20
Thorpe shadowed Ray Bishop around the half-built housing development for a half hour, followed him as he made his rounds up and down the cluttered work site. Bishop limped slightly, stopping to clock in at regular intervals with his ID card. Orange Industrial Security kept their rent-a-cops on a tight leash. Quite a comedown, going from lead detective at the Riverside PD to an unarmed security guard with a badge the size of a dinner plate on his chest.
Thorpe waited until Bishop sat down on a nail keg, pulled out a steel thermos bottle, and poured a cup of coffee, waited until he pulled a pint bottle out of his jacket, sweetened the cup. Bishop didn’t even know he was there until Thorpe softly spoke his name. The poor bastard bobbled his drink, splashed his pants. “First time I ever drank on the job,” he stammered. “I got this cough that—”
Thorpe held his hands up. “I’m not checking up on you.”
Bishop wiped his mouth. He was an ugly man with a broken beak and bad skin, a tough guy aging badly, gone soft and sallow. “You’re not management?”
“Don’t insult me,” said Thorpe. Bishop smiled. It didn’t make him look any better, but Thorpe was glad to see he still had it in him. “My name is Frank. I want to talk to you about Clark and Missy Riddenhauer.”
Bishop stopped smiling. “That’s a mistake,” he rasped. “You local or federal?”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Yeah, right.” Bishop looked out at the half-built homes, the piles of wood debris and curling tar paper. “How did you find me? I thought I covered my tracks.”
“You had to get bonded for this job.”
“That’s right, I had to pass inspection to guard lumber and Sheet-rock.” Bishop fingered the buttons on his gray uniform. “Old partner of mine from Riverside runs the security firm. Matt said I didn’t meet their standards but that he would make an exception. Acted like I should have kissed his fat ass in gratitude.” He spit. “If he asked, I
would
have, too.”
Thorpe had gone to the computer after seeing Betty B on TV this morning. Getting run down the same day her column came out was probably just a coincidence, but Thorpe had a suspicious mind. He kept following the threads on the insurance-industry database, half-expecting the Engineer to send him a message, but he was all by himself on the Net. An hour later, he hit pay dirt, but it gave him no pleasure, just a sick feeling in his stomach. Three years ago, Clark Riddenhauer had won a $1.2 million judgment against the Riverside Police Department, and Detective Ray Bishop, for malicious arrest and prosecution. The arrest had been for production, sale, and distribution of methamphetamines. The PD’s insurance carrier, Liberty State Mutual, had settled out of court. Thorpe had read the judgment, hoping that Bishop was an inept cop who had busted a couple of innocent civilians and stepped on his dick instead. So far, Bishop was living up to his advance billing.
“The Riddenhauer case, that was an impressive example of poor police work, Ray.” Thorpe picked up a small chunk of concrete, chucked it across the site, and dinged an empty tar bucket. “No wonder you lost your badge and pension. I think the Academy uses you as an example on how
not
to pump up your arrest stats.”
Bishop scowled, and Thorpe got an idea of what he had been like before he had taken the long fall. “What’s this about?”
“A one-point-two-million-dollar settlement. The Riddenhauers must have had quite an attorney. Of course, you being a falling-down drunk, that didn’t help, either.”
“I was never impaired on the job, and that didn’t have nothing to do with it anyway.” Bishop pulled at his wrinkled jacket. There was dried mud on the cuff of his trousers. “It’s a little late for the department to be coming after me now. I ain’t got anything you want.”
“I told you: I’m not a cop.”
“What are you, then?”
Thorpe ignored the question. “If you made a good bust, how did Clark and Missy beat it?”
Bishop sat down on the nail keg, looked past him.
“It’s life-and-death, Ray.”
“Maybe you ain’t noticed, Frank, but I don’t do life-and-death anymore.” Bishop sat there, and Thorpe gave him all the time he needed to rediscover his courage, or anger, or resentment, whatever it took to start him talking. Bishop took off his cap, wiped his forehead. “I busted Clark for buying crystal meth precursors from a chemical supply house.” He shook his head. “Just prior to trial, the main prosecution witness, a clerk at the supply house, recanted. He told the judge that I had threatened him, forced him to finger Clark. That the whole thing was a setup.”
“A witness who gets cold feet . . . that’s what depositions are for.”
“Recanting cost the clerk his plea bargain. It meant three years in Vacaville, but he jumped at it. That gave his story serious credibility.” Bishop looked up at Thorpe. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Missy and Clark . . . you
really
don’t want to mess with them.”
“Too late.”
Bishop fingered his cap, turning it round and round in his hands. “Sorry to hear that.”
“They might have killed someone last night. If they did . . . they may not be done.”
