Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (10 page)

A couple of clients owed me money.

I dialed a lawyer named Dana Glass first. He owed me two grand for nailing a guy in a bogus workman’s comp case. Dana’s secretary answered.

“This is Nicholas Colt. May I speak to Mr. Glass, please?”

“Mr. Glass is in court this afternoon. May I take a message?”

I knew Dana wasn’t in court. He goes to court about as often as Dracula eats garlic bread.

“I did some work for him a few weeks ago,” I said. “I’ve billed him twice, still haven’t gotten paid.”

“What was your name, sir?”

I told her my name again and she put me on hold. I was treated to an orchestral arrangement of
Eleanor Rigby
followed by
Just the Way You Are.
Three or four minutes later, she mercifully clicked back on.

“That check was sent yesterday, Mr. Colt.”

“Listen,” I said, “I need that money today. I’ll just drive up there now and you can cut me a check. Then I’ll burn the one you already sent.”

“Mr. Glass would have to authorize that.”

“So what time is he—”

“He’ll be in court the rest of the afternoon. You might try back in the morning.”

“Sure. Don’t go changin’.”

“Excuse me?”

I hung up on her. You can’t win with lawyers. Lawyers and
insurance companies are the worst about paying on time, and unfortunately 90 percent of my clientele fall into one of those two categories.

I picked up the phone book again, flipped to the Gs in the residential section. Then I remembered I’d written Alecia Gibson’s cell number on the back of a business card. I found it in my wallet.

“Hello,” she said.

“Is this Alecia.”

“Yes?”

“Nicholas Colt. I—”

“Oh, Mr. Colt. I know you’re not going to believe this, but I’m in line at the post office right now to buy stamps. I’m sending the money I owe you. I have it right here in my hand.”

I had a hard time buying that. “Are you serious? And you haven’t mailed it yet?”

“No kidding. I have it right here.”

Miracle. “Don’t mail it,” I said. “I’ll come by in a couple of hours to pick it up.”

She told me where to meet her.

It was only five hundred bucks, but it would keep me in gas and food for a few days. I ate the other half of my pizza and waited for Joe to bring my clothes. The cold Italian sausage tasted exactly like Play-Doh.

I crossed the Shands Bridge. A tangy odor from the paper mill in Palatka rode in on a breeze from the south, permeating my interior even with the windows up. I drove through Green Cove Springs to the Eagle Harbor community. Alecia had told me to meet her at Wal-Mart, in the electronics department.

I browsed the CDs, found a Coltrane boxed set I knew I’d have to have. Maybe when that tightwad Dana Glass finally coughed up my dough.

“Mr. Colt.” Alecia marched my way, handed me a sealed envelope.

“Thank you,” I said. “You don’t even know what a lifesaver this is.”

Alecia was in her mid-thirties, dark brown hair to her shoulders, blue eyes that sparkled aqua under the store’s fluorescent ceiling lights.

“Sorry it took so long to pay you,” she said. “Things have been a little crazy.”

“I understand.”

She had hired me several months ago to run surveillance on her husband, suspected of cheating. I caught him checking in at The Ritz up on Amelia Island with a blonde in her early twenties. Got some good photos, felt bad for Alecia.

I glanced over at the wall of new TVs, all tuned to the same channel. My Airstream was on the six o’clock news.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I said.

I trotted over and turned the volume up on one of the sets. A reporter named Jenny Wells was live at the scene:

“A fifteen-year-old girl was kidnapped early this morning from this modest trailer home at Joe’s Fish Camp near Hallows Cove. Barry Fleming, a homicide detective for the Clay County Sheriff’s Department, states that the kidnapping appears to be linked to the murder of Leitha Ryan in Jacksonville’s Springfield area, also early today. I talked with Detective Fleming this afternoon.”

They cut to a taped interview with Fleming.

“Detective Fleming, I know that local agencies are working closely with the FBI in an effort to solve these cases. Do you have any suspects yet?”

Barry said they had a couple of leads. I doubted it.

Alecia walked up beside me. “I heard about that missing girl,” she said.

“That’s my camper there in the background.”

“It happened where you live? You knew her?”

