Dominic Page 17

  “Connie within earshot?”

  I glanced over at her. “Sure is.”

  “You might want to take this in another room, then.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me on this.”

  I gave her a shrug and stood. As I left the living room I glanced over my shoulder at Connie, who rolled her eyes and picked up a magazine to wait for me, the movie paused at the opening credits. I didn’t react, just walked through the downstairs bedroom and into the bathroom, closing both doors along the way.

  “Is everything OK?” I asked.

  “Of course. Are you busy tonight?”

  “Umm.” I thought of Connie. “I don’t know, why?”

  “Looks like the game might be this evening; we’re just finalizing the location.”

  “Oh, jeez, really? Tonight?”

  “That’s what I said. If you can’t make it, let me know now so I can try to get someone to fill in.”

  “I’m not sure, Dom.” I wanted to play, of course, had been preparing to, but it really wasn’t fair to just abandon Connie with no advance warning. She’d see it that way, at least.

  “I know it’s short notice, but that’s how it is with these games.” He paused. “And, I don’t mean to put pressure on you, Brian, I know things at home can get dicey, but the guys don’t usually give someone a second shot if they pull out.”

  “Oh, shit. Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, unless you’re on your way to the hospital or get arrested or something major. It’s a priority for them, and while we sometimes make accommodations for long-time players, the chaps like it to be a priority for everyone, especially the new guy.”

  I could feel myself starting to sweat. I really wanted to play, something bad, but I was sick of dealing with Connie’s drama every time I wanted to do something without her. I certainly couldn’t tell her I was hanging out with Dominic tonight, because that was a double risk for me: she’d be mad I wanted to go out without her, and because she has a crush on him, she’d beg and whine to come along. Maybe that was my way out . . .

  “So, do the other guys bring their wives or girlfriends?”

  Again a silence, then I heard him take a deep breath. “Brian, I’m going to assume right now that you’re trying to be funny.”

  Message received. “Totally. Jeez, I mean that’s the whole point of these things, right? Guys’ night out?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “For a moment I was truly worried about you. So, in or out?”

  I had to be in. Sure, Connie would be mad, but then she’d get over it. It sounded like Dom’s buddies wouldn’t get over me not showing up, though, and I didn’t want to be excluded before I even went once. No way.

  “OK, sure, I’ll be there. Where and when?”

  Dom chuckled. “Good man. I don’t know yet, as it happens, and won’t know until you tell me.”

  “Huh? I’m not following.”

  “As part of our cloak-and-dagger fun, you’ll receive a text from a phone number that you don’t know. It’ll be one of the guys. You’ll forward that address to my phone by text. Then I’ll do the same for one of the others.”

  “Sounds weird.”

  “Like I said, we enjoy the cloak-and-dagger.”

  I thought about it a moment and, even though I didn’t fully get it, I liked being in on it. “Hey, no problem.”

  “Bring a flashlight and a six-pack,” he said. “We usually find an abandoned house on the East Side and use that. Adds to the excitement.”

  “Oh, wow, I bet. You’re not afraid of, like, being caught on a criminal trespass charge?”

  “Not in the least. I said an abandoned house, which means there’s no one to press charges.”

  “Good point. Yeah, I’m in, looking forward to it. Any particular kind of beer?”

  “I don’t think it’ll matter in the slightest,” he said. “Bring whatever kind you like.”

  “Cool. Hey, I got those drugs, too, for the Russian roulette thing. I should bring those, too, right?”

  “Oh yes,” Dom said. “Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  DOMINIC

  I couldn’t decide whether I wanted it on film. Like, caught by surveillance cameras. On the one hand, if all went according to plan, then no one could dispute my account of events. I also loved the idea of having something I could watch over and over, a perfectly executed plan that I could enjoy for years to come.

  On the other hand, if something went sideways, I couldn’t explain it away because it’d be right there, captured on film. Say he didn’t react properly or I had to abort, then there’d be a permanent record that could sink me at some point in the future.

