Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir) (18 page)

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"Your fee?"

Robbie almost blushed. "Right, right ... Actually, I could
use the cash, but I figure there'll be more where this one
came from. So let's just call this one `pro bono.' How's that
sound?"

She smiled. "Come here." Robbie moved to her and bent
down. With one hand, she pulled his face to hers and lightly
kissed him on the cheek. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back."

Terry opened the door for Robbie as he headed to his
car.

Robbie spent the afternoon getting ready for his midnight
rendezvous with Madison. At the Ralph's on Glenneyre, he bought a recycled canvas grocery bag, six bars of Zest soap, a
Coke Zero, and a deli sandwich.

Back in town, he turned off Broadway and headed up the
steep hill on Acacia, then a hard right on High Drive and another right onto Poplar. He followed it to Harold Drive at the
turnaround next to the access road entrance leading down to
the LBPD shooting range. Parking on Harold, Robbie walked
over to the heavy chain hanging across the access road entrance and read the sign.

No Trespassing. Authorized Vehicles Only. Unauthorized
vehicles and pedestrians subject to prosecution and fine:
joggers, hikers, walkers, skateboarders, bicyclists. Laguna
Beach Police Department. Do Not Enter.

He looked across the galley and spotted the fire road and
the overlook. Maybe a quarter of a mile down this side past
the range and up the other side. Chaparral and scrub brush
all around. Not much cover, but all he really needed was the
dark later on.

Surveying the turnaround, he could see maybe a half-dozen
houses. No signs of life. He could hear a blues band playing
on the festival grounds below. And he knew there'd be another Pageant performance that night. Plenty of distractions.
He went back and sat in the Corolla and read through the
Madison file. He imagined the look on the guy's face when a
stranger wearing a ski mask got the drop on him. Sweet.

Robbie drank his soda, took a few bites of his sandwich,
unwrapped five of the bars of Zest, and tied them into the
canvas bag. It had a nice heft. Who needs a sap when you've got
soap? You could break a rib and barely leave a bruise.

It was already starting to get dark. Robbie drove around the neighborhood, then back down to PCH. He was suddenly
aware of how pathetic the Toyota looked as he cruised through
town. For now, it was all he could afford, but as soon as he was
flush again, he'd get something less conspicuous and a whole
lot more reliable.

At a quarter to 9, he pulled back up to the turnaround
near the entrance to the shooting range. In the canyon below,
the Pageant was underway. The production shops next to the
Irvine Bowl blocked his view of the theater, but Robbie could
hear the orchestra and the audience applauding the tableaux
vivants onstage.

The curtain fell on Leonardo da Vinci's The Last Supper, the traditional Pageant finale, just before 10:30. Time to
go. Grabbing the soap bag, he loped across the turnaround,
stepped over the chain across the entrance to the access road,
and disappeared. He crossed the dark, empty shooting range
five minutes later, reached the bottom of the ravine five minutes after that, and began the slippery ascent up the shadowy
hillside. Footing was surprisingly treacherous, but twenty minutes later, he stepped out onto the fire road. Accustomed to
the darkness by now, he located the viewpoint and crouched
nearby behind a large chaparral.

As he sat there, he went over in his mind the notes he'd
been studying: Madison's family and the little, intimate details that would let the jerk know just how vulnerable he was.
Robbie's adrenaline was pumping. He was out of practice. By
now, Laguna Canyon Road was full of cars heading home.
The festival was shutting down for the night, and the maintenance crew in the Irvine Bowl was almost through cleaning
up after the Pageant.

Suddenly, Robbie tensed. He'd heard something. But
what? He listened again, then laughed to himself at his ner vousness. He checked his watch. Three minutes to midnight.
He closed his eyes and strained to hear any activity below.

Five minutes later, he heard footsteps coming up the rutted dirt road. It had to be Madison ... But wait. Something
was wrong. He could make out more than one voice. Madison
wasn't alone. Michele hadn't said anything about this. The
voices were getting closer. In another minute, two shadowy
figures came over the crest and meandered toward the overlook. Robbie adjusted his position to get a better view. They
were walking arm in arm, whispering to one another. It was
a man and a woman! The man seemed to have a parcel under one arm. As Robbie watched, the man shook the bag and
flipped it out. It was a blanket. Spreading it in the darkened
clearing, he turned to embrace the woman. Robbie strained
to make out their hushed whispers. Could this just be a coincidence? A couple looking for a place to make out at the exact wrong place and time? Robbie cursed his luck. Obviously,
they'd scare off Madison. But there was nothing he could do
except wait them out.

As Robbie crouched there, helpless, he heard the couple
start to undress one another. In the dark, they giggled at their
clumsiness. No foreplay, no chit-chat. In another minute, they
were groping each other while trying to find a comfortable
position on the hard earth. Soon enough, however, discomfort gave way to passion. Amid sighs and gasps, he heard the
woman emit a muted squeal.

Robbie sat up and peered down at the shadowy figures.
Even in the dark, he was sure he recognized the guy. There
was no mistaking his clumsy movements and his labored,
rheumy breathing. Jeff.

