Night man, p.18
Night Man, page 18
Her eyes widen. “I haven’t slept with anyone, if that’s what you mean. I would never do that.” She looks away. “Some of the girls, I think they might. But not me. No way.” She looks at me again. “I’ll let them put an arm around me, hold my hand, kiss me on the cheek, but that’s it. They know I won’t do more. They’re told that ahead of time.”
“Do they ever push for more?”
A whisper. “Sometimes.”
I’m the one who needs a moment now, so I can rein in my anger. “What did you think when they told you what the job really was?”
“I was shocked. But then they told me how much I would make.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars a night, plus any tips the members give me. I still wasn’t sure, though. That’s when the girls said Mr. Linderhoff’s rule is that I’d never have to do anything I didn’t want to do. They then convinced me to give it a try at least once. There were a few members coming in that evening. A small group. The girls would be there the whole time to make sure I was okay.”
“So you tried it.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I liked it. It was like getting paid to go to a party. The man I was assigned gave me three hundred dollars. That was on top of the five hundred Mr. Linderhoff gave me on the drive back to my car. That was more money than I made in a month at the drugstore.”
“And you kept going back.”
A nod.
“You’ve been going since the summer and everything’s been fine?”
A tentative nod this time.
“Until last night,” I say.
“That was my fault. It was my first night back since…” She falls silent.
“Since Marissa died.”
Her brow narrows. “You know about Marissa?”
“I know she was your friend. I know she was killed by a hit-and-run driver less than two weeks ago.”
“Yeah.” She looks at her lap. “It hit me hard, that’s all.”
“Why did you go back so soon?”
“I thought I was ready. Mr. Linderhoff promised me double pay if I did.”
“Did the member you were assigned get a little friendlier than you wanted?”
“He tried to…touch me.” Her hand unconsciously moves to her left breast. “I should have just told him no, and it would have been fine. But…”
“But it pushed you over the edge.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re taking a couple weeks off.”
“I don’t think I can ever go back.”
There’s something she’s not telling me, but I have a pretty good idea what it is. As painful as this might be for her, it’s time to root it out. “Marissa was with you at the fair when you talked to Mr. Linderhoff, wasn’t she?”
Fara, who has been looking down at her hands, rubbing a thumb across her fingertips, freezes.
“When she quit her job at McDonald’s this summer, that was because you got her a job at the Club, wasn’t it?”
She takes a swallow, but otherwise remains still.
“Is that why she broke up with Luke? He found out and didn’t want her going there anymore?”
“He never knew,” she whispers.
Another connection snaps into place in my mind, and suddenly almost everything becomes clearer.
“You said Mr. Linderhoff drove you to the Club your first night. Did you drive yourself after that?”
“No. I’m always picked up.”
“By Mr. Linderhoff?”
“No. He only did it that one time.”
“And the other girls? They’re all picked up, too?”
A nod.
“By Adam Nyland, right? Or one of his friends?”
She nods. “Toby and Kirk.”
“There’s a third guy, too.”
She shrugs. “Those are the only ones who drive us.”
“Adam usually drove Marissa, didn’t he?”
“Every time.”
“Were they in a relationship?”
“Like boyfriend and girlfriend? No. Never.”
A definitive answer, with no hint of cover-up.
“But Luke thought they were more, didn’t he? That’s why Marissa broke it off with him.”
“He was getting insanely jealous.”
“Because he saw her getting rides from Adam?”
“Yeah, that. But Marissa would also sometimes spend time with Adam during the day. I think Luke found out about that, and it sent him over the edge.”
“Why was she hanging out with Adam outside of work?”
“She liked him, as a friend, I mean.”
“She was helping him, wasn’t she? That’s why he’s going to community college.”
“You know about that, too?”
I ignore her question. “Do you think either Luke or Adam was involved in the accident that killed Marissa?”
“No way.” From her tone, I can tell she’s given this serious thought. “They both cared about her too much.”
“You did say Luke was insanely jealous.”
“Yeah, but he would never do anything to physically hurt her.”
“I’ve seen jealousy make people do crazy things.”
“I’m sure he didn’t do it. Besides, he was working when it happened.”
Our conversation is getting to her. I want to let her go, but I can’t just yet. I open my phone and bring up a photo of the man who was her companion the night before and turn the screen toward her.
“Was this the club member you had problems with last night?”
“Oh, my god. That picture’s from inside.”
“Fara, please.”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hank.”
“Hank what?”
“We aren’t given real names. Hank is just a nickname.”
“You don’t know the names of any of the members?”
“Only Mr. Linderhoff and Chief Sparks. Oh, and Mr. Collins. He’s from Jenson, too, and sometimes comes in. But that’s it.”
“Have you seen any of the other members around town?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Do you know what any of them do for a living?”
“They never talk about that stuff, and we’re not supposed to ask.”
