The Zen Man (35 page)

A tingling started at the top of my scalp, rushing in hot electrical spurts down my neck.
Was this the B
? I caught up with the rest of Laura’s words.

“…worried about you—leave Sam’s, now.”

“Describe the pen.” I stared down at the empty slot in the pen case on Sam’s desk.

“It’s old, but the metal clip isn’t corroded, which would’ve happened if it’d been in water for years. Pelikan. Amber-striped barrel. Rick, that gun—”

“Gotta go—”

“But there’s something else—”

I ended the call, scanned the cell phone keypad for a call history feature, punched it, flipped through numbers. When I found Walt Dixon’s TeleForce number, my gut plummeted. That night at the lodge, their phones had gotten mixed up. When Laura sneaked into Brianna’s room, it was Sam’s cell she’d found.

“What are you doing, Rick?”

I looked up. Sam stood on the far side of the desk, pointing the barrel of a Glock 9 millimeter at me.

“No need to threaten me.” My voice sounded far away, as though someone else was speaking. Didn’t dare look at the box with Brianna’s gun. Guessed it was three, maybe four feet from my reach.

“I’m not
threatening
you, Rick. I’m going to kill you.” He waved the gun at his cell phone. “Put it on the desk.”

I did as told. “So you’re finishing the job you hired Santa to do.”

“That’s right.”

“He risked a lot—even breaking into Deborah’s to steal a book. “

Sam grinned. “A letter Dixon had written to me years ago had been slipped inside. Book and letter are now ashes.”

“Dixon might’ve been our bad witness, but he wasn’t bad to you, right?”

“Sometimes there’s better money in throwing trials than in winning them. Unfortunately, Debby figured it out.”

I looked down at the empty slot in glass-topped pen case. “That vintage Pelikan you lost—it was a gift from her. You were her Boon.”

His face darkened. “Where’s the pen?”

“At the sheriff’s office,” I lied. “One thing about fountain pens—with a good seal, DNA can remain uncontaminated inside the cap.”

“Nice story, but as your counsel the D.A.’s office would’ve informed me if the sheriffs had the pen, so you’re lying. But I’m impressed you got Boon right. She liked to call me Baboon, Boon for short. You’re not bad for a PI, Rick. You’re an even better lawyer, so it’s a shame you’ll die a dick.” He chuckled under his breath, then grew serious again. “Since you like stories, I’ll tell you how this one will go. In a few minutes, I’ll be calling 911. I’ll be distraught, tell them how you showed up, crazed about Brianna, babbling how you had to kill her because she knew too much. The way Deborah—Wicked—knew too much. You knew where I kept my gun. You went for it, I tried to stop you. We wrestled. Shit went everywhere. Gun went off.”

With a sweeping motion, he cleared his desk. Papers billowed. Glass shattered. I dove for the cardboard box as it tumbled heavily to the floor, my air expelling in a painful whoosh as I landed solidly on it with my gut. Gasping for air, I rolled over into a fetal position, looked up in time to see Sam’s face—red, contorted—looming at me over the edge of the desk. My body was awkwardly twisted, but there was just enough room around the leg of the desk…

As he raised the gun, I kicked with all my might.

He staggered back, yelling as an explosion blasted through the room.

As he cursed about his foot, I rolled off the crushed box, grappled with its lid. Sam came into view on the far side of the desk, waving the Glock, his motions slow, strobe-like.

I scuttled furiously backward as another blast filled the room. The sleeping bag exploded in a cloud of feathers.

“Damn you, Rick!” screamed Sam, a shadowy form in a surreal snow storm.

I glanced through the sifting feathers, trying to see the box behind me on the floor.

“Where the fuck are you?”

I picked up the clock, tossed it. It fell with a smack against the far wall. Sam turned and shot, the ricocheting sound swallowed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. I scuttled back on all fours to the crushed box on the side of the desk, ripped it open, snatched the .38. Rolling onto my back, I pointed the gun at the area above the desk, focusing on the first site…

Snowy winds pummeled the windows, filling the room with a crackling hush. I soundlessly recited
Shema
, the prayer every Jew should have on their dying lips, as Sam’s head emerged over the top of the desk.

He frowned, then grinned. “Thought you never carried, Zen Man. All the better. I’d prefer a sad tale of self defense when I call 911.”

