J. Daniel Sawyer - Clarke Lantham 01 (10 page)

I dithered for about three minutes in front of the house, crouching just inside a layer of bushes so I wouldn’t get spotted by the neighborhood watch.

There was a wan light in the shed window. I could see it just above the side gate. Someone was moving around in there.

I didn’t quite have a clear line-of-sight. A new green minivan with dealer plates and a Boxster seemed to have met willy-nilly for a late night drink in the driveway. I had to lean over to get a better angle.

As quiet as this neighborhood was, I could hear…something. Two men, maybe. Arguing, but not shouting. Worth sneaking up for a better look.

There was enough cover to get to the gate without having to walk into the line-of-sight of any windows. The gate was standing open—no spring return, and the latch didn’t catch when it was last used, most likely by Rawles.

It would have had to be Rawles, or at least I thought so.

When I got to the window, though, it was covered in some kind of contact paper. No way to see anything clearly. Just the shadows and the voices.

Neither of them sounded like Rawles.

“…going to blow it. It’s a fucking animal, okay? Just an animal. We can’t let that wuss kid…” The first guy’s voice was authoritative, but whiny. Sounded like a guy used to giving orders, and equally used to having them ignored.

“That wuss kid saved your ass yesterday running interference.” The second voice was deeper. Smoother. An operator, whatever his line of work. “So sure, he’s a creep—I look like I really care about it too, don’t I?”

“Don’t you take that tone…”

“If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be getting any.”

“Without me you couldn’t get them…”

“Okay, okay, fine. It doesn’t matter anyway, dude. There’s only three more to go…”

“Two. There’s two more.”

“Okay, two more to go. Just keep the bitch on the hook for a few more days.”

“Right.” Someone pacing. Slowing down. Thinking something over. “But what are we gonna do about Mister Shiny Pants in there?”

“Let me take care of him. You just do your thing.”

“Right, okay.”

The shed door opened and spilled light onto the lawn just around the corner from me. If I didn’t move fast, and one of them came back through the gate, I was screwed.

There was a little alley about eighteen inches wide between the shed and the fence, looked clear in the moonlight. I ducked in, lowered my profile as much as I could.

Four seconds later, one of them pulled the gate open and walked through. His arm reaching up to the gate blocked his face from my view—he was wearing a tweed sportcoat, leather patches on the elbows. Way too heavy for this time of year.

He didn’t close the gate properly behind him—so much for the theory that Rawles came in this way. I peeked through the crosshatch trestle scrap that ran along the top of the fence in time to see the tweed shouldering its way into the Boxster.

The interior light gave me a flash of his face—angular, almost unpleasant, clean-shaven, with deep-set tortured eyes. Impossible to tell their color from here, but it didn’t matter.

I got the tags.

This bastard was mine, once I had a chance to look him up.

I slid my phone out of my pocket—good job I kept the screen locked by default—and pushed it around the corner. I used the screen’s glass like a mirror to check out the walkway. Nobody there.

I wiggled back into the clear and crept forward to the edge of the shed’s cover, but I didn’t see anyone in the back yard and no light spilled out from the house. Only the little path lanterns and the blue light from the pool gave enough to see by, and barely that.

I crept up to the point where the walkway opened up into the back yard, and could see a couple other outbuildings—looked like a small guest house attached to a pump house for the pool. If I snooped any further I risked getting caught by another motion sensor.

The other option was knocking on the front door, but thoughts of that fled my head as soon as they came in—I wasn’t a cop anymore. No authority. Any story I could come up with for knocking on an upscale ranchette in the middle of the night would blow up in my face if Rawles was still on site.

Time to beat a retreat.

Out the way I came in, along the short flagstone gardener’s path out of range of the sensor lights, back to the cubbyhole between the hedge and the scrub oak. I stopped there for a moment to see if I missed anything.

One car still parked in the driveway. I snapped a pic with my phone’s camera. Two lights on in the house, neither of them revealing. Whoever was in there wasn’t near the edge of the house, whatever was going on. I took a video scan to review later, just in case I missed anything. It had been a long day.

