“I’m investigating the death of April Destino,” she said. “Ms. Destino had been in contact with our office prior to her demise. She seemed to know quite a lot about a certain porno organization that exploits minors. Before her death, she directed us to you. She said that you could corroborate her story.”
“Ms. Foster, do you have a search warrant?”
“Are you sure that you want an answer to that question? Because if you do, things might get really uncomfortable for you. Really public.”
“Bad for business.”
“I thought you’d see it my way.”
“You’re wrong about that.” Shutterbug sucked a deep breath. “Look…April Destino committed suicide.”
“That’s the rumor. I don’t know that it’s the fact.”
“You didn’t know April. I knew her since high school, and she was one sick little puppy.”
“I understand that she was a cheerleader in those days, a real goody two-shoes.”
“ In those days is right,” Shutterbug said, and a voice inside him said. Whatever they hit you with, don’t say a word. That’s what we’re doing, that’s what you should do.
But he couldn’t do it. Agent Foster was staring at him, her eyes stripping his skin and peering underneath like the ghosts that had tortured him at the drive-in. There was no expression on her lips, but judgment was there.
“Today I searched April Destino’s mobile home,” Foster said. “I didn’t find much in it. I thought maybe she had left some of her possessions with you.”
“With me? C’mon, now. I knew her, but I didn’t know her. We weren’t together in any way shape or-”
“Ms. Destino made it sound like much more than that. At the bare minimum, we know you both worked in porno.”
Bare minimum. Shutterbug smirked at her inadvertent pun. “You think you know a lot. A lot of what you know seems to be wrong.”
“Do you know any female Caucasians?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you know any female Caucasian lawyers?”
“Maybe. But I don’t see-”
She flashed a business card. “Do you know any female Caucasian lawyers named Wendy Wong?”
“Huh?”
“I know you had someone search April’s mobile home last night. A gray-eyed blonde. What I don’t know is what you two were looking for, and if you found it.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy. This is a waste of my time.”
Agent Foster took a step back. “No, Mr. Hanks. This is a waste of my time. I thought you might understand that we could do this the easy way instead of the hard way. We know what you’ve been up to over the years. Exactly and precisely. We’ve checked through the books of your more legitimate employers in the business, and we’ve checked your tax records.
I’m stunned to report that there seems to be a disparity in the figures. But maybe you simply forgot to report a few things.”
Again, the amused little smirk.
Shutterbug wanted to bash it in.
“You’re not a player, Mr. Hanks. You’re a pinball. But if you want to keep rolling, you’ve got a decision to make.”
“Okay It won’t hurt to talk. There are a few things you need to understand.”
“I might understand a little better if I could sit down.”
“Sure.” Shutterbug stepped aside and allowed her to enter, but she never took her eyes off him.
He closed the door. “Nice place,” she said, with just enough sarcasm in her voice. “Tres Sharper Image.”
Shutterbug ignored the dig. “The living room’s to the right.” He held up his hands, still slick with soap. “Just let me clean up.”
“Okay.” She stood in the living room, watching him as he entered the kitchen.
Shutterbug glanced over his shoulder. “You can sit down.”
She shook a finger at him. “That wouldn’t be polite. I’ll wait for you.”
They both froze for a second with stupid little I’m-smarter-than-you-are grins on their faces.
A pair of headlights played over the living room window. She turned toward the street. “Are you expecting-”
The pool cue shattered Agent Foster’s Kabuki grin. She collapsed on the hardwood floor. Shutterbug was on top of her in an instant, trapping her arms under his knees. She screamed. Something round and black was in his hand. He slammed it against her face and shattered her front teeth, grinding it into her mouth. She didn’t scream anymore.
And then he was off her, gone, just as quietly as he’d come. But she heard him. In the kitchen. Gentle metallic sounds, rustling tableware.
He was selecting a knife.
She wanted the thing out of her mouth. But it was big; she couldn’t open her jaw another millimeter. She couldn’t spit it out. She couldn’t breathe around it. She wanted to breathe, needed to breathe, but the cue stick had broken her nose. She couldn’t fill her lungs. She was panting, her nose was swelling closed, her nose was bleeding.
She didn’t have much time.
She had broken her right wrist in the fall, but she managed to toss open her coat.
Her service revolver was gone.
No. There it was. Over there by the drapes. He’d pulled it from her holster, and he’d thrown it over there because shooting her would make a lot of noise.
And this slime didn’t like noise. He could move without making a sound.
She rolled onto her side. Started to crawl, drawing shallow breaths through her nose. Crawling quietly.
In the kitchen, the subtle music of sharp knives.
Her fingers closed around her service revolver.
She steadied the weapon, steadied it. He didn’t even see her. His back was turned. He was playing with his knives.
She never got the chance to put a bullet in his back.
The bricks that shattered the window-and the Molotov cocktails that followed them-saw to that.
FOUR
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
10:39 P.M.
After the pool players cleared out of the bar with their maiden-in-distress in tow, Steve had another beer and thought about portents.
The doves and the dog, Homer Price, had been portents of his dream. The screaming girl in his basement was a portent of April’s nightmare. Those signs seemed plain enough, but there were other portents that he couldn’t decipher. The tightness in his gut when he saw Royce Lewis lying there in a hospital bed. The shaky feeling of pain and anger that surged through him when he noticed the blonde girl’s swollen eye.
Perhaps these were nothing more than reactions. Emotions he hadn’t previously experienced, except when it came to April. Simple responses which he had studied, year after year, but never duplicated before now.
And here they were, surging inside him. A riot of strange feelings, breaking through the robot precision of his thoughts. Maybe they were portents of the dream, too. Steve tipped back the glass, and the last gulp of beer slid down his throat while the last curl of foam tickled his lip.
Portents. They were lining up in his favor. The dream was a little closer with every passing moment. And the nightmare, buttoned up in his pocket, was wasting away to nothing. Suddenly he wanted rid of it. He wanted to drown it in the black waves outside.
No. He would take the film home to April. He would destroy it before her eyes, proving to her that it was nothing anymore.
That would be a portent of their future.
That would stop her screaming.
Steve paid his bill, leaving a sizable tip for the waitress. She looked like she needed the money.
Reactions. Damn. Even a little thing like leaving a big tip stirred new feelings inside him. He stepped outside. The night air was turning crisp. The white scent of salt rode the ocean breeze, mingled with another scent that Steve recognized instantly.