Deadline, page 1
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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF CAMPBELL ARMSTRONG
“Campbell Armstrong is thriller writing’s best-kept secret.” —The Sunday Times
“Armstrong is among the most intriguing of blockbuster writers … near to unputdownable.” —GQ
“While touching on suspense with a skill to please hard-core thriller addicts, he manages to please people who … warm to readable novels of substance.” —Daily Mail
“Armstrong’s skill is not just an eye for a criminally good tale but a passion for the people that will populate it.” —The Scotsman
“Subtle and marvelous … This is a dazzling book.” —The Daily Telegraph on Agents of Darkness
“A consummate psychological thriller … Without doubt, Armstrong is now in the front rank of thriller writers.” —Books on Heat
“Armstrong has outdone both Frederick Forsyth and Ken Follett.” —James Patterson on Jig
“A full throttle adventure thriller.” —The Guardian on Mambo
“A wonderful puzzle that keeps us guessing right to the end.” —Publishers Weekly on Mazurka
Deadline
Campbell Armstrong
Thursday, 6.45 p.m.
I left my office thirty minutes later than usual, the tall lights in the parking-lot had been lit, although dark was more than an hour away. It had been one of those draining days, where each patient seemed more demanding than the last. As I walked towards my car, I tried to shed the assorted burdens I’d been gathering for the last seven or eight hours, but it wasn’t ever easy – you couldn’t just cast aside the torments and anxieties of those who entrusted their mental welfare to you.
Some people dumped work as soon as the clock struck a certain hour. I didn’t. I took the office home with me. I grudged the fact, but I hadn’t found a way around it. I tried to relax, sure; I’d bury myself in a book, involve myself in a movie or a ballgame on TV – Sondra enjoyed old black-and-white movies and basketball – but then my mind would drift mid-plot or halfway through the game, and I’d wonder about this patient or that, I’d weigh the merits of their medication or the course therapy was taking.
Increasingly I found myself thinking I needed a long vacation, a break from patients and their problems; the job was too demanding, and life in Los Angeles – the American capital of psychosis, where mood disorders and high-tech pharmaceutical developments were casual dinner-party topics – unreal and vaguely unpleasant.
My car was parked directly under one of the electric lights. I set my briefcase down between my feet while I searched inside my pockets for my keys. There were only a few cars in the lot; some I recognized as belonging to other tenants in the building. Beyond, on Wilshire, traffic stop-started. I found my key and fitted it into the lock.
The man appeared out of nowhere, his face muffled by a scarf and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He struck out at me with a chopping motion of his hand, a blow directed at my larynx. Startled, I moved a half-step away and his hand rammed the side of my neck instead of my throat, but the blow was still forceful enough to stun me a moment – I slid against the car, which prevented me from falling to the ground.
‘Gimme your car keys, your wallet, that nice watch, anything you got of value, and fast.’
I shook my head, tried to clear the cloudiness away.
‘Fast, man. Fast. Come on.’
I didn’t move. Didn’t acquiesce. I stared at him, tried to bring him into focus. His eyes were very close together; weirdly so.
‘Dickhead,’ he said. ‘You got a hearing problem?’
He raised the same hand he’d used the first time, and I watched it come down hard in the light of the lamp. And this time I saw something metallic flash, half-silver, half-black. I turned my head at the last possible moment and heard the blade hit metal. The knife, which might have pierced my cheek, went skittering out of the guy’s fist and was lost somewhere beyond the reach of the light. For no logical reason, I had the feeling he hadn’t intended to plunge the blade into me with lethal intent, that his real goal was to draw blood, to scar and scare. He was a thief, not a killer.
I swung at him, jabbing him hard in his left eye. Unperturbed, seemingly beyond pain, he made no noise, didn’t groan, didn’t cry out; he just closed his hand into a ball and brought it down yet again. This time I had sense enough to lift my right hand and smother his fist, and for a few seconds we were linked together palm to palm, and the sharp light from the overhead bulb was blinding me.
