FREE TO DIE
Bob McElwain
Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2005 Bob McElwain
Smashwoods Edition, License Notes
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CHAPTER 1
Friday Night
He’d never found a pattern to it. And he had no warning now. As fog off a river delta, it quietly enshrouds, lingers, and then drifts on. He was engulfed by a damp gray loneliness, the cries of childhood close to his lips. He was cold, too cold.
There was no fog here, only the Nevada desert. Although mountains blocked his view, he was gazing to the southwest in the direction of Los Angeles. The moon doubled his height in a shadow, blurring the tension in his broad shoulders and short neck.
When he could again taste the crisp, desert air, he took control of his eyes first; he focused on the horizon. The urge was strong to walk to where the bright, brilliant stars were within reach. Instead, he turned back toward the filling station, a sprawling blemish beside the old highway. To the north, light from Las Vegas was a dome of whiteness against the dark sky.
He walked carefully, avoiding broken car fragments abandoned to the desert wind and sand. Skeletons of dead vehicles were silhouetted by the moon. With the station lights off, darkness lent respectability, hiding the flaking paint and rusting walls of the building.
He stopped abruptly. Something wasn’t right, but all he could grasp was the wrongness of it. He struggled to bring himself back, as if over a great distance. The station was completely dark. It shouldn’t be. Jake couldn’t be more than half finished with his nightly bookkeeping chores.
Moving quickly now, he picked his way silently around the far end of the building opposite the office. The side door to the service area was still open. At the doorway, he heard the muffled sounds of voices. He heard Jake moan. He drifted swiftly through the blackness toward the office, trying not to hear the old man’s cry on each additional blow. But the sounds soiled the night, each a lonesome, keening wail.
“Hold the son’bitch higher,” a man demanded.
“Fuck it. This old fart won’t tell us nothin’.”
He felt in the darkness among the tools on the wall and picked an open-end wrench. It was eighteen inches long. It had the weight he needed.
“Old man,” said a third voice. “We got what ya was fixing to bank. We only need tomorrow’s cash. It ain’t worth dying for.”
He was close enough to hear Jake’s faint reply. “Christ. You got it all.”
“Hold the bastard. He’s slippin’,” the first man demanded.
“You’ll kill him, ya keep hitting like that,” the third man commented mildly.
“Fuckin’ right I will, if he don’t tell me right soon.”
As he moved toward the entrance of the office, he was careful to keep the heavy wrench away from the metal wall. In the moonlight filtered through the dusty office windows, he could see the man holding Jake and the larger one as he buried his fist in Jake’s gut. This time, Jake made no sound, sagging deeper into the grip of the man holding him. All he could see of the third man was the .38 revolver, pointed in the general direction of the action.
He took a guess at where the knees would be below the weapon, gripped the metal doorframe, and brought the wrench from behind him, powering it low through the doorway into the unseen man.
Bone breaking has a distinctive sound. He heard it now. He was inside the room before the beginnings of the man’s cry. The .38 fell to the floor as a scream of agony burst from his mouth. He paid no attention to the man or the .38; one whose knee has just been shattered does not think of weapons.
It was the startled face of the big man who’d been beating Jake that held his attention. He threw a slow, rolling, overhand punch at the man’s broad face with his left. As expected, the blow was blocked. The heavy wrench in his right hand crashed downward into bone above the left ear. The man dropped as if dead.
Swinging upward, almost as a continuation of the blow, he broke the jaw of the man holding Jake. Teeth flew and blood exploded from his mouth as he crumpled.
He grabbed the wrench through his shirt, hastily wiped it free of prints, then dropped it to the floor. Ignoring the harsh screams from the man holding his knee, he grabbed the phone and dialed.
“I’m at Jake’s Service Station. Three fellas took his money and beat hell out of him.”
“May I have your name, sir?”
“Get the police and an ambulance. If you move it, Jake might make it. Can’t say about the other three.” He hung up. It wouldn’t take long. Las Vegas police respond swiftly and effectively; money-laden tourists are not to be disturbed.
After wiping down the phone, he gently picked up the old man and carried him outside. He laid him on the front seat of a car that had been propped against the station wall. “Oh, Christ, it hurts,” Jake murmured.
“Hang on. An ambulance is coming. And cops.”
“Your name’s not Fairchild, is it?”
“No.” He crouched on his heels, holding both the old man’s hands as if comforting a small child.
“Then you better get out of here.”
“Yeah.” Flashing red lights were moving toward them down the highway, not more than four or five minutes away. “What do you say, Jake? I left at eleven?”
“ ’Bout five after, as I recall.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
“Hell. It’s the least I . . .” The old man fainted.
He glanced at the office. The three men would keep. “Sorry as hell I didn’t get inside sooner,” he murmured softly to Jake.
Gently he eased the tired, bony hands down to the car seat, rose, then moved quickly off across the highway and on into the desert. It was more a trot than a run, a pace he could maintain for hours.
* * *
The Four Aces Motel had been passed by time and a new highway. There were no lights in any cottage as he approached from the rear, but the moonlight helped. He picked his way cautiously through years of scattered debris, moving soundlessly in his heavy, steel-toed boots. Although his breathing was heavy after the fast three miles, it had slowed considerably during his final approach. Concerned about police at the moment, there were others he didn’t want to meet.
A glance at the door showed the dead leaf he’d placed that morning was still there. He entered, closed the door and walked across the room to the scarred table beside the bed. When he turned on the small lamp, cockroaches scurried for cover. He hated to take the time, but escape from a city in the middle of a desert was not easy. The airport and bus terminal were out. And he’d never make it looking like Jake’s mechanic. He removed his boots, stripped and stepped into the dingy shower stall.
He lathered quickly, paying particular attention to his coal-black hair, grimy from the undersides of cars. He used the towel briskly to erase the last of the desert grit.