“She was a runaway I was hired to find. She stayed at my place last night. Now I’m kind of homeless for the next few days while the feds pick apart my camper for evidence. It’s been one hell of a day, Alecia.”

“You do have a place to stay, don’t you?”

“Oh. Yeah. I have a motel room. Nothing fancy, but it beats a park bench.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“I’m okay. Really. I just need a good night’s sleep and—” I hesitated.
And to track down the son of a bitch who killed Leitha and kidnapped Brittney.

“And?” Alecia said.

“And just relax for a few days until I can get back to my computer and finish some cases I’ve been working on.” Alecia seemed really nice, but one lesson I’ve learned through the years is to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t want any chance of Barry Fleming finding out I was planning to investigate the crimes myself.

“Well,” Alecia said, “you have my number if there’s anything I can do.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And thanks again for the check.”

I stood in line at customer service, cashed the check, walked back to electronics, and bought the Coltrane CDs. What the hell. You only live once.

I made it back to Hallows Cove early enough to stop in Kelly’s Pool Hall for the tail end of happy hour. Some of the deputies from the sheriff’s department hang out there, and I wanted to catch any scuttlebutt that might be flying around. I didn’t need a drink, but I wanted one.

A few years ago, Kelly O’Conner, the typical cardboard-cutout Irish bar owner any stranger walking into a place named Kelly’s would expect to see, dropped dead one night carrying a pitcher of beer to a table. A guy from India named Anil Sircar bought the place after that, but kept the establishment’s Irish name. The TV tuned to a baseball game, the clicking of billiard balls in the adjacent room, the cloud of cigarette smoke hovering overhead, and the sounds of Johnny Cash on the jukebox, felt like home. Anil slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me.

“The usual,” I said.

He brought a double Old Fitz on the rocks, and for a minute I thought he was going to say something to me. He didn’t. I lit a cigarette and sipped my drink.

Anil’s son flipped hamburger patties on the grill, a steamy broadcast of sizzling meat and onions saturating the air.

“Philip,” Anil said, “cheese two of those burgers.”

Philip obeyed. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard the word cheese used as a verb.

“Hey, Colt. Why can’t you just drink Jack Daniel’s like the rest of the rednecks in town?”

I looked in the mirror behind the bar, saw Roy Massengill standing behind me wearing black shorts and a faded football
jersey. I’d known Massengill for a long time. He once drove an equipment bus for Colt .45. After the crash, he joined the Navy and eventually became a SEAL. Now he worked as a sniper for the Sheriff’s Department’s SWAT team. He was damn good at what he did. He had burn scars on his neck from a helicopter accident in the first gulf war, the one they called Desert Storm.

I swiveled my stool around, stood up, and shook his hand. “You know as well as I do the only good whiskey comes from Kentucky,” I said.

“And Scotland,” Massengill said in a convincing brogue.

“Okay. I’ll give you Scotland. Too bad the poor sons of bitches have to beg barrels from the bourbon distilleries, though.”

Massengill laughed. “Too bad the Kentucky hillbillies are stupid enough to give them away.” He sat on the stool next to mine, made a motion to Anil. “Chivas for me, and another cup of swill for my friend here.”

Anil brought the drinks, and Massengill threw a twenty on the bar.

“Been working out at Gold’s?” I said.

“Going later.”

“Thanks for the drink,” I drained my first one, shoved the glass aside to make room for the second. “I heard about that hostage situation in Orange Park the other night. Were you in on that?”

“They called me in at one o’clock in the goddamn morning. It was pure bullshit. Some stupid fucker caught his old lady screwing around, figured he’d take her out in style. He slit her throat and then blew his own brains out while Crotchet was on the phone trying to negotiate. I was never able to get a bead on the guy.”

“I never understand that shit,” I said. “Guy should have killed himself and left the chick alone.”

Massengill looked up, glided two fingers down his scarred neck. “So tell me what happened this morning. I’ve heard the news accounts and the rumors, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

“What rumors?”

Without asking, Massengill reached over and took one of my
Marlboros and used my Zippo to light it. “That’s good, Nicholas. Answer a question with a question. I’m not at liberty to say what rumors.”

Two stiff drinks and two hours of drunken sleep last night surged through my veins like broken glass. I stood, grabbed Massengill’s shoulders, got fierce in his face. “Tell me,” I shouted.

