"Have you looked in your wallet?"
"Sure."
"Carefully? See if there's something in it that wasn't always there."
Clendon went through it again, and there, stuck behind his expired Visa card, was an inch-square thin, flat piece of metal with tiny ridges on it.
"What do you think it is?" he asked.
"A tracking device."
Shelley turned at Ventura Boulevard and went down an alley. Clendon got out and threw the piece of metal onto the roof of a computer store.
"I think I know where Asp lives," Clendon said when he got back in the Volvo. "I want to go over there."
"What for?"
"There's a certain wildcatting aspect to what he's been doing that I find inspirational." Clendon counted off on his fingers. "We'll need a box of baking soda, latex gloves, a clear plastic ziplock bag and a Polaroid camera and film."
* * *
Shelley took the Ventura Freeway to the San Diego. During the drive back, Clendon told her how he had discovered where Asp's house was. At the Westwood apartment Clendon went in and took the Polaroid camera out of the dresser. Then they drove over to the all night Ralph's at Wilshire and Bundy and bought the items Clendon wanted. Shelley got back on the freeway and drove south. Clendon made his preparations with the things they'd bought. A few miles past the airport, she pointed off to the west.
"There's Positron."
The Positron logo beamed in giant red, white, and blue neon from the top of a glowing white ten-story building which looked like it was floating in the thin fog. At Manhattan Beach Boulevard she exited the freeway and headed towards the ocean.
"There's two problems with my plan," Clendon said. "Asp may have a live-in girl friend or someone else who's staying there tonight, including a watch dog, and he may have an alarm system to be deactivated even after we use the house key."
"So?" Shelley said. "Fucker invaded my house. We'll invade his."
Clendon gave her the address. She knew where the street was. At Ardmore she turned south until they reached Buenaventura Drive, where she turned east. They went up a small hill as they strained to see the numbers on the houses. It was nearly three a.m. and the street was quiet.
"There it is."
Asp's house sat at the top of a small hill, almost hidden by sculptured shrubs and small trees. The front porch light was on, but no other lights, and the driveway was empty.
"Looks good," Clendon said.
Shelley pulled into the driveway and under a car port. It was dark and quiet and they couldn't be seen from the street. They got out and softly closed their car doors. Clendon, wearing the latex gloves, carried Asp's set of keys and one plastic bag containing eight ounces of the baking soda ziplocked tight. He stuffed the .38 in his waist in case somebody was home sleeping and woke up. Shelley carried the Polaroid camera loaded with fresh film and a small flashlight she kept in the Volvo.
Clendon opened the front door of the house with the fourth key he tried. The door swung open and he and Shelley eased in. He closed it quietly behind them as Shelley switched on the flashlight. In the semi-darkness, he looked and listened for some kind of alarm system that had to be switched off when coming through the front door using the house key. He neither heard nor saw anything.
They were standing in a large living room with a high, angled ceiling and exposed timber beams. The room was a little messy, but lived in and comfortable. There was a big screen TV, a plush couch and two recliners. Sitting on top of the TV was a small trophy, topped by the figurine of a man shooting a pistol. Clendon looked closely at the trophy. The engraving at the base read "1980 Second Place FBI Western Region." Clendon picked it up.
"Look at these," Shelley said.
She shined her flashlight on a group of large framed photographs on the wall of a younger Asp in several poses with two teen-aged boys and a woman who had frosted hair. Clendon studied the pictures of Asp's sons and Shari Lou. He stood next to a studio portrait of Asp's family and held up the bag with the baking soda in one hand and the pistol shooting trophy in the other hand. Shelley readied to take a Polaroid as he made a goofy grin.
"Make sure you get those family pictures in there," Clendon said. "And the trophy."
"Yes, Clendon."
Shelley squeezed the shutter, the flash went off, and the Polaroid film ejected from the camera. Clendon went momentarily blind.
"Jesus-- "
"We'll make sure it's a good picture," Shelley said.
Clendon's sight slowly came back through the starbursts of light in his eyes. Shelley held the flashlight on the film and watched it develop. After a minute she handed it to Clendon.
"Perfect," he said.
* * *
They opened the Westwood apartment after four a.m. They started working with a screwdriver and an adjustable wrench. They ripped up carpets, tore out closet shelves, unhooked pipes. Clendon's hand began to ache and he couldn't grip the tools very well. He removed the back of the refrigerator and the 27-inch Sony TV. They checked underneath every kitchen, bathroom, and dresser drawer. They looked in the wall heater. Clendon drank a lot of water but his head still felt unscrewed half a turn. After a few hours Shelley peeped outside.
"It's dawning," she said.
"We could take a break."
"It could be inside the wall. Maybe we need the power saw instead."
"I don't think we need a new tool," Clendon said. "We need to look somewhere in here we haven't looked."
"Want to look over here?" Shelley asked.
She ran her hand over the her belly and thighs, then began unbuttoning her blouse. Clendon pushed her down on the couch. They had begun kissing when Shelley broke away and sat up.
"Clendon-- the couch-- the cushions."
She yanked one of the cushions off the couch and unzipped the cover.
"Look in the other ones."