  I also had to be careful with the timing because there’d be interviews and re-interviews, and lots of hanging about while patrol cops talked to detectives and more patrol cops went hunting for witnesses. Time was of the essence with this deal, and I couldn’t afford to be twiddling my thumbs, stuck in one spot while the pieces were falling into place somewhere else.

  I decided against a permanent record of this particular event. As much as I wanted to trust my plan to be perfect, it was reliant in part on other people’s emotional reactions, and as a man with very limited emotional range, I couldn’t be sure that I’d pushed all of the right buttons.

  As it turned out, I had to follow him for an hour until the right moment came.

  He parked his little red Civic in the main parking lot of Wal-Mart on Ben White Boulevard, a lot I knew didn’t have cameras, because I’d prosecuted a murder and several armed robberies that took place here, and each time the cops had been frustrated by the lack of security. Time being short, I didn’t wait for him to go inside, instead picking an empty space closer to the store than his. Circumstantial evidence that I got there before he did, because everyone always takes the closest spot, right?

  He spotted me lounging against the front of my Land Rover, checking my phone for messages. When I looked up, he was making a beeline for me, already working himself into a frenzy. I put on my most innocent face in case the Indian lady and her three kids loading bags into a minivan one row over were watching.

  “Hey, you,” he shouted, still about thirty yards away.

  They were watching now. “Me?” I looked around, like maybe he was taking to someone else.

  “Yeah, fucking you.” He weaved past a few bumpers and stood five yards from me, the Indian family to our left. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

  “I’m just . . . nothing. Looking at my phone.”

  “You know who I am. You’re the asshole who blocked me in, screwed with me at the gas station.”

  “I think you have the wrong person,” I said. With the noise of passing cars, I hoped the lady couldn’t hear any actual words, just see his determined anger.

  “No, I know exactly who you are!” he shouted. I was happy for her to hear that bit.

  I glanced over, and the woman was ushering her kids into the car, a worried expression on her face. I made a gentle motion with my hands, telling her to get out of here.

  “Look, old chap,” I said in my most reasonable voice. “There’s been some misunderstanding.” I stepped forward, making sure my car blocked anyone from seeing the gun appear in my hand. White’s eyes grew large, and he went from red-faced to something much paler very quickly.

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded.

  Poor guy had no clue, absolutely none. And how could he, really? He was even less engaged in my little game than was the lowliest pawn in a game of chess. He was more like a piñata, hanging there all innocent and inanimate, waiting to be whacked to pieces.

  His eyes almost spun with confusion when I asked, “Are you left- or right-handed?”

  He didn’t reply, just looked from the gun to my face and back again. The info from the jail said he was right-handed, but I wanted to be sure. “I won’t ask you again, left- or right-handed?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank you,” I
said. “Now, the only way you live is if you shout the name ‘Tristan Bell.’”

  “What?”

  “You have three seconds to shout the name Tristan Bell as loudly as you can, or you die.”

  He took a deep breath, his eyes on the gun, and shouted those two words louder than I expected. Thanks again, I thought.

  Then I waited a half second and shot him through the heart.

  By the time he hit the ground, I was at his side, making sure he was dead and making sure, too, that no one was watching as I pulled on a skin-colored pair of cotton gloves and took a second gun from my pocket. I wrapped his dead right hand around it, squeezing his palm around the grip, and then placed it quietly on the ground. I peeled off the gloves and stuffed them into the exhaust pipe of an F-250 that was beside me.

  Then I stood and staggered back, reaching for my phone in time to see other people edging our way, already on theirs.

  When the first patrol car arrived, I was already on my knees, my fingers interlocked on top of my head, and the gun on the ground ten feet from me. Even so, the officer had his gun out, and he moved between me and Travis White. He got to White first, kicking the weapon away from the body before kneeling to feel for a pulse. Before standing, he said something into his radio, then he moved toward me, gun aimed at my chest. Then his hand wavered and the gun lowered a fraction.

