The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (18 page)

Lockington frowned. “Well, Miss Elwood, no matter
where
he’d sleep, Classic Investigations gets five hundred dollars a day, and that’s pretty steep for a working girl.”

The matter of financial capability didn’t seem to faze her. She said, “I don’t worry during my working hours. The
Sentinel
has beefed up its security—I feel completely safe at the
Sentinel—
it’s the nights alone—particularly since—since Connie Carruthers was—”

Lockington jammed his elbows onto the desk top, leaning forward to cut her off. “Now, Miss Elwood, here’s the way it stands—I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but in spite of that I’m going to give you some Dutch uncle advice. For Christ’s sake,
don’t
go around shopping at nickel-and-dime detective agencies, looking for a helping hand! A woman in your position should hightail it to the nearest police station, explain the situation, and request protective custody!”

“Protective custody—what would that entail? It would mean around-the-clock coverage, as I understand it.”

Lockington shrugged. “Probably—or you might be stashed in a safehouse until the smoke has cleared.”

“Well, Mr. Lockington, there’ll be nobody stashing
me any
where. I have a job to attend to, and there’ll be no tangle-footed lame-brain dogging my footsteps twenty-four hours a day! I can’t
use
that kind of attention!”

“A bit odd, isn’t it—this sudden shrinking from attention? The
Stella Starbright
column is geared to attract all the attention it can drum up—favorable or
un
favorable—by legitimate means, or whatever is required.”

There was a current crackling through the room, electricity generated by the abrasiveness of two strong personalities in proximity. Erika Elwood glared at Lockington. “You are
not
talking to Stella Starbright, can’t you
understand
that? You are talking to
Erika Elwood
, a woman who goes to church every Sunday and votes a straight Republican ticket! Believe what you will, but they are in
no
way related!”

Lockington pursed his lips, directing a stream of cigarette smoke at the big picture of Wrigley Field. He said, “Miss Elwood, you wouldn’t bullshit an old bullshitter, would you?”

“Oh, don’t give me that tongue-in-cheek treatment, God damn it! Can Classic Investigations possibly spare a man? Answer my
question, will
you?”

Lockington’s grin was tight. She was scared spitless, but her dander was up, she still had fire. He tilted back in the swivel chair, stroking a jowl that could have used a shave. He said, “Well, let’s take a look at Classic’s manpower potential. The boss is in Cleveland until Monday, my assistant is on an assignment and won’t be in until tomorrow morning.” Lockington winked at her. “At the moment, your choices would appear to be limited.”

“I have
one
?”

“That’s it.”

“
You?
”

“Yep,
me
—a kill-crazy vigilante with a Dodge City mentality.” By nature, Lacey Lockington wasn’t a cruel man—he’d never kicked stray dogs or torn the wings from flies, but he’d cut this vixen and he couldn’t resist salting the wound. He said, “Take it or leave it.”

Erika Elwood considered her options and groaned, “Oh, shit, I’ll
take
it!” She lunged for her purse, opening it to jerk out a lace-trimmed gray linen handkerchief, burying her face in it, and coming apart at the seams like a three-dollar football. Lockington sat watching her, saying nothing, listening to her hoarse, racking sobs, waiting for her to come up for air. Eventually she got around to that, catching her breath, drying her eyes. She said, “Excuse my outburst, please.”

Lockington said, “Why, sure. Hell, you’re entitled.”

She flared again, the flame not quite extinguished. “You sonofabitch, I’ve already
explained
how it goes at the
Sentinel
—I do what I’m told to do—I write what I’m told to write—” Her voice cracked and she lapsed into stony silence, gnawing on her lower lip.

After a while, Lockington said, “Uhh–h–h, Miss Elwood, just how long would such an assignment be likely to last, would you say?”

“Quite frankly, I just don’t know—it could go on until the Millenium, I suppose.”

“That’d consume some time, because there ain’t gonna
be
no Millennium.”

“All right—until the Cubs win a pennant—how’s
that
?” A meager smile twitched a corner of her mouth—she was perking up, sensing a change in the wind. “Will you accept this—this assignment?”

“At five hundred clams a throw, you could be talking serious money.”

