Bad Guys Page 6

  I did as I was told. And she got in the car, backed down the narrow driveway, and disappeared down Crandall.

  7

  Sometimes, I blame my father.

  He worried about everything, and I imagine he still does. We don’t talk all that much since my mother died more than a decade ago, and he lives up in the mountains now, renting out a few lakeside cabins to fishermen, and presumably he moved up there because there would be less to worry about.

  His obsessive nitpicking and general sense of impending doom were his gift to me, and from all accounts they are what led my mother to leave the family home for nearly six months when I was in my early teens.

  We were the only family I knew of that had fire extinguishers on every floor, an escape route in case of fire taped to the back of bedroom doors. Dad had to be the one, every night, to make sure the doors were locked. You always ran cold water in the shower first, then added hot, to ensure against scalding. You put away as much money as you could every week because for sure you’d be fired the next.

  We never had a fire. We never got burned in the shower. Dad was never laid off. He’d be the first to tell you his strategy has paid off.

  And now I am the worrier. There is no stuff too small to sweat. My obsession with personal safety issues and protecting the members of my family has been a problem for a while, and has even backfired rather spectacularly. You might have heard about that.

  It was the memories of my father that persuaded me to listen to Sarah and pay a visit to Harley, my smartass doctor, in a bid to get a handle on this aspect of my personality. But the thing was, the more I tried not to worry about things, the more things there were, landing on my doorstep, to worry about.

  Only hours before, I had been in a car that was being pursued by men with guns. I’d looked down the barrel of a gun before, but I’d never been shot at, nor had I ever been in a car that was being shot at. If that guy hanging out the window of the Annihilator had had a little better aim, Lawrence and I might have been sharing space down at the funeral home with Miles Diamond.

  Standing in the kitchen, I found myself almost short of breath, and took a seat at the table. I pushed The Metropolitan, with its story about the deranged, gun-toting teen, out of sight, and wrapped both hands around my coffee mug to keep them from shaking.

  It wasn’t just my night with Lawrence that had me on edge. There was this whole thing with Angie and Trevor Wylie. All I could picture was Keanu Reeves, decked out in shades and long black coat, a machine gun in each hand, spraying bullets every which way. All while doing that leaning-back doing-the-limbo thing he did.

  I’d yet to meet Trevor Wylie, but I was betting he couldn’t do that.

  Maybe if it hadn’t been for that story in the paper, about that withdrawn kid blowing away his friends in the park, I wouldn’t have been so obsessed with this. But it was the kind of story you come upon more and more in the news. Postal workers, it seemed, had taken a break from shooting their fellow employees so that dysfunctional teens could have a piece of the action. It was a modern-day cliché: the quiet kid, the one no one believed was an actual threat, the one no one could ever remember causing any trouble, suddenly going off like a bomb. Computer nerd turns mass killer.

  Did that describe Trevor? Probably not. Angie’s characterization of him as a “stalker” was teenage hyperbole. A stalker was anyone whose attentions you didn’t welcome.

  It was pretty clear Angie didn’t want me interfering, talking to him. Angie probably didn’t want me to talk to any of her friends ever again.

  I reached for the paper that I’d pushed to the far corner of the table, glanced again at the article. “Police said that while the boy had been ostracized by his peers on occasion, no one thought him capable of bringing a gun from home and executing youngsters he’d sat with in school.”

  I tossed the paper aside a second time. It was a curse to have an imagination that allowed you to envision worst-case scenarios so vividly.

  It was time to think about something else. Like women in leather.

  I had Trixie’s number in an address book in our study. I got it out, found the number, and dialed. She had two phone lines, one personal, another for work. I called the former.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully. This was definitely her personal line. I’d called her business line once, by mistake, and it’s a bit like getting Eartha Kitt. Your whole body temp goes up a degree or three.

  “It’s Zack.”

  “Hi! Long time no hear! How’ve you been?”

  “Good, pretty good. You?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Business good?”

  “I think I’m recession proof. No matter how bad the economy gets, there are guys who need to be tied up and spanked. You called the wrong line if you want to book a session.”

  “No, this is personal.”

  “You think spanking isn’t personal?”

  “Point taken.”

  Trixie and I don’t exactly occupy the same worlds, and I don’t mean that to sound judgmental. She’s in a line of work my kids would call “sketchy” and maybe even a little bit dangerous, not to mention very possibly illegal. But her straightforwardness, honesty, and willingness to help me when I was in trouble once, made her a friend.

  “Listen,” I said, “I haven’t touched base with you in a while, and thought I’d call. It was nice, when you were next door, we could have a coffee now and then.”

  “Usually when you were having some sort of crisis,” Trixie said. “Does that mean you’re having one now?”

  “I guess you could say I’m a bit stressed.”

  “Nothing like when you lived next door, I hope.”

  “I’m not trying to duck a murder charge, if that’s what you mean.” I told her about the night before, with Lawrence.

  “How does a normal guy like you find so much trouble?” Trixie asked.

  “It’s a gift. And then there’s this thing with my daughter.”

  “My mind’s gone blank. Your daughter . . .”

