The Zen Man (27 page)

She told me and I entered it, hit the Search button. After a moment, the results displayed.

I gave a low whistle. “You found a missing link.”

She got up, leaned against me as she read the screen. “Vehicle is registered to Hughes Dynamic Investments.” She looked at me. “It’s…”

“Yeah, that older dude on the message when you hit redial at Wicked’s place. Whose investment files were on Walt’s computer.” I leaned back, excited at the discovery. “First thing in the morning, I’ll have Garrett go to the address on the vehicle registration for Hughes Dynamic Investments, verify the Land Rover’s there.”

“And if it is?”

“Tomorrow night, I GPS it.”

Her eyes widened. “Right! We’re gonna GPS that bastard, nail his ass to the fuckin’ wall.”

“I love it when you talk like a gunnery sergeant. Now, let’s get you back into your chair with a nice, big glass of water while I make dinner.”

I’d wait until tomorrow to explain, again, that in our PI game, there was no longer a
we
.

“I mean, just because you’re a musician doesn’t mean all your ideas are about music. So every once in a while I get an idea about plumbing, I get an idea about city government, and they come the way they come.”
—Jerry Garcia

T
he next morning Garrett, Apprentice PI, conducted a drive-by surveillance of the address and verified the forest green Land Rover with the license plate number I’d given him was parked in the driveway. I thought about reporting this to the Elbert County Sheriff’s office, but the idea crashed upon impact. Those yahoos gave my investigative efforts about as much respect as a pig’s foot in a kosher deli. After all, they had the real murderer—me.

A lesser reason was pure macho, which I occasionally aspire to be despite my sensitive-Jewish-male self. Now that Laura had called me her “cowboy” I wanted to be that dude. The buckaroo on the white horse who not only swept her away to safety, but also nailed the assholes who’d left her to die.

So that afternoon, after laying down the law that there’d be no
we
in this GPS—or any other in-field PI—adventure, I assembled the tracking device while Laura researched Hughes Dynamic Investments, Inc. It wasn’t listed in the Colorado Secretary of State business database or the SEC, which pointed to it being a de facto corp. No paper trail to follow. Fortunately, we recalled there’d been a Florida private mail box address on Walt’s laptop. Running a reverse search, we found an address for Hughes Dynamic Investments, Inc. in Vero Beach, Florida.

Bingo.

Laura stayed at the lodge to do more research on links to Hughes Dynamic Investments while I headed down to Morrison to pick up batteries for the GPS. Didn’t like leaving her alone, but Garrett and Ziggy agreed to hang at the lodge in my absence. Plus Mavis was there. Not that the dog would leave her chair, but her hound-from-hell bark was a decent security system.

On my way into town, the players in this bizarre case floated in my mind like actors in an experimental seventies-flick whose plot was more about the quest for inner truth than having a beginning, middle, and end. Wicked’s last phone call from home had been to a fellow named Hughes, although there was no evidence as to why or how they knew each other. Brianna appeared to regularly call Walt Dixon based on his number being in her cell phone address book, yet there was no evidence of a connection between them, either. This morally corrupt older fellow drove a car registered to Hughes Dynamic Investments, which pegged him as our stolen-ID Hughes, who was also probably Walt’s uncle based on a comment Walt had made to Laura about his uncle owning a boat.

I used to be better at this, gluing together the pieces, solving the riddle. Stress was frying my brain cells.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Morrison Country Store, turned off the car, pulled out my cell. Time to test-drive the name Hughes past Lou, Iris, and that punk Justin. Reached Lou, who didn’t recall a Hughes or having heard Wicked refer to anybody by that name. Left messages for Iris and Justin. As I walked inside the store, my cell rang.

“Levine.”

“Brianna.”

I halted, felt the weird creep back into my life. “What do you want?”

“I…hoped we could get together soon. ‘Member, said I wanted to share something with you.”

“Share now.”

“Not over the phone.”

“Okay, I’m into the fear factor of downloaded spyware myself, but right now, I could give a shit. You brought an investigative reporter into my
home
, Brianna, so it’s like I’ve already been subjected to walking-talking spyware.”

“Rick, please, I need to meet with you…talk face to face.”

