Man in the Middle

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 HAVING PASSED THE CORONADO NAVAL BASE AND THE HOTEL DEL Coronado, Peter and Drew cruised along Central Beach, where condominiums and mansions boasted semi-private beaches. Sailboats, docked a dozen yards from the exclusive boardwalk along Beachcomber Estates, forested their view. Attached in a row were units 1242, 1244, and 1246, each with cantilevered balconies suspended over white sand. Across from this row of dwellings, on the opposite, non-beach side of Sunshine Avenue, were the odd numbered units. Former Detective Sean Ellis’ address was 1246, which meant he had direct ocean access. Being at the end of the block, Ellis—more blessed than his neighbors—enjoyed 180 degree vistas of the harbor, ocean, and two-man volleyball.

“A three-story condo,” said Drew. “This is an unbelievable spot. Over there.” He pointed. “Guy with a flat top, aviator glasses, drinking beer. Probably has a gun under the towel on that table. Looks like the stereotypical steroid cop.”

“Yeah. Hope this doesn’t get into a wrestling match,” Peter said. “I’ll approach along his blind side.”

“Damn,” Drew said. “Must have been some inheritance.”

“Or he sold influence and told a ton of lies over the years. That’s what I need to find out.” Peter scanned the street. It was deserted, as if the residents knew enough to stay indoors and out of harm’s way.

“What if he did lie about Hannah’s accident?” Drew slowed the car, then parked at the end of the dead-end street, half a football field’s distance from Ellis’ unit.

“If this guy’s dirty, then I have to conclude that some of what Dawson said is true. How much, I still won’t know for sure.”

“You think it’ll indicate foul play in Hannah’s death?” Drew asked.

“Probably. If so, I nail whoever’s responsible.”

“Maybe I should take to the beach, like I’m sightseeing. Shuffle in the sand and watch. I’ll be near enough to react.”

“Just don’t do anything until necessary,” Peter said, nodding. “I prefer to get answers without a confrontation. If possible.”

Peter planned his strategy as he veered towards the co-op. Politeness sure as hell wouldn’t work. He decided to try tough. He’d draw on all the vile language he’d learned in the trading room. Drew strode through the dry portion of sand as Peter reached the building’s edge. On this protected section of beach, the water lapped rather than broke along the shore, and the breeze smelled sweet, without the briny scent of seaweed. The calm felt eerie, as if the mighty Pacific were powerless.

Peter waited for Drew to make his way to the section of beach off Ellis’ porch. Once his friend had positioned himself within striking distance, Peter turned the corner and approached his target. Screwing on a sour face, he flipped his baseball cap, wearing it backwards. “You Ellis?” Peter said, feigning arrogance.

The man rotated his twisted steel-like torso. The motion caused his neck to knot and his shirtless chest to flex. His shoulders rolled into two enormous balls. Evenly tanned pecs, biceps, and triceps danced in readiness.

A furrowed brow indicated to Peter he had the right man. “I got some questions for you,” Peter continued.

“I got a question for you: get outta here.” Ellis had unsparingly vicious eyes and an overmuscled face to go along with the rest of his physique.

“Sorry, Asswipe, but that’s not a question,” Peter said as he attempted a swagger.

“You wanna be shot, or have your pencil neck broken?”

“Now, at least that’s a question. An interrogative, don’t ya know, ends in a question mark. A statement is adorned with a period. Maybe you’re not dumber than a post, after all.” Through peripheral vision, Peter saw Drew wag his head as Ellis reached for a towel. Peter prepared to duck bullets.

“You got a smart mouth,” Ellis said, mopping his damp hair, continuing to examine Peter as if at an autopsy. “You’ve also got too much brass to be a run-of-the-mill jerkoff. So who sent you?”

“Smart boy, Detective Ellis. People who sent me want you to know we’ve got a little problem. Kind of a warranty issue. Need you to say a few things a second time. Maybe in front of a DA.”

