The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
Note: Includes references to previous chapters.
TUESDAY
His name is Ray Polger. Police Detective Ray Polger. He is seated behind Principal Snyder's desk while I sit in front. We are the only two people present. He called me out of class to tell me he is here at the school investigating the circumstances surrounding Louise Vandervelt's death.
This is a lie.
I have seen his badge. It says LVPD not LAPD.
Las Vegas Police Department.
I know why he is here. He knows why he is here. Neither of us will admit it.
Yet.
"It's hard to believe your young friend allowed her weight to drop to 85 pounds. What an awful waste of a young life." He shakes his head. "The things you girls will do for vanity."
He smiles reassuringly, offering a glimpse of yellowing teeth. Ray Polger is a human male in late middle age. I estimate he is at least 40 pounds above what a human of his age and height should weigh. His stomach strains against his shirt buttons. His hair is greying and starting to thin. Some humans age well. Some go to great lengths to preserve their youth. Others are like Ray Polger, vanity free and falling apart at the seams.
"Did you know Miss Vandervelt well?"
"No."
Polger nods, shifts his weight slightly. The front of his dark sports jacket gapes open affording me a glimpse of a tan holster. He is carrying a concealed weapon. A .38 handgun. It has rubber bands wrapped around the grip. I notice that occasionally his eyes leave my face and stare at my chest. It is possible he suspects I am also carrying a concealed weapon. He is mistaken. I am a weapon. There is no need for concealment.
"I hear you attended the funeral. That must have been very upsetting for a girl your age, to witness mortality up close and personal. Especially when you're bursting with youth and vitality."
He licks his lips and his eyes wander over my chest again. I decide the time has come to end the pretence.
"You are not here to investigate Louise Vandervelt, Detective Polger."
"Really?" Polger leans back in his chair. It creaks under his weight. "And what makes you say that, Miss Baum?"
"Your badge is LVPD. Los Angeles is out of your jurisdiction."
"Well spotted. Your principal told me you were an exceptional student in certain respects, observation is evidently one of them. Do you know why I'm here?"
"No," I lie.
He reaches down by his side and places a briefcase on the desk. The clasps pop open. I am ready should he extract a high-caliber weapon. But he doesn't. Instead he withdraws three glossy photographs and places them in a line on the polished woodgrain desk surface.
"Do you recognise these men?"
I examine the photographs. My facial recognition software pings immediately. I do indeed recognise the three men. They are the men who attempted to extort the money Becca Shaugnessy and I won in Las Vegas. It was necessary for me to terminate them. But I did not dispose of the bodies, merely leaving them where they fell. As humans sometimes say, it looks like this omission is about to return and bite me in the ass.
"I have never seen them before," I lie.
Polger nods. His eyes flick across my chest once more. Does he still suspect I carry a concealed weapon there of all places? The bulge would be a giveaway. Perhaps he is a fool, but I will not make that assumption prematurely. I need to know what he knows and what he thinks I know before I decide his fate. He has shrewd, hard eyes despite a soft body. If it becomes necessary to terminate then I may have to terminate Principal Snyder and his secretary also since both know I am here. In fact the whole faculty may need terminating to cover my tracks. And to cause a bloodbath on school premises would likely end up on my Permanant Record.
"The older man is Frank D'Angelo. They called him Frankie Dee or Frank the Duck."
"Why Frank the Duck? He does not resemble a duck. There is a marked absence of feathers."
Polger smiles. "Amusing. It's a nickname he picked up in his teens to do with his initials and how he styled his hair back then. A DA. Duck's Ass."
"There is a hairstyle called a Duck Ass?"
"Duck's Ass. It was popular before your time. Frank was low level mafiosa. Those types love their nicknames. Makes them seem romantic, heroic even when all they really are is jumped up thugs."
Mafiosi. A criminal organisation largely composed of Italian-Americans. Their long history scrolls down my HUD. It is a bloody history full of murders and violence. The human race were busy killing each other long before the advent of Skynet.
"The other two men are also known mob associates. You see, until nine months ago Frank D'Angelo worked as a pit boss at a Las Vegas casino. Perfectly legit far as we can tell, but in Vegas that's a line that's often blurred. Then they were discovered murdered in a Los Angeles warehouse down by the docks."
I remain silent. He is not telling me anything I don't already know.
"Frank was shot three times at point blank range. He didn't even draw his piece. Which suggests he either knew his attacker or felt he had nothing to fear from them."
