Bad Guys Read online

  I’d have to check that later.

  What I didn’t know, until Angie reached the end of the street and turned right, was that the left brake light was out on the Camry. Not good, but at the same time, as it got darker, it would make it easier to spot the car as I attempted to maintain some distance between us.

  The other thing I quickly realized, not ever having driven behind Angie, was that Angie was not very good at remembering to signal. She’d made a right at the bottom of Crandall without putting on her turn indicator. And a mile or so further along, when she made a left, she forgot again.

  I was going to have to talk to her about this. Just as soon as I could figure out how to tell her I’d been in a position to notice. I blamed Sarah for this. Angie’s disregard for the rules of the road had to be a genetic thing.

  In addition to watching Angie, I was watching all the cars around her, in particular the black Chevy Lawrence and I had seen Trevor Wylie leave in earlier. So far, no sign of him.

  The Camry turned onto Elmdale, home to a long block of coffee shops, ethnic restaurants, boutiques catering to the eclectic. I held back as the one Camry brake light came on and Angie began cruising the street slowly, evidently looking for someplace to park. I pulled over into a no-parking zone close to the curb, figuring I could idle there long enough to find out what she planned to do. A Jeep Wagoneer, a Mazda, then one of those new Mini Coopers drove past, and I did a quick study of each of the drivers, on the off chance that Trevor might be behind the wheel of something different. Two women, and an older guy, in the Cooper, trying to cure his midlife crisis.

  Angie tried to parallel park at an open curb spot, but even from where I was sitting, it looked like a tight fit. She gave it a couple of tries, then went further up the street, where she found another, larger opening. This time, she slipped right in. Nice parking job, I thought. Way better than when we practiced it together prior to her final driving test.

  She came back up the street on the sidewalk, in my direction, and I suddenly realized I needed an exit strategy to avoid being spotted. Could I back up and maneuver around the corner? I’d be trying to back right into traffic. If she got all the way up to the corner, where I was idling, she’d see me for sure.

  But she stopped in front of a coffee shop, glancing up at the sign. Then a young man came out the front door, his arms wide in greeting. He was maybe twenty, with thick black hair, about a week’s worth of scraggly beard, nearly six feet. Dressed in jeans and a brown leather jacket, trim with a solid upper body, like he played a sport, football maybe, or hockey.

  Angie spread her arms as well, and then they had their arms around each other, and Angie angled her head up to his, and he bent his head down and kissed her. But this was not some quick, hey-how-are-you kiss, but a long, lingering embrace. Fifteen, twenty seconds, easy. They pulled apart long enough to look into each other’s eyes, and then they kissed again.

  Oh man.

  I guess I hadn’t really considered the implications of following my own daughter. It had never been my intention to witness something like this. I wanted to be able to make myself disappear, to transport myself out of there. Anything to make myself less uncomfortable, less scummy. It was one thing peeking in on your little girl when she was playing with her dolls in her bedroom, and quite another observing her with a member of the opposite sex in a moment of intimacy.

  I looked away, at the clock dashboard, at the cars going by, at just about anything but my daughter locking lips with this young man.

  Maybe, if I hadn’t been overwhelmed with shame and felt the need to look away, I might have missed seeing Trevor Wylie drive past my car in his black Chevrolet.

  14

  Angie and her boyfriend disentangled themselves from each other—it seemed to take some effort, I thought—and slipped into the coffee shop as Trevor Wylie’s black Chevy drove past. The car continued slowly up the street, rumbling a bit, exhaust spewing from the tailpipe.

  “You little bastard,” I muttered under my breath. I pulled away from the curb and fell in behind Trevor.

  He turned right at the next stop sign, then three more rights, and we were going past the coffee shop again. The Camry was still parked on the street. We did that loop, Trevor and I, three times, until finally a large enough spot opened up for Trevor to back his long Chevy into it. I waited for him to get fully into the spot, then drove by, trying very hard not to look over. Now I did another loop of the block on my own, and when I came around again, Trevor was still in the car, looking half a block ahead at the coffee shop.

