Perdition, U.S.A. Page 24

  They complied and the reporters moved back, scribbling away or chattering into tape recorders. Bradford and the young man with him also stood back, arms lank at their sides, their eyes taking in everything. Kane looked shaken but Brock and Wu, who seemed to be unhurt, remained still.

  “Hey man, I don’t—”

  “Shut up,” Seguin said to the young man someone said had pulled the trigger. “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of United States Senator Grainger Wu.” He informed him of his rights, and made him sit on the floor, his hands in bracelets.

  “There it is, there’s his gun,” Brock said, pointing at it on the scrubbed linoleum. Instinctively, she bent down to retrieve it.

  “Don’t do that, “Seguin warned, using a tone he reserved for his youngest daughter. “You must know better than that.”

  The state cop had handcuffed two of the skins lying stomach down on the ground. Seguin tossed him his other pair of cuffs and edged toward the weapon. It looked like a Charter Arms and was a .38 dull-plated revolver with a textured grip and taped trigger.

  “Want my pen?” one of the reporters said to Seguin, offering him a thin ball point.

  Seguin almost smiled. “We don’t put those things down the barrel. It might screw up the insides.” But he did take it and moved people back from the gun. More cops and others were trying to jam into the kitchen through the doorway he’d entered. Seguin picked up the gun by the checkered grip with two fingers—prints couldn’t be deposited on the uneven surface anyway—and marked its location with the ball point on the floor.

  “Why’d you want to kill the Senator?” One of the reporters was quizzing the fingered gunman. He was a husky skinhead in red suspenders, shiny boots and a sweat-stained Guns ‘N’ Roses T-shirt.

  His chest was rising and falling rapidly and he looked to his other fellows for help. “I, shit, I, hey, that black bitch shoved the piece in my hand.” He indicated Brock with his head.

  “Fuck you,” the communications director snarled and lunged at him, kicking.

  A deputy got between them and Wu got an arm around Brock. Sheriff Olson bowled into the kitchen. “Just what the fuck’s going on around here?”

  “I’ll leave that to you law enforcement personnel to figure out,” Wu began, wiping his forehead with his hand. “I’m going to make my presentation.”

  Seguin said, “Look, Senator—”

  “You say this is the man who took a shot at me, fine. It’s his type that I’m here to speak about.”

  Reverend Tompkins clasped Wu around the shoulders and walked with him out of the kitchen.

  A studious-looking young man with modish-length hair in a buttoned-down broadcloth shirt and creased poplin trousers strolled along the sidewalk and came to his car, a blue Acura, under the shade of a big maple. He got his key in the lock and felt the tickle along his rib cage.

  “You got to give it up,” the harsh voice said from behind him.

  “If you want the car, take it,” the collegiate-looking man replied, holding up his hands.

  “Aren’t you wondering how it was your arm got bumped just when you were making the shot, Vickers?”

  He turned and stared open-mouthed into the placid face of Ivan Monk.

  From the next block, they could hear a round of applause erupt from the Foursquare Eternal Glory Baptist Church.

  Chapter 25

  “You two-faced bastard.” Alice Vickers’ arm jerked and Monk grabbed her roughly by the wrist. The styrofoam cup of hot coffee she meant to toss into Grant’s face was upset. The contents spilled across the desk, dribbling onto the floor. Nobody went for a napkin.

  Grant stood before her as she sat perpendicular to the table, her back pressed against the wall. Just above that was the one-way glass which looked in on the interrogation room. Inside, her son sat, his head resting on the room’s scarred table. A tin ashtray filled with crushed butts smoldered before him.

  “I’m sorry, Alice,” Grant said. “But it wasn’t me that tried to murder a man yesterday.”

  “I hope the devil fucks you in hell, old man.” Hate and betrayal were evident in her red-rimmed eyes as she fixed them on Grant.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets, turned away, and went to lean against the wall on the far side of the table.

  Seguin looked at Monk then spoke. “Here it is, Mrs. Vickers. We can place John at the scene, we can establish motive, and we have a confirmed test from the residue analysis which means he’d fired a gun recently.”