"A fatal error."
"Yup. One you make only once. One of the other men had his neck broken while the other poor SOB -'cuse my language - had his skull crushed. He was identified by DNA. His face was...well let's just say even his own mother wouldn't have recognised him."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"Frank had a notebook on him when he died. It was full of names. Contacts. People who owed him money back in Vegas. He was running a loan shark business on the side it appears, lending to gamblers who couldn't obtain credit elsewhere and were prepared to pay the vig. Prime suspects, naturally, but we checked them all. Every one of them had an alibi. But there was one name we never could track down. A Cameron Baum."
I remain silent. His eyes flit over my chest again and back to my eyes.
"We assumed Cameron Baum was a man's name - no offence. But it's not on the grid. No priors, no nothing. Of course, we never thought to check the High School rolls for a teenage girl. Then this Louise chick dies in suspicious circumstances, the details go into the system and suddenly your name gets red flagged. Turns out you're the only Cameron Baum in the entire Los Angeles area. You believe that?"
"It seems plausible."
"So, mind telling me why a scuzzbag like Frank Dee should have your name written down?"
"I don't know."
"Ever been to Vegas?"
"No," I lie again.
"Owe anybody money?"
"No."
"Curiousier and curiosier. And I'll tell you what else is curious - the casino where Frank worked had someone walk off with a million dollar win at roulette about a month before he got iced. By the time I was assigned the case the security footage from the casino floor had been wiped. They only keep it for a few days before they record over. But the casino croupiers remember the woman well enough - they always recall the high rollers, especially the ones that win big. Young, long brown hair, pale skin, showed no emotion even when she won all that money. It's a description that fits you to a tee."
"And many females," I point out.
"True. You know this man?"
Detective Polger places another glossy photograph on the desktop. Again my facial recognition software pings. It is the biker, the man from the club parking lot whose Harley Davidson motorbike I stole. The last time I saw him he was face up in a dumpster, dead.
"He doesn't look familiar," I lie.
"Sonny Phelps. One of Los Angeles many resident low lifes. Drug dealer. Petty thief. Crib sheet as long as your arm. Found dead in a dumpster outside a titty - sorry, a gentlemans' club - on the very day Frank and co met their end. That little fact piqued my interest, you might say. Coincidence number two, his head suffered such severe trauma the coroner said his skull was in twenty seperate pieces, just like Frank's sidekick at the warehouse. Coincidence number three, the bar is less than a mile from your address. You live in a rental with your mother Sarah Baum and brother John, correct?"
"Correct."
"We have no security video footage of the parking lot. It's not that kind of place. People who go there to stare at puss---scantily clad ladies don't want to be observed doing so. But LAPD did track down an eye witness, a college student, who recalls seeing a young girl with long brown hair leaving on a Harley Davidson motorcyle of the type registered to Sonny Phelps. She was, and I quote, 'smoking hot with that huge hog between her legs.'"
"She was on fire?"
Polger smiles. "No, I think CHP might've noticed that."
"Have you traced the hot smoking girl or the motorcycle or the huge hog?"
"A hog is street slang for a motorcycle. And unfortunately not."
This is because it is buried in the desert along with the gun I used that day. Detective Polger doesn't know that. He will never know that. Unless I choose to tell him and then it will be the last thing he knows.
"Is there anything you want to tell me, Miss Baum? Anything you'd like to... " his eyes drop from my face again "----get off your chest?"
I want to tell him how close he is to losing his life. How trivial and unimportant these men's deaths are compared to the nuclear holocaust to come. How John complemented me on how nice my hair looked this morning and for some inexplicable reason this has made me feel like dancing. But I tell him none of these things. Instead I shake my head and ask, "Are you arresting me?"
"For what - having your name in a notebook? For looking like half the women in the world? No, I'm not arresting you. But I've a feeling, a hunch if you will, borne out of years of interviewing suspects, that you know more than you're letting on."
We lock eyes. He blinks first, shuffles the photographs and returns them to his attache case.
"May I leave now?"
"Be my guest. I'll be here in LA a few more days. Perhaps we'll cross paths."
Walking towards the door I sense detective Polger's eyes on my back. It makes a change from my chest.
John is full of questions as we ride home together in the jeep. News of a police officer on school premises swept the classrooms like wildfire, causing many unsubstantiated rumours to circulate.
