Scars (Nevada James #2) (Nevada James Mysteries) (6 page)

Chapter 7

Half an
hour later I was lying on my back on a padded mat in Molly’s dojo looking up at
the light fixtures overhead. One of these days I’d be able to breathe again.
Maybe I’d even get really ambitious and try standing up.

Molly
had been exaggerating, of course. If she’d really wanted to hurt me, I’d
probably be dead. But she hadn’t minded smacking me around her dojo like a cat
playing with an overweight, asthmatic mouse. “Are you even sweating?” I asked
her.

She
reached out a hand and helped me up. “No. You’re getting stronger, though.
Maybe I’ll sweat next time.”

“I guess
I’m getting better, then” I said. “I still feel like a kid when I fight you.”

Molly
bowed. I bowed back. “You’re at about 40% of where you used to be,” she said.

“That’s
it
?”

“Well,
no,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to feel bad. It’s more like 30%. Any of
my faster brown belts could take you.”

“Oh.” I
wiped the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. “At least I’m not puking every
time I exercise anymore.”

“There
you go,” she said. “Okay, I’ve got another class coming up. You want to stick
around, or are you going to take off?”

“I’m going
to take off. I think I deserve a pizza after this.”

She gave
me a long look. “You be careful out there, Nevada. Look into the case, see what
you think, but don’t take any chances. It’s probably not going to go anywhere
after twenty years, but if things get weird or it starts screwing with your
head, just walk away.”

“I doubt
anything is going to get weird.”

“It’s
you we’re talking about, so I’m pretty sure
something
is going to get
weird.”

She gave
me another hug and went to get ready for her class. I took a shower in the
locker room and put my street clothes back on. I had my own locker and
gi
here, and Molly still let me wear my black belt even though I really wasn’t at
that level anymore. I’d get there. It was just going to take time. Three months
ago I’d come in here stinking of vodka and she’d destroyed me like it was
nothing. At least this time it had looked like she’d needed to pay attention
while she kicked my ass.

I hit
rush hour traffic on the way out of Pacific Beach, but it wasn’t as if I was in
a hurry to get anywhere. It gave me time to think things over. Anita’s case was
interesting, if way outside my area of expertise. I’d been a homicide
detective, and while what had happened to her family certainly qualified as
murder, most people picked guns or knives as their weapons of choice. Bombs
were a lot more unusual, if for no better reason than they weren’t all that
easy to make. I wondered if I should go pick up a chemistry textbook. I could
also do a Google search for “how to make bombs and kill people,” but that might
get me a visit from Homeland Security. Probably not, but there was no point in
getting myself a spot on the no-fly list.

Back at
the motel I ordered a sausage and mushroom pizza for delivery and spent half an
hour looking at one of my early Laughing Man case files. His first kill, at
least the first we knew about, had been a high society woman in her forties.
Her body had been found on a patio chair next to a swimming pool with a Mai Tai
next to her. It had been the first time anyone had seen the Laughing Man’s
bloody smile. Nobody knew what to make of it at the time. The only thing I’d
been sure of back then was that this was something new. Murders that took place
out of anger or jealousy were old hat to me by then. I’d even worked a couple
serial killer cases, but those had been simple by comparison. The Laughing Man
was something unique.

He’d
come to feel the same way about me, eventually. Three years ago he’d had me
dead to rights, had beaten me within an inch of my life, and then, at the
moment we both knew he should kill me, he’d turned and walked away. And then he
went dark. The cops hadn’t understood why. How was it that his compulsions
didn’t
make
him kill again?

The
answer was simple. Because it wasn’t about compulsion for him. It was a game.
If he killed me, he’d have had nobody left to play with. Sitting at a
chessboard by yourself isn’t any fun.

Now I
was back on my feet, but he hadn’t started the game yet. It’s amazing how bored
you can get when you’re ready to play, but the other player refuses to take his
seat at the table.

My pizza
came and I ate two slices, then put the rest in the tiny motel refrigerator.
The rest of it would be tomorrow’s breakfast, or maybe a midnight snack if I
woke up and was hungry. I’d tried placating my urge to drink with junk food,
with mixed results. On one hand, I didn’t get drunk. On the other, it was
getting hard to remember the last time I’d seen a real vegetable.

