A Passing Curse (2011) (37 page)

“Artillery?” Reese asked.

“Not quite, twenty millimeter, but it’ll do the job.” Rupert put his drink on the window sill and handed him one of the shells. It felt smooth and much heavier than a coke bottle, nearly a pound. The base of the bullet was painted with three red rings. “Incendiary,” Rupert said. “Magnesium and burns like hell. Take a look.” He pointed to the scope.

He settled his shoulder into the stock and put his eye against the rubber eye-cup. The cross-hairs rested on the center bronze window of Ajax’s office. The same window behind the desk where he’d talked to the great man. Rupert reached over and touched a button on top of the scope. A range meter next to the cross-hairs flashed 1200 yards.

“World War Two Lahti. Finnish anti-tank gun. Model 39. Weighs over a hundred pounds, but still kicks worse than a Missouri mule. The mount might take some of the pepper out of it. When I last fired it at the range it was mounted on iron ski’s, originally designed to be towed by reindeer. Semi-auto, ten round magazine. The Finns used’em on Russian tanks. I bought it at a gun show, supposedly ‘inactivated’. I activated it with a 4 dollar firing pin. I got the scope and ordnance there, too. Shoots like a rifle. Direct fire. The projectile drops fifty-eight inches at twelve hundred yards. At night, when he’s back lit, I can see Rasmussen sitting at his desk. I’ve sighted this weapon on the back of his head. With this baby all I have to do is get close. Close counts. All I have to do is load it, cock it, fire it. Feed him the fire.”

“You’re serious?” Reese asked and stepped away from the rifle. It was a question Amos did not answer. Now he understood Rupert keeping his apartments mostly vacant. He didn’t want witnesses.

Rupert took his turn at the scope and smiled. “If Ajax is cooking up trouble, I’m ready.” He pointed to the other ammo box. These shells were painted with three blue stripes. “AP. Armor piercing, have a steel rod down the middle of the shell. Fire an AP round first - bust the window - then feed him the fire.” Rupert rested his hand on a large handle to the right side of the receiver and wiggled it. “Charging lever. Bolt’s too heavy to arm without it. Rotate about one full turn until you feel it click. Fires from an open bolt. The safety is above the trigger. I’ve marked the firing position in red. Pretty much self-explanatory.”

“What’s keeping you from pulling the trigger?” he asked. Was his landlord giving him shooting tips?

Rupert kept looking through the scope. “If I knew positively that he’d caused or somehow ordered Homer to kill all those girls, I’d have wasted Ajax a long time ago. But I’m not sure. I’ve killed my share of innocent people, hundreds is my guess, maybe a thousand and I’m too damn old to make those mistakes again. And…” Rupert paused briefly before grinning slightly and adding, “I don’t believe in vampires.”

“I never said Ajax was a vampire.”

“You didn’t have to,” Rupert said. “I don’t want my legacy, what’s left of it, to be about some wined-up, paranoid nut, a former Air Force colonel killing the world’s richest man, even if you claim he is a vampire. What about you? You did Homer. Do Ajax.”

“Some people think Ajax is innocent.” He couldn’t help thinking that Rusty headed the list, how she ran from hot to cold on Ajax.

“That’s true,” Amos said. “People tend to do that without proof.” Amos perked up like he wasn’t drunk at all, like he was in some far away briefing room, planning for the next mission. “Do you have any proof linking Ajax to any murder? Eye witnesses? Anything?” He strode back into the living room and filled his glass. “You told a good story, son, but that’s about all it was.”

“Yes, and you just told me you saw Ajax floating past your window.”

“Right. But, I was drunk. And if I’d shot him through the window and if the police came and saw the broken window and Ajax laying two stories below, covered with glass, they might have believed me; though, I don’t know if it’s legal in this state to shoot a man just because he’s flying past your window.”

“You can’t shoot anything flying past your window unless it shoots at you,” Reese said. “Why the anti-tank rifle pointed at Ajax’s head?”

“I piloted a SAC bomber loaded with enough atomic ordinance to wipe out half of Russia, but never dropped a bomb. We had thousands of warheads aimed at Russia but didn’t fire one. We were ready, though. Peace through power.”

“You know he’s a killer.”

Amos sat down and looked into his whiskey glass. “You almost got arrested for killing Homer. Not one mention of Ajax in the newspapers. Maybe you’re the nut. Because, and I don’t care how much money Ajax has, he couldn’t buy his way out of thirteen murders.”

