Don't Leave Me Page 9
Kovak appreciated his friend’s desire to lighten the subject. But it would not lighten. “One day soon he will kill recklessly,” Kovak said. “That could be the end of everything. Yet I would like him to have what I have built. I will not live forever.”
“And who would want to?” Zepkic put his beefy hand on Kovak’s shoulder, a hand Kovak had seen choke the life out of an Albanian soldier in half a minute.
“Dragoslav is not ready, and I fear he never will be,” said Kovak. “He is like his mother that way. She was headstrong.”
“He will have advisors. You are well served by your men. You have chosen wisely.”
“I sometimes wish one of them was my blood.”
“Vaso?”
Kovak nodded.
“It goes well, the trade?” Zepkic himself was a dealer in antiques, freelance assassins, and false identities. Such as Steven Kovak’s.
“I have concerns with distribution,” Kovak said. “These American white boys are soft. I prefer them to the blacks and browns and yellows. They are more easily controlled. But they think they are cowboys. Outside of that, the enterprise has a solid foundation. I want to keep myself at the top, for strategy. I need to stay out of distribution and finance. I’ve got good talent in place. I’ve read all of Peter Drucker now, and am confident of the long term. The only thing that could go wrong is internal, some failure or treachery on the inside.”
Kovak stopped when he saw a man and woman walking by. The woman was pushing a stroller. The father was holding the hand of a boy of perhaps five years. A Mickey Mouse balloon was tied to the boy’s wrist by a ribbon. Kovak recalled the rough hand of his own father, held when he was that little boy’s age. His father had taken him to the circus in Budapest. He had paid for that by selling several farming tools.
“You look tired, my friend,” Zepkic said.
Kovak shook his head. “What do you think God requires of us?”
“What he has always required.”
“And what is that?”
“To survive,” Zepkic said. “Now come, let’s go have something very sweet to eat.”
Chapter 28
Chuck caught the Metro rapid bus and got back to Woodland Hills in twenty minutes. The bus dumped him just shy of Topanga Canyon Boulevard. He walked to Ralphs. Stan was inside the door and beamed when Chuck came in. He held out one of the ad flyers.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Stan said, giggling. “We have fine Mentos today, seventy-nine cents a roll with a Ralphs card.”
“Not now, Stan,” Chuck said. “When’s your break?”
“Oh. Two o’clock. Want to get some chicken here like we used to and—”
“It’s almost two now. Take your break.”
“I can’t, Chuck. I have to do it when—”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m not allowed, Chuck. I’m on door.”
Chuck grabbed the flyers from Stan’s hand. Stan jumped back a step. “Hey!”
“I have to talk to you now, Stan.”
“Hello, Chuck.” It was Mr. Cambry, who had come up from the side.
“Hi,” Chuck said. “Can Stan take his break early?”
“I don’t want to,” Stan said. “Honest.”
“That’s all right, Stan,” Mr. Cambry said. “Your brother is here. Maybe he needs to talk to you about the fire. How’s that going, by the way?”
Chuck shrugged. “No word.”
“Stan tells me the police made some trouble for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Chuck said. “Stan sure likes to bump his gums, doesn’t he?”
Cambry frowned. “Chuck, you don’t need—”
“There’s no trouble. I’m free as a bird, see?” Chuck spread his arms. “Can I talk to Stan now?”
“Sure, sure. No problem.” Cambry walked away, seeming a little miffed. So what? That was a store manager’s job, wasn’t it?
“I’m going to get in trouble,” Stan said.
“No you’re not. Come over here and sit.” Chuck went to one of the tables near the coffee bar and pulled out two chairs. Stan, a worried look on his face, sat and folded his hands.
“What’s the matter, Chuck?” Stan said. “You look like you’re mad at me. Did the dirty cops work you over?”
“Listen, Mr. Memory. I need you to start remembering some things.”
“Okay. I can do that! Let’s do a game.”
“Not a game this time. I want you to think about Julia.”
“How come?”
“Do you remember her ever talking to somebody on the phone, or going to meet somebody when I wasn’t around?”
“I don’t think so, Chuck.”
“Well think harder.”
“You are mad at me. That’s not fair.”
Chuck closed his eyes and worked his jaw a little. “Just help me out here.”
“I’ll try, Chuck. Honest.”
“Remember back when she left?”
Stan wrinkled his forehead. “You had fights. But it was because of your post traumatic stress disorder, I know it. It’s an ongoing reaction to psychological trauma, first diagnosed––”
“I know that, Stan. Think about Julia. Did you ever see her act strange when I wasn’t around?”
“What kind of strange?”
“Any kind.”
“I don’t know,” Stan’s voice was thinned out, which was how his stress manifested itself.
“Let’s keep this real simple,” Chuck said. “Did you ever see her with any man, at any time, alone?”
“I saw her with the mailman.”
“Anybody else?”
“No, Chuck. I don’t think . . . I mean I don’t remember that. Chuck, why are you asking me?”
“Did she ever tell you to keep a secret from me?” Chuck realized he was leaning forward, gripping the arms of the chair in both hands.
