Back Track (21 page)

‘Sounds reasonable.’ Vallejo rewound the footage and watched the mechanic talk on the cell phone again. ‘You know his name?’

‘Maybe. Let me think.’ Bishop closed his eyes and thought back to those Employee of the Month pictures he’d seen for a few seconds in the front office. There’d been five of them in a row. All with head shots above the names. The glum face of the skinny mechanic had been on the fourth one along. It was clear in his mind. But what was the name underneath? Joe something. Or maybe John.

Concentrate, dammit. The name’s right there. All you need to do is focus.

Twenty seconds later, he opened his eyes and smiled at Vallejo. ‘Rutherford. John or Joe Rutherford.’

‘Hey, not bad. So, what, you think he was involved in the fire?’

Bishop shook his head. ‘I think he’s just a guy who was offered some easy money to perform a simple task. Nothing more than that. But he’s another connection to the people we’re after. And there’ll be a number on his cell phone I’d really like to see. But that’s for later.’

He closed the .mpeg file and opened up the first of today’s. ‘Right now, I’m more interested in seeing who tried to kill me.’

It opened with the same view as before, except it was obviously night-time and there were no vehicles parked outside. Illumination was provided by a spotlight at roof level. Something about the starkness of the scene reminded Bishop of those old Bogart movies from the forties he used to love watching. And still did, come to think of it.

He reached for the controls and speeded things up a little. He was almost halfway across the timeline when Vallejo said, ‘Right
there
.’

Bishop had spotted the movement too, and was already dragging the playhead back. When he got to 00.24.37, he let it play in real time.

They saw the beams from the headlights first. At 00.24.44. Then a light-coloured panel van pulled into the forecourt and parked at an angle. Looked like a Merc, judging by the grille. But Bishop couldn’t make out the plates. Not in this light and not at that distance.

‘Sure looks like the same one I saw at the hospital,’ Vallejo said.

Bishop watched as a thickset man in a dark suit got out the passenger side and stood there with his hands at his sides, looking around as though he owned the place. Bishop could make out a goatee on his face and not much hair on top. Most of his features were bleached out from the harsh light, but this had to be the same man Hewitt had seen. From the erectness of his stance, Bishop thought he might possibly be ex-military. In any case, Bishop was looking forward to meeting him in the near future.

Then Bishop’s rented Chevy Impala appeared. It came to a halt on the road and Goatee pointed down to the shutters at the end. The Chevy drove off in that direction. At the same time, the van’s driver got out. He was wearing casual clothes and looked like one of the orderlies Bishop had encountered at the hospital. Goatee said something, then walked offscreen towards the customer entrance while the driver went to the van’s rear and pulled the doors open.

Less than a minute later, Goatee reappeared and joined the driver. Bishop then watched the two men carry a third from the van’s interior towards the customer entrance, his head swinging down like a rag doll’s. Hewitt. And he was clearly already dead.

‘Jesus,’ Vallejo whispered.

Both men came back and pulled out Bishop, then carried him inside, too. It felt weird watching it. Since he’d been unconscious at the time, it was hard to believe that was actually him being carried to his funeral pyre. But there it was, in living black and white.

‘How come they didn’t waste you along with Hewitt?’ Vallejo asked.

‘Two random homicides in a quiet desert community would have opened up too many questions. This way was smarter. As a stranger in town, I’d get the blame posthumously and everybody would be happy. Case closed. It was just their bad luck I regained consciousness in time and managed to get out.’

They kept watching, but after a minute of nothing happening Bishop began fast-forwarding. The killers were still inside, no doubt making their preparations. He was nearing the end of the hour when he noticed more movement. He wound it back a little and resumed watching at 00.55.54.

All three men came into view again. They stood this side of the van and Goatee looked back at the building while the other two lit cigarettes. Goatee seemed to be saying something and then the other two laughed. Probably asked why they hadn’t lit them inside, or something similarly feeble. Then they all got in the van. Goatee rolled down his window and leaned out as the driver turned the van round and drove them back the way they came.

Until we meet again
, Bishop thought.
And we will. You can be sure of it.

