Runaway Heart (23 page)

     
"Well the labs are great. . ."

     
"Like the one you were just in?"

     
"Well, that's not so much a lab, really, it's—it's. . ."
And she stopped and looked at him closer. "Do I, like, know you?"

     
"No." Jack wondered what was going through her fuzzy
head besides Metallica music.

     
She finally said, "It's not a lab, it's paid work. We work
like on a scholarship program. Some of us got recruited outta high school
'cause we scored high on computer aptitude, so Dean Nichols gave us these
partial scholarships. He runs this special program at the lab three times a week.
At least, I have it three times. I think there's also a Tuesday, Friday, and
Sunday lab for some other kids."

     
"And you get paid," Jack smiled. "That's pretty
cool."

     
"Half tuition and all our books."

     
"Really? And what do you have to do?"

     
"Like, we just monitor stuff. It's pretty complicated. You
should ask Dean Nichols. It's supposed to be like a secret. We're not supposed
to say. Gotta go. I hope your daughter comes here, it rocks." She turned
and bebopped away, mixing with the others until he lost sight of her.

     
It took them as long going down the two flights as it
had going up,
Herman grabbing the rail and slowly lowering himself step by step. Jack had
seen piano movers make better time. Herman finally folded himself into the silver
Mercedes, dropping his ass in first, then backing in like the last clown in the
Volkswagen. Jack got in beside him on the passenger's side.

     
"What do you think?" Herman wheezed softly, still out of
breath from the walk.

     
"You heard her. She's, like, on a scholarship. She works in a
lab, like, monitoring stuff."

     
"She said it was secret," Herman wheezed.

     
"Vandyke's an academic. These guys guard their research. He's
probably writing a book." Jack was studying Herman, thinking the man
really did need to get his ticker fixed, and he was just about to suggest that
when the overweight man turned and looked him right in the eye. Jack saw
something in that raccoon glare that almost scared him—a latent intensity that
didn't square up with his broken-down condition and schlubby build.

     
"I want you to follow Dean Nichols," Herman said.
"See where he goes, who he talks to."

     
"You mean a stakeout? Goody, those are neato." Jack was
trying to make it sound as stupid as he thought it was. He didn't want to run a
stakeout on a tweedy asshole like Dean Nichols. "Look, Herman, I really
don't think there's much here. That's my trained, law-enforcement opinion.
Furthermore, I think you need to address your medical problems."

     
"But you said there was a homicidal maniac here."

     
"I didn't say that. I said don't hand your card around like
you're Mike Ovitz until we know what we're dealing with. In police work you
have to rate your possibilities— you have to figure where your best opportunities
are. I'm telling you, in my professional opinion, this is a dead end."

     
"But it's a secret lab," Herman challenged.

     
"Yeah, and my guess is that the Pentagon and DARPA aren't
using teenagers to work top-security programs with sexy names like Octopus. We
went off the track somewhere. I think we need to back up because we missed
something."

     
"I want you to follow Dean Nichols. I have a hunch."

     
"That's not a hunch, that's a chemical reaction. I had it
too. He's an arrogant shit with oh-so-slick hair, but that doesn't make him a
government spook."

"I think it's worth pursuing. Since
I'm paying you a thousand a day, you should do what I say. If that doesn't work
for you, I'll get someone else."

     
Jack got out of the car. "I'll call you if I get
anything."

     
Herman nodded and drove away.

     
"Bitchin'. A stakeout," Jack said to himself. "And
he's
payin'
me."

     
Of course, Jack didn't know that both checks had already bounced,
and by the time he found out, it would already be too late.

A
fter Herman left, Jack tried to call
Wells Fargo, but his cell battery was fried. So he walked to the Administration
building and used their pay phone. After laboring through the bank's
computerized help menu, a recorded voice informed him that Mrs. Donovan wasn't
available—please leave a message. He left his name, then picked up a
two-hundred-page academic catalogue, sat in the air-conditioned waiting room,
and looked up Dr. Nichols, dean of the Pepperdine Computer Science School, who
was listed as a "distinguished professor." A string of letters hung
off the end of his name like knots in a kite's tail: A.B.M.A., M.A., Ph.D.

     
Jack already knew he was distinguished, because he'd seen the
neatly trimmed Vandyke. But it was his pedigree paragraph that caught Jack's
interest. Dr. Paul Nichols had done his graduate work at Georgetown University
in Washington, D.C., right down the road from CIA headquarters in Langley,
Virginia. It wasn't exactly a big "wow," but further complicating the
dean's curriculum vitae was his doctorate degree. His Ph.D. was in political
science, not computer science—which begged the question: What was he doing
running the computer science school at Pepperdine?

     
He read on. Dr. Paul Nichols had been a dean since 2001—a
short-timer. Strangely, he also coached women's volleyball. An interesting
sideline. But then, everybody loves tall, muscular girls in sports bras.

     
He found a listing for the campus police office and used
the guest phone
to make a call, pretending to be one of the names he picked at random off the
faculty listing page.

     
"Hello, University Police Department," a man's voice
answered.

     
"This is Dean Harry Gransky, Communications and
Journalism," Jack said, pinching his nose for acoustical effect.
"That damn Dean Nichols is in my parking space again. I can't park
anywhere, 'cause the lot's full."