I was
watching some terrible police drama on television when there was a knock at the
door. I took my Glock out of its holster and pointed it at the peephole. “Who
is it?” I called.

“Open
the door, Nevada,” Dan Evans said. His deep voice sounded like an avalanche.
Well, I’d never been in an avalanche, so that was a guess. I probably wasn’t
far off, though.

I put
the gun down on the bed and went to open the door. Dan stood there, a suitcase
in one hand. He looked like he’d missed a day of shaving. Behind him I could
see a taxi pulling out of the motel parking lot. “Jesus,” I said. “Did you come
here straight from the airport?”

“It’s on
the way home,” he said. “You going to invite me in?”

I moved
away from the door and shut it once he was inside. Dan was a bear of a man, too
tall and too wide for any of the clothes he bought, but he’d never yet let me
take him shopping. Not that I knew a great deal about men’s fashion, or fashion
at all for that matter, but at least I could find the Big  & Tall section
in a department store.

Dan put
his suitcase down and stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes lingering for
a second on the Glock on my bed, before surveying the rest of the room. Without
a word he went to the bathroom, flipped the light on, and looked inside.

“You
want to check the drawers, too?” I asked. “That’s where I keep the booze.” I
hoped he wouldn’t pick up that my sarcasm was a bluff and decide to look in
there for himself. I didn’t want to explain my nightly ritual to him. He’d
never understand it.

He eyed
the dresser but didn’t look inside. “You can’t blame me for being concerned.”

“I don’t
blame you,” I said. “I did tell you I’m fine, though.”

“You
said the same thing five minutes before you had your first seizure.”

He’d
told me I’d said that before, but I couldn’t remember it. I’d quit drinking
cold turkey when I finally stopped. That had been a serious mistake. It turned
out
delirium tremens
was a very real thing, and I’d spent two nightmarish
days in the hospital while my body demonstrated that to me. “Fair enough,” I
said.

He
looked at the Glock again. “You know something funny, Nevada? That looks like a
Glock, and I can’t seem to remember giving you a Glock.”

“You
didn’t. The Glock fits my hand better. The .45 you gave me is in the
nightstand.”

“You
don’t like the .45?”

“I never
said I didn’t like it, but it’s huge. You might as well have gotten me a
shotgun.”

“You’re
getting a shotgun when you move into your house,” he said.

“Funny
man.”

“You
think I was kidding?” he asked. He picked up the Glock and looked it over. “This
one of the new 19’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it
legal for you to have it?”

“Possession
is nine tenths of the law.”

Dan
looked up at me. “Do I even want to know where you got this thing?”

“No.”

He
sighed and put it back down, then sat on the bed next to it. “We should talk.”

I took
one of the motel chairs near the window. “Dan, you know I love you, but you are
getting very close to pissing me off with this watchdog shit.”

He
looked at me for a long moment, probably trying to size me up. “Sarah told me
she had you come out to the crime scene.”

“Yeah.
You mad about that? It was a possible Laughing Man case, and I’m more or less
the expert on those. It was the right call.”

“That
much I know.”

“Then
what? You thought I’d see the dead guy’s face and start having flashbacks? I
don’t have PTSD.”

“You
absolutely have PTSD,” Dan said. “You have so much PTSD they should name a new
variety of it for you.”

I
shrugged. The point wasn’t worth arguing, and he was probably right, anyway.
“Well, I didn’t have any flashbacks. I don’t wake up in cold sweats. I have
been having these recurring nightmares, though…”

Dan
leaned forward. “About him?”

“No,” I
said. “I keep dreaming that California gets invaded by these robot people from
another dimension and I have to lead a resistance movement to fight them. And I
make friends with a werewolf.” I shook my head. “I can’t imagine what it
means.”

“For
god’s sake,” Dan sighed. “Can’t you be serious for five seconds?”

“Nope.”

“Of
course not,” he said. “Well, at least you’re sober.”

“I am.
Want to ask me how much I’m enjoying it?”

“I don’t
care how much you’re enjoying it.”

