The Answer Man (14 page)

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Don't worry,” Michaelson said. “I have an idea I'm working on. I'll get back to you on it.”

“Sooner rather than later?”

“You got it. Listen, I might be able to do a better job if I knew what you're afraid of. What did you guys do?”

“It's best that you remain on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

“And at what point will I need to know?”

“The point at which all hell breaks loose.” Decker stared glassy-eyed out the window. “Which may come sooner than any of us would like.”

“Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

Hound Dog tried not to look irritated at Mark's latest outburst. He didn't understand. He said he did, but it was more and more obvious he never could.

He glared at the Lexis/Nexis printouts and Department of Motor Vehicle request forms. “This is sick!”

“It's a hobby!”

“Riding around on your motorcycle all night, taking pictures of car accidents and murder victims,
that's
a hobby. Barely. But this is going over the edge.”

“Look at this!”

“I don't want to look. It's none of our business.”

“This is all stuff I got at the library. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm just trying to figure this out. Madeleine Walton and Myth Daniels are the same person. But why the different names?”

“Who cares?”

“
I
do. She's one of the best attorneys in the city, and she's hiding from another life. Aren't you at least a little curious?”

“I'll wait for it to turn up on
Hard Copy,
all right?”

“What's your problem? Why are you being such a wad about this?”

He turned from the articles and photos littering her workbench. It was another hot day in their trailer, and it was only getting hotter. He pulled a curtain and turned the tiny crank to open a roll-slat window.

He turned back. “I'm worried about you.”

“Worried? Because you think I'm nuts?”

“No. Because I think you might get yourself hurt. You don't know what it's like for me, sweetheart. I come home
from the club at three or four in the morning, and most nights you aren't even home.”

“You knew that's what it would be like.”

“Yeah. But I see from your pictures the places you go, some of the neighborhoods you're in at all hours of the night. Honey, those are places I wouldn't go in my
car.
”

“I always carry the cellular phone you gave me. And I'm perfectly able—”

“And don't tell me you can take care of yourself.”

“Well, I can.”

“Taking care of yourself has nothing to do with it. Things just happen to people. Especially people who take the chances that you do.”

“Should I move out? Is that it?”

“No,” he said quietly. “That's the last thing I want.”

“Why is this suddenly such an issue with you? You didn't used to give me a hard time.”

“Well, maybe…” He hesitated. “Maybe I
care
more now. All right?”

She felt some of her anger drain away.

He continued. “The longer we're together, the more I can see a
future
together.”

Surprised, she stared silently at him. They had never discussed their relationship in terms other than the here and now, and Mark generally was not one to express his feelings so openly.

“I don't want to lose you, honey,” he said simply.

“You won't.”

She snuggled close and kissed him. She didn't want to lose him either.

She had met him a year and a half before. There was a car accident outside his club, and he was one of the rubberneckers. When she arrived, he had just gotten off work. His starched white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his bow tie was undone and hanging at his lapels. He stood watching, his hands in his pockets, the tux jacket draped
casually over his left forearm. The wind lightly tousled his thick, wavy hair.

He was beautiful.

She took some obligatory shots of the accident scene, but she couldn't resist turning her camera on this incredible figure of a man. He approached her, and they went to breakfast together. Since that night, she never even considered dating anyone else.

She had said “I love you” to other guys before, but only with Mark did she realize what the words really meant. She was lucky, so lucky, to have him.

Mark looked down at the information and photos she had collected. “You shouldn't dig into this woman's private life. Maybe she had a good reason for changing her name.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. But I think you'd be better off if you left it alone.”

“You know I'm not going to do that.”

“Maybe Myth Daniels has a long-lost twin.”

“No. Madeleine Walton's Lexis entries end just before Myth Daniels's begin. It's the same person, but an entirely new life.”

“Okay, it's the same person. Now what?”

She plopped down onto her red beanbag chair. “Now I think it's time I went to the source.”

At home that afternoon, Ken thought about what he had learned from Myth and Dennis Keogler. If Vikkers had purposefully spread fake data around, had Sabini been in on it too? Maybe not. The “pocket program” had done all the work. If Sabini had been party to it, he would have been able to adjust the figures himself. Would Myth have any idea where to go from there? Even if she did, he wasn't sure if he could trust her.

That private eye had made sense. Damn him.

Ken went to his bedroom window, peered through the
blinds, and there, on the street below, was Michaelson's Acura. The P.I. was in the passenger seat.

“Son of a bitch,” Ken said under his breath.

Ninety seconds later he jerked open the door of Michaelson's car and plopped down in the seat next to him. Ken sat there listening to the whiny country-western song on the radio.

“Good afternoon,” Michaelson said.

Ken looked over at him. “Is it my day to be watched?”

