Chapter 9
Hardcastle sat at his desk after listening to the recorded message from Harper, and read the note from McCormick for the fourth time. Damn it. He could understand why the kid had panicked, but that didn't make him any happier about the situation. He had spent a long, uncomfortable night in a cold garage just to convince himself that McCormick had what it took to stick it out, only to have the kid dash his newfound confidence. No, he was not happy about this situation at all, and when he found McCormick, the young man would clearly understand the idea of hell to pay.
In the meantime, though, he needed the police to know the truth. He picked up the phone and dialed Harper's number.
"Frank Harper," came the gruff response.
"Frank, it's Milt. I got your message."
"Hey, Milt. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you. I know it's not how you wanted it to end."
"No, it's not," Hardcastle agreed, "but I don't think it's over yet, at least not like you're thinking. McCormick wasn't in that house last night, Frank."
"Milt…"
"Frank, listen to me. After I told McCormick about the tape yesterday, I still wasn't sure what I wanted to do; still couldn't bring myself to believe he was behind all these things. So, I let him think I was sending him back, and then I let him go to the gatehouse."
"Milt," Harper interrupted, "I told you before that you're too close to this. You aren't thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking more clearly now than I have for days," Hardcastle replied harshly, "so listen to what I'm trying to tell you.
"Anyway, he went to the gatehouse, and he didn't come out again all night. But I wasn't too sure what I thought he would do, so I waited in the garage, just in case. Frank, I was there all night, and he never left. I'm telling you, McCormick was not in Brentwood last night. He was at the estate all day and all night, so unless you've got a really large window of time for that burglary, McCormick isn't your guy."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Well, thank God for that," Harper answered, genuinely relieved. "We didn't find any other prints on the medallion, though, or anywhere else, so whoever is setting the kid up, they're still being awfully careful. Does he have any idea who might be behind this?"
"Well, he says not," Hardcastle said slowly, "but…"
"But what?" Harper demanded.
"He's gone, Frank."
"Milt. You just told me you could vouch for his whereabouts all night, that he hadn't left Gull's Way. Now you're saying he's not actually there?"
"He was still here when I came in the house half an hour ago," Hardcastle explained. "But he must've heard your message this morning and he took off. He left a note saying he'd be back, but he didn't say where he was going.
"You know, something was bothering him about that tape yesterday, like he almost knew who it was, but couldn't put his finger on it." Hardcastle could feel his anger returning as he explained the situation to the detective. "He might have finally figured it out and went to take care of it. Without me. Damn fool kid."
"On the other hand," Harper suggested, "he might have finally given up on your willingness to keep him out of prison and just taken off. He couldn't possibly have known you were gonna alibi him for last night."
"That's probably closer to the truth," Hardcastle admitted, though he thought Harper might only have been playing devil's advocate. He sat silently for a moment, then spoke again. "It's over anyway, Frank. I want you to pick him up. Parole violation and grand theft auto. He took my truck. Bring him in."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure, Frank. He might not have been behind these robberies, but this case has still shown me that he can't really be trusted. First time it gets a little rough, he takes off on me; I can't have that. I want him brought in."
Privately, Harper thought the judge might be wrong in his assessment, but Hardcastle should know best whether or not McCormick was a good fit for his unusual retirement project. "I'll put out an APB, Milt. We'll find him."
"Thanks, Frank." Hardcastle started to hang up the phone, then remembered something. "By the way, did you find anything on that Leonard Archer guy?"
"No record to speak of," the detective answered. "Just a couple of minor beefs when he was about nineteen, but nothing since then. Nothing at all down in San Diego, so he probably just completely made up that story, though I couldn't tell you why. There's nothing at all to tie him to these burglaries, and nothing to indicate any bad blood between him and McCormick. I started with his criminal history, of course. I'll let you know what I find out from the check of his personal history, but so far, it looks like a dead end."
"All right, Frank. Thanks for checking it out for me. I guess it doesn't really matter now, anyway. I'll talk to you later."
