Perpetual Motion (13 page)

As he got off the interstate, an oil pump
pounded away at the dry and dusty ground. It seemed like a strange
sight in the otherwise urban landscape; a throwback to an earlier
time in California history – to the days of the oil rush, almost a
century ago.

By the time he found the address, light was
spreading through the skies; the day catching up with him. The
house was a modest brick ranch in a not-so -great area of town.
Then again, a lot of areas of Long Beach where ‘not-so-great.’ A VW
Beatle circa 1970 was parked in the driveway.

The Impala pulled in behind the Bug, blocking
it in. Getting out, Cynical slammed his door shut and walked across
the overgrown lawn to the front door. It was still early, but he
didn’t have time to wait for a more appropriate time to pay a
visit. He knocked, gently at first, then hard enough to wake anyone
sleeping inside.

“Hey, Fernando,” Cynical said loudly into the
slab of wood. “Karen and Desmond sent me.”

After a couple of minutes of standing at the
front door, he went around and rapped on the back door. Despite all
his efforts, the house stayed quiet, showing no sign of life. Now,
if he were a cop, he would have to get a search warrant and come
back with someone to monitor the entire procedure. But, he wasn’t a
cop anymore and, sometimes, that had advantages too.

Going back to his car, he opened the trunk
and reached into a bag for a couple of specialty tools. Slipping on
a pair of latex gloves, he glanced around the sleepy neighborhood.
He no longer had the cover of night; the shade of gray shadows
would have to do. If he didn’t act fast, even that advantage would
evaporate.

Briskly walking to the back door, he knelt
down and got to work. Attaching a blade to a converted electric
screwdriver, he inserted it in the keyway. With a flick of a
switch, the blade began vibrating at a frequency which transmitted
the pin numbers within the cylinder. In a few minutes, he was
in.

Shutting the door behind him, he whispered,
“Fernando?”

A foul odor singed his nostrils in response;
it was a smell he knew all too well from working homicide.
Following the putrid smell down the hallway, he could feel his
heart beating faster, even though he knew the threat was already
long gone. There was a body in the house all right, but no one was
home.

In the back bedroom, he found Fernando, still
in his bathrobe, slouched across the mattress. Cynical crossed
himself in spite of the fact that he wasn’t Catholic.

The body was facing down - two entry points
in the back of his head, execution style. Without gunpowder
analysis, it was hard to know if the gunman had been close when he
pulled the trigger. Sometimes, ‘stippling’ or burn marks made it
obvious that shots were fired at very close range. He didn’t see
any indication of that, and hoped Fernando never saw it coming.

The body had already gone from rigor mortis
back to a more relaxed state, putting the death at least 36 to 48
hours out. Marble, vein-like patterns on his dark forearms pushed
the death further back, to well past two days ago. The stench alone
told him the body had probably been breaking down for closer to a
week.

Cynical sighed. Along with the smell of
decay, there was always a despondency that clung to an unnatural
death. He didn’t know a lot about Fernando, except that he was an
exceptionally gifted young man who had worked hard to bring
something amazing into the world - and it had gotten him two slugs
in the brain stem.

The stench slapped him again in the face,
reminding him he didn’t have time to be sentimental or
philosophical. He was standing in the middle of a murder scene and
he’d used illegal tools to be there. So, how did it go down?

Scanning the room, he noticed the back
window, partially ajar. While the killer could have simply shot
Fernando from the window, the line of sight didn’t line up with the
body. Instead, he surmised the killer had snuck in through the
window and waited in the bedroom, probably the closet.

Pushing back the closet doors revealed a
large pile of laundry, but no casings, at least none that he could
see. Not that he could do much with any discharges anyway. His
ballistics team was about on par with his bomb squad.

Not wanting to linger, Cynical walked quickly
back through the house, looking for anything that might provide a
clue for who had shot Fernando and why. All he came across was a
phone that had been disconnected and a computer monitor and
keyboard with no tower.

