Dangerous Times (5 page)

And his wedding band, he reminded himself.
It too had to be found on the body.

No loss there.

Telling himself now that he had better get
up to 10th and Cabrillo. It was 7:40.

Chapter
10

Frank turned off Gaffey and drove up 10th.
He parked catty-corner to 1000 Cabrillo. It gave him an
all-encompassing view.

Dead patches of grass spotted the lawn, a
For Rent sign planted in one of them. Dividing the lawn, the front
walk led diagonally from the corner pavement to an open archway in
a wall of gray fieldstone. Through the opening Frank glimpsed the
lip of a swimming pool.

To the left of the archway, big block
letters protruded from the wall: BEVERLY COT AGES, Frank wondering
what had happened to the other T.

He counted the angled roofs that rose up
above the wall. Six single-story cottages in a semi-circle around
the pool, he determined.

Wondering now, as he had earlier, if his
look-alike lived with anyone. That’s all right, Frank shrugged. Get
rid of one body, two bodies; didn’t make any difference. He had the
necessary experience.

Eyes on the stone wall he followed its curve
up 10th, to where it ended at an alleyway. Eyes shifting to the
Cabrillo side, the wall curved around to stop at a driveway.
Carport or garage back there, he thought, feeling comfortable with
his view of the property.

New England, that’s what it reminded him of,
the cottages behind the gray fieldstone. An architectural copycat
that had seen better days.

There was nothing to do now but sit and
wait. It was Friday morning. His pigeon would be leaving for work
soon, unless he had a night job; or didn’t work at all.

Not a major problem, Frank decided. If John
Kirk was a no-show, he would go over there and take care of
business around 9. Leave the body in the bathtub. Get rid of it
tonight like he had planned. Someone in there with him, Frank
smiled playfully, he would have himself a full tub.

Christ sake, he frowned. Someone with a key,
discovering a body or two while he was gone for the day. Frank had
too much to do on the outside. He needed the visuals, such as
searching for the right spot to dump his Lincoln with the body in
it.

And he had to check out the Main Channel,
along with the other channels that spilled in from the ocean. After
leaving Eddie’s yacht tonight—with 4, 5 million dollars, Frank
envisioned—he had to know the route through the channels, and which
one had the best place to remain unseen while he abandoned Eddie’s
speedboat.

These things had to be done during daylight;
no doubt about it, he told himself.

“Come on, John Kirk, where the hell are
you,” Frank yawned, eyes flicking between the entrance arch and
driveway.

Newspaper, he remembered. That would help
him get through the wait. He lifted the Daily Breeze off the
passenger seat.

“Wonderful,” Frank said to the rearview. A
patrol car was cruising up the hill. He kept his sunglasses on,
slouched and opened the paper wide against the steering wheel.

Thinking then that he had nothing to worry
about. The razor was at home. And he had a permit for the gun he
carried, thanks to Eddie Jones, whose dirty money could be found in
many a politician’s pocket.

The patrol car slowed as it passed him. It
braked at the corner. Frank gave it a glance. The cop made a right
and went north on Cabrillo.

Frank looked over at 1000. Still nothing
happening. The paper opened to page 5, he saw an article on police
brutality.

It was about a detective who worked out of
San Pedro’s Harbor Division, accused of using excessive force on an
African-American 19-year-old; the teen hospitalized in critical
condition. It had happened last night, and all the facts weren’t in
yet.

“All the facts weren’t in yet,” Frank said
aloud, thinking that’s what members of congress say when their
crimes are brought to light.

Frank took another look at the Beverly
Cottages. Quiet as a church in hell, he thought. Flipping through
the paper he found the weather report on the last page. Cloudy and
foggy tonight with an 80% chance of rain tomorrow.

That’s all right, Frank told himself. All of
Eddie’s speedboats were GPS equipped.

Frank thumbed his way back slowly through
the paper. He stopped on a photo attached to an arson article, and
he studied the leveled remains of Charlie’s Oakland building. Good
picture, Frank smiled. Then wondered if the Daily Breeze didn’t
have enough of its own local news.

“Lucky Charlie,” Frank said to the photo.
The sharpness of the razor had given him a quick, relatively
painless death.