I take a moment, acting like I’m mulling that over, then I say, “You’re eighteen but Marissa wasn’t. Wasn’t that a problem for her working at the Club?”
“Mr. Linderhoff didn’t care. He just said if anyone asked, she was to say she was eighteen. I think…I think he kind of liked her.”
I’m not surprised by this, but I am further infuriated. To put it in Jar’s terms, Linderhoff is not a good man.
I keep my feelings from showing on my face, however, and instead smile and say, “Okay. I think that’s it for now.”
“For now?”
“I may need to talk to you again. I assume you’ll be willing to do that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do.”
Her expression says she doesn’t believe me. “Do you want my cell number?”
“I already have it.”
She’s not shocked by this. “Then I can go?”
“One last thing. You are not to talk to anyone about our conversation or even the fact that we have talked. I mean your friends, your teachers, your parents, and especially not Mr. Linderhoff.”
“Why not?”
“We are at a critical point in our investigation. By telling anyone about our meeting, you could be putting them in grave danger.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
“Good. And so that we’re clear, lying to the FBI is a crime. If you break your promise, you can be arrested and spend up to five years in jail.”
“I swear. I won’t. I don’t want anyone to know.”
I want to reach over and give her arm a reassuring squeeze, but I know it’s not the right move. I settle for a kind smile. “You’ve done the right thing.”
“Are you going to arrest them?”
I hold her gaze for a moment before I open the door. “Thank you again for your time.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I head back to Brighton for my meeting with Chuck Owens, feeling dirty. I’m sure Fara and my conversation hasn’t left her feeling great, either, and I doubt she’ll be getting much sleep until I finish my mission.
You had no choice, Liz says.
“I know. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
As I exit the interstate and head toward the Larkin Professional Center, I realize I might already have one of the missing pieces to the puzzle. Jar said she sent me an email regarding the IDs of some of the men from the Club. I’m hoping there’s a connection between them that will give me an idea what the Club is all about. This may not be the crucial bit of information I need to bring everything down, but you never know how something might help. I’ll take a look at Jar’s email after my meeting.
It’s almost ten p.m. when I pull into the business park. There are only a few units with lights still on. I pull into the lane where Owens’s shop is located, and stop behind a pickup truck parked in front of his place that wasn’t there before. The vehicle has that beat-up look of a truck that gets a lot of use, and I note a bumper sticker on the back that reads OWENS CONSTRUCTION with a phone number printed beneath it. Owens either left and came back, or moved his vehicle so he could leave as soon as our meeting finishes. Though I guess one of his employees could have stopped by in the meantime.
The big roll-up door is closed, while the smaller door is propped open a few inches. I can hear music coming from inside, low, maybe jazz or swing. Before I go in, I grab a few of the bugs from my bag. Sure, Owens said he wants to talk to me, but I’m not going to count on him being truthful. Planting a bug that will allow me to eavesdrop on him later is a smart play.
I knock twice on the door and push it open. “Mr. Owens?” I step over the threshold and walk into the room. “It’s Agent Wall—”
I spot him at the other end of the room, but he’s not going to be telling me anything. He’s not going to be telling anyone anything ever again.
Owens is slumped against the wall, his legs stretched out on the floor in front of him. His eyes are half open, staring at me but not seeing me. The cause of death is whatever created the hole in his chest, heart high. It’s surrounded by a blood-soaked stain on his shirt.
Crap.
I listen for any noise that indicates I’m not alone in here. A quiet breath, the brush of cloth against cloth, anything. But there’s only the music.
A scan of the room reveals no signs of other violence, no overturned furniture, no spilled paint, nothing. There’s just the one body against the wall. Everything else looks exactly as it did when I was here earlier.
I don’t like this.
Not one bit.
Is it a coincidence Owens was killed right before a planned meeting with me?
Right. Sure. That’s it. And there are fairies flying around granting wishes, and leprechauns who will give you their pot of gold if you catch them.
No, of course it’s not a coincidence.
Owens called me.
He called me because he had something he wanted to share, something others would rather he didn’t. If he was being monitored, and at this point I’m inclined to believe he was, then those doing the monitoring would have known about the call. And they would have done something to keep him quiet.
And just so I’m clear, by they I mean Linderhoff and his friends.
If I were them, in addition to silencing Owens, I would want to see who he’s meeting with. Which means someone likely watched me walk in. The question is, will he or she let me walk out again and leave? Or does the assassin have orders to terminate me, too?
Whichever the case, I need to assume the plan is not to let me leave alive.
I open my tracking app to see if Adam’s Camaro or Linderhoff’s Lexus or any of the other cars from the Club are in the vicinity. The Camaro is parked outside a pizza place in Jenson, and all the Lexuses (Lexi?) are at the Club. Except one—a GS F from the Club’s fleet that’s parked directly behind the building.