  I weighed my options.

  My first instinct was to pull up alongside Trevor, box him in, get out of my car and haul him out of his car and beat the shit out of him.

  Then I considered whether to pull up alongside Trevor, box him in, put down the window and strike up a conversation. “Hey, Trevor, what brings you down here?” See what he had to say for himself. See whether he could, on the spot, come up with some convincing lie.

  Possibly.

  But suppose he denied following Angie down here? What was I going to do, exactly? And what if, in the middle of this confrontation, Angie and this leather-jacketed player from the tonsil hockey league emerged from the coffee shop and witnessed this exchange? And who’d have a lot of explaining to do then?

  So I drove by Trevor and did another slow turn around the block. This time, another spot had opened up, this one close to the corner, half a dozen cars behind Trevor, which was perfect. I could park here, keep an eye on both Trevor and the front door of the coffee shop. I slipped into the spot. It was fully dark now, and I felt fairly anonymous sitting in the car, watching people stroll by on the sidewalk.

  Okay, how about this, I thought. I walk up, open the passenger door of Trevor Wylie’s car, slip in, close the door. Have a frank and open exchange of ideas.

  It was a plan with some merit. It might put a little fear into him, even though Trevor didn’t act like a kid who was easily intimidated. But to be caught on his little stakeout, by the father of the girl he was stalking, well, wouldn’t that mess up his shorts a bit? If the roles were reversed, I knew it would scare the living shit out of me.

  It must have taken me close to twenty minutes to decide this was the way to go, and I had my hand on the door handle and was just about to pull it when Angie and this guy—who, even without knowing a great deal about him I could tell was not right for her—come back out of the coffee shop.

  They chatted for a while on the sidewalk. Angie rested her hand on his elbow, and her head was nodding up and down enthusiastically, and then he reached up and brushed some of Angie’s hair back over her shoulder, and I could see her head lean, ever so slightly into his hand, beckoning it.

  I felt sort of, I don’t know . . . what’s the word I’m looking for here? Slimy? Yes, that will do. And a bit queasy, too.

  “Just say goodbye, come on, let’s get this show on the road,” I said.

  They kissed again, not quite as long this time, thank God, and stood back from each other, and Angie slung the strap of her purse up over her shoulder, made a small waving gesture, and so did the guy, and then he turned and started walking up the street in my direction, and Angie headed back the other way, toward the Camry.

  Ahead, I could make out the edge of the Chevy’s taillights, and could see that Trevor had his foot on the brake as he turned the ignition and put the car into gear. I did the same, engaging the Virtue’s oh-so-quiet motor, slipped the car into drive, and held my foot on the brake, waiting for this convoy to get under way.

  Even further ahead, I saw Angie get into her car, and about a minute later, she had her blinker on (good girl!) to indicate that she was pulling back into traffic. Then Trevor pulled out, and I brought up the rear. So far, I was the only one who had any idea how ridiculous this all looked.

  Angie was heading crosstown along one of the main thoroughfares. Four lanes, lots of traffic lights. I wasn’t always able to keep the Camry in sight, although the burned
-out brake light helped. But when I couldn’t spot Angie, I looked for Trevor, since he was closer and every bit as eager to keep Angie in his sights as I was.

  I had a hunch where we were going. If we stayed on this route, we’d be at the Midtown Center, the site of Lawrence’s and my shootout with the black Annihilator. The mall sign came into view, and Angie, and then Trevor, moved over into the right-turn lane as they approached the entrance.

  Angie swung into the mall parking lot without signaling, trolled up and down the aisles looking for a spot. It didn’t look much like it had the night before, when Lawrence’s Buick and the SUV did doughnuts chasing each other, not another car to be seen anyplace.