In that same instant, he felt a cold, metallic object press
into the back of his neck. He froze as he realized what it was. The barrel of a handgun. Jeff had always carried one, but
Robbie refused to have anything to do with them. He wasn't
afraid of them. He just knew there was no hope for a successful negotiation once the guns come out.

Robbie tried ever so gingerly to turn his head in hopes
of glimpsing who was behind him. He winced as the barrel
jabbed into the base of his skull. The couple, now fully engaged, were oblivious.

Responding to the prodding of the barrel, Robbie slowly
got to his feet. He felt the figure moving around to stand beside
him. Then, in a single motion, the person lifted another pistol
in his other hand. Robbie could make out the silhouette of an
imposing silencer attached to the barrel of the other weapon.
Before Robbie could react, the pistol emitted four dull bursts,
and, after two labored gasps, the couple fell silent.

What the fuck was going on?! Robbie turned to look at
the assassin, who now leveled the other pistol directly against
his forehead. It was too dark to make out a face.

"Nice shooting," said a strangely familiar voice. After a
second, Robbie realized where he'd heard it before.

"Terry?" Silence. "What the-?"

His voice was flat and calm. "You shouldn't have tried
to blackmail Jeff about his thing with that cute little jewelry
maker. You thought if you caught them in the act, they'd pay
up. Too bad Jeff never goes anywhere without his piece." Terry
flicked the barrel of the smaller pistol as he centered it on
Robbie's chest. "And he managed to shoot you before you finished them off ... Poor Michele."

"Who the fuck are you?" Robbie could barely hear his
voice over the pounding in his chest.

"I'm the new you, motherfucker ..."

Robbie started to lean back, then swung the bag of soap bars with all his might toward Terry's gun hand. In the blackness, the tinny explosions, like leftover fireworks-two quick
bursts followed after about ten seconds by a third-echoed
weakly across the canyon.

Michele opened the front door for Terry. She was barefoot,
wearing a sheer silk nightshirt. In the hallway behind her,
the removable cast was leaned up against the wheelchair.
"Don't tell me you forgot your key again," she said as the
door swung inward. In the next instant, she did her best to
mask her surprise.

Robbie reached out an arm and leaned heavily against the
door frame. In his other hand, he held Jeff's pistol. "Terry's
not coming home."

Michele's mind was racing and all she could think to say
was, "You're hurt."

"I'll live." Robbie pointed the gun at her. As she backed
away, he stepped through the door, gritting his teeth, willing
himself through the pain. Backing her down the hall, Robbie glanced at the boot cast and wheelchair. "Your knee's
better."

"Robbie-"

"Just shut up, Michele ... I might have expected something like this from Jeff. But I always thought you-"

"You don't know what it's been like."

"I guess not."

"Look, Robbie, we can get through this. We can make this
work for both of us. But we've got to get you to-"

"No, we don't."

"You've lost a lot of blood." They were in the living room
now. Low lights. Through the panoramic windows, the faint
glow of the town below. She tried to scan the room for pos sible weapons as Robbie moved closer, the gun still leveled
at her.

"You had it all figured out. Get rid of Jeff and me ... clean
slate."

"Robbie, it's just you and me now. We could be in Mexico
before dawn."

"Right." His attempt at sarcasm hurt like hell.

"I'm worried about you."

"Wouldn't want bloodstains on your furniture."

"Robbie."

"You taught me that it's never personal. Well ... let me
tell you . . ." He lifted his blood-soaked hand from his abdomen and held it out toward her. "This feels personal."

"Let me get something."

"No. It ends here. But first I'm gonna need every cent
you've got."

"Of course. It's in the safe." She turned and pointed toward the bedroom hall. When he nodded, she moved in that
direction.

"It's in here," Michele said, indicating a walk-in closet in
the master bedroom. Pushing back clothes hanging on a rack,
she revealed a wall safe. She flicked on an overhead light and
punched at the safe's keypad. "We're going to get through
this." She looked back at Robbie, who watched her through
heavy-lidded eyes, then opened the safe and reached in. "You
won't be sorry."

Turning, she pulled out a.22 handgun and swung it toward
Robbie. But he was ready, firing three quick bursts at pointblank range, hitting Michele twice in the chest and once in
the neck. Her pistol fired wildly, the bullet lodging in a chest
of drawers to Robbie's right. She fell to the carpet in front
of him. Robbie looked down at her for a moment, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. He noticed blood from his abdomen was now staining his pants leg and overflowing from his
sock down his shoe and onto the carpet. Turning, he walked
slowly from the room.

At the toll plaza for the 133 North, Robbie turned on the
dome light in the Corolla and fumbled in his pocket for the
exact change. As he inspected a handful of coins, he looked
down at his gut and let out a half-laugh, half-howl. You forget
who you are, you forget what you believe in, but you still remember
to pay your toll! Reaching up, he flicked off the dome light and
sat there, breathing slowly, deliberately, trying to ignore the
wet, hot black that used to be his midsection. Rolling down
the window, he leaned out and flung the handful of change
toward the collection bin. It was an awkward toss. The coins
clattered to the pavement and his elbow banged against the
windowsill. The effort was too much. Robbie leaned back. He
wanted his eyes to work, to keep on working. But they were
letting him down. The last thing he remembered was reaching
over to turn off the Corolla's ignition. The old car was grateful
for the rest.