“Yeah. Myth Daniels is tied up at the courthouse all day. Not much going on there.” Michaelson lifted up a red thermos. “Want some lemonade?”

“What makes you think you can get your hands on that money?”

“Because I know Sabini didn't work alone. It's not that he wasn't smart, but he didn't have the
kind
of smarts he'd need to pull this off by himself.”

“Who would've?”

“The twelve-million-dollar question. But if there's still someone out there, he or she might still screw up.”

“
Or she.
You still think Myth had something to do with it.”

“I'm keeping an open mind. So are you, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're here talking to me, aren't you? I'll bet you're not so eager to share your bed with her now. You'd have to lie awake, thinking that she was gonna murder you in your sleep. Am I right?”

“You talk too much, Michaelson.”

The P.I. chuckled. “She wouldn't kill you in your own place anyway. Too risky. Someone might see her coming or going. A woman like that, people remember. It'd have to be somewhere out of the way, like where Sabini got it.”

“This is all bullshit. If I'm going to believe you, I need more than these stabs in the dark. What makes you think she might be in on this?”

“Did you know she was sleeping with Sabini?”

The words sliced right through Ken. It was getting harder to pretend he wasn't bothered by the investigator's insinuations.

“How do you know?”

“I was following him. He stayed at her place a few nights.
All night
a few nights. And you should have seen 'em when they thought they were alone. They were all over each other. It sure looked funny. Can you imagine the two of them going at it? The goddess gyrating on that little dweeb?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ooooh. I guess you
can
imagine it. But that's what leads me to imagine a lot of other things. I don't think she was attracted to his magnetic personality or his smoldering good looks. Do you?”

Ken didn't answer. He was trying to remember the times he saw the two of them together, and he could not think of one instance in which they appeared to be anything other than business acquaintances.

Michaelson snickered. “You're getting a lot of unwelcome attention from the cops right now. And Myth Daniels doesn't have a care in the world, not really. Except if you crack, then it's all over for her. If I were you, I'd watch my back.”

“If you were me, you'd know I have nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so. But
I
know you helped Burton Sabini out with the polygraph. Doesn't that worry you?”

“No, because I know you're doing a number on the company that's paying you to find their money.”

“If push came to shove, I'd just say I was playing all the angles on their behalf. I'd tell 'em I was
pretending
to blackmail you to determine if you had the dough or not. They'd buy it.”

“You wouldn't take that chance.”

“You wanna try me?”

Ken sighed. “What the hell do you want? I already told you I don't have the money.”

“Let's just say you owe me a favor. I'll collect on it in the near future.”

Ken sat for a moment longer, listening to another twangy song on the radio. He leaned forward and switched the station to hard-driving rock and roll.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Michaelson objected.

Ken opened the car door, climbed out, and turned back. “I hate country music.”

He slammed the door and walked away.

I
t was half past eight on a clear, balmy evening when Ken pulled the starter on Bill's boat. The engine sputtered to life, coughing fuel through the sun-cracked hoses. A quiet sunset cruise was exactly what he needed just then. Away from all thoughts of Burton Sabini, Myth Daniels, Ted Michaelson, and the mess he had gotten himself into.

If Myth had been sleeping with Sabini, the guy probably would have told her anything she wanted to know. Anything. So she may actually have the stolen money. That would explain her initial resistance to looking for it. She had participated in Ken's investigation only after it was clear he was pressing forward without her. Maybe she just wanted to keep tabs on him, to make sure he didn't catch on.

But could he trust Michaelson? It was obvious the P.I. still suspected that he and Myth had worked together to stash the money away. Michaelson was keeping him under observation, and the warning was probably intended to arouse his suspicions and shake out information. Ken just wished to hell he had some information to give.

He backed the
Vivianne
away from the slip. He'd wait until he was farther out to crank up the stereo. There were probably people sleeping in some of the other boats, and they wouldn't appreciate Van Halen blasting them awake.

Ken steered away from shore for fifteen minutes. He
finally eased back on the throttle, and the engine dropped to a gentle purr. He looked up. Stars. How long had it been since he had noticed the stars?

Too long.

If only his brother were with him. Bobby had loved tagging along on these excursions, relaxing as the
Vivianne
gently rode the waves. Bobby would be here again, Ken thought. Someday.

A warm breeze caressed Ken's face as he turned starboard into the wind. He took a deep breath. There was a scent of pine in the air, drifting from a dense forest on the darkened shore.

He cut the engine. Blissful silence. Playful waves lapped against the
Vivianne
's hull. For the first time in weeks, Ken felt himself relax. He grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped the top. The solutions to his problems weren't any closer, but they didn't have to be. As long as he could forget for a while.

He heard something.

The faint roar of another boat.

