Fast Crimes Page 5

  “You see, Karen, your monster has robbed you of your driving experiences. He’s got your knowledge locked up and you’ve got to release it. You’ve got to learn the difference between a body and a tin can,” he said.

  He made Karen run over bags of cement, shopping carts, mannequins and anything else he could throw under her car—except a body. At the start, he had allowed Karen to get out and check what she had run over. But with time, he refused to let her check for dead bodies, regardless of her anxiety.

  “Karen, there’s nothing to see. It’s the monster feeding your brain with false truths,” Dr. Birnbaum said.

  “I know, Dr. Birnbaum,” Karen said, recalling his words. “They’re just bumps in the road.”

  Karen struck another bump and checked the rearview mirror. Her mouth went dry and her confidence evaporated. A body lay ragged in the road.

  “It’s nothing. It’s a chemical imbalance deceiving me,” she said.

  Karen took her gaze from the mirror and returned it to the road ahead. She knew it was a mirage, it had happened before. How many times had she come to a screeching halt because she believed she heard or saw a body go under the wheels of her car? Too many, that’s how many.

  She flicked her gaze back to the mirror. No body lay in the road now. The monster had tried to deceive her again, but it had failed. She sighed with relief and focused on her driving.

  Dr. Birnbaum had asked her, if things were going well, to drive through a school zone. It would be the ultimate test for her, a vindication if she succeeded. She felt up to it. She made a left and headed for Jefferson Elementary.

  Karen was almost through the school zone without incident when her monster tried its worst. The thud was sickening as a child rolled up over the hood and stared directly at Karen with dead eyes. She knew it was her monster up to its usual tricks. Didn’t he have anything new to try?

  “Take your demon away,” she instructed her monster.

  The boy’s body slid from the hood as commanded, leaving a bloody smear on the Honda’s white paintwork. Within moments, the bloody streak faded into nothing. And why did the blood disappear? Because there was none, she told herself.

  As Karen left the school zone, her monster continued to throw obstacles under her wheels. She ignored the disruption. They were just bumps in the road.

  She had succeeded. Her monster could throw as many fake bodies at her as it wished, but she knew they weren’t there. Instead of driving home as planned, she decided to make it a longer drive. And why not? It was a beautiful day.

  ***

  “This is live ‘copter three and I’m Rob Deckard for KTUZ. We are still following the progress of this car. The driver is believed to have been on the road for hours and has struck and killed at least twenty people. Some of those were children!”

  “Oh my God! She just hit a dog. She never once bothered to slow. I can see the remains of the dog still being dragged under the wheels of the vehicle. I think it was a Shepherd. How can anyone not stop?”

  “The police are moving in now. The horror should be over in a moment. This is the worst moment of my broadcasting career.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to try and get a closer look at the driver. Yes, I can see the woman’s face. My God, I don’t believe it. She’s smiling. She’s God damn smiling. What must be going through this maniac’s mind?”

  Night Fall

  Detective Mike Daniels didn’t need directions to find deceased golf legend, Larry Lawrence’s ocean view home. He could see it from the spot where Lawrence had driven his classic MG roadster off the cliff road the night before. He was the victim of an accident, but even an accident needed to be investigated. Daniels drove the short distance to the palatial home where smoke spiraled from the chimney.

  He parked and admired the row of sports cars. There was a nice mix of European and American classics. He tried not to be jealous.

  Sheila Lawrence appeared on the doorstep. “Larry’s pride and joy.”

  “I’m sure,” he said and followed her inside.

  Sheila showed him into the living room. “Apologies for the mess.”

  She picked up two wine glasses and an open bottle of wine and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Daniels looked at the photographs on the wall while he waited for Sheila to return. The pictures showed Lawrence in his PGA heyday and in his private life with his wife. One photo showed Sheila driving the now mangled MG sports car.

