Justification for Murder (28 page)

T
he sun started to prick his skin. Darcy enjoyed driving with the top down but saw that Sorensen was having some issues trying to keep his hair out of his eyes. Darcy knew exactly where the Los Altos Rod and Gun Club was, and it was not too far from the Curarent Tech office.

“I swear to God, the first minute I get, I’m shaving my head.”

Darcy laughed. “I dare you.”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Man, you’re cheap. Deal,” he said, extending his hand out for a shake.

Sorensen took it.

Darcy slowed down, turned right and pulled into the parking lot, taking a spot not too far from the main door. The place was much bigger than it looked from the outside. Darcy saw a cute woman with huge boobs and approached her.

“Good afternoon, Carmela,” he said, reading her name from the tag conveniently placed on her chest. “Can we speak with the manager?”

“He’s out back. Can I help you with something?” she asked after she popped her pink bubble gum.

“We’re detectives with the Santa Clara Sheriff’s Office,” Lynch said, showing his badge.

She nodded and headed to a door at the back of the store. She knocked and then said, “Jimmy, you need to come out.”

Before the door opened, she was back, standing where she’d been a few seconds earlier, popping gum.

“Gentlemen?”

Jimmy looked forty, but his voice put him in his late sixties.

Lynch made the introductions and went straight to the point. “I understand that Harper Johnson worked here.”

“Oh man,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “Jesus, I knew sooner or later—”

“We’re not here for that,” Darcy said.

“You’re not? I swear we run checks on all of our employees. There was no record of mental illness.”

“We just want to know a little more about him. For example, did he socialize with anybody from the store?”

Jimmy thought about it for a while. Then, giving up, he turned to Carmela. “You worked with him on some shifts. Do you know?”

“Yeah, he didn’t socialize much. Actually, didn’t even talk much. Real quiet that one was.”

“Was he good with customers?” Sorensen asked.

“Harper knew his shit.” She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly embarrassed. “Pardon my French.”

Darcy smiled and waved his hand. “You should hear
this
guy speak,” he said, pointing to Sorensen, who grunted in protest.

Carmela giggled and went on: “If a customer had a question, Harper always knew the answer. I liked working when he was in the store because of that. He knew everything about guns.”

“Did he have any friends that came to the store or the range?” Sorensen leaned against the counter.

“No, I don’t think he ever brought any friends here.”

“How about customers? Did he seem friendlier with some customers or talk more with anybody?” Darcy added.

“I don’t know about friendlier…There’s this guy—a real dick, you know? He’s all rich and puffy. He has a nice ride, like one of those fancy cars that don’t run on gas, but not like a Prius. Looks more like a Camaro, you know? Anyway, about two years ago, this guy started coming, and they seemed to know each other from before. I wouldn’t call it ‘friends,’ you know?” She quoted with her fingers and popped gum again. “Maybe acquaintances. About a month ago I saw the douche bag out in one of the outdoor lanes, talking to Harper. Then I saw them together a couple more times. They would talk for a few minutes and then Harper would come back to work. He always looked gloomier than normal when this guy showed up.”

“Always, or lately?” Sorensen pushed his blond curls out of his eyes.

Another pop. “Lately,” she said after she thought about it. “I also noticed that the rich guy only came when Harper was working, which was only once a week.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I try to forget, because he can never remember mine, but it’s not good for business, so I do remember.”

Jimmy patted her on the shoulder, as if he was proud.

“His name is Warren. Tyler, I think, is his first name.”

“Did Harper ever tell you what they talked about when they met at the lanes?”

“No. As I said, Harper never talked much.”

“Did you ever see Warren give anything to Harper, like a piece of paper, or an envelope?”

She thought about it. She popped more gum.

“Carmela,” Jimmy admonished her, somewhat embarrassed.

“Sorry, boss.”

She took a few steps away from the men and threw the gum into a garbage can hidden underneath the counter.

“No, well, maybe. About a week or two ago I remember Harper came back from talking to Mr. Asshole and had a folder with him—you know, one of those yellow ones lawyers always use in the movies.”

“Did he say what was in it?”

“No. I teased him about it, though. But he just ignored me and went to the break room. I never saw the folder again.”

“Did you ever see if Mr. Warren gave Harper money?” Darcy new he was hoping for a miracle.

“Well, yeah, for the store, when he bought something.”

“I mean outside of regular business.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Darcy thought about what he knew about Harper. Was there anything else he needed to ask? He felt satisfied.

“Thank you, Carmela,” he said and extended his hand to shake hers. She took it and giggled. He then extended it to Jimmy. “Thank you, Jimmy.” He was a bone crusher. Darcy fought hard for the pain to not show on his face. Jimmy had a subtle smirk when he shook Sorensen’s hand too.

