Claw Back (Louis Kincaid) (6 page)

He hadn’t done tactical training since the academy. He knew he was rusty. Just like he knew his body had gone a little soft and his credit needed cleaning up. It didn’t matter. He was willing to do whatever it took to get back inside.

It was past five by the time he got home. He fed
Issy
, peeled off his sticky clothes and took a long cool shower to get rid of the film of sweat and Avon Skin So Soft.

A breeze was blowing in from the Gulf when he emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, so he didn’t bother to turn on the air conditioning. When he went to the refrigerator to get a Heineken he caught the faint scent of gunpowder. His
Glock
was lying on the kitchen counter where he had left it.

He had planned to go through his mail and phone messages but all that would have to wait.

He pulled what he needed from a kitchen drawer, tucked the towel tighter around his waist and sat down on a stool at the counter.

The ritual was always the same. And there was something oddly calming about it.

He grasped the
Glock
firmly and dropped out the magazine, setting it aside. Next he made sure the chamber was clear. He’d never accidently fired a weapon while cleaning it but he once knew a cop who did. The stray bullet had killed him.

Dismantling the
Glock
had taken him some time to master. It wasn’t like the old model 10 revolvers or the simply assembled shotguns he’d used as a rookie. The
Glock
was a little like one of those wooden block puzzles where each movement had to be done in the correct order to open it up.

First, he pulled the trigger until it clicked back into place. With a claw-like grip on the top of the gun, he pressed a tab and the slide came off.

He squirted a little
Hoppes
oil into the three pieces –
the spring, the slide and the barrel
-
then wiped each dry with a piece of an old t-shirt. The
Glock’s
frame was polymer but he always took the time to blow away the gun powder residue from the crevices.

As he reassembled the
Glock
, he thought suddenly of Bud. He was his firearms instructor back at the academy, a small soft-spoken bald man whose quiet reverence for guns had earned him the name of the Buddha. He could still hear Bud’s words.

Take care of it and it will take care of you. For those of you who ride alone it is the only partner you’ll
have
.
             

Louis reassembled the
Glock
, slid it back in its holster and set it on the counter. The phone messages were still waiting. He hit the rewind button.

“Hey Rocky, how the hell are you?”

It was Mel. He had met the ex-Miami detective on a case here on Captiva Island years ago and they had forged one of those old-marriage bonds that withstood the benign neglect that colored most male friendships.

“Look, we need to get together,” Mel went on. “Yuba and I are going over to the Roadhouse Saturday night to see Lou Colombo. We want you to come with us and don’t give me that shit that you have plans because I know you never do. Call me.”

Louis took a long draw from the Heineken. He hadn’t seen Mel since that case they worked together over in Palm Beach
last Christmas
. Yuba was a lovely East Indian bartender who had followed Mel back to Fort Myers. Mel never admitted it, but Louis knew they were in love.

Shit, that Palm Beach case had been seven months ago. Where had the time gone?

The next voice was a male and at first Louis didn’t recognize it.

“Hey, Louis, are you there? Pick up, dude! I guess you’re not home. But you’re never home.”

It wa
s Ben, the boy whom Louis had befriended years ago after rescuing him from a kidnapping.
He didn’t recognize him because the last time they had talked Ben’s voice had been an octave higher.
             

“You aren’t going to believe this, but she’s finally doing it,” Ben said. “Mom and Steve are getting married.”

Louis leaned closer to the phone.

“Anyway, it’s nothing fancy. You know
Mom,
she’s not even going to change her name.”

Well, what woman named Susan Outlaw would?
Especially since she was a public defender.
The fact that Steve’s last name was Fuchs might have figured into her decision. Despite that, Louis had to admit Steve was a good man. And he’d make a good stepfather for Ben. Still, it stung a little to know that Ben just didn’t seem to need him as much as he used to.

The next message on the machine began with a gruff cough.

“Yeah, this is Ned Willis, and this call is for Louis Kincaid, the private investigator.”

Willis...the district attorney on the fraud case he had just finished down in Bonita Springs.

“You were set to testify next week but the trial has been postponed,” Willis said. “We’ve rescheduled for September
3
but we definitely still need you to be here. My office will follow up with a letter. Thanks.”

The next voice was female, flat and all too familiar.

“You have no more messages.”

Louis stared at the machine for a moment then reset it to record. He got a fresh Heineken from the refrigerator, picked up the stack of mail and went out onto the screened-in porch.

Issy
was curled on the lounge chair and
he set her g
ently aside
before he sat down. He
took a long draw from the Heineken as he sorted through the mail.
The stack was
fat with supermarket flyers, bills,
a
Lillian Vernon catalog –-
how the hell had he gotten on that mailing list?
–
bank
and credit card statements, and two copies of “Police” magazine.

He set the bills in one pile, gave the “Police” cover a quick glance and tossed the Lillian Vernon catalog to the floor. Something bright fluttered out.

A postcard.
A postcard showing a horse and buggy.

