Harmless (13 page)

The voice was friendly,
speaking as if we’d known each other for years, yet unfamiliar.  “Who is this?”

“Just an old friend
that came to pay his respects.”

The summer sun had
nothing on the rush of angered, prickly heat I felt across my skin.  “Strout? 
How’d you get my number?” 

It’s probably too much
to say that his chuckle was
demonic
, but it sure felt that way.  He
said, “Tricks of the industry, my friend.  And now you know
my
name, so
you’ve done some homework, huh?  How far along are you?”

I lied.  “Further than
you think.”

“I’m sure I sound like
a broken record, but I doubt that.”

“How do you know?”

“For starters, you’re
not getting anywhere sitting on your front porch.”

I bolted upright and
scanned the street, looking for his green Jeep Cherokee.

“Don’t bother.  You
won’t spot me.”

I moved down to the
front yard, struggling to refrain from screaming into the phone.  “You killed
Kerry, you son of a bitch.”

“No, no, I didn’t.  I
couldn’t go through with it.”

“Liar.”

“You got no reason to
believe me, that’s understandable.  The only thing I can offer is a flimsy
alibi and my word.”

I moved down to the
sidewalk, looking left and right, seeing nothing that might give him away.

He said, “You’re
persistent, aren’t you?”

“When I have to be. 
Show your face.  Give me a shot at a little payback for what you did to her.”

“We can go around and
around on this.  I did it, I didn’t do it, but it’ll get old in a hurry.  I
could say the same thing about you, come to think of it.”

“What, that
I
killed her?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I wouldn’t have laid a
finger on her, ever.”

“See how it feels?”

“Point taken.  Doesn’t
change anything.”

“Maybe this will.  I
have information you need.  Meet me down at the park where Kerry used to run. 
Wait by that statue near the bridge—the one with the guy who has the pigeons on
his shoulders.  Ten o’clock tonight.”

I almost laughed.  “So
you can put a bullet in me, too?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“Help yourself, maybe.”

“How’s this for
reassurance?  Bring your cop buddy with you.  Tell him to keep his gun loaded. 
Ten o’clock or nothing, that’s the deal.  If you don’t show, I’m gone and all I
have to say is, good luck.”

“Answer something for
me and we’ll come.”

“It doesn’t matter to
me whether you do or not, but I’m feeling generous, so, one question.”

Thinking of DeShazo, I
asked, “Did somebody hire you?”

He cleared his throat,
hesitated.  “I’ll say this much, you get an A for effort.”

Beep, beep, beep,
and he was gone.

An A for effort?  Did
that mean I was right?

I waited on the
sidewalk for another twenty minutes, with, dare I say, eyes like a hawk,
scoping out every moving object in hopes of spotting Strout.  Every car that
moved or door that slammed or maple leaf that flashed its underbelly was
something new to focus on, some new trace of data to process.  Something not
Strout.

It started raining. 
Pouring, actually, but I didn’t care.  I let it drench me, hoping it would wash
away the emotional grime of the past two days. 

It didn’t work. 
Instead of purifying me with a refreshing scent of cleanliness, it gave my mood
that rank, cloying smell of wet dog.

I gave up on finding
him; if he was smart enough to spy on me from a distance, unseen, I knew he was
still watching and he wouldn’t make a move until I surrendered. 

I went inside, so wet
that water dripped from my nose and earlobes.  I undressed and lay down on the
bed, feeling this overpowering sense of helplessness, worried that I wouldn’t
be able to keep the promise I’d made to Clarence.  Strout was good, no doubt
better at this than me, but would he be better than Thomas?  I had no reason to
believe that he hadn’t killed Kerry, other than his word, other than the fact
that he was confident enough to meet me, along with a cop who had a loaded gun.

That said something,
didn’t it?

Did I want to believe
him?  No. 

Did it make sense to
believe him?  I couldn’t say yes, but the doubt had already started to fester
and grow roots.  Gasp!  A mixed metaphor!  Unleash the hounds!  You get what
I’m saying—I’m trying to be poetic here, add a little spice to the dish so you
don’t have to hear flavorless things like, “I doubted myself.”  Dull, huh?

