Dead Birmingham (8 page)

“I thought about that. It's happened before. I'm pretty sure that something isn't on the level with this case. But I also considered this: It's also possible there's something going on that he doesn't know about. Like, maybe there are other people at work here.”

“I might buy into that,” Broom nodded, “but still, you had your suspicions about this Malvagio character, right?”

“Let's say more than a little. So much so that I talked to a history professor about these items, just telling her the large details. She knew a good deal about these Medici, the people who commissioned this box to be made, and she thought something was fishy about this box, or at least Malvagio's story about it. The old man told me the jewels it once contained were stolen, but according to the professor, the jewels he was talking about never went anywhere. They're still safe in Italy. I've been thinking that over. Like maybe this chest is valuable for some other reason, valuable enough that some other people want it, now that it's up for grabs. Maybe that's where this killer comes in.”

Broom rose. “Maybe so. It all boils down to cash, more than likely. Money isn't the only reason that people kill each other, but it sure is one of their favorites. Whatever the case, I intend to find out. We'll find out what the big deal is about this antique jewelry case. I don't want anyone else to get hurt over it, one way or the other. I want the guy who killed that kid. So it looks like I need to talk to your client, this mysterious little old man of yours. No one's accusing him of anything yet. Come along if you like. I promise to be nice.”

“You got it.”

 

Chapter 14

 

Excerpt from Scott Anthony LaRue's unpublished manuscript,
Shoplifting in the 21st Century: Boosting for Fun and Profit:

The small store, however, is not for the beginner. The Mom and Pop variety holds many surprises. The unwary may find themselves looking down a gun barrel or facing other dire consequences if they are caught boosting an item by the private owner. Such perils are unknown in the malls and soulless department stores that cover America like a corporate scourge. The beginner should still, of course, be careful. Overconfidence can be fatal. The very small store, or the specialty shop, is the province of the professional Booster, and is never for the grab and run newbie.

* * *

Malvagio wasn't in. His nephew, Umberto, was, but he didn't know anything. “I never heard about any box from Uncle Fausto, honest.”

“Where is Uncle Fausto right now?” Broom pulled himself to his full towering height. The kid looked uneasy. McMahon fiddled with something on the counter, pretended disinterest. I stood impassively behind Broom.

“Uncle Fausto, he had to go out of town. I think he went to an auction, something like that. Anyway, I mind the store for him, sometimes. It's no big deal.”

“No big deal,” Broom repeated.

The kid looked up apprehensively at the giant detective.
 

“When is Uncle Fausto expected back?”

“T–tomorrow afternoon.”

“I don't suppose you have any way to get in touch with him? Like in case his shop gets burglarized? Or burns down? Cell phone, maybe?”

“No. No, I swear. My dad called me and told me to come mind the shop. I have no idea where my uncle is.”

Broom whipped out a card and put it in the kid's shirt pocket. “Now listen, son. Just as soon as your uncle gets in, you give him this. You tell him to call me, because he and I have a lot to talk about. You got that?”

“Yes sir.”

“That went well,” I said as we walked out of the little shop.

“I don't like this one bit,” Broom growled. “We got a dead kid and now it looks like this guy is ducking us.”

“Maybe he's out looking for this thing himself,” I ventured.

“Maybe. One thing's for sure, somebody needs to find these kids before this thing goes any farther. Come on. Let's go see if we can find this old guy. I got questions, and something tells me he's got the answers.”

 

Chapter 15

 

The Foreigner had been to America before, but never to the South. He liked the lush greenery and the more laid-back pace of things. It reminded of the aspen woodlands of Germany, though it was much warmer. Ah, Germany, his homeland. East Germany, to be more precise; the old German Democratic Republic, Soviet Satellite. He remembered how he had come into the business he was in. He and some other young thieves had been rounded up by the Polizei during a routine sweep. They had been thrown into a cold, cinder block prison. He had languished unfed in a bare cell for two days. Guards had come very early one morning, and dragged him from his cell and sat him in front of a political officer.
 

The man was a veteran of the Eastern War. His face was scarred and his smile was colder by far than the cinder block cell. He had thrown a file down on the table between them and said, “You are a very accomplished thief. Quite stealthy, and rather an expert at breaking into structures, according to your file. A natural. Let us make a little deal. If you would like to not have to fear the Polizei, ever again, you will do as I instruct.”

He had sat, wide-eyed, until he realized the man was awaiting a reaction. He had shivered and nodded vigorously. The man had nodded and the polizei behind him had withdrawn. The scarred political officer had instructed his scared young “volunteer” to kill another political officer. Kill him and any witnesses. The quality of his performance was very important. He was to leave certain evidence at the scene that would implicate another political rival.
 

He had never killed anyone before that day, but he had lived a brutal life, first in the cold impersonal government-run orphanages, and later on the streets of Dresden. And he was to perform the deed with whatever weapons were at hand.
 

He had gone about it very methodically. Getting into the house was easy enough. It was situated at the end of a wooded drive, and as he discovered in his stealthy prowl of the grounds, the back door had been left unlatched. This was a quiet countryside lane, and there were no neighbors within earshot. On the back stoop there was wood, stacked and split, and there he had found what he would use for the deed, a hatchet.
 

He had found the three children in the back room. He had never done anything like it before, nothing remotely like it, but when he had finished with them he looked up to see their mother. He would always remember her there, framed in the doorway like a Madonna in an alcove on a cathedral wall, her mouth a perfect circle of horror, because he had really overdone it on the kids he supposed.