Oh
shit...

He retrieved the card but he didn’t need to look at the back. He knew who it was from. With a sigh, he turned it over.

Hi Louis,

I found this card at the farmer’s market. It’s Mackinac Island! Isn’t it funny that I found it here and it’s the exact same place where we’re going to go for my birthday? You don’t have to give me a present. You can take me on a buggy ride instead. I can’t wait to see you! – Lily

Louis looked out over the gulf. The sun was starting to set
,
leaving a pink smudge in the heat-hazed yellow sky.

Lily’s birthday was September
2
and he had promised her he would come up to Michigan and take her to Mackinac Island. But now the damn fraud trial had been postponed and he had to be here instead.

Shit.
S
hit
, shit
...shit!

He felt eyes on him and looked down to see
Issy
looking up at him.

“What?” he said.

The cat just stared at him.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m a fuck-up. I’m a fuck-up who can’t be bothered to pay attention to a
cat let alone a kid.”

Issy
jumped off the lounge and went into the cottage. With sigh,
Louis
looked at the postcard again.

Until
just a few months
ago, he hadn’t even known he had a daughter. Lily’s mother Kyla had been an on-and-off girlfriend during his senior year at University of Michigan.
The night she came to his dorm to tell him she was pregnant was etched in his memory like
a bad dream.

Rain pounding on the window.
Kyla standing at the door of his dorm room, so soaked from the rain he didn’t even notice the tears running down her face.

I’m pregnant, Louis.

What do you want from me, Kyla?

I want to know you love me. I want to know you’ll be there for me.

He didn’t tell her what he was thinking. That he was twenty years old and he didn’t want his life to be over. He just wanted -- after too many foster homes, too many years bouncing from one
place and face to another –- he just wanted a clear smooth road ahead for a change.

Kyla’s last words to him that night still stung.

I’ll get rid of it then.

And his words stung worse.

Go ahead.

Louis stared at Lily’s looped signature.
Lily...just Lily.
That was always how she signed the cards. What did he expect?
Love, Lily
?

Lily.
Just Lily.

Kyla couldn’t have known of course. Couldn’t have known that the name she had given to their daughter was a hybrid of her own name and that of Louis’s dead mother Lila. Strange that the two females in his life who were like strangers to him had blended into this third little female who was becoming...

Becoming what?

His daughter?

He wasn’t a father. Not yet. He had a long ways to go to earn that title. He had no idea what it was going to take right now but he had the strange feeling it was going to be like running the tactical course, a series of twists and turns where things would come flying out of the blue and you never knew what was going to hit you and lay you low.

He downed the last of the beer. The low slant of the sun told him it was maybe six-thirty.
Still plenty early enough to call Ann Arbor.

He gathered up the mail and went back inside. Setting the mail by the phone, he dialed Kyla’s number but it went to the answering machine.
He had a vague memory of the last time he had phoned
and
Lily telling him she was going to ballet camp in
Interlochen
sometime in August.

Damn.

Breaking the
news to Lily that he wasn’t going to make it for her birthday
was not something he could leave in a message
so he hung up. He’d try again
in a couple days
.

He stared at the steady red light of the answering machine, thinking now of Mel and Ben.

He thought, too, about the small group of people who circled in his life’s orbit. Dan Wainwright, the first chief he had worked with when he moved to F
ort
Myers. Dan had retired two years ago and moved to Arizona
.
And Sam and Margaret
Dodie
, the older couple who treated him like a son but lately only seemed to call on holidays. And his foster parents Phi
l
lip and Frances. Even his contact with them had dwindled. Last time he talked to them -– was it a month ago or two? --
they
had bought a new Airstream and were planning to wend their way toward Yosemite.

Everyone was moving on with their lives, moving away from him.

Even Joe.

Especially Joe.

After she left her job at Miami homicide to take the sheriff’s job up in northern Michigan, they hadn’t managed to make good on their promises to visit each other. When he had called her last Christmas, she had said that maybe they should see other people. It wasn’t just the two thousand miles that separated them, he knew. It was the widening hole in
his own
life. Joe had put words to it.

I want you to want something for yourself
. Louis
.

And her unspoken words -– and until you do I don’t want you.

He grabbed the receiver and dialed Joe’s cabin. He got the machine and hung up without leaving a message. When he dialed Joe’s private number at the Lee County Sheriff’s Department her secretary answered.

“This is Louis Kincaid,” he said. “Is the Sheriff still there?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s not.”

Louis shifted to look at the clock on the stove. It was nearly seven. Joe was probably on her way home.

“Do you want to leave a message?” the secretary asked.

“No, thanks.
I’ll try her at home.”

“Oh
,
she’s not there. She won’t be back in town until next Monday.”

Louis shifted the receiver to his other ear.

“Would you like to leave a message mister
--
”

“Kincaid.
Louis Kincaid. No, no message.” He started to hang up. “Wait, can you tell me where she went?”

The secretary hesitated.

“I’m a good friend,” Louis said.