Here’s what concerned
me: If Strout didn’t do it, who did?  If he’d been hired by DeShazo and reneged
on their agreement, had Strout told him where she’d been hiding, and had the
wretch then shown up and done it himself?  Would he risk it?  Vengeance or no
vengeance, he had hundreds of millions of dollars and a cushy lifestyle—would
he take a chance on losing that? 

Could be, yeah.  Money
and power, they do things to people.  They create God complexes and a feeling
of being untouchable.  Some would argue that being a member of the Pendragon
lineage does the same thing.  They would be wrong.  We’re confident, not
delusional. 

To DeShazo, taking a
quick trip here to dispose of Kerry could’ve been nothing more than smashing
her with a flyswatter. 

I could postulate until
Sparkle picked away the last remnants from my skeleton and it wouldn’t change
the fact that, in truth, I knew nothing.

Strout did.  Strout
said
he did.

Meeting him was the
only answer.  I hoped Thomas felt the same way.

CHAPTER
14

It took some convincing,
but Thomas eventually relented.

By the time he arrived
at a little past eight, he’d calmed down and even offered something resembling
an apology, one that I accepted with a handshake, and then he rejected my offer
to “hug it out.”

I told him about my afternoon,
the call from Strout, and that I wanted to meet the guy because it was a place
to start.  He’d balked, saying that we had no clue what we were walking into,
it was too risky, it could be a trap, we could be ambushed, and that he wanted
to help but he
was not
prepared to die for me.

I’d gotten so fed up
with his reluctance that I ordered him to go home, that I’d do it myself, that
I was disappointed that he was so unwilling to help a friend when a friend was
needed.  (He argued that we weren’t exactly
friends
, and I couldn’t
convince him otherwise.)

The thought did occur
to me that maybe the only reason I felt I needed him was for his gun. 

I didn’t own one,
didn’t need one, had never shot one, had never held one.  Shayna showed me the
small 9mm she’d purchased last year—the resulting conversation didn’t go that
well. 

But regardless, having
him by my side and armed was better than traipsing into a scenario where an
outturned palm wouldn’t sufficiently stop a bullet.

When I said, “If you
want me to die out there alone, then so be it, but I’m going,” he slammed his
beer bottle down onto my coffee table and agreed to come.  Duty before
dishonor—something like that.

So, again, we were
bound together by a guilt trip.  Be disgusted with me if you must, but I wasn’t
above using such tactics to keep my promise to Clarence, to honor Kerry by
getting DeShazo behind bars (or stuffed full of flaming hundreds), where he
belonged.

We spent the next hour
hypothesizing, planning, and going over a map of the park online.  Thomas knew
the place well, having arrested plenty of underage drinkers in the middle of
the night.  He laughed about how they never learned.  So many of their
classmates had been caught there, but year after year they kept coming back. 
He went as far as to say he’d probably handed out more Minor in Possession
citations than parking tickets.

He pointed out spots
where Strout might conceal himself, where he might remain covertly hidden and
snipe us from a distance.  The old boathouse was a good one; lots of windows to
shoot from and hard oak wood to block any return fire.  The gazebo at the end
of the dock, where couples cycled through on weekends with hurried vows like a
chapel in Vegas, wasn’t ideal due to the lack of cover, so we marked that one
off his list.  Next, a smattering of bushes on the north end of the lake.  “He
wouldn’t be that stupid.  It’s lit up too much by the Seven-Eleven across the
street.”

Lastly, he could hole
up under the bridge itself.  Lots of wide legs and braces, or against the
abutment with a clear line of sight over to the statue.

“That’s about all I can
come up with,” Thomas said.  “I mean, really, if we scope out the bridge and
the boathouse when we get there, and then keep a close eye on them, we should
be in the clear.  Everything else around there is residential, so unless he
decides to pop us from one of the houses, we’re probably okay.  You’ve been
there before, haven’t you?  Nothing but homes on either side, that Seven-Eleven
and gas station at the north end.  And then down there on the south end,
there’s that nasty laundry joint—damn place looks so dirty, it can’t possibly
get clothes clean.”

“That’s the one I use.”

I’m not sure if it was
a good-natured jab or an actual evaluation of my hygiene, but he sniffed my shirt. 
“Buy yourself a damn washer and dryer, bro.  You’ll get some disease there.”

