Diabolical (15 page)

Right, Hatcher thought. He wanted to tell him that at least it was small enough that it wouldn't hurt when someone shoved it up his ass, but he managed to stop himself.

“I'm guessing these are intended more as conversation pieces. Guns are only good for two things, deterring people or disabling them. That's unlikely to do either. And didn't you say something about them being illegal?”

“Yeah—hey!” Denny said, snapping his fingers again. “That reminds me. Someone came by here earlier, looking for you.”

Hatcher didn't like the sound of that. “Who?”

“Some guy.”

“Cop?”

Denny scratched his beard, eyes reading the air above him. “Cop-ish. But he didn't flash a badge or nothing. Just asked if you worked here.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you come in sometimes, but you weren't a regular employee. Guess I was being more honest than I realized, huh?”

Hatcher said nothing. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw he had a text.

“Hey,” Denny said. “Is this guy looking for you the reason you can't be around to work?”

“Honestly, I don't know who that is. And frankly, I can't deal with whatever he wants right now.”

The folds beneath Denny's chin jiggled as he shook his jowly head. “I'll just pretend you're going on vacation for a week. After that, well, obviously I'm going to need to hire someone else to man the door.”

The words came out like someone auditioning for the part of “Boss.” Hatcher felt for the guy. It was never pleasant to see someone letting themselves get walked all over, even if you were the one doing the walking.

“You do what you have to. No hard feelings.”

Denny pointed the tiny gun at him. “Don't forget,” he said, grinning. “I'm the one with the gun!”

Hatcher gave him a friendly nod and left. He crossed the street, headed up an inclined drive toward Viv's rental. There were several cars on the street. Hers was an inconspicuous shade of silver but, being a PT Cruiser, easy to spot.

He was within a few feet of it, thumbing the key fob, when a man called to him from across the street.

“Mr. Hatcher?”

Great.
The man jogged toward him. Hatcher didn't break stride. He reached the car and opened the door with a few yards still separating them.

“Are you Jake Hatcher?”

It was tempting to ignore him. Simply start the car and drive away. Tempting, but not necessarily prudent. Hatcher stood in the wedge of the door with one foot on the running board. He hadn't made eye contact yet, so it wasn't too late to keep pretending. He gave serious consideration one more time to getting in and shutting the door, but instead he lifted his gaze as the man reached the curb in front of him, watched him curve around the car toward him.

The first thing Hatcher noticed was that the guy certainly didn't look like a cop. He was a bit thin, a bit soft, and dressed in a ridiculous bright orange jacket. A bright orange jacket with an even brighter orange hat, like something you'd see on a commercial fisherman who was color-blind. The man slowed down as he approached and audibly tried to catch his breath. Hatcher took him to be in his late twenties or so, on the tall side, and somehow managed to have a skinny body and a fleshy face. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, panting. Not in the best of shape.

Hidden hands were not a good thing. He studied the pockets for signs of a hard edge pressing the fabric. Couldn't find one. But the right-hand pocket was definitely stuffed with something, even if he was pretty sure it wasn't a gun.

Of course, he'd just learned that guns could be pretty damn small.

“Are you Jake Hatcher?”

Hatcher stared at him for several beats. His best guess was process server. That would explain the bulging pocket. Sort of. But he had no idea why anyone would want to serve him with anything.

“If I say no, will you leave me alone?”

The man gaped slightly, crinkled his eyes. He sucked in a few more breaths with the same look on his face. Hatcher knew that hesitant look, that hazy way the eyes get. Mr. Orange was trying to figure out what to say.

No, he realized. Not what to say. Rather, what not to say.

“What do you want?” Hatcher asked.

“I just need to talk to you for a few minutes, that's all.”

“About what?”

Several beats passed in silence.

“Can we go somewhere? Maybe sit down?”

Hatcher gave the man a hard stare. Wasn't going to happen. Even if he had a few minutes to spare, which he didn't, the guy was plain creepy. His mouth was shaped in a plastic smile and his demeanor was jittery, eyes staring one moment, darting the next. Like something was distracting him.

“I really don't have time,” Hatcher said.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“I'm going to ask you again. Just who the hell are you?”

The man shrugged. “Someone who's interested in getting to know you.”

“You're starting to annoy me. That's not a good idea at the moment.”

The plastic smile stretched wider. “Should I come back when it is a good idea?”

Hatcher clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to put the jackass in his place. He slid into the driver's seat and started to shut the door. He had no idea who this guy was, and at the moment he didn't have it in him to care.

“Deborah told me to say hello.”

The name made him stop. It was obvious he'd dropped that for a reason, and it worked. Orange-guy had his full attention.

Hatcher pushed the door back open and got out. Orange backed away as Hatcher closed in. Movement in the right pocket of the man's jacket caught his eye.

A piece of Hatcher's brain registered a threat and he lunged forward, clamping down on the man's arm with one hand and spinning him around. He knifed the back of his other hand under the man's chin and drew his head back. Almost instantly, all resistance ceased.

“Who are you?” Hatcher said, yanking the man tight against him, spreading his thumb wide, the triangle of his wrist pressed against the man's throat. “I won't ask again.”

“M-Morris,” he said.

“And what do you want, Morris?”

“Just . . . just to talk. That's all I'm here for. Just to talk to you.”

From somewhere in the fold of the jacket, Hatcher heard a faint scraping, could feel movement in the muscles and tendons of his forearm. He squeezed his fingers into the man's arm, forcing a gasp.

Before he could ask what the man had in his pocket, a clipped siren blasted a descending note from the street, loud and close.

Hatcher looked over his shoulder to see a black-and-white Crown Vic pulled up near Vivian's rental at an angle. A voice blared out through a PA system.

