Justice Edge (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 10) Read online

  “I’m just saying,” Ned said, “two heads are better than one.”

  “This reminds me of something,” Chris said. “You ever watch those home shows, like This Old House?”

  “Used to. I liked it better when they stuck to Boston, before they branched out.”

  “Me too. Anyhow one of the show guys, he’s a contractor, he builds his own house, separate from the show. Guy writes a book about it . . . What I’m getting to, they get the foundation in, he’s ready to frame it -- guy has to go in the yellow pages and hunt for carpenters. Like any regular doofus.”

  “That would be surprising,” Ned said. “All his connections? Being in the middle of the trades and such.”

  “That’s you,” Chris said, “with this deal.”

  You could see Ned massaging it around, not just the concept, but trying to come up with something, and it was clear he couldn’t, or maybe just wasn’t thinking clearly the last couple hours, and fine.

  Chris said, “You know the old military installation? Down past Torrance?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They developed part of it, of course. But you have that back area. Not much doing there. Especially at whatever time we got presently.”

  “Quarter to three,” Ned said. “I think I know where you mean . . . they got the Panda Express in front? And that Big Men’s clothing place?”

  “Yeah . . . and honestly, sitting here may not be as favorable as doing something.”

  You could see Ned agreed with that, and he started her up, and made the left turn onto Manhattan Avenue and up the hill, and a little quick for Chris’s taste, and he glanced back to make sure the tarp was still doing the job.

  Chris did feel obligated to point out, “Giving you the thorough evaluation, though -- bottom of the ocean’d be better.”

  “It would. So would cuttin’ him up and dispersing him.”

  Ned was inferring obviously that those weren’t viable options tonight.

  “Short of those, then,” Chris said, not feeling 100 percent confident in this, now that they were acting on it. “I mean other people? Might have wanted Ralph . . . out of the way too? . . . Besides just you and me?”

  “Oh yeah, that part we’re decent,” Ned said, not elaborating . . . and Chris had learned by now that with the Ned Mancusos of the world, sometimes you just had to take their word for it and proceed.

  There was no traffic, just the early street cleaning trucks and a few middle of the night delivery vehicles, and that was good and bad, since there weren’t a lot of choices to pull over if a cop was so inclined, but Ned drove respectably the rest of the way, which was down past Polliwog Park under the 405 into Lawndale, then the right onto Prairie Avenue, a couple miles to the left onto Del Amo, and then you were in warehouse district that surprised you when it opened onto the strip mall with the Panda Express.

  There hadn’t been much else to talk about on the way, so they’d actually gotten on the subject of Panda Express, Chris mentioning that he’d tried this particular one a couple times and it was good, better than most. Ned said he thought they were all the same, being a franchise, and Chris said no, this place used less sugar, and Ned said he’d have to try it himself some time, that he didn’t like it either when Chinese restaurants over-sugared stuff for the white population.

  Now here you were, and you looped around the back, and yeah, son of a gun, this wasn’t bad. It felt a little like the remote parts of the Presidio of San Francisco . . . some beat up buildings with old paint flaking off them, some cement stuff in the ground that felt like the remnants of old bunkers, even a little marshy pond, though you wondered if that would be deep enough.

  Ned parked back there and shut off the engine and opened the tailgate and handed Chris a pair of gloves. “DNA,” he said, like he was delivering an earth-shattering discovery . . . and Chris would have said, “Tell me about it,” except Ned had the tarp off Ralph now, and the guy looked heavy.

  “Again,” Chris said, “if I could suggest, the end result first? Like you were saying?”

  “I was thinking the water,” Ned said. And yeah, that wouldn’t be the worst choice, even though Ralph probably wouldn’t drop below the surface.

  At least the water might mess with the DNA you likely both were going to put on him, despite the gloves -- and of course Ned with the previous neck work, even a greater chance of a deposit -- and they hauled Ralph out of there and stumbled around for the first ten yards until they got the right grips squared away . . . and there was the one, two, three swinging him business, and they let fly, and Ralph didn’t go far, but at least he was partially submerged and some mud kicked up and covered most of his head, and other areas . . . and what more could you do, really.

  Ned took the freeway back, leisurely, driving about 50. He said, “Well, that should work. You think? . . . And just for my own information -- how’d you come up with this place?”

  “Chandler. If you can believe it. He ever tell you the story about the CraigsList guy?”

  “Nope.” Chris wasn’t sure about that, Ned might be totally playing along, but apparently he wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

  Chris said, “I’m not dying to go into it, but it’s entertaining.”

  “By all means. What else we got going the rest of the night?”

  Chris said, “I may be a little off, but he’s selling a motorcycle. Which already surprises you.”

  “Oh big time. Didn’t know he had it in ‘em.”

  “No. He’s asking like 4 grand. Some guy offers him 3 and wants more information. Chandler -- we know how he can come across -- he asks the guy -- sorry, more information for what? Since your offer’s too low.”

  “I can see it,” Ned said.

  “Yeah. If he just altered his tone a little, he’s accomplishing the same thing, without unnecessarily ticking a guy off.”

  “Always a more diplomatic route,” Ned said. “Why pile on complications?”