Shelley stuck her hand inside the cushion cover and felt around. Then she screamed. Clendon unzipped another cover as she pulled out a small black hard plastic case. The couch's three cushions each had two cases hidden inside them, stuck in a hollowed-out part of the foam. They turned the couch upside down and ripped the fabric away from the frame, but found nothing else. Clendon stacked the six plastic computer disk cases on the coffee table.
"Open one," Shelley said.
Clendon did. It looked like a large computer disk, and it was labeled "Eskimo Shoes."
"They'd fit inside one briefcase."
"Seven is too many for one briefcase," Shelley said.
"Seven? I count six."
"No. I know there's seven."
"How do you know?"
"I know where the seventh disk is."
* * *
Clendon dozed. A feathery grazing on his bare chest woke him up. It was Shelley's finger. When Clendon opened his eyes, she smiled and kept stroking his chest over and over.
"While I was in detox I kept having this dream about you," Shelley said. "You were lying in a morgue, only you weren't covered with a sheet, but you looked like you were dead."
"Was I naked?"
"I had this artichoke that I kept peeling and I walked over to you and I knew that if I could peel enough of this artichoke and get to the heart, then rub it on your chest, you'd be all right and you'd be alive."
"Did it work?"
"I could never finish peeling back the artichoke before I woke up-- until last night, when I finally got to the heart and rubbed it on your chest."
* * *
It was one in the morning. All the gates to the cemetery were locked. Shelley drove to a side street three blocks away and parked the Volvo. They took two shovels, a sledgehammer, and one small flashlight out the trunk. She also carried a plastic water bottle. Clendon had the .38 stuck in his back waistband.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said.
"You can climb the fence, no problem."
It was getting fogg
y. The street lights made the fog into a silvery glowing whirl.
"What if we can't get it open?" Clendon asked.
"It can't be that hard to open in case they ever have to exhume a body."
"Well, I'm not touching it."
"I'm not asking you to touch it," Shelley said.
In a far back corner of the cemetery, they found a dark area along the fence, which was eight feet high, made of wrought iron, had metal bars six inches apart, and was painted black. There were spikes at the top.
"It's for show," Clendon said. "It's not to keep people out."
"Wish we could squeeze through instead, but we can't, so let's climb."
Shelley, wearing tight blue denims and a work shirt, started climbing up the bars.
"Watch yourself crossing over those spikes."
Clendon gave her a boost up and over. Hanging from the top, she stretched out and dropped a couple of feet to the ground, safely inside. He climbed up, over, and in without too much difficulty, carefully placing his hands and feet around the dull points of the spikes. When he was over, they pulled the shovels through the bars.
It was very dark inside the cemetery. The fog was getting thicker. The dewy grass needed mowing. Clendon held the flashlight, turning it on a few seconds at a time. They wound through the looming, dark shapes of headstones and statuary, shrubbery and trees. They could hear the faint roar of the freeway and the jets landing and taking off from LAX.
"This is going to take a long time," Clendon said.
"The ground won't be fully settled yet," Shelley said. "That'll make the digging easier. Besides, you've had four cups of coffee."
In ten minutes they found the grave site. The mound of the grave was about two feet high, made of dry, sandy soil. There was no headstone yet, just a small metal plate stuck in the ground. On the metal plate was a laminated sign that had the name Brooks Boyd printed on it. They set to work with the shovels, not using the flashlight. In two minutes, they were both breathing hard.
"Are you sure it had a double Dutch-type door so that we don't have to dig out this whole thing?"
"I'm absolutely sure," Shelley said. "I had to be."
It was chilly in the fog but Clendon began sweating anyway. The sweat made his hair wet and cold and clung to his forehead and the back of his neck. After about fifteen minutes, they had made minor progress when he had to stop and relieve himself because of all the coffee. In an hour they made a hole two feet beneath ground level and four feet square. Clendon was surprised at how good a digger Shelley was. She moved almost as much dirt as he did. The farther down they went, the harder the soil became.
"Did you ever own or carry a pistol?" Clendon asked, still digging.
"No. I hate guns. Why'd you ask that?"
"Because of a strand of blond hair."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"Sorry," Clendon said. "I was just mumbling to myself."
After an hour of digging, Shelley stopped.
"Five minute break."
She put her shovel down, took the flashlight, and disappeared into the foggy dark. Clendon kept shoveling dirt out. Soon a tiny light appeared in the fog from the opposite direction Shelley had gone. The light came closer, growing stronger and larger. Then the form of a man in a dark uniform became distinct.
"What you doing there, bud?"
Clendon stopped shoveling and said "fuck" to himself.
"Who are you?" Shelley's voice rang out from the darkness.
"Night watchman."
The radio fastened to his belt crackled gibberish. The man shined his flashlight on Clendon.
"Who are you?"
"Turn off your radio and we'll talk," Shelley said, stepping out of the fog.
She knelt next to Clendon and shined her flashlight up and down on the night watchman. He wasn't carrying a gun or a billy club, just a two-way radio, and was dressed in a security guard's uniform with a big silver badge on his jacket. He was short and stocky, and looked about forty and very tired.
"What are you folks doing out here?" the man asked.
