Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(86)

Fortunately I’d had the rifle close by.

“Bad idea, Jimmy,” I’d said, aiming the mouth of the Hornet at the center of the smiley face on his chest.

That smiley face. I’d never be able to look at one again without thinking of . . . well, very unpleasant things.

You’d have thought the blows I’d given him would have convinced him otherwise, but Jimmy still woke up with escape on his mind. I saw his gaze go from me to the cashbox—smashed open on his black concrete floor—to the thumb drives scattered across the desk in front of me.

“That’s right, Jimmy,” I’d said, holding the rifle steady. “We found everything. I’ve already called the cops. They’ll be here any minute.” Ha! Oh, well. You can pull off just about any performance if you believe in it enough. “So even if you shoot us both and make a run for it—which I doubt you’re going to be able to do, because I’m pretty good with this thing—they still have all the evidence they need to prosecute. So what’s it gonna be, Jimmy?”

I saw his beady little eyes darting around as he thought about it good and hard, weighing his options. Make a break for it and hope for the best? Stick around and let himself get arrested?

I don’t know why I never considered option three. If I had, I might have been able to prevent it.

Stop. Wait. Don’t. That’s what I should have said in the seconds before I saw him, as if in slow motion, lift the .44 Magnum toward his own head, then pull the trigger.

But there wasn’t time.

I was careful not to look at the corpse as I snapped at Paul to help me pack up. I was concerned someone might have heard the gunshot and called the cops—for real this time.

But no one had. Outside, the lights on the trunks of the palm trees along the meridian still twinkled, and somewhere Christmas music was playing over a loudspeaker. “Silent Night.”

Paul snaked the whiskey bottle out from beneath the dashboard and took a swig. Fortunately we were the only car on the boulevard, and all of the shops along Ocean Avenue were closed.

“Look,” I said to Paul. “Child killers—and especially child sexual predators—don’t do very well in California state prisons. They have a high gang member population. Gangs have their own code of ethics, and taking out a pedophile can earn a member as much—or more—respect as killing a snitch, or a rival gang member.”

Paul snorted. “Did you learn that in your little counseling school?”

“No.” I refused to let him get under my skin. “Jake told me. And Delgado knew it, too. That’s why he made the choice that he did. He knew he was going to die anyway.”

“That’s just great, Suze,” Paul said. “And if he comes back tonight in spirit form, looking for revenge, what are you going to do?”

I gave him a disbelieving look. “That guy? Revenge? He shot himself in the head because he was too much of a coward to face the consequences of his own actions. Trust me, wherever he is now, he’s staying. Hopefully reincarnated as a cockroach.”

“Fine. But if you think I’m letting you out of our agreement just because of that little stunt back there, you’re crazy.” Paul announced this just as I was pulling the car into the hotel’s circular drive. “We’re still having dinner together at Mariner’s. I’m not losing the reservation I made for two for the chef’s tasting menu. It’s supposed to be one of the top ten restaurants in the country. And by God, Simon, you’re going to sit across from me and pretend to enjoy it like the goddamn lady I know you can be when you put your mind to it. But first I’m going up to my room to take a shower and burn this suit.” He sniffed his sleeve, then made a face. “Ugh. Eau de perv.”

“Are you serious?” I stared at him. “After all that? You still actually expect me to . . .”

“Fulfill your side of our bargain, Simon? Of course. Even though what you put me through tonight more than made up for anything I might have done to you on graduation night.”

“I’m not talking about what you did to me on graduation night. I’m talking about—give us a moment, will you?”

I said the last part to the valet who’d come up to my side of the car to open the door for me. We’d pulled in beneath the porte cochere, which was much more crowded than it had been when we’d left. There were now a dozen handsomely dressed older people waiting for their cars, some of the men in tuxedos, and some of the women wearing fur coats against the brisk November chill—all sixty degrees of it.

Friday nights were dead in downtown Carmel because Friday night was cocktail party night in northern California, when the rich trotted out their best clothing to see and be seen in all the best hotel ballrooms and private mansions (on the pretense of raising money for charities).

“Paul,” I said, feeling a rising tide of panic growing within me. “You can’t be serious. If you think for one minute I’m actually going to let you—”

“Yes, you are, Simon. Those things you did back there? You’re right. You are bad. You can’t help it. You have an evil streak in you a mile wide, just like me. And I love it. We belong together.”

“No, we don’t, Paul. My kind of bad helps people. Your way only hurts them.”

“Hurts so good,” Paul slurred drunkenly.