I was just about to wrap it up when I heard a bang, like something kicking a door in followed by what sounded like a flower pot smashing on the ground.

A woman’s scream tore out from the back yard. A second scream died away into gurgles.

“You want it rough? You want it rough!” Rawles’ voice from the back yard. “Fuck you! I’m out. Get your shit somewhere else!” Behind the house, a door slammed shut.

Twenty seconds later he stomped out the front door and down the driveway right toward my position. His metallic silver pants marked him out like a road sign in the dim light—that had been him at the park, and I missed it.
Dammit, Lantham, get your eyes checked.

While I kicked myself he stomped past, then hooked a left onto the street. Nobody followed him.

As soon as he was out of view, I ran as quietly as I could manage back through the gate.

Still no one in the back yard. I checked the windows—no one watching that I could see. Which building would she be in?

The garage doors were closed—sound came from further away than that anyhow. Nobody was in the shed.

Away across on the other side of the pool, the door to what I took to be the guest house was open a smidge, and light leaked out in a long finger across the grass.

Staying as much in shadow as the random decorative light-pools would let me, I stalked through the yard, hid behind the corner of the outbuilding and looked through the windows.

All of them had rice-paper blinds obscuring the view.

I could hear labored, irregular breathing interrupted here and there with delirious mumbles from inside.

There was nothing else for it. I reached behind under my jacket and put my hand on the butt of my .357, took a deep breath, and rolled around the corner.

Kicking the door in, I came face-to-bloodied face with the object of my search.

It was Nya, laying on the ground in the midst of a shattered vase like Rawles didn’t have the stomach to finish posing her. Bikini soaked. Body and hair glistening with the slime of a badly-maintained hot tub.

Blood gobbed out of a crack in her forehead and a series of cuts down her left arm and on to the polished hardwood. She was barely breathing.

“Nya.” I smacked her lightly. Her face, blank and perpetually scrunched at the nose, lolled at me.

“Who’re you? Hehe. Whorrree you…” She giggled uncontrollably. Further smacks on her face only made her giggle more. Delirious? Judging by the track marks inside her thigh, more likely high.

The blood wasn’t stopping. I yanked my windbreaker off and wrapped it around her arm as best I could. It wouldn’t do much good. This girl needed gauze. Lots of it, and fast.

She was hot to the touch—maybe fever, maybe from the spa. Whatever it was, her body wouldn’t stay warm for much longer at the rate it was leaking red.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“Go and find Gina, boy. Where’d your hair go?” For the record, I still have a full head of hair, and it’s all vintage Lantham
,
thank you very much. But she looked at me cock-eyed like what she said actually meant something.

I wasn’t going to find out if she bled to death all over the floor. I ran out the gate, up the driveway, down the block, and around the corner.

The hatchback on my Civic popped open by remote a half block before I grabbed the side of the car and swung round. First aid kit, right under the Mylar space blanket. I threw them both forward into the cab and slammed the hatchback shut, pulled my phone out and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Injured 19 year old female.” I pulled the driver’s side door shut and jammed the key into the ignition. “Possible domestic abuse. She’s bleeding out. Send an ambulance to 4365 Ackerman Drive, Danville As soon as you can.” The engine cursed me for waking it up. I popped the clutch and screeched out first gear.

“Thank you sir I’m sending an ambulance. Don’t move her…”

“Lady, I’ve got my current EMT cert, you don’t have to tell me that, just get that ambulance here.” I swung around the corner and gunned it the last half block to the front of the house.

“Please stay on the line with me until they arrive.”

“Can’t do it.” I stopped the car and hung up, then twisted around to the back seat and grabbed the blanket and kit box.

My door was halfway open when I looked out the windshield.

Rawles stared right back at me from the end of my hood.

He smashed his fist down on the hood. Nice sized dent. I could hear my wallet wincing. “You want this, asshole?” He smacked his chest and stepped around to my side of the car. “Fuckin’ following me!”

I opened the latch but held the door closed, waited until he was almost next to me. Soon as his nuts were even with the handle, I slammed the door open.