“Yeah? Who you referring to that’s needing my help?” Neck veins writhed, looking ready to burst evil.

“You expect me to spell it out, Numbnuts? Person who recently helped pay for this pad? Got it yet?”

“You mean the crash thing? They told me that was it. Arrive at the scene, say she drove too fast . . . you know the rest. I did my job, I got paid.”

“Maybe Mizz Guzman needs more.”

“You tell that blond witch . . .” His jaw clamped shut and his Adam’s apple rode up and down as he swallowed the profane thought.

“Maybe somebody don’t quite believe you—someone’s thinking it wasn’t an accident,” Peter said. “If they figure things out, it ain’t just our asses, dude. Capiche?” Peter hoped to God this didn’t sound as lame as it felt.

“A deal’s a deal. I didn’t come back and ask for more money after.”

“Oh, my. I am so sorry for bothering you. I’m sure Senor Nunoz will understand.” The change in Ellis’ demeanor confirmed to Peter what Agent Dawson had said: Nunoz was a man everyone feared. “You don’t mind if I climb this here plexy-wall so’s I don’t gotta shout?”

Peter straddled the three-foot Plexiglass gate and stepped over. He took a couple strides and stood next to Ellis. The ex-cop stood an inch taller and weighed at least fifty pounds more than Peter. The monsterman’s exposed skin glistened and smelled of tanning oil. Peter felt like a gnat ready to get squished.

“This is got Nunoz involved?” The ex-cop looked upset.

“I’m a nice guy, but Nunoz, he’s likely to take that stinkin’ Coppertone and squirt it up your ass until it soaks your pea brain. If I was you, I’d talk to me.”

“This sucks . . . don’t tell that cocksucking beaner I said that. Don’t tell him I called him—”

“Relax, Detective. I only wanted to know that you would—” would what? Peter wondered, suddenly tongue-tied. Ellis squinted in the way a man does when he suspects someone is full of it “— that you’ll confirm in a court of law—if necessary—that you witnessed that accident and crash. That you’ll confirm your lie.”

The wild dangerous animal reemerged. Ellis trembled with rage, and his buffed arms blew up into something resembling ham shanks.

“Confirm my lie?” Ellis asked. “What kind of a dipshit way to ask a question is that? You ain’t from Nunoz. I know when I’m being bullshitted by a bright boy. Who sent you?”

“You dare challenge Nunoz?” Peter silently said goodbye to his thin cover. “I’ll have to tell him—”

“Yeah? Go ahead,” Ellis said through a sneer. “In fact, dipshit, I’ll call Nunoz. I’ll take my chances that he don’t give a rat’s ass about me insulting you. Or kicking your ass.” Ellis’ stiff finger jabbed Peter’s chest. The action forced Peter backwards.

Ellis grabbed a cell phone from the table. With his free hand he snatched a 9mm from under a towel, just where Drew had guessed. He held the handset to his ear, the gun to Peter’s forehead. It took a few seconds, but before anybody answered Ellis’ call, Drew hurtled the fence. His right foot landed on the aluminum rail, using it as a launching pad. His shoulder tucked, his body parallel to the patio surface, he hit Ellis just below the neck with a vicious clip. The dense man’s skull snapped back. In the process of crashing, the ex-cop fumbled both items—the gun and the phone.

Ellis’ forehead rebounded from whiplash in time to crush a low table, shattering the glass top. Drew bounced off his victim and landed off to one side, his right hand supporting his weight, keeping him from wiping out.

Peter glanced at Drew and understood that they had arrived at an identical conclusion—the time had come to exercise rules number one and two: run like hell, then drive faster than hell. To anyone observing them leap over a chaise lounge and the low wall, then hit the beach and sprint away, the pair would look like athletes in thieves’ retreat. They retraced the path Peter had taken ten minutes earlier and flung themselves into Drew’s Pinto wagon.