Given what you’ve
learned already, you could probably guess the reason I started using that
particular place to wash my clothes.  Kerry ran in the nearby park.  The laundry
provided a decent vantage point down to the track that circled the water.  Of
course you’ll think less of me, because of course it sounds like I was spying—I
was
, but not like that.  I wanted to keep an eye on her.  Make sure she
was safe. 

Enjoying the way her
thighs rippled and her calves bulged as she jogged past was simply an added
bonus to all the work I was putting in, guarding her life.  If someone, i.e.
DeShazo, had attempted to kill her while my t-shirts were in the rinse cycle,
things might have turned out differently.  I would’ve been prepared instead of
sucking down scotch and cursing Russell and his poor batting average while
someone murdered her next door.

Thomas checked the time
on my monitor.  “Thirty minutes.  We should go now, give ourselves some time to
look around first.”

“Any chance you’ve got
an extra bullet-proof vest?”

He grinned and slapped
my back.  “Like I would give it to you if I had it.  I’m trying to get rid of
you, bro.  That’s the whole point.”

He may not have been
joking.

When I had no words to
respond, he said, “Relax, Pendragon.  If anyone is gonna kill you, it’ll be
me.  I brought an extra, just in case.”

We rode together,
bouncing and rattling along in his jacked up Wrangler, the knobby tires giving
off a calming thrum as we made our way toward either help or a shootout.  Did
you ever see
Tombstone
?  That scene where the Earp brothers and Doc
Holiday are marching down the street toward the O.K. Corral?  That’s what it
felt like.

When we parked, Thomas
and I climbed down to the ground.  He motioned for me to come near, around to
the front of the Wrangler, saying, “Beside me or behind me.  Stick close.”

We made our way down to
the bridge, by way of a side path that cut through the trees, sneaking along,
thankful that the earlier rain had dampened the ground, allowing for a quieter
approach.  Once Thomas had given the all-clear—no signs of Strout hiding
troll-like underneath—he decided it’d be safer to take the long way over to the
boathouse.  The clouds had moved on and the moon was too bright for good cover,
so instead of cutting across the bridge, in open view, we circled around the
lake along the shoreline.  Ducking in and out of the trees, I began to sweat
beneath the bullet-proof vest.  The thing felt bulky and awkward under my
jacket, but it also gave the impression that I was bigger, stronger, more
menacing.  For that, I was thankful.  It’s the notion of reality that matters.

The boathouse was empty
except for a couple of decrepit canoes hanging on the walls with lengthy cracks
and gaping orifices in their hulls.  There was also a dead rat that Thomas
kicked into the water.  I hoped it wasn’t a sign.

The good thing was,
none of the windows provided an adequate viewpoint of the statue, our meeting
point, so that limited Strout’s options.  Thomas was satisfied.  I gently
accused him of being overly paranoid, and we left it at that. 

I agreed to shut up
after he reminded me that I was wearing a device designed to stop speeding
chunks of metal from penetrating major organs.

We hiked around the
north end, another precautionary measure to ensure we hadn’t missed anything he
could’ve used as a blind, and, finding nothing, we parked ourselves at the
statue and waited.

I watched moonlight
ripple on the water.  Thomas chewed his fingernails.  Gross, yes, but I’d
already pushed too many buttons to suggest that a pair of clippers might make a
good investment.  Contrary to popular belief—which is the fact that I’m in love
with the sound of my own voice—I do know when it’s time to keep quiet. 
Occasionally.

“Fifteen minutes late,”
Thomas said.  “You sure this is where he said to meet?”

“He said in the park
where Kerry used to run, by the statue of the man with the pigeons.  And here
we are.  Unless she ran somewhere else and there’s another statue.  I couldn’t
watch her every minute of the day.”

“There’s another one
over in Dolcett Park.  Guy’s got an eagle resting on his shoulder.”

“If Strout gets
confused by the difference between a pigeon and an eagle, we’re better off than
we think.”

“True.  What do you
mean by ‘watch her every minute of the day?’  Tell me you get how creepy that
sounds.”

A familiar voice came
from the shadowy tree line nearby.  “Oh, it was creepy, all right.”  Strout
emerged from the woods, arms held out wide, palms open. 