Rawles saw it coming. Managed to dodge it.

The kid grabbed my hair and dragged me out. As soon as I cleared the door frame I grabbed his hand and yanked it to my mouth. I bit down, hard. He screamed and let go, but I didn’t let him go.

With my feet still in the car I held all my weight up off the ground on him, then jerked on the arm and twisted. He dove face-first over me onto the asphalt.

I rolled back and stumbled up to my feet, and just checked the urge to reach for the .357 in the small of my back. If I drew on this kid I’d spend at least the next twenty four hours in the tank while Danville’s finest ran my prints through every database in the state.

All while Nya might ble
e
d to death.

Not that he gave me more than a second. He scrambled to something resembling standing and rounded on me with what he thought was a kung-fu kick. I hopped back and let his foot hit the rear quarterpanel. He cursed, stumbled, threw a punch at me before he’d recovered his balance. Swinging high for my face. I ducked and scooted back. The kid lost what was left of his balance and renewed his romance with the pavement.

“You done dancing, kid?”

He flailed around till he could grab onto my car and pulled himself up. His plastic surgeon was gonna love him—face looked like he thought doing makeup with blood and gravel was the next big thing for the
nouveaux-riche
.

“Who the hell do you think…”

**BLART—SQUAWK**

Floodlights blasted Rawles’s gravely cheeks ghost-white.

“Place your hands on the top of your head and kneel on the ground.”

My ears tried to crawl back inside my skull to hide in my head from Danville’s finest bullhorn operator. Right behind me, maybe ten feet away judging by the sound of the engine.

Fast response time. The community policing ballot measure must have passed with flying colors last year.

“Now! Both of you.”

I knew the drill. I interlaced my fingers on top of my head and dropped to my knees. The kid waited just long enough so that everyone would know he was only obeying because it suited him.

The cop’s rubber shoes scuffed out of the car and, as near as I could tell, stopped five feet behind me. His Mag Lite swept between my head and Rawles, checking to make sure we weren’t palming anything. Textbook.

The cop said: “What’s going on here?”

The kid flicked his eyes up to the cop and then back into the middle-distance, trying to find a good story.

I jumped out in front of him before his brain could get in gear. “Officer, I called dispatch. My name is Clarke Lantham. I’m a licensed private investigator. There’s a woman in the guest house back there,” I nodded at the garden gate, “bleeding to death.”

“Stand up, Mr. Lantham.” The cop shifted a few feet to my right—better cover on my dominant hand.

“Officer, I am obligated to inform you that I am carrying a legally concealed weapon in a waistband holster.”

Snap.
The fastener around the cop’s gun butt flicked open.

“Mr. Lantham, please move to the rear of the vehicle.”

I rose to my feet and stepped around Rawles. I didn’t take my eyes off the kid for a minute—his face was twisted so tight it might shatter any second.

I circled around so I was facing the hatchback. The cop knew his stuff—stayed behind me out of arm’s reach the whole way.

“Lean forward over the car and place your hands, palms down, on the glass.”

I did what I was told, made sure I was far enough from the car that when I bent over it put me off balance. I stepped my feet shoulder-width apart and put my hands on the hatch, one by one.

I’d been this cop before—I wasn’t going to give him any excuse.

“Are you carrying any other weapons or sharp objects?”

“There’s a three-inch folding knife in my right hip pocket. My credentials and permit are in my left hip pocket.”

I heard him shift his belt behind me. If he was going by the book, that sound would be his right hand grabbing the gun grip. He patted down my top half first, making sure I didn’t have a second weapon more accessible, then took the .357 from the small of my back.

He swept over my crotch, legs, ankles, and thighs. Confident I was clear, he pulled my wallet out of my pocket and stepped back.

“Stand up.”

I pushed myself up to my feet, but didn’t turn around.

“Clarke Lantham, 83941 Pacific, Stockton.“

“Yes sir.”

“Your PI license is through Alameda County.”

“Yes sir. My office is in Oakland.” The ambulance lights rounded the corner three blocks away.

“Hell of a commute.”