Hardcastle hung up the phone and returned his attention to the note McCormick had left behind. If the kid knew something, why hadn't he at least put it in the letter? Even if Harper's call had scared him, wouldn't it have made more sense to try to lay the blame on someone else before he took off? Of course, the kid probably thought he wouldn't believe him, and, given everything that had happened, Hardcastle couldn't blame him for that.
But then, why leave the note at all? Why not erase the message from Harper, get in the Coyote, and go? Given McCormick's normal sleep patterns, it would've been at least a couple of hours before Milt thought to go to the gatehouse and check on him. Maybe the kid thought he could play on his emotions one last time. Maybe leaving the note—with its apologies and empty promises—was McCormick's way of trying to slow the pursuit.
Well, Mark McCormick was about to discover that Milton Hardcastle was not so easily manipulated. The young wiseguy was going to get a much-needed lesson in action and reaction, and you could bet the reaction was going to be fierce. In fact, when he found McCormick, Hardcastle thought he might personally kick his ass. Right before he shipped him back to San Quentin.
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A small knock on the door interrupted Hardcastle's murderous thoughts, which was just as well, really. It probably wasn't proper for a judge to be finding such joy in the idea of someone rotting in prison for the rest of their natural born life.
"C'mon in, Sarah," he called out.
The housekeeper entered the room slowly, a sad look painted on her face. "I never thought he would do this," she said quietly, as she placed a cup of coffee in front of the judge.
"Me, either," he replied, "not really. I guess I let him get to me a little too much, myself. Didn't really mean for that to happen."
Sarah smiled slightly. "I know you didn't, Your Honor, but it was easy with him, wasn't it?" She paused a moment. "He did say he'd come back, you know."
"He also said he wouldn't leave to begin with," Hardcastle pointed out.
"I bet he was scared when he heard the lieutenant's message," Sarah continued mildly, giving no hint that there was any ulterior motive behind the comment.
"No doubt," Hardcastle agreed. He had intended the response to be sarcastic, but found it was simply too true.
"He didn't have to leave a note, Judge. He could've just erased the message and gone; that would've given him quite a head start."
"I've already thought of that, Sarah. But I hope you're not asking me to be grateful that he's apparently only a little bit deceptive."
She shook her head slightly. "Of course not. You have every right to be angry. But when it turns out that he's doing exactly what he said—when he comes back—I want you to think about taking him back." Without waiting for a response, Sarah left the den and closed the door behind her.
Hardcastle watched her go, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or scream. How, in the name of all that was holy, could one long-haired, short-tempered, smart-mouthed convicted felon produce such loyalty in such a short amount of time? And he couldn't help but wonder… would the next one be anywhere near as good?
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McCormick walked slowly down a narrow, run-down street, toward a tiny, run-down house. He had made a call to Kong to find out where Archer lived, and he had gotten the address of Lenny's sister where the racer was staying temporarily. He was hoping Archer was still here. Kong had said he was racing this weekend, but McCormick thought it was too early for him to have headed for the track.
As he moved, he tried not to finger the small microphone that lay hidden inside his shirt. A brief stop to visit another old friend had gotten him fitted with the listening device, and the recorder was safely back in the pickup truck. If he was lucky, he would have proof of his innocence to take back when he returned to face Hardcastle's wrath. Not that he expected that to make much difference, but it would make him feel better.
He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say to Archer, but he took a deep breath and started up the walk to the house. Before he reached the front step, McCormick saw the side door open, and Archer stepped out into the carport, keys in hand.
"Lenny!" McCormick called out to him genially, not wanting to spook him right from the beginning.
"Hey, Skid," Archer answered,not seemingsurprised at the unexpected visit. "What are you doing here?"
"Wanted to talk to you for a minute, Len," McCormick replied as he reached the carport. "About Judge Hardcastle."
"What about him?" Archer asked with feigned disinterest.
"He told me about San Diego." McCormick watched the other man closely, and saw the understanding in his eyes. "You want to tell me what in the hell you thought you were doing?"
"Hey, Skid, I talked to the Martins, and they said you wanted us to be honest with that judge."
"Yeah, exactly…honest. I didn't want anyone lying to protect me. It never occurred to me to ask that no one lie to incriminate me."
"What are you talking about?" Archer demanded. "I just repeated a story I'd been told. You mean it wasn't true?"
