P Is for Peril

hidden so he could ride it anytime he wanted."
    "Didn't their father figure it out?"
    "No, but Tommy did. They had a mutual friend-Buddy-who'd seen Richard do it. Buddy says Richard was always pounding on him, broke his nose once, so Buddy tattled to Tommy just to get even. Tommy waited until Richard was off somewhere. He stole the bike back and pushed it off the side of a bridge."
    "He got away with that?"
    "Richard guessed right away, but what could he do? It still pisses him off. The thing about those two is both would rather forfeit everything than see the other enjoy his half. Happened with a girl once and she ended up dead."
    "You're really cheering me up here." I wrote THE END on the scratch pad and gave the letters a look of three-dimensions in the manner of gang graffiti. "Happily, I'm hanging up my spurs. I called to fill you in in case one of 'em makes a move."
    "Come on. You can't leave me now with the job half done. What about the safe? You have to hang in until you locate that."
    "Find it yourself. I'm bowing out of this."
    "Just think how good it'll feel when we finally nail those guys."
    "What's this 'we' shit? The problem isn't mine. It belongs to you."
    Mariah laughed. "I know, but I keep hoping I can talk you into it."
    "No, thanks. Nice doing business with you. It was fun," I said, and hung up. I lifted my eyes from my drawing to find Richard Hevener standing at my door, wearing a black raincoat and black cowboy boots.
    I felt the icy-hot sensation of a bad sunburn, a stinging heat on my skin that chilled me to the bone. I had no idea how long he'd been there and I couldn't remember for the life of me if I'd mentioned his name or Tommy's in the final moments of my conversation. I didn't think I'd used hers.
    I said, "Hello," trying to sound unconcerned.
    "What's this?" He pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it toward the desk. My letter whicked through the air and landed in front of me.
    I could feel my heart begin to thump. "I feel bad about that. I probably should have called, but it seemed so awkward somehow."
    "What's going on?"
    "Nothing. It's just not going to work."
    "'It's not going to work.' Just like that."
    "I don't know what else to say. I don't want the space. I thought I did, but now I don't."
    "You signed a lease."
    "I know and I apologize for the inconvenience-"
    "It's not a matter of inconvenience. We have an agreement." His tone was light but unrelenting.
    "What do you want from me?"
    "I want you to honor the terms of the lease you signed."
    "You know what? Why don't you talk to my attorney about that. His name is Lonnie Kingman. He's right down the hall."
    Ida Ruth appeared in the hall behind him. "Everything okay?"
    Richard flicked a look at her and then looked back at me. He said, "Everything's fine. I'm sure we'll find the perfect solution to the little problem we have."
    He backed out of the room. I watched him turn in her direction, careful not to touch her as he passed. He moved out of my line of sight, but Ida Ruth continued to stare. "What's with him? Is he nuts or what? He seems off."
    "You don't know the half of it. If he shows up again, call the cops."
    I locked my office door and placed a call to Mariah's Texas number, leaving another message on her answering machine. I wasn't sure how soon she'd check back, but I really didn't like the direction this was starting to take.

Chapter 20
    I headed north on the 101 to the off-ramp at Little Pony Road, a distance of three to four miles in light traffic. I found myself reviewing that phone conversation with Mariah, the easy banter between us at the Hevener boys' expense. I was almost positive I hadn't tipped my hand. In the meantime, I had no idea what Richard had in mind for me, but I figured his "perfect solution" lay somewhere on a continuum between small claims court and death. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, flicking a quick look at any car that pulled up even with mine. Laguna Plaza is an aging L-shaped strip mall, much classier than some, but a far cry from the massive retail stadiums being built these days. No glass-enclosed atrium planted with full-sized trees, no food court, no second and third tiers with escalators running in between. I pulled my VW into a slot directly in front of Mail More, a franchise that boasted private mailbox rentals, mail receiving and forwarding, copy machines, a notary public, custom business cards, rubber stamps, and twenty-four-hour access, seven days a week.
    The