Perpetual Motion (16 page)

That was fast, he thought, as he answered,
“Cynical.”

Instead of the raspy voice of Boney, he was
greeted by something much silkier. “Is this the x-detective?”

“It is,” he said, trying to place the vaguely
familiar voice.

“This is Amanda Wilkerson. We met on the
flight from Las Vegas...”

The image of a pair of legs crossed his mind.
“Yeah, sure,” Cynical stammered, sitting up straighter.

“So, are you on an exciting case?” she asked
playfully.

“For me, yeah, I actually am,” he said,
grinning like a fool. Another image, this one of Fernando, flashed
into his consciousness and he felt a twinge of guilt for his
glibness.

“Well, it looks like the job I’m working on
is going to take another couple of days, so I’ll be in LA a little
longer than I expected,” she said. “And I thought maybe you’d like
to have dinner? I know it’s late notice, but I’m free tonight.”

She was assertive, even a little aggressive,
and he found himself liking that. Technically, he should be off
after five, or so he began to rationalize. The plan was to use the
down time to take a long, hot shower and crash hard. But those
long, taunt legs came back to him. Well, he had to eat at some
point, didn’t he?

“Yeah, I could probably do dinner,” he heard
himself saying.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Do you have any
suggestions?”

“Do you like Italian?”

“How did you know?”

“There’s a little place called Tito’s,” he
suggested. “It’s near Melrose and La Brea.”

“I think I can find that, or at least a taxi
can.”

“How about seven?”

“Seven it is,” she said. “I’ll see you
then.”

His momentary
excitement gave way to a wave of shame for allowing himself to be
distracted from the case. This was the first woman he’d been really
interested in for a long time and, of course, she came along during
the most important job of his career. Once again, God couldn’t
allow anything to be easy for him.

Eventually, his
frustration gave way to fatigue. With nothing to look at except the
plain white exterior of the apartment building, Cynical felt a
profound tiredness taking hold of him. He’d been on the run since
St. Croix and, despite his best efforts, his eyes were drooping and
the stucco building was starting to fade in and
out.

The next thing he knew,
water was lapping at his bare feet. Looking up, the steering wheel
had morphed into the helm of a boat and he was on his way to an
island never before discovered by middle aged white men. Topless
native girls swam out to greet him, welcoming him with fruity
drinks and the promise of tropical lays.

Arriving on the beach,
he was served a concoction in a coconut shell while the
beat of drums pounded away in the background. A woman who looked a
like a darker version of Amanda in a grass skirt danced
suggestively toward the jungle thicket. Starting to follow, the
drums became louder, until they were a hard rapping sound that had
broken into his sweet island dream.

His eyelids clicked open to reveal a man in a
suit standing at his driver’s side door. Fully awake now, Cynical
glanced in the rearview mirror to a dirty Lincoln parked directly
behind him. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was the same car that had
Desmond’s apartment under surveillance; the smoker.

Going for the gun under his seat, he saw a
second man on the right side of the car. This man had his right
hand inside his jacket, reaching for what he knew was a holstered
gun. He was surrounded. Just then, an official looking badge was
slapped against his window. Below a gold embossed eagle, there was
no mistaking the “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Keeping his eyes on the badge, he left his
own gun under the seat and slowly lowered his window. Looking up
into the darkened face framed by the early morning sun, he asked,
“Was I speeding officer?”

The agent took the liberty of reaching inside
the open window and flicking the automatic lock for all four doors.
Without an invitation, he let himself into the back as his younger
partner slid into the front passenger seat.

“Agent McCobb,” the senior agent in the back
seat said by way of introduction. “That’s O’ Riley.” The man in the
front didn’t nod or blink, just stared at the PI with a sour
expression. “Should we call you Samuel Jones or just Cynical?”

“Cynical is fine.”

“So, you’re looking for Michael Dexter too?”
It was still McCobb in the back who spoke, the whiff of stale
cigarette breath making its way to the front.

“I guess he’s a popular guy,” Cynical said,
trying to gauge how much these guys actually knew before showing
too much of his hand. Taking a look in the rearview mirror, he
found a stern face that looked like it had been around the block a
few times. “Why are you looking for him?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” O’Riley snapped.
“Who are you working for?”