McCormick looked at him skeptically. "No, Lenny, it wasn't true. Did you happen to tell Hardcastle you were just repeating rumors, or did you let him believe you spoke from first-hand knowledge? And who'd you hear it from, anyway?"
"I don't know, man, I just heard it around, you know?"
Whatever inkling McCormick might have had that Archer was being truthful vanished. He closed the gap between them, placed a firm hand on Archer's chest, and backed him against the car.
"No, Lenny, I don't know. I don't believe that for a minute. First of all, Hardcastle wouldn't have given it a second thought if you'd told him that you heard such an insane story from an unidentified source. And, secondly, it's not like I'm such a hot topic of conversation, anyway. People have better things to do than go around spreading rumors about me, true or otherwise."
"That's what you think," Archer said, a deep bitterness suddenly lacing his tone. "Sometimes I think people have absolutely nothing better to do than talk about you."
"What the hell are you talking about?" McCormick had been prepared for many things, but this wasn't one of them.
"Oh, don't play innocent with me, McCormick," Archer snapped, pushing himself away from the car and out of McCormick's grasp. "You know you've always been the golden child. In the winner's circle more than the rest of us. Everybody's best friend. The one always destined to do more. Everything always comes so easy for you."
"Easy!" McCormick was dumbfounded. "Have you forgotten where I spent the last two years of my life, Lenny? Or that I'm living in the custody of a judge just to keep from going back inside?"
"No! I haven't forgotten a thing, including the fact that I'm tired of playing second banana to the great Mark McCormick."
This was insane. "What in the hell are you talking about?" McCormick demanded for the second time. Maybe if he just kept asking, it would eventually make sense.
"When's the last time I beat you on the track, McCormick?" Archer asked suddenly.
McCormick paused. "I…I don't know, Lenny, why? I haven't raced to speak of in almost three years. Just a couple of single shots, nothing major."
"You know, Skid, that's part of your problem. Some of us would kill for those little single shots that you blow off like they're beneath you. But to answer my own question…would it surprise you to realize that I have never beaten you? Not once, Skid. Not in any kind of race. Never. Driving is my life, and I can't even win against someone who doesn't have enough respect for the sport to keep himself out of jail long enough to use the talent he's been given. You disgust me."
"Lenny, how can you say that? We've known each other a long time, and you know nothing is more important to me than racing."
"Except staying out of prison," Archer said blandly.
The words stopped McCormick. He had almost forgotten why he started this conversation. "Well…yeah, I guess so. Trust me, if you'd ever been inside, you'd understand."
"Maybe. But I'm tired of people fawning all over you, McCormick, when you're not even worth it. When you were out at the track earlier this month and turned down the Dawson ride, I knew you needed to go away. My God, Skid, you were only there a couple of hours, and you were offered a ride. Tell me again how you're not living a charmed life."
"You're not even making any sense. If I'd taken the ride, then you wouldn't have had it, and you wouldn't have placed in Georgia. How is that better?"
"I don't know," Archer admitted. "But you've taken enough things from me. I want you out of here, far away, where I won't ever have to see you again."
McCormick wasn't sure whether to be angry or sad. How could he never have seen the resentment Archer carried inside? Of course, he hadn't seen the man in almost three years, which really made the whole thing just that much more bizarre.
"I don't understand. So I beat you in a few races; I've lost plenty of them, too. And I turned down a job you think I should've jumped at. I still don't see how that leads to you trying to set me up so Hardcastle would send me back to prison."
"That's because you're always too wrapped up in yourself to worry about anyone else."
"What!" McCormick was debating whether he should just clobber the guy or run from the insanity of the conversation. "Lenny, until last week, I hadn't seen you in years. You moved away before I got sent to Quentin, and you weren't here when I got out. What is it I am supposed to know?"
"I don't suppose you know where I was?" There was a desperation creeping into Archer's voice, and the anger in his eyes tried to hide a vast emptiness.
McCormick racked his brain desperately. Something was definitely wrong with his friend, and he didn't want to make it worse. "When you moved away, you went down to Texas, right?" He was relieved to see Archer nodding. "After that, I heard you were in the Carolinas for a while, and then moved up to Frisco a year or so ago." He was surprised to see a small smile forming on Archers lips.
