The Kill Clause Part 40

Three miles each way to the Stork's house.

Three miles from VanMan Rental Agency.

Tim started driving in a widening spiral, looking for everything and nothing, recalling what he knew about the Stork. A pharmacy Rx sign in a strip mall caught his eye, and he pulled into the lot, pa.s.sing the usual suspects-Blockbuster, Starbucks, Baja Fresh. sign in a strip mall caught his eye, and he pulled into the lot, pa.s.sing the usual suspects-Blockbuster, Starbucks, Baja Fresh.

He pictured the Stork's round face, his sunburned scalp and flat nose. Not that it's any of your business, but it's called Stickler's syndrome. Not that it's any of your business, but it's called Stickler's syndrome.

The Stork took plenty of prescription meds, but, in Tim's experience, patient-confidentiality issues, DEA security, and his own lack of contacts in the field made tracing drug records next to impossible. Plus, the Stork was wise enough to be exceedingly careful about how he acquired his drugs. It was doubtful he'd be so foolish as to use a nearby pharmacy, if he used a pharmacy at all.

Tim closed his eyes.

The Stork's house was likely within a three-mile radius of where Tim sat.

A connective-tissue disorder that affects the tissue surrounding the bones, heart, eyes, and ears.

Somewhere an optometrist had to have a file containing the Stork's lens prescription, but again the Stork would know not to leave telling records anywhere near his house. Plus, his gla.s.ses looked as if they hadn't been updated since the sixties.

Tim reversed his thoughts, considering the ba.n.a.l, the seemingly harmless. What are activities people do near their home? Which of these leave records?

Grocery shopping. Post office. Library.

Weak. Difficult. Maybe.

Tim opened his eyes again, gripping the wheel in frustration. Across the lot the yellow-and-blue sign caught his eye. He felt a quick surge as something in his mind crossed over, connected.

Now and then I'll rent black-and-white movies when I can't sleep.

He got out, his step quickening as he approached Blockbuster. The stenciling on the door said they were open until midnight, but the cla.s.sic-movie section was anemic at best. Even Tim, hater of old movies, had seen most of the twenty or so black-and-white videos leaning on the shelves.

The acne-crusted kid at the counter was wearing his visor backward and sucking a Blow Pop.

"What's the best place to rent old black-and-white movies around here?"

"I don't know, man. What do you want to watch those for? We just got the new Lord of the Rings. Lord of the Rings." The Blow Pop had stained the kid's mouth green.

"Is there a manager here?"

"Yeah, man. I'm it."

"Would you mind suggesting another video-rental store around here?"

The kid shrugged. A pa.s.sing customer with an abundance of facial piercings leaned on the counter, chewing her lip. "You an old-movie nut? Go check out Cinsational Videos. With a 'cin' like in 'cinema,' get it?"

The manager removed his Blow Pop and brayed laughter. "Sounds like a p.o.r.n shop."

"It's the only place around here for that stuff. They don't got it, you gotta head up to the West Side, like to Cinefile or Vidiots or somewhere."

Tim thanked her and asked for directions, which she explained with dramatic gestures and clanking jewelry.

Six blocks over, two down, on the left. Tim parked up the street. A quiet area, mostly apartments. The store, a stand-alone square building, was set back from the street behind four slanted parking s.p.a.ces and a streetlamp. Gla.s.s front door, windows cluttered with posters-a lot of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. The hanging sign was flipped to OPEN OPEN. Someone had Magic Markered in the times; on Mondays through Sat.u.r.days, the store didn't close until 1:00 A A.M. The late hours matched the Stork's inadvertent description and would likely necessitate a security camera inside.

The front door knocked hanging chimes when Tim entered. A kid with movie-star looks sat on a stool, engrossed in a video playing on a nineteen-inch TV on the counter in front of him. No customers.

Tim glanced above the counter and found the security camera-cheap Sony model from the eighties, run on VHS tapes. It hung from a ceiling bracket, angled across the counter at the front door. Gla.s.s Gla.s.s front door. And visible through it were the two center parking s.p.a.ces, most likely where someone would park late at night. front door. And visible through it were the two center parking s.p.a.ces, most likely where someone would park late at night.

"Someone called me earlier in the week, said something about a problem with your security camera. I wanted to take a look."

"On a Sat.u.r.day?" The toothpick the kid had been working in his mouth bobbed with his words, his eyes never leaving the screen. Clint Eastwood gritted his teeth, scowled, and shot through Eli Wallach's noose.

Tim took note of the narrow door behind the stool-probably a small office. Above the k.n.o.b was what looked to be an autolocking double-cylinder, requiring a key on both sides.

"Yeah, well, my crew's been slammed lately. I wanted to see what the problem was so they'll know to bring any necessary parts next week."