The peak of the baseball cap shadowed his eyes, and the scarf concealed him like the bandanna of a stagecoach robber in a western. Fleecy grey lining hung from his ragged military-style khaki jacket, which smelled of gasoline and tobacco and that weary odor of the streets – a brew of concrete and dank moisture of the kind that gathers in culverts, of wet paper sacks. I knew the smell: I’d done enough work among emergency psycho cases in mental hospitals – the screamers, the paranoids, the schizophrenics, the deranged dragged in off the violent cosmos of the streets.
But there was another scent too, one I couldn’t identify at that moment; an incongruous one.
He was very strong, but I sensed his grip yielding. I thought: one moment you’re doing something everyday, you’re unlocking your car, getting ready to go home. Fine, banal, civilized. The next, you’re fighting off an unexpected attacker.
I figured he was after drugs. He’d been watching me for a couple of days perhaps: he knew I worked in a medical office building, maybe he thought I was a walking pharmacy and carried samples in my briefcase. If I didn’t have samples then I’d have money, which was the next best thing.
I was angry. The day had already pulverized me like beans in a coffee-grinder, my patients had depressed me, the drive home through the city was an unappealing prospect, and now I had some goddam thief attacking me. Something similar had happened in this same spot three months back, when Benny Shark, a pediatrician, was jumped as he strolled to his car. He’d been roughed up and his wallet snatched. He’d left LA a month later, and the last I heard he was working out of a small town in Oregon.
Enough, for Christ’s sake. This city was a septic tank.
I brought up my knee hard into his groin. I felt bone sink into soft flesh. He stepped back, moaned. I pushed myself away from the car and kicked out, catching him on the knee. He retreated a couple of paces, then he reached down, rubbed his knee. ‘So you wanna fight, huh? Tough guy. Hardass. Wants to fight.’
‘I don’t want to fight,’ I said. ‘I just want to go home, for Christ’s sake. I just want a life without this kind of hassle.’ I wondered about his pain threshold; he was probably high on something that also anaesthetized – crack, maybe some other cocaine derivative, speed. He was blinking his left eye rapidly.
‘Don’t wanna fight, fine. Then I’ll just help myself to this baby,’ and he looked down at my briefcase.
‘The fuck you will.’ I bent to grab the handle of the case, a tactical mistake; he uppercut me, one of those sly blows you don’t see coming. You know it’s on the way, you just don’t catch it in time. It jerked my head back and I heard a muscular click at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Furious, I kicked out at him as he reached down to snatch my case; I caught him directly in the ear, and he yelped. He dropped the case and I kicked him again; then I grabbed him by the collar of his coat and tossed him to the ground. I stood over him, my fists clenched.
I was breathing hard, too hard.
Unexpected exertion, sure. But it was more. It was the pulse of rage. I wanted to crack his head into the concrete. Raise it, smash it down. Raise it, smash it down. And again. Pulp it.
Dr Lomax, psychiatrist. Respected member of the LA medical profession. Be calm.
‘I’m not carrying any drugs,’ I said. ‘You got that?’
He lay huddled, face concealed between cap and scarf, and he stared at me as if he were peering through a visor. ‘What makes you think I want any fucking drugs?’
‘Money, then,’ I said. ‘Whatever the hell you’re after.’
He shook his head. ‘You guys always think you know everything, don’t you? You always think you see the whole picture in one big flash. Whoom zazooom. The truth direct from God himself.’ I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. There was an unpleasant, slightly spooky nasal sneer in his voice, even though the sound came to me muffled through his scarf. The rhythms of his speech were vaguely Hispanic.
‘Frankly, I just don’t give a shit what you think,’ I said. And I didn’t. I wanted to go home and kick off my shoes. I took my cellphone from my jacket and flipped it open. ‘I’m calling the cops. They can deal with you.’