“You know.”

“All I know is that Ajax hasn’t bothered me in a long time. Three months. Come to think of it, since Homer left, Ajax has been laying low.”

“He’s killed three men in the last three days,” Reese said. “That isn’t exactly what I call keeping a low profile. That isn’t ducking the radar. That isn’t laying low.”

“There’s no proof.”

“You know.”

“If I knew, I’d have pulled the trigger. And I’d be in jail.” Amos shook his head and poured himself another drink. The bottle was nearly empty. “Being in a cell again….”

He couldn’t blame Rupert Amos, no more than he could blame Rusty. They did not know what he knew, and it was a huge step from suspecting Ajax to killing him. “You won’t do anything until Ajax comes out into the open and by then it will be too late.”

“Maybe.” Amos took a drink. His eyes watered. He pointed to the Lahti. “I’ve already loaded the magazine,” he said defensively, as if just pointing a rifle at Ajax would stop him. “AP and then incendiary. Just charge the bolt, safety off, and it’s ready to fire.”

“That’s a big step, Rupert. Conspiring to commit murder.”

“I’m not committed to anything. I’ve just got a big-assed rifle pointing out my window.” Rupert Amos looked at him. Focus in his eyes. “Don’t wait too long. I heard from a friend of mine, a guy at the gun shows, that down in Long Beach Ajax bought a flamethrower from a Bulgarian who handles surplus from the Soviets.”

“Flamethrower? What’s he want with a flamethrower?” Reese asked. Finnish anti-tank rifle versus flamethrower? It sounded like an arms war.

“Throw flame on somebody, be my guess.”

Downstairs he checked his answering machine, hoping for a message from Rusty but finding nothing. He called the Sheraton: nothing. They had not seen her. He waited for an hour, hoping she’d call. He drank, wondering who was crazier, Ajax or Rupert. Arresting Ajax for jaywalking, much less murder, would be impossible. He ignored Thomkins’ files on the kitchen counter.

He hammered out a quick plan: first, get Rusty out of town; second, come back and kill Ajax. Or, wait for Rupert to do it. He felt that his landlord was on the verge of killing the billionaire. Right on the edge. Proof or not. Officer and a gentleman, or not. And who did Ajax want to throw flame at?

He opened beer four and picked up the top folder. He saw Dean Everett’s name, Hannah’s husband, missing for almost a year. He went through the stack. There was a three-week gap between Everett and the next case, a homeless guy named Jake. Hadn’t the Chief said all of the missing persons, except for Dean, were girls? Lies or sloppiness? Probably a little of both.

He went through the folders quickly. A few more homeless. A few that looked like husbands getting away. Several teenage, female runaways. At least he hoped they were runaways.

A brief description of one runaway, Joni Bluerock, caught his eye. He touched her photograph, probably from her senior yearbook, a pretty girl, strength in those eyes. She’d gone her own way, a singer in a Gothic rock band. She’d been a Chumash Indian, raised on the reservation outside of town. Under the heading of “Distinguishable Characteristics” he read she had fangs, a prop for her act, implanted by an orthodontist in Ensenada, according to a statement by her sister. Her last known employment was as maid for Ajax. Now that rang a bell.

He put her photograph in his wallet.

He studied the remaining two folders. They were both girls, both Chumash, both working as maids for Ajax when they went missing at the exact same time as Miss Bluerock. All three girls had graduated from Refugio High in 2009, which meant they were probably friends. He finished the beer and headed for his car.

25

It was dusk by the time he parked at the police station. The lights were ablaze. Shadows dodged past windows. Double shifts, he guessed. The wagons were circling.

He walked inside the station, cornered Smith, and asked him if he knew that three girls, now missing a year, had last been seen working as maids for Ajax Rasmussen. Smith admitted that he was not sure and looked around nervously.

He ignored Smith’s discomfort and casually flipped through a stack of crime scene photos on Smith’s desk - Thomkins sprawled, a new-age Mohican on black ice. The photos were black and white, Perry’s work, haunting, stark, and coldly beautiful, nothing like modern forensics photos taken in full color with grainy digital cameras or Polaroids.

“You’re not sure?” He turned the pictures face down. “Three girls go to work for Ajax and the next day they’re missing and you’re not sure? That was a year ago, Smith. You done any follow up? Like questioning Ajax? Tell me you looked into it? I don’t give a shit how much money Ajax has, tell me you questioned him. Tell me you’re not completely fucking incompetent.”