Frank was the kind of killer who didn’t like
to get it over with quickly, unless he had to.

Chapter
11

Working the crossword Frank glanced up
through the windshield and there he was, John Allen Kirk coming out
the archway and heading down the walk.

It was hard to get a good look at the face,
but enough of it to know it was him. More apparent were the Levi’s
and leather jacket he wore; the jacket an old military issue, it
seemed. Frank guessed the jacket was open because the zipper might
be broken.

Kirk approached the curb at Cabrillo, halted
there and waited for some cars to pass. A moment later he crossed
the street and started down 10th. Head lowered, shoulders hunched,
hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

Frank saw him as either cold or lost in
thought; or both. He lifted his sunglasses off the passenger seat
and slipped them on. He raised the newspaper higher against the
steering wheel and peered over the top.

The Lincoln faced uphill, Kirk walking
slowly downhill across the street. About to pass opposite the
tinted driver’s window, there was the glint of sunlight off the
snaps of Kirk’s shirt. Western-style, Frank noted, eyes dropping to
the square-toed boots, leather scuffed, sagging at the ankles.

Frank tugged his sunglasses down and studied
the face over the rims. Its likeness to his own appeared doubtful.
He flashed on last night, when he had compared their faces on one
of Charlie’s computer screens. Except for the hair color it had
been a better match at the time.

That’s all right, Frank told himself. It’s a
matter of human nature. Remembering now what he had once read.
Without a way to compare properly, none of us know what we really
look like. Self-image equals false-image. Frank certain that for
most it was vanity that fed the delusion. People too weak-minded to
get through the day without it.

On the other side of the street Kirk passed
in profile. Frank took his sunglasses off and used the side mirror
to watch him continue down 10th. Frank kept his eyes on the
receding figure and imagined his blond hair and eyebrows dyed to
match Kirk’s. But not quite ready yet to see himself in those
clothes, the kind he hadn’t worn in a very long time.

Frank started the Lincoln, pulled forward
and went into a U-turn on Cabrillo. Evidently his pigeon hadn’t
parked on the street, still in sight moving down 10th, nearing
where it crossed Gaffey. Maybe he worked in the neighborhood, or
maybe—forget it, Frank said to himself. For now it was more
important that he was on the scent.

Coming out of the U-turn he checked to make
sure the patrol car hadn’t returned; nowhere to be seen. Frank
proceeded to coast down 10th. He rode the brakes and kept his
distance, following as Kirk caught the light and crossed Gaffey.
Then another block down to Grand, and then another to Pacific,
where Kirk turned right and disappeared.

Frank pulled curbside at 10th and Pacific.
He looked through the tinted passenger window and saw his pigeon at
the bus stop, slouched on the bench with arms folded.

Folded to keep the jacket closed, Frank
figured, thinking what an awful life this guy must have. No car, a
jacket with a broken zipper, and a pair of boots that were about to
split open.

“Christ sake,” Frank muttered as he pictured
himself dressed like that after the switch had taken place.

The bus rolled through the intersection and
stopped to pick up its passenger. Frank made the turn and followed
south on Pacific. Like Gaffey it was a main stretch that had seen
better times. Cruising a block behind the bus he saw an old movie
theater up ahead. Its marquee read BARGAIN OUTLET.

The bus made more stops. When it got to
22nd, Kirk got off. Frank pulled over and waited. He watched Kirk
walk up to 23rd. Crossing it he went through the opening of a fence
that bordered a lot at the far corner.

Frank drove forward and passed slowly by the
lot. It was an auto repair shop, a half-dozen foreign cars sitting
behind the fence. Beyond them he saw Kirk enter the office. Here to
pick up his car, Frank assumed, not as down-and-out as he had
thought he was.

Reaching 24th, Frank swung around and came
back to park on the other side of Pacific. He looked over at the
shop’s office. Its window mirrored the winter sunlight. He averted
his eyes and scanned the lot’s ailing cars.

Volvo, BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar, a Ferrari, and
a beat-up classic Triumph. From what he had seen of John Kirk,
Frank guessed it would be the Triumph he would be following this
morning.

