Dead Ringer (21 page)

Was she heading toward an A bomb at seventy-five miles an hour? Could she beat it? She upshifted into fourth, keeping the accelerator to the floor. A horn blared from the train. It had to be loud, because she heard it over the roar of her engine.

Light in her eyes. The BMW was behind her again, brights on, reflecting from the rearview. No time to move the mirror aside, too dangerous to take her hands from the wheel.

The train was at the road, moving left to right, starting to cross. Two cars, smaller than a real train. Some kind of tractor or crane on the lead car.

It was halfway across. Maggie eased right, onto the shoulder now, driving like she was possessed. Rocks and gravel flew from her tires as she flew by the train, the Beemer on her tail.

“
Oh shit.” The light on PCH was red. There was traffic, headlights moving in both directions. The BMW was still behind. She busted the light at eighty, barely aware she’d skinned through without hitting anyone.

She was back on Second Street now, the Shore up ahead. It would be crowded. People out. Pedestrians. Even at this hour. Belmont Shore was a college town, people were out till late. She couldn’t keep going, she might kill someone.

Downshift to third, tap the brakes, down to second and a screaming left onto the dark road to the marina. A boatyard, boat shops, then restaurants on the right, a hotel on the left, then a side road that fed into PCH. For an instant she thought about taking it, changed her mind and fishtailed into the boatyard parking lot. There would be people at the popular seafood restaurants. Surely they’d scare off her mysterious pursuer. The restaurants overlooking the marina were doing good business, the lots were full and she was rocketing between two rows of parked cars.

She resisted the urge to look right, at the boats in their slips. Instead, she grabbed a quick look at the speedometer. She was doing forty, parked cars flying past. She checked the mirror and saw only dark. The Beemer hadn’t made the turn.

She saw a couple leave one of the restaurants as she slowed down. Then she heard the BMW, a smooth scream as it sped up the aisle on the left. Damn. She popped the clutch and stepped on the gas. She flew out of the row of cars and the BMW shot out of the next row over. She couldn’t go left, she jerked the wheel to the right. The rail, the boardwalk, boats, the sea in front of her, she cranked the wheel right again, to shoot down the next row of cars, but she was out of control heading for the rail in a tire smoking arc.

The Beemer’s headlights caught her as she worked the wheel, but the Porsche’s tires screamed in protest as the car smashed into the railing between the parking lot and the marina boardwalk five feet below. The rail gave with a blast.

For an instant the car seemed suspended in midair, then the spinning rear wheels found purchase as they hit the boardwalk. The Porsche shot forward and crashed into the sea.

Like a hammer blow to her chest, the wind flew from Maggie’s lungs as she slammed forward, body jerked back by the shoulder harness and the deployed airbag. She struggled for the catch, forced air into her lungs, sucked deep as the car sank into the dark.

Water rushed around her, the car was turning over. Upside down. She found the catch, pulled, yanked off the belt and harness, pushed against the airbag, squeezed her way out the door, then away from the car as it flipped over. She struck out for the surface, broke through and sucked air.

She looked over to where the car had gone under. Nothing there now to tell the world what had happened, not even a ripple. The water in the Marina was flat calm, but any second the place was going to be crawling with people full of questions she didn’t want to answer.

Her acquaintance with the car had been short, but she’d loved it. The next time she met that bastard, the story would have a different ending. He was going to pay. Her emotions were running high, she’d shifted from fear to anger before she’d broken the surface and anger was still fueling her.

She kicked off her shoes, then struck out for the other side of the bay. On her right she saw the red and green lights of a sailboat coming toward her. She stopped, treading water, to let it pass.

She looked back to where she’d gone into the water with the car. A crowd was already gathering and she wasn’t surprised. She’d made a heck of a racket. The restaurants must have emptied out. She saw the flashing blue and red lights of the police.

The sailboat was closer now. Maggie moved toward it. A small sloop, thirty feet or so, and it was trailing a dinghy. Maybe they were going out to anchor off the oil islands. Probably going to fish from the dinghy. Or maybe they were going all the way to Catalina.

The boat seemed to take forever to get to her and when it did, Maggie saw an opportunity. Any minute the police were going to light up the bay, looking for whoever they thought might be in the car. She wanted to be as far away as possible when that happened, so she grabbed onto the dinghy and let the boat tow her toward the sea.

Hanging on to the dinghy, she felt like shark bait. She hated sharks. A quick scissor kick propelled her out of the water and up onto the rubber tube. She pulled herself inside. The dinghy was trailing the sloop on a long painter, twenty feet, twenty-five. But not so far she couldn’t make out the back of the man steering the boat. What would he do if he turned and noticed the hitchhiker?

As if sensing her thoughts, he did.

“
Hey!”

She waved. They were in the river that separated L.A. from Orange County now. To the left Seal Beach, Long Beach on the right. She stood, dove into the sea. The sailor probably thought he’d seen a mermaid.

The water wasn’t as cold now that she was swimming. Soon she was at the rocks and pulling herself from the water. In seconds she was up on the jetty. The sailboat had slowed.

She waved.

He waved back, continued his journey. A story he’d be telling in sailor’s bars for years to come.

Maggie climbed down the other side of the jetty and faced the long beach that had given the city its name. The tide was out, so she had a wide stretch of hard, flat and wet sand to walk on. A mile or so to the duplex where she had lived up until yesterday.

Chapter Fourteen

“
Ma, you here?” Horace went through the house to her bedroom. “Blind as a bat and never home.” He was talking to the house. Where she was, was anybody’s guess. Up and down the block, visiting probably. He sighed, he bought her the best of everything, new furniture, plush carpets, but she was always out. But then if he was her, he probably would be too. She couldn’t see any of it, for her the house must be like a prison.