“That’s not my concern—Classic Investigations will bill the
Sentinel
for its services. I have a letter of authorization from Max Jarvis, if you’d care to see it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“But, Good Lord, this can’t go on
forever
, can it—they’ll catch up with these people sooner or later, won’t they?”

“Who’ll catch up with
what
people sooner or later?”

“The Chicago police—they’ll corner this LAON organization shortly!”

“Without your complete cooperation, I wouldn’t bet a dollar on them finding LAON or whoever the hell is behind this.”

“It isn’t a matter of my cooperating with the police—it’s a matter of the police cooperating with Max Jarvis. They’ll hustle or Max will ride them out of town on a
rail
!”

Lockington murmured, “They’re hustling, take my word.”

“I didn’t catch that. What was it you said?”

“I said, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’”

“Precisely.”

“You get something from LAON?”

“Yes—this morning—a card in the mail.”

“And what did it have to say?”

“It said that
my
time is coming
soon
! What’s your decision—are you going to help me?”

Lockington stretched and yawned. He said, “Where’s your automobile?”

“In the
Sentinel’s
underground garage, and that’s where it’ll stay until this is behind me. LAON probably knows my car.”

“I’d think so. How did you get here?”

“By cab—I’d hoped for a lift home.”

“Where’s that?”

“St. Charles.”

“That’s right—you’ve mentioned it.”

“I have? Honestly, I don’t recall that—I’ve been so shaken by these—these
horrors
!”

Lockington gave it a final shuffle, but his mind had been set before he’d riffled the deck. What the hell, it was beyond personalities now. Whatever Erika Elwood was, she was in danger and she had no champion. He slapped the top of the desk with the flat of his hand, the spanging sound echoing like a gunshot in the tiny office. He snapped, “All right, you’d better lock that door—we’re stuck here for another few minutes.”

He scowled, remembering that his .38 police special was in the drawer of his bedroom nightstand. Well, armed or
un
armed, here came the Twentieth Century’s answer to Don Quixote, astride a swaybacked Pontiac Catalina, clattering to the rescue of the besieged Erika Elwood, which came as no great shock to Lacey Lockington. Knowing himself as he did, he realized that he’d have done the same for Lucrezia Borgia, who’d been no bargain, either.

Giddy-up!

The Wednesday late afternoon was hot, Chicago’s Loop was an airtight gray cauldron. They walked the three blocks to the Randolph Street parking lot, Erika Elwood’s right sleeve brushing the store fronts, Lockington close on her left, a half step off her pace, his slouching, unconcerned walk belying the alertness of his eyes. The parking lot attendant dug the floppy-fendered blue Pontiac from between a Mercedes and a
BMW
, and Lockington tooled the tired vehicle south to the Eisenhower Expressway, swinging west into the sluggish triple stream of traffic that trickled into infinity. He said, “I’ll take Roosevelt Road into Geneva. Then what—to St. Charles on 25 or 31?”

Erika Elwood said, “Take 31—I’m just a couple of miles north of 64. Are you familiar with that area?”

Lockington’s half smile was wry and distant. “Vaguely—it’s been a while.”

He could feel Erika’s interested gaze penetrating him. After a brief hesitation, she said, “A woman?”

Lockington said, “Of a sort.”

“What
sort
of sort?”

“Confused.”

“It didn’t work out, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Where is she now?”

“At the bottom of the Fox River—I strangled her and threw her in.”

A smile sidled into her voice. “Why?”

“I forget, but you could stick it in your Stella Starbright column and make up your own reason.”

She laughed—a lilting sound, pleasant. “You, sir, are a paradox.”

Lockington said, “I’m not up on my Latin.”

“
Seriously,
now—you can kill and think nothing more of it, but you’re a
kind
man—at heart you’re a kind man.”

Lockington growled, “That’s opinion only.”

“Well, my gosh, what else
is
there? ‘Opinion guides the feet of man to now from where he once began.’”

“Go ahead, finish it.”

“There’s more?”

“Sure. ‘He walks his brief and troubled span, opinion tending ev’ry plan, and, at the end, Hell’s smoking hole cooks his opinionated soul.’”

“Why, my God, that’s—that’s
cynical
! Who wrote it?”

“A cynic, probably. Does it matter?”

“I don’t think so.”