  “Shit, Dominic, is that you?”

  It took me a moment to recognize him. “Hey, Thiago. Wish I could say it was nice to see you again.” Don’t be too cool, I reminded myself. A normal person would be full of adrenaline, maybe some remorse, and definitely be afraid.

  “What happened? Wait, are you armed still? Did you shoot that guy?”

  “I’m not armed. That’s my gun on the ground. I shot him once after he pulled on me.”

  “OK. You can lower your hands, but sit tight until my backup gets here.” He moved forward and slid the gun farther from me with his foot, then stepped back and spoke into his radio. I heard a string of APD codes, and then my name. He waited for a response, acknowledging it with, “Ten-four” at the end of the conversation. He lowered his gun all the way, but didn’t holster it. “Normally I’d ask you a bunch of questions, but they’re telling me to wait for the detective.”

  “Which one?” As if I couldn’t guess.

  “Homicide. Name of Brannon, I don’t know him.”

  “I do,” I said. “Nice guy.”

  Within a minute, four other patrol cars had surrounded us and a crowd was starting to gather and gawp at the dead Travis White. More cops would be here to keep them away, I knew, and to find witnesses. Which reminded me.

  “Hey, Thiago. Did the Indian lady leave? She saw what happened. Green minivan, right over there.” I gestured with my head.

  “Yeah, she called the cops, and someone’s talking to her.”

  “Good, thanks.”

  “Hey, I’m gonna put cuffs on you and let you sit in a car. More comfortable than kneeling there—these detectives sometimes take their sweet time.”

  “No problem at all, I appreciate the courtesy.”

  “Cuffs are policy until we figure it out,” he began.

  “Please, it’s fine, you’re just doing your job. Only hope not too many people are filming this.” Which they would be.

  He put the windows down, but I was still uncomfortable, those rear seats were made for people with short legs, and the seat itself was hard plastic. With my hands cinched behind my back, I cursed Brannon for taking his time.

  When he finally showed, he stood over White’s body, which had been extensively photographed by a Crime Scene tech, and stared. Then he came over to me, Thiago unlocking the door and opening it.

  “You can swing your legs out,” Brannon said. “Pretty tight in there.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and did so.

  “Sure. You’re not hurt are you? Need an ambulance or anything?”

  “No, I’m fine. He didn’t . . . I’m fine.”

  “Good,” he said. “So, first thing I have to do, as I’m sure you understand, is read you your rights. You’re not under arrest, but I want to do this by the book, be extra cautious.”

  “As you should, it’s fine.”

  “The in-car recording system should capture it, but I’ll have you sign the card, too.” He took a blue square the size of a postcard out of his pocket and read me my rights. Then he gestured for Thiago to undo my cuffs and handed me a pen. I signed on the dotted line. “OK,” he went on. “I don’t think we need you re-cuffed.”

  I gave him a weak smile. “I don’t think so either. My legs are too shaky for me to run off; I’d fall over.”

  He nodded. “Well, best not to try, then. So what happened here?”

  I told him about the run-ins with White, my initial sense that I was being followed, and then the incidents at the gas station and him chasing me into Gardner Betts. That would be on camera, I assured him, as well as being witnessed by Deputy Mike Trejo. Then I told him how White had approached me in the parking lot right there, got my attention with his gun, and then yelled at me that this was from Tristan Bell.

  “So do you know this guy?” Brannon asked.

  “No. Before all this, never seen him.”

  “If he’s a friend of Bell, would you expect to know him?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, maybe. I didn’t think Tristan had many friends; he didn’t really have anyone over to the apartment. Maybe he’s a relative?”

  “We’ll check. So he pulled a gun on you. He pulled first.”

  “Yes, of course. I don’t know why he took so long, I don’t . . . I wondered if maybe it’d jammed, but I just grabbed mine and shot. I didn’t even aim.”

  “How many times did you shoot?”