Unfortunately for me, my gun is in the bag in the Impala.
I step over to the door and flick the light switch off, plunging the unit into darkness.
If I were the shooter, I’d be set up on the roof across the way, the same roof from where I spied on this place when Adam and his friends were trashing it. If I’m not mistaken, Owens’s truck is parked close enough to the building to block at least the bottom quarter of this unit’s doorway from the view of anyone over there. Unless that person is standing. But doing that would expose the potential shooter, so whoever’s up there is likely keeping a lower profile.
I lie down on the floor and tease the door open half an inch. I’m right about the truck, and the angle, too. Also, I don’t see any silhouettes standing on the opposite roof.
I take a deep breath and push the door all the way open. As soon as it’s out of my way, I crawl quickly over to the truck. Once there, I head toward the back end in a crouch, and when I reach the rear fender, I sprint across the short gap to the Impala.
The moment I’m shielded by my rental, I hear a muffled bang, followed immediately by the sound of a bullet slamming into the asphalt where I was a second before.
Apparently the answer is yes. Someone has been waiting for me.
I open the Impala’s back door and pull out my gear bag. As I do, I glance toward the opposite roof and see a silhouette rising. I move away from the car’s door just as a bullet slams through a window on the other side and embeds itself in the rear seat. Good thing I took the optional insurance, though I doubt it was meant to pay for this kind of damage.
I retrieve my gun but don’t attach the suppressor because the shooter is far enough away that the device would affect my accuracy. Better to live with whatever problems the noise brings.
I sneak back to the car’s open door. The shooter is still standing there, sweeping a gun back and forth. Though I can’t see the person’s face, the shape is of a man, and a vaguely familiar one at that. It’s not Linderhoff. He’s got more meat on him than whoever this is.
As much as I’m not a fan of people who shoot at me, I don’t want to kill him. That’s a promise I made Liz when we started doing these little excursions. I will not kill anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. Granted, this is right on the line of that but hasn’t quite fulfilled the criteria.
I aim at the roofline, right below his feet. It’ll damage the building but better that than sending an errant bullet flying into the surrounding neighborhood. When I pull the trigger, the shot booms through the interior of the Impala and sails through the previously undamaged window on the driver’s side.
The shadow jerks away from the roof’s edge and starts running toward the back of the building, where his car is parked.
I jump into the Impala, fire up the engine, and reverse out of the gap. As I clear the building, I glance to the side and see two people peeking out from the next gap down, undoubtedly drawn by the gunfire.
Too bad if either of them takes note of my license number and reports it; it will only lead the police to a dead end. (This is why you put in the prep work, boys and girls. It can save your ass.)
I drop the transmission into drive, race around the end of the last wing, and down the side with the Dumpsters. When I round the back corner of the complex, I’m just in time to see the gray Lexus speeding away at the other end.
Though I can track it on my phone, that won’t tell me who’s driving the car. And I want to know who that is.
I follow the vehicle onto the main street toward the interstate. If I had the Versa, the Lexus would be long gone already, but in the Impala I’m able to close ground a little. This clearly agitates the shooter, as he suddenly takes a turn into a quiet neighborhood about four blocks before the freeway.
I follow.
Nate, slow down.
I stay on him for a block. Then a block and a half.
Slow down.
I grip the steering wheel, ready to take whatever turn I need to.
Nate.
With a shout of frustration, I let up on the accelerator.
Liz is right. I can’t chase the shooter through an area like this. Even though it’s late evening, it’s still early enough for people to be out and about. The last thing this area needs is another pedestrian killed by a car.
I pull to the curb, give myself a moment to calm down, and send Anny a text.
Still in a movie?
She responds right away.
Nope. Having a drink at Dave and Buster’s and watching the Dodgers.
My reply.
I’ll be right there.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I don’t go inside the restaurant. The less Anny is seen with me—whether in my current guise or not—the better.
While I’m waiting for her to come out, I carefully remove what remains of the two busted windows from their doors. I break off the sections of each that were hit in the (brief) shoot-out and put these pieces in my pocket to throw away later. After that, I dig out the bullet from the back cushion, and make sure the batting looks as undamaged as possible. Then I rip the leather around the entry point so that it’s larger and no longer resembles a bullet hole. It’s not the way I usually like to return rental cars, but it’s better than leaving a trail that might be connected to the events at the Larkin Professional Center.
Anny follows me back to Hertz, which at this hour is closed. I park the Impala on the street a block away, and under the driver’s seat, I hide an envelope containing the keys and a thousand dollars from the emergency stash in my gear bag. (Sure, the insurance will take care of the damage. The cash is more of a sorry-for-the-inconvenience tip.)
When we get back to the hotel, Anny helps me take off my makeup.
“Did it work?” she asks, after the last of Agent Wallack is gone.
“Perfectly.”
“Glad to hear it. I always want my customers happy.”