  “He’d been out to the range, I told you that,” she answered defiantly. “I don’t care what this ape says.” She didn’t look at him but she meant Monk.

  “We talked to the range master there. We made it clear if he didn’t tell the truth, losing his license to operate would be the least of his worries.” Seguin waited, letting the import of his words sink in.

  Alice Vickers blew air out of her mouth and turned to view her son behind the glass. He looked straight ahead at a point only he could see. She said, “What’s the deal? What do you want me to convince him to do?”

  “Tell us what he knows about Nolan Meyer’s involvement with the Shoreline killings and who ordered him to assassinate Senator Wu.” Seguin sat on the edge of the table.

  “Gee, I’m glad it’s not much,” she spat sarcastically.

  “In return,” Seguin went on, “I’ll recommend that he get immunity from prosecution for attempted murder and conspiracy to murder.”

  “You guarantee that?” the mother asked in a concerned tone.

  “I’m not saying the feds will okay it. I’m just saying as far as the LAPD is concerned, we’d look on his cooperation as benefiting the resolution of this matter.”

  Alice Vickers slumped in the chair, her hand propping up her head as if it were about to detach itself from her neck and roll off down the hall. “He’s gotta have better than that. He’s got to be relocated so, so—”

  “I’ll see what the feds will agree to,” Seguin promised.

  Grant and Monk walked out of the precinct as the Vickers waited for the arrival of the public defender and the answer from the FBI.

  “How do you feel?” Monk asked Grant, clamping a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s not the first time I let somebody down,” he answered noncommittally.

  Monk studied him. “You really felt something for her.”

  Grant turned on him, angry. “Does that surprise you, Ivan? Am I supposed to be some kind of social security James Bond who screws chicks for information then kicks them from moving cars when the case is over? Am I supposed to be as hard as you work at?”

  Stung, Monk couldn’t think of anything to say. He lowered his gaze.

  Grant made motions with his hands. “Jesus, Ivan. When I saw that damn photo in her bedroom I knew I should have bailed then. But you get my age, telling yourself it’s okay you’ve been divorced twice and only one of your two daughters will have anything to do with you. And you rationalize, telling yourself she’ll be okay with this, she’ll see her son has done wrong and what you’re doing is really helping him. Meanwhile, I kept going to her bed every night. Not even telling her my real name.”

  “You’re the one that drilled it into me about detachment, Dex,” Monk said lamely, feeling the hurt from his old friend’s words.

  Grant stopped. They had wandered to his Buick on the visitor’s lot. He unlocked the trunk of the vintage deuce and a quarter and handed a hefty file folder to Monk. “This is the stuff I got on Swede. It oughta make your client happy.”

  Monk had all but forgotten about Urbanski and her problem. “Thanks.” He was trying mightily for consoling words. “Dex, if you hadn’t been at her place three nights ago, we wouldn’t have known Vickers was in town when he came over to see her. And how he’d changed his appearance.”

  Grant shrugged then trained his battleship greys on Monk. “How’d you figure they’d make the hit at the church?”

  Monk winked at Grant. “I had a good teacher.
”

  Chapter 26

  Off in the kitchen, a faucet dripped intermittently. A dog barked not too far away and, overhead, a small engine prop job rambled through the dry afternoon air. A cone of sunlight broke the somber plane of the Navajo-style rug as the front door swung inward.

  The man stepped quickly into the house, shutting the door silently as he did. He crossed the living room in long strides and continued into the dining room with purpose. Sitting there at the glass table was another darkened figure. This man was backlit against the translucent white curtains in front of the big sliding glass door.

  The intruder halted, his eyes adjusting to the muted interior. He could now discern the other presence and he placed his feet apart, the weight put forward so as to put some power behind either flight or fight.

  “How’s it hangin’, Nolan? I hear the feds paid a call on the mansion up north but you weren’t home. Raided the Reich’s headquarters up there and down here, no clue. Even rounded up a bucktoothed girlfriend of yours, still no dice.”

  Meyer’s lips barely parted. “But you knew I’d come back here. Even Vickers didn’t know that.”

  Monk filled him in gladly. “Grant and I got permission to toss this place after the cops pulled their stakeout off after two weeks. He’d learned earlier from the neighbors around here they’d seen a man matching your description around here about a month before.”