  A log popped in the fireplace and rolled towards the hearth. He picked up the poker and rolled the log away from danger. He noticed the fire had been started using discarded letters. That’s one way of dealing with the stuff, he thought.

  Sheila reappeared. “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “Just a few questions. Can you tell me why he was out driving that late at night?”

  “As you’ve noticed, Larry loved his cars. He liked to go out for a drive along the cliff road, especially when-” Sheila burst into tears.

  “When what, Mrs. Lawrence?”

  She nodded. “We had a fight and he stormed out, taking the MG. That was a regular thing when we argued. It was how he blew off steam.”

  According to the gossip pages, fights between the Lawrences weren’t uncommon. Trusted sources predicted divorce, which wasn’t a good thing for Sheila with a prenup hanging over her head.

  “Not a smart thing to drive angry on these roads.”

  “No. I expected him home after a couple of hours, but when he hadn’t returned this morning, I went looking for him and spotted the car on the beach.”

  “Why did you wait until the morning before you went looking for him?”

  “I took a couple of sleeping pills and went to bed. I even broke out a fresh pack.” She produced a blister pack of sedatives from a pocket. Six of the tablets were missing.

  “I think I have everything I need, Mrs. Lawrence,” Daniels said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Sheila saw him out to his car. “Which one of these do you drive?” he asked pointing to the car collection. “You’re spoiled for choice.”

  “None. They’re all stick-shifts. I can’t drive a stick.”

  Daniels drove back to the crash site at the bottom of the cliff. Larry Lawrence’s body had been removed and the crime techs gave him the all clear to examine the vehicle. He got behind the wheel and tested the controls to see if something had given out on the car. He tried the gear-shift. It was in neutral.

  “Has anyone touched the car?” he asked the crime techs.

  “No,” one of them answered.

  He glanced back up at the Lawrence house. Sheila was watching him from the second balcony. He waved at her. She didn’t return the gesture.

  ***

  Sheila Lawrence dropped the phone instead of putting it back on the receiver. The caller’s words still rang in her ears. “I saw what you did.”

  She fell onto the sofa. The house had never felt as empty as it did in this moment. Up and until now, she’d been enjoying the solitude. The police hadn't bothered her after Larry’s death. She was getting used to her days being her own. Life without Larry was everything she’d hoped it would be.

  Now the new lifestyle she’d been embracing was on hold. The caller had put it all in jeopardy. She could get it back on track if she paid the twenty-five thousand he demanded by tonight.

  Paying wasn’t a problem, but the money was. Taking anything over ten grand from the bank set off a red flag with the IRS and the cops. The blackmailer would have to be content with the few thousand she had in cash around the house. She’d make up the rest in jewels. The blackmailer wouldn’t like it but he wasn’t giving her any time to come up with the money.

  She put the money and jewels in a Saks bag along with a bonus item—Larry’s .380 Sig Sauer. She was going to make it clear this was a one-time deal.

  ***

  Her blackmailer had been cagey. He hadn’t given her a time or plac
e for the payoff, leaving her to sweat it out as she waited by the phone.

  The call came just before midnight. The message was simple. Hawk Hill. Now.

  Well, the waiting was over. She grabbed the Saks bag, nicely weighted down by the .380. She ran over to her BMW parked at the end of the row of Larry’s cars. The security lights illuminated a new crisis—her tire was flat.

  She cursed and ran back into the house. She grabbed the keys to Larry’s beloved Ferrari Dino. She jumped behind the wheel and tore into the night, working the gears and clutch like a pro.

  Hawk Hill was an old Nike missile station on the Marin Headlands. She turned into the historical site surprised to see the gate open at this time of night. Her blackmailer either had connections or a bolt cutter. Maybe her witness was a park ranger. That was someone she could control. She stopped the Ferrari in front of the hexagonal bunker poking out of the ground.

  Her blackmailer wasn’t in sight. She climbed from the car holding the Saks bag high in the air.

