Duke City Hit (4 page)

Except for one fumbling-in-the-dark bathroom break, Vic spent four straight hours in that chair. It fit his lanky body nicely, but there was no danger of him dozing off. Quite the opposite. At times like these, he went into a trance state. Still and alert, mind blank except for the listening, the waiting.

Finally, well after 2 a.m., his guest arrived.

The first sound was a clink, a metallic tenor note Vic took to be the lock on the back door. He hadn't bothered to dead-bolt the door, hadn't wanted to make it too hard for the expected intruder.

A floorboard creaked. The intruder was sniffing around, making sure he was alone, exactly as Vic had done. Except this guy was doing it in the dark.

Only two ways into the room where Vic sat: the front door, which he faced, and an arched doorway to his right that connected the living room to the dining room and the kitchen beyond. He shifted ever so slightly in the chair and pointed the silenced pistol at the archway. With his left hand, he reached for the switch of the lamp next to his chair. He waited that way long enough that his shoulder began to ache. But he didn't move.

The moonlight shifted and a shadowy figure stepped through the archway. About Vic's size, dressed in black.

“Freeze.” Vic hadn't used his voice in so long, it came out croaky. He cleared his throat and added, “Stay right there.”

He snapped the lamp switch and the room flooded with light. He showed the man his pistol and said, “Keep your hands where I can see 'em.”

The intruder held his empty hands high. White guy, mid-twenties, not much more than a kid. Dark hair cut close to his scalp. He wore a black leather motorcycle jacket over a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, tight black jeans and boots.

“What are you, a Hells Angel?”

The kid smiled. If he was worried about the gun, he sure as hell didn't show it.

“Turn around,” Vic said. “Put your hands on the wall. You know the drill.”

He did as he was told, casual about it, as if he'd been frisked before. Vic rested the silencer behind the kid's ear to make sure he stayed still, then went over him with his left hand. Before he found it on his own, the kid said, “Inside pocket of my jacket.”

Sure enough, a .45 was in the pocket. Big old Army pistol. Vic backed away, tucking it into his belt.

“Okay. Turn around.”

He did, moving slowly and keeping his hands high. They stood staring at each other, six feet apart. The kid had a crescent-shaped scar on the left side of his forehead. Thick eyebrows that rose into arcs as he smiled.

“What's so funny?”

“We got the same eyes.”

“What?”

“Our eyes. That pale blue like the eyes of a wolf. We both got 'em.”

Vic felt a dip in his stomach, as if he'd driven too fast over a bump in the road.

“I always thought they'd be the same,” the kid said, “but I never could tell from a distance. Not until we were face-to-face.”

“What the
hell
are you talking about?”

The younger man laughed. He caught himself, tried to wipe the smile off his face, but couldn't manage it. Vic was getting annoyed.

“I'm doing this wrong. I should introduce myself. My name is Ryan Mobley.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“My mother's name was Lisa Mobley. That ring a bell?”

That queasy sensation again, as if Vic's stomach knew what was coming, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself.

“Lisa Mobley.” His voice was raspy. “In Tucson?”

“That's right.”

Feeling wobbly, Vic braced himself for the knockout punch.

The kid said, “You're my father.”

Vic's brain shorted out. Images flashed from those desert days in Tucson, twenty-five years ago: Lisa Mobley's bright smile. Her little trailer on the sandy outskirts of town. Sweat-soaked sheets and cigarettes and moonlight.

There was a reason Ryan's sly smile looked so familiar. It was the same one Vic flashed at the mirror every morning after he shaved. Their faces were shaped the same, and there were those unmistakable eyes.

He met the kid's eager gaze, and said, “Aw, hell.”

Not the reaction Ryan Mobley had hoped for, not even the shock he'd expected. Vic Walters mostly looked pissed off. At least he hadn't shot him. Yet. The silenced pistol still pointed at Ryan's midsection.

“What is that, a .22?”

“What? Yeah, a Ruger. Why?”

“Not much of a gun.”

A crease deepened between Vic's eyebrows.

“I assure you, this gun is perfectly adequate to the task.”

“It looks like a BB gun.”

