Bay of Deception Read online

  Within moments he was walking down the driveway and remembered to reach in and flick his safety back on. Something in the back of his mind began to nag at him and as he slid into his seat, he struggled to bring it to the fore of his consciousness, but after twenty seconds, he felt as if he was grasping at smoke. He noticed the clock, surprised to see his little foray had taken close to fifteen minutes.

  He brought the engine to life, released the break as he shifted the cruiser into gear. He glanced in the rearview mirror, then froze. Something about the numbers bothered him, the way the numbers #1 and #2 were lined up, as if there should have been a #3. He'd learned not to ignore such a nagging impression and he returned the gear shift to neutral, turned off the engine and climbed free of his cruiser.

  He passed the shiny mail boxes neatly lined up, the sun catching on them as he passed and retraced his walk up the driveway. This time he approached more cautiously, halting at the top to draw his revolver and flick the safety off once again. He stared up at the row of four apartments. then back down at the three car ports, knowing city ordinance required a car stall for each apartment.

  Carefully walking in front of the first car port, Oliver could see a small scuffed and dented sign screwed into the far wall bearing a #1. The sign in the second carport was in worse shape with the top half torn off, but the #2 could still be made out. There was nothing in the third car port short of bumper scrapes and oil stains and only as Oliver stepped past it did the fourth come into view, along with the Volkswagen bug tucked into it.

  Oliver guessed the apartments, more long then boxy were of poor design and the owners had found the car ports too thin for the big cars of the 1960s. A few walls had been hastily knocked down and four became three with a replacement tacked shabbily onto the back.

  The bug, though far from classic condition seemed well taken care of, though Oliver wondered at the pinkish tinting on the back window, parts of it flecked and wearing off already or poorly applied at the start. Then something shifted, his eyes seeing not what his mind suggested, but what was actually before him. Later it reminded him of those posters that leap out at the viewer in 3D. Then his weapon was in his hands, rock-steady and pointing toward the bloodied window as he slowly walked around toward the slumped figure in the driver’s seat.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It had not been a good night for Larry Polk, beginning with the call from his girlfriend, Desiree. He'd been in the shower getting ready for work when his message machine had clicked on, followed by her voice announcing she was leaving town with a new band. After that, he really hadn’t had time to do much more than race to work, go through a pack of Marlboros and think about her curt message. A cop in Seaside had ticketed him for speeding and right after that, he’d discovered the dicks in the store had messed up two orders. All this on the night he was hoping for decent tips.

  Now his next and final drop was his last hope for anything resembling a gratuity. He took a shortcut to the motel, taking back streets that missed several lights and tried to stay under the posted speed limit. He slowed as he neared the motel, eyeing the room number scribbled on the order form as he turned into the entrance.

  "Aw, shit,” he muttered at the empty parking lot as all hope of a tip went out the car window, along with his last cigarette. It was a hazard of the trade in Larry’s mind: Sports figures become injured, policemen get shot and people called in prank food deliveries. He’d had only three in the last couple of weeks and oddly, some months were worse than others. In truth, nothing could be done about it except go on to the next drop and hope for better, only this was his last delivery and both of his pockets were empty.

  As he wheeled his beat-up Mazda around and his headlights washed over each motel door and matching window, he saw a dim light in one of the rooms. He shifted into reverse till his headlights flashed onto the room number, his heart skipping when he saw it matched the scribbled number on the order form.

  The engine died after a few spasmodic coughs and sputtering and switching on the overhead light, he checked himself in the mirror, smoothing down his long brown hair as he did so. Months into the job, he could no longer smell the food he delivered, most often smothered by the cigarettes he wasn’t supposed to smoke in the car. He opened the door and stepped out, carrying the bag of won tons and sushi in one hand and the ticket in the other. Hoping for at least a five, Larry knocked several times before a sliver of muted light appeared in the door’s edge.

  “Yes,” a small feminine voice called through the opening.

  “Delivery from Mr. Sushi.”