     
"Are you sure it was Dean Nichols's car?" the man asked.

     
"Think I don't know his damn car by now? This is the fifth
time he's done it. The brown Chevy Nova with the purple antenna feather?"
Just fucking around a little, trying to shake a case of boredom.

     
"Just a minute." And he was on hold, listening to a
strange rendition of "Eleanor Rigby" done on the bagpipes.

     
The man came back. "I just punched out Dean Nichols's parking
pass. He's not driving a brown Nova. He drives a blue Chevelle."

     
A
Chevelle?
Jack thought.
Who, except postal inspectors,
drive Chevelles?
"Are you sure? Gimme his plate number."

     
"ewu
357," the man said.
"Listen, Dean Gransky, maybe just for today you could find an empty spot
in the Baxter Drive lot."

     
"I'll
try, but this always makes me late for
class."

     
Jack hung up and walked back across campus to his Ford Fairlane,
vehicle of champions. He backed out and drove around looking for Dean Nichols's
blue Chevelle. He found it in a freshly paved upper lot off Tower Road. Jack
waited until a woman in a red Volkswagen nearby pulled out, then he stole her
space, turned off his engine, and adjusted his side mirror so he could watch
the dean's old Chevelle drip axle grease on the fresh, new pavement. He spent
the afternoon watching his minute hand make three painfully slow laps around
the dial, gobbled some Peres, washed them down with bottled water, then belched
loudly. Whatta life.

At 4:30 Dean Paul Nichols wandered out to his Chevelle,
unlocked the trunk, and put his briefcase and stack of papers inside. No
volleyballs.

     
Damn. Jack had been looking forward to volleyball practice.

     
Dean Nichols got behind the wheel and tooled the little blue
Chevelle out of the parking lot. Jack backed up and followed.

     
The next few stops were studies in adrenalized exhilaration. Paul
Nichols went to the supermarket, pulled into the lot, then added to the day's
excitement by committing a parking lot felony and stealing a handicapped stall.

     
Jack wished he'd never heard of Herman Strockmire Jr. or the
Institute for Planetary Justice. Susan was still on his wait-and-see list.

     
He sat in his car, yawning occasionally, until Dr. Nichols finally
pushed his shopping cart out of the market and loaded his groceries in the
trunk.

     
Then it was off to the laundry and a heart-pounding trip to the
drugstore. Breathtaking. This stakeout was definitely going in the book.

     
Next, Paul headed up the Coast Highway, turned right, and snaked
over Malibu Canyon road to the Ventura Freeway, drove east toward Studio City,
got off on Coldwater, drove back over the hill, and finally dropped down into
Boy's Town. Then Paul veered right and drove toward Beverly Hills.

     
Jack wondered where the hell Paul Nichols was going. And then he
found out. He was going home.

     
The house was amazing. It was in the middle of the block on the
very expensive part of North Canon Drive. Jack parked a couple hundred yards
down the street. The houses were huge, and the one Paul Nichols turned his blue
Chevelle into was among the biggest. It had a kind of nouveau-Ali-Baba motif.
The architects in L.A. were doing way too much coke in the '80s.

     
Jack watched as Paul Nichols took out his house keys,
unlocked the
massive oak front door, then made three trips back and forth, carrying the
contents of his trunk into the house and disappeared inside.

     
Jack flipped on his cell phone to see if it might have regenerated
after a few hours of inactivity. He was in luck and getting a little power
residue. He disconnected the battery and rubbed it vigorously on his pants,
feeling it warm with the friction. He hoped he'd added to the charge as he put
it back in, turned on the phone, dialed Wells Fargo Bank, and navigated the
computerized customer-service system again.

     
It was almost five and he had a sinking feeling there was trouble
with one of Susan's checks.

  
   
"Yes, this is Mrs. Donovan," a
brittle voice said.

     
"Jack Wirta, returning your call," talking fast, trying
to beat a battery flameout.

     
"Mr. Wirta . . . good. Yesterday you deposited two checks
totaling twenty-two fifty-one, twenty-five, both of which have . . ." and
the phone went dead.

     
"Which? What!?" he shouted into the dead receiver, but
she was gone. The phone was beeping and the display flashed
low bat.
He had to restrain himself
from throwing the damn thing at the dash—but he knew there was only one way her
sentence probably ended—with the words "insufficient funds."

     
The Strockmires had stiffed him.

First he had to find a pay phone to
finish the conversation with Mrs. Donovan, then he was going to head out to the
beach house and start collecting wallets and watches. Just as these ignoble
thoughts overtook him the front door to the house opened again and Paul Nichols
came out.

He'd changed. No longer a tweedy
academic, he was now decked out in cat-burglar black.

     
As Jack watched, he backed the blue Chevelle out of the drive and
headed toward Sunset.

Decision time.

     
Why should I continue to tail this guy? I'm not being paid, but my
instinct says go for it. But why? Why should

     
I
stay on the job when both checks undoubtedly have bounced?

     
Let's cut to the bottom line then. What do you really want, Jack?

     
I guess what I really want is to get laid.

     
There it was: as cheap and transparent as a political promise.

     
At its heart, the most appealing thing about this case was its
beautiful check-bouncer, Susan Strockmire.