"You kept track of me all that time, Skid?"
McCormick shrugged, and forced a gentle tone. "We're friends, Lenny."
"Maybe," Archer answered, his voice hardening again. "But you missed a crucial step in my career path, Skid. I left Frisco five or six months ago. I had a real sweet deal going." He paused, staring at McCormick coldly. "Out in Vegas."
McCormick's breath caught as the pieces began to fall into place. "What? You didn't work for…I mean, it wasn't…Cody?"
"You're a pretty bright boy, McCormick," Archer said derisively. "Too bad you couldn't have figured all this out in time to keep yourself out of trouble with that crazy judge."
"But what…?"
"Oh, I wasn't working for Cody directly; I was one of Joey Morgan's stunt drivers. It's not the most exciting work, but it's steady, and the pay is decent. Besides, Cody had this whole plan for a full team of cars and drivers. That Coyote you're running around in now was going to be the crown jewel—and of course, that wouldn't have been my ride—but Mr. Cody had great plans. He wanted cars in all the majors, and he wanted several people out at the smaller shows every weekend. Skid, it was gonna be my ticket to the big time. I had a sponsor, and as soon as the Coyote went into production, Cody was going to take the circuit by storm. Then you and that judge showed up, and everything fell apart."
McCormick recognized the bitterness born of frustration and loss; he recognized it all too well. And though he hated to admit it, he recognized something else, as well: those emotions were easier to deal with when you had a direction for your anger. He himself had spent two and a half years directing his own anger at Hardcastle, and while it hadn't changed a single thing about his situation, it sure as hell made him feel better to have someone to blame. McCormick found that he didn't like being on the receiving end of that blame, and vowed silently that he would try to treat the judge a little better in the future. If he had the chance.
"Lenny," McCormick said softly, "I had no idea. And I'm really sorry about the way it happened. I never would've wanted to hurt you. But, man, you have to know…I would do it again. They killed Flip, Lenny, and they killed him for a car. Maybe the Coyote was supposed to be your ticket, but it sure as hell should have been his, too. You might have lost a job, Lenny, but Flip lost his life. And I lost my best friend. There was just no way Martin Cody was going to get away with that."
McCormick watched Archer closely for a minute, and he could see the understanding slowly dawning in his eyes, but the anger wasn't fading. Still, this might be the best chance he was going to get. He had to keep Archer talking.
"Just so you know," McCormick continued, "for what it's worth, you got what you wanted. I'm on my way out of town before Hardcastle can put me away again. I just stopped by to find out why."
"So what finally did you in?" Archer asked with an unsympathetic interest. "San Diego? Or the tape recording?"
"The medallion. That was a nice touch. I suppose I lost it out at the track the other day?"
Archer grinned. "Wrapped up like a present in that jumpsuit you handed me. You know, Skid, you'd be surprised how easily this stuff just came together. I mean, that first day, when I called Hardcastle? It was right after you'd been at the track and I was just pissed. I just wanted to cause you a little trouble, so I picked a story out of the newspaper, and I blamed it on you. I never figured it would be more. But then I couldn't stop thinking about you, and later that night I found out where that judge lived, and I drove out there. I didn't even know what I was going to do, so I was just sitting there watching for a long time. When I saw you leave in the middle of the night, I still thought I could stir up some shit, so I made another call.
"Then I got the idea of ripping off the judge; figured that would look real bad for you. So I called up this friend of mine, told him he could keep anything he could get, as long as he made it a clean job. He said no problem, but it had to wait because he already had some jobs scoped out. Can you believe the luck? I just got information from him about his jobs and kept an eye on you. Sometimes I reported the jobs to Hardcastle—when it looked like you wouldn't be able to prove an alibi. Somewhere along the line it stopped being just fun and I really thought I could get you sent away again, but that judge held out a long time. You must've been using some of that world famous McCormick charm on him, all right.