“That falls under detective-client
privilege.”

“There’s no such thing,” McCobb said blandly.
“Look, we just want to talk to Mr. Dexter. And protect him, if he
needs it. We don’t know exactly what your agenda is, but we would
prefer to work together.”

While the words sounded nice enough, Cynical
detected a subtle veiled threat somewhere in there. “Look, I don’t
know what’s going on,” he said, deciding to play it close to the
vest. “I was just hired to find him. My client didn’t tell me
why.”

It was O’Riley who piped up next. “So you
think you’re going to find him by spying on Desmond’s
girlfriend?”

“Desmond’s girlfriend?” Cynical repeated,
surprised by their false assumption. “You think Karen is Desmond’s
girlfriend?”

The two agents exchanged a quick look, which
Cynical managed to catch. Obviously, they knew even less than he
did.

“This is going nowhere,” O’ Riley said
defensively; turning to his partner. “Now I know why this dick
washed out of the LAPD. He doesn’t know anything.”

“You want to know what I think?” Cynical
asked with a flash of agitation. “I think your superiors, of which
there are many, sent you on a fishing expedition to find Dexter.
They didn’t even tell you why – and now you’re scrambling around
trying to cheat off my answer sheet.”

“Oh, we know a few things,” McCobb said
softly as he leaned forward, his jaw jutting over the top of the
seat. “For example, we know you were at Fernando Rivera’s house an
hour before his body was discovered.”

The allegation reeled Cynical. Score one for
the FBI. How did they know so much about his whereabouts? There was
no way Cynthia would have revealed her source on the body in Long
Beach.

“That guy had been dead at least a week,”
Cynical said, fumbling to regain his balance. “He was shot while I
was in the Caribbean.”

“We’ll see what forensics comes up with,”
McCobb said, pressing his advantage. “In the meantime, why don’t we
go downtown and get to know each other better.” A large hand from
the back seat clasped his shoulder. “What do you say?”

Cynical looked back up at the apartment. He
knew these guys would have to let him go, eventually. The last
thing he wanted to do was leave Karen unattended for that long.

“All right,” he said, looking for a way to
diffuse the situation. “Just relax.” Turning almost all the way
around, he faced his inquisitor. “All I know is Michael and his
buddies were working on some invention, something big. Everything
was fine until two men, who said they were with the Department of
Energy, showed up at their factory, asking a bunch of questions. A
couple of days later, someone blew up their prototype. The kids got
spooked and Michael disappeared.”

He paused until he realized the agents were
expecting him to continue.

“I was a contacted by a third party who said
someone wanted to find Michael. I don’t even know who actually
hired me – so don’t ask. My guess is, whoever it is, has some
interest in whatever these guys were working on. Anyway, I found
Michael in Vegas. I was taking him to a safer location when a
squadron of storm troopers swooped in and tried to take him from
me.”

“Storm troopers?” O’ Riley asked.

“At least three guys in suits.” Cynical
looked over at him. “Kind of like you.”

“Then what?” O’ Riley pushed.

“I was told to keep looking for him. That’s
when I came across Karen and Desmond. Karen is Michael’s
girlfriend; she’s just staying with Desmond until she hears from
Michael. They wanted me to check on their friend, Fernando, who, as
you know, turned out to be a dead end.”

It felt like to Cynical like he had given the
agents a pretty good summery of his involvement in the case. Now he
hoped he could get something from them.

“We also found a bunch of bugs in Karen’s
apartment up there,” he continued. “And every time I turn around, I
see guys in suits following them around. Come to think of it, they
look a lot like you guys.”

Both agents were silent for a few seconds, as
if absorbing all the information.

“Okay,” McCobb said, sounding somewhat
satisfied. “In the spirit of cooperation, we have been watching Mr.
Desmond Traylor for a few days. Like you, we were hoping he would
lead us to Michael Dexter.” He stopped to consider his words. “But
we weren’t bugging anyone’s apartment.”