His hands took more time. His short nails were easy to clean with the brush and cleanser. But he had to work with care around the quicks and knuckles. He wanted no sign of grease from the station.
As he worked, he thought of the old man. Jake was desert tough, but he’d taken a hard beating. He tried not to think of the three men he’d hit, but that only heightened the images. Sure, they would have killed Jake. But did they deserve crippling blows? Or death?
He slipped into clean clothes, his best shirt and slacks and laid his sport coat on the bed. He dusted off his black dress loafers with a towel, then tightly rolled what little remained and packed it into the carry-all bag. He wrapped the boots in a towel and slipped them inside. The Colt .45 auto-load was the last item tucked inside.
His plan was simple. He was known in Vegas as a poker player who won more often than not. He’d play long enough to hitch a ride out of town with someone leaving. The police would not be looking for him in the casinos.
He stepped once again into the bathroom, reached under the toilet tank, and stripped the heavy tape loose, freeing the money belt. Tightened around his waist, the belt was hidden by the drape of his shirt. As he slipped into his coat and reached for his bag, he saw the first hint of dawn through the dirty, dusty window.
He snapped off the light, walked to the door, opened it, then stopped abruptly. His wide mouth was a grim slash across his face. His wide-set gray eyes were expressionless.
The tall woman was leaning against the trunk of the nearly dead elm, holding her purse in both hands. Dangling rhinestone earrings accented her long neck. He decided the odd bulge in her purse was a pistol.
“Amanda sent me,” she said evenly in a low-pitched contralto. “I’m Josie Botsworth.”
“Why would Tom Fairchild interest either of you?” So far as he could tell, none of his tension showed in his easy, soft bass.
She shook her head. “You’re Brad Ashton and you’re wanted for murder.”
“Bounty hunter?” he asked, watching her long fingers holding the purse. Was it open?
“Sometimes,” she replied, holding his steady gaze. “Not at the moment.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To talk.”
“If I don’t want to?”
“I’ll leave.”
“Police?”
“No.”
He could see little of her eyes, but they were large and bright. Her nose was too big for her narrow face. There was an intriguing tautness about her. He couldn’t tell whether she was ready to run or attack.
“I’ve news from Amanda you should hear,” she said quietly, but emphatically.
“Tell me more about Amanda,” he demanded, probing for identification that can’t be put down on paper.
“You cost her two hundred and fifty thousand dollars when you skipped bail. That’s more than many in the bail bond business can afford.”
“You’re here to get it back?”
“I’m here because she loves you.”
The words jarred, stated so casually in the emptiness of the desert. They startled him; he’d never tried to put Amanda’s feelings for him into words, but those he’d just heard would do nicely.
“Did you know Sgt. Hank Walters was handling your case now?”
“No.” His surprise faded into memories of night patrols and the awesome, pounding throb of choppers overhead.
She stepped away from the tree toward him, stopping three feet away. He could smell her faint perfume and whatever she’d last used on her long black hair. “We’d be more comfortable inside.”
“Yeah.”
As he turned back into the small room, she followed. He dropped the bag on the bed and turned the light back on. He motioned to the worn overstuffed chair by the lamp and settled into the wooden chair by the small table.
When she sat down, he could see her more clearly in the forty watts fighting through the dust-encrusted lampshade. She wore a pale blue vest and matching skirt. Her long-sleeve, Jersey blouse invited attention. Both her face and neck were splattered with large sprawling freckles. He could see, now, her hair was streaked with dark red.
“Satisfied?” she asked, tossing her hair back over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, feeling the blush in his cheeks. He saw the hint of a smile, quickly gone. “How’d you find me?” he asked.
“Amanda knows you play poker. She’s had friends keeping an eye out for you. Someone recognized you early last week in the Golden Nugget. She asked me to come over and keep track of you.”
“You’ve been on me over a week?”
“Every move.”
He hadn’t seen her; he’d had no hint anyone was interested in him. Respect for her skill added another dimension to his image of the tall, competent woman he faced.
“I stopped by Jake’s, hoping to catch you there.” For an instant, distaste clouded her features. “Perhaps we should be talking in my car while driving south out of Nevada. If you’re responsible for what happened, the police will be looking for you.”
“How’s Jake?”
“Sitting up when I left, talking about a god-like blond stranger who saved his life. Bruised ribs seem to be the extent of his injuries.”
“And the other three?”
“Do you care?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. The question was uncalled for,“ she said. “The paramedics said they’d live, but they looked dead or dying to me.”
“You don’t approve?”
“To be fair, perhaps you had to do what you did. But I don’t care for violence, even when it seems to solve problems.”
“Why are you carrying a pistol?”
“That’s a point, isn’t it?” Abruptly she snapped the purse closed and laid it on the table beside her. She clasped her hands and leaned forward on her elbows, shrinking the gap between them. “This business in Los Angeles, wouldn’t it be better to settle it? To put it behind you?”
“Yes,” he replied decisively. Hell. That was all of it. How to arrange it was the constant question. Nothing else could matter until he was free.
“When you were arrested for the murder of your brother-in-law, you ran; you couldn’t cope. The war and that Cong prison camp had ripped you apart.” She paused, searching for a clue in his eyes. “It’s different now. Obviously you’ve regained your health. You may have a good deal of uncertainty and some unanswered questions, but you’ve basically got things together. It’s time to go back.”
He made no reply as he combed his still damp hair back with his fingers.
“Everything is arranged. Sgt. Walters and your attorney took your case back to the District Attorney’s office. It took a week and a meeting with Judge Tofler, but they came up with a deal. I checked; there aren’t any strings.”
“A deal? Strings? What are you talking about?”
“Your attorney promised you’d turn yourself in Sunday. Judge Tofler agreed to a hearing Monday and to reinstate bail. The District Attorney’s office agreed to drop charges for lack of evidence.”
His mouth opened, but there were no words.
