep you awake, nothing
will.” I nodded, looked at it and put it down. That’s the last thing I remember
until Bobby shook me awake. “Nick. Nick. Wake up, bro.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him, dragging a
hand across my tired face. “What time is it?”

“7 a.m.”

“Shit!” I sat up with a start.

“We both passed out. Sorry, Boss.”

“Not your fault. We needed it.”

“Heard that.”

“Is there any coffee?”

“Yeah. Just made a fresh pot.”

He handed me a cup that looked much less like tar.
“Thanks, bro.”

“So what now?”

“Gimme a few to collect my thoughts.”

“Sure.”

He sat down at my desk and flipped on the flat
screen TV against the back wall. CNN. Trust Bobby. Any time, any place. Dude’s
gotta have his news.

Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was the fatigue
I couldn’t shake, but I felt a certain satisfaction with everything that had
transpired. Dominique had, in fact, committed suicide and Cicero was dead,
although his death was way disturbing. Tom and Ernie had kidnapped James
Halladay. I didn’t know where he was, but I did know that this game was far
from over, especially as Clipper had, by now, discovered Reggie’s body and the
missing computer. He would be in a rage, I assumed, as we’d transgressed his
inner sanctum, were responsible for the death of his beloved uncle, and had
proof that he was a psychotic killer. Richie was still missing, although
presumably not far from Clipper. I imagined him hiding out in some Skid Row
hotel, wired and paranoid, staring out from behind the curtains, waiting for
his boyfriend to return. Jade was in danger as were all of us, including my
steadfast wife.

“Let’s head to your place. Brad can set up the
computer and transfer the surveillance footage onto a flash drive.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t show it to Jade.”

“Yeah.”

We grabbed our things and headed out the door. I
turned to lock it and that’s when I saw the corner of a manila envelope, tucked
under the mat. I picked it up and looked at my name that was written across the
front in beautiful flowing letters. I didn’t need to look inside to know that
it was from Clipper. My heart raced and instinctively I reached for my gun.
Bobby pulled his, and we both listened intently, but we were alone. I put my
.45 away and examined the envelope.

“Careful, bro. It could have Anthrax or something
in it.”

Taking out a small knife, I carefully opened it.
There was no powder, just several sheets of paper that I unfolded.
 
The first page bore the following
inscription written in Clipper’s stylized flowing script:

He That Troubleth his Own House Shall Inherit the
Wind

And the Fool Shall Be Servant to the Wise of Heart

Bobby was reading over my shoulder. “It’s from the
Bible.
Inherit the Wind
.”

“Yeah. He’s given to drama, that’s for sure.”

I unlocked the door and we went back inside. For
good measure, I closed and locked it.

The second page bore an acronym, NAAS, written in
large block letters, arranged diagonally from the upper left to the lower right
hand corner of the second page.

N~ever

A~sk

A~nything

S~tupid

“Sage advice.”

Bobby nodded. “Yeah, but creepy, bro.”

The third page was an elaborate pen and ink
drawing of what appeared to be an abandoned airfield. The four cardinal points
of the compass were sketched in. A runway in the form of two triangles, the
smaller a mile or so beyond the larger, occupied the top half of the page.
Crumbling buildings drawn with Arnold’s typical care and attention to realistic
detail suggested a once thriving installation. Sand dunes trailed off to the
right and mountains loomed in the distance.

The lower half of the page was divided into four
sections, depicting facsimiles of World War II single prop fighter planes. Each
drawing was captioned with the name of the aircraft.
 
Two American planes, a P-51A Mustang and
a Lockheed P-38 Lightning. The British Submarine Spitfire and the notorious
German Messerschmitt Bf 109. As an adjunct to the planes themselves, Clipper
included cross-sections of the engines, fuselages and cockpits.

“He loves to break things down, huh?” said Bobby.

“At least they’re not human body parts this time.”