  The sound of a chain scraping against the door's backside could be heard and then it swung open to reveal a stunning blonde wearing a T-shirt and jeans. The woman turned and walked barefoot to the bed located a few paces inside the room.

  “Come on in, I’ve got the money right over here.” She placed the purse on her lap and began to go through it. “By the way, what’s your name?.”

  “Um, Larry," he said, still at the door’s edge like a shy school boy.

  Standing there, still and silent as she continued her search, Larry took in her beauty as all thoughts of unfaithful Desiree, evaporated. Not until she finished her rummaging and stared at him expectantly, did he finally enter the room.

  “My name's Jenny,” she said, finally handing over the money with a devastating smile. “Got any more deliveries?”

  “Um no...you’re the last,” he said after a moment, his knees feeling weak. He attempted to return the smile and though he knew he should say something, anything, after such a question, absolutely nothing came out.

  The blonde rose up from the bed, walked to the kitchenette and pulled two water glasses from the small cupboard. Pouring what looked like whiskey into each, she turned and extended a tumbler toward him before lifting her own to red lips, taking a drink.

  “Larry," she said, sporting a wicked grin. "How ‘bout we have a drink?”

  Oliver backed away from the Volkswagen bug, its driver side door now wide open and tried to blot from his mind the grotesque scene he’d just witnessed. The entire contents of his stomach felt ready to come up on him and he kicked the door closed, then continued backing away for fear of contaminating the crime scene. He replaced his weapon back in its holster, concentrated on walking down the driveway and made it as far as his vehicle. By then, his stomach refused to listen and all he could do was hold on till the heaving passed.

  “You okay, mister?” A small voice called out behind him.

  The question brought him upright and wiping away the spittle with his sleeve, Oliver peered into the blue eyes of a small blond boy about ten years old, standing just a few feet away.

  “Yeah kid,” Oliver said, clearing his now raw throat. “Doing better, now.” He straightened up a little and pulled out his badge, then showed it to the suddenly wide-eyed kid.

  “My name’s Detective Piedmont and in two minutes, about five police cars will come racing down this street. Oliver pointed in the direction the cars should come from. "Do you think you can keep any kids that come running out, clear of them?”

  The kid’s chest expanded slightly and he nodded, his tone serious. “Yes Sir!”

  Oliver reached into the car, adjusted the radio’s frequency and pulled out the microphone. After a moment's hesitation he cleared his throat and spoke. “Monterey base, this is detective Piedmont from PG.” A few seconds passed.

  “Piedmont, this is Monterey base. What can we do for you?”

  “I’ve got a 10-56, code 2 at 942 Larkin. I am requesting assistance.”

  “We copy that, Piedmont, Officers and ambulance are in route now.”

  As promised, far-off sirens could be heard approaching less than a minute or so later. Moments after that, four squad cars turned onto Larkin from both ends, two of which accelerated toward him while two stayed to block off opposite ends of the street He watched his little deputy eye the neighborhood kids as they tumbled from their houses, ready to jump out if any of the ha
lf dozen boys and girls came too close.

  A large cop, his size more girth than height stepped from the lead car and ambled toward Oliver, conspicuously eyeing the remains of Oliver’s former lunch.

  “What’s up, Piedmont?” the man asked casually. “Heard you got a body around here somewhere.”

  Though Oliver was familiar and on good terms with a lot of Monterey cops, ‘Schwartz' as the man’s badge read was unfamiliar to him and at that moment, Oliver found little to like. Two other officers joined Oliver and Schwartz, each looking expectantly toward him. As he was about to speak, Schwartz beat him to it.

  “So what’s the situation here, Piedmont?”

  Oliver cleared his throat, eyeing the three cops before him.

  “A subject from an investigation I’m working on is in the last parking unit of that building over there.” He waved at Beeler’s former residence. “It appears to be a suicide. But considering he’s been in an airtight vehicle for a day or more, I can’t say for certain.”

