The Pressure of Darkness (9 page)

"Who knows? But something weird is going on here."

"No kidding."

"Do you buy all this, Doc? That he committed suicide?"

The smaller man rolled his wheelchair to the right. He stretched his upper body. Doc still lifted weights and took pride in his upper torso. "I've seen stranger shit, Burke. On the surface it looks like this guy hated his life and wanted to punish himself for something nasty he did along the way. Besides . . ." He looked away and his voice trailed off.

"Besides what?" Burke raised his head. "What were you about to say there?"

"Think about it," Doc said, "it's like that old locked room thing on 'Murder She Wrote,' or something. If nobody else went in or out of that room, and we can't find a trace of evidence says anybody was there before he checked in, how the fuck would somebody be able to get in there, do him over such a long period, and walk out again without a drop of blood on their clothes?"

"Yeah."

Doc was still thinking it over. "Not to mention 'why.'"

"Oh, that part is easy," Burke said. "The guy was a prick. I have a feeling he's got a list of enemies longer than my dick."

"No sweat, then, brother. You will be home for supper." Doc rolled the chair by hand and scooped the stack of papers and images from the printer tray. He turned and handed them to Burke. "And you never got these from me, right?"

"As usual." Burke slips Doc a hundred dollar bill. "And thanks."

* * * * *

Burke turned, mind already elsewhere. Lincoln watched him go. Doc was always impressed by how soundlessly his old friend could move. Once Burke had left a room there was a brief moment of hollowness, like a pocket of vacuumed air; perhaps the
snick
of the door's tumblers closing, but little else. Burke could be quiet as death.

Doc rolled to the door and locked it. He was beginning to tremble, and did not want to be seen with a Jones on. He flicked a switch and rolled to the bank of telephones. He activated the voice mail and turned his back to the window. A few seconds later he palmed a small vial filled with white tablets; these were time-release Oxycontin. The medication was originally created to treat the pain of terminal cancer patients and soon, after a rash of explosive and widespread drug addictions, became illegal. Doc swallowed a tablet and closed his eyes, waited for the pounding headache to recede. Agony always led to pleasure.

Somewhere along the way, Doc had lost the essential truth of his pain. Now it was real and unreal, at once phantom and unrelenting. When the medication began to wear off and the "rebound" started—the opposite of the initial painkilling effect was always muscular aches and nausea—he took even more to soften that blow. Addiction was an old friend. He also had an electronically powered drug dispenser, of his own design, built into the wheelchair. It could supply him with intravenous Oxycontin on demand.

Doc Washington was no fool. He knew he had a large and very hostile monkey on his back. He just didn't mind. Doc didn't have it in him any longer to give a damn. He leaned his head to the side, enjoyed the rush, and nodded off for a few moments. Less than thirty minutes later, still flushed with opiates, he turned off the voice mail and returned to work, whistling a pop song from the 80s.

NINE

The drab, gray little office building was located in a funky strip mall near the corner of Laurel Canyon and Victory in North Hollywood, adjacent to a barrio Sears. Burke liked it because it was cheap and unassuming. He pulled his car around behind the long line of patrons waiting for the movie theaters and parked near other ordinary-looking cars, under a row of sagging, thirsty elms. Burke jogged lightly through the foot traffic leaving the latest screening. He paused in the doorway, scanned the lot. He had not been followed.

Up the creaky wooden stairs two floors (Gina called the elevator slower than the 2000 Florida recount) to a peeling, off-white door that had been painted one too many times. The sign read BB Investigations. Burke tried the knob, found it locked. He used his key and went inside. The spacious, utility-carpeted one-room office featured computer equipment, two large desks, and several cork bulletin boards covered with seemingly random photographs and scribbled notations. But these notes were organized, and the penmanship was neat.

"What's up, Gina?"

The stocky, dark-haired woman behind the far desk was compact, muscular and formidable. Her facial expression generally read pleasant, but reserved. Gina Belli wore dark slacks, a simple white blouse, and a Smith & Wesson .38 on her belt. She kept her hair in the short, curt style favored by women the world over who are uncomfortable being perceived as feminine. Her fingers were pounding hell out of a computer keyboard.