  “There is. Bottom line, the guy slams down the phone . . . then starts up his own ad on CraigsList . . . except using the photo of Chandler’s motorcycle, and his seller info . . . and asking $500 for the thing.”

  “Ooh,” Ned said.

  “Exactly. So Chandler’s phone rings off the hook, and he may have gotten in trouble with CraigsList, I can’t remember -- but the crux of it is, he arranges to meet the guy and make the sale after all.”

  “Uh-oh. Meet the guy . . . as in, where we just came from?”

  “Yeah. So the guy can test drive the bike, which Chandler points out isn’t street legal at the moment. He tells the guy he’ll consider his 3 grand offer, but it has to be cash.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Except Chandler brings a couple guys with him. Shady characters, is the impression. And what ends up happening, they rob the guy -- and otherwise teach him a lesson.”

  “Holy shit . . . Our Chandler, you’re talking about?”

  “I know. He said he couldn’t help it, the guy hit a nerve . . . which I suppose I can understand. But still.”

  “Wow.”

  “So to your answer your question--”

  “You just did.”

  “No, your question before that. Will this work, what we just came from doing.”

  “Ah. I think I said that should work.”

  “But you left it off with a question mark, did you not?”

  “I don’t remember now.”

  Chris said, “I’m a little surprised though, you didn’t want to revisit your animal trainer’s place. The lion pits and all.”

  “I considered it. Probably best not to repeat yourself, if you can avoid it.”

  This was true, obviously. Chris said, “So now?” Bringing it back to when Ralph’s people . . . or Paulie’s people . . . or whoever the fuck . . . get wind of this latest episode . . . what’ll the story be then?

  Ned took a moment. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, and he turned and winked at Chris, and the full smile was there and the personality was almost
back to normal . . . so, it really was time to call it a night.

  Chapter 3

  It was close to 4:30 in the morning when Chris got back to the Cheater Five, and he was halfway up the steps to his apartment when he noticed a lone figure out by the pool, looking like a shadow under one of the patio umbrellas, but definitely a human -- and he thought about it, hesitated, thought about it again, decided you better at least unobtrusively make sure someone’s okay -- and went back down and tapped on the gate, and the person looks over, and it’s Marlene.

  “What the heck?” Chris said.

  “Oh, hi,” she said. Her voice box quality wasn’t the greatest, understandable for the middle of the night, but even so -- so Chris let himself in and sat down with her.

  She was an attractive woman, no doubt, even here with baggy workout clothes and a hoodie thing covering her head. In fact you might as well ask. “Let me guess. You can’t sleep. So you’re starting your day a little early. Going for a jog.”

  Marlene tried to manage a limp smile. “It’s not that simple.”

  If it were the middle of the day he probably wouldn’t have, but at this hour it was more anything goes, so he took her hand to see what would happen, and she got up and came sideways and sat on his lap.

  “Now that’s a first,” he said.

  “You’re silly,” she said, lightening up just a touch. “I’ve done it before.”

  Chris tried but couldn’t come up with it. “Really? You better refresh me.”

  You couldn’t see her eyes very well but Chris assumed she was rolling them at him. She said, “The country music awards show? You made me watch it. It was awful. I climbed on you . . . that sort of saved it.”

  “Man, you got me there . . . I don’t typically like country music. A little bluegrass now and then, and the traditional guys, fine -- the Merle Haggards, the Lefty Frizzells, the Bob Willses.”

  “This was the modern stuff.”

  “And . . . you climbed on me . . . I mean like fully clothed? Or different?”

  “Different,” she said, and it was a bit of a purr, which you had to admit, was never the worst utterance.

  “Welp,” he said. “All interesting -- even if you might have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Meanwhile, she was of course sitting on him currently, not stripped down or anything, but he couldn’t help imagine it, and he said maybe they should go upstairs at that, since you never know what might be on TV at this hour.

  Marlene had a funny look now, was likely starting to get some clarity, and she said, “Chris I’m very sorry. This is hugely embarrassing. I don’t normally get confused like this.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said. “We’re all humans here. Jeez.”

  And without thinking about it much more, she got off his lap and followed him up there, and they headed straight back, no issues . . . Chris deciding along the way that this may be a world record for him in the ease of pursuit of an accomplishment category.

  A half hour later, lifting up onto an elbow, Marlene said, “I needed that so bad.”

  “Thank you, you mean?” Chris said, and she looked at him funny, and Chris said he was kidding, for Gosh sakes.

  “You say that,” she said, “but I can tell you do want to be thanked.”

  “Fine, if you put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Really,” she said, raising up more now. “This is interesting. Did you not enjoy yourself?”

  “I did.”

  “And did I not express myself?”

  “Well you said you needed that. No reference to the -- interlocking counterpart -- really.”

  “You’re a nutcase. I don’t mean it necessarily negatively.” She started stroking the back of his neck, so there were no hurt feelings apparently -- but dang, hopefully she wasn’t initiating a Round 2, since there’d be no way tonight, on his end, and he was happy just to have Round 1, since he couldn’t even remember the last time . . . oh yeah, Rosie probably, but that may not have counted.