“Secret?”
“You do know what a secret is, right?”
“Chuck, you’re making me nervous.”
“Think!”
A sheen of wet formed in Stan’s eyes, pooling at the bottom of his lids. Chuck closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. What a slime he was, treating his brother this way.
“Stan, I’m sorry. Really.” Chuck let go of the chair arms and leaned back. “Listen, maybe this will help you. I just talked to Octavia Butler, do you remember who she is?”
“Yes. She is a writer for LAEye and she was Julia’s friend.”
“Okay. I saw her just now. She thought Julia might have been seeing someone, another man, who I didn’t know about.”
“Oh, Chuck!”
“I just need to find out, you understand?”
“Yes I do, Chuck. I hate that! It isn’t fair!”
Chuck nodded. “Let’s see what we can remember. Octavia said this guy rode a motorcycle and had a vest with a sun on the back. Did you ever see anybody like that around?”
Stan didn’t say anything. He was looking at the ground, his brow deeply furrowed.
“Stan?”
Stan put up one finger. “Wait, Chuck. There’s motorcycles and a sun.”
Chuck sat up straight. “You remember?”
“Yes, Chuck.”
“When?”
“In the Yellow Pages.”
“What?”
“You remember when you wanted to buy a motorcycle that time, and you looked in the Yellow Pages?”
“No.”
“We were sitting at the kitchen table and it was eight-thirty-three at night. And you opened it up and then you looked inside and I saw it. There was a sun and motorcycles. A picture.”
“A Yellow Pages ad?”
“I think so, Chuck.”
“Where’s a Yellow Pages around here?”
“There’s a pay phone outside the other door. The phone number on it is 818-883––”
“Wait here.” Chuck stood.
“What about lunch?”
Chuck took out his wallet. He had a ten dollar bill in it. He tossed
it on the table in front of Stan. “Get whatever chicken this’ll buy.”
Chuck went out the automatic door at the west end of the store. The phone booth had a hanging Yellow Pages. He leafed through it. The Motorcycle section had big ads for Barger Harley and Kolbe Honda. Smaller ads for . . . there it was. Sun Cycles in Tarzana. Complete with sun logo.
He told Stan to eat the chicken himself, save the rest, and went to the street to catch the bus to Tarzana. His car was still parked outside Wendy Tower’s apartment. He would pick it up later.
This couldn’t wait.
Chapter 29
Sandy was wary of her Detective CO, Lt. Sean Brady. He was, on the surface, even-tempered and fair. Scratch a little below that, though, and you found the harder crust of the old boys’ network. Which meant he wasn’t going to go out on any low hanging limbs for her. Not that she expected him to.
She didn’t expect anything from the department anymore.
“Have a seat,” Brady said when Sandy entered his office, at his request. He was a shade over fifty, in good shape. Pumped iron three times a week before coming in. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache trimmed short to go with his closely mown hair.
“So how are things progressing on the Grant Nunn killing?” he asked.
“Working it.” Sandy dutifully plopped in a chair and looked at the wall behind him. Framed photos there, including one of Brady with the mayor, who was flashing his legendary pearlies like some Miss California all aflutter about world peace.
Brady said, “There a connection with this guy Samson?”
“There may be,” Sandy said.
“He was dinged on a drug charge, yes?”
“Felony manufacture, attempt.”
“And you’re going down to the courthouse and questioning him?”
“There a problem?”
“I don’t want there to be.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Sandy said. She was not going to be pushed, those days were over. Come whatever hassle they wanted to shove her way.
“You’re making inquiries into something that happened outside our jurisdiction.”
Sandy said nothing, tried to read his eyes.
“I got a call from the Kern County Sheriff,” Brady said. “You’re pulling records on a DUI in Beaman?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty far afield.”
“I’m trying to make a connection. It wasn’t just a DUI. It was a hit-and-run, and killed Charles Samson’s wife.”
Brady’s face remained impassive. “I don’t see anything that connects that to the Nunn killing, except that Samson talked to Nunn and just happens to have a wife who got killed.”
“If I could just follow this through a little bit, maybe I can give you––”
“I don’t want you crossing over. Samson’s a defendant in a drug case. That’s none of your concern. Or an old accident out of Kern County, either. I want you to stick to your knitting right here.” Brady paused, then quickly added, “No sexist comment intended, as you know.”
Ah, there it was. A little good-old-boy needle, framed so innocently.
Sandy stood. “How much flexibility do I have?”
“Stay focused.”
“I need to tie up some loose ends.”
“You don’t have a lot of leeway.” Brady stood now, walked out from behind his desk. “You hearing me?”
Oh yes, very loud and very clear. He was giving her the administrative stare down. She’d seen enough of that in her time. She looked right past him.
And saw another photo on the wall. This one of Brady with some other luminary or––
She recognized the man the in photo, but couldn’t place him.
“Anything else?” Brady said.
“What? No. That’s it.”
She left his office, the man in the photo playing with her mind. She almost bumped into a young clerk, the skinny kid from UCLA, who made a move like a matador to avoid her.
And then it came to her.