“Oh, those two are never done.” Bishop looked past him again. “They fooled me in Riverside. You seen them, right? Nice-looking couple. No history of violence. Only reason I busted Clark was so I could turn him. He turned me inside out instead.” He cleared his throat. “The clerk at the chemical supply store . . . day before he was supposed to testify, the pastor of his church disappeared, him and his whole family. Neighbors didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything. The pastor, his wife, and their two little girls, just up and gone.” His face sagged. “Funny thing, they left their clothes behind. Left their toothbrushes and their bank account, too. Church had a prayer circle for them, asked God to do something. That’s how the clerk found out. He got this phone call, and suddenly he changed his story. Never did find that family, so I guess God had a previous commitment.” He stared at Thorpe. “You don’t look so good.”
“You said the Riddenhauers had no history of violence.”
“They got a crew chief named Arturo who handles the rough stuff. A total hardball, but he looks like the president of the Jaycees. I didn’t connect him with Clark until it was too late. These days, Arturo has a helper. Creepy type. Wouldn’t think Arturo would need help, but there you go.”
“The creepy one . . . tall and skinny, ultrawhite?”
“That’s him. I seen guys in the morgue had more color.”
“His name is Vlad. I met him at a party. He didn’t seem so dangerous.”
“I hope you’re usually a better judge of character.” Bishop buffed his black shoes with his hand. “Are you the one Clark and Missy are after?”
Thorpe shook his head. “A couple of innocent bystanders. I put them in the soup.”
“Now you think you’re gonna pull them out.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, tell your innocent bystanders to relocate and not look back. That’s my professional advice.” Bishop checked his watch, stood up. “Duty calls.”
Thorpe easily kept pace with Bishop, the man’s limp more pronounced now. Bags of broken cement leaked grit into the bare ground. Cardboard coffee cups lay crushed underfoot. “You said Arturo had a helper now.
Now.
You’re still keeping tabs on them.”
“You’re a good listener.” Bishop kept walking. “I used to be the same way once. You may not be a cop . . . but you’re something.” He slipped his ID card into a time clock mounted on a railing. “Couple months after I lost my job, my wife walked out and took the kids with her. This may be hard for you to believe, but I wasn’t the best husband in the world. She walked out, and I loved her so much, I didn’t beg her to come back. I drifted for a couple of years; then my old partner heard about me, said if I cleaned up, he’d give me a job.” His hands trembled slightly. “After I got myself under control, I figured I’d see what Clark and Missy were up to.” He shook his head. “Maybe I just wanted to play policeman again. It’s hard . . . hard to leave something you’re good at.”
The wind kicked up sand. Thorpe checked the area without making a big deal out of it.
Bishop stepped on an empty pack of Marlboros, crushed it flat. “Missy and Clark live in a fancy house in Newport with her brother, Cecil, who don’t seem like much, from what I could see. Arturo and the new guy come and go as they please. I set up outside one of Clark’s surf shops for a few days. Kept track of what went out the front door, what went out the back. That store isn’t selling enough shirts and trunks even to pay for the air conditioning. I figured maybe he was dealing dope out of the stores, but I watched the clerks—they’re not moving anything except their lips. I think Clark is using the stores to launder drug money.”
“You take what you had to the locals?”
“Didn’t have anything in the way of proof, and I’m not what any DA would consider a reliable source.”
Thorpe shook his hand. “Thanks, Ray.”
Bishop hung on. He had a good grip. “You’re really going to try to stop them?”
“I made the mess; now I have to clean it up.”
“Haven’t you heard? Nobody picks up after themselves anymore.” Bishop lowered his eyes. “When I first met Clark, he was a joke. Idiot lived eighty miles inland and all he talked about was big waves, surfing.” He shook his head. “Now he lives in a mansion, and I clock in every fifteen minutes and shit in a Porta Potti. You tell me how that happened, Frank, because I’d really like to know.”
Thorpe didn’t answer.
“Yeah . . . well, you don’t make promises, I like that.” Bishop idly touched the pint bottle in his jacket. “I’d be willing to help you, though. Just as long as I keep out of sight.”
“You’ve helped me plenty. It’s on me now.”
“Sure, I’ve been a
big
help.” Bishop twisted the buttons on his uniform. “I got to make my rounds. Serve and protect.”
21
“Oh, hello . . . Frank.” Gina Meachum stood in her doorway, a hammer in her hand. A painting leaned against the sofa behind her. Her long dark hair was loosely bound with a strip of white lace, as though she had reached for whatever was handy to hold back her hair. She wore jeans and a cowboy shirt.
“I hate to interrupt,” said Thorpe, “but—”
“Who
is
it?” Douglas Meachum called from inside the house.
“A friend,” Gina answered, then waved Thorpe inside. “This isn’t a very good time. I’m finishing up some loose ends.” She pushed back her hair. “Have you found a house yet?”
“No . . . not yet.” It was hard to lie to her. Even harder to tell her the truth. Did he start with the suggestion that they get out of town for a few weeks, or end with it? Should he smile when he assured them that he would take care of everything? Have no fear, Frank Thorpe is here. He followed her inside, watched as she hung the painting, trying to decide where to begin. The painting was a realistic bright oil of a play-ground scene, a little girl pushing a red toy truck through the sandbox while a boy watched her from halfway down a slide. You knew within moments they were going to be fighting over the truck.
