“Sure, no problem. I’ll be happy to,” he said.
I kept a careful eye on the rear of Mark Bethel’s black Mercedes as Malcolm drove slowly down the driveway ahead of me. In my rearview mirror, I saw another set of headlights come into view. Mark had apparently made a scramble for Laddie’s BMW, a sporty red model perfect for a hit-and-run fatality or a high-speed chase. In front of me, Malcolm had just reached the gates, triggering the automatic mechanism buried in the drive. Slowly, the gates swung open. Out on the road, I spotted two Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department cars pulled onto the berm, lights flashing. Four deputies were in conversation with Detectives Claas and Aldo, who were just in the process of identifying themselves. Malcolm turned left onto Savanna and I followed in his wake. Detective Aldo caught my eye, but there was no way he could help until the deputies had finished with them. So much for Plan A.
I checked the rearview mirror. Mark was so close on my tail, I could see the smirk on his face. I hugged the back end of the Mercedes, figuring Mark wouldn’t ram me or shoot as long as Malcolm was close by. Maybe I’d accompany Malcolm and his girlfriend to the kegger out on campus, have a beer, shoot the shit, anything to avoid Mark. We passed a cemetery on the left and slowed at the intersection by the bird refuge. Malcolm tapped his horn and gave a final wave, turning left on Cabana while I turned right and headed for the freeway.
I took the 101 north, keeping my speed at a steady 60 mph. I could see Mark keeping pace. Traffic was light. Not a cop on the road. I groped through my bag, fumbling among the contents with one hand while I steered with the other. I popped the used tape out, leaned over and opened the glove compartment, tossed the tape in, and closed it. I pulled a fresh cassette from the packet on the passenger seat and inserted It in the tape recorder. I didn’t have my gun. I’m a private investigator, not a vigilante. Most of my work takes place in the public library or the hall of records. Generally speaking, these places aren’t dangerous, and I seldom need a semi-automatic to protect myself.
Now what? I had, of course, invented the bit about Mark’s being in the snapshot, visible as a backdrop to Duncan and Benny’s reunion. If such a picture existed, it certainly wasn’t in my hands, or Duffy’s, for that matter. I winced. The very notion had put Mark on a tear, thinking we had evidence of their association. Big damn deal. Even if we had such a picture, what would that prove? I should have kept my mouth shut. Poor Duffy didn’t have a clue as to what misery was bearing down on him. The last time I’d seen him he was drunk as a coot, passed out on his cot.
I took the Peterson off-ramp and turned left at the light. I didn’t bother to speed up or make any tricky moves. Mark didn’t seem to be in any hurry either. He knew where I was going, and if I went somewhere else, he’d go to Himes anyway. I think he liked the idea of this slow-paced pursuit, catching up at his leisure whileI was frantically casting about for help. I turned right onto the side street and right again into the nursery parking lot. Mine was the only car. The garden center was closed. The building’s interior was dim except for a light here and there to discourage the odd burglar with a green thumb or an urge for potted plants. The rest of the acreage was blanketed in darkness.
I parked, locked the car, and headed off on foot. I confess I ran, having given up all pretense of being casual about these things. Glancing back, I could see the headlights of the Beamer as it eased into the lot. I was waiting for the sound of the car door slamming, but Mark had bumped his way across the low concrete barrier and was driving down the wide lanes between the crated trees. I cut back and forth, holding my shoulder bag against me to keep it from jostling as I increased my pace. Idly, I realized the maze of boxed trees had shifted. Lanes I remembered from earlier were gone or rotated on an axis, now shooting off on parallel routes. I wasn’t sure if trees had been added, subtracted, or simply rearranged. Maybe Himes had a landscape project that required a half-grown arbor.
I yelled Duffy’s name, hoping to alert him in advance of my arrival, but the sound seemed to be absorbed by the portable forest that surrounded me.
Mark was still barreling along behind me, but at least the narrow twists and turns were slowing him down. I felt like I was stoned, everything moving at half. speed-including me. I reached the maintenance shed, heart thumping, breath ragged. The yellow forklift was now blocking the lane, parked beside the shed with a crated fifteen-foot tree hoisted on the forks. Theshed door was open and a pale light spilled out on the path like water.
“Duffy?” I called.
The lights were on in his makeshift tent, but there was no sign of him. His shoes were missing and the blanket I’d laid over him was now crumpled on the floor. A cheap saucepan sat on the hot plate filled with a beige sludge that looked like refried beans. A plastic packet of flour tortillas sat, unopened, on the unused burner. The pan still felt warm so maybe he’d stepped out to take a leak. I heard the BMW skid to a halt.
“Duffy! ”
I checked the top of the orange crate. Duncan Oaks’s press pass, his dog tags, and the snapshot were still lying where I’d left them. Outside, I heard the car door slam, the sound of someone thumping in my direction. I gathered Duncan’s things in haste, looking for a place to hide them before Bethel appeared. Quickly, I considered and discarded the idea of hiding the items in Duffy’s clothes. The shed itself was crude, with little in the way of furniture and no nooks or crannies. In the absence of insulation, I was looking at bare studs, not so much as a toolbox where I could stash the stuff. I shoved the items in my back pocket just as Mark appeared in the doorway, a gun in his hand.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
“I’d appreciate your handing me the tape recorder and the tape.”
“No problem,” I said. I reached in my shoulder bag, took out the tape recorder, and held it out to him. While I watched, he tucked the tape recorder up against his body, pressed the EJECT button with his free hand, and extracted the cassette. He dropped the tape recorder on the dirt floor and crushed it with his foot. Behind him, I caught a flicker of movement. Duffy appeared in the doorway and then eased back out of sight.
“I don’t get it,” I said. I focused on Mark, making sure I didn’t telegraph Duffy’s presence with my eyes.
“Get what?” Mark was distracted. He tried to keep his eyes pinned on me while he held the gun and cassette in one hand and unraveled the tape with the other, pulling off the reel. Loops of thin, shiny ribbon were tangled in his fingers, trailing to the floor in places.
“I don’t understand what you’re so worried about. There’s nothing on there that would incriminate you.”
“I can’t be sure what Laddie said before I showed.” “She was the soul of discretion,” I said dryly.
Mark smiled in spite of himself. “What a champ.”
“Why’d you kill Benny?”
“To get him off my back. What’d you think?”
“Because he knew you killed Duncan?”
“Because he saw me do it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Call it a flash of inspiration. Six of us were loaded with the body bags. Duncan was pissing and moaning, but I could tell he wasn’t hurt bad. Fuckin’ baby. Before we could lift off, the medic was killed by machine-gun fire. Benny seemed to be out of it. I’d been shot in the leg, and I’d taken a load of shrapnel in my back and side. Up we went. I remember the chopper shuddering, and I didn’t think we’d makeit under all the small arms fire. The minute we were airborne, I crawled over to Duncan, stripped him of his ID, ripped the tags off his neck, and tossed ‘ern aside. All the time the chopper lurched and vibrated like a crazy man was shaking it back and forth. Duncan lay there looking at me, but I don’t think he fully understood what I was doing until I hoisted him out. Benny saw me, the shit. He pretended he’d passed out, but he saw the whole deal. By then, I was light-headed and rolled over on my side, sick with sweat. That’s when Benny took the tags and hid ‘ern. . .