He raised the Glock. I targeted the center of his chest.

“You don’t have the guts to shoot me.”

“You’re fucked if you’re wrong.” A glob of sweat broke loose from my hairline, coursed down the side of my face. “You’re high. I’m straight. Odds are against you, put the gun down.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late, RoofTop. Cooperate with the cops, get a shrink—a good lawyer can get you out in twenty-five.”

“No fucking way. By then, you’ll be long dead and I’ll be rolling in retainers, occasionally remembering your promise as the legal profession’s biggest coulda been—”

I pulled the trigger.

It clicked.

Pulled again.

Click.

Sam laughed. “No ammo,
dude
?”

I lunged forward, slammed the butt of the gun into his knee. As he staggered back, I sprung to my feet and ran at him, ramming my shoulder against his chest, struggling for his gun arm. My fingers clamped on his wrist, and we stumbled across the room in a clumsy embrace. His back slammed up against the far wall, and I smashed his gun hand, over and over, against the plaster.

His fingers flew open. The gun sailed through the air, landed with a clunk.

We both plunged for it, wrestling each other on the floor. I duked him in the head, the face. He caught me in the gut with his fist. Coughing, I fell to my side. He bolted forward, grabbed the Glock.

“FBI! Everybody drop their guns! Hands up! Now!”

Laura ran into the room. “Rick, your gun—!”

Sam raised the Glock. A blast of noise like a firecracker. Laura dropped.

With a primal cry, I pitched forward, caught his gun arm with one hand, had him by the throat with the other. Squeezing both, I whispered between clenched teeth, “Die, moutherfucker!”

Quinn’s voice behind me.
One down. Gun shot. Need medical.

I squeezed my fingers tighter around Sam’s neck.

“Rick,” Quinn yelled, “halt!”

I couldn’t hold down Sam’s gun arm. From the side, I saw the Glock weaving closer, its barrel pointing at my head. I bore all my weight on my strangle-hold, dug my fingers into his trachea. The cold edge of the barrel pressed against my temple

A sharp boom.

Sam opened his mouth and discharged a wheezy, gurgling sound, then went limp like a puppet with its strings cut. The Glock fell with a thud. Blood oozed from his nose and out of a dark hole in the center of his forehead.

I rose shakily to my feet, paused long enough to meet Quinn’s steely gaze, then crossed to Laura who lay crumpled on the Persian rug. Reaching her, I fell to my knees.

Her eyes searched my face. “Your…gun…”

“Don’t speak.” I scanned her body, my heart freezing at the spreading blood on her side. “You’re going to be all right.”

She blinked, licked her lips. “I took the bullets out.”

“Shh.” I covered her hand—small like a fallen flower—with mine. My chin trembled as I watched her pant for breaths. Outside, sirens screamed.
Save her, God, save her
.

“I love you,” I murmured, my voice breaking. “It’s always been you, Laura, always will be you.”

Her lips moved almost imperceptibly. “And…”

With a groan, she shut her eyes and stilled.

Nora Charles
: You asleep?
Nick Charles
: Yes!
Nora Charles
: Good… I want to talk to you.
—The Thin Man

H
er lids fluttered open.

I sat up in the chair where I’d spent the last two hours taking calls on my cell while watching the Saints trounce the Vikings on the TV, the sound muted so Laura could sleep. I’d visited earlier in the day, no easy feat as the city was sluggish due to a massive snow storm, but she’d been asleep. This was our first time to talk after the shooting in Sam’s office yesterday.

“Hi, baby,” I said, scooting my chair closer. “How you feelin’?”

Her face was pale, gaunt, framed by dark curls. The corners of her lips twitched in a smile.

“Rick,” she whispered. Frowning slightly, she glanced around the room, back to me. “Had a dream…visited you in jail.”

I stifled a groan. “Never again, baby. D.A. called me personally this afternoon, said their preliminary tests show that the blood type on the fountain pen matches that of the victim. With the pen being Sam’s, the physical evidence substantiates my statement that Sam confessed to the killings.”

“Statement?”

“Should say statements. I’ve been interviewed by the feds, Jeffco sheriffs,
and
the Denver PD.”

A sardonic look flicked in her eyes. “Jeffco…”

“Yeah, those sheriffs will finally get it through their thick skulls I’m not their guy, especially after the D.A. files a motion to dismiss the case tomorrow. Thirsty?”