Before they reached the store door, Darcy thought of something else: “Is Warren a good shot?”

“See for yourself,” she said, pointing to a target on the wall with twelve holes in the bull’s-eye.

S
affron thought about all the movies where somebody kidnapped and tied to a chair manages to come loose, beat the shit out of the kidnapper and escape. She had tried wiggling her hands out of the tape tying her to the armrests. But no luck. Then she tried loosening her ankles, but that didn’t work either. The duct tape on her mouth was getting really old too. She had never been really good at fully breathing through her nose and much less now when she was completely freaked out.

To her left sat an older woman with bleached blond hair, cut in a bob. The hair looked coarse, as if it had been treated way too many times with harsh chemicals. She had been heavily made up, but now most of her mascara had dripped from her eyelashes down her cheeks. Saffron wondered if the woman’s lipstick was smeared underneath the tape covering her mouth. She was shaking and whimpering like a cold, wet, abandoned Chihuahua.

Next to that woman was another one, probably about ten years older than Saffron. Her skin was dark chocolate, and her hair was short and spiky. She was not shaking. Her back was straight, and her nostrils flared every time she breathed. Every few seconds her fingers wrapped around the end of the armrest, and Saffron could see her tendons stretch and the knuckles turn white. Saffron stared at her, trying to grab her attention, but the woman was fully focused on the stairs.

The basement was damp and smelled of mold. Every once in a while she heard rustling sounds around the walls and figured some rodent was making its way from one end to another. It made her want to lift her feet on the chair and she shivered every time she realized she couldn’t.

After Julia came down the stairs and tied her up, she left them there but didn’t turn the light off. Saffron didn’t know if it was because she was coming back or because she forgot. A few minutes later the door opened again. The older woman shrieked and even managed to move her chair back an inch or two. She began to cry again. Saffron stared up the stairs, wondering what was going to happen next.

A man in nice Italian shoes started descending. His black pants were virgin wool and had a perfect crease running down from the waist to the cuff. He was carrying an older man on his shoulder. She noticed the black-and-red-checkered shirt and brown hunting vest. She had no idea people actually wore such things in real life. The man in the expensive clothes dropped his cargo on the floor with less care than needed.

“Can you bring down another chair?” he asked up the stairs.

“We’re running out,” Julia yelled from above.

The man looked around and then said, “We only need a few more.”

Saffron looked at the woman with the short hair, and their eyes finally met. She didn’t need words to communicate what she was thinking:
We’re in deep shit
. The woman’s tendon’s flexed again and she focused her attention back on the well-dressed man.

Saffron started kicking her heels on the ground and moving her hands to draw his attention. When the man looked at her, she tried telling him with her eyes to remove the duct tape over her mouth. He walked to her and started to pick at a corner of the tape. When there was enough material to grab, he pulled as hard and fast as he could. Saffron felt cold, then heat, and then as if the tape had taken half her skin with it. It stung so bad all she could think about was rubbing her face with her hands. But she couldn’t.

“That hurt,” she protested, still shaking her head to cool down the stinging skin.

“Fast is better,” he said in lieu of an apology. “What do you want?” His voice was level, but there was an undertone of urgency.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Hold it.” He rolled his eyes and walked away from her.

“I’ve been holding it for a few hours already. I really need to go. Please.”

“Julia, come down here,” he yelled up the stairs.

Julia appeared, carrying a chair. She placed it in on the floor, next to the woman with spiky hair. Her face was flushed. She looked at the man with a sour expression.

“Take her to the bathroom.”

“What? What if she tries to escape?”

“Shoot her.”

Julia walked toward Saffron and stopped a good two feet away.

“If you kick me or something, you’ll regret it.”

Saffron nodded. Julia pulled a box cutter and sliced the tape on her feet first. Saffron rotated her ankles a few times, letting the flow of blood reach her toes. Then Julia freed her hands. Saffron stood but lost her balance. She fell on the chair again.

“Come on, let’s go.” Julia said. “I don’t have all day.”

Saffron used her hands to pull herself out of the chair. Intense pricks of pain shot up her arms. Her wrists were sore from her fall down the stairs and half-asleep from the binding. She wiggled her fingers. They weren’t broken. At least something was not as bad as it could have been.

Julia walked upstairs first.

“Tyler, make sure she comes up nice and steady,” she said to the man.

Saffron saw him turn around and point the gun at her as she walked up. When she reached the top, she stopped, waiting to hear further directions from Julia.

“The bathroom’s straight ahead, then on your left.”

Saffron walked forward until she found it. She went in and closed the door, but Julia opened it immediately.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said.

