didn’t answer.
“Right. Programmer/analyst—self-employed.”
“It’s just routine.”
“Sure,” Rita said sarcastically.
Teresa ignored her. “Do you have my authorization number?” Teresa had been given NCIC clearance when she made sergeant.
“Sure. You want the whole package?”
Teresa thought about what she had seen and heard. I should report this and be done with it. “Yes, get me the whole thing, FBI, military, the works.”
“It won’t come through till tomorrow morning, Teresa.”
“That’s okay. You hold onto it, I’ll come by and pick it up.”
Vincent sat in his computer room checking an overnight data trap. One of his clients, a large merchant bank, employed him to monitor all phases of their wire transfer operations for data security. He worked steadily and fast. Vincent was very good at what he did.
He looked at a white board on the wall over his desk. On it he’d written things to do for the week. At the top he had written, ‘See the biker’.
The phone on his desk rang several times before he picked it up. His face faded into a peculiar vacant expression.
“Vankelis.”
He listened for a long moment.
“Yes...yes...no. I do not test on site. If there’s an installation problem, call the number in your operations book. Yes, I understand. I will ship disks on the fifteenth. Instructions included. Good day.”
As soon as he hung up his face relaxed, became natural. He swiveled in his chair and looked at the whiteboard.
“The Biker.”
Vincent set various programs to their normal data monitoring tasks and left the computer room. He moved quickly through the house into the central tower to his room on the third floor. He changed into tan slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Back down in the kitchen he put food in a dish for the cat, left the house and walked across the parking area in back to the garage. As he approached the garage door he spoke clearly.
“Open up.” The garage door rolled up silently.
Inside the garage were three vehicles. The gray pickup, a twenty five year old black Porsche Coupe and a four-wheel drive land cruiser. He got into the pickup and backed out of the garage. The door rolled down as he left the parking area.
Teresa drove into the Texaco station on Colorado Blvd. and pulled up next to the pump. As she got out she saw a gray pickup pull in and park off to one side. She glanced at the license plate out of habit and shut the door, quickly. She started to duck out of sight when she realized the driver couldn’t possibly know who she was.
I’ll be damned, it’s the same truck I saw last night, she almost spoke aloud.
She moved around to the off side of the pumps where she could watch without being seen.
Vincent got out and looked around casually.
He doesn’t look like a Peeper, she thought. He moves more like a cop...or a fed. No, dammit, that’s not likely. Actually he’s quite good looking.
Vincent moved toward the lube racks and stopped next to a car with a man laying beneath it on a roll-a-way. Teresa walked to the front of the building and stood as near as she could.
Vincent tapped the guys foot. The roll-a-way slid out from beneath the car and the guy stood up. He was tall with long curly hair. A Zapata mustache drooped below a cruel mouth. He wore a tank-top and greasy jeans, both arms were covered with tattoos.
“You Selkirk?”
Selkirk looked Vincent up and down, flexed his shoulders to establish his bad-guy credentials.
“Who the fuck wants to know?”
“We need to talk,” Vincent said.
“Says who. I don’t know you, man, so piss off, I’ve got work to do.”
Vincent removed a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and waved it at Selkirk.
Selkirk got a sly expression on his face, looked around, and nodded. “Well, maybe we do need to talk.”
“Are you Tommy Selkirk?” Vincent asked again.
“Yeah, that’s me.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the hundred dollar bill.
“Let’s go around back,” Vincent said, “this is a private matter.”
“Sure, man.” He followed Vincent around the side of the building. Teresa followed keeping out of sight.
In back of the building Vincent squared off in front of Selkirk.
“You’ve been making moves on a little girl, Sarah Peerson.”
Selkirk frowned. He backed up a step and bunched his fists. “What’s it to you asshole. Old enough to butcher, old enough to bleed.”
“You will stop seeing her.”
“Hey, man, fuck off! I see who I want.”
Selkirk started to move around Vincent, but Vincent stayed in front of him. He tried to push Vincent out of the way but somehow Vincent didn’t move.
Selkirk’s face went red. He backed up a step and pulled a switchblade from his back pocket. Instead of stepping back Vincent moved forward. Selkirk slashed at him with the knife.
More accurately, he started to slash at Vincent with the knife. His hand had hardly moved up from his side before Vincent leapt forward, locked the arm in place and drove the heel of his hand into Selkirk’s chest just below the breast bone.
Teresa heard the thump and whoosh of expelled air from where she stood fifty feet away. Selkirk’s feet flew out from under him. He landed flat on the tarmac, head slamming viciously into the cement, he gasped for breath.
Vincent took the knife from Selkirk’s hand, snapped it under his shoe and tossed it aside. Vincent jabbed his thumb under Selkirk’s collar bone and the fallen biker started to scream with pain. Vincent slapped him hard and the scream stopped. Vincent grabbed him by the crotch and leaned down close to his face.
Teresa knew she should do something but it all happened so fast...and something stopped her. She decided to let it play out and see what happened.
Vincent spoke quietly. “Get a job in San Diego. Don’t come back here, ever. Don’t call, don’t write. Understand?” Again Vincent jabbed his thumb into Selkirk’s chest.
Selkirk nodded so fast his head banged on the ground.
“You come back, you won’t believe