“You’ll receive a suspended sentence for skipping out. You’ll be free. Don’t take my word; call Amanda.”
He tugged gently on an ear lobe. “All that evidence just went away?” His eyes called her a liar, but a ray of hope had begun to glimmer, screening him from murky, black fears.
“A lot of people saw you take Gerald’s .45 away from him in the bar. Your ex-wife supported your statement that you went to bring home her drunken brother as a favor. But she claimed she saw you shoot him. You were arrested, spent the night in jail and then arraigned.
“You didn’t ask for help, but Amanda found out somehow, and put up bail. She also asked Jeffery Walden to take your case.
“The day after you left, Lydia changed her story. She claimed she’d been misunderstood, that all she’d meant was the killer looked like you.”
“What if Lydia changes her story again?”
“Weinberg would never allow a jury to believe a story in its third version.” She studied his face, then asked, “Do you still have the .45 you took from Gerald?”
He nodded.
“You’ve friends in Los Angeles,” she said, looking away. “They believe you’re innocent.” She turned back to face him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “If it’s the murder weapon, bury it. If not, turn it over to Sgt. Walters. They never found the gun.” She met his gaze evenly.
“No need to bury it,” he said. He liked the warmth that flooded into her eyes.
“Then we should leave.”
He stood and began pacing, a hard restlessness in every step. He stopped, facing her, tugging gently on his ear. “It’s not that easy, Ms. Botsworth.”
“Josie is friendlier.”
“Josie, then.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “It’s too good to be true.” He interrupted her reply with a slight lift of a hand and continued, “I believe what you said. At least I know you believe what you said.” He moved to the window and gazed out at the desert. The moon had gone down and the sun was beginning to brighten the sky. The morning breeze tossed faint, flickering light off the desert sage. He turned to face her.
“I grew up and trotted off to war with the idea our government was the finest possible. It’s different now. I know it’s the best on this planet, but it’s a crock. We’re being used and abused by a bunch of powerful greedy bastards.” His gray eyes were flat with disgust. “And our highly touted legal system? It flat ass terrifies me. Walden had to wake that judge up twice in twenty minutes. Hell. I don’t mean any more to him than dust on a window sill.” Abruptly he resumed pacing.
“I can see why you might feel that way,” she said, “but it’s not that bad.”
He sat back down in the hard wooden chair, leaning toward her, struggling to still his body and his racing thoughts. He was silent for several moments. “To go back your way, to let them get their hands on me, that would be hard.”
“I know.”
“Even one night in a cell.” He shuddered. “Ever been in jail?”
She shook her head.
He looked away, out the dirty window. He was gone to a place far away, to an ever-present past. “They dropped me into a hole, then covered it over. There was no light, no sound, except from an occasional drop of water seeping through the ground above me.
“I counted five hundred and twenty-three drops before I lost count the first time.” When he turned toward her, his face was pale. “I’ve never believed it was only a month. I just don’t know if I can do it. The night I spent when they arrested me seemed like years.”
“You’re stronger now.”
“Maybe.” He allowed himself to get lost in her dark blue eyes. “If it goes wrong?”
“Walden says if it goes to trial, he’ll win easily.”
But what if something went wrong and Walden didn’t win? The chill in his back translated to an uncontrollable tremor in his hands.
The silence dragged on. Josie leaned back in the chair, waiting. Finally he said, “You’re very convincing.”
“It’s not difficult in this case. You’re an intelligent man; the facts speak for themselves.”
“Yeah.” He stood, slowly. “Maybe we best get going while those facts are real clear in my head.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, searching his face.
He nodded, reaching for his bag. She picked up her purse, turned out the light and walked toward the door. As he opened it for her, he knew she couldn’t see the icy grip of fear pinching his stomach. If she noticed the tremor in his hands, she didn’t comment. He followed her out, closing the door behind him. Stomping ruthlessly on fear, he fell in step beside her.
A black Pontiac Trans Am was parked beside the cottage next to his. “I feel a little better,” he said grinning. “At least I remember the car.”
She smiled, unlocked the door for him, moved to the other side and slid behind the wheel. He tossed his bag into the back seat as the car started with an authoritative roar. She drove carefully, dodging rocks and chuckholes. Once on the highway, the car quickly gathered speed. Two miles later, she turned off in front of an all-night coffee shop.
“I’d feel better if you called Amanda.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke. She looked straight ahead through the windshield.
“No need,” was all he said. He was rewarded with a dazzling smile. The powerful car leapt back onto the highway.
But her smile was undeserved. Right now he needed to get out of Nevada. He’d check with Amanda when he got to LA. If there was anything wrong, he’d split. In a crowd of ten million people, he knew how to lose himself in minutes.
He broke the long silence. “Are you really a bounty hunter?”
“I’m a licensed private investigator. Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time tracking down missing and runaway kids.
“But Amanda’s been good to me. When she needs me, I make sure I’m available.” Although there was little traffic, she kept her eyes on the road.
“Are you good at your work?”
“One of the best.”
“What’s your fee?”
“Three hundred a day plus expenses.”
“Kinda high.”
“I’m worth it.”
He smiled. He felt better for reasons he didn’t understand. The tremor in his hands was gone. It was more than the hope she’d brought. Maybe it was only the woman. Maybe it was because he was going back to sit down once again at the game he’d abandoned three years ago.
He gave up further speculation. His smile was replaced by a hardness in his eyes. He rubbed the slashing white scar on the palm of his hand with his left thumb. “I want to hire you,” he said softly, “to find the real killer.”
“That’s unrealistic.” She looked at him briefly, then back at the highway curving gently to the left. “It’s been three years. Give ten good people a year and they’d probably still come up with nothing. It would cost a fortune with virtually no hope of success.”
“I’ll get the money.”
“But why?”
“Charges dropped can be filed again. To be free, I’ve got to find the killer.”
“You’d be wasting money,” she said emphatically.
“Maybe.”