She sounded pathetic, desperate. I scanned the store directory, checking which aisle had batteries. “I got a lot on my plate. Call my lawyer.”

“I’m in Morrison. Outside the Country Store.”

I swiveled, scanned the parking lot outside the store window, saw her Jeep in a far parking space. “You fucking
followed
me?”

“Yes.”

“What—you’re stalking me? “

“I told you…it’s important.”

I flipped shut the phone, stormed outside.

The foolish are trapped by karma, while the wise are liberated through karma.
—Stonepeace

A
few minutes later, I slid into the passenger seat of Brianna’s Jeep. “You said it’s important, so start talking.”

The motor was on, the heater blasting. She wore a dark green knit cap low on her brow, wisps of curly blond hair escaping around its edges. Her eyes had darkened to a muddy brown, giving her a troubled, edgy look that made me uncomfortable. Instinctively, I checked her hands, then the seat. Wadded tissues, her cell phone, crumbs littered the vinyl.

“Lookin’ for weapons?”

“Yes.”

She sputtered a half-laugh, took another sip. Her cheeks were flushed, but the rest of her face looked sallow, sunken, and I wondered if she wasn’t sleeping. Her bomber jacket was open, showing a white T-shirt stained with splotches of dried mustard. Her jeans had a rip at one knee. Day after Christmas most people wore new gifted items, but she was in old, worn clothes. Not like Brianna to leave her house looking so un-together.

“Feels like a fucking sauna in here.”

“Keep your voice down,” she said quietly, glancing at the backseat.

At first I thought it was a pile of blankets back there, then saw a small, white fisted hand around a green-monster figure I recognized from ads for a kids’ flick. I followed the chubby little arm up to a pink-cheeked face with wispy light brown hair.

“Her name’s Rose.”

“Your little girl.”

A look of pride, mixed with something else, flitted across her face.

“She should be at home.”

“I know, it’s just…” She took a sip of her coffee. “I needed to see you.”

“So you keep saying.” I worked to keep my voice low. “You could’ve called, set up a time to meet at the lodge.”

Her mouth thinned, but she didn’t say anything.

“Where’s Walt?”

“Who?”

“Walt Dixon.”

“Am I supposed to know him?”

“Hughes?”

“Who?”

“Walt’s buddy. Or is it uncle?”

She blinked rapidly. “Don’t know either of them, why?”

“Cut the crap. You’re in on this. Why, I’m trying to figure out.”

Her lips flapped soundlessly for a moment. Finally, in a small, frightened voice, she whispered, “Rick, darlin’, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m telling you the truth. I have no idea who those men are—”

“But,
darlin’
, you sure know who Larry Atkins, the Channel Nine investigative reporter, is. Or was he just a pick-up the other night while you were trolling around, looking for me…no, wait…maybe you hired someone to try and run me off the road, then you and Larry conveniently were nearby…although it makes no fucking sense why that vulture was in on it—”

“Please, my little girl…keep your voice down…”

We sat in icy silence for a long, protracted moment, she looking at me with large, ghoulish eyes. After awhile, she shakily raised the mug to her lips, took a long drink, then held it mid-air with both hands as though she wasn’t strong enough to chance using just one.

“Larry’s an old friend. I met him for coffee to talk about a book he’s writing. He asked about your case, but I didn’t say anything, Rick, not a word…” She took another sip. “Then I got to thinkin’ about you, decided to call, check in…”

“You fucked the deputy D.A. on the case, now an
investigative reporter
?”

Her eyes welled up. “It’s not like that.”

“Who else you fucking? The judge?”

“Rick…Larry’s
gay
.”

That stopped me for all of a split second. “He’s still a reporter. You were blabbing about some suppressed autopsy photos the other night. Suppressed? Why?”

“It’s just a theory—”

“And Sam’s been calling you, but you don’t return his calls. Hell, why tell Sam? Just spill everything you know—no wait,
theorize
about—to your fucking investigative reporter pal, who’s a living, breathing billboard ad.”

“He won’t report on it. I know him.”

“Yeah, and I’m Henry the Eighth I am.” I looked at the dark, steamy liquid in her mug. “Black? You never drink it black.” I leaned over, sniffed, straightened. “You poured whisky in there.”