Ken looked fore, aft, port, and starboard. Nothing. But as the roar intensified, he thought it was somewhere off his port side.

He switched on the running lights to make his presence known. The roar was getting closer, but Ken still couldn't see another boat.

A couple of kids out for some makeout action, probably. City kids had their cars, farm kids had their haylofts, and lakeshore kids had their boats. Ken had been a lakeshore kid.

The roar grew closer still. Where were the boat's lights?

He switched on the mounted spotlight and turned it toward the sound.

Still nothing. The roar became louder.

Suddenly a gray hull broke the spotlight's beam fifty yards away. It was a much larger boat, maybe a thirty-footer. It slowed to a stop and idled in the glare of the
Vivianne
's halogen spotlight. No lights emanated from the mystery vessel.

Ken looked incredulously at the boat. It was like sitting in an empty movie theater and watching a stranger walk in and take the seat right next to you.

As he considered averting the spotlight beam, the other craft revved its engines. What the hell? Was someone looking for a race?

The other boat lurched forward and hurtled toward his port side.

Holy shit.

Ken gripped the wheel and braced himself. The impact knocked him to the deck. He scraped a leg across sharp rigging as he went down. The larger boat's engines rang in his ears. Deafening. Angry. Violent.

The
Vivianne
spun away from the other vessel, rocking in its powerful wake. Ken clutched his right knee. It was damp.

Blood.

He pulled himself to his feet. His right leg couldn't support him. He eased down behind the wheel.

The other boat was circling back.

Ken punched the starter. Nothing.

Again. Still nothing.

Come on, you son of a bitch…

The big boat rammed his stern, jolting Ken as the
Vivianne
's fiberglass hull cracked. Water seeped onto the deck.

Ken struggled with the starter.

Come on, come on, come on…

The engine finally roared to life. It was far weaker than the monster that was after him.

Ken glanced up. The bigger boat was coming back for another run.

Why?

He throttled the engine. Gotta outrace it. His life depended on it.

He looked back at the vessel. Could he beat it back to shore?

Not a chance. It was gaining fast.

His leg was killing him.

More water sloshed on the deck.

The boat rammed his stern again. And again. And again. Each collision shook his boat with ferocious intensity. The craft moved alongside his own.

Ken squinted to see who was at the wheel.

He saw no one. There were no lights on deck. The vessel loomed large, a shadow against the night sky.

It struck the bow. A starboard window shattered, and glass sprayed across his face. Some of it stuck like day-old stubble. He opened his eyes and gunned his engine harder.

Bam!

Another hit on the bow.

Ken veered away. He glanced around, frantically trying to get his bearings.

Bam!

He gripped the wheel hard. It was sticky with blood. He smelled the oily stench of his craft's engine overheating.

How much more could the boat take?

How much more could
he
take?

Water sloshed around his ankles.

The pump. Gotta find the pump.

He threw open the storage locker and fished out the water pump. He had never used it before. How did this thing work?

Bam!

Hell of a time to learn.

Ken plugged it in, threw the hose over the railing, and prayed the pump would do its thing.

It did. At least for the moment.

Ken jumped behind the wheel. He spun it hard to port, leaving the larger boat behind. He had more maneuverability, which was his only advantage.

Unless he found a way to exploit that advantage, he'd be dead meat.

Up ahead, Ken recognized what locals called “Klang's
Thicket,” a dense patch of trees, vegetation, and overgrown weeds. It was big enough that the larger boat could still follow him, but that was the plan.

If only he could make it there.

The boat struck his stern again. Engines roared and water churned. Ken couldn't feel his right knee.

The pump was working overtime, but cool water continued to wash across the deck.

He gripped the wheel harder. He had to be careful. If he was off by only a few feet, he would bury himself in the trees and probably stall. He'd be a sitting duck.

But he needed speed so the larger boat couldn't easily follow.

One…two…three!

Ken yanked the wheel hard starboard and flew into the thicket. The larger boat whizzed past.

Perfect. He probably had thirty seconds before it could circle back and come after him. He aimed his spotlight forward and plunged past the water pines. This was his old makeout territory. Was the other boat's pilot as familiar with it?

Ken swerved into a clump of weeds and cut the lights and engine. He waited, listening as the other boat roared through the thicket, snapping low-hanging branches as it barreled through.

Surely it wouldn't be going so fast if the wheelman knew what was ahead.

Ken held his breath as the boat sped past.

It was still going!

After another few seconds he heard the sweet sound of the larger boat's hull being ripped apart by the rocks of Klang's Thicket.

His first impulse was to confront the murderous bastard, but he could barely stand, much less fight.

Whoever it was would be there for a while.

Ken punched the starter. Nothing.

He tried it again. It started. He backed out of the weeds
and left the thicket. There was less water in the boat than before.