Massengill did some quick maneuvering, and before I knew it my left cheek was smashed against a soggy napkin on the bar. My right arm was twisted behind my back, my thumb bent at a painful angle toward my wrist.

Massengill whispered in my ear. “Don’t fuck with me, Colt. I told you I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Let me up,” I said.

Massengill loosened his grip. I sat down and wiped my face with a bar towel.

The right sleeve on his jersey had gotten torn in the scuffle, and I got my first glimpse of the finest tattoo I’d ever seen. It was an angel, wings spread, drawn with such detail it looked as though a photograph had been burned onto Massengill’s arm.

“Come over to the gym some day,” Massengill said. “I’ll show you how to break that hold.”

I turned up my glass, felt the whiskey burn a trail to my gut. “I know how to break it. Thirty-eight slug to the face. Just didn’t feel like killing you right now, that’s all. Anil gets pissed when he has to wipe up blood and chunks of skull.”

He nodded. “Heard about you dumping old Fleming in the hot tub this afternoon. You know that was a mistake, right?”

“Felt like the thing to do at the time. He was talking about my client like cold meat on a table. She was a human being, you know? Beautiful girl.”

“You know how it is with cops,” Massengill said. “You have to detach yourself from the vic. Sometimes you even have to joke about it. Take it home with you, and it’ll eat you alive. You know you’re on Fleming’s shit list, right?”

Big revelation there.

The next morning I left the motel at nine thirty. Someone had salted my tongue and set it out to dry in the sun. Beef jerky tongue. I had a nasty-tasting film in my mouth, like when you spray for bugs and accidentally inhale some of the poison. My brains were a little on the scrambled side.

After Roy Massengill had asserted his superiority in hand-to-hand combat, he bought me another drink. And another. We talked about old times till wee hours, and I ended up staggering six blocks back to The Parkside.

Now I was standing outside the Clay County Public Library, Hallows Cove Branch, waiting for ten o’clock when someone would open the door.

I had work to do.

Ms. Marcia Gardner, one of the assistant librarians, finally unlatched the deadbolt and let me in. I hit the water fountain first, then walked to the reference room and sat down at one of the online computer terminals.

I wanted to find out who had been driving that old Chevy, The Whale. I logged on to one of the background check services I subscribe to and ran the tags. W-H-A-L-E. To my surprise, I got over one hundred hits.
WHALE-1
through
WHALE-QQ
, and some things like
MYWHALE
and
SVWHALE
. No plain
WHALES
in Florida. There must have been other letters or numbers I hadn’t noticed in my adrenaline-buzzed rush. The cops were probably having the same problem tracking the old car.

It took me two hours to go through the entire list, and none of the cars registered was a ’63 or ’64 Impala station wagon. How could that be? I knew I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe Barry Fleming and company were thinking I had fabricated the
WHALE
story. Maybe that was the rumor Roy Massengill had been talking about.

My hangover was getting a little better, and suddenly a light-bulb switched on over my head.

I typed in W-H-I-L-E, remembering the mud splatter and my bleary eyes and the fog. No luck.

I entered W-H-O-L-E and, bingo, there it was.

The car was registered to a company called Rent-A-Gem, located in the Mandarin area of Jacksonville. I jotted down the address, exited the program, and hurried toward the door.

Marcia Gardner reminded me I had some books overdue.

On my way to Mandarin, I saw a sign advertising free cell phones so I swung in and within twenty minutes had a fully activated phone and a one-year service contract. The phone itself was a fancy fliptop gadget that also took digital photographs. I played with it for a few minutes and then drove to a nearby strip mall and parked in front of Shaky Jake’s Gun and Pawn.

I walked inside, browsed the glass counter and found a good weapon at a good price. A Dwight Yoakum song blared from one of the old stereos for sale.

The sales clerk probably weighed in at three fifty. Fat oozed over his belt like too much jelly on a sandwich.

“My name’s Fred. Can I help you with something?”

“I’d like to see that revolver, please. Would you mind turning the music down?”

Fred pushed his black-framed glasses up to the bridge of his nose. The lenses made his eyes look like bowling balls. His front teeth were about the same size and shade as Scrabble tiles.