He moved slightly, grimaced with pain, propped himself up on one elbow. He glanced in the direction of the office building, where a few lights were still lit, then he looked at my car. As I spoke into the phone, I didn’t take my eyes off him. He didn’t want dope, so he wanted money: it was either one thing or the other, because nothing lay between the poles of narcotics and hard cash. He was a rodent, he lived in alleys and doorways and abandoned buildings; I was in no mood to feel sorry for him, and even less inclined to wonder about the reasons behind his circumstances. Booze. Drugs. A childhood of abuse. What the hell did it matter? The liberal in me, the do-gooder, the bleeding-heart, was dying little by little. Once upon a time, I couldn’t pass a beggar without giving him a handout, but I was through dropping coins in the dixie-cups of panhandlers. The city had immunized me against acts of charity.
I got the operator, asked to be connected to the police. I gave my name to an unsympathetic female officer, and told her what had happened, and the location. She asked me if I was in any immediate danger; I told her I thought that possibility had passed. She said a car would be along as soon as one became available; she made it sound like she worked for a cab company. What was I supposed to do – stand guard until the cops came?
She hung up. I shut off my cellphone and looked at the guy.
‘You pay your taxes – for what?’ he asked. He was rubbing his left eye almost constantly. ‘Protection from big badasses like me, right? Well, I don’t hear no fucking cavalry, Captain.’
I looked at my watch. I didn’t want to hang around here; it wasn’t my job to be this guy’s keeper. My heartbeat slowed, my pulses returned to normal.
The guy maneuvered himself into a sitting position. Where were the cops? I scanned the lot, looked for flashing lights on the boulevard – nothing. I turned back to look at the guy: the idea popped into my head – run. Why didn’t he just make a run for it? Do us all a favor. Spare me time going over the circumstances of the assault, describing the indescribable. Save the cops some paperwork.
Get up, take a hike, go. I’ll even look away.
But then I thought of how Benny Shark had been beaten up and robbed, and an instinctive yearning for law and order rose inside me. After me, somebody else would be a victim; and somebody after that. There was no end to the chain of violence and larceny – unless it was outright anarchy.
I had a duty. I’d wait for the cops. The good doctor.
The guy got to his feet. He was rubbing his knee. I watched him warily.
‘Ouch,’ he was saying. ‘Ouch, ouch.’ He limped in a tiny circle under the tall lamp. ‘You kick like a mule,’ he said. ‘What are you? Six two? Hunnerd and eighty pounds?’
What did he want now? Conversation? I didn’t feel like passing the time of day. Then I saw the black and white come across the parking-lot. My assailant saw it too and reacted with unexpected speed, turning, suddenly twisting past my outstretched arm, skimming me by an inch or two, then sprinting across the lot and weaving through the traffic on Wilshire with a certain wild grace, like a broken field runner. Then the black and white flashed lights and whined and ploughed into the traffic flow on the boulevard in pursuit of the guy. I heard brakes scream and horns blast.
I stood for a time, leaning against my car with my arms folded, wondering what was expected of me, if I was supposed to hang out like a good citizen until the cop car returned and an officer asked me questions. Or had I been written out of the script entirely now, an incidental character, a walk-on? What the hell. If they wanted to talk with me, they had my name.
I tossed my case onto the passenger seat and I sat behind the wheel. I tilted my head back, waited for ten minutes, then I drove out of the lot. Halfway home, I experienced after-shock, a tremor that affected my hands and legs. Sweat ran down my face.
This goddam city, I thought. I envied Benny Shark. I wanted Oregon.
9.06 p.m.
Sondra did all the talking during dinner. She was more animated than normal. She told me stories that were coursing through her office; I listened, amused as I usually was by her talent for mimicry and the enthusiastic way she launched herself into reports of scandals and affairs, who was screwing who in the world of music, the down and dirty stuff we didn’t read in the entertainment pages. In full flow, she was a one-woman entertainment.