  “An—”

  “Angie! Yes. How’s she? Still interested in photography?”

  “Not enough that we’ve put a darkroom into the house, like we did when we lived in Oakwood. She’s pretty busy, anyway. This is her first year in college. With all the studying and assignments, there’s not that much time for hobbies. She’s living at home, heading downtown for her classes, taking a mix of things, but kind of leaning toward psychology, I think. She’s got a couple of psych courses.”

  Trixie said, “Maybe, if she takes enough of them, she’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with you.” I smiled. She went on, “So, what’s up with her?”

  I told her about Trevor Wylie.

  “I think you’re making a big thing out of nothing. So there’s a guy who likes her, she’s not interested. Eventually, he’ll get the message.”

  “You’re probably right. But showing up at her friend’s place, out of nowhere. Sounds like he had to be following her, don’t you think?”

  “Look, Angie’s a smart kid, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “She knows how to take care of herself. If she thinks there’s a real problem, she’ll tell you.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not with much conviction.

  “Listen, she’ll be okay. How’s Paul? Still gardening?”

  “Not quite as much as before we moved. He still gets his hands dirty now and then, but he spends a lot of time in front of the computer now. And he’s working on getting his driver’s license.”

  “Next time you’re out this way, let me know. We’ll get caught up.”

  “I’m actually headed out that way today, around lunch, with my detective friend, to go to a government auction.”

  “Lunch today won’t work. My first client’s coming around then. Which reminds me, I’ve got to iron my Girl Scout troop leader outfit, and dig out my matching stilettos.”

  “Girl Scout leaders wear stilettos?”


  “This one’s going to be. Oh shit, that reminds me, I hope I still have some of their cookies around. I put a box in the freezer. . . .” She was on the cordless and I could hear her walking around the house. “Here we go, yeah, I’ve got them. Gotta give them time to defrost.”

  “Your client likes to eat Girl Scout cookies?”

  “Well, let’s just say they help complete the scene for him.”

  “I should let you go,” I said. “Thanks for listening.”

  I puttered around the house for the next three hours, until I heard a car pull into the driveway. I stepped out onto the front porch and saw a blue four-door Jaguar sedan. Lawrence was easing himself out the front door.

  “The Buick’s in the shop, getting a new rear window,” he explained. I locked up the house, got into the Jag, buckled up, and ran my hand over the leather upholstery, the walnut inlays in the dash.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “Used to belong to a Jamaican guy ran the drug trade in the north end. Agents busted him, seized pretty much everything he owned, and I got it when they auctioned it off. You looking for a Jag?”

  “I don’t know that I’m looking for anything, but if I were it wouldn’t be a Jag. Head office says we can’t afford one at the moment.”

  “Head office?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t even bring my checkbook, in case I get tempted.”

  “Yeah, well, if you change your mind, let me know. I’ve got mine, you could pay me back after.”

  “I don’t know. Sarah was sort of weakening toward the end there, talking about a convertible, but I think she was briefly delusional. She really doesn’t want me to spend the money.”

  “This is one of those times when it pays to be gay. I don’t get pussy-whipped,” Lawrence said.

  “No significant other?” I asked.

  “I’m seeing a guy, name’s Kent. Runs a restaurant, Blaine’s, on the east side. He’s thirty-six, a white guy.”

  “Really.”

  Lawrence smiled. “I met him before I quit the force, but didn’t really hook up with him till recently. Might work into something, never know.”

  On the highway heading out to Oakwood, I said to Lawrence, “Okay, here’s a hypothetical. Someone you know might, and it’s just might, be being stalked by someone. She thinks this guy has been following her, he shows up wherever she is, and it kind of freaks her out, but he hasn’t done anything dangerous, or threatened her, nothing like that.”

  Lawrence listened.

  “And she’s not really making a big deal of it. She says the guy’s just a pest, nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay,” Lawrence said. “But it seems like a big deal to you. What do we know about this guy?”

  “Well, he’s twenty or so, I gather, seems to be living on his own, his parents are out west or something, kind of a computer geek, into the whole Matrix look, the sunglasses and long coat, not badlooking according to those who’ve seen him, but a loner.”

  “And how long has he been following your daughter?”

  I was about to remind him that this was a “hypothetical” case, then figured what the hell. “Doesn’t sound like a long time. Couple weeks, maybe. Calls her cell phone quite a few times every day, calls the house. He called at breakfast yesterday morning, I had to field it because Angie didn’t want to talk to him. Angie, she’s going to college now, and I think he’s—”

  “He got a name?”

  “Wylie. Trevor Wylie.”

  “Okay.”

  “And he’s shown up, just the other night, outside of one of her friend’s houses, like it was just a coincidence, but this was clear across town.”

  “So he would have had to follow her there, that’s your thinking?”

  “I guess.”

  “He’s got a car?”

  I shrugged. “I’m guessing yes, but I don’t know.”

  “What’s she said to him? Your daughter. Angie, right?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think she’s told him to drop dead or anything. She’s not like that. But she’s probably given him the brush-off, bordered on rude. When she thinks it’s him calling her cell, she doesn’t answer. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have gotten the message by now.”