“I’ll do what’s needed to see that charges are dropped.” She met his hard look for a moment. “But that’s it.”
“Do you ever change your mind?”
“It happens,” she admitted curtly. “But it’s quite unlikely in this case.”
He noticed the set of her chin and the tightness of her lips. He leaned his head back in the seat, wondering what it would take to make it happen.
She handled the car with an easy grace and a minimum of wasted effort. And she was easy to look at. He closed his eyes to ease the brightness of the desert sun. The rumble of the heavy tires on the concrete highway was soothing.
* * *
Brad awoke from a fitful, dream-infested sleep when Josie stopped for gas in Victorville. Her face was drawn, her eyes reddened from strain and lack of sleep. When she got out to fill the tank, he got out and stretched.
“I can manage the rest of the way, if you like,” he said.
“That would be greatly appreciated,” she replied with a tired smile.
As he settled behind the wheel, she reached for an extra coat in the back seat, then used it as a pillow to cuddle against the door. For the rest of the trip, his attention was divided between driving, the woman sleeping beside him, and thoughts of what lay ahead. Should he go through with it? But he knew there was no real choice.
Every patrol he’d ever led was routine, so they’d said as he had prepared to leave. But far too many had become grisly, deadly affairs. Josie Botsworth had not lied. But he knew the true nature of fact. He wondered what would go wrong. He shoved the accelerator down and the car charged more swiftly down the sun-bleached highway.
CHAPTER 2
Sunday
The cell was a few inches over six by eight feet. There was a lowered corner in the smooth concrete floor with a drain. The fluorescent light was even and bright; there were no shadows even behind the white, bright, seatless toilet. The two-foot bunk was the only other feature. There were nine steel bars in the door, with six more on either side. The three-inch bolt was electrically operated from outside the cellblock. He tried to ignore the dull gleam of the bars.
He concentrated on taking slow even breaths, as he lay full length on the bunk. He listened for the crashing splat of a drop of water on damp, gray clay, but he could hear it only in memory. He had covered his eyes with an arm, but it did not dim the brightness much. It was a constant battle to subdue fear. He tried desperately to think of Josie, to keep her image before him as a symbol, as a sufficient reason for being here.
He remembered the way her dress had inched up her thigh as she had dozed while he’d driven across the desert. The traffic of the city had awakened her. Following her directions, he had pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn on Roscoe Boulevard, just east of the San Diego Freeway in the San Fernando Valley.
Inside the hotel, he had discovered Amanda Pothmore had a great deal of confidence in Ms. Botsworth. She’d reserved the room for a week.
The door opened into a nicely appointed sitting area. The bed was beyond the furniture, tucked against the back wall beside a well-appointed roomy bath. To the left was a small kitchenette.
After the quick tour, Josie had opened a cabinet in the kitchen and pointed to a bottle of Wild Turkey. “Compliments of Amanda,” she had said with a smile. “Get some rest. I’ll reserve a table for us downstairs at seven. Amanda will join us; she’s anxious to see you.”
When Brad had nodded approval, Josie had smiled encouragingly, then left. The room had become suddenly empty.
Later he had settled in at the small table at the window with a drink and gazed out at the city. He had never been good at waiting; he wasn’t doing better now. As he had often done, he had tried to focus on things he might do once he was free. But as always, he had become distracted, wondering if it would ever happen.
* * *
Dinner had been macro-managed by Amanda Pothmore. She had dominated all with her cheery confidence. Josie had smiled a lot, but she hadn’t said much, other than to support Amanda. Their certainty that all was well had boosted Brad’s hopes. He had been able to hold up his end of the chatter with a lightness that surprised him.
But when the door to his room had closed behind him, the confidence both had shared with him evaporated. He hadn’t gotten to sleep until nearly dawn.
* * *
Sunday, promptly at eleven as agreed, Amanda had gotten another hug. Walden had said little beyond a succinct review of the case. All three had driven downtown where Brad had formally turned himself in to Sgt. Hank Walters.
It had been a homecoming of sorts. Their handshake had been firm and Hank had seemed uninterested in releasing Brad’s arm. They had grinned a lot, often foolishly. They had talked as long as they could, delaying what must come. Finally Brad had stood; it was time. With a brief nod of acceptance, Hank had risen and led the way downstairs.
He had stayed with Brad throughout the booking procedure, easing the sense of degradation. He had made sure the booking officer used “Mr. Ashton” in the proper way, “Just like with any VIP.” He’d even lingered a long while in the cell.
Brad refused to guess how long he’d been alone or how long he’d be alone. The strong scents of disinfectants and detergents were as grating on his senses as the brightness of the constant lights. Even with his eyes closed, images of black steel bars interrupted scurrying thoughts. He wondered if this was as bad as it would get. What would a year of nights like this one add up to? What if it turned out to be five years? Or fifteen?
He had dozed, on and off. Each time he had come awake, he’d had to take firm control, steadying his breathing to a slow even rate. He had managed to keep the cell walls from closing in. It was progress of sorts, something he’d been unable to do before.
When the cell door clanged open, he awoke with a start to see Hank facing him, smiling. Brad couldn’t remember a more welcome sight. With Hank at his side, he showered, shaved and dressed quickly.
Together they had faced countless terrors of which death was possibly the least; they had never talked of these things. Now they spoke only of girls, cards and who really owed how many smokes. This last matter was of critical importance since neither man smoked.
Side by side, in step, they walked into the courtroom.
CHAPTER 3
Monday
“Judge Tofler, the Vietnam war has marred this nation deeply.” Jeffery Walden was persuasive. As Brad remembered, the judge was nodding; he was making no effort to hide his boredom. Walden straightened his perfectly positioned tie, settled his coat on his shoulders with an elegant shrug and continued, “But what concerns us here is the impact of that war on the individual soldier who fought it.”