“Because you guys would never do a thing like
that,” Cynical retorted.

“Believe what you want, but it wasn’t us.”
McCobb opened the back door before pausing. “And, just so you know,
I haven’t been to Vegas since my brother-in-law’s bachelor’s party.
We were going to check on a cell phone signal registered to Michael
Dexter, but it went dead before we had a chance to follow up on
it.”

Once again, Cynical replayed the image of
Michael’s phone dropping into the volcano like a virgin sacrifice.
When he looked up, Agent McCobb was already out of the Impala, O’
Riley following his lead. The senior agent flicked a business card
through the driver’s open window and into Cynical’s lap.

“Call me if you get a lead on Michael.
Failure to do so is a felony.”

Cynical watched through the side mirror as
the two men strode back to their car. A minute later, the dusty
black Lincoln pulled around him, perhaps in search of a car wash.
McCobb was in the driver’s seat, lighting up; O’Riley, in the
passenger seat, giving him the stink eye as they passed.

While he didn’t exactly trust them, Agent
McCobb seemed somewhat credible. If it was the FBI in Vegas, they
should have announced who they were when they moved in to apprehend
Michael. And he certainly hoped they hadn’t executed Fernando in
cold blood. No, there was still an unknown outfit out there. And
they were a lot more dangerous than the FBI.

Karl had been on the clock for two hours when
he looked up to see a large African American man gliding toward his
desk. Two hundred and fifty pounds of hard-packed muscle and a
serious scowl put the security guard on high alert. Cynical Jones
stepped around from behind the man, not exactly eliminating his
concerns.

“Karl, I want to introduce you to a gentleman
who will be working with us,” Cynical said. “This is J.T.
Thornton.”

It had been a coup for Boney to get J.T. on
short notice. The man was a rare breed: a genuine bad ass who knew
how to use the better part of discretion. And while J.T. was
expensive, he was someone you wanted in your corner if things went
bad.

Gesturing to the security guard, Cynical
said, “This is Karl, our eyes and ears on the operation.”

As he passed, J.T. glanced at Karl, which was
enough to freeze the security guard.

“We’re going up,” Cynical announced in
stride.

Before Karl could ask any questions or have
the guests sign-in, the two men were already in the elevator.

As soon as the doors to the elevator closed
and they started to rise, Cynical turned to J.T. “Karl thinks we’re
guarding a Mob informant. It’s probably simpler to just leave it
that way.”

J.T. didn’t seem to care what Karl thought,
so Cynical continued to brief him. “You’ll be looking after Karen –
nice girl. And a guy named Desmond.”

“Who am I protecting them from?”

“I’m not sure,” Cynical admitted. “I ran into
whoever-they-are in Vegas. They shot me with a taser, but it could
have been worse.”

J.T.’s brow furrowed as he stared at
Cynical.

“All I know is they’re professionals. We
found infra-red bugs in this apartment.” As the elevator slowed to
a stop, Cynical lowered his voice. “Yesterday, I found a friend of
theirs with a couple of bullet holes in his head.”

“This sounds heavy,” J.T. said
matter-of-factly. “I may want to bring in some boys.”

“I just don’t want to make a scene around
here. The security guard is already jumpy,” Cynical said as they
exited the elevator to the third floor. After giving it a little
thought, he added, “If you have one or two guys outside in a car -
that should be okay.”

“They’ll stay out of sight,” J.T. reassured
with a nod, “It’ll cost you another grand a night though.”

Swallowing as he calculated the money he was
spending on protection, Cynical slowly nodded in consent. “There
are some FBI agents snooping around too,” he went on. “They’re
trying to find the same guy we’re all looking for, but I don’t
think they’re a real threat.”

“Man, what are you getting me into here?”

“I’m not completely sure myself,” Cynical
admitted, slowing down to a stop before they got in front of
apartment 315. “I don’t think anyone will try anything; I just want
to be prepared if they do.”

Cynical took another couple of steps to the
door; then hesitated. “There’s a chance that Michael will show up
looking for Karen. If he does, I want you to make sure he doesn’t
go anywhere until I get here.”