As Ken sped for land, he felt his leg again. Cold and numb. It was a mess.

He beached the boat on the sandy shore. If he docked the vessel, it would probably sink before the hull could be repaired.

He hopped back to his MG on one leg, casting a nervous glance back to see if he was being followed. Not as far as he could tell.

Ken started up his car and drove. His leg hurt. His head ached.

He saw a Waffle House. As expected, there was a blue-and-white Forsyth County police car in the parking lot.

Ken pulled in and honked his horn. He waved at the cop through the glass window. The cop waved back and resumed his conversation with the counter girl. Ken honked again. This time the cop scowled, left the counter, and walked toward him.

“What's your problem?”

Ken gestured down to his leg. “Take a look.”

The cop approached cautiously, as if Ken might have an assault weapon in his lap.

He recoiled at the bloody mess Ken's leg had become. “Jesus Christ.”

Ken gritted his teeth. God, it hurt. “Nail the bastard who did this to me. I'll tell you where he is.”

The officer reached for his walkie-talkie. “We gotta get you to the hospital, pal.”

“But the guy who did this—”

“We'll take care of that later.”

Ken gave his statement in the waiting area at the Kensington Hospital emergency room. He felt better after his leg was X-rayed, cleaned, and bandaged. The knee didn't look so bad.

It took an hour and a half before the doctor could see him. While he waited, the police officer returned.

“Here's the story,” the cop told him. “We sent a patrol unit out and found the boat. It's right where you said it was. There's no one inside, and we're conducting a search of the area.”

Ken assumed the cop was invoking a general “we,” since he obviously hadn't left the cozy confines of the hospital. “Do you know whose boat it was?”

“Yeah, it was stolen this evening from a dock on the lake. The owner didn't even know it was gone. They're dusting for prints.”

“Whoever it was tried to kill me.”

“Is there anyone who would have reason to do that?”

Ken found himself shaking his head. “No.”

“Look, it's my guess some kids stole the boat and went joyriding. It happens all the time. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Joyriding. Right.

The doctor put twenty stitches in his leg and informed him that there did not appear to be any permanent damage. He suggested a crutch, but after Ken hobbled around the room a few times, the idea was rejected.

He paid the emergency room tab with his credit card, deciding not to look at the total until the next morning. He wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

He limped back to his car and drove home, all the while wrestling with the inevitable question: Was Myth behind the attack?

Maybe Michaelson was right.

Ken cast a nervous glance in his rearview mirror. All clear. For now.

Since he was limited in what he could tell the police, he was entirely on his own.

So what else was new?

Another of Gant's least favorite clichés of police TV shows was that of the department's seemingly inexhaustible resources. Apparently, money and manpower were always
in plentiful supply, and officers could have as much time as it took to crack every case.

This simply was not true.

He knew it was certainly different in small towns, but on a big-city police force there came a time when it was wiser to cut one's losses. If, after a few days, there were no strong suspects in a homicide investigation, the detective had to present a strong argument for continuing full-time on the case. There were other, solvable murders that required more immediate attention.

He knew the cutoff time was coming on the Carlos Valez investigation. The autopsy report hadn't turned up anything useful, and the only suspect, Ken Parker, had no priors and no evidence against him. It also did not help matters that Valez was a lower-class Latino with a criminal record. That, coupled with the fact that he died in a poor area, didn't bode well for the case. Gant ruefully noted that if Valez had been a white physician murdered in fashionable Buckhead, the investigation would continue indefinitely. At least until well after the local media coverage stopped. For an unemployed janitor, alas, the incident merited a story the day of the murder, but nothing more.

The Burton Sabini killing was another matter. Sabini had been a public figure due to the high-profile embezzling case that had caught the attention of the local business community. And it did not go unnoticed that another recent murder victim, Don Browne, had worked in the same industry as Sabini. What were the odds of two Atlanta metalworks executives being murdered within a week of each other? Gant had spoken with Serena Misner, the investigating officer on the Browne case, but so far there was no other apparent link between the two men.

In Sabini's case, the lack of a strong suspect was crippling the investigation. His murder looked more and more like a random mugging turned deadly. Sabini had been drinking at the Blues Junction bar at the Atlanta Underground entertainment center, apparently celebrating
his passing the D.A.'s polygraph test. He left alone, and the next time anyone saw him, he was dead in an alley four blocks away.

It was possible he staggered into the wrong place at the wrong time. That was certainly the way it looked. But here, as in the Carlos Valez case, there was a connection to Ken Parker. Maybe Sabini
did
have Parker's name, number, and address so he could telephone him and ask a few questions. Gant wasn't sure. But he knew the only likely solution to cracking the mysteries rested with Parker. Otherwise, the cases would soon just stall, residing in the “unsolved” files, likely to forever remain that way.