"Necessary parts? Like what? I installed the thing myself. It's working fine."

Tim's rising irritation was directed as much at himself as at the kid. With a younger worker, he should have played the authoritative angle, impersonating a police officer or a deputy marshal. But now that he was committed, he couldn't exactly back up and start over.

"Well, the owner called me last week and asked me to come by. I might as well make sure everything's okay."

The kid shifted on the stool, his eyes leaving the screen for the first time. He looked obstinate and mistrustful. "My dad never told me about anyone coming by. He would've."

Tim raised his hands as if to say What the h.e.l.l and turned to leave. When he reached the door, he threw the lock and flipped the sign so it read CLOSED CLOSED.

The kid had gone back to his movie, but he sensed Tim's presence and looked up. He caught sight of the front-door sign, and his hand darted beneath the counter and came up with a d.i.n.ky .22. Tim closed fast, his left hand sweeping out, catching the gun at the barrel and angling it away from both of them. His right hand pinned back his jacket, revealing the .357 tucked in his waistband.

They were frozen together, motionless, Tim's gun revealed but not drawn, the other weapon pointed between NEW RELEASES NEW RELEASES and and FRANK CAPRA FRANK CAPRA.

Tim braced for the gunshot, but none came.

The kid was breathing hard, a spill of blond hair down across his right eye.

"Don't do anything," Tim said, his voice dead calm. "I'm as nervous as you are."

After another moment he twisted the .22, slowly, and the kid released it. Tim slid out the cartridge, cleared the bullet from the chamber, and handed the gun back to him.

"Step back from the counter, please. Thank you." Tim let his jacket fall back over his gun and walked around to the other side. He patted the kid down gently, using his knuckles. "What's your name?"

"Sam."

"All right, Sam. I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to rob you. I just need to get my hands on your security tapes from the past few weeks. Could you please open that office door? Thank you."

Between a tiny desk and a large, lined wastepaper basket sat a cabinet with a row of security VHS tapes, marked by date. Above the cabinet a Sunset Boulevard Sunset Boulevard one-sheet, probably hiding a safe, fluttered with the breeze from the AC vent. one-sheet, probably hiding a safe, fluttered with the breeze from the AC vent.

"Why are there two tapes for each date?"

Sam was trembling a bit. "They only fit eight hours on each, so we split them, day and night. We recycle them every month or so."

"All right, Sam. I'm going to borrow the night tapes. Is that okay?" He waited for Sam to nod.

"s.h.i.t, man, if that's all you want, you can keep them. Just get out of here."

"Okay. In a second. Will you help me put them into this bag? This one here? Thank you."

They silently loaded the tapes into a plastic wastepaper bag, then Tim stepped back, fisting it like a cartoon robber. He pulled the toothpick from the kid's mouth, turned him around, and cinched a flex-cuff around his wrists.

Pulling out his Nextel, Tim dialed 911. "Yes, h.e.l.lo, I've accidentally locked myself in the back room of Cinsational Videos in El Segundo, and I'm trapped. Can you please send help?"

He stepped out into the store proper, shut the door behind him, then jammed the toothpick into the keyhole and snapped it off. He pulled the tape from the security camera overhead. On his way past the counter, he paused, the movie credits catching his eye. He counted out four hundreds and laid them on the floor behind the counter, then unhooked the VCR and tucked it under one arm.

He hurried nonchalantly to his car and drove away, Cinsational's CLOSED CLOSED sign peering out after him. sign peering out after him.

*Back in his apartment, Tim watched tape after tape on fast forward, a process more tedious than time-consuming. The tapes were color and surprisingly good quality, providing a clear angle encompa.s.sing the counter and front door.

He lucked out on the fifth tape, February 4 at 12:53 A A.M. Nearly forty minutes pa.s.sed without a single customer, then a car pulled up and took one of the front s.p.a.ces, its headlights shining into the store interior. When the driver pushed through the front door, Tim recognized his distinctive conformation. The Stork poked around off camera, reappearing when he shambled up to the counter with three videos. He paid cash and left, climbing into his car.

When the car backed up, Tim saw it clearly, bathed in the streetlamp's glow-a black PT Cruiser. With its forties-style narrow hood, rounded fenders, and sloping liftgate, it seemed a perfect, slightly embarra.s.sing match for the Stork's aesthetic.

Tim froze the frame, leaning close to the screen. The license plate was lost in one headlight's reflection off the gla.s.s door. Rewinding, he slowed the tape just as the Stork pulled up. Again the plate was illegible, bleached out in the headlights' gleam. When the Stork turned off the car, the grill fell immediately into shadow, backlit by the streetlamp. Tim let the tape play, watching for the enhanced spill of light from the door when the Stork entered; it illuminated the dark grill for a split second, still not enough for Tim to read the license number. He inched the tape forward and back but couldn't make the plate resolve.