  “You found the two pistols and money I hid, just in case,” Meyer said.

  Monk didn’t respond. But he’d concluded Meyer had hidden the items either for a getaway, or to further implicate Bright, or maybe Vickers on Blight’s orders, as the Shoreline Killer.

  Meyer said, “Come by yourself?”

  “Just you and me, sugar pie.” Monk got up from the table, pushing the chair back with his sole as he did.

  Meyer got closer, squaring his shoulders and rolling his head as a boxer might before the first round. “You got that sell-out motherfucker Vickers to give me up.”

  “And your boyfriend?”

  Meyer laughed hollowly. “Sorry, hot dog, it’s only Bobby who likes the chocolate speedway action.” Meyer unloaded a punch so quick it caught Monk off-guard even though he was braced for it. He staggered back and tried to counter with a jab but Meyer was in motion, bringing his left up and level while twisting his torso. The blow tagged Monk on the side of his face and for a moment he had a hard time focusing.

  Meyer’s hand was reaching beneath the tail of his knit shirt. Monk willed his body into motion but not in time. The gun was out, releasing a round.

  The glass table top seizured into myriad segments, its irregular chunks littering the floor. Monk, who had ducked underneath it, had a hold of one of its legs and was twisting the bulk of it around and up as he stood.

  He caught Meyer in the upper legs and the supremacist cursed from the impact. A carved wooden bowl which had been the table’s centerpiece was within grasp and Monk flung it and the glass it now contained. Meyer knocked it away but the diversion allowed Monk the opportunity to push the frame forward, forcing Meyer back.

  Bleeding from his hands and several cuts along his arm, Monk got around the upset iron frame. Ignoring the pain, he closed the gap between him and the white-haired killer, shards of glass crunching and splintering beneath his shoes as he trampled around. The gun—Monk wasn’t sure what kind it was save that it was a semiauto—was rotating into position but Monk had his .45 in his hand and did a back swing with it.

  He knocked his against Meyer’s weapon, a shot going wild from the other’s muzzle. Monk clubbed at Meyer’s head but the killer dived to the left, Monk right after him. The two went over a low, small piece of furniture with magazines on it, their bodies clumping along the floor as if they were drunk bears who’d forgotten their circus routine.

  Meyer tried to get to his feet, and at the same time get untangled to bring his gun into play. Monk’s was on the floor, out of reach. But he was aware of a piece of glass just to the side. He grabbed it, thereby giving Meyer a chance to get his gun hand free. As he sought to let off a round into Monk’s sweating face, the private eye buried the triangle of glass in Meyer’s thigh.

  “Nigger shit,” he screamed.

  Monk blocked the arm with the gun on the end of it with his forearm. Simultaneously, he crawled, reaching out, getting both hands around the gun, yanking it from Meyer’s hand.

  “I got your nigger shit, white boy,” Monk bellowed, digging the gun into Meyer’s cheek.

  “You ain’t got the balls, mudboy.” Meyer’s death’s-head leered at him in the dim light, taunting him in its absolute whiteness. “You pride yourself on thinking like a white man, don’t you, Monk? You head-scratching coon.”

  Straddling the killer, Monk distantly heard someone else click the hammer back on the piece, some other hand was probing the pistol deep into the side of the skull face. It wouldn’t be like in Perdition. He’d kill him with cold fury and eat a big dinner afterwards.

  But all too quick there was a painful sensation as Meyer buried a shard in the arm with the gun at the end of it. Meyer bucked and dislodged him.

  Meyer kicked him, the tip of his foot connecting with the underside of Monk’s jaw. He reeled, rearing back on his haunches. He went over on his backside, splayed across the nice bleached wood of Alice Vicker’s floor.

  Light again invaded the room and Meyer was vaulting through the open front door. Monk gulped air like a vacuum cleaner, got up, and sped after him. They ran around the mobile homes on their stanchions among the sparkling concrete court of the Pink Sands lot. They rushed across lawns of verdant green astro turf and past a free-standing sculpture of giant aqua-blue whooping cranes in a concrete pond.

