Dead Ringer (20 page)

“
I’ll talk to him, tell him what I have. If I can get him interested, we got a shot at solving this. If not, well, once the shooter finds out the case is gathering dust, he might forget about you.” Norton got up from his chair.

“
Maybe we should just forget about the whole thing.” Maggie got up too. “I mean nobody’s going to be mourning for Frankie Fujimori.”

Norton met her eyes with his pale greys. Was it her imagination or did his faraway look go suddenly sadder? “It’s your call.”

“
You can do that, let a civilian decide?”

“
I’m going to Catalina in the morning. If I don’t interest Billy in this, ain’t no one else gonna run with it. It’s the way it is.”

“
Why are you doing this?” Maggie felt as if the walls were closing in.

“
The shooter didn’t do you in the store when he could’ve, so chances are he’s already forgotten about you. Hell, he probably just had a hard on for Fujimori like you did. I’m sure you got nothing to worry about.”

“
That’s good.”

“
But if the shooter was Horace Nighthyde—”

“
What’s your first name?” Maggie said.

“
Abel.”

“
Abel,” she held our her hand. “Maybe you better have that talk with Lt. Wolfe.”

“
I think that’d be best.” He took her hand, shook it.” Meanwhile, you be careful.”

“
I will.” She hadn’t fooled him at all.

Chapter Thirteen

Maggie inhaled the night as she walked down Pacific Avenue to the Porsche. She faced into the wind, took another deep breath. Late moon, gentle breeze, a nice night for a ride in a convertible. She punched the remote and smiled as the top came down. She’d never get used to that.

A car rounded the corner from First Street, rap music blaring from speakers loud enough to fill the Hollywood Bowl with sound. The car, chromed and lowered the way only a teenager could do it, cruised by and Maggie waved. The kid riding shotgun waved back, then flashed Maggie the thumbs up sign. She gave it back. Four kids having fun. Maggie envied them.

She reached the Porsche as the kids turned onto Fourth Street, taking their music with them. Then the night was quiet again. She got in, started the car and sighed to the sound of its powerful engine.

Going east on Ocean, she saw a liquor store on the other side of the street. She needed milk for Jasmine’s Frosted Flakes and she didn’t want to go to the convenience stores in the Shore, because she might be recognized, despite the head job. She made a fast U turn at Atlantic. A quick glance in the rearview told her the car behind did the same. She parked in front of Beach Liquor. The car behind, a shiny black BMW, slid on by, panther-sleek as it slowed, then parked in front of her.

She stepped out of the Porsche, eyes on the Beemer. Was it following her? No. Just another person who needed something at the liquor store. She was being paranoid. She shook her head and went inside. Still, with everything that had been going on, maybe being paranoid was a good thing. She passed the checkout counter, went to the back, to the cooler section, where she got a half gallon of milk.

She started toward the check-out, stopped. There was no one in the store, except herself and a young black kid behind the counter reading a computer magazine. Whoever was in the black BMW hadn’t come in yet. Why not? Were they out there waiting for her? That’s absurd, she chided herself. But still, they’d been out there long enough. There were no other stores open on the block. Either they were here to buy something in the liquor store or they were following her. Nothing else made sense.

Then, as if in answer to her question, a big man wearing an expensive suit came in the front. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, hair cut close, like he was in the military, but he carried himself with all the confidence in the world. Maybe he was an officer, a general or something. The driver of the BMW. Had to be.

She met his eyes and shivered under the cold stare. He appraised her the way no woman likes to be looked at, a leer, almost evil. Instinctively, she took a step back. She turned toward the coolers, turned into the next aisle and picked up a bottle of California wine as if she were interested in buying it.

She put it back, picked up another, studied the label without seeing it. He was coming closer. She heard the soft steps of his hard soled shoes on the cement floor. All of a sudden he was behind her.

“
BV Private Reserve, 2009. Good wine, but a little young.” He had a rich voice. A baritone, almost musical. It terrified her, sent a cold wind up her back. She didn’t know why. There was no explanation for it.

“
I’m just looking.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“
If you need some help, I’m sort of an expert on California Cabs.”

“
No, I can manage.”

“
Really, I don’t mind.” Now he sounded like a vampire from one of those old black and white horror films. She wished he’d just go away.

“
My husband’s the wine drinker.” She hoped he’d take the husband hint and leave.

“
Not you?”

“
No, the milk’s for me.” She held it up. It was so stupid, but she didn’t want him to think she was buying the wine for herself, didn’t want him to think she had anything in common with him, didn’t want him to think there was any chance, any way, she was going to continue the conversation.

“
Milk.” He said it as if it were a dirty word, stepped away from her and went to the check-out where he bought a pack of Kools.

Kools? What kind of man smoked menthol? Not the kind who knew anything about California Cabs. Menthol and Cabernet, no way did they go together. He paid, turned and met her eyes while he was waiting for his change.

She looked away, but not before she caught his wink. It curdled her stomach. What was happening to her? Normally she’d be in the guy’s face, but instead she was acting like a lamb being led to the slaughter and she couldn’t help herself. There was something about the man. Something menacing.

The bottle of wine seemed hot in her hand. She put it back. Stalled for another minute, head down, staring at the labels on the bottles, till she was sure the man had enough time to get back in his car and be gone.

She’d been taking short, rapid breaths. She felt numb, her fingers and toes cold. She took in a deep breath, held it, willing her heart to slow down. She felt wrung out, she was sweating like she’d just done a mile flat out on the sand.

How could someone affect her that way? She thought about all the photos she’d just seen in the police station. Thought about the young Horace Nighthyde. That must have been it. She’d been looking at all those pictures of criminals and it must have made an impression on her subconscious. Deep down she’d been expecting someone to come after her. Especially after being chased on the beach that way. She’d let her paranoia run away with her.