  “Just once,” I said. “I think just once, anyway. Now that you ask, I wouldn’t want to swear to it, but . . . yeah, I think just the one time.”

  “So if this has something to do with Bell, some revenge hit or something, how would he know you’d be here?”

  “I can only think he followed me.” I pointed away from the store. “He came from over there. I parked closer to the store, so he must have followed me here from somewhere. Again.”

  “OK. Wait here a moment.”

  He went and spoke to a patrol officer I didn’t know, nodding as he listened. Then he came back.

  “Talk to the Indian lady, she saw him approach me,” I said.

  “That’s what Officer Wynn was telling me. She didn’t see the shooting, or him with a gun, because her view was blocked. But she heard him say Bell’s name. Shout it.” He pursed his lips as he thought. “OK, so this must have been quite a shock, do you want me to get a counselor down here?”

  “No, thank you. A nice glass of Scotch will take care of things.”

  A half smile. “Yeah, I’m with you on that. I’m gonna let you get out of here, but we’ll need a formal statement, maybe tomorrow. I can have one of my guys drive you home and another follow in your car, if you’re not up for driving.”

  “No, no. That’s OK. I’m alright, really. I appreciate it, though.”

  “OK. Here’s my card; call me if anything occurs to you. Anything at all, and any time.” He helped me to my feet. “We’ll need to hang onto your gun until we finish the investigation.”

  “Of course. I don’t want to be around guns right now anyway, not for a while.”

  “That reminds me. You have a CHL?”

  “I do.” I made my fingers tremble a little as they opened my wallet and pulled out my license to carry a concealed handgun. He took and inspected it.

  “OK, thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you’re all right. Go home and take it easy for the rest of the night. Enjoy that Scotch.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Not exactly the truth. In fact, I wasn’t planning on sipping Scotch or taking it easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  There was a moment of respite at my apartment. I sat on the couch with my guitar, idly strum
ming a song I’d written two years earlier, “One Flew Over the Eagle’s Nest.” It was kind of a tribute to the Eagles, sort of an imaginary scenario where I played with them. It had that bouncy, catchy, almost-country rhythm that the Eagles mastered, and a chorus that my own fans loved to sing along to.

  Ironic, of course, that I switched out the word Cuckoo, which was how I saw myself sometimes. An imposter dropped into someone else’s nest, not of my own free will but most definitely at the expense of some poor innocent. Not that Travis Lee White was necessarily an innocent. A petty criminal with an anger problem and a propensity for parking in spaces reserved for the disabled. If I was looking to rationalize his death, I suppose I could start with those things, but I really wasn’t. I just didn’t care that much. Technically, not at all.

  At seven, my phone buzzed, an address and time appearing in a text.

  I ran my fingers over the taught guitar strings for a moment longer, feeling them quiver and hum under my fingertips. Behind them, the strong neck of the fingerboard, the familiar bump of the frets. My comfort, my rosary. I laid it back in its case and closed it.

  I went to the desk in the corner and opened a drawer, pulling out one of the burner phones I’d stashed there yesterday. I hesitated for a moment because I knew that after making this call, there was no going back. On the other hand there was no way I could go back anyway, not altogether, so I dialed the number, getting voicemail.

  “It’s Dominic. There’s something you need to know related to Bobby’s death—the truth. I’m going to text you something. I’ll explain when we meet.”

  Then I packed a bag, sent the text, and went out to my car. I had just started the engine when my cell phone rang, reminding me that I wasn’t supposed to have it with me. I answered when I saw the 974 prefix.

  “This is Dominic.”

  “Hi, Dominic. Jeremy Brannon. You have a moment?”

  No. “Yes, sure.”

  “Don’t mean to bug you, but I wanted to pass on some information we got, let you know where things stand as of right now on your shooting outside Wal-Mart.”

  “Tell me it’s a self-defense finding, sure.” I put a little extra exasperation in my voice to be sure it made its way down the line to him.