Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell Page A

lawyer and the cop. “I’m not into anything,” he said, standing. “That’s all you need to know. Nothing. The sooner you drop this the better for everybody, especially you.”
    Blindingly, unthinkingly, Chuck swept the back of his hand at the file in front of Detective Epperson. The contents went fluttering to the floor.
    Epperson did not react like Chuck expected. She didn’t clench her jaw, point her finger, or answer immediately. Instead she gave him a lingering glance and nodded slowly. Like she understood. She said, “Thanks for your time, Mr. Samson. You know how to reach me. Advise your lawyer if you ever want to talk.”

Chapter 23

    Royce was still in the spot where Chuck had left him.
    “So what did she want?” Royce said.
    Chuck let out a long breath. He felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks. And like he wanted to punch a tree, any tree. “Something about Julia’s death.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like I don’t know! I don’t even know what day it is anymore.”
    “Thursday.”
    “Well that’s just great. What do I get on the weekend? A murder indictment?”
    Royce said, “You need to regroup, bud. You need some help in this. I’ll call Shel.”
    Shel Simpson was an investigator of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office, a Gulf War vet. He was part of a regular poker group at Royce’s apartment, a group Chuck sometimes joined. Shel knew all the best defense lawyers in town because he’d seen them operate in court.
    “I’m not rolling in dough,” Chuck said.
    “We’ll get some together. The Wild Bills will kick in.” The Wild Bills was what the poker group called themselves.
    “I can’t ask you to do that,” Chuck said. “This Stratton seems competent.”
    “You don’t want just competent, Chuck.”
    Chuck looked at the sky. It was slate gray. The kind of LA sky that doesn’t threaten rain, just shuts out the sun.
    He felt his phone vibrate. A text message.
    Samson. Smrt.
    “Bad news?” Royce said.
    “What is this?” He showed Royce the text.
    “You’re smart?” Royce asked.
    “Apparently.”
    “Who sent it?”
    Chuck swallowed hard. Private number.
    He felt Royce’s hand on his shoulder. “You feel your triggers coming on?”
    Chuck shook his head.
    “Don’t hold out on me,” Royce said.
    “I won’t.”
    “Let’s get that sandwich.”
    “Just take me to the motel,” Chuck said.
    “I think you need—”
    “Let’s go.”
    They got Royce’s car in the lot on Sylmar and fought traffic down Van Nuys Boulevard.
    “Know what let’s do?” Royce said. “Let’s you, me, and Stan go out on my boat again. Go out to Catalina. Remember the dolphins?”
    Chuck wasn’t remembering anything. He was breaking out in cold sweats. And shaking.
    “Hey, man,” Royce said. He pulled into a Mobil station and parked in the air and water bay. Chuck was starting to feel sucked into the dark memories again. He jammed himself back against the seat, as if doing so would keep him grounded in reality.
    “Breathe easy,” Royce said. “I’m right here.” He clutched Chuck’s arm, and Chuck tried to take in more air. Noises reverbed in Chuck’s head, the sound of explosions getting closer.
    Royce said, “Try to get it out.”
    “It’s bad. I don’t know why it’s happening now.”
    “Confront it, like the doc said.”
    Chuck winced, like he was having a tooth pulled. “Let’s just go.”
    “What do you see?”
    Figures. Three of them. Indistinct. “It’s the same,” Chuck said. “It never gets clearer.”
    “Sounds?”
    “Booming. Exploding.”
    “You’re on the battlefield.”
    “No. I think it’s coming from somewhere else.” Chuck grabbed his head, squeezed. “I just want it to stop.”
    “If you can get one picture or voice, that can open it all up, “ Royce said. “That’s what they say. It’s like lancing a boil and all that puss comes out.”
    “Wow, I’m hungry. When’s lunch?”
    “Come on. Try to see one thing.”
    Chuck clenched his