  “I have what you want,” she called out. “I have your money.”

  Flashlight beams coming from half a dozen directions immediately struck her in the face.

  “Marin Sheriffs. Mrs. Lawrence, you're under arrest.”

  Detective Mike Daniels emerged from the blinding light as a uniformed officer placed her in cuffs.

  Daniels peered in the Saks bag. He fished out the pistol with a pen. “A trinket I wasn’t expecting.”

  “You set me up.”

  “You set yourself up, Mrs. Lawrence. I’ll admit you were clever. You destroyed all the evidence. You burned the divorce papers, no doubt in the fire the day I came over. The sleeping pills in the wine you poured down the sink. I had nothing.”

  “You still have nothing.”

  “No, I had one thing.”

  Fear twisted Sheila’s stomach into a knot. “What?”

  “Larry’s car. It wasn’t in gear. How'd he drive it off the road in neutral? He didn’t. Someone pushed the car off the cliff.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “I thought so too, because you told us you couldn’t drive a stick. I believed you until I saw that picture of you driving Larry’s prized MG. Now you’ve confirmed it.” He pointed at the Ferrari, “by handling that Dino so well tonight.”

  Shortchanged

  Word was getting around that there was a pickpocket operating out of the Gold Rush Casino and Hotel. Occasionally someone complained they’d had their pockets picked when they’d lost too much, but that wasn’t the case this time. Someone was preying on the slot machine players. The thief was being smart and not being greedy. Instead of making a grab for all the money, players complained about being twenty, forty, or sixty dollars short.

  It was Gemma King’s job to catch the thief. Gemma made a nice living working undercover for the casinos catching cheats and thieves. Her success rate ensured she was always in demand.

  She walked to a bank of slots with a cocktail in one hand and fistful of cash in another. She sat at the end of the bank, placing her purse next to the slot machine. She had to look careless and putting her purse in easy grabbing reach was a good start.

  She flagged down a change maker walking the floor. “Can you break this into twenties for me, hon?” she asked a little too loudly and handed over three one hundred dollar bills. It was all an act to draw the pickpocket out.

  The change maker, Candy according to her name tag, counted out the money into Gemma’s hand with speed and practiced skill. “Wanna drink?” she asked, nodding at a passing cocktail waitress.

  Reflexively, Gemma turned her head, although she said no.

  Candy counted out the last bill into Gemma's palm before wishing her luck and moving on.

  Gemma fed forty bucks into the machine and put the rest in her change cup. The Gold Rush was an old school casino with slot machines that spat out coins instead of vouchers. She placed the change cup where it was in plain view and easily accessible.

  There was an army of cameras above, but a good pickpocket could still operate unseen.

  A passing cocktail waitress placed a hand on Gemma's purse. “You don’t want to leave this out. You can’t afford to take chances.”

  “It’s okay, hon. Everyone’s too interested in winning to think about stealing.”

  The cocktail waitress shrugged, smiled and moved on.

  Gemma pressed buttons and pulled levers, but her attention wasn’t on the game. It was on the people around her. She’d dangled the bait and she wanted to see who’d snap it up. She watched for people focusing on the clientele instead of the games—people wandering around the slot banks and never playing. She liked the man in the blue suit. He failed to remain at any machine for more than a minute or two before moving on to another and he was moving closer and closer to Gemma.

  The slot machine ate the forty dollars Gemma had fed it and she got up to find a new machine. As she moved down the aisles, Mr. Blue Suit approached her from the opposite direction. He bumped into her as they passed each other. He smiled and excused himself before moving on.

  When Gemma sat down at a different slot machine, she counted the money in her cup. The bump and pick maneuver was a common move employed by pickpockets. It proved to be just as effective this time. She’d only spent forty of her three hundred dollars gambling money, but the cup only contained two hundred.

  Gemma went to the nearest courtesy phone and identified herself and requested that security pick up the man in the blue suit.