Pretty dumb.

The man in the BMW had probably been just what he looked like. A guy who was out of cigarettes. He’d seen a woman get out of a Porsche. Saw her at the wine section when he came in. Was intrigued, started a conversation to see where it might go and when it didn’t, he left.

She took the milk to the check-out, paid for it and went back out to the Porsche. The Beemer was gone. She’d been right, after all. It was just a coincidence that the guy followed her through a U-turn and then into the store.

She got in the car, pulled on the shoulder harness, thinking about Nick now. He’d probably tell her the man was following her. Of course, he didn’t believe Oswald killed Kennedy, thought James Earl Ray was innocent and was convinced the Queen was responsible for the death of Diana. Nick would keep a good eye on the rearview mirror. Maggie decided she would too.

She started back down Ocean, made a U at the next intersection and continued on toward the Shore, Pacific Coast Highway and the ride along the seaside to Huntington Beach and her new home.

She gasped. It was there, parked on the right, the black BMW. She grabbed a quick look as she passed it, then looked in the rearview as it pulled away from the curb and came up behind her. So he was following her, after all.

Soon she was at the Y junction. Go right and Ocean continued along the beach till it dead ended at the river that separated the counties, Los Angeles and Orange. Go left and you went up Second Street, through Belmont Shore.

She saw the Belmont Pier up ahead, thought about Darley and Theo. The duplex she’d lived in with Nick was only a couple blocks away. He wouldn’t be home, but Gordon would be.

She put her right blinker on, but went left at the last second. She didn’t want to involve Gordon. She’d call him someday, after her new life was running smoothly. Sometime before the baby was born. But now was too soon.

Another look in the mirror. The guy had dropped back some, but he was still there. Her life was hanging by a thread and now some clown on a power trip was trying to intimidate her with his suave voice and fancy car. Well, she had a fancy car too. And it was faster than that BMW, she’d bet.

“
Get ready to rock and roll,” she muttered, but she kept the speed at thirty-five. Up ahead, Pacific Coast Highway. Second Street became Westminster Boulevard when it crossed PCH. A long straight shot into Orange county, slicing through the Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station. Her boyfriend used to race down that street when she was in high school, speeding through the night with her at his side. PCH to Bolsa Chica—Hot Rod Alley. Now she was behind the wheel.

It had been a long time since she’d driven like a hell hound. She felt the adrenaline pumping. If she was going to put away her past, the part that needed to be dealt with first was that boy in Borneo. She used to be the one of the best racers on the planet. She knew how to drive. It was time she did it again.

She looked in the rearview, at the headlights behind, as she passed the Edgewater Marina. She slowed for the light at PCH, clutched, dropped it into first, stopped. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, gripped it.

The light changed.

She punched it.

Rear wheels spinning, screeching, the car careening out of control, heading for the traffic light on the opposite side of the street. Maggie jerked the wheel to the right, pulled the car away from the light, back onto the right side of the road. She did it without letting up on the accelerator. Like her boyfriend used to do all those years ago, like she’d done so many times before.

Back on the straight, she punched the clutch, slammed it into second. She didn’t shift to third till the engine screamed and she kept her foot on the floor till it screamed again, then speed shifted into fourth.

Headlights up ahead. Car coming. Oh shit. Two pair. Some asshole was passing in her lane. The engine howled. She was doing over a hundred.

A quick look in the rearview. The Beemer’s brights filled it. He was riding her tail. That guy could drive.

The car ahead, the one passing in her lane, turned on his brights too. He wanted her to pull over, give him room. Slow down maybe. Maggie kept her foot on the floor, gobbling up the distance between herself and the oncoming car. She was almost driving blind.

The bright lights in front were two whirling suns giving out cold light rays, stealing the road, stealing the fence that protected the Navy base from civilians, stealing the night. Maggie centered her concentration on a place between them. The fucker better pull over, because she wasn’t going to.

He did, crashing into the side of the car he was passing. Maggie screamed as the side mirror made a shotgun sound and was ripped off. Collision, her first thought, but it was a glancing blow and then she was past. Now it was her headlights chewing up the dark and she had her vision back.

Another look in the mirror. She was pulling away from the BMW.

Eyes back on the road. Oh Fuck. Traffic light ahead. The end of the Navy base. Houses, stores, cars and people on the other side of that light. She had to slow down. She panicked, slammed on the brakes. Locked the wheels and the car started spinning, a speeding second hand on a crazy out of control clock.

She was on one of those wild rides they had at Disneyland, spinning, spinning, spinning. But all of a sudden calm descended. The world revolved, raged around her. She pulled her hands from the wheel. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Death.

She was a top, turning as if controlled by a giant child’s hand.

The baby.

She grabbed the wheel again as the car slid into a stop in the middle of the intersection facing back the way she’d come.

Downshift into first. Rev the engine. Pop the clutch. Spinning wheels again, screeching, a banshee wailing into the night and the wail was answered by another, the shrieking tires of the braking BMW. They passed, going opposite directions, missing each other by centimeters as the Porsche sped up and the Beemer slowed down.

Maggie threw it up into second, chirping the tires again as she came upon the wreck she’d caused. She hoped they were okay. She wanted to stop and see, but a quick look in the mirror told her the BMW was back on her tail. She passed the tangled cars doing fifty in second and went up into third.

Ahead she saw a small train start to cross the street. The Naval Weapons Station was cut in half by Westminster Boulevard. Heavy machinery and weapons were transported back and forth on a rail that crossed the road. What could they possibly be moving after dark? Maggie remembered the rumors of nukes. The Navy claimed they had none at Seal Beach, everybody else knew better.