He quit out of the file and sat back in the chair. Alfred E. Neuman grinned back at him with that idiotic smile.
What, me . . . Worry?

Vallejo said, ‘So did you recognize any of them?’

‘Well, the one in the suit matches the description Hewitt gave me of the leader of the team who took Selina. And the other two could have been the orderlies I fought with at the hospital. Couldn’t swear to it, though.’ After a moment’s silence, he turned and saw Vallejo chewing on her lower lip. ‘What is it?’

‘We
have
to deliver this to the police, Bishop. And don’t look at me like that. These people killed one man and tried to kill another. And God knows how many others. We might not recognize them, but somebody around here might if we allow them to see the footage.’

Bishop scratched the back of his neck. ‘That would be a major mistake, Vallejo.’

‘Tell me why.’

‘Two reasons. First of all, you’ve just told the police I took that Chevy to the garage myself, after which you brought me back here and boffed my brains out.’ He waved his hand at the laptop. ‘Clearly not so. Which means you’d have to admit you falsified your statement and say goodbye to whatever’s left of your career.’

‘Oh, shit, I forgot about that.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘And the other reason?’

Bishop said, ‘I think the police might be involved, too.’

Vallejo looked at him for a long moment. ‘That sounds like conspiracy talk to me, Bishop. Didn’t you warn me against that this morning?’

‘I didn’t say the whole department. For all I know, it’s just one rotten apple.’ But even as Bishop said it, Shaw’s face loomed large in his mind. He was a definite contender.

‘You got anything to back that up?’ Vallejo said, stepping over to the refrigerator. ‘Or is this just another one of your hang-ups against anyone with a badge?’

‘All I’ve got right now are questions,’ he said. ‘For instance, I was arrested for the Hewitt killing, so why were those two Saracen cops waiting for me at the hospital in Garrick? How did they know I was the same guy who showed up last night pretending to be a doctor?’

Vallejo filled two glasses with Evian and handed one to Bishop. ‘You tell me.’

Bishop drank some of the water and tapped a knuckle against the screen. ‘I think one of these three, probably the big one, gave my description to his contact at the Saracen PD and let them handle it. Probably mentioned my visit to the hospital last night and that it might be an idea to post a couple of uniforms in case I decided to return. And like an idiot, that’s exactly what I did.’

‘But why involve the police at all? They could have just waited for you to show up, then buried you out in the desert.’

Bishop shrugged. ‘Maybe the man at the top decided it was better to stick with the original plan. I mean, he’d already invested all this time and effort on setting me up as a fall guy for Hewitt’s murder. Easier all round if he let the police catch me so they can wrap up the case quickly, then everybody’s able to carry on with their business as normal.’

‘But the evidence against you was all circumstantial. Any half-decent lawyer would have cast enough reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury to get you off.’

‘I’ve a strong feeling I would have been found dead in my cell long before that. A suicide would prove my guilt better than any trial. A lot neater, too.’

Vallejo thought about that. Then she said, ‘So that alibi I gave you must have really thrown them for a loop.’

‘And then some. They probably didn’t even know you existed before this morning. You can bet they do now, though.’

Vallejo finished her drink and said, ‘Okay, Bishop, you’ve convinced me. We hold on to the hard drive. So what next?’

Bishop looked around the room until he spotted the small air ventilation grille near the ceiling. ‘I’ll hide the hard drive,’ he said. ‘You see if you can find out where this Rutherford lives.’

According to the online White Pages, a Jon Rutherford lived at the Rio Alamos Apartments on West McKinley Avenue, out on the western outskirts of town. Apartment number 132. Vallejo got them there in less than twenty minutes.

To Bishop the whole place looked cheap and depressing. The complex took up most of a block, with a large part of the acreage set aside for parking. The two-storey apartment buildings dotted around were simple rectangular blocks devoid of any character, with no trees or greenery in sight. There was barely any shade anywhere.