Walden was a dynamic force in the courtroom. His slight stature was lost to those listening. Alone at the defense table, Brad loosened his new tie; it felt foreign, restrictive. He wanted to walk out, despite the two armed marshals.
He looked around the room. Most were concerned about other items on the court’s agenda. A few were curious, perhaps drawn by the magic of Walden’s presentation. Sgt. Hank sat behind the rail near the prosecutor’s table. He caught Brad’s glance; whatever concern he felt was carefully hidden behind his nearly black eyes. His coarse blond hair contrasted nicely with his light green sport coat. He pointed his thumb to the ceiling as if to say, “So far, so good,” then turned his attention back to the judge.
Brad knew that Amanda and Josie, seated behind him, were listening carefully. He tried to ignore the trickles of fear, to concentrate on what Walden was saying. He wished the judge would do the same.
“You have his war record before you. The patrols he led were extremely effective. Night after night, Lt. Ashton and a few selected men, vastly outnumbered, fought a deadly guerilla war. The medals and citations he received are ample evidence of his success.”
Weinberg paused, considering his next point. The judge looked up as if suddenly remembering where he was. “As a prisoner of war, Lt. Ashton faced a different kind of war for two years. The record shows he fought these battles equally well, with great personal courage. The record does not show the impact of violence, treachery and torture on the individual man. We must—”
“Mr. Walden,” interrupted Judge Tofler with a sleepy nod, “that will be sufficient for now. Bail is hereby reinstated.” Brad breathed deeply; it felt good. The drama was unfolding according to the script. At least Amanda would get her money back.
“As to the charge of flight to avoid prosecution,” Judge Tofler continued, his sleepy voice barely audible, “does anyone have anything to say?”
He glanced toward the prosecutor’s table and mumbled, “Ninety days. Suspended.” He rapped his gavel lightly and continued, still gazing at the prosecution’s table. “I believe, Mr. Danielson, you have something to say.”
Mr. Danielson rose, trim and neatly groomed in a gray three-piece suit. “I presume you’re referring to an earlier discussion of dropping charges?”
The judge scowled darkly, studying the man suspiciously. He spoke bluntly. “I was not speaking of a discussion, but of an agreement.”
“My office would like additional time to study the matter, your Honor. We’re not prepared to dismiss at this time. We’re not—”
“You’re not what?” interrupted Judge Tofler, totally awake now.
Brad didn’t hear what was said. He was dealing with a personal earthquake of a magnitude immeasurable on any scale. His grip on the arms of his chair turned his knuckles white. The trickles of fear had become waves, thundering and pounding at every part of his being. Everyone had told him he’d be free today. They were wrong. He turned slowly and studied their faces.
Josie was puzzled, her brow furrowed in concentration. Amanda was plainly worried. The judge became increasingly angry as the dialogue continued. Only his attorney, Jeffery Walden, seemed undisturbed. Sgt. Hank leaned well forward, arms on the railing, his dark eyes expressionless as they darted between the judge and prosecutor.
Brad’s attention was drawn to a man he hadn’t noticed earlier, sitting in the back row. It was Lt. Randolph Stratford, the man who’d arrested him originally. His pale blue eyes showed a vitality and youth that offset the impact of rapidly thinning hair. For a moment, their eyes met. Stratford’s smile faded. He rose gracefully and left the courtroom. Brad’s hard look remained fixed on the door, long after the man was gone.
When he noticed Josie was watching him, he determinedly turned his attention back to the judge. Trembling slightly, he wiped fine sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His mind overflowed with the ghosts of hopes and dreams that had died in this room. Despite all effort, images of despair crowded in. He tried to clear his mind, to listen.
“This court will be no part of your games, Mr. Danielson,” the judge thundered. “I’m reducing bail to fifty thousand dollars. And,” he continued angrily, “I will have a complete explanation before the end of the day. This case will be settled next Monday at 9 a.m. We are adjourned.” He rapped his gavel decisively. “Next case!”
Unperturbed, Jeffery Walden gathered up his papers, slipped them into a thin, hand-tooled leather briefcase and turned to speak with Amanda over the rail. When she’d left, Brad said, “What the hell’s this?” His voice showed only a trace of the icy chill in his spine, the surging turmoil in his mind, and his struggle to contain an unwanted anger.
“Try not to worry. It’s one of those things.” Walden took his arm firmly and together they walked out of the courtroom. Josie Botsworth fell into step behind them.
In the hall, they found a quiet corner. Josie said, “I’m truly sorry, Brad.” Her deep blue eyes asked nothing.
“Even the judge was surprised,” Walden pointed out. “I’ll get right to work and have the matter settled in no time. I want you to go back to your hotel, relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll call as soon as I have something.”
Brad took the offered hand, but didn’t release his grip. “What could happen?”
“If we have to, Mr. Ashton, we’ll wait for a trial and blow them out of the water. Can I have my hand back?” he asked, smiling. When his hand was released, he placed it on Brad’s shoulder. “Believe me, this is the kind of case I dream about. We’ll win hands down if they decide to prosecute. Do I look like a loser?”
Brad shook his head. Swayed by the man’s easy confidence, he managed a slight smile.
Jeffery Walden nodded, then strode quickly away. When he moved out of sight, the confidence that had radiated from him was also gone.
“He’s good, Brad,” Josie said. She placed her hand on his forearm and gave it a firm, sympathetic squeeze. “He may be the best criminal lawyer I’ve ever known. I’d bet a lot on his opinion.”
“My life?”
“Aren’t you being overly dramatic?”
He was silent, staring at the marble floor. He felt her hand fall away from his arm and wished she’d left it a while longer. “Innocent people have been convicted,” he said softly.
“The percentage is so small, it’s not worth considering.”
“If I lose, it’ll be a hundred percent for me,” he responded grimly.
“This will work out,” Josie said firmly.
