Couple of years old. The driver could be trouble. Too far away to ID the plate.”
“I’ll check out the neighborhood.” The motorcycle cop powered down the street and made the right-hand turn.
Jack turned to Susan. “Was it him?”
“I’m fine, Jack,” she said, evading the question. “I’m sorry, I’m probably wrong, it could’ve been anyone.” She was acting strangely, no longer scared. “No, Jack, I’m not sure it was him.”
“I want you to sit down with a sketch artist.”
“Really, Jack. There’s no need to overreact.”
“Overreact?” Jack said tightly. “I was hired to protect you, but I need some help here.”
“Okay, Jack,” Susan said, lowering her voice but unable to hide a flash of anger. “Please, I’ve got a scene to shoot. We’ll talk later,” and she strode away.
What was that all about? Jack watched Henry raise his hands in a question that went unanswered. Susan Blake stormed past her director, banged up the metal steps of her mobile home, and slammed the door behind her.
Three
Sean Dirk stood at the sink in the kitchen of the family home, wiping down a bamboo cutting board. His gray eyes darkened and his brow furrowed in concern as his brother’s Jeep pulled into the driveway and glided past the leaded-glass kitchen window. Sean’s reddish-brown hair was cut in a tight crew, and one tattooed arm was a solid sleeve of color. No jailhouse ink, but a rain forest motif.
The twelve months he had spent at Lompoc Federal Correctional Institution, housing low-security male prisoners, destroyed his sense of humor, hammered home the need for discipline, and kicked his violent proclivities up a notch. It also served as a master class in breaking and entering, and expanded his connections for offloading stolen property.
Once a month, on the full moon, he’d launch his one-man kayak for a midnight run from Marina del Rey to Shark Harbor, on the backside of Catalina Island, just to keep his anger in check and his head screwed on straight.
----
Toby hit the remote control and pulled his car into the two-car detached garage that was the same design and age as the family’s Craftsman house. The siding was gray-green with dark-brown wooden trim.
Jumping out, he grabbed the .22 and stashed it in a hidden compartment he had made behind a loose wooden board on the rear wall. When he rehung the rake, shovel, and clippers over the secret panel, it disappeared. He slid his surfboard up on one of the rafters next to a vintage longboard and a pair of kayaks. He shook out his wetsuit and hung it on the backyard clothesline to dry.
Gazing at the back of the house he and his brothers had occupied since the death of their parents, he gathered his thoughts. Toby knew questions would be raised with the murder of Tomas Vegas, but decided he could handle anything thrown his way. With his emotions firmly in check he jogged into the house through the rear door. Just another perfect day in the sun and the surf.
----
Toby Dirk idolized his oldest brother, Terrence, who was a nihilist and didn’t believe morality was worth a crap. He had all but raised Toby after their father dropped dead of a massive coronary in their men’s clothing store on Main Street in Santa Monica.
But Terrence didn’t have to inculcate his young brother. He discovered, while fucked up on eighteen-year-old Macallan, expounding his theories on life, death, and beating the odds, that he was preaching to the choir.
Sean, the middle brother at age twenty-six, was an unapologetic hellion who had dropped out of Venice High soon after his father’s death. He used his intelligence to live off the fat of the land and developed into a prolific second-story burglar and break-in artist. Why waste a brilliant mind? He was a good earner, but he got sloppy and was busted for selling a roll of stolen gold coins and a platinum Rolex to an undercover cop posing as a fence.
Mrs. Dirk, widowed and confronted with a mountain of undisclosed
“I’ll check out the neighborhood.” The motorcycle cop powered down the street and made the right-hand turn.
Jack turned to Susan. “Was it him?”
“I’m fine, Jack,” she said, evading the question. “I’m sorry, I’m probably wrong, it could’ve been anyone.” She was acting strangely, no longer scared. “No, Jack, I’m not sure it was him.”
“I want you to sit down with a sketch artist.”
“Really, Jack. There’s no need to overreact.”
“Overreact?” Jack said tightly. “I was hired to protect you, but I need some help here.”
“Okay, Jack,” Susan said, lowering her voice but unable to hide a flash of anger. “Please, I’ve got a scene to shoot. We’ll talk later,” and she strode away.
What was that all about? Jack watched Henry raise his hands in a question that went unanswered. Susan Blake stormed past her director, banged up the metal steps of her mobile home, and slammed the door behind her.
Three
Sean Dirk stood at the sink in the kitchen of the family home, wiping down a bamboo cutting board. His gray eyes darkened and his brow furrowed in concern as his brother’s Jeep pulled into the driveway and glided past the leaded-glass kitchen window. Sean’s reddish-brown hair was cut in a tight crew, and one tattooed arm was a solid sleeve of color. No jailhouse ink, but a rain forest motif.
The twelve months he had spent at Lompoc Federal Correctional Institution, housing low-security male prisoners, destroyed his sense of humor, hammered home the need for discipline, and kicked his violent proclivities up a notch. It also served as a master class in breaking and entering, and expanded his connections for offloading stolen property.
Once a month, on the full moon, he’d launch his one-man kayak for a midnight run from Marina del Rey to Shark Harbor, on the backside of Catalina Island, just to keep his anger in check and his head screwed on straight.
----
Toby hit the remote control and pulled his car into the two-car detached garage that was the same design and age as the family’s Craftsman house. The siding was gray-green with dark-brown wooden trim.
Jumping out, he grabbed the .22 and stashed it in a hidden compartment he had made behind a loose wooden board on the rear wall. When he rehung the rake, shovel, and clippers over the secret panel, it disappeared. He slid his surfboard up on one of the rafters next to a vintage longboard and a pair of kayaks. He shook out his wetsuit and hung it on the backyard clothesline to dry.
Gazing at the back of the house he and his brothers had occupied since the death of their parents, he gathered his thoughts. Toby knew questions would be raised with the murder of Tomas Vegas, but decided he could handle anything thrown his way. With his emotions firmly in check he jogged into the house through the rear door. Just another perfect day in the sun and the surf.
----
Toby Dirk idolized his oldest brother, Terrence, who was a nihilist and didn’t believe morality was worth a crap. He had all but raised Toby after their father dropped dead of a massive coronary in their men’s clothing store on Main Street in Santa Monica.
But Terrence didn’t have to inculcate his young brother. He discovered, while fucked up on eighteen-year-old Macallan, expounding his theories on life, death, and beating the odds, that he was preaching to the choir.
Sean, the middle brother at age twenty-six, was an unapologetic hellion who had dropped out of Venice High soon after his father’s death. He used his intelligence to live off the fat of the land and developed into a prolific second-story burglar and break-in artist. Why waste a brilliant mind? He was a good earner, but he got sloppy and was busted for selling a roll of stolen gold coins and a platinum Rolex to an undercover cop posing as a fence.
Mrs. Dirk, widowed and confronted with a mountain of undisclosed
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