The man in the picture with Brady was a younger version of the guy who ran Chuck Samson’s school. What was the name again?
Hunt. Raymond Hunt.
Chapter 30
Sun Cycles was a tight little shop on the south side of Ventura Boulevard. A large glass window showed off the array of motorcycles inside. Various makes, lined up like a macho dream of highway freedom, bar fights and chicks. Chuck went in and glanced at the bikes. Sunlight reflected off chrome, and the smell of new rubber and leather mixed with the slight scent of grease.
He leaned on a black and silver Street Bob, waiting for someone to come out on the floor.
“You picked a nice one.” Chuck turned and saw a short, thick-chested guy in a black tee with a sun logo.
“She’s got a twin cam 96” engine,” Black Tee said. “Chrome, staggered shorty exhaust. Classic style. You could see James Dean on this. And here’s the thing. I can get it to you for under fifteen, if you can believe it.”
Chuck said, “If I ever decide to take my life in my hands, I’ll come see you.”
“You don’t ride?”
“I’m actually looking for somebody.”
Black Tee, who was maybe thirty, squinted at him. “Yeah? Who?”
“A guy who wears one of your vests, with the logo on the back.”
Black Tee laughed. “There’s only about five hundred of those guys.”
“He has, or had, shoulder-length hair.”
“That really narrows it down.”
“Any idea?”
“Sorry.”
“You the manager?”
The guy shook his head.
“Maybe I could talk to the head guy,” Chuck said.
“You know, maybe you should call the store later, we got—”
“I’m here now.”
“We sell bikes here.”
Chuck said, “I have to find this guy, okay?”
“Why?” Black Tee said.
“I need to ask him some questions.”
“I really wish I could help.”
“Do you?”
“Listen, if you’re––”
The front doors opened and a couple came in, mid-twenties, decked out in retro rebel. Blue jeans with uprolled cuffs, black tennis shoes, white tee shirts.
“Sorry you came for nothing,” Black Tee said, then switched gears back to a tight smile and made for the couple. “How you doin’ today?”
Chuck went to the counter and looked over, through an open door on the side. A messy office space, no one inside.
He looked back and saw Black Tee engaging the couple, but also giving him the corner of his eye.
There was another door on the other side of the counter. It said Employees Only. Chuck hired himself on the spot and went through. He heard a faint “Hey!” from Black Tee that he cut off by closing the door and leaning against it.
He was in the garage area. A couple of denim-clad workers were tinkering on motorcycles. He felt the pressure of someone trying to open the door. The voice of Black Tee blurted through. The tinkering workers looked up.
Chuck scanned the area looking for someone in authority.
Black Tee shoved against the door again.
At which point a man with a thick mane of gray hair, carrying a clipboard, appeared from Chuck’s right, where the garage opened up to the asphalt driveway.
Chuck waited for another shove then stepped away from the door. A second later Black Tee burst through and almost went sprawling.
“What the hell is this?” the clipboard man said.
Black Tee looked around like a cat who’d fallen in the toilet. “He just walked in here,” Tee said, as if defending his watch.
“Who are you?” Clipboard said. He was about six-two. He wore a black, long-sleeved shirt with the same sun logo on the left side.
Chuck said, “I want to talk to the boss.”
“What about?”
“Police matter,” Chuck said.
“You a cop?”
“No way,” Black Tee said.
Clipboard said, “Go on back inside, Chip. I’ll take it.”
Black Tee looked like he wanted to rip Chuck some new nostrils. He made sure Chuck saw his face, then stormed back through the Employees Only door.
“Okay,” Clipboard said. “Give it to me now and make it fast.”
“My name’s Chuck Samson. Yours?”
“Nevermind me.”
“Fine. I’m looking for a guy who was seen wearing a leather vest with your logo on it.”
“Seen?”
“By a witness.”
“What’s this police matter you’re talking about?”
Chuck looked at him intently, decided he was the kind of guy you should just be honest with. He wasn’t going to be manipulated or intimidated or faked out.
“My wife was killed last year. She was seen with this guy, he had long brown hair, rode a Harley, had the vest. That’s all I know. My wife was blonde, wore her hair short, about five-eight. She was a writer for LAEye.”
“You saying this guy might have killed her?”
“No, not saying that. Who killed her was a drunk driver. But this guy might have been with her.”
“Sleeping with her?”
The words brought Chuck up short, a jab to the ribs.
Clipboard shook his head. “Don’t know anybody like that.”
“You seem pretty sure.”
“I am.”
“You don’t want to think about it?”
“Nope.”
“You’re a real sport.”
“Now you can leave.”
Chuck didn’t move.
“Or I can call a real cop,” Clipboard said. “Your choice.”
Chapter 31
As he walked down the alley behind Sun Cycles, Chuck heard a guy say, “Wait.”
It was one of the tinkerers from the shop. A lanky Latino, late twenties. He had a thin mustache that looked like it was struggling to put on weight. He said, “Keep walking.”
Like he was afraid he’d be heard or seen from the shop.
“I think I know who you mean,” the guy said.
“Tell me.”
“Keep walking, huh?”