Her sincerity was a tangible thing. Despite his grim mood, she reached him with her quiet certainty. The gray wool skirt accented her hips and thighs. The long-sleeved blouse and tailored bolero jacket softened, but could not hide, the upthrust of her breasts. Part of him wanted to try, right here, to see if he couldn’t span her slender waist with his hands. He wondered how far those delightful freckles extended down her back.
Further speculation was interrupted by a big man, nearly sixty, with a shaggy mop of bushy, gray hair, and thick glasses that reflected light in disconcerting fashion. As if Josie wasn’t there, he shoved himself between them, facing Brad, seeking to intimidate with his greater height and bulk.
“I’m Tuckman,” he said, handing Brad his card. It hung there in the slight space between them. Brad said nothing, nor did he move. He simply examined the man.
Tuckman wore an expensive tailored blue serge suit that didn’t disguise the basic crudeness of the man. His carefully manicured nails failed to soften the look of his huge, heavily calloused hands.
“I got a good proposition for ya.” Tuckman backed away, belatedly trying for politeness and failing again. The card was still extended toward Brad. “Can ya drop by? Soon?”
Brad took the card and glanced at it. It read, “So-Cal Trucking. Willard Tuckman, President.” Brad looked up questioningly at the piercing brown eyes hiding under heavy, bushy eyebrows behind the thick lenses.
“Lydia’s ma was my sister. I’m your uncle sorta, ’cause you married Lydia,” he offered. “Take my word. We gotta meet, you and me. There’s good bucks in it for you.”
Finally Brad nodded acceptance.
With a look at Josie that undressed her, then toyed with her, Tuckman turned abruptly and strode off. Two men, nearly as large as he was, stepped away from the wall, gave Brad a parting look and fell in behind the big man. The trio paid little heed to others walking in the center of the hall.
“Now there’s a winner,” Josie said.
“You’re easy to look at,” Brad commented.
“Oh, I don’t mind the looking; I like it.” She flashed a dazzling smile, unashamedly revealing teeth that had never visited an orthodontist. “I can even handle mental seduction. It’s rape I can do without.”
Amanda joined them with a rush. “Bail’s been arranged, Brad. But why I bother with you I’ll never understand.”
“You love me.” He put one arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently.
“I loved your father,” she snorted, “but you were a brat.” She placed her hand on his and gave a strong squeeze. “Now unhand me. We’ll go to my office.”
Brad knew she was closer to sixty than fifty, but she looked terrific. Age had softened her plain features, added lines and fine wrinkles that reflected years of kindness and love, despite the hard career she’d elected. Her high-styled clothes added an elegance she didn’t need.
She slipped her arm in his and they started toward the stairs. For a long moment, Brad forgot where he was and why he was here. He enjoyed being with this woman. Then he remembered and understood why he felt so cold.
Near the top of the stairs, Sgt. Walters joined them. In a strange way, his light green sport suit looked both new and slept in. His dark eyes were uncharacteristically grim. His rugged, lean features showed little concern but Brad knew otherwise. He’d seen that tight, lazy smile before.
“I talked with the office,” he said. “Nothing new. I’ve got no idea why the fast shuffle.” His easy drawl further disguised his concern. “We’ve been had.” His dark eyes flashed angrily, but briefly.
“Not by the judge,” Josie said.
Hank nodded agreement. “That .45 she gave me,” he said, nodding toward Josie, “it checked out clean. It was Allison’s piece and it wasn’t used to kill him. That alone should have done it.” He placed his slender hands on Brad’s shoulders. “Givin’ advice, it’s not my way, but I’ve got some.” His mellow base was pitched low.
Brad nodded.
“Three years ago you cut out. I mighta done the same. You’ve gotta be pissed and maybe some scared with this latest crap. But it’d be a bad move to split now.”
“Are you listening to the man?” asked Josie gently. Amanda tightened her grip on his arm. Brad said nothing.
Hank broke the silence, his dark eyes searching for a sign from Brad. “Somebody in the DA’s office stiffed us. I can handle it.” He waited with a patience one can only be born with.
Brad nodded, then gripped the hand his friend offered. As Hank walked away, Brad watched his receding figure. Every move spoke grandly of indifference, almost indolence, but Brad knew Sgt. Hank Walters had things to do and meant to get them done. He also knew he wouldn’t want to be the one who got in the way. But the knowing didn’t help. Icy fingers still tied his stomach into a grand knot. It was Amanda who turned him back toward the stairs.
“Who was that man in the back of the courtroom?” asked Josie.
“The fella that left?”
Josie nodded.
“Lt. Stratford. He arrested me. I didn’t much like the look on his face.”
“I could see that,” Josie said. “You looked as though you wanted to beat him into the ground.”
“Might be fun.”
As Brad walked down the stairs with Amanda. Josie fell in step beside them. The elegant marble steps were broad. They also seemed haunted by hopes and dreams that had died here.
* * *
Amanda Pothmore office reflected her heritage. It seemed more an exclusive European salon than the office of a bail bondsman. She maintained a small cubbyhole office near each of the principal jails in the city. But she handled important clients here, largely those who controlled major California money.
The highly polished oak floor was covered with oriental rugs, bold in their design and beautifully executed. Brad remembered Amanda’s desk had been hand tooled out of walnut, more than a hundred years ago. As she seated herself behind it, he settled himself in a dainty looking antique chair that was surprisingly sturdy and comfortable.
“You told Sgt. Walters you’d stay. Will you?” she asked.
“If it weren’t for your money . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Oh, posh,” she interrupted. “That didn’t stop you three years ago. And I’m two hundred thousand dollars better off today. Don’t give it a thought.”
“When I signed those papers, I thought I owned my folk’s home.”
“I know; it wouldn’t have mattered had I known otherwise. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you staying?”
“I feel as if someone’s out there again. And I don’t like steel bars.”
“That’s perfectly natural, don’t you think?”