They were on Roosevelt Road, boring west through Wheaton into a blazing sunset. Erika lit two cigarettes, handing one to Lockington. She said, “Y’know, there are times when I could almost
like
you—you certainly aren’t a hypocrite!”

“We’ve
all
been hypocrites at one time or another.”

“Oh, boy—a week ago you said that we’re all
whores
—now we’ve all been
hypocrites
! You don’t like the human race, do you?”

“I like it—I just don’t
trust
it.”

“Define hypocrisy! What
is
it?”

“A guy in a restaurant men’s room—if there’s another man in there with him, he pisses and he washes his hands—if he’s alone, he pisses and he
doesn’t
wash his hands.
That’s
hypocrisy.”

“And you don’t wash your hands?”

“What’s to be gained? The cooks never wash
theirs.
”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely—I know a whole bunch of cooks.”

Erika Elwood shook her head. Her sigh was audible above the roar of the old Pontiac’s engine. She said, “Oh, Jesus, there’s just nothing like stimulating conversation, is there?”

Erika Elwood’s place had turned out to be a small, white singlestory dwelling on ten or more heavily-wooded acres, situated well back from a lumpy macadam side road that branched northwest from Route 31. From its site, no other buildings could be seen. The property was surrounded by a split rail fence, corn fields, and silence. Lockington was familiar with none of these. Lockington was a city boy.

She’d let him in, following him closely, slamming the door, locking it hurriedly behind them. She’d pitched her handbag onto the padded seat of a John F. Kennedy rocking chair. She’d peeled off her gray suitcoat and draped it over the handbag before settling into a large overstuffed chair that had a flouncy, flowered slipcover. She’d exhaled relievedly. Lockington had parked himself in the lefthand corner of a four cushion black leather sofa, a luxuriously comfortable piece of furniture, but far too masculinely severe to be in keeping with the feminine appointments of the living room, its starkness tending to make it a focal point. He’d looked around. “Nice little place—cozy—how long have you lived out this way?”

She’d said, “Not long. I tired of a lakefront condo—the constant hubbub, the sense ofbeing closed in—it’s better here.”

“All but for the long drive—that must be a bastard.”

She’d shrugged. “Well, there is no free lunch. Do you want television?”

Lockington had said, “Oh, Christ,
no
!”—a trifle bluntly for a guest, he’d thought after he’d done it, but he’d justified it by reasoning that he wasn’t a guest, he was an employee.

Then she’d come up with a more agreeable idea. She’d said, “Martini?”

Lockington had said, “Yes, if you will.”

“Gin or vodka?”

“Vodka, please—gin is for fairies.”

“Dry?”

“Very.”

Within a couple of minutes she’d been back in her flowered chair, raising her frosty slim-stemmed glass to him in an unspoken toast. She’d said, “Well, Mr. Lockington, here we are.”

Lockington had thought about it. He’d said, “Yes, we sure as hell are.”

“You have your—your gun, I trust.”

Lockington had shaken his head. “It’s at home—I haven’t carried it since I was suspended. I’ll use yours, if necessary. Incidentally, I’d like to take a look at it.”

She’d nodded, getting up to go into her bedroom, returning with the Repentino-Morté she’d mentioned during her visit to his apartment, carrying the weapon gingerly. Lockington had taken it, balancing it in the palm of his left hand, studying it. It was an exquisite piece of workmanship. He’d said, “This is the most expensive handgun in the business—deadly accurate. How did you come by it?”

“It was a gift.” She didn’t elaborate.

“Has it been fired?”

“Not to my knowledge—certainly not by
me
!”

Lockington had ejected the round from the chamber, popped the clip, squinted down the barrel, squeezed the trigger several times, feeling the hammer click home with deadly precision on a reasonably light pull. He’d jammed the clip back into the pebbled handle, snapped a round into firing position, engaged the safety, and slipped the Repentino-Morté into a jacket pocket.

Erika Elwood had watched the process, mesmerized by his deft handling of the pistol. She’d lowered her gaze and said, “Thank God you’re on
my
side!”

Lockington had winked at her. “
Am
I?”

She’d glanced up quickly, evaluating his smile. “Don’t even
joke
about that!”

“Okay. Sorry.”