Gina stepped back, set down the hammer on a chest. “What do you think?”
“I like it.” Thorpe moved closer to her. “I need to talk to you and—”
“Who’s your friend?” Meachum said from the hallway, wheeling a large suitcase into the living room. He was wearing the same peacock blue Emilio Zegna suit that he had sported at LAX.
“Frank is house shopping,” said Gina. “We may be neighbors soon.”
“We’re a little busy right now, Frank,” said Meachum, setting down the suitcases. He was handsome but stiff and angular, as though there was a clothes hanger across his shoulders. “We’re leaving for Hawaii in the morning.”
“Two weeks in Maui.” Gina looked at Thorpe, made eye contact. “It’s kind of a second honeymoon for us.”
“No need to be melodramatic,” said Meachum.
“Frank was at Missy’s party,” said Gina, still watching him. “He may be interested in some art for his new house.”
Meachum smiled at Thorpe. “Is that correct?”
Thorpe had only two kinds of luck. Very, very bad or very, very good. “Yes . . . I was at the gallery a week or so ago, looking at some pieces. I talked to Nell—”
“You won’t be talking to her anymore.” Meachum grimaced. “That woman stabbed me in the back. Didn’t even have the integrity to tell me what she had done. No gratitude in this world anymore.” He took a deep breath, adjusted his necktie. “I’m sure you’ve read all about our difficulties in the paper. I can only hope that Betty B’s column doesn’t dissuade you from allowing me to fulfill your aesthetic needs. I can assure you that I maintain the highest standard—”
“The article said you gave Missy a full refund.”
“Douglas has never been anything less than ethical with his clients,” said Gina.
Meachum glanced at his wife. “Yes, I gave Missy a full and immediate refund.”
“Then what’s the problem?” asked Thorpe.
Meachum beamed. “Finally, someone who understands the business world. You’re a breath of fresh air, Frank. Mistakes happen. What counts is how we deal with our mistakes.”
“I think people have an almost infinite capacity for forgiveness, as long as the apology is sincere,” said Gina. There was just the faintest edge to her voice.
“If Nell hadn’t gone running to Betty B, no one would have had any complaints,” said Meachum, avoiding her gaze.
“I thought you came out pretty well in the column,” said Thorpe. “Missy was the one who got snakebit.”
“Yes . . . well, I did my best. In my defense, I have to say that I attempted to convince Betty B that the story was of little interest to anyone, but she despises Missy—”
“Despised,”
said Gina, correcting him. She glanced at Thorpe. “The poor woman was killed by a hit-and-run driver a couple of nights ago. It was just so sad.”
“Almost makes me believe in God,” muttered Meachum. He looked at Thorpe, sniffed. “That was in poor taste. I apologize, but the column was very bad for business. I’ve been doing damage control for the last two days. It just seemed like a good idea to give things time to settle down.”
“A very good idea,” said Gina.
“Can we make an appointment to discuss some art when I get back, Frank?” said Meachum. “I’ll be back in the gallery on the fifteenth.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Meachum forced a handshake on him. He probably thought that sealed the deal. “Is that what you came here for? Forgive my manners— I didn’t even ask.”
Thorpe turned to Gina. “Have a good trip.” He walked quickly toward the front door.
“I hate this song,” said Mellon.
“We’re not here for a concert,” said Pinto as
Hellfire Sonata
boomed out from the other side of the door, the lead guitar from Iron Church howling. He racked the pump Mosburg.
As if on cue, the door to the master bathroom slid open and Weezer stepped out in a reek of chemicals, a fat cracker wearing bib overalls and rubber gloves, swim goggles pushed back onto his forehead, a black war-surplus rubber respirator dangling around his neck. He jerked back when he saw them, then came at them. “What the
fuck
are you doing in my house?” he demanded, shouting to be heard over the music.
Mellon started laughing. “You look like a deep-sea diver.”
“Hey, Captain Nemo, we came to pick up the load,” said Pinto.
Weezer slid the door shut behind him. It was quieter now. “Do you morons
know
who I work for?”
“You’re one of Clark’s cookers.” Pinto sniffed. “Smells like fresh crank, too.”
Weezer didn’t back down. “When Vlad and Arturo get done with you, there won’t be hardly anything left.” The respirator bounced under his chin as he spoke. “Two flushes and you’ll be sent down the sewer with the rest of the turds.”
Mellon cocked both barrels of his sawed-off gun.
“I had guns pulled on me before.” Weezer spit on the floor, looked at Pinto. “You and your sidekick should take off now, while you still have a chance.”
“My
sidekick,
” said Pinto. “I like that.”
“Knock that off, Pinto,” said Mellon. “I ain’t nobody’s sidekick.”
“No harm done.” Weezer slowly turned his back on them, slid the door open. The music pounded around them. “I’m going to go back to work, and let you two be on your way. We’ll just call this whole thing a misunder—”
Mellon unloaded both barrels into Weezer’s back, hurled him into the bathroom. He looked at Pinto, waved at the smoke and spray. “I truly do hate that song.”