She nodded, and I lifted a water cup with a straw to her lips. After a few sips, I put it down, and she stared at me for a long moment, the blips of the heart monitor marking time.

“Rick, I wanted to tell you—”

“Good evening!” A voluptuous Hispanic nurse walked in, so tall our eyes met from where I sat. She smiled, her teeth large and white against her brown skin. “How’re you feeling, dear?”

Laura smiled weakly. “Okay.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain, what number are you feeling?”

“One?” Laura smiled lazily. “I’m feeling pretty good.”

“Oxycontin’s doing its job. You’re lucky that bullet missed all the important stuff.” She adjusted the regulator on a suspended plastic bag filled with liquid. “Went in your back, came out the fleshy part of your side. Doctor says you’re going home tomorrow. Need anything?”

Laura shook her head.

“Weather report says snow’s gonna stop tonight,” the nurse continued, “and that means streets will be plowed all pretty and clean by the morning. Press the buzzer if you want something, okay?” She looked at me. “Visiting hours end in ten minutes.”

“But she just woke up.”

As she gave me a stiff, no-nonsense look, I realized what she lacked in height, she made up in nerve.

“I’ll be gone in nine,” I murmured.

With a satisfied nod, she walked out, her pink Crocs squeaking lightly on the linoleum floor.

I took Laura’s hand. “Quinn told me all about Garrett finding the fountain pen within minutes of my leaving, how Quinn nearly had to tackle you to stop your driving off alone to warn me. How he broke every speed limit driving to Denver while you explained everything from primates to the ‘B’ on Wicked’s BlackBerry to how you’d emptied the bullets in Brianna’s gun thinking it was a smart thing to do…”

“Forgot to add that I also threatened her with obstruction of justice if she didn’t stay in the vehicle,” said a familiar voice.

Quinn stood just inside the doorway, looking like a preppie gone bad in his creased slacks, striped Oxford shirt, and shiny leather jacket. Smiling at me, he swiped back his hair, wet from being outside.

“Heard the D.A.’s filing a motion to dismiss.”

“Yeah, about time. Thanks again for everything.”

“Said you’d get our full cooperation. So, when are you returning to the practice of law, Levine?”

“Well,
Quinn
, after staring down the barrel of a gun held by my former law partner, I’m thinking never.”

“Ever think of being a special agent?”

“I’d rather join Sam Spade and Lew Archer in a long tradition of noble iconoclasts in search of the truth.”

“Noble, dude, but even their white hats got dirty.” He glanced at his watch. “Need to go. By the way, Brody slipped out of Denver during yesterday’s shoot-out extravaganza. Nothing for you two to worry about as we have it on good source he’s on his way to another state, several thousand miles from here.”

I smiled. “Slipped the feds’ grip again, eh?”

Quinn didn’t answer. Instead, with a tip of his index finger to his head, he saluted us and left.

In the quiet after his exit, the only sounds a beeping monitor and the squeak of gurneys rattling down the hallway outside, Laura and I held hands and stared into each other’s eyes.

“Sam…?”

“Dead.”

She nodded solemnly. “The necklace? What was that about?”

I’d been thinking about that these last twenty-four hours. It was the piece of the puzzle that remained empty. “Don’t know. But one thing I’m certain of—Sam had been in Wicked’s place just before the retreat. He called Brody on her landline, and when you redialed the last call made, we got Brody’s message service. You’re a good PI, Laura. That was the clue that pointed us in the right direction.”

“If I’m good, you’re dynamite.” She was trying to sound light-hearted, but that telltale left eye was twitching. I guessed what was troubling her.

“No such thing as bad publicity is true. I’ve accepted three cases already today. Two of them referrals from Iris DaCosta. Maybe I didn’t market myself so well at that retreat, but the work is rolling in now. Trust me, Levine Investigations will bring in the money.”

“Garrett and Ziggy better finish that pool.”

“I’ll remind them to get on it after they’ve finished painting their cabin.”

“Finished painting
their
—?” She blew out a soft sigh. “Good thing I’m on drugs. Just please tell me they’re painting the inside, not the logs on the outside.”

“The inside. Bright yellow.”

“Yellow,” she repeated, a slow recognition lighting her eyes. “What about Mellow?”