I wanted to tell her about the incident in the parking-lot; but I didn’t. She hated horror stories of urban brutality. She wanted to think LA, her native city, had a heart of spun gold. It was a place unjustly maligned, it didn’t deserve its reputation as a dead zone, an artificial city, a tawdry hell by the ocean where only the whacked-out poor or the grotesquely spoiled, neurotic rich lived. Besides, her humor was good: why bring her down? She was on a high, and it was clearly due to something more than just another working day at LaBrea Records.
She waited until we’d finished dinner before she told me the real reason for her animation.
She didn’t blow out the candles. She stepped through the sliding glass doors to the redwood deck, and I followed. The city, orange and vast, lay spread below like a huge foundry whose purpose was too obscure to understand. The canyons were black crevices and the air smelled of exhaust fumes and I thought of my assailant even as I tried to shove the memory away. I saw the knife come down through bright light, and I remembered turning my face to one side and how the blade had struck the car, that funny little ping of metal on metal. My heart shifted, boogied an extra little beat. I caught a whiff of the smell he’d left behind. And then it hit me. The bum in the scarf and cap and the greasy jacket with the stink of the city attached to him – why had he also smelled of cologne? I let the question drift away. What difference did it make? I was here, now, secure.
I looked at my wife. Even after six years of marriage, I had times when I couldn’t read her face, when she seemed mysterious, as if she were holding something back, perhaps some aspect of herself she was reluctant to mention. She leaned against the deck-rail. A gas-scented breeze blew up and stirred her hair, which was short, dyed aubergine. ‘Notice anything?’ she asked.
‘What am I looking for in particular?’
She smiled and turned away, and gazed out across the extent of the valley; the city was an infinite shifting arrangement of headlights on freeways. Airplanes created oases of electricity floating above LAX. She looked back at me, turned the palms of her hands over.
What did she want me to notice?
‘I’ll make it easy for you, doc. What am I not doing?’ she asked. Her expression was all wide-eyed mischief.
‘Let me think,’ I said.
‘You’re supposed to be observant. People pay big bucks for your insights, don’t they?’ She took a couple of steps toward me, smiling. I was drawn into the enigma of her eyes. Her other fine features – the full lips and the strong structure of jaw that suggested depths of self-assurance and independence – were diminished by the unusual violet of the irises. I’d never seen another human being with eyes that shade.
‘I’ll give you a hint,’ she said. ‘What do I normally do after dinner?’
It had been staring me in the face. I clicked my thumb against my middle finger. ‘You smoke –’
‘And? Do you see me smoking?’
‘No –’
‘And do you remember me telling you the only reason in the world that would make me give up?’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘You finally get the picture, doc?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘I’m … I’m … I don’t know …’
‘Like, blown away?’
‘Doesn’t do it justice.’
I felt suddenly giddy, the night spinning about me. Overjoyed. No, I didn’t really have a word for this thrill, this rush of anticipation.
‘How long have you known?’ I asked.
‘Since this afternoon.’
‘And you waited –’
‘It wasn’t easy, believe me,’ she said. ‘I wanted the right moment.’ She nestled against my body. ‘Hold me.’
I thought of the fetus inside her, small and unformed, floating in its own cloistered reality. A child! Dear God. I tried to accustom myself to the shock of this knowledge, absorb this new fact into my scheme of the world. I understood one thing: Nothing would ever be the same again. The entire pattern of my existence had assumed an entirely new shape in the matter of a few seconds.
She said, ‘According to Marv Sweetzer, ETA’s mid-January. I swear, Marv couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d fathered this child himself. Loaded me down with a pile of pamphlets – dos and don’ts, drink this, avoid that, take these vitamins, remember to get exercise, you want to make sure you don’t get stretch-marks, on and on.’
‘And you promised to be good?’ I said.
‘Oh, I promised to be a saint, Jerry. And I will be.’
I pictured Sondra in Marv Sweetzer’s office in Beverly Hills, Marv announcing her test results. You and Jerry hit the spot, Sondra. I knew Marv well, and how he operated. He was the essence of kindness and practicality.
