Free Red Light by T. Jefferson Parker

by a psychopath. Career on track:: healthy, nice looking, plenty of
friends.
    She
had a hard time believing in things that were shapeless rather than specific,
emotional rather than tactile. She believed that things made feelings: Tim, Jr.
= Happiness; Too Much Scotch = hangover; Judgment = dysfunctional memory and
nightmares. Sometimes she wondered if Mike was looking for things he wasn't
ready to find.
    She
parked by the woodpile and noted the fresh cord of eucalyplus stacked under the
eaves, a plastic tarp roped over the top. His van with the built-in dog crates
was up beside the house. The bloodhounds were already barking when she got out.
Smoke rose from the chimney until the breeze tore it against the branches of
the oaks.
    When
he answered the door she could tell Mike was drunk. She’d seen him drunk maybe
three times in her life, so there was no mistaking it. He was a lousy drinker.
    "Thought it
might be you," he said.
    "Three martini
lunch?"
    "Bottle
of Scotch some jerk gave me for my birthday. Hits you hard. Come in."
    She
stepped in to familiar sights. The braided rug on a hardwood floor scarred by
dog nails. Non-matching green couches at right angles and big enough to sleep
on. Steamer trunks used for coffee tables, littered with magazines and coffee
cups and some of Danny's toys. Danny’s king snake in a glass tank by a window.
The oak and glass case filled with long guns against one wall of knotty pine.
And the framed reproductions featured in all the outdoors magazines Mike
subscribed to---dogs, birds, trout.
    "I guess you
talked to Gilliam," said Mike.
    "Yep."
    "Want
to tell me what he found?"
    "I
want you to."
    "I figured you
would. You want some of this shit?" He waved a tumbler at her.
    "No.
Talk to me, Mike."
    They sat on different
couches, a traditional sign of contention between them. Merci preferred it that
way, but Mike, unless he was pissed off, liked being close. She noted the hairs
on the couch fabric, just like the ones Gilliam had described—bloodhound hair.
    He leaned forward on
the couch and set his glass on a trunk. "I was there Tuesday night. Got
there around eight-thirty, left around ten-fifteen. At that time, incidentally, she was still alive."
    Merci heard the dogs
still yapping back in the run, some jays cawing out in the oaks.
    "Start
at the beginning."
    He sighed, swept up
his glass, took a gulp and looked at her. "It was strictly business."
    "Whose?"
    He glared at her.
Beneath the boyish forelock of blond hair his eyes looked small and viperine.
"Don't read shit into this that isn't there."
    "I'm
just listening."
    He drank again.
"I wanted to get some things straight on the Epicure Services sting. There
were a couple of things we needed to agree on, get in place. We were going to
wire her for a meet with Moladan."
    "You
take in your piece for dinner?"
    He nodded. Merci knew
Mike carried a .45 automatic. It was the gun the old-timers liked, known for
its alleged stopping and knockdown power. Most of the younger guys used hot 9mm
or .357-Magnum loads, known for their alleged stopping and knockdown
power. The difference was about three hundred feet per second, which meant you
could silence a .45 auto, whereas with the others you got a sonic crack that no
silencer could suppress. Mike, low-tech and fond of the past, had opted for the
bigger, slower load.
    "Where
did you carry it?"
    "Usual
place."
    "What
did she say?"
    "Hang
it on the chair, but I didn't."
    "What
did you talk about?"
    "How to wear a
wire, how to act a part, how to nail Goren Moladan, what do you think?"
    "Who's
D. C.?"
    He blushed. Even in
the dim lamplight of the mountain house she could see it.
    He
shook his hair off his face. "Me."
    "Meaning
what?"
    "Just
a nickname. Aubrey had a real lively sense of humor."
    Merci let the silence
work on him. She felt hollow and betrayed, and she felt the beginnings of fury.
    "Dark
Cloud," he said finally. "Because I'm always serious, never
smile."
    "You
sent her that card. About