"So, I got with some other friends, and we upped the ante just a bit. They hooked me up with a microphone and stuff. I thought I'd have to go look you up to make a tape, but then you showed up at the track again. I dug the stuff out of the car and wandered over to say hello. My friends don't need much to work with, and I thought they did a pretty decent job with the tape. Hell, I almost believed it myself. Then when I saw the medallion in your jumpsuit, well…it was just all too easy." Archer glared at McCormick with a slightly demented hatred, and his grin matched his eyes. "I guess the charm finally wore off, huh?"
"Something like that," McCormick replied bitterly. He was angry beyond words that this man had finally pushed him into a corner where all the charm in the world wouldn't save him, though he had to admit it had been his own choice to leave without giving Hardcastle one last chance to believe him.
But in spite of the anger, there were other emotions fighting for attention inside his head: confusion, sadness, fear. He didn't know which one would finally win the battle, but he knew he'd had enough of this conversation. He allowed the sadness to reach his voice as he spoke his final words to Archer.
"I guess you win, Lenny. I might not be going back to prison right now, but even if they never catch me, my freedom is gone. I'm always gonna be on the run, always looking over my shoulder, and, God knows, I won't ever be able to race again if I want to stay out of sight. So remember me the next time you're standing in the winner's circle, Lenny. And remember Flip Johnson. And tell yourself it was worth it."
McCormick didn't expect a reply, and he didn't wait around to give Archer the chance to prove him wrong. He simply turned on his heel and strode away, his shoulders slumped from the sadness of this unexpected betrayal. It occurred to him then that Hardcastle was probably feeling much the same way this morning—though perhaps slightly less surprised—and if Mark had been harboring even the slightest thought of running for real, that idea was now gone for good.
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Hardcastle considered ignoring the ringing phone. The last couple of hours had done nothing to improve his mood, and he found it unlikely that this phone call would do so, either. But, of course, it could be McCormick; that was the whole reason he wasn't out himself looking for his truck and the ungrateful kid who had swiped it. His mind didn't really expect to hear from McCormick ever again, but he still felt the small hope in his heart as he placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"
"It's me, Milt," Frank Harper's voice said. And though they wouldn't speak of it, the detective immediately knew he wasn't the person Hardcastle had hoped to find on the other end of the line. "Just got some more information about Leonard Archer I thought you might find interesting."
"Spit it out, Frank. I'm not really in the mood for games today."
"Finally found that connection to Martin Cody that McCormick was looking for, believe it or not. Seems Archer was working for that Joey Morgan guy, the one providing the muscle for Cody."
"Archer was involved?" Hardcastle was surprised.
"No, doesn't really look that way. Seems he was on the legitimate end of the business. But, of course, the business has fallen on some hard times lately, thanks to you and your wayward friend. Archer moved back out here right after you guys busted Cody and his goons. Seems he's back to some independent racing now." Harper waited for the string of questions, comments and suggestions that he'd come to expect from Milton Hardcastle, and was surprised when they never came.
"Milt? You okay?"
"It's a little tidy, don't you think?" Hardcastle said.
"What do you mean?" Harper asked, thinking that this situation was really about as far from tidy as you could get.
"I mean, how could McCormick have possibly known there was a connection to Cody? I think he's leading us—me—down the garden path."
Harper could almost see the walls going up around Hardcastle, walls that just a few weeks ago he would've sworn McCormick had started to bring down. He wasn't happy with the image. "Maybe," he answered slowly, "but it doesn't feel that way to me. I don't know how he knew about the Cody angle…intuition, I guess. That's how cases get solved, you know. Anyway, I'll have Archer picked up for questioning and we'll see what we can find out."
"Why don't you hold off just a bit, Frank?" Hardcastle suggested. "Let's get McCormick back under wraps first. If he's playing us, or if they're in this together, or something, there's no sense scaring him off just yet."
"I can wait on Archer," Harper agreed, "but I gotta say I think you're wrong about the kid, Milt. It doesn't look like he's gonna end up behind any of this." The detective paused a moment before continuing. "You know," he finally said, "you had more faith in him when there was a lot more reason to think he was dirty."
"That was before he stole my truck and ran," Hardcastle answered coldly, and since there was really no way to argue that point, Harper just said goodbye and hung up the phone, leaving Hardcastle to his ever growing anger.