Gina had known Burke long enough to feel like both a stern mother hen and an indulgent sister. Years before, when she'd worked as a Vegas cop and Burke was a fellow officer, he'd performed a substantial service. A former lover, a rough woman given to battery, was stalking Gina and her new flame. She would not back down and her threats were becoming overt actions—sliced tires, keyed cars and broken windows. Burke had a quiet talk with the woman, who rapidly moved away to Chicago. Gina had been a member of the Jack Burke fan club ever since. Her relationship soured, and when he moved to Los Angeles Gina followed as an employee. Her already estimable computer talents had now been augmented by clandestine assistance from both the mob and Major Cary Ryan's top-secret outfit. She was as proficient and dangerous as any determined hacker could be. She also worshipped Burke, would have worked for free, and often did.

"Cowboy." From her the word is a compliment, an insult and a cheerfully affectionate greeting. "I ran the list for you, got the locations and general information on their whereabouts. It looks like a choir of angels from here."

Then Nicole Stryker had been telling the truth, at least about one thing. Her father had made a lot of enemies. Burke and Gina had gone through the entire list and there were still, at minimum, sixteen logical names. Gina seemed to have enjoyed reviewing magazine articles and newspaper clippings about the life and career of Peter Stryker's friends and foes. Soon, between them, they had made careful note of each business rival, aggrieved in-law, or former partner. The list was narrowing.

They sat at their respective desks with long yellow note pads, plowing forward, writing down and crossing off names. Anyone who could be verified as having been out of town that night was temporarily eliminated. Of course, someone could have been hired to do Stryker, but the brutality of the death struck Burke as too immediate and too personal to be the work of a dispassionate button man.

"Most of his business adversaries were in public, out of town or in jail," Gina said. "We have a couple of folks left, when it's all said and done, but neither one seems likely. A Dr. Theodore Merriman, psychologist, criminologist and author."

"I already have him down to talk to because Stryker thanked him in a book."

"Yeah, Jack, but the old fart is seventy-two or something. Anyway, he and Stryker went to court over some stuff Merriman claimed Stryker stole from him and inserted into a novel without monetary compensation. Stryker settled out of court, probably paid up, but no one is talking."

"I'll interview him anyway," Burke said. The very idea seemed boring.

"We also got a guy named Dr. Mohandas Hasari Pal, lectures at both USC and Cal State Northridge. He writes extensively as well, mostly those boring academic books that sell for eighty bucks to the suckers that take his classes."

Burke stiffened in his chair. He felt his face redden as his composure slipped. He looked away so that Gina wouldn't notice, coughed noisily. "That name was Pal, P-A-L?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I had him for a couple of classes in Comparative Religion," Burke said, casually. He felt a twinge of guilt for keeping something from his partner.

"Good, then you can have him, too."

"Okay. What happened between this Professor Pal and Stryker?" He got up, walked over to the filthy window and looked outside. A homeless black man with wild, filthy dreadlocks was rolling a shopping cart packed with junk across the pavement. Burke barely noticed. He was trying to erase the image of two beautiful brown eyes in an exotic face and the way a very beautiful young woman had once whispered his name during orgasm.
Indira.

"Not a damned thing, Burke."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing we know of," Gina said. "They happen to be acquainted. Pal might have given him some research notes along the way. He is thanked in a couple of the novels."

"Not much to go on, is it?"

"Nope."

Burke returned to his desk. "We need to come up with something soon or we won't make a dime off this turkey."

"Here's how I see it," Gina said. She cleared her throat and swung her legs up onto the desk. "Unfortunately for us, Peter Stryker probably did kill himself. In fact, that seems damned near a lock, considering all the existing forensic evidence. Either that, or someone who knew him and happened to be invisible and wearing a body-sized condom slipped into that suite and murdered his ass without leaving a trace."

Burke yawned. "Body-sized condom? Now that's a disgusting image."

"Hmm."

"Maybe somebody killed him, Gina. But it would have had to be someone who knew him well . . . and thoroughly despised him."

"Agreed," Gina replied. "Because if this was murder, it was as personal as a blowjob, but
way
more nasty."