CICERO (106 BC – 43 BC) was written across
the top of the fourth page. Below it were three quotations apparently
attributed to the Roman statesman:

Art is Born of the Observation and Investigation
of Nature

He Only Employs his Passion Who Can Make No Use of
his Reason

In Men of the Highest Character and Noblest Genius
There Is to Be

Found an Insatiable Desire for Honor, Command,
Power, and Glory

“What’s this for?” asked Bobby.

“My guess is that Clipper’s referring to himself.
A kind of self-portrait.”

“Fucking narcissist.”

The fifth page was best viewed by turning it on
its side. There was a wall of boulders in the shape of a soft hyperbola
shielding what appeared to be a storage bunker constructed of brick or masonry.
The roof, which inclined upward to a V, was crumbling at its peak and the
entrance, which was large and open to the elements, rose to an arch. There was
nothing visible on the inside.

The sixth page was disturbing. Skillfully drawn,
naked, middle-aged James Halladay lay hog-tied on his stomach, hands and feet
strained up into the air. The rope was looped around his throat, forcefully
arching his head up and back. The realism was striking -- his broad hairy back,
fleshy buttocks, deltoids straining. Halladay’s only visible eye, round and
birdlike, protruded from the side of his head.

“Torture position,” said Bobby. “If you don’t keep
your head back, you strangle and it doesn’t take long.”

I fanned through the remaining pages. The seventh
page was bizarrely comical. The inscription read, Soul of the Neanderthal.
 
Beneath it, Tom and Ernie, both eyeless,
complete with prominent brow ridges and dressed in loin cloths, crouched on
their haunches around a small fire. Tom held a stick with which he stirred the
embers, and Ernie’s large chest and belly were tattooed. Tom had an erection,
which angled upward against his loincloth. The drawing, while largely
realistic, had an element of caricature and it was hard not to laugh.

“Jesus, bro,” chuckled Bobby.

The eighth page read:

Carrot Capital of the World.
 
Sunshine 365 Days a Year.

The ninth page was equally brief:

Great Place to Raise the Kids

“I’ve heard of this place.”

“Use that one and Google it,” I gestured.

Bobby sat down at Audrey’s computer and typed in,
“Carrot Capital of the World.” Holtville, California came up immediately and he
printed out directions.

Meanwhile, I woke my machine up and typed in,
“Abandoned World War II Airfields, California.” A few clicks more and I found
“Abandoned & Little-Known Airfields; California: El Centro Area.”

“Check this out.”

He came over and watched as I scrolled through the
website that told the story, complete with black-and-white photographs, of a
series of abandoned airstrips which had been built in the Imperial Valley
during World War II. Scrolling down, I came to a section describing the
Holtville Naval Auxiliary Air Station.

“N.A.A.S,” said Bobby.

“Never ask anything stupid.”

After the war, the Navy had relinquished its
interest. Over the years, it had served as a civilian airport, a tuberculosis
sanitarium, and a staging area for crop dusting. Now it was completely
abandoned except for periodic drag races and occasional war games. Most of the
buildings were torn down but the ammunition bunker, depicted by Clipper, was
still standing. His drawing was a close replica of the website’s photograph.
The airfield was approximately eight miles east of Holtville, which was near El
Centro, a few miles north of the Mexican border.

It was 8:16 when we climbed back into Bobby’s
van.
 
“You mind driving, Boss?”

“Sure.”

“I wanna get some zees before we get there.”

“Okay and I’m gonna stop by your place to check on
everyone.”

“We’re also gonna need some heavy firepower.”

“Yeah, I guess we will.”

By the time we pulled onto the 10, he was asleep,
snoring quietly. Relaxed now, he looked even sadder than when he was awake. I
hadn’t stopped to think about the psychological toll this could be taking on
him, and wondered if his PTSD would be aggravated because of everything that
had gone down. He was still snoring when I pulled up in front of his place.

“Bobby.” He didn’t stir. “Bobby, we’re here.”