He rose abruptly and moved to the window. He watched the flurry of cars and people four floors below on Wilshire Boulevard. The traffic sounds were hushed by the heavy windowpane. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the city that had been his home until he had returned to it. Now he wondered if it would ever be home again.
The scream of the siren on a hook-and-ladder rig brought him back. Amanda was standing beside him, also watching the flow of traffic. She looked up at him.
“Nothing’s easy, is it?” he asked.
“Only for fools,” she answered.
He sighed and turned back to his chair, aware of Josie’s close scrutiny. Amanda again sat down behind the desk.
“I’ve never understood why you went to get Gerald,” Amanda commented.
“I’m not sure myself.” He tugged on his ear. “But when Lydia asked, I went. When the jerk pulled that .45, I took it and left. That was enough for me.”
He was silent for several moments. “When Lydia said she’d seen me kill him, I didn’t know what to think. After a night in jail, Judge Tofler didn’t impress me. I couldn’t see a reason to stay, so I left. Maybe she hates me, too, just as her brother did.”
“I don’t think she hates you,” Amanda said. “She’s a user. In college, you were a football hero, a campus favorite. Your status was sufficient for her then. But now she has others to select from. The airline she inherited isn’t much, but it gave her a degree of wealth and power she hadn’t known before. By the time you got back from Vietnam, she didn’t need you anymore. It’s as simple as that.”
“Maybe she did think of you,” Josie said thoughtfully. “She didn’t have to change her statement. You were gone. She could have let the police continue to believe she’d seen you kill Gerald.”
“Brad,” Amanda said. “They didn’t have a good case initially and I don’t see any now.”
Brad nodded. “Neither do I, but the charges weren’t dropped?”
“I have confidence in Jeffery Walden,” Amanda said. “If he’s not worried, you mustn’t be.”
“I can’t seem to stop it, the worry, I mean.”
“Are you tough enough to beat that? Or will you run again?” asked Josie.
“You’ll stop me?” He regretted it immediately. The warmth disappeared from her eyes.
“No. It saddens me to think of you running for the rest of your life. Particularly when there’s no need. I know you don’t think much of Judge Tofler, but he did listen. I think he gave a great deal because of your past. Perhaps he even understood. But if you run again, I don’t think any judge will be sympathetic.”
When the phone rang, Amanda picked it up. “Ms. Pothmore,” she said.
She listened carefully for several minutes. “Thank you so much, Mr. Walden.”
When she hung up, Brad leaned forward in his chair. “It seems Lt. Stratford asked the District Attorney’s office to reconsider before dropping charges,” Amanda said. “I gather he believes you’re guilty. But Mr. Walden assured me charges will be dropped next Monday.”
“What else?” Brad demanded.
Amanda hesitated. “Lt. Stratford did claim there would be new evidence. But that’s what he’d have to say to get them to break their agreement with Judge Tofler.”
Leaning back in her chair, Josie said, “I wonder if Brad knows something we don’t.”
“What’s that mean?” he asked with a bit of snap.
“Only that clients don’t always tell me the whole story. Perhaps you’re holding something back. If the police could come up with anything at it, it could make things more difficult for you.”
“Brad,” Amanda said. “If you’ve even an idea, let’s hear it, and give Mr. Walters an opportunity to defend against it.”
“There was trouble between us.” There was a lot that could be told about Gerald Allison. “If they’ve anything new, it’ll be more of the same.”
Amanda seemed mollified, but Josie remained skeptical. He stood up. “Guess I’ll go see Tuckman.”
“Lydia’s uncle?” Amanda asked.
“That’s what he said.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Be careful. He plays rough.”
“You sound like a mother.”
“Perhaps, but what I said is true. He is a dangerous man.”
“Ok, Mom. I’ll be good.”
“Humph,” Amanda snorted, but she was smiling.
When he turned toward the door, Josie asked, “And then what?”
“Back to the hotel, I guess.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Josie rose and faced him. “I know what’s on your mind, and I want it out in the open where everyone can see it.”
“Expect I’ll try to find a killer. Will you help?” His face was expressionless now; his arms hung loosely at his sides.
“No. This is not the time.”
“Then I’ll go it alone.”
“The gifted amateur, right? All you’ll accomplish is to muddy the water. This isn’t some game; this is the real thing. Suppose, with damn fool luck, you do stumble on a killer. He or she will be forced to kill you, too.”
“Maybe. And maybe I can only muddy the water, but the pros screwed up. At least somebody did. Maybe it was you.”
“Maybe I what?”
“Screwed up.”
Her dark blue eyes flashed dangerously for an instant, then changed. Brad couldn’t tell what it meant, and then he didn’t care. “Lt. Stratford caught us all with our pants down. Seems to me someone on our team should have seen this coming.”
In response, Josie moved to the window.
“Brad, you’re being terribly unfair,” Amanda said. “Josie is one of the very best. Jeffery Walden is tops. And Hank Walters is clearly a very competent man. None of us had a hint of this. I think an apology is in order.”
“Expect so,” he said, but the anger was too close; the words wouldn’t come. He reached across the desk and gently clasped both her hands in his. “Any point in thanking you?”
“Posh,” she replied. “But,” she added impishly, “you could say something to Josie.”
He turned and looked at the tall slender figure silhouetted against the window. “Josie,” he began dutifully. “I . . .”
“Go jump!”
He turned to the door and left.
* * *
When the door had closed behind Brad, Amanda said, “I’m surprised at you, Josie. You don’t usually allow people to upset you.”
Turning from the window, Josie replied, “I’m surprised myself.” She sat down. Long fingers sought to make curls in her hair. She grinned ruefully. “Frankly I’m angry, and I can’t tell whether with myself or with him.”
“He’s an attractive man,” Amanda commented innocently. “All that wild, tanned, weathered look. And did you notice his eyes? He’s been too long alone, I think.”
“Are you suggesting I do something about that?” Josie demanded.