The more he looked, the less he found. It was
impossible to say for sure if the house had been swept, but it was
extremely devoid of any useful evidence.

From the kitchen, he opened a door to the
garage. Flicking on a light revealed a workbench with a myriad of
tools and metal scrapings. Carefully painted on the inside of the
garage door was a big broken circle; one end curved in slightly
below the other. It was the same design he’d seen the day before on
the wall at the O-Motors factory.

He wanted to spend more time in the shop, but
knew he needed to go. The last thing he wanted was to spend the
rest of the day trying to answer questions at the local precinct.
Theories of black ops and private mercenary units would not go over
very well with the boys in blue. Cops generally liked things nice
and simple and his last few days would not fit neatly into a police
report.

As he let himself out the back door, he
noticed the sun was up and the birds were chirping. Coming around
the house, he waited for a morning commuter to pass before casually
strolling to his own car. Tossing his tools into the floorboard, he
slowly pulled out onto the street, hoping he hadn’t made an
impression on any neighbors, and no one would remember a
forgettable Impala.

A good mile from the house, Cynical began to
feel safer, although the stench of death still clung to him. It was
a psychological, if not physical, effect that would linger for a
while. Peeling off his gloves, he took out his phone and pressed a
preprogrammed number.

The voice that answered skipped the
salutation. “I ran the report on Dexter and haven’t come up with
anything yet,” Cynthia reported hurriedly. “He has a Chevy Nova
registered to him, but no recent warrants or tickets. I haven’t had
time to run any banking reports. That one might be tougher to
do.”

“Thanks, but that’s not why I’m calling,”
Cynical said, cutting in. “Let me give you an address.” He heard a
snorting sound on the other end, which he ignored. “Twelve fifteen
San Miquel Avenue. That’s in Long Beach.”

“You know I can’t get a search warrant,” she
said flatly.

“We’re way past that. It’s a 187.” When
Cynthia didn’t respond right away, he continued. “The stiff’s name
is Fernando and I don’t know much about him, including his last
name. By the way, if it’s all the same, I’d prefer to call this an
anonymous tip.”

There was a sound on the other end that
conveyed more irritation. “Does this have anything to do with this
Dexter?”

“No. I mean Michael had nothing to do with
this murder,” Cynical clarified. Considering how far to go, he
decided to just stick to the murder scene and not delve into the
details of his own case. “I don’t think you’re going to find
anything on this one. It has that
spooky
look to it.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the CIA took
out someone named Fernando in Long Beach?” Cynthia asked with a
hefty dose of sarcasm.

“I never said CIA,” he corrected. “I just
think it’s going to be a clean scene.”

“Do you have any idea why the vic was
targeted?”

“That’s what an angle I’m working on,”
Cynical said, trying to get off the phone. “If you hear anything,
let me know, especially if you find out anything about Dexter.”

“We’ll talk soon,” she said, making it sound
like a threat.

As he got back on the freeway, his mind raced
faster than his Impala would carry him. Ever since he’d been jumped
in Vegas and met his new client on a private jet, Cynical knew he
was wading into the deep end of the pool. Now, a cold body had put
him somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

This was a long way from a missing person or
a business deal gone south. Michael and Karen and Desmond were in
real danger. And, potentially, so was he.

It was also obvious that whoever was behind
all this was way ahead of him. If he had any chance of finding
Michael first, he had to find a way to catch up, and Karen was his
shortcut. Michael just needed to call his fiancé and tell her where
he was and agree to meet…without anyone else knowing about it.

Dodging early morning traffic, he looked up
another number on his cell phone and pressed send. After a couple
of rings, the phone was answered by a young, easygoing voice,
“Neuberg.”

“Hey, Angelo, how are you?”

Angelo had more or less inherited the family
business from his father, Morty, who was something of a local
legend in the field of security and surveillance.

“Cynical? Hey Man!” Angelo shouted into the
phone. Then, away from the receiver, “Hey Pops – its Cynical.”
There was a longer pause before he came back. “Pops wants to know
how come you never call? Are your fingers broken or what?”