Again, no response so I shook him. He exploded to
life, his left arm pinned me to the seat, his Bowie knife in his right. This
time he was all the way gone, his 1000 yard stare drilled into me. His breath,
hard, jittery. I knew better then to struggle and remained calm.

“Dude, relax, it’s me.”

The strength is his arm was incredible. I couldn’t
move. He brought the knife up to my throat and that was when I really started
to worry. He face, drenched in sweat. His jaw, clenched tight. His eyes looked
at me, but saw nothing. He was back in Nam, facing down the NVA. Suddenly the
passenger door was yanked open and Cassady’s Beretta pressed hard into the back
of his neck.

“Freeze, soldier,” she hissed.

It was either her voice or the familiarity of cold
gunmetal pressing into him that brought him around, but his eyelids twitched
and the 1000 yard stare slowly dissipated.

“Put the knife down, and I mean now.”

The venom in her words was clear and unmistakable,
assisted by her jacking back the hammer. The sound cut through the tension, and
he let me go. She kept the gun pressed into his neck, moving with him as he put
the knife on the dash.

“Please, put the gun away,” he said as meekly as
he could.

Cassady looked at me and I nodded. She removed it,
but didn’t release the hammer.

I said to him, “You okay?”

He nodded and looked ashen as he clambered out of
the van. He glanced at Cassady, but didn’t say anything and went inside the
house.

I got out and grinned at her. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

She nodded, eased the hammer off, clicked on the
safety and put the gun into her waistband. “What the hell happened?”

“Can I get a kiss first?”

She smiled and leaned toward me. Tough as things
were, she tasted delicious.

“Let’s go in.”

“I’ve gotta get something out of the back.”

She held the doors open for me as I pulled out
Reggie’s computer. “Who’s is that?”

“Clipper’s.”

“But why do you have it?”

“I’ll tell you when we get inside.”

I grabbed it and we went into the house.

Brad and Jade were cooking in the kitchen. I put
the computer in his room and came back out to find breakfast for the five of us
ready on the kitchen table. Jade looked forlorn, her eyes as downturned as her
beautiful mouth. She sighed heavily and sat down, staring at the bacon and
scrambled eggs.

“Hey.”

She threw a glance at me, then returned to her
untouched plate. “Hi.”

“What’s going on?”

Cassady looked at me and shook her head, ‘no.’

I let it go and sat down as Brad brought out the
coffee. “Let’s eat.”

I asked, “Where’s Bobby?”

“In the shower.”

“We should wait for him.”

“He said to go ahead and eat,” assured Brad,
taking a bite of toast.

Although I’d eaten breakfast earlier, I was hungry
again and ate the eggs, but left the bacon.

Cassady smiled at Jade and said, “You need to eat.”

“Did you find my brother?” she replied as she
looked at me.

“No, but I’ve got a good idea where he is.”

Bobby came back in, dressed in clean shorts and
tee-shirt. He sat down, mumbled something and ate his food. The tension in the
room rose and all conversation ceased.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Brad, I need
to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

He followed me into his room. “Hook that computer
up and transfer all the files onto that hard drive please.”

“Consider it done.”

“I snatched it from Reggie Mount’s place. On it
are a series of clips from surveillance cams inside his place. It shows Cicero
dying. Whatever you do, don’t let Jade see it.”

“Christ, man.”

“Yeah, it was something, bro.”

“Don’t show me what?” said Jade.

We turned to find her in the doorway.

“Nothing.”

“What can’t I see, Nick?”

“You hired me to find Richie, which I’m about to
do.”

“I hired you to help me, including finding out who
murdered Cicero.”

I was trapped. She knew it. Brad knew it. I knew
it. It was going to make CNN anyway, once I closed out the case. The cops, or
someone, would sell some of the clips or screenshots to TMZ or whichever
tabloid was the highest bidder. Cassady and Bobby appeared behind her. The
circle of what could be her emotional demise was now complete.