  Monk took a shot, missing the fleeing killer as he made it around the corner of a house designed in a western motif. The bullet took a chunk out of a wagon wheel half buried in the flower garden. He churned his trudging legs as fast as he could and cursed himself for not jogging more often with Jill.

  Meyer was in front of him, both of them whipping down a narrow passageway between two homes. Monk raised the weapon—it was a hefty Browning P-35—and it occurred to him it might not look too swell on the record if he missed again and sent some pensioner watching “The Young and the Restless” to soap opera heaven.

  He got to the end of the passageway and ditched the gun in a recycling bin. Meyer was heading down a side street of the court. Monk’s arm hurt like hell but he couldn’t stop.

  An elderly man in a threadbare robe and slippers was trimming alligator weeds out of an equally threadbare garden. He was livid as first the white-faced man, then Monk, charged through the meager plot of withered tomatoes and bug-eaten lettuce.

  “Bastards, I’m calling the law on you ruffians,” the retiree said, shaking a pair of clippers.

  Meyer got to a waist-high gate that led to a pool and Jacuzzi. He went up and over, Monk closing the distance between them. Two older woman had been sitting at the edge of the pool dangling their toes in the water. They screamed and waddled away.

  Monk’s prey snatched open a small shed where a net on a pole and miscellaneous yard tools were stored. He swung a push broom at Monk who was moving as fast he could.

  The edge of the thing caught him in the side and something began to cramp inside his body. The broom came crashing down on his head, momentarily disorienting him.

  Meyer jabbed at Monk’s gut, but he grabbed the handle and twisted. It snapped and Monk used his section to counter thrust at Meyer, who was throwing punches. The splintered end of the handle dug into the fleshy part on the underside of Meyer’s arm pit. Blood thick as ketchup coated the end of the handle as Monk withdrew it.

  “Goddamn you,” the supremacist huffed. Blood leaked into his shirt and a few drops descended onto the pristine tiles.

  Monk missed with a right but connected with a left to Meyer’s body. Then another short jab to the lower body again, causing the other man more anguish. “Come on, Meyer, give me what you g
ot.”

  “You fucked up everything, Monk.” Meyer brought a foot up and into Monk’s chest, driving him back.

  He followed with a fist that rocked Monk, but all his nerves were firing and the synapses in his brain were jagged and alive like a junkie on a rush of amphetamines. Monk kicked the other man’s shin with the steel-toed boot he was wearing.

  Meyer grimaced again and took a few steps back, gaining space between them.

  “There’s nowhere to run, Meyer,” Monk contended, sucking in gallons of air. “You’re made solid for doing the Shoreline killings to set Bright up. You heard about what happened to Vickers’ father from your big-legged mama.” Monk smiled sadistically.

  “Shut up, shut your filthy mouth.” Meyer had stopped backing up.

  “What is it, Nolan? You don’t like your mom’s choice of boyfriends? Or is it something else?”

  Underneath the flaccid quality of Meyer’s face an unhealthy gray began to creep into his complexion.

  “You did the murders to implicate Bright and get him out of your way so you could be the number one boy.” Monk shook the broom handle at him accusingly. “Maybe you also wanted to show your mother who’s the real man, huh Meyer?”

  A dead voice said. “Vickers tell you that?”

  Monk was moving closer to him. “You might say pillow talk helped put your dick in the vise, boy. Seems your old lady mentioned to her other lover, Vickers, what you’d been up to.” He could reach Meyer in one move now.

  Meyer’s body shook and he extended a rigid arm and finger. “You’re not bringing my—” and he hesitated for just a moment, as if searching for the proper adjective, “mother into this, you degenerate snoop.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Meyer yelled something incoherent and launched himself at Monk. The two collided like bucking rams. Meyer got his hands around Monk’s neck and squeezed with a fanatic’s resolution. His pupils were pin pricks in his head. Monk leveraged an elbow and drove it into Meyer’s Adam’s apple. But he didn’t let go. Rather than try to pry him loose, Monk grabbed him close and went down, he on top of Meyer. The pair slammed onto the redwood decking of the Jacuzzi, Meyer taking the brunt of the fall.