  Schwartz turned with a smirk, striding as if into battle, marching up the apartment building’s driveway. The street itself seemed amazingly quiet to Oliver, now that the sirens had been silenced. Moments later, he heard Schwartz open Beeler’s Volkswagen's door followed by the distinct noise of vomiting which echoed loudly in the car park.

  “Asshole!” one of the two cops said toward the retching noises coming from the driveway. By the time Oliver and the two cops reached Schwartz, he’d managed to compose himself, but all noticed he stayed well away from the car park.

  Several minutes later the ambulance pulled up and the medical guys began the drawn out process of investigating the death of Jesse Beeler. Oliver spent the next hour explaining to several Monterey detectives and a flushed, green looking Schwartz why he'd been to Beeler’s apartment, how he’d found him and anything else they wanted to know. He wasn’t grilled but they were thorough, leaving little to guess at later and knew Donetelli would have been proud of his brother cops. The only thing he made no mention of was Jenny and her disappearance.

  Oliver noticed his watch, stared at it for a minute as if somehow it didn’t make sense, then frantically dug in his pockets for his keys.

  “Oh, shit!” He said. “Hey guys, if we’re done here, I’m late for an appointment. If there isn’t anything else...?” The detectives looked at each other, shook their heads and Oliver turned to walk off.

  “Hold on, P.G.” Schwartz’s gravelly voice called out, but Oliver continued on his way.

  The ambulance with Beeler’s remains had departed earlier and most of the crowd had gone home, the night’s excitement over. Piedmont started his cruiser then noticed the small blond boy he’d deputized earlier, standing back and nearly hidden in the growing darkness. He sighed, shut off the car and stepped out.

  “Hey kid,” he called, walking toward the boy.

  “Hi,” came the small, tentative reply. The boy pulled his blue coat tighter against the cold.

  What’s your name?”

  “Kenny...Kenneth Landing, sir.”

  “Well, Kenny, you did a good job today. Someone might’ve been hurt if not for you and I wanted to thank you for helping.”

  “Sure, mister,” the boy said sheepishly. “It was nothing.”

  “It’s always something, Kenny, whenever someone protects another.” He reached out to shake hands and slowly the boy reached back until each held the other, shaking firmly; not as kid to adult but man to man.

  Oliver released the boy’s hand.

  “If you’re ever in Pacific Grove with your parents, stop by and I’ll show you around the station. Ask for Detective Piedmont.”

  The boy’s smile widened, then he turned and ran toward the apartment directly across the street. He watched as the small figure bounded up the stairs, two at a time and into an unimpressive apartment. For a second time his appointment with Linda came back and he rushed to his cruiser, groaning when it’s clock told him he was over an hour late.

  The bright insistent lights of the unmarked police car woke her as their sweeping, flashing motion pressed repeatedly onto her eyes and Jenny forced herself to sit upright. Staring ahead, she noticed that the shadows cast by the strobe light’s movement made the parking lot truly surreal and it occurred to her to wonder why she was in this smelly car. She looked to see what had brought the cops but saw nothing but a guy hurrying toward the entrance and little else. Sleep began to take her once again but the acrid stench of cigarettes with the face of Larry, the car’s former owner, came back into her mind’s eye.

  The sulky young man had been more than happy to sell his worn out old car to her and was even more thrilled when she'd asked to buy the clothes off his back. This had led to several awkward moments where Jenny had been forced to make it abundantly clear that her interest lay in his clothes and nothing more. She'd last seen Larry pulling away in the back of a taxi, wearing only a t-shirt and underwear, but two thousand dollars richer and yet even then he'd looked sulky. She smiled at the thought, then sat up with a start; the man she'd seen a few seconds before coming clear had been Oliver!

  “Oh my God!” Jenny half shouted in the beat-up old car. Pulling the driver door open, she shivered as she stepped out into the cold night air. Oliver's car was only three spaces away, yet she felt as if all the eyes of the world were on her. She was probably being paranoid, but after someone tried to kill you, she decided, being paranoid for awhile was good. She was suddenly glad for Larry’s stinking clothes, though she looked like the winner of a second hand store contest and tried to walk casually toward Oliver’s car. She was halfway there when the sound of the restaurant door drew her attention as Oliver stepped out.