"Do you make minimum wage?" Shelley asked.
"What are you folks doing out here?" the man asked again.
Shelley repeated her question.
"None of your business."
"How would you like to make a hundred dollars an hour for two hours of work?" she asked.
The radio crackled again, but the night watchman just stood there, not moving.
"It's chilly out here in the middle of the night, isn't it?" Shelley said.
She reached into her front pants pocket and pulled out two $100 bills. Shining the flashlight on them, she held them up for the night watchman to see them.
"Fuckin' ay'," the watchman said. "Nothing to do all night but walk around dead people." He shut off his flashlight. "For only two hundred bucks, I can leave you alone."
Shelley took another $100 bill from her pocket and showed him.
"Two hundred now," she said, "and another bill when we're finished digging, if you help."
"Deal," he said.
"And you'll take off when we get to the casket."
"Consider me gone."
Shelley patted Clendon on the back, then gently removed the .38 from his waistband.
"I'll hold this," she whispered.
"All clear," the night watchman said into his radio.
He took off his guard hat and jacket, carefully placed them on the wet grass, and placed his radio on top of them. He paused and looked at Shelley. She handed two of the bills to him. He stuffed them in his pants pocket.
"Give me a shovel."
He joined Clendon digging. Shelley sat on the growing mound of fresh dirt and held the flashlight on them, keeping the .38 in her other hand, in the dark, where the night watchman couldn't see it. They worked hard for another hour.
"Used to work over there," the night watchman said when a jet taking off sounded especially loud.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Jet mechanic."
"Beat grave digging?" Clendon asked.
"And night watching. Don't know if I'm trying to keep people in or out. Used to live well."
"What happened?"
"Damned airline went under. Couldn't get on anywhere else. Fuckin' corporations."
"How long ago?"
"Been two years. This is my second job. Gotta do it, though. Got a mortgage. Can't lose the house."
"What's your other job?"
"Limousine driver."
At 3:30, they struck concrete. The night watchman scraped a few more shovelfuls of dirt up and out of the hole. Shelley handed the sledgehammer to Clendon.
"Stand back."
He raised the sledgehammer and brought it down on the concrete as hard as he could. It made a loud thunking sound. He jarred his arms a bit when it landed, but it bounced back as a small crack appeared. He kept pounding until he became winded. When he stopped to catch his breath, the night watchman took the sledgehammer from him and began pounding on the concrete. After several blows, the whole slab cracked up into pieces and caved in, revealing the lid of the casket.
"That's it for me," the night watchman said.
With some effort, he climbed out. Shelley shined the flashlight on his face. It was red and he was sweating and breathing heavily. She gave him the other $100 bill and held up his radio.
"I'm going to have to keep this for awhile."
The night watchman put his jacket and cap back on, stuffing the bill in his pocket with the other two.
"Fine," he said. "Just be done and out of here before it starts to get light. And please leave my radio here."
"We will," Shelley said.
He picked up his flashlight, adjusted his jacket, walked off into the fog, and was gone. Shelley shined her flashlight down on Clendon. He was bent over, moving chunks of concrete off the casket lid.
"I'll have to toss some of th
ese chunks of concrete up and out of here," he said. "Back up and be careful."
"Just dig a place out where I can get to the latches," she said.
It took several minutes for Clendon to throw enough pieces of concrete out so the lid could be opened.
"That should be enough," Shelley said.
She helped him climbed out.
"I don't want to look," he said.
"Take a breather," she said.
Clendon staggered a few yards away from the open hole, lay down on the wet grass, and stared up through fog. His arms and legs were quivering from exhaustion. He heard Shelley climb down into the grave, clomp on the metal of the casket, kick and shove the concrete around, then unfasten the latches, and pull the casket lid open. She grunted and groaned for a few seconds, then the lid went back down, and the latches clicked.
"Give me a hand out," she called.
Clendon stood up and went over to help her. Shelley was holding out the seventh disk.
"Let's get this grave refilled fast," she said.
* * *
"Homicide. Detective Jenkins."
"This is Agent Clifford Cobb calling from the FBI in Washington. I'm with Internal Affairs."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Cobb."
"We're investigating an agent stationed in Los Angeles who we believe may be involved in industrial espionage and who may be a suspect in a related murder case."
"Go on," Jenkins said.
"We understand that you are leading the investigation of the murder of one Brooks Boyd, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"We understand no arrests have been made."
"That's correct."
"We understand that an FBI agent is under investigation for that homicide."
"Possibly," Jenkins said.
"We have some information and evidence that we'd like to share with you if you'd share some of your leads with us."
"We normally try to cooperate with the Feds," Jenkins said. "What do you have?"
"We have an informant in Los Angeles who places our agent at the scene and time of the murder and who also claims to have seen this same agent in several clandestine meetings with known Russian agents."
"It sounds interesting," Jenkins said. "Who's your informant?"
"Detective Jenkins, you know that we don't give out the names of FBI informants to anyone."
"Let's scratch each other's backs, Mr. Cobb."
"That's a Virginia expression."
"You're from Virginia?" Jenkins asked.
"Grew up there."
"I can hear your drawl."