“Doesn't matter how it looks. Only how it works. This piece I took off you, what's it weigh? Four pounds? Good for cracking walnuts. I gotta carry a gun all day, I don't want it tugging down my pants or ruining the lines of my suit.”

“That makes sense.” Ryan smiled. “So, um, maybe you want to point it somewhere else?”

Vic's eyes narrowed. “Why would I do that?”

“I just told you I'm your son. You don't want to shoot your own flesh and blood.”

“I'm not so sure about that. I look at you, all I see are complicati
ons.”

Ryan felt the smile slide off his face. The old man wasn't making this easy.

“Maybe you need to get to know me.”

“I don't find that helps the situation when it comes time to shoot somebody. I get too cozy, I might hesitate.”

“And your profession doesn't allow for any hesitation.”

“What do you know about my profession?”

“Lots.”

“From bugging the office?”

“That, and following you around for the last couple of weeks.”

Vic frowned. He'd been a busy man the past two weeks.

“Just so we're clear here,” he said. “That was you in Phoenix, at the swimming pool.”

Ryan tipped his head to the side, smiling, but he didn't confirm anything. For all he knew, Vic and Penny Randall had bugged this whole house.

“Last night in Santa Fe? With the dog?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it's a damn shame about the dog. But that's the way it goes sometimes.”

“A shame about the dog,” Ryan said.

“Yeah.”

“What about the dog's owner? Isn't it a shame, what happened to him?”

“Guess it was his time to go.”

“He had help.”

Vic shrugged. “Don't we all? At the end, something kills you. A doctor. A virus. Some kid in a leather jacket.”

“I didn't come here to hurt anyone.”

“That's why you were carrying that .45.”

“I had it in my pocket,” Ryan said. “If I'd come here to shoot you, I would've had it in my hand.”

“Maybe you weren't expecting a trap.”

Ryan couldn't help smiling, though he could tell it irked Vic.

“A trap was exactly what I expected. I figured you'd be here alone. I wanted us to be face-to-face for this.”

“Taking one hell of a risk for a chat. What if I'd shot you as soon as you came in the door?”

“It would've been a short conversation. Instead, here we are. I've got some things to tell you. And some questions to ask. Couldn't we sit down?”

“What the hell, we're both here. Sit on that sofa. Keep your hands where I can see 'em.”

Ryan did as he was told, sitting on top of the dust sheet. Nearly all the furniture was covered in sheets, and the lumpy white shapes made him think of Halloween. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. He'd had this conversation in his mind, over and over. It seemed apt that it take place here, in a house full of ghosts.

“My mom is dead,” he said. “Cancer. Three months ago.”

Vic looked stricken. Ryan thought he might be acting, but at least the man had the decency to put on an act.

“I'm sorry to hear that. I have fond memories of Lisa.”

“So do I.” Ryan noted the edge in his voice and took it down a notch. “The last two years were tough. Chemo. Radiation. She'd been a nurse her whole career, so she knew everybody at the hospital and she knew what was coming. Brave to the end.”

Vic nodded.

“She was a good mom. A great one. She raised me by herself and never asked anyone for help.”

“That sounds like her. She was very strong-willed.”

“Is that why you didn't stick around?”

Vic looked off into the darkness, then back at Ryan. “I'm not ready to talk about that yet.”

“No?” Ryan felt himself bristle. “Why not?”

“Let's go back to what you're doing here,” Vic said. “To why you've been following me around.”

Ryan reached inside his jacket. Vic's silenced pistol rose from his lap like the head of a snake.

“You already took my gun,” Ryan said. “I've got some papers here.”

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Vic. It landed in his lap, but he never took his eyes off Ryan.

“What's this?”

“I found it in a shoebox,” Ryan said. “Cleaning up the house after she died.”

Vic set the pistol in his lap and used both hands to open the envelope, which was full of newspaper clippings.

“Your business card was in there,” Ryan said. “Imagine how surprised I was to find that you still worked at the same bail bond company.”

Vic grunted. He was busy with the clippings, fingering through them, reading the headlines. Ryan knew what he was seeing; he'd read them a dozen times himself. Accounts of murders and missing persons from all over the Southwest. The victims were all men, most with criminal pasts. All the cases remained unsolved.