“Of course not, dear. Still he is cuddlesome, don’t you think?”
“Like a grisly bear, perhaps, and many times more dangerous. His war record makes this clear. If there’s any doubt, I saw the carnage he created in that filling station in Las Vegas. He nearly killed three men in a matter of seconds.”
Amanda seemed not to have heard. “I knew his mother, you know. And his father.” She smiled, remembering. “When she died, Brad was only six. He had always been a quiet boy. After that, he seldom said a word.
“For the longest time, I hoped Big Red Ashton would marry me, but it never happened. So now I poke and pry into Brad’s life and think of all manner of things I wish had been.” When she looked out the window, there was a touch of sadness written in her eyes, but acceptance dominated.
“And that means, I suppose,” Josie said with a wry smile, “you want me to babysit this blundering beast until next Monday’s hearing.”
“He’s not any kind of a beast and you know it,” Amanda snapped, all business again. “He’s a man like any other. He’s had a difficult time and needs our help.” She opened the second drawer of the desk, extracted her checkbook, wrote a check for $3000 and handed it to Josie. “You’ll agree, I hope, that’s a fine fee for a week of babysitting.”
“I can’t take your money. What would I do with him? Take him to the zoo? Or to Marineland?” She dropped the check to the desk.
“Brad has never asked me for help. It’s just not in him. But I’ve never failed him. I don’t intend to now. I thought we had it all arranged. I’ve the strangest feeling about all this, and it isn’t a good one.
“I want you to look after him as best you can. Brad is precious to me. He’s all I have left of his father.”
Josie sighed. “All right. I’ll do what I can.” She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “But I don’t need the check.”
“Oh posh,” Amanda snapped. “I’m extremely grateful for what you did in Las Vegas. And I’m flattered you wouldn’t even take expenses. This, however, is something quite different.
“We were all going to be winners. Now I’m not so sure. And as much as I hate to admit it, you’re absolutely correct. Brad has a capacity for violence that worries me. It could be very dangerous for you.” A twinkle flickered in her eyes, accented with a faint smile. “Maybe there’s more here than even you can handle.”
Josie ignored the comment. “What am I to do if he decides to go hunting for a killer? You know what nonsense that is.”
“Of course you’re right, dear.” Amanda closed her eyes, thinking. When she opened them, they were clear, bright and determined. “Do as you think best. However, I’ll pay costs, if you decide to work with him.
“Brad grew up hunting with his father. They were both good at it. And it sounds as if Brad did well in Vietnam. He might surprise you.”
“Now you do sound like his mother, all pride and nonsense. There’s a difference between knocking over an enemy supply depot and finding a big city killer.”
“You’d be a better judge than I,” she replied demurely. “But if he does go hunting, and I suspect he will, it would be nice if he had professional help, don’t you think?”
“You’re impossible. Do you ever lose?”
“Never.”
“All right. I’ve a few things that must be cleared up, then I’ll get on it, but there’s a condition.” Amanda settled in for serious debate. “I won’t take the check.”
In the end, Josie left with the check. She managed a last word of sorts by tearing it into little pieces and dropping it into the ashtray by the elevator. Waiting, her thoughts strayed from the task ahead.
Sure. Any girl would like to run her fingers through that jet-black mane of hair, then down across that broad powerful chest. But there’s a price tag here and no discounts are offered.
By the time she reached her car, she knew she was disappointed; she wanted Brad’s good opinion more than she had realized. She remembered the rock hardness of his forearm when she’d squeezed it. She sighed as she opened the car door. The price was clearly marked and it was much too high. There was no way she could afford more than a professional relationship with Brad Ashton.
* * *
Sgt. Hank Walters could tell it was going to continue to be one of those days. Even his toes itched. What in the livin’ hell is that goddamn DA doin’ now? It had taken over two years to get his hands on Brad Ashton’s case file, two months more to set up a deal, and only a couple of seconds for Danielson to blow it out of the water. Screw me, you shitheads, and it’ll be the ultimate fuck. Harsh feelings were buried deep beneath his outward calm, as he walked up the steps toward the District Attorney’s offices.
Inside the building, he took the elevator to the fourth floor. You bastards, he thought. You deal every day. Now you mess with me and Ashton. It had been a hard lesson. Bust your ass, bleed a little or a lot, then watch them turned loose with deals. He’d tried to learn not to care, but with little success. He did his job, handed them good cases, then tried to let go. But this is different, fuckheads. There’s no way I’m gonna lose this one. He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it silently behind him, smiling pleasantly at the receptionist.
* * *
Willard Tuckman sat unmoving behind the large scarred desk. His bushy gray eyebrows overlapped the frames of his glasses. Light reflecting off the thick lenses gave him a sinister look. His huge hand dwarfed the yellow pencil and the paper cluttered with doodles. I handled that boy wrong, he thought. I surely did.
It was only after finessing a deal that he could be ruthlessly honest with himself. He ain’t no kinda mamma’s boy like Lydia said. But he knew it didn’t matter; he’d figure a way. He always did, didn’t he?
And if Ashton couldn’t see the light, well, there were other ways. But it’s a bunch more fun to deal. He smiled broadly. He knew it was not a nice smile, not one to use when dealing.
* * *
Another man, finishing his late lunch, watched the few remaining diners, but he was thinking only of Brad Ashton. He knew the man was no one special. It occurred to him no one had ever been special to him. That Ashton was back was merely inconvenient. It added to the risk, and he didn’t like risk. He chuckled aloud at this thought; he knew full well he was always at risk. A little more was virtually meaningless.
Besides, he had the edge, those special abilities, those finely tuned instincts that kept him well ahead of the others. He toyed with the red ruby ring on his finger, thinking of a next move. He wondered idly, with no real concern either way, if Ashton would run again. Maybe it would be best if he stayed. It might be safer to kill him; it would minimize the risks.
CHAPTER 4
Monday Afternoon
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