34
TEDDY AND SALLY departed Centurion Studios at the end of the day. He checked his rearview mirror.
“Anybody following us?” she asked.
“Not that I can see, not so far. It takes a while to spot a tail, unless it’s something really noticeable, like the yellow car, the first time.”
“Billy, are we in danger?”
“I think we scared them off, but I think it’s best to behave as if we’re being followed.”
“How do I do that?” she asked.
“Leave it to me, and don’t worry about it.”
“Should I go back to Santa Fe?”
“No. If somebody means us ill, you’ll be safer with me than back in Santa Fe.”
“We could both go back there and live in my house.”
“I have a job here—no, a career. Come to think of it, so do you.”
“I’ve only been at it for a few days.”
“I know, but you like it, and everybody at the shop likes you, too. Also, you’re making better money than you could make in Santa Fe.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“And I’m making a lot more money than I could make in Santa Fe.”
“Should I carry a gun?” she asked.
“Do you know how to use one?”
“Yes, my daddy taught me to shoot when I was a kid.”
“Do you have a license to carry in Los Angeles County?”
“No.”
“Then you’d be at risk for being arrested here, and I don’t think you’d enjoy the accommodations.”
“It might be worth the risk, if I could defend myself.”
Teddy turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway. “Let me explain something to you,” he said.
“Go ahead, the more I know the better.”
“Maybe not, but I want you to know this much. If you should ever shoot someone, for any reason, your life will get worse in a hurry, and it will never be the same again. It doesn’t matter if it’s self-defense.”
“Why not? Self-defense is legal, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but you’d have to prove that you fired in fear of losing your life. You’d need an expensive lawyer to help you do that, and you’d need witnesses. Of course, if you were lucky and killed the son of a bitch, the most important witness against you would be dead, but then you might face a murder charge, and there’s all sorts of other kinds of evidence—ballistic, blood spatter, powder traces.”
“And if all of that supported my story, would I be all right?”
“Maybe, but things would never be the same. You’d be all over the newspapers, attracting the attention of people you don’t want to know—paparazzi, TV reality shows, and worst of all, crazy people who’d turn up at your door wanting either to shoot you or you to shoot them.”
“Why would they want me to shoot them?”
“Because they’re crazy. And even if you satisfied the DA that you fired in self-defense, he’s still going to charge you with illegally carrying a gun, and you would have no defense against that.”
“Billy, are you carrying a gun?”
“As I recall, you frisked me this morning.”
“That was in bed. You could still be armed.”
“I’m not carrying a gun.”
“Do you intend to?”
“Only if I feel that it’s necessary. But I have a license to do so. Depend on me to do your shooting for you. You can be a witness in my defense.”
“Are you carrying some other kind of weapon?”
“Sweetheart, there are always weapons at hand, if you know how to use them.”
“What kind of weapons?”
“A chair, a fireplace poker, a broom handle, an umbrella, a rolled-up newspaper.”
“How is a rolled-up newspaper a weapon?”
“Tightly rolled, it’s like a thick stick. You can poke somebody in the eye with it, hit him in the solar plexus, or just smash him upside the head. It’s unlikely to knock him unconscious, but you’ll stun him and give yourself time to find a way to kill him.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said.
“There was a time when I hardly thought of anything else. That’s how I was trained. Once it’s sunk in, the knowledge is always there, it doesn’t go away.”
“I’m starting to feel safer,” she said.
“Would you like me to give you some self-defense training?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
“Then, this weekend, we’ll devote a little time to that.”
• • •
DAX BAXTER LEFT HIS OFFICE a little later than usual and pointed the Porsche toward home. Somewhere well behind him, a car flashed its headlights, and he was suddenly tense. Was it a signal to somebody up ahead, somebody waiting with a sniper’s rifle?
He switched off his headlights and made a sudden turn into a residential street, shifting down to slow the car without braking. He pulled into a driveway behind a row of trees and stopped. A moment later, a car drove past, then turned into a driveway a few doors down. Somebody coming home from work, or somebody looking to kill him?
A porch light went on, and a man stepped outside his front door. Dax quickly backed up and drove back the way he had come. At the intersection, he looked carefully in both directions, then pulled into the road, turning his lights on again. Lights appeared again in his rearview mirror. By the time he got home he was a nervous wreck.
He opened the steel garage door, drove inside, and pressed a button that operated a turntable, rotating the car 180 degrees. He let himself into the house, grabbed a skateboard by the door and pushed off. In a twenty-one-thousand-square-foot, one-bedroom house, it got him around faster than walking. He rolled into his study and poured himself a stiff scotch, not bothering with ice. He took two big gulps and sank into a chair, waiting for the booze to find its way to his fear. It took no more than a minute.
He settled back into his chair, resting the glass on the leather arm. Warmth coursed through him, and confidence. He closed his eyes. And took a deep breath.
This was crazy, he thought. If anybody was following him, it would be the cops. If he was under twenty-four-hour surveillance, what did he have to worry about? He laughed at himself.
• • •
DAX JERKED AWAKE. There had been a noise. The digital clock across the room said that it was just after midnight. What was that noise? He eased from his chair, went to a cabinet, opened his safe and took out a loaded 9mm pistol, pumping a round into the chamber and flipping off the safety. He went back to the living room and looked intently around the darkened room. The noise came again, louder this time, making him jump.
It was the ice machine, making ice.