She gulped hard, her eyes glistening. “Just a splash.”

“Give it to me.” Like a guilty child, she handed it over. I opened my door, tossed the steaming liquid onto the snow-crusted asphalt. “Shit, Brianna,” I muttered, setting the mug on the floor, “it’s Christmas. Your little girl’s in the car. Take her home and stay put.”

She glanced at the backseat again, back to me. “I’ve been scared—terrified to tell you the truth—and it’s time you knew…know…” Heaving a sob, she sank against me, clutched my jacket.

“Know what?”

“Th-the truth.” She mewed like a frightened animal. “I’ve been keepin’ it inside, right close to my heart, terrified you’d would be…furious…” She gulped back a sob. “Didn’t mean to keep it a secret…just didn’t know the right time to say it—”

The truth hit like cold lead to my gut. So Sam had been right. It’d been a woman. A hot, uncontrollable fury blasted through me as I grabbed her by the shoulders. “You did it.”

“No,” she whispered, scrabbling her nails against my jacket like a feral cat, “it wasn’t—”

I yanked her closer. She reeked of coffee and booze and sweat. “I hate you,” I growled, boring my gaze into hers, “fucking murderer.”

“No, Rick, please—”

“Set me up. I’m losing everything,
everything
, because of you.”

Stifling a cry, she pressed her face against mine, her lips moving against my cheek. “That man at my house the other night,” she whispered, “I think he meant to…” She stifled a cry. “God, Rick, my little girl…she’s all I have…”

I glanced at the back seat, thankful the child had slept through this badly contained drama, then looked out the windshield, steamy with the heat of our bodies and emotion. Across the parking lot, a family exited the store. Dad, mom, two kids, laughing as they walked to their Subaru station wagon.

I released my hold on Brianna, who scooted back into her seat. Cowering, she snatched a wadded tissue, blew her nose. I watched her, feeling confused and disgusted.

“What do you want?”

“I…” She gulped a calming breath, “want to tell you something important. Couldn’t do it over the phone…or in front of Laura.”

The fury with which I’d entered this conversation had thinned, leaving me drained, tired of my life and its revolving cast of crazies. I’d had bad acid trips that were better than this.

“Say it now,” I whispered, my hand on the door handle, “‘cause I’m getting out.”

“Rose…is your child.”

“Well, I had some very weird experiences. My main experience was one of furious activity and tremendous struggle in a sort of futuristic, space-ship vehicle with insectoid presences…”
—Jerry Garcia

B
ack when I was a kid, just before my parents decided they hated each others’ guts and my dad split for Los Angeles to find studio work as a musician, he’d sometimes complain about a piece of shrapnel, a memento of Viet Nam, in his thigh. He’d suddenly squeeze shut his eyes and grouse that it hurt “like a sonofabitch.” I was about four, maybe five, and I’d learned not to ask about that place—Viet Nam—but that didn’t stop my curiosity how something unseen could cause such pain.

As an adult, I’d learned too well that it’s those unseen things that cause the most pain. After returning home from my funkadelic parking lot encounter with Brianna, I was filled with a pain and regret so profound, I could barely breathe.

I had a child.

I speed-walked past Laura where she sat in the kitchen, mumbling that Mavis needed a walk.

Outside again with the dog, I checked Brianna’s cell phone that I’d lifted off the front seat while she was sobbing in my arms. While Mavis romped, I flipped through her address book, not recognizing any numbers. Checked her text messages. Nothing suspicious. Same with her stored pictures.

On my way back to the lodge, sunlight punctured the clouds. Bright, silver, unexpected. Made me think back to some of the more memorable Dead concerts. Like Shoreline in ninety-one or the Silver Bowl in ninety-three. During that last one, Bobby Weir was singing “Lazy Lightning” when a blinding zag of lightning hit the stage. Musta been the roses.

Rose.

The little girl’s name inspired me to later sort through boxes in the upstairs guest room that doubled as a storage room, look for the live “Europe ‘72” by the Dead, arguably their finest year. Finding it was bittersweet. It’d been through a lot of parties, late-night study sessions in law school, and a memorable, long-ago date with Brianna when life had been a lot kinder and simpler.