I tensed.  Thomas
tensed.  His hand eased slowly around to his back where the handgun waited,
tucked into his jeans.

Strout pivoted in a
cautious circle.  “Easy, flatfoot.  I’m unarmed.”

“We’re supposed to
trust you?” Thomas asked.

“You got a choice?”

“Plenty of them.”

Strout chuckled.  “The
two of you need to get better at lying if you’re gonna keep up with your little
cloak and dagger game.”

He moved closer.  I
caught a whiff of his cologne when a breeze blew past.  Old Spice—the original
kind, like my dad used to wear back in the 70s—along with a hint of stale
cigarette smoke.  Strout was older than I expected, unattractive.  Stinky.  One
eye slightly lazier than the other.  With the moon’s help, I saw deep crow’s
feet, sagging cheeks, and loose, flapping skin at his neck. 

I’ll just come right
out and say it—there’s no doubt his infatuation with Kerry would’ve been just
that. 
Infatuation
.  She never would’ve gone for such a haggard, wrinkly
raisin of a man.  If I, Steven Allister Pendragon, was a castle, Edward Strout
was a ramshackle tool shed.

He said, “You know what
the three of us have in common?”

“What’s that?” I asked,
wary but curious.

“We’re all on three
different sides of the law.  Wrong, right, and victim.”

“You mean technically? 
Because I’m not exactly the victim, you know, in the strongest sense of the
word—”

“Leave it alone,
Steve,” Thomas said.  “You don’t have to analyze everything somebody says.”

Strout said, “Look at
you two, fussing at each other like an old married couple.”

“Why’re we here,
Strout?”

“Yeah,
you
called us here, what’s the deal?”

“The deal is, you want
to know who killed January Oliver, don’t you?”

“I’m guessing it was
Harry DeShazo.”

“Could’ve been, yeah. 
I gotta hand it to you, buddy, you actually got me with that one earlier, on
the phone.  It’s my job to not be surprised, but you, now, you threw me.  How’d
you come by that?”

I offered just enough
information about Kerry’s diary to give him an idea, and that was it.  No more,
no less, no mention of the money, and no mention of it being in my basement. 
It was my suspicion that he’d shown up at her house looking for it that
morning.  What would stop him from coming back for it if he knew where it was?

“No shit,” he said. 
“The way she talked about you, I never woulda figured she’d turn to you for
help.”

“She talked to
you
? 
About
me
?”

“All the time—I told
you, we were friends.”

Is “stunned” too
generic?  Flabbergasted?  Gobsmacked? 

I asked, “When?  How?”

“Over coffee, sometimes
after yoga class.”

Thomas and I, together,
said, “Yoga?”

“The idea was to get
close to her.  Learn about her.  Learn her patterns.  Then, eventually, make it
look like an accident.”

“Bastard,” I said,
lurching forward, blocked by Thomas’s arm.

Thomas said, “Cool it,”
and then said to Strout, “Who hired you?”

“I’d give Pendragon
here a little more stock, if I were you.  He’s right about DeShazo.”

“You know I could
arrest you for intent to commit, right?”

“Yeah, but you won’t.”

“Try me.”

“You’re not here under
the most pristine conditions either, Planck.”  He held up a hand, stopping
Thomas from interrupting.  “Yes, I know your name, and you know better than to
ask how.  Here’s why you won’t say anything: what’s a beat cop doing out here
in the middle of the night with a guy that could potentially be a suspect
instead of handing it over to the suits?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Sure, sure.  We all
do.”  Sarcasm noted.  “So do you two scrubs want to hear some truth-telling, or
are we gonna stand here waving our cranks at each other?”

I said, “I’d like to
hear some truth.”

“Okay, then.  Glad
we’re in sync.  Here’s the truth: I didn’t kill her.  Hand to God—you can throw
me in prison, put me in the electric chair, whatever, and I’ll take it to my
grave—I didn’t do it.  I was
hired
to do it, by DeShazo, but I
couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“That’s a question
that’s already been answered.  You know why better than Planck.”

Thomas said, “If you
didn’t, who did?”

“I’m about ninety
percent sure Harry did it himself.”