Saffron looked around for anything she could use to hit her, but the bathroom was bare. When she was drying her hands, she tried the towel rod to see if it could be easily removed, but it was securely attached to the wall.

As she walked back toward the basement, Julia stepped to the side to let Saffron go by her. In that split second, Saffron made up her mind.

She turned as if she were going to ask Julia a question, but instead she pushed her as hard as she could against the kitchen counter. Julia tripped over her own feet and fell backwards, hitting her head against the oven. The gun fell from her hand, but Saffron didn’t stop to pick it up. She ran toward the door as fast as she could.

“Bitch, get back here!” Julia screamed after her, rustling back to her feet.

Saffron opened the door, took two steps on the deck and jumped to the ground. She ran as fast as she could. For a second, she looked backwards to see if Julia was behind her, but she wasn’t. Instead, the man with the gelled hair named Tyler came out of the door and yelled, “Stop right now or I will shoot you.”

Saffron ran faster. Then a thunder filled the air and a she knew he had fired at her.

D
arcy checked his phone for voice mails or messages from Saffron, but there were none. He told himself that it was for the better. He shook the feeling of disappointment as if it were a shiver and checked the message he did have.

It was another voice mail from Alton Lane. “Detective…Car again…Checking…hung up...gun…” Then it ended with a screech.

“Hey, can you listen to this and see if you can figure out what he’s saying?” He pushed Play again and handed the phone to Sorensen.

He hiked the sound all the way up. “Something about a car and a gun?”

Darcy looked at him. “Really? That’s all you can get out of it?”

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “Maybe if we were in the office or a in a car that actually had a roof…” He pointed upwards at the sky, where the top of the car would have been.

“You wanted to ride in my car.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sorensen waved his hand. “Not what it’s all cracked up to be, I have to say.”

“Whatever. This is the most powerful car you’ve ever been in.”

“Nope.” Sorensen’s chest puffed up a little.

“For sure.”

“Nineteen-seventy Plymouth Superbird.”

Darcy cursed. “Damn it,” he said, admitting defeat. “That’s an amazing car.”

“I told you.”

“When did you ride it? At a car show?”

“My dad had one.”

“And now you drive a Jeep? What’s wrong with you, man?”

“I’ve got nothing to prove.” Sorensen looked straight out in front of him, but his smug smile was friendly.

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“We need to find this Warren guy,” Sorensen said.

“I know.” Darcy stepped on the gas, toward Palo Alto. “Can you call him? If we don’t find him there, I want to head back to talk to the support group counselor again.”

Tyler Warren didn’t answer any of his phones. They arrived at his house, a modern two-story home painted white, with large windows and a Japanese–style lawn. They knocked on the door, and a Hispanic middle-age woman opened it, dressed in a pink dress with large white flowers.

“Can I help you?” she said in a strong Spanish accent.

“Is Mr. Warren home?” Lynch asked.

Before she could answer, a kid came running down the hallway and peeked out the door beside her.

“No. Mr. Warren is not home. Can I give him a message?”

“Please, tell him that Detectives Sorensen and Lynch need to talk to him immediately,” Darcy said, giving her a card.

“Are you from the police?” the blond kid asked, looking from one to the other.

“From the Sheriff’s Office,” Sorensen said, getting on one knee and showing him his shiny badge. “And who are you?”

“My name is Lucas. Can I touch it?”

Sorensen held it flat on his palm. The kid passed a shy finger over it, as if he were afraid it would bite him.

“Do you have a gun?” Lucas asked with his finger still tracing the badge.

Sorensen opened his jacket so the kid could see the gun in his holster. Lucas took a step forward, index finger extended. The detective closed his jacket before the kid could touch the gun.

“When you’re a little older, you can. Right now you need a few more years under your belt.”

“But you don’t even know how old I am,” he protested.

“You are seven.”

The kid’s eyes opened wide, and his mouth formed a perfect circle.

“I’m a detective. I know everything,” Sorensen said, standing up and ruffling the kid’s hair.

“When I grow up I want to be a detective too,” he said, lifting his arms above his head as if to indicate how tall he would grow up to be.

Sorensen laughed. “And it would be my honor to work with you then,” he said, shaking the boy’s little hand.

They both thanked the woman and asked her again to relay the message to Warren.

“Bye, Detectives,” Lucas said, waving them away.

When they were back in the car, Darcy said, “Cool kid.” He put the car in gear and headed toward Saratoga to talk to Elena.

“He won’t be if he ends up in foster care.” Sorensen’s voice was grave. He was looking out the side window and shook his head.

“Maybe he has some relatives,” Darcy offered.

They both fell silent for the rest of the ride.