"Half the football team took a sick day," John recounts with a grin. "Thought it was drug bust and they were going to be ordered to provide a urine sample. Those dumb jocks!"
I assure him no urine sample was requested. This is just as well since I possess no urine to be sampled. Perhaps I should borrow some next time?
When John has stopped laughing at what he appears to think was my attempt at humour, he asks, "What did he want? Are you in trouble? Is there something you haven't told me? Tell me. That's an order."
He listens to my story in silence. Occasionally his hands flex on the steering wheel, his knuckles showing white through the skin. Is this a good sign or a bad sign? I do not know; human emotions are still notoriously difficult for me to judge
Finally he looks me in the eye and says, "You realise mom is going to seriously freak out?"
HOME
Sarah Connor's lips compress into a tight line, splitting her face like an ugly scar as John retells my story. It is not a good look for her, for a woman of her advancing years. I try to tell her this but it seems to make her even angrier.
"Christ, John, you told me her friendship with this girl Brenda---"
"Becca."
"-----was harmless. It would help with her fitting in, to be less conspicuous."
"It has. Cameron tried to save that girl's life last weekend. That's got to be worth something."
"And yet she snuck off to Vegas, stole a million dollars and killed four people."
"Five," I correct.
"You're not helping."
"She didn't steal the money, she won it playing roulette."
"Don't be naive. People don't leave that town with more money than they arrive with. Vegas couldn't exist otherwise. And you know full well what she is and what she's capable off."
"Those men were criminals. They kidnapped her friend and held her for ransom. They would've killed them both. Or tried to. Cameron simply got her retaliation in first."
"And now we have a policeman investigating the whole thing. Just what we don't need."
"He has no proof. Just a few coincidences."
"Suppose he starts investigating us? Our IDs won't withstand a close examination, the kind of scrutiny the feds will provide."
"This guy isn't federal; he's a Vegas cop acting on a hunch."
"Go to your room and begin packing. We leave in the morning."
"No."
"What?"
"If we run now it's as good as admitting she's guilty."
"She is guilty, dammit!"
"The trail's cold," John insists stubbornly. "We just need to hold our nerve. And I'm sick of running."
Sarah Connor stares from John to me. "All right. We'll stay. For now. But if the cop turns up on our doorstep asking to see our papers they'll be no more arguments. Be ready to leave at a moments notice. And for all our sakes keep her on a shorter leash. If you won't I will."
She glares at me then goes up to her room. The door slams with just enough force to make the point: she is pissed.
John smiles at me and pats my hand. "You did good," he assures me.
"I did not participate in the conversation."
"Exactly."
WEDNESDAY
Morning. John locks the door of the safe house behind us as we prepare to leave for school. Sarah Connor is absent, out scouting for possible new locations should the worse come to pass and we have to regroup elsewhere.
"Got everything?"John asks. "Textbooks? Pens? Pencils? Urine sample?"
He cracks up. Evidently my errorof the previous day is still causing him some amusement.
John drives while I ride shotgun. This does not entail me literally riding a shotgun as I had once assumed. I merely sit in the seat next to his. He is correct; my assimilation skills are now much better and my understanding of human slang and vernacular vastly improved. I have come a long way, baby. Word to your mama/papa - delete as appropriate.
The journey to school normally takes twenty minutes, ten of which is spent on the freeway. Descending the off-ramp, John says quietly, "We have company. A tail. Someone's following us."
I check the wing mirror my side. A tan Chevrolet three car lengths back. I utilise my optic zoom function.
"Detective Polger. He is alone."
"Damn! Good job mom's not with us."
"Because she would seriously freak out?"
"No. She'd be insufferable because she's right. This guy's not going to just go away."
John pounds his palms on the steering wheel in frustration. "Are we carrying any weapons in the trunk?"
"An Uzi sub with extra magazines. A pump-action shotgun with rounds. Three Glock nine millimeter pistols with spare ammo."
"Is that all?"
"It seems like plenty."
"If we're stopped and searched we'll have a hard time explaining all those guns on a school run."
"Show and tell?" I suggest.
"In Compton, maybe. Not here."
"Then we should drive to Compton."
"I was joking."
"Oh. Should I laugh?"
"Laughing's optional."
"Then I choose not to."
"Everyone's a critic."
We enter a residential district that has several intersections each with a set of stop lights, slowing the morning traffic to a crawl.