Smith backed up, trying to come up with an excuse. The pony wall surrounding his cubicle kept him from escaping. “Now, I remember,” he said, putting a leg over the low wall. “The Chief talked to Ajax about the girls, I think, but I wouldn’t worry about it. We have a suspect. We have the guy.”

He was about to neck-tie Smith and ask him what kind of fucked-up department this was when the Chief’s voice boomed down the hall, “I’ve got a suspect locked up is what I have.” The Chief, who must have been listening, stepped out of his office and into the hall, looking awfully proud of himself. “William Rawlings is who. AKA Lung Butter Bill. He killed Officer Thomkins. He killed him cold blooded as hell and then mutilated the body.”

“The wino?”

“You know him?”

“He found Cheevy’s body behind the store. You don’t remember? I interviewed him in the backseat of your car that night. Don’t tell me he’s your suspect - ”

“That’s right, I’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten? It was two days ago.”

“That just goes to prove my point,” The Chief replied. “Rawlings was at the first murder scene. Well, Well. Another connection. More wood on the fire.”

Reese could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re saying Rawlings killed Cheevy? Did he kill Father Ramon, too?” He shook his head, more in amazement than disgust. Still, he was disgusted by the Chief’s half-ass reasoning. Or was the Chief just acting stupid? “Rawlings can barely stand half the time. He’s a piss-drunk winehead.”

The Chief ignored him. He’d set his course. A man of rare determination. “Rawlings, poor, helpless wino that he is, is also a convicted armed robber,” he explained slowly, like Reese was the moron here. “A convicted felon. 1973. Armed robbery Mom and Pop grocery in Salinas. Served two years in Soledad. Tried to pistol-whip the Pop.”

“Really? Well, now, unless you didn’t notice, he’s also a drunk. He wouldn’t have trouble killing a bottle of wine, but whoever killed Thomkins and Father Ramon was strong and quick. You’re saying he was able to hang Ramon? Whoever killed Cheevy had medical training, able to stick a vein. Has he been shot?”

“Has who been shot?”

“Your killer, Rawlings. I told you to check the hospitals. Thomkins put three bullets in the man who killed him. He shot seven times and I found four slugs in the room.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can count, big deal,” the Chief said. “But that doesn’t mean anything because one thing for sure is, how do you know that Thomkins had a full clip?”

Reese was starting to wonder if the Chief had a full clip. “Because I did a little police work. I got down on my knees and counted his brass, seven.”

The Chief shrugged. “Anyway, Rawlings is not wounded. Not that it matters. He’s the one that killed my officer. He’s the one that killed Thomkins.”

“Don’t you give a shit who really killed Thomkins?” They were in the hall, alone. Everyone had ducked out. He wanted to deck the Chief. Knock some sense into him.

The Chief swelled up, turning red. “I care. You’re goddamned right I care. Who says I don’t?”

“He was your responsibility. He was your man.”

“Is that right?” the Chief sneered. “I wasn’t at a cockfight last night - Yeah, I heard all about it - and Thomkins done up like a chicken. And I wasn’t meeting him in the room where he was killed.”

The Chief glowered, pointing a finger at him. Reese brought his arm up slowly, shuffled his left foot forward, a second from landing a right.

The Chief stepped back, steadied himself on the balls of his feet, still sneering. “You ever ask yourself why Thomkins was in Ramon’s room last night while you and Miss Mummy-Road-Show were getting all cozy? He was trying to break the case, trying to impress you. You were his idol. The big shot. The great homicide detective from LA. You should have heard him talking. He wanted to go to LA and be a detective just like you. Just like his hero. Told me that you thought he had real potential. Kept asking me if Mr. Ajax Rasmussen was the killer.”

He felt his face getting hot. He’d used Thomkins against the Chief, true. It hadn’t worked and, now, it hardly mattered. He’d warned Thomkins about going to the mission by himself. He lowered his hands. “Thomkins would be alive if you’d taken care of Rasmussen.”

“Taken care of Ajax Rasmussen? Me take care of the richest man in the world?” The Chief laughed. “You’ve got Ajax on the brain, son. Anyway, I’ve got the man who killed Thomkins. I’ve got Rawlings.”

“You might have Rawlings, but I don’t see one piece of evidence.”

“I’ll give you more than one,” the Chief said and waved Reese into his office. The Chief shook a field report at him. “Rawlings attacked the garbage man today. Rawlings had one of those short-handled weed rakes, the kind with the three prongs.”