He brushed the blond hair off his forehead
and eyed the rest of the place. The office with its two adjoining
service bays, both shuttered with roller doors. Painted above them,
STAUB’S IMPORT MOTORWORKS, the letters chipped and faded.

The first bay door rolled upward. A stocky
middle-aged man in jeans and flannel shirt secured it open, the
rack behind him down and empty. Frank lost sight of him as he
stepped toward the office side of the bay.

The other door rolled upward. A young Latino
in blue coveralls paused and sipped from a to-go cup. Turning, he
walked back into a bank of shadow at the rear of the bay. Its rack
up, Frank saw a black car on it. From his angle he could see only
the trunk and left rear panel. Something old, Frank could tell.

Christ sake, he smirked as John Kirk came
out of the empty first bay. He was in blue coveralls. Son of a gun
was a mechanic. Frank watched him cross the lot, get into the BMW
and drive it onto the first bay’s rack.

Perfect.

Frank would have all day to do his research
while John Kirk played with his nuts and bolts. Relaxing behind the
wheel he went over what he had to do today. Take a look at the
channels. Use the daylight to map out where to dock the speedboat
tonight. Then have plenty of time to find the right spot to dump
the Lincoln with the body in it.

His wife came to mind. Frank had told Ty he
would call her tonight, after he had gotten away with the money.
Tell her where to meet him.

Fat chance, Frank smiled, seeing her waiting
for the call, her Uncle Eddie’s men on their way to question her.
Then after washing Ty’s blood off their knuckles, they would give
Emily a visit.

“Poor Emily,” Frank sighed. He’d had no
choice but to let the word out about his red-headed playmate. He
needed Emily, along with Ty, to keep Eddie’s men occupied while he
went about the business of his getaway.

“Women,” Frank muttered. That particular
word brought the hope of meeting one today. But that was something
he would have to be careful about. Stay out of trouble, he warned
himself. The stakes were way too high.

Chapter
12

Ben Hicks’ tires kicked up dirt as he drove
into the lot of the Harbor Division police station. Damn, he
thought, city always sayin’ they’ll get it paved.

Ten minutes early for his 9 o’clock, he
parked and left the Blakey CD on. Listening now to the tune “Are
You Real,” Benny Golson on sax.

Hicks glanced out the passenger window and
saw Fat Cap’s car parked by the only tree in the lot. “Racist
fucker,” Hicks sneered aloud, knowing he wouldn’t have been
promoted to lieutenant if the Captain had been here 8 years
ago.

His eyes went from Fat Cap’s car to the
tree, its bare wintertime branches gnarled, bark cracked and
peeling. If Hicks didn’t know the tree as he did, from year to
year, he would have sworn it was dead. Picturing it a few months
from now, decked out in its greenery, not a single gnarled limb to
be seen.

Hicks unbuckled his seatbelt. He slouched
behind the wheel, knees of his long legs jammed against the dash.
He leaned his head back and shut his eyes, and the sound of
Golson’s tenor sent him back to his childhood:

The original Blakey album on the record
player. The ol’ man, skinny as a rail, plays his sax along with
Golson and sways in rhythm to “Are You Real.” So smacked up he goes
off-balance, sax embraced as he falls and hits the floor. Little
Ben tearful, shaking his father awake.

“Are You Real” came to an end. Hicks opened
his eyes, straightened and looked out at the police station. He
knew what he had to do: Yes ma’am, no ma’am, to whichever the
inspector general needed to hear. Fuck her, appointed by the police
commission to handle misconduct complaints.

Hicks didn’t have to be a fortune teller to
see the future. Busted and thrown off the force. He had to get out
while the getting was good. Had maybe a week at the most to grab
onto a new life.

Nothin’ for him here in San Pedro, he
sulked. Except for Burns. Wondering what it would be like to do
without him. Red-headed ex-drunk, only white man he had ever
befriended. Been through so much good and bad together.

12,000 in the bank, he thought then. Ten of
it from the bribe he had taken four years ago. Four months after
burying his boy, two months after Celia had left him, taking the
bribe while Burns lay fighting for his life in ICU.

Damn, Hicks grunted. Forty-two and runnin’
off to start a new life on a lousy 12 thousand.