Page 112 of Liar, Liar

As she wheeled into the parking lot for the rental car company, her cell phone blasted. Martinez picked up the phone. “Sacramento P.D.”

“Answer. Put it on speaker phone.”

He punched the appropriate buttons.

“This is Detective Settler,” she said, loud enough for the phone to pick up her voice as she parked and took the cell from Martinez’s outstretched hand.

“It’s Ladlow.” The ex-jock detective from Sacramento. “Hey, look, I’m gonna cut right to the chase.”

A premonition of dread slid through Settler’s brain. She knew what was coming and exchanged looks with Martinez, who’d stopped working on his tablet and was listening in. “Okay.”

“It’s Ned Crenshaw,” Ladlow said. “He died about an hour ago. Never woke up. Just lost the fight.” A pause. “It’s a real pisser, but he had a poor chance, being shot at close range like that. I’ll send you the autopsy report once we get it.”

Settler stared out the window to the row of cars being checked in, suitcases and bags and strollers and laptops hauled out of vehicles, paperwork exchanged with attendants. For a second, the scene seemed a little surreal, just as it always did when a person died. Reality shifted. What was important and what was trivial were almost indefinable.

She gave a slight shake of her head, and the world righted itself, as it always did. It was up to her to make certain Crenshaw’s killer came to justice.

* * *

On the saggy bed of his room at the Bayside, the Marksman stared at his computer screen and swore under his breath. He was going over the path recorded by the GPS locator he’d planted beneath the bumper of Remmi Storm’s Subaru. From the map on his screen, it was obvious Remmi had driven all the way to Walnut Creek and the very street where she’d lived.

He knew the address. No doubt, Remmi had made a visit to dear old Aunt Vera. It had been inevitable, he supposed, wishing he’d taken out Didi’s daughter earlier. The fact that she was talking to Vera was worrisome; that woman didn’t know how to keep her damned mouth shut. What was worse was the fact that after visiting Vera, she hadn’t left Walnut Creek.

Agitated, he shifted on the bed, feeling a painful twinge in his thigh where the wire clippers had ravaged his flesh. He should never have let that happen; the pain was an impediment. One he’d have to overcome. At least mentally.

He slid the laptop onto the bedside stand, stood, and found he could walk without too much difficulty. The pain, though, was a problem. He couldn’t allow himself to limp, couldn’t draw attention to himself.

Already naked, he hobbled to the bathroom and twisted on the shower jets, then located a strip of gauze from his first-aid kit and, using the flimsy little shower cap to cover the patch on his leg, anchored it with the gauze and tape. Then he stepped under the not-quite-hot-enough spray.

Weak as the shower was, it helped loosen his muscles, and once he’d stepped out and toweled off, he found he could walk almost normally, although his stride was a bit shorter.

With his towel, he took a swipe at the moisture collected on the mirror, then glowered at his image. The tines of the pitchfork had done their job, no doubt about it. His face was black and blue, the deep scratches clear, but with the weather being as cold as it was, he could cover most of his face with a scarf and hat, even use the fake hair, he supposed.

He surveyed his chest and swore mightily. He considered shaving the whole area and slathering his pecs and abdomen with antiseptic again. The wounds were deep, but, for now, they would have to wait. He’d clean them later.

His body felt as if he’d been thrown from a high building, then run over with a bulldozer. He was used to a certain amount of pain. Had learned mental toughness over the course of his life. He’d get the job done. For now, he couldn’t risk a trip to the hospital, and he knew that as soon as this part of his job was finished, he’d be able to have a nurse tend to him. A private nurse.

He turned on the TV and located a cable news station, hoping to hear that Ned Crenshaw had let go of life, but he couldn’t find any update confirming the rancher’s death. He then looked online, Googled Crenshaw’s name.

And there it was.

A gift from heaven.

Ned Crenshaw had expired in the last few hours.

Hallelujah.

The Marksman smiled. Looked like Ned hadn’t woken from his coma to shoot off his mouth.

Praise the Lord.

Even tough-as-old-leather Crenshaw hadn’t been able to survive the point-blank attack.

Now, he could concentrate on Remmi. He checked on the GPS and saw that finally it appeared that she was nearing that monster of a home owned by the old lady, the shingled house on the hill.

At least she was back in the city.

Good. He’d already checked out the old house where she lived and had come up with a plan to get rid of her.

---