  Angie found an opening, pulled into it, and Trevor’s Chevy rumbled past behind her. I needed to find something fast, before I lost her going into the mall. About twenty spaces further away from the mall entrance I found a spot flanked by a massive Ford Expedition and a small sports car. I slipped in, hopped out, locked the car, and started running in the direction of the mall. Under the lights of the entrance, I could see Angie heading inside. About sixty feet behind her, I could see the back of a young white male in a long black coat I was pretty sure was Trevor.

  I could guess what he was up to. Another “accidental” meeting. He’d bump into her near the food court, be amazed that they’d run into each other, suggest they grab a coffee or something to eat. I could already imagine Angie’s discomfort.

  Following someone in a car was one thing, but trailing someone—two people, actually—on foot was going to be something different altogether. What now, Marlowe? I hadn’t trained long enough with Lawrence to know how to handle this one.

  By the time I reached the mall doors, I saw Angie rounding the corner of a jewelry store to enter into the main part of the mall. Not too far ahead of me, a boot-clad Trevor walked by briskly.

  My breathing became shallow and rapid. I hadn’t counted on doing anything like this at all. I thought all I needed for this kind of work was a car and a Snapple bottle. Now, I needed a disguise. A fake face, like everyone wears in Mission: Impossible, would be good. Or, a hat. Something I could pull down over my eyes.

  Angie wandered into a Banana Republic. There was no need to follow her inside. There was only one way in or out, which Trevor must have figured out, too, since he was hanging back, positioning himself on the opposite side of the mallway, in front of an electronics store that sold CDs and DVDs. He pretended to check out the new releases set just inside the door. I parked myself behind a two-sided mall directory sign that offered sufficient cover while I kept watch on both the Banana Republic and the electronics store.

  I figured I’d be in this spot for a while. Angie, like her mother, never went into a fashion store and walked right back out again. Whenever I happened to accompany either of the women in my household to the mall, even on a supposedly short errand to go into a drugstore to buy a lipstick, I always allowed an hour.

  I usually killed time in a bookstore or grabbed a coffee. Sometimes I left the mall altogether, ran some other errand, maybe trekked over to some hobby shop that carried sci-fi models, and came back in sixty minutes. But this time, I was staying put. The only comforting thing was, this would be as much torture for Trevor as it was for me. Maybe trailing after Angie in a mall would be enough to cure him of stalking.

  I was still standing behind the directory sign, one eye peeking around the side, when I realized a small girl in a puffy-sleeved dress, no more than five years old, was standing a few feet away and had been watching me for several minutes.

  “What are you doing, mister?” she asked.

  Terrific. Shirley Temple had blown my cover.

  “Go away,” I said. I was about to say something else when I spotted Angie coming out of Banana Republic, store bag in hand. She headed in the direction of the Sears, the anchor store at the far end. Trevor picked up the trail, keeping to the opposite side of the mall walkway. She ducked into a Gap right next to the food court, so I walked over to a coffee stand that still afforded me a view of the front of that store.

  I bought a large coffee, shifted over to where they had the cream and sugar and stir sticks, found a lid that fit, and when I looked up, there was Angie, standing right in front of me.

  “Dad? What are you doing here?” she said, her head cocked quizzically to one side. Her question didn’t sound accusatory. The truth was, she seemed very happy to see me.

  I was so rattled I was having a hard time speaking, let alone coming up with an answer.

  “You? At the mall? Without Mom? This is totally unbelievable.”

  Think. Think. Think. Was it almost our anniversary? No, no, that was months away. If I said that, she’d never believe it. Her mother’s birthday? I’d had a habit of keeping track of that one, but no, I was pretty sure we’d celebrated that only four or five months ago. Valentine’s Day had long since past, Christmas was still a couple of months off, and—

  “I’m looking for clothes,” I blurted.

  “Clothes?” Angie said. “You’re looking for clothes?” Then she looked upward, as if there was no roof there and she was looking into the heavens.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Looking for flying pigs,” Angie said.

  I attempted to look indignant. “I can’t shop for clothes?”

  “Doesn’t Mom buy all your clothes?”

  “Not all of them. I do know how to buy clothes on my own.”