He reached Dray at the sheriff's station. "Tim?" He could hear her shifting the phone, and then she spoke in a hushed voice. "Bear's bringing the heat. There were deputy marshals all through the house last night, searching through our stuff."

"What'd you tell them?"

"I told them we're no longer in touch. That I hadn't seen you since Thursday morning. Mac never saw you when you came back here after Rayner's."

Dray upheld fire-forged allegiances above all else, a trait Tim was forced to attribute to her four brothers or at least to her growing up with them. She was your strongest ally, once you had her.

"And Bear believed you?"

"Of course not."

"Any progress on the safety-deposit key?"

"No. I've been flatfooting my a.s.s to different bank branches every spare moment I have, but nothing so far. I'll match it up, just a matter of when."

"Listen, Dray, I don't want to involve you further in this, but-"

"What do you need?" Her voice said, Shut up and tell me.

"Chrysler PT Cruiser, black, registered somewhere in El Segundo. Give me a ten-mile radius around city limits. There can't be that many of them-I think they just started making it in 2001. Pull up license photos, cross-check them against a picture of Edward Davis, former FBI sound agent, Caucasian, Quantico, New Agent Cla.s.s Two of '66. Strange-looking guy-you'll know him when you see him." He heard her pen scratching on paper. "Also run the alias Daniel Dunn, see if anything rings the cherries."

"Check."

"You have any good intel?"

"Bear's being pretty tight-lipped around me, but he's also checking in every few hours, I think just to hear my voice. It must remind him of saner times."

"Or to press you for info."

"He did mention Tannino's leaning toward a press conference this evening, though he wouldn't say what they're releasing. My guess is they'll put out a shout to Bowrick, who they still haven't located. If he's not dead already. Oh-and they had to release that r.e.t.a.r.ded guy. The janitor, accused of molesting those kids."

"What? When?"

"Just a few hours ago. It's tough to keep protective custody on someone against their will-you know that. He was agitated as h.e.l.l the whole time. You can probably understand why."

Tim felt his heartbeat pounding at his temples. "I gotta go."

"I'll get on the car for you. I'll need some time to get it done quietly."

"Thank you." He moved to hang up, but then an image caught him-Ananberg back at Rayner's after the break-in, dead eyes hidden beneath her sleek hair. He brought the telephone back up to his face. "Dray, I really...thank you."

"I'm a deputy in Moorpark. What the h.e.l.l else am I gonna do?"

*Something in the Acura's dash started to rattle at ninety miles per hour. As Tim screeched off the freeway exit, it occurred to him that he might be heading into a cleverly devised setup. Dray would never betray him-that he knew-but if Bear wanted to disseminate misinformation to Tim, she was a plausible route. And Dobbins a plausible lure.

Not Bear's style, but it was a possibility Tim couldn't ignore.

When he reached the vicinity of Mick Dobbins's apartment, he was torn between urgency and caution. He did a quick drive through the surrounding blocks, closing on the building, but in the end his foot approach left him ambush-vulnerable.

No answer when he rang Dobbins's bell. No one visible through the window.

He turned at a slight movement beside him, expecting to see Bear and a legion of deputy marshals, but instead it was the same old woman from before, wrapped in the same fluoride-blue bathrobe, her hair still contorted in curlers. She drew back in a posture of exaggerated caution, one liver-spotted hand clenching her bathrobe closed at the throat.

"Look who's poking around here again. Mr. Twenty Questions."

"Where's Mickey?" Tim asked.

"There you go again." Her eyes flashed heavenward, her hands shaking twice, an exasperated plea for divine intervention. "What do you want with him? Everyone pulling and shoving at him-it's enough already. Leave him in peace."

"I'm a friend of Mickey's, remember? I got the police to release him. Did someone else take him?"

"No one else has been nosing around"-she squinted at him-"except you. Mickey probably went down to the park. It's after-school time. He likes to watch the children play. He misses them, because those schmucks took it away from him, his work at the school, those kids he adored so."

Tim fought to maintain a facade of patience. "Which way is the park?"

She pointed an unsteady finger. "Just up the street."

When Tim flashed past her, she let out a little shriek. He hit a dead sprint, sighting the park ahead, a half block rimmed with sycamores. Fluorescent Frisbees drifted over the abbreviated field, mothers chatted beside strollers, infants kicked up sand in a play box. Tim pulled up in the picnic area, trying to condense the whirlwind of motion, scanning the area for Dobbins. A mother sat with a notepad across her knees, her gold pen flashing in the sunlight. Children kicked and screamed from swings. Colorful clothing. The smell of baby powder. Cell phones chirping.

Across the park Dobbins sat on the edge of a wide brick planter, watching a group of kids play tag, his face heavy with sadness.