“She clipped those out over the years,” Ryan said, “and kept them with your card. She kept track of you.”

Vic held up a clipping from a San Diego newspaper. “I never heard of this guy.”

“But the others?”

Vic tilted his head to the side. “Let's say a few of the names sound familiar.”

“So Mom was a good guesser. Cutting out those articles, connecting them to you.”

“She was a smart lady, your mother.”

“I suppose that's why she never told me about you or what you do for a living.”

“Never? Nothing?”

“When I was a kid, I asked about my father all the time. She'd never tell me your name or where you lived. All I'd get out of her was you were a nice man and a good dancer.”

Vic smiled. “I do like to move around a dance floor. But now the women who want to dance with me are senior citizens. I can't take that kind of risk. Somebody could break a hip.”

“Mom remembered the younger you. Just like you only remember her from twenty-five years ago.”

“She was a real beauty.”

“That was true to the end. She was beautiful inside and out.”

They sat silently for a while. Ryan remembered his mother in her hospital bed, surrounded by flowers sent by her many friends. Her hair all gone, but her spirit intact.

“I set that shoebox aside and finished what I had to do, settling up Mom's estate and selling her house.”

“Big job.”

“I was distracted the whole time, thinking about those clippings and what they meant. Was my father some kind of serial killer?”

Vic snorted. “Come on.”

“Hey, it was a possibility. I didn't know what I'd find. Once my responsibi
lities were met, I drove up here.”

“Looking for me,” Vic said.

“I checked out Lucky Penny Bail Bonds and found you still worked there, so I started watching the place. Saw you lived across the street.”

“How'd you know it was me?”

“I heard people call you by name. ‘Good morning, Vic.' ‘How you doing, Vic?' ”

“Why didn't you introduce yourself?”

“I almost did. But I got kinda fascinated, you know? A bail bond office would be the perfect cover for a contract killer. And then you went to Phoenix not long after I got here.”

“Phoenix.”

“I was there,” Ryan said. “When you did that guy in the airport bathroom.”

He hadn't meant to blurt it like that, but now it was out there.

“I mean, I didn't actually see it happen. I followed you into the airport here and heard you buy a ticket for Phoenix, so I did the same.”

“Just like that. You bought a ticket.”

“I told you, I've got money from Mom's estate. Not a lot, but it seemed worth the cost at the time.”

“And then?”

“I sat around the Phoenix airport, watching you. It was pretty clear you were interested in this fat guy who was wearing an ugly sports coat. When you followed him into the restroom, I took a chance and went in, too.”

Vic said nothing. His eyes had gone cold.

“I heard the guy choking and kicking inside that stall,” Ryan said. “So I went right back out again.”

More silence. He wished Vic would react in some way. He couldn't tell if he was making things better or worse.

“Few minutes later, you come out of the john,” Ryan said. “You're not even breathing hard. Your clothes are barely wrinkled.”

“Did you go check on the other man?”

“No, I followed you. We got on an airplane, costing me another bundle, and flew right back here. I read about the death in the newspapers. The guy was choked to death? How'd you manage that?”

Vic's crusty demeanor cracked into a little smile.

“Stainless steel pen-and-pencil set. Went right through security. They see 'em all the time. I bought some long shoelaces at a newsstand. Tied 'em together and twisted 'em around the pens until I had a garrote with sturdy handles.”

“Ah.”

“Once the guy was on the throne, I reached over from the next stall and looped it around his neck. All I had to do was hang on for a couple of minutes. Let his weight do the work. When it was over, I dropped the pens and shoelaces into different trash bins.”

“No fingerprints.”

“What? No, it's an airport. There are a
million
fingerprints. What you got to worry about are cameras. They're everywhere in airports. But not in the bathrooms.”

“Ah. Nice.”

“Really? I tell you about strangling some douche bag, and that's what you say, ‘Nice'? You admire this sort of work?”

Now it was Ryan's turn to smile.

“I'm interested in the business. That's part of why I've been following you around, helping out. I was trying to get your attention.”