I kind
of wanted to get on Dan’s case for barging in here this way, but the truth was
I deserved it. I’d put him through a lot. Dan was one of the only people that
had never given up on me, and I was a person who actually deserved to have been
given up on.

“Anyway,”
he said, “I didn’t really think you were drinking.”

“Then
what were you so worried about? Oh, of course. You were afraid you’d forget to
give me the souvenir you brought me from Santa Fe.” I looked at his suitcase.
“You are going to tell me there’s a souvenir in there, right? Is it a t-shirt?”

“No.”

“Is it a
mug?”

“I
didn’t get you a souvenir, Nevada.”

I
clucked my tongue at him. “It’s like you don’t care about me anymore,” I said.
“If I went to Santa Fe, I’d get you a souvenir.”

“No, you
wouldn’t. Anyway, Sarah told me you looked over the crime scene.”

“Of
course I looked over the crime scene. She didn’t ask me over there to perform
musical theater with them.”

He
ignored my clever remark. “She said you told them it wasn’t the Laughing Man.”

“It
wasn’t,” I said. “She knew it, too. I think she just wanted me to confirm it
before she made the call.”

“And
when she called me afterward, she was worried about you. She said you were
completely emotionless about it. Like you didn’t give a shit. You looked at a
dead body and called it
trash
.”

I tried
to resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay, that wasn’t my best choice of words
ever.”

“She
said you were like a robot.”

“Now
that’s just
mean
,” I pouted. “I don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep
tonight after hearing that.”

“Damn
it, Nevada, you know what I’m getting at.” He leaned forward on the bed and
interlaced his fingers. “Human beings
react
to that kind of thing.”

I stood
up. “I’m getting a Diet Coke,” I said. “You want a Diet Coke?”

“Did you
hear anything I just said?”

“Yeah,
but I’m thirsty. Do you want the soda or not?”

He
shrugged. “Sure.”

I went
to the refrigerator and took two cans out, handing him one as I went back to my
chair. Mine I popped open and raised like I was toasting him, then took a
drink. “I don’t know what you want to hear,” I said after a minute. “No, that’s
not true. I do know what you want to hear. You want to hear that I was affected
by it.”

He
opened his own can and took a sip. “I do want to hear that, yeah.”

“Too
bad,” I said. “I wasn’t. I don’t have that in me anymore, Dan. Don’t get me
wrong. I know I
should
. I’m perfectly aware that I’ve lost some part of
me I used to have. Well, that’s just too bad. It’s just spilt milk.”

He
nearly choked on his soda. “It’s
spilt milk
? That may be the worst
analogy you’ve ever made.”

“Well,
technically it’s an idiom, but I don’t think it quite worked. It’s water under
the bridge? No…”

“We’re
having a serious conversation, Nevada. Remember?”

“I think
you’re the one having a serious conversation,” I said. “I’m still worried about
those robots from my dream.”

He
ignored that. “I remember you were upset when you broke that guy’s neck. The
one Emerson sent over to waste you. You’re telling me you went from that to
this in three months?”

“No,” I
said, “but I was drunk then. And
I
was the one who killed him, and I
didn’t mean to do it. He was just some stooge I hit too hard. It’s not the same
thing as seeing some dead guy in an alley.” Dan grunted. “Give me a break,” I
said. “Do Sarah and that guy Ellis come cry on your shoulder every time they
catch a homicide?”

“No.”

“Would
they be good detectives if they did?”

“No, but
everyone deals with it differently. Sarah’s been in therapy for five years and Brad…he
was for a while, anyway. He was in a shoot a while back and couldn’t clear his
psych evaluation after, so I made him do some couch time until he could.”

I put my
soda down. “Sarah’s in therapy?”

He
smirked. “Oh, look at you now. Are you actually concerned with another person’s
welfare?”

“Don’t
be a dick,” I said, just a little more coldly than I meant to.

“I
wasn’t. It’s nice to see you have an emotion. Yeah, Sarah’s in therapy. I
encourage my people to talk to a professional whether they think they need to
or not. You can’t take all that shit home. If I’d made you go when you worked
for me maybe you wouldn’t have lost your shit the way you did.”