“I’m calling now,” Cynical said, anxious to
move things along. “How much would it cost to get you guys to do
some work for me later today?”

“Today?” Angelo asked as if he’d just told a
good-natured joke. “We’re pulling up to a job right now.”

“I’m talking life and death here,” Cynical
said without a hint of hyperbole.

There was silence on the other end as Angelo
covered the phone to talk to the old man. A moment later, he was
back; more serious this time. “What’s the job?”

“A tiny apartment,” Cynical said. “But it
needs a complete sweep. I’m up against some real pros.”

He waited while a conversation went back and
forth in the background. Cynical knew the mention of ‘real pros’
would intrigue the Neubergs, who were always up for a challenge. He
tried to listen in, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the
road. The interstate was starting to fill up with commuters, making
the drive herky-jerky.

“Pop says he’ll cut me loose this afternoon,”
Angelo said. “I’ll swing by around three, but only because it’s
you.”

“Thanks,” Cynical said, giving him the
address. It was good news. Angelo was every bit as good as his old
man and definitely worked faster. “One more thing… Do you have
something you could wear?”

“Like what? Pants?”

“Like a phone company uniform or
something?”

There was a laugh on the other end. “Oh,
we’re going undercover, are we?” Angelo said, smiling through the
phone. “Yeah, I’ll need to swing by my house, but I’ll wear
something suitable.”

“See you later,” Cynical said before hanging
up.

He didn’t like his friends thinking he only
called when he needed something, even though that was a pretty
accurate assessment. The reality was, he was a user of people. Of
course, wasn’t everybody? We all wanted something; some just hid it
better than others. And, right now, he needed all the help he could
get.

It was still early when Cynical pulled up to
the apartment building where Desmond called home. Taking a moment,
he glanced around for the black sedan with the smoking driver. The
car wasn’t around, but that didn’t stop him from reaching for the
nine millimeter he kept under his seat. Fernando’s corpse made him
feel a little precaution was more than justified.

Tucking the handgun into his jacket, he got
out and took one more look up and down the street. There were cars
and a dead palm tree or two, but no smoking sedans. Cynical went
over to the faded and peeling door and, when his knock wasn’t
instantly answered; he felt a horrible sinking feeling in his
gut.

Knocking harder, he rattled the wood in its
hinges. “Desmond!” he barked in an urgent tone. “Karen! It’s
me.”

An anxious thirty seconds later, the door
cracked open a couple of inches, allowing Desmond’s sleepy eye to
peak out over a flimsy chain.

“Let me in,” Cynical said impatiently.

The door closed; then reopened, as Desmond
stepped aside to let the x-detective enter. With his hair sticking
up in all directions, the young inventor looked like he’d stuck his
finger into an electrical socket. Cynical noticed the blankets on
the couch and figured he’d just rolled out of his makeshift
bed.

Karen stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing
her eyes. “Good morning,” she muttered. “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty,” Cynical answered.

“I thought you were going to check on
Fernando this morning?”

“I’ve already been to Fernando’s.” Cynical
dreaded this part and yet, it was unavoidable. “Someone beat me
over there.”

He waited for it to sink in. Instead, the
kids just exchanged a blank look.

“What are you saying?”

“He’s dead,” Cynical said plainly. “Someone
shot him.”

“Oh my God!” Karen shrieked as she turned and
ran back into the bedroom.

Desmond’s whole body slumped as he stared
dumbly at the floor. Then, Karen let out another high-pitched
scream, followed by hysterical sobbing.

“Why don’t you go check on her,” Cynical
suggested.

Looking up through teary eyes, it took
Desmond a moment to seem to understand the words. Slowly, he wafted
toward the soft wailing coming from his bedroom.

Back when he was a patrol cop, Cynical had to
show up at the closest of kin with the deceased’s personal effects.
Watching a spouse or parent or a child come to the realization that
the impossible had happened was like witnessing the murder all over
again. That was one part of being a policeman he had never
missed.