Maybe she’d feel more optimistic about her abilities to be a mother if she ever found the right guy. Yeah, right. Like the guy across the hall who she hadn’t seen in a couple of days. She must have scared him off.
She stomped on the Lexus’s accelerator and shot onto the 405. The hell with Wilshire or Santa Monica Blvd. She was going back to a certain apartment building frequented by a smart-ass kid. And this kid in particular, she really, really didn’t like.
Twenty minutes later, she parked two blocks away from Kenum’s grungy apartment building. She was behind a beater truck that had a paint-splattered ladder in the bed. Mary parked just a hair farther away from the curb than the truck so she could watch the front of Kenum’s building, but remain virtually out of sight.
She sat back and waited. It took almost two hours before the kid showed up.
Mary jumped out of the car, jogged up the street, and ambushed the little smart ass just as he was about to go inside the building.
“Hey, remember me?” she said.
The kid turned and rolled his eyes. “Aw, Christ.”
“Close, but the name is actually Mary. Christ’s mother.”
He started to open the doors to the building, but Mary had climbed up next to him and she put her hand on the door.
“You’re not funny,” he said. “You’re hot. But you’re not funny.”
“Aw, stop, you’re such a sweetie,” Mary said. “So who told you to send me down to the boat?”
The kid shook his head. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. That’s a pretty mouth you got, though. Why not put it to better use?”
Mary stepped in, grabbed the kid, and pushed him back against the door.
“Listen you little shit,” she said. “Give me a name or I’ll take you around back to the alley. And not to fool around, you understand?”
The kid nodded his head as best he could. He even let out a little fart.
Mary let go, slightly. “David Kenum. Where is he?”
The kid gasped for breath.
Mary waited a moment, impatient.
“Where. Is. He,” she said.
The kid looked at her, then a sheepish little smile crossed his face.
“Right behind you.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Duct tape was really an unfortunate invention, Mary thought. It seemed like a crutch for people who didn’t know how to fix something properly. Take tying someone up, for instance. There were all kinds of things a person could use. Rope. Plastic ties. All much easier to use. But David Kenum, he was a duct tape kind of guy.
“Big surprise,” Mary said under her breath. Yeah, no duct tape across the mouth yet. But Mary figured that would come next.
“I didn’t catch that,” Kenum said.
Mary studied Kenum for a moment. He had the body of a forty-year old. Lean but muscular. Only in his face did he look his true age. He had a shaved buzz cut. And sleeves of tattoos.
“I just said how much I like duct tape,” Mary said. “Perhaps the world’s most versatile product.”
“Smart ass, huh?”
“Me? Smart ass? No. But great ass? Hell yeah.”
Kenum didn’t even smile, just gave a small nod. “Funny. You remind me of Coop. Brent. Your uncle.”
“I hate it when people say that.”
“He was a dick, wasn’t he?”
“I can’t speak ill of the dead.” She paused. “At least he didn’t turn some young girl into sashimi like you did.”
She watched him but he showed no reaction.
Whether Kenum was pissed or not, Mary didn’t know. But for some reason, he wasn’t adding a swatch of duct tape across her mouth.
“And then you did the same thing to ol’ Dicky Kay,” she added.
“Who?”
“Don’t disrespect his memory,” Mary said. “That’s bad karma.”
Kenum looked at her, sharp interest in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean someone took a filet knife to him and butterflied him. Put some lemon and butter on him and he’s ready for the grill.”
“Huh,” Kenum said.
“Let me guess, you had nothing to do with it?”
Kenum sighed. “I thought prison was violent. This is ridiculous.”
“Hey, you mentioned my uncle earlier, why did you kill him?” Mary said.
Kenum pulled a chair up across from her, swung it around, and sat backwards on it, facing her and the door.
“I’d like to ask some questions,” he said.
“Shoot,” Mary said. “By shoot, I mean ask.”
“Let’s start by you telling me why you’ve been looking for me.”
Mary smiled. “I just thought since Brent was my uncle, and you killed him, that we have a lot in common. Maybe we could start a book club.”
Kenum shook his head.
“I didn’t kill your uncle,” he said.
Lies, lies, and more lies, Mary thought. But he didn’t look like he was lying. And why would he? How could she possibly be a threat to him now?
“No?” Mary said. “Then why did you pay the kid to send me to the boat and have Dicky turn me into bait?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mm hmm. Just like you didn’t kill that girl way back when.”
“I didn’t.”
“Spoken like a true convict. Prison is filled with innocent men, right?”
Kenum shook his head. “No. It’s filled mostly with rotten, guilty scum. But there are a few innocents in there. More than most people think.”
“And you’re one of them, right?”
“I’m guilty of a lot of things. But I didn’t kill that girl. And I didn’t kill your uncle.”
“Then who did?”
Kenum looked at her, but then his eyes lifted over her shoulder. His expression didn’t change but she sensed something was wrong.
Mary turned in her chair.
Six figures wearing identical blue suits stood behind her. They all wore Richard Nixon masks.
“I’m guessing they did,” Kenum said.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Nothing happened for a moment. No one spoke.
And then two things happened at once. Kenum lifted his shirt and pulled a small automatic from his waistline. Simultaneously, the Nixon in the middle lifted his arm to reveal an automatic with a silencer attached.
The Nixon’s gun spat first.
Kenum’s gun fell without firing. Along with its owner, who now sported a red hole just above his right eye.
“Guys,” Mary said. “You’re doing it all wrong. Presidents get assassinated. They don’t do the assassinating.”
Nixon with the Silencer pointed the gun at her while two others approached her. Another one pulled out a sawed off shotgun, jacked a shell into the chamber, crossed the room, and pressed the barrel against Mary’s temple.
Mary took the opportunity to study her captors a bit more closely. When they had first come in, she thought they were dressed identically. But now she saw that wasn’t the case. Yes, they all had on blue suits, white shirts, and dark ties. But some of the suits were pinstriped. Some had subtle checks. Some of the ties were dark red. Some were light blue. One didn’t have a tie. The black shoes differed the most. Mary saw wingtips, loafers, and walking shoes.
But most of all, Mary noticed the hands. They were all old, some wrinkled, most with liver spots, some with arthritis.