“
Es tut mir leid, Mutter
,” he told her, and knocked her down with the back of the hatchet and he had felt so sorry for her.

“
Toten Sie mich schnell
,” she had said in a dazed whisper; kill me quickly.

But no. Unfortunately for her, she had been a lovely woman and so he had taken his time.
 

It was a long time before her husband came home. A very long time. When at last he was done with them, he had left a Communist Party pin and some other items he had been given to be found by investigators. These were to implicate a certain adversary of the scarred political officer.

The Foreigner sat quietly, recalling the events that followed his initial assignment: The adversary was denounced and arrested, per the plan; the scarred political officer had been very impressed, so things had gotten easier after that.
 

From there the political officer assigned him to a special political unit in the military, where he had been ruthlessly trained, his native skills honed. There would be no more messy carnage as in Dresden. He learned to murder by numbers, kill as instructed.
 

Then had come the end of the Cold War. German reunification. Old contacts had disappeared. Old rivalries had suddenly dried up. It was suddenly a new age. But there were still people who needed to die, it seemed. Now he killed for money, because he had to stay moving, both to find employers and to escape detection. Fortunately, his rarified skills demanded a high price. So that is what he did. He killed and moved, killed and moved. Always killing, always moving. It was all he knew, and he liked it, loved it, in fact; he was an artist and there was no other like him.

He knew the way of thieves, because he had, after all, begun as a street urchin. Where there were small, valuable items, easy to steal, he knew he would find these children, his prey. He had found the perfect target. An electronics store was having a weekend sale. Items were actually placed outside the doors in large clearance bins. Very trusting. Also, very easy prey for young thieves, with quick hands and faster feet.

He waited in a rental car for several hours, watching the store closely. He knew it was them the instant he saw them. Killer's intuition. There were only two of them, however. There should have been five, still. But that mattered little. They would steal and flee to their den, and there he would find the rest of them. And the object that he was to recover would be there. Then he would kill them, and be on his way again.

He inspected the pair carefully. A tall young black man and an Asian girl. Attractive young people. Particularly the girl. Her hair boasted a pink streak; her face was pierced in several places. She was quite beautiful. The young man wore a shirt open to his navel, and a chain of some kind around his neck. The girl, he noted, carried a gaudy, oversize handbag. Now that was a tad obvious, he thought.

They were brazen. He watched as the young man selected items with a discerning eye, and the girl opened her bag for him. They were obviously lovers, the way they worked together, so close to each other. He wondered what it would be like to have such a wild, beautiful young girl beside you. He picked up a satchel that lay on the seat.

Beautiful, yes. But soon she would be dead.

He saw them exchange words and start to walk away from the bins. They were smiling at each other. Lovers they must be. Slowly, The Foreigner opened the door of the car.

 

Chapter 16

 

“One more, Yim.”

“Make it quick, we're getting hot.”

These people had to be crazy, Bone decided. Bins full of computer software and electronic gadgets outside with no one to watch them? Not even a camera?
 

“Okay, let's roll.”

They turned and casually started walking toward the corner of the building.

“When we get to the corner, take off, you know where to meet me.”

“See you there, sexy.”

Bone shot a glance behind them, and did a double-take.

“Now what the . . . ?” There was a man, nonchalantly strolling along behind them. He was extremely pale, and dressed in an expensive black suit. Looked like Bela Lugosi, Bone thought. He had an air about him that was disturbing, even at a distance, and he was carrying something.

“Shit. I think we got a store cop on us. Some white cat in a black suit. Motherfucker looks like a vampire,” he said in a rapid whisper.

“Great. Now what?” They had come to the corner.

“Stick to what we always do. I'll see you in a while. Go to the meeting place we talked about. I'll lose this fucker. You got the goods. Take off.” They had planned the getaway. Yim would cut through the overgrown lot behind the store and make her way to a pre-arranged meeting place before heading to the fence's place. Meanwhile, Bone would remain obvious and draw off any pursuers. After all, he had nothing on him, if the cops stopped him.

Yim broke into a run at the edge of the building, and Bone turned to confront the man.
 

He wasn't there.

“What the? Where you at, Dracula?” Bone said aloud. But no time to waste. He started walking toward a large mall that sat at the intersection. Once he was off the property, a store detective couldn't do jack shit. If that's what that guy was. He had picked up a weird vibe off that dude. Something in the man's eyes. Screw it now, though, he was almost off the property.
 

Bone came to the edge of the lot, vaulted a concrete barrier, and dodged down a alley that ran between a warehouse and a closed store with a “For Sale or Lease” sign in the front window. Yim and he had made out well, he knew. Had to be a solid grand in that bag. They had been doing quite a bit of shopping, today. He came to a vacant lot behind the two buildings. He looked around, and climbed up onto the loading bay at the rear of the store.
 

No way that guy followed me, Bone told himself. But he couldn't shake the feeling the man had given him.
 

Man you got the nervous shakes? he asked himself. Mission accomplished. Let it drop. In about an hour go to the spot and meet Yim. My little cherry blossom.
 

Then lightning went off in his skull, and the world turned red.

Jesus—

Bone spun and tried to stand, but his legs refused to work correctly. A face swam into view, and he knew he was blacking out. As he sank to the ground he realized it was the man—the guy who looked like Bela Lugosi.