  Mr. Blue Suit wasn’t smiling when she met him again in Carl Roebuck’s office. The security chief made Mr. Blue Suit empty out his pockets.

  “He’ll have sixty dollars in twenties he took from my cup,” Gemma said.

  When the security chief went through Mr. Blue Suit’s things, he had a lot of cash, but all of it was in fifties and hundreds.

  “I think I deserve an apology,” Mr. Blue Suit said.

  Roebuck had to comp Mr. Blue Suit a night’s accommodation and dinner in the casino steakhouse to calm down the rightfully upset gambler.

  When Mr. Blue Suit was gone, Roebuck said, “You need to make this up to me, Gemma.”

  A light bulb went off in her head. “I can and I will. I just need some vodka, a mirror and about ten minutes.”

  The security chief got a bottle of vodka sent up. Gemma took it into the ladies’ room and swilled it around her mouth so the scent would be unmistakable before spitting the alcohol into the sink. To fake her drunkenness, she also mussed up her hair to give her that over-served appearance. Leaving the restroom, she handed the bottle back to Roebuck.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Give me some space to work and be ready to move in.”

  The security chief frowned. “You'd better be right this time.”

  “I will.”

  She staggered onto the casino floor and flopped into a seat at one the slot machines. She held up a hundred dollar bill and called for change. Dutifully, Candy came over with her change cart.

  “Break it into tens for me, hon,” Gemma said.

  “You got it.”

  Again, Candy deftly and speedily placed ten dollar bills into Gemma’s outstretched hand. Partway through the count, Candy said, “Need another drink? My girl Tamzin is right behind you.”

  Gemma turned her head again. This time she did it for effect. Before she could say she was good, Candy had counted out all the bills and was walking away.

  Gemma counted the bills in her hand. She had only ninety dollars.

  “Candy,” she called, “I’m short ten bucks.”

  “Are you?” Candy said innocently.

  As Candy walked over, Gemma signaled to Roebuck.

  Candy tried to make right on her error but Gemma wouldn’t let her. Instead, she told Roebuck that she’d found the slot machine thief. Candy protested as the security chief marched her and her change cart into his office. Her protestations ceased when Roe
buck and Gemma found hundreds of dollars tucked into the waistband of her skirt.

  “Jackpot,” Gemma said.

  The Message Board

  Tom stood and stared at the message on the whiteboard. In one hand, a damp cloth was poised over the writing. Suddenly, a sense of loss gripped him and he couldn’t shake it. How could something so mundane mean so much? It just seemed wrong to erase the message.

  Tom,

  Don’t forget to pick up some eggs and milk on the way home.

  Susan

  It was the last message she had ever left him.

  Tom had buried Susan today. The burial had been a private affair, the way he wanted it. He wasn’t a showy kind of man.

  The message board had been Susan’s idea, just after they had gotten married in ‘89. Tom, the hunter-gatherer, had pinched a small twelve by ten whiteboard from the office and mounted it by the wall-phone in the kitchen. She never used it to note down telephone messages, as planned, but to leave personal messages for him.

  The night after erecting the whiteboard, Tom found his first message:

  Tom,

  I love you.

  Susan

  XXXXX

  The feeling of love swelled in Tom’s chest and he found it difficult to breathe. He rushed up stairs to find Susan waiting in the bedroom for him. He made love to her all night and ignored the meal burning in the oven.

  How could he wipe off Susan’s last message? The board represented a form of communication that was known only to them, their own private language. Tom couldn’t do it and let his arm drop with the cloth in it. He would never remove Susan’s last message; it would be a lasting monument to her.

  He tossed the cloth across the kitchen and it slapped the side of the sink. He had to tidy up. It was surprising how messy everything had become in the short time since Susan had died. She wouldn’t be pleased if she thought the place was going to wrack and ruin. Tom started straightening up—picking up things that had been dropped and cleaning up where stuff had been spilt.