  Chris said, “I’m going to fire a question at you, and you can give it to me straight, man to man. So to speak. -- Is my unit smaller, in your estimation?”

  Marlene laughed, kind of a hoot, a little over the top, which Chris hadn’t expected. “Compared to whose?” she said, quite a grin on her face now.

  He hadn’t thought of that, he wouldn’t mind actually, hearing how he stacked up compared to others -- maybe, though maybe not -- but that was beside the point. “Compared to mine,” he said. “From before.”

  “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

  Chris said, “That wasn’t my question, and I wasn’t worrying exactly, I was just asking.” Though that was the point, he was concerned.

  She laughed again and stuck up her index fingers and put them a certain distance apart, and Chris didn’t know if she was making fun of him or not, and she said, “As I alluded to, it worked.”

  And that was all you were going to get on the subject, at least right now, and Chris couldn’t help trying to think back, was the before that she referenced, prior to his experience in the Strand house, or after.

  That could make a big difference, the prior to period, him feeling free and easy and reasonably confident all around in this area . . . as contrasted with the post-Strand house era, where he was weighed down by intimidation.

  And God dang it, he was still psyching himself out.

  He’d even tried to introduce the subject with Dr. Moore, but she didn’t take the bait and try to help him, did she . . . she used it as a springboard to ask about his relationship with his mother. Or maybe that was something different . . . either way the session didn’t help, and admittedly he should have directed her to the unit issue better.

  On the other hand . . . come on, like Marlene inferred, things worked out okay tonight. Or this morning. So why continually beat yourself up.

  “It’s not all about you though,” Marlene was saying, a bit more grim unfortunately, and Chris said she was kind of reading his mind, and sorry about that.

  “That’s okay. Shall I put up some coffee?’

  “Gee. If you need to. I was more thinking I’d hit the hay for a while. But I forgot, you have to go to work.”

  “Today’s Saturday,” she said. “What were the police doing here by the way? Those couple of times?”

  Whoa. “You saw all that?”

  “Everyone did, are you kidding?”

  Chris hadn’t considered it that way, which was stupid, or he had blinders on -- it would be hard not to be aware of what was going on in the rest of the Cheater Five, especially out in the open.

  He was trying to remember -- did he bring Kay over here too? Was he going to get grilled about that?

  He said, “The police were looking for Ken. It’s all straightened out.”

  “Ah,” she said. “That I did know. I was simply wondering, those couple of occasions, if it had anything to do with you.” Letting that baby hang. Maybe playing with him, maybe not.

  Gee, what a possible cross-examination suddenly. Had he left something on the table, so to speak, that she was aware of? This was a concern from way back, during the early days of his diagnosis and his list, that he may have been calling out items in his sleep.

  Whatever. It was clear Marlene was somewhat in the loop if she had everything straight on Kenny . . . and you weren’t going to pry into that . . . though it did make you wonder. He did remember that time in the Crow’s Nest, following the group trek to the tennis tournament in Indian Wells, when Marlene and Cindy the waitress seemed to be cozying up pretty tight . . . and you might not think much of it, except Marlene had mentioned, or at least implied, her bi-sexuality element more than once . . . and that part Chris was fine with, and even intrigued by.

  But bottom line, Cindy would have the inside scoop. And again, none of his business, except why did Marlene bring up the cops looking for him out of thin air? Could they have stopped by and talked to her when he was on hiatus in Eclipse, Arizona?


  He said, “You know something I don’t, I’m always game to hear it.”

  And she changed the subject, so you moved on, she was looking now for a sugar substitute, reminding him he had one of those before and asking where he kept it, and Chris said try the right cabinet on top, and she got a chair and reached up and around and found it -- and Chris, for whatever reason, hadn’t focused on the fact that she was doing it all completely nude.

  “Will I get slapped if I make an understandable, hormonally-charged comment?” he said.

  “What?” she said, holding her position for a moment and looking down at him, waiting.

  “Well what are you, about 31, 32?”

  She looked at him like he was an idiot, and put one hand on her hip. “37,” she said. “And?”

  He figured she was about that age, maybe she even told him once, but try to butter her up at least, which might not be working. He said, “Okay the risky comment -- you really don’t have any cellulite. Like zero, that I’m noticing.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “I guess,” and she came down with the sugar substitute and started pouring the water through the grounds.

  He said, “I mean I’m enjoying it, don’t get me wrong, but do you typically parade around like this?”

  She said, “When I feel like it, and I’m not cold. You’ve never seen a woman natural and at ease in her own house? That would be highly surprising, given the premium you seem to put on entertainment value.”

  “I never really asked you, but do you work out? Consistently? I was kidding you earlier about taking a jog, but dang.”

  “Well I do have Finnish roots, on my mother’s side,” she said, Chris figuring she’s coming around a little bit now, explaining why everything still is pretty darn tight.

  “Tremendous work ethic in Finland,” he said. “Plus they’re always jumping on skis for transportation.”

  “Snowshoes too,” she said, smiling again just a little more, bringing the two coffees to the table by the couch, and this time -- son of a bitch -- climbing onto his lap the way she mistakenly referenced it during the country music awards show.