  She turned and took a few steps toward him before she saw his gun in his hands, pointed towards her. She stopped in her tracks, her mind frozen in disbelief. Despite all of her efforts to move or run, she failed even as his gun flashed three times in quick succession, then she was down on the asphalt parking lot, shouts and screams echoing off the nearby buildings.

  Oliver stormed out of Mr. Sushi angrier then he’d been in a long time, his constant running late finally causing him to miss Jenny.

  This revelation had come to him on the way over when he remembered how much Linda had hated Japanese food. He looked toward his car and noticed a bag lady near it and sighed, then noticed her age. The same instant he realized it was Jenny, he saw the blue Mercedes creeping up behind her and even in the darkness, picked out the missing hubcap. Movements practiced a thousand times pulled him into a crouch along with his weapon aimed at the driver. The car continued forward and was only two car lengths from the now motionless Jenny and without a doubt Oliver knew what would happen if it came alongside her.

  During his stay at the Los Angeles Police Academy, Oliver had taken a class on weapon’s philosophy. A Sergeant Kumico had taught it and from day one Kumico had forced them to think of weapons in a completely different way. The one thing that had stuck with him all these years was that each time a gun is un-holstered, an executive decision was about to be made. The Sergeant had drilled into the them what he called The Kumico Philosophy of Gun Usage:

  A weapon is never drawn to scare somebody

  A weapon is only drawn with the full intention of firing it

  A weapon is drawn to kill, unless your opponent is unarmed.

  Kumico's rules flashed through his mind now as the blue Mercedes rolled closer to Jenny. Only the thought of some tourist with an identical car held him back. He saw Jenny, her face a shocked mask of confusion and it was then that the Mercedes sped up, driver side window down with something metallic glinting from it. More out of instinct, Oliver let loose, firing one shot into the front tire and two more into the windshield.

  Exploding glass rained outward as the Mercedes veered right, then struck a parked Mustang and sent Oliver toward the now steaming vehicle. His weapon trained on the car, Oliver moved closer, praying he wasn’t about to find a tourist covered in blood. He stepped forwar
d, peered carefully into the car and for the first time in his life, felt relief at the sight of two sawed-off shotguns. Both driver and passenger appeared to be dead as blood poured from each man’s chest. Making sure neither of the killers was breathing, her turned back to check on Jenny.

  He found her sitting against the far side of a Ford Fusion, arms hugging both legs against her chest. After checking to make sure she was okay, Oliver realized she was suffering mostly from shock and a few scrapes. Just then a Monterey Police car roared into Mr. Sushi’s parking lot and found him leaning over a crumpled woman, gun in hand.

  “Shit!” Oliver said, just as both officers, each shielded behind a car door commanded him to freeze, drop his weapon and place both hands behind his head. He sighed, did as he was told and waited for the cops to calm down enough to let him talk.

  Two hours later Oliver sat in the all too familiar interrogation room within the Monterey Police Station. With him were three detective, plus a third guy in the corner and he'd spent the entire time explaining his actions. Specifically, what had brought him to shoot two very nice thugs from L.A. and judging from their responses, he wasn’t doing so well.

  “Piedmont..."

  A detective named Kaufman was saying as he sat across the conference room table. "Ya gotta help us here." The older detective held up a notepad, then slipped on a pair of smudged reading glasses.

  "In the last two days, you’ve been involved in a drive-by shooting in Pacific Grove, discovered a partially decomposed body in Monterey and just a couple of hours ago, you killed two, admittedly suspicious individuals visiting historic Cannery Row." Kaufman lowered the notepad and removed the glasses.

  "Any explanations beyond not liking badly dressed tourists?”

  Oliver returned Kaufman's stare, then at the other three detectives seated around the table.