"Take a left here," I instruct John as the light turns green. He complies, trusting my judgement. "Go round the block then double back."
"Why, what are you going---Cameron! Wait!"
I ignore him and exit the vehicle, walking quickly back to the corner. The tan Chevrolet slows for the turn. I walk alongside, open the door and slip into the passenger seat, startling Detective Polger who obviously wasn't expecting this gambit.
"What the---"
"Drive."
"What d'you think you're---hey!"
I insert my left leg into the driver's footwell, pressing my boot above Detective Polger's right foot which controls the gas pedal. We speed up.
"Okay, fun's over, girly. You need to stop what you're doing. Now!"
"You need to chill."
Detective Polger reaches into his jacket and draws his handgun. I swat it away. It clatters to the floor at the rear of the vehicle, out of harms way. His harm not mine.
"Shit, you nearly dislocated my shoulder!"
"You'll live."
I check the mirrors. John did as I ordered. The jeep is a block back and following us. Good.
We drive in silence. I maintain a steady thirty mph. Traffic thins out. We are heading away from school and towards the docks.
"You killed Frank, didn't you," Polger says, more as a statement than a question. "That's why he didn't draw his weapon. He thought you were harmless."
"He called me a twinky."
"And you made him pay."
"With his life," I confirm.
"What about the two who had their skulls crushed?"
"What about them?"
"The way I have it figured, you had an accomplice. Maybe someone with a baseball bat who didn't mind getting his hands dirty. I'm thinking your brother, John. That's him following us, isn't it?"
"I am responsible for all the deaths."
"Well well, seems you're full of surprises today, Miss Baum. You're a regular Ted Bundy."
Ted Bundy. My HUD provides a photograph and resume. A psychopathic serial killer. Am I being insulted or flattered? Perhaps both.
"Let me see if I've got it straight. You had some luck at the tables in Vegas, probably using a fake ID because of your age. Frank and his boys took note and followed you to LA. They leaned on you because they wanted the cash for themselves. How am I doing so far?"
"Very well."
"But you weren't the pushover they expected. You're obviously tougher than you look. So you could argue it was self-defense. Look, Miss Baum - Cameron - make a full confession to me and maybe it'll work out not so bad. You'll do jailtime, I'm not gonna kid you about that, murder is still murder, but with the extenuating circumstances, your youth, a sympathetic judge and maybe you're out by the time you're thirty. That's a pretty good deal. Whaddua say?"
What I say is nothing. Detective Polger sighs. He is obviously disappointed with my choice.
"Okay, sweetheart, I guess it's the hard way."
With a speed that belies his heavy bulk Polger reaches for something attached to his left ankle. A small two-shot Derringer pistol concealed in an ankle holster. He points the weapon at me.
"Small but deadly, and I will use it make no mistake about that. Take your foot off the gas and put your hands where I can see them."
I put my right hand where he can see it - over the muzzle of the gun.
Two shots. One after the other. The explosions loud in the enclosed space. The smell of cordite. My hand absorbs both impacts. I turn my palm over. There in a smudge of gunshot residue are the two bullets, neatly embedded in my pseudo-flesh. I prise them out with my left hand. They are flattened circles of lead, harmless. I drop them in the space between us.
"No more surprises, Detective Polger."
"W...Who are you?"
"Wrong question. Try - what am I?"
"What are you?"
"Nemesis."
I increase the pressure on the gas pedal. We are now travelling at 70 mph through a sparsely populated industrial estate.
"What are doing? Slow down."
The speedo reaches 100 mph. A nice round figure for what is to occur.
"You crazy bitch! If I lose control and crash you die too!"
"You would think."
Ahead of us looms the high concrete abutment of a warehouse loading bay. I reach over and twist the wheel. Polger tires to resist but I easily overpower him. The vehicle arrows in the direction I intend, straight to the scene of the accident.
Impact.
...rending metal and shattered windscreen... tiny fragments of glass that glitter and hang in the air like galaxies spinning in the void...time appears to slow...multiple red warning lights appear in my HUD...damage sustained...system failures on a massive scale...repair functions falter and stall... overwhemed...default...shutdown...everything goes dark...everything...
...ends...
-000-
Cam explains why she terminates him like this in the next chapter. Was gonna make Polger corrupt and after the money but settled for sleazy and overweight.
Enough deaths and teen angst methinks. Time for a really fun chapter.
Next: Jameron.