Burke's face split into a grin. "Blowjobs aren't so bad, Gina. Your prejudice is showing."

"Fine," Gina deadpanned. "You give one."

Burke thought for a long moment. "You think we should just hang this up?"

Gina shrugged. "I know we need the money, but it sure looks like a waste of time, at least at this point."

"I should go over and check out the house before we call it quits, though," Burke said. He moved toward the door. "The daughter gave me a key."

"Maybe you should." Gina looked down at the computer keyboard, resumed typing. "At least it'll buy us another full day on the family payroll. Meanwhile, I'll keep digging for more dirt on our two pathetic, boring, geriatric, already drooling on the porch murder suspects. You going there now?"

"A bit later. I have some errands to run."

Gina raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Yeah, that so? You be sure and tell Vito Corleone I said hello."

TEN

Burke trotted down the stairs. He got in his car, circled the parking lot and turned onto Laurel Canyon. He eased into the left-turn lane at Sherman Way and drove west, directly into the smoggy afternoon sunshine, his mind still fixed on Indira Pal. After a few blocks of used furniture stores and dilapidated apartment complexes the street hit a large concrete underpass. Planes could be seen landing and taking off just overhead. Burke entered the drab industrial area adjacent to the Van Nuys airport. He knew the way.

Burke left his car near a pale green wood and aluminum structure and looked for a battered station wagon with familiar plates. He walked over to it, turned, shaded his eyes and glanced up at the darkening sky. After a long moment Burke spotted the small Cessna, swooping a bit too abruptly before sputtering back toward the runway. He hopped up onto the hood of the wagon, crossed his legs, and scooted into a meditation position.
What's done is done. She's gone, let it be
. Burke sat quietly, dark eyes half closed, and waited for the pilot to land.
It would be smart to find a way to drop this one
, he thought.
I might just bite off more than I can chew.

The blue and white aircraft wove about for just under twenty minutes. Burke watched without moving his body. Finally, the little Cessna vectored in for a landing, with a thin ribbon of white smoke trailing behind. Burke allowed the snarling mutter of its engine to penetrate and draw him back to reality. The aircraft rolled to a stop fifty feet away. Still, Burke did not move. The pilot, a sad-sack of a man both balding and chubby, peered out through a pair of mirrored sunglasses which only served to make him look pretentious. A hesitation followed. Burke could read the man's discomfort from across the hot tarmac. Finally the pilot turned off the engine. Except for the incessant rumble of other aircraft on the horizon, that part of the airport fell blessedly silent.

The chubby man dropped down out of the Cessna. He waved to two airport grease monkeys, kids with bad skin who wandered out to tie off the wing and tail of the rental. The overweight man wore a turquoise Miami Dolphins windbreaker zipped up to the neck, black slacks and shiny black shoes. He stared at Burke, who remained on the station wagon, and shrugged with resignation. Burke slid gracefully to the ground and beckoned with one finger. The pilot approached, rapidly lowering the zipper of the windbreaker, as if he hoped the white collar on his black shirt might offer some legitimately divine protection.

"Jack, my son," the priest said, a bit too politely. "How are you feeling these days?"

Burke shook his head. Father Bennedetto was at once an old friend and a genuine pain in the ass. "Benny, I can't believe you."

"I know, Red." Benny spoke urgently, rapidly. "I'm really sorry. Something came up at the center, is all. I had to get the air conditioning fixed, and then one of those damned toilets broke. Excuse me, Lord."

Burke grimaced. "Father, do you expect my employers to give a damn?"

"I am a sinner," Benny said. His chins quivered dramatically. "I only hope that I may be forgiven, for my intentions are generally good." He swallowed and leaned back against the vehicle. His color had changed.

Burke raises an eyebrow. "Again?"

"It happens almost every time."

Burke's face twitched as he fought back a chuckle. "Then why the hell do you keep doing this, Benny? If you don't like to fly, stop flying."

Father Bennedetto belched loudly. He was perspiring heavily and seemed woozy. "One hopes to eventually overcome the fear, you see." Suddenly he gagged, turned away. Yellow vomit splattered the gravel.
Eggs for breakfast?