He went to his room, pulled a suitcase out from under the bed, stuffed it with clothes. He needed space.

Back at the motel, he flopped on the bed. He woke with the setting sun, still thinking about Ma. Maybe he shoulda stayed. She was gonna be crazy with worry about Virgil, jumping around like bugs on a waffle iron. He had to go back.

“
Where’zzz he?” she hissed from her rocker as soon as he walked in, slurring the words, almost unintelligible. But Horace knew what she was saying.

“
Virgil? He’s not back?” He tried to sound surprised.

“
Don zzzhit me.”

“
Maybe he’s still with her.”

“
Two dayzzz?” She was rocking with worry and anger. “I think he’s dead. He’d be back by now if he wasn’t.” She slumped down in the rocker, gathered up her quilt. She was old, but it seemed like she’d aged twenty years right in front of him. Her eyes were red rimmed, cheeks puffy. She was defeated.

“
You’ve been crying?” Horace had never seen her cry, not even when their daddy hung himself out in the garage. “He’ll come back when he’s ready, try not to worry.”

“
You think?”

“
I’m sure of it.” Then, “I’ve gotta go to my room. I’m kind of working right now and I’ve got some calls to make.”

“
It’s late,” she said.

“
In my line of work your time is never your own,” Horace lied. Then he turned away from her. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

In his room, he picked up the phone, dialed information, asked for Sadie’s number and was mildly surprised when the operator turned him over to a mechanical voice that gave it to him. So she hadn’t been lying to him about being in the book. Maybe she really did want him to call.

Only one way to find out. He pushed the numbers.

“
Hello.” She answered on the first ring.

“
It’s me, Horace.”

“
I was hoping you’d call.”

“
I didn’t know if you meant it.”

“
I did.” She sounded sleepy.

“
You wanna get together sometime?”

“
I’d like that.”

“
When?” He said.

“
How about Saturday?” She seemed awake now. “We could do dinner and a movie.”

“
Okay.” It had been a long time since Horace had taken a woman to a movie, years. “I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me where to pick you up.”

“
Cool,” she said.

“
See ya.”

“
Yeah.” She hung up.

Horace held the phone to his ear for a few seconds, imagining she was still there. Then he remembered the woman in Catalina and called Striker. Like Sadie, Striker answered on the first ring.

“
It’s me,” Horace said. “I took care of the Catalina job.”

“
How can I believe you?” Striker spoke softly, but there was no hiding the anger there.

“
I say it’s done, it’s done.”

“
Like the Kenyon woman?”

“
Yeah, like that. You got a problem with the way it was handled, I’m sorry, but she’s dead and there’s no way it can come back on you.”

“
She’s dead alright. I took care of it about half an hour ago. Unfortunately, I think she picked your photo out of a mug book.”

“
What the fuck you talking about? I put a clip into her chest.”

“
You shot up Maggie Nesbitt. She’s married to that guy on television. The one with the grey hair and that fucking dimple stuck in his chin. The one sounds like a Kennedy.”

“
No way.”

“
Margo Kenyon spent the evening with the Long Beach Police Department. Afterward, she drove her Porsche into the bay. The divers will pull her out in the morning.”

“
You’re shitting me?” Horace couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was the Kenyon woman he’d killed. He couldn’t make a mistake like that. Couldn’t.

“
And you’ve got another problem. That albino fuck’s gonna hand the case over to Billy Wolfe. Anyone else would shelve it. But Wolfe’s different, dangerous.”

“
You said if the albino and his partner were out of the picture, the case would die a slow death. What happened?” Horace felt sick. He took a couple deep breaths.

“
You there?” Striker said.

“
Yeah.”

“
Wolfe’s got a wife and kid. Do the kid before Wolfe gets his teeth into this thing.”

Fuck, a kid, is what he thought, but, “Okay, e-mail me the details,” is what he said. Then, “About the Kenyon woman, it was her I did. If there was some cunt at the cop house claiming to be her, she was lying.”

“
The news guy identified the body. It was all over television. Don’t you watch?”

“
Not if I can help it.” Horace felt like his head was going to explode.

“
Never mind. It’s taken care of. On this other, check your e-mail, then do it tonight if you can.”

“
Sure.” Horace didn’t think Striker had heard, because he’d already hung up.

Horace booted up his computer, logged on. Calm, he told himself as he opened the message. His heart was racing. A pain started in his temples. How in the world could he have killed the wrong woman for Christ’s sake? He’d been following her for a bloody week before she’d disappeared. He knew what she looked like.

The message flashed on the screen centered, all in caps.

Jesus wept, the boy was only two. Horace bit his lip as he opened the attachment. It was a copy of a newspaper clipping. The story about the body behind the gay bar. The woman’s name was Margaret Nesbitt. Married to the guy who did the six and eleven o’clock news.

He called Striker back.

“
Yeah.”

“
Something screwy’s going on. You got an address for the news guy, Nesbitt?”

“
110 Ocean. It’s in the Shore. A duplex. He lives on top.”

“
You had that real fast,” Horace said.

“
You wouldn’t have told me the Kenyon woman was dead unless you believed it. Find out what’s going on, but be discrete.”

“
You got it.”

“
And don’t forget the boy.”

“
Don’t worry.” But Horace was worried. Two years old. It was enough to make your stomach turn.

* * *

A twenty minute walk along the dark beach and Maggie was between the sea and the Olympic pool. She looked out toward the pier, dark under there. She thought about Darley and Theo. They’d helped her, but she shivered when she remembered that disappearing bottle of wine.