Vallejo drove through the entrance and turned left at the fork in the access road. She followed the road all the way round until they found the building that housed apartments 121–160. The car park for this section was mostly empty. And on a Saturday, too. Bishop guessed this was the kind of place that always had vacancies. Vallejo parked a few spaces along from a ten-year-old blue Toyota Camry. Bishop could remember seeing something similar outside Bannings’ yesterday and wondered if it was Rutherford’s.

They got out and walked over to the stairs at the side of the building. There was nobody else around that he could see. Apart from the occasional vehicle passing by on McKinley, the place was quiet.

As they climbed the steps, she said, ‘Has it occurred to you that this guy might not be too anxious to talk to you?’

Bishop said, ‘Believe me, he’ll be desperate to tell me everything in no time at all.’

‘That’s the problem. I
do
believe you.’

At the top, they walked along the walkway until they reached No. 132. Bishop stood to one side of the door. Vallejo took the other. Again, old habits died hard. For both of them. Bishop rapped on the door a couple of times and waited.

There were no sounds from within. None at all. He knocked again, looking at Vallejo. Bishop began to suspect that maybe that wasn’t Rutherford’s car downstairs. Or maybe he’d gone out to get drunk now that he’d found himself unemployed.

‘Hey, you smell something?’ Vallejo asked, sniffing the air.

Now that she mentioned it, he did. ‘That’s gas,’ he said.

He bent down to the keyhole and breathed in. The smell was definitely coming from within. They needed to get inside, fast. He took his keys from his pocket and found one that looked right. He inserted it and did his bump trick again. He turned the handle and pushed, but a steel security chain prevented it from opening more than a couple of inches. And the smell was a lot stronger now.

‘Take a deep breath, Vallejo,’ he said. ‘And try not to leave any prints.’

Bishop took three steps back and then launched himself at the door. His right shoulder smashed into the chained section and it crashed open. Covering his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow, Bishop plunged ahead down the hallway until he found the kitchen on the left.

It was a mess. The kind of mess you’d expect of a young guy living on his own. Dirty plates and cutlery everywhere, except in the sink. There was also a refrigerator, a washing machine, a breakfast table, two chairs – and a gas stove.

The oven door was open. A male figure lay on his stomach with his head all the way inside. The dial for the gas was the maximum setting. Bishop turned it to the off position. He checked and it was Rutherford all right. The skin was already cold. He’d been dead for at least a couple of hours. Possibly longer. Turning round, Bishop saw Vallejo at the doorway, her hand over her nose and mouth. He pointed to the window. She nodded, then grabbed a cloth from the sink and unlatched it, opening it as wide as it could go.

Bishop quickly patted the body down. In one of the pants pockets there was something that felt like a wallet. In another, a set of keys. He pulled these out and saw one with a Toyota symbol on it.

He stood up, grabbed a dirty rag from the kitchen counter and said, ‘You’d better open all the other windows before somebody passes by with a cigarette. And see if you can spot Rutherford’s cell phone around here somewhere. I’ll go and check his car.’

‘Right.’

Vallejo left the kitchen and Bishop retraced his steps to the front door. He peered out and saw nobody in the immediate vicinity. Once down the steps he walked over to the Toyota and unlocked it. Using the rag to pull the door open, Bishop got in and gave the interior a once-over. There was plenty of junk on the carpet and in the glove compartment, but no cell phone anywhere. He got out, locked the car again and went back upstairs.

Vallejo met him in the living room and said, ‘Nothing. You?’

Bishop shook his head and said, ‘I didn’t think they’d be that dumb, but it was worth checking.’

He turned, walked back to the kitchen and looked down at the sad figure of Rutherford. The bodies were really starting to pile up now. And he didn’t think it would stop any time soon, either. The only way it might would be if Bishop gave up and went home. And that wasn’t about to happen in this lifetime. More likely, they’d just try to kill him again. He hoped so. Bishop was tired of groping around in the dark. He needed some facts to go on. And the best way to get them would be from the horse’s mouth. He felt confident that if he got his hands on one of them, he’d soon be able to make him talk.

Standing beside him, Vallejo said, ‘Sure looks like suicide, doesn’t it?’

‘But we know better, don’t we?’

‘So Rutherford’s just another loose end they needed to tie up?’