  She smiled. “Since when? You’re totally hopeless. You’re telling me you’ve come out here, on your own, to buy a new wardrobe.”

  “I don’t know why that’s so incredible. I just had to have a coffee to fortify myself before starting.”

  “I don’t think it’s incredible,” Angie said. “I think it’s wonderful. Because, let’s be honest, you could use a bit of sprucing up.”

  “You think so?” My eyes were darting about, trying to find Trevor.

  “I mean, you always wear the same sort of thing. You’ve got your blue jeans, but then, once in a while, if you really want to dress up, you wear your black jeans. And these pullover shirts you wear, I mean, what is it with these?” She was plucking at my top with her fingers.

  “The thing is,” I said, “it’s been pointed out to me in the last couple of days, as recently as last night, in fact, that my fashion sense leaves a lot to be desired. An opinion that was not contradicted by your mother. So I thought, while she was out of town on this retreat thing, I’d pick out a few new things.”

  “That is so terrific,” Angie said. “You know what?” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a bit of time. I’ll help you. Since we haven’t got five gay guys here to give you a makeover, it might as well be my job.”

  “No, no, that’s okay, you’ve got stuff to do.”

  “No, really, this’ll be fun. Let’s hit the Gap. It’s sharp, but not too flashy. Finish that coffee and we’ll go over.”

  I didn’t see Trevor anywhere. Maybe seeing Angie hook up with her father had scared him off. I drank my coffee as quickly as I could, but it was still pretty hot, and it took me a couple of minutes. Finally, I pitched the paper cup into the trash and allowed Angie to drag me over to the Gap, wondering whether Joe Mannix had ever been dragged off a stakeout to pick out new pants.

  “Okay,” she said, taking me first to a display of shirts. “I think you’d look good in something like this.” She held up, against my chest, a plaid, button-up-the-front shirt. “What are you?”

  “What do you mean, what am I?” I was waiting for an insult.

  Angie rolled her eyes. “Size? Are you large, extra-large? I’m guessing you’d take a large.”

  “Uh, yeah, I think so,” I said.

  A salesperson wearing a “Gary” nametag approached. “May I help you with anything?”

  Angie said, “My dad wants to get some pants, maybe some khakis?”

  “Sure, they’re over here, if you want to follow me.”

  Angie motioned for me t
o come along. Gary of the Gap said, “He’d prefer loose fit, you think?”

  Angie nodded. “Oh yeah, no kidding.”

  And I thought, Hello? I’m here, too. You can ask me questions.

  Angie loaded me down with three pairs of pants, half a dozen shirts. “Go try these on,” she ordered.

  “Honestly,” I said. “I think I’ll just get the shirts. I don’t have to try them on. They’ll be fine. But the pants, it’s a lot of trouble.”

  Angie looked at me sternly.

  I was directed into a changing room. I slipped off my shoes, pulled off my pants. I pulled on a pair of navy blue khakis first, and one of the checked shirts Angie had handed me. I tucked in the shirt, slipped my shoes back on, and grabbed the wallet from my pants. This has long been a fear of mine, that my wallet will be stolen while trying on new clothes.

  When I stepped back into the main store, Angie was there with Gary.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You look terrific.”

  “I want to take another look at some shirts up at the front,” I said.

  “Oh sure!” Angie said and then, glancing at Gary, said to me, “I’ll be right here.” She and Gary were chatting, and it didn’t sound like the subject was fashion. Didn’t she already have a boyfriend?

  I walked to the front, not to look at shirts, but to scan the mall. There were dozens of people walking past, but at a glance, I didn’t see anyone who resembled Trevor.

  I returned to the back of the store, told Angie I hadn’t seen anything else I cared for. But by the time we got to the counter, I had five shirts, three pairs of slacks, a new belt, and five pairs of socks.

  While Gary was removing all the tags and scanning the items, I said to Angie, “So, what have you been doing tonight? Did you come straight to the mall?”

  “No,” she said. “I met a friend for coffee first.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, trying not to act too interested. “Anyone I know?”