  “Some people often don’t read the signals very well.”

  I looked out the window. We were approaching the Oakwood exit, and from the highway you could see the hundreds of new suburban homes, each one barely distinguishable from the next.

  “What would you do if you were me?”

  “Well, you could do nothing. Chances are he’s harmless and this whole thing will work itself out.” Lawrence put on his blinker.

  “Or?”

  “Or you could check him out. Find out a bit more about this kid. Which might put your mind at ease, or tell you that you’ve got reason to be concerned.”

  “And how am I going to do that? Start tailing him?”

  “Hey,” said Lawrence, “you’re not exactly learning from the master. I blew that tail last night in the first mile. What you could do, though, is follow Angie.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, what you want to know is, is he following your daughter around? You follow her, you’ll find out whether he is, too.”

  I shook my head. “That’s crazy. I couldn’t follow my own daughter.” But even as I dismissed the idea, I was working out the logistics in my head. Would I wear a disguise? Rubber nose and glasses? And if Angie was using our car for the evening, and Trevor was following her in his car, then how was I going to follow him following her if we didn’t have a second car? Well, we didn’t have a second car yet, but—

  Enough, I told myself. This is crazy talk.

  What kind of father would consider, for even a moment, actually tailing his own daughter around town? And what would his wife do to him if she found out he’d been doing such a thing?

  “No, no, I could never do that,” I said quietly.

  “Hey, I’m only talking out loud,” Lawrence said. “Your other option is, let someone else check the kid out.” He paused, considering. “I’ll do it if you want.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I don’t think Sarah and I really have money in the budget for hiring a private eye. No offense. I mean, if we were ever going to hire somebody, you’d be the guy.”

  Lawrence smiled. “Don’t worry about it. When you finally do your story about hanging out with a private eye, I’m gonna be getting lots of business.”

  “I can’t accept services in return for editorial coverage,” I protested, but not, I have to admit, very strenuously.

  “We didn’t even have this conversation,” Lawrence said.

  He was quiet for a few more blocks, then said, “The thing is, Zack, where your own family is concerned, you have to trust your instincts. If your gut tells you something’s wrong, it probably means something’s wrong. Read the signals. If a guy thinks, just because his wife is coming home late from work every night, closing the door when she gets a phone call, and dressing a lot hotter than usual, that maybe she’s having an affair, odds are she’s having an affair. If your gut says this kid is weird, he’s probably weird.”

  “But weird doesn’t always mean dangerous.”

  “No,” Lawrence said, “it doesn’t. You’ll have to listen to what your gut has to say about that. And let me tell you something else, pal. Don’t ever let anyone hurt someone who’s important to you. Don’t hesitate. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

  “I hear ya,” I said.

  “And don’t miss your moment.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Years ago, I was a cop, but off duty, didn’t have my weapon, and I walked into a drugstore right in the middle of a holdup, guy has a sawed-off pointed at the cashier, screaming at her to empty the till.”

  “Jesus.”

  “So I freeze, and the guy knows I’m there, tells me to back off, but he’s doing this thing with his nose, sniffing, you
know? It’s ragweed season, and he’s doing these funny little intakes of breath, and not only has he asked the cashier for money, but a box of antihistamine on the counter behind her. The guy’s very jumpy, like he wants to use the gun even if he gets everything he’s asking for, and it’s clear he’s got a sneeze on the way, and I’m guessing that when it comes, it’s gonna be a doozy. So I wait for my moment.”

  “The sneeze.”

  “We’re in the windup, each intake a bit bigger than the one before, and it’s just about to happen, and I figure, this is the moment, there will never be a better opportunity to deal with this situation, and then he blows. Nearly blew out a window with this sneeze, and I tackle him the millisecond before it happens, because when you sneeze that big, you close your eyes. He never saw me coming.” He smiled to himself.

  “How do you know,” I asked, “if it’s the moment?”

  “If you don’t know,” Lawrence said, “then it’s not the moment.”

  He brought the car to a stop outside a bureaucratic-looking red brick building that fronted the street and was flanked by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence, and beyond that, hundreds and hundreds of vehicles. Lawrence took the key out of the ignition. “Let’s go look at all the shiny cars. Maybe we can find one with a few million in coke still in the trunk, you and I can both retire.”

  8

  “We gotta find Eddie,” Lawrence said. “He’s not the actual auctioneer, but he oversees this whole operation. He’ll tell you everything you want to know, but don’t be afraid to make a run for it if he starts to drive you crazy.” Lawrence asked around inside the office and was told we could find Eddie out in the compound.

  He was peering through the windshield of a Cadillac, double-checking the vehicle identification number against a sheet attached to the clipboard in his hand, when Lawrence called to him. He was a slight man, about five-six, probably late forties, bookish in appearance with his oversize black-framed glasses and half a dozen pens clipped to his shirt pocket. His hair was short, curly, and greasy looking, like maybe he hadn’t stood under a shower for a number of days.

  “Hey, hey, Lawrence, how are ya, how are ya?” he said. Even with the big glasses on, he was squinting through them at us.