“Sir, take your hands off his person and place them on your head. Then lower yourself to your knees. You in the orange coat, back away and do the same.”

Hatcher complied, letting go. But he did it with enough of a tug on the arm and bump with his chest to send the man stumbling a few steps.

The cop got out of the patrol car and stepped forward, one hand resting on the handle of his holstered pistol, the other draped over a tonfa-style baton hanging through a loop in his belt.

“It's okay, officer,” Morris said, waving a hand like he was cleaning a window. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

“Is that so?”

The cop turned his attention to Hatcher, who placed his palms on his head and lowered himself to his knees, one at a time. The last thing Hatcher wanted was trouble with the law, especially with everything else he had to worry about. The patrolman was reasonably stout. Short dark hair, black Ray-Bans. Bland facial features, chiseled lines worn into his expression by frowns and sneers. Average height with a cop's somewhat bloated upper body. Hatcher had seen that build often. Swollen arms and chest and shoulders. Lots of time at the gym, but not the greatest diet. Very little lung work.

“Face the other way.”

Hatcher turned a few degrees, sliding his knees, waited to be patted down. He wondered if the cop was keeping the creep in view. Wondered if he had enough situational awareness to be paying attention to the other guy at all. But the vibe he was getting told him to keep his mouth shut.

The cop said, “You military?”

“Former,” Hatcher said.

“I'm going to need to see some ID.”

Hatcher brought a hand down to remove his wallet and felt his right shoulder ignite and collapse under the pain. A second later, his upper body jerked and fell forward, the harsh chop of a blunt object slamming into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“Did I tell you to move?”

The side of Hatcher's head pressed into the sidewalk. His right trapezius muscle was in serious agony, stinging jolts of fire shooting up his neck and into his head. Using that arm anytime soon was going to be difficult. He lay there wincing, the ridge of his orbital socket grinding the flesh around it against the rough cement surface.

“Get up. And from now on, you only move when I tell you to, got it?”

Hatcher pushed himself off the pavement. Slowly. The smell and taste of cement lingered. A tendril of bloody saliva stretched from his lip. Second time in the same day he'd been dropped face-first.

“I see rejects like you all the time, losers who think they're shit-hot badasses, jacking up guys smaller than them. That how you get your kicks? That make you feel like a big man?”

The problem with fighting cops, Hatcher knew, was that you couldn't win in the end. The worse you beat them, the more they would send after you. Lot of wannabe tough guys were attracted to the badge, and that was why—to be able to act tough without necessarily being tough. He remembered some of the kids from high school who wanted to join the force, had seen the same kind in the MPs. Lot of low achievers with high opinions of themselves. Not all cops were like that, but enough to constitute a trend as far as he was concerned. They were a lot like some of the guys he'd met in prison. Mirror images, in many ways.

Of course, tossing them off a tall building wasn't advisable, either. And he'd gotten away with doing just that to one of them. So far.

Back on his knees, Hatcher put his left hand to the top of his head. His right hung limp, slightly crooked at the elbow, pressed across his abdomen. He couldn't get it to cooperate yet.

“Yeah,” the cop continued. “Seen plenty like you. What were you? A ranger or something? That supposed to impress people?”

Hatcher said nothing. He felt the end of a tonfa-style baton poke him in the kidney for emphasis. Hard.

“Well, you're not
shit
here, in my town. Just a bad seed, no better than any of those saggin' punks toting a gat around, demanding respect. The biker detail books troublemakers like you every day. White guys with nothing but contempt for everyone else. Think going to war means you've done all you ever have to, that no one else can ever tell you what to do. No respect for authority. No respect for the badge. Got cop killer written all over you.”

You don't know the half of it,
Hatcher thought. Anger was welling up inside him. He could feel it in his face, the hot swell of it in his checks, felt the pressure mounting in his head. He knew he had to keep it in check.

“Only matter of time with your type,” the cop said. “Only a matter of time.”

A pain in his rib forced him to suck a sudden breath. The shock of it knocked him back to the cement. He pressed a hand to the point of impact. Pictured the end of the baton, punched into him, a lot of leverage behind it.

“You are one lucky lowlife, you know that? Assault of a pedestrian, felony menacing, disturbing the peace—all witnessed by a peace officer, no less. Dead to rights. But wouldn't you know it, seems the vic got scared. Fled before I could ascertain his identity. Can't be wasting the taxpayers' money. No vic, no stick.”

Hatcher's scalp scraped the sidewalk as he shifted onto his side. His back was arched, the bony curve of his wrist pressed against his rib near the spine. He opened his eyes, could see the span of pavement down to where it ended at the street. Morris was gone.

The officer dropped his baton into the loop on his belt. “I'm going to let you off with a warning. Don't let me catch you up to no good again.”

He opened the door to his cruiser and flashed a row of teeth. “Otherwise, enjoy your stay in the City of the Angels.”

 

 

MORRIS DUCKED INTO A YOGA STUDIO THREE BLOCKS FROM where he'd just left Hatcher and the cop. The vestibule was small. Bamboo flooring, wicker furniture. Water trickled audibly down a section of rock from the ceiling to the floor. Piped music competed with the babbling water, instrumental, new age stuff. A harp being strummed and plucked.

No one was at the reception counter. He tried to remember specifics about what he was told. She'd said yoga, but he wondered if he might have the wrong place. This was California, after all. There might be another right next door.

But he couldn't imagine not being warned about that.

He waited until he didn't feel like waiting anymore, then circled behind the counter, passed through an access to an inner corridor that led to an open room. It had mirrored walls and a smooth wooden floor littered with mats. She was in the middle of the room, kneeling over a dark container, peering down. The container was shaped like a cauldron.

“I did it,” he said.