Page 30 of Hero

The old owner had apparently exhibited that familiar combination of paranoia and malice that made it unlikely that he hadn’t had guns somewhere. It didn’t matter where they had been; if James had them, they would be locked in the safe and had probably not been touched sincethen. But now Justine was here and she was in real danger. Joe decided against the guns. He had seen no indication that anyone knew she was here, and getting caught with an unregistered pistol that might easily have been used in some old crime was not going to make her safer.

As Joe pulled back the covers of the bed, he had a difficult time forgetting what he had seen on the recording. Sleep would be welcome, maybe to blur the bright, sunlit clarity of the memory image, at least.

21

Justine woke at five in the morning, probably because she had finally gotten a night of quiet, comfortable sleep. Justine had not spoken with anybody at Spengler-Nash since she had gotten the pictures of Ben’s killer lurking in the company garage. She texted another friend, Linda Fry, “It’s me—JP—can you call me when you get home?”

Five minutes later her phone buzzed. She said, “Hi.”

“Hi, Justine. I’m in my car, and I’m out of sight a half-mile from the building, pulled over, so it’s safe to talk.”

“I’m a half-mile poisonous?”

“More than that—radioactive. We can’t see it or how potent it is, but it’s bad. They both came in at the start of all three shifts to say a lot of crap about moving the business into a new era, which only showed how little they know about the business. They also mentioned that you had made some unprofessional choices and were no longer associated with the company. Any communication with you from now on could make the company and us, individually, share legal jeopardy for your actions. Mostly us, since management—meaning Ben—could no longer be charged.”

Justine said, “I kind of knew that was going on. I just wondered if there was anything new.”

“Yes,” Linda said. “When we were all getting back from the night shift a few minutes ago the cops were here waiting for us. They thought you would be working your usual night shift with us, I guess, and they wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, crap,” Justine said. “Who did they talk to?”

“They went straight for Bailey, like most strangers do.”

Bailey was tall, straight, and gray haired. He was about fifty, and he looked like a Black Marine general. “What did he tell them?”

“What we all agreed among ourselves to say—that you’re taking personal time off to get over what happened. Anybody would, and if they didn’t, Ben would have made them.”

“Thank you, Linda. And please thank Bailey when you see him. If I keep getting in touch with people directly, I’m afraid I’ll get somebody fired.”

“The cops asked for your address and phone numbers again, like they thought they must have copied them wrong the first time or something. They want to talk to you, and that doesn’t go away. They said a detective has been assigned to your case. I have his card. His name is Sergeant Kunkel.” She spelled it and said, “I’m sending you his phone number.”

“Thanks, Linda. I’ll give him a call today and get them off all of your backs.”

“I’m so sorry it all hit the fan, Justine.”

“Me too.”

“Don’t let it keep you from calling our personal numbers. The nightmare twins aren’t going to be hanging around when our shift lets off.”

“Thanks. I appreciate all of you. Go home and get some sleep now.”

“Will do.”

They both hung up. Justine put away the backup work phone she had been using since her work phone had been taken into evidence and called the number of the police detective on her personal phone. “May I please speak with Detective Kunkel?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi,” she said. “This is Justine Poole. I just heard you wanted to talk to me.”

“That was quick,” he said. “We do. What time is good for you?”

“You mean today?”

“Yes, I do.”

She tried to calculate how long it would take to get to the airport, case the parking area and surrounding roads to be sure it was safe to pick up her car, and then drive it to the LAPD headquarters building at 100 West First Street, get inside, and find him in Homicide Central. “I think I can be there at ten, depending on this morning’s traffic.”

“All right,” he said. “We’ll be expecting you.”

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