Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (9 page)

The light turned green and The Whale heaved forward, greasy puffs of black smoke from its exhaust mingling with the fog. I tailgated it through Remington Park, switching my brights on and off in an effort to get it to pull over.

It sped up, and I followed suit.

Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw a sight any sane driver wearing nothing but Sponge Bob boxers and a shoulder holster would naturally dread: the flashing blue strobes of a Florida state trooper.

I pulled into the lot of The Parkside Motel, known affectionately among locals as the “Come and Go.” I gripped the steering
wheel as the trooper ambled my way, didn’t want him to get edgy when he saw my unconcealed weapon.

The cop was short and thin and walked with the authority only a badge and a gun can give you.

“Step out of the vehicle,” he said. His right hand rested on the butt of his 9-mm Glock.

I did as instructed. I heard a few cars passing on 13 and was happy now that the fog was so thick.

“Hands on the car.”

Again I complied, felt my holster go light when he lifted my piece. He cuffed me. Didn’t say good morning or read me my rights or anything.

“Am I being arrested?”

“I’ll ask the questions, sir.” At least he was being polite now. I guess he could afford to be, now that my wrists were chained together and pinched like sausage links.

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

“No sir.” It was a lie. But it had been a couple hours since I’d had anything, and I certainly wasn’t drunk. Adrenaline from chasing The Whale had burned off any residual alcohol in my system.

“Driver’s license, registration, proof of insurance,” he demanded.

“In the glove box,” I said, giving consent for search and seizure.

He reached in, opened the glove compartment, pulled out my wallet and a couple of envelopes. He shuffled through my IDs and credit cards.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a private detective?”

“You didn’t ask. Sir.”

“Not a wiseass are you?”

“No sir.” Another lie.

“The address on your driver’s license and your PI license is a post office box. Where do you live?”

“Lot twenty-seven, over at Joe’s.”

“Joe’s?”

I was starting not to like this guy more and more. What kind of
cop didn’t know about Joe’s? I reminded myself that the State boys moved around a lot, and he was probably new to the area.

“Joe’s Fish Camp,” I said. “Over on Lake Barkley. I have an old Airstream parked over there.”

“You pull a camper with the Jimmy?”

“The camper’s not going anywhere. The bearings are shot. No exterior lights. If I ever decide to move, I’ll just sell it. Or keep it for a weekend place.”

The trooper relaxed a little, and I even saw his thin lips creak toward a smile. “So what brings you out this morning, so early, with the nice undies?”

“The bad guy got away,” I said. I told him about my camper being shot at, gave him The Whale’s description and plates.

“For some reason, I believe you,” he said. “Have you called in a police report yet?”

“It just now happened.”

“When you get home, call the Clay County Sheriff’s Department. They’ll send someone out.”

No shit, Sherlock.

He uncuffed me and I shook some circulation back into my hands. He gave me back my wallet and the envelopes and my gun. Told me to drive safely.

When I got back to my camper, I walked to the bedroom and switched on the reading lamp to check on Brittney.

She was gone.

I picked up my shorts and checked the pockets. The fishhook money clip was there, but the cash was gone. Nine hundred dollars. My life’s savings. “Fuck,” I said, and threw the shorts across the room. After I stomped around shouting expletives for a few more minutes, I put my clothes on and walked outside.

“Brittney,” I shouted. No answer. I figured she had hitched a ride, maybe to Leitha’s house, maybe to the Greyhound station for a ticket to the West Coast. With nine hundred dollars, she could have gone anywhere.

I tried to reach Leitha on the phone. No luck. I figured she was still asleep. She’d gotten off work at one and it was a little past seven now. I decided to drive on up there. Springfield was as good a place as any to start looking for Brittney again. If she didn’t go to Leitha’s, maybe she went to Mark Toohey’s place.

On the way I remembered the VHS-C tape I’d stolen from Brittney’s room. I’d put it in one of my pockets, and left those shorts at Juliet’s house in the dirty clothes hamper. I stopped by Juliet’s to get the tape.

A newer model Mercedes, white, with vanity plates that said
GAS MAN
was parked in her driveway. Juliet’s car wasn’t there, or maybe she had put it in the garage for once.

Everything that had happened earlier had me on edge. I pulled Little Bill from his holster, walked around the perimeter of the house. Everything seemed to be in order. I used my key to open the front door. The house was quiet. I made sure the alarm wasn’t on, walked to Juliet’s bedroom and into a nightmare.

Juliet sat up in bed, clutching the top sheet to cover herself. “Nicholas. What are you doing here?”

“Question is, what is
he
doing here?” I pointed Little Bill toward the guy lying beside Juliet. He was snoring. I felt like giving him an extra asshole, size .38.

Juliet got up, grabbed her bathrobe from the floor, quickly put it on and tied the belt. She stalked out of the bedroom. I followed her to the kitchen.

“Don’t you think it’s just a little rude to barge into my house like this?” she said.

“You gave me a key, remember? Last week you were practically begging me to move in with you. Don’t you think it’s a little rude to be fucking Mr. Anesthesiologist in the bed I helped you pay for?”

“How did you know—”

“I saw the plates on his goddamn Mercedes. Gas man. What else could it be? You fucking somebody from the utility company?”

She looked up at me with teary eyes. “Okay. Last week I wanted you to move in. And for the umpteenth time, you said no. I need some kind of commitment, Nicholas. Can’t you see that? On again, off again. That’s us. I just can’t take it—”

“You don’t have to take it anymore. We’re off again. Forever this time. You in love with that guy?”

She started crying. “I was drunk. I was mad at you. He... I’m in love with
you
, you jerk. I’m almost forty years old, Nicholas. I need—”

“You need a goddamn spanking,” I said. I put Little Bill in his holster, slammed the front door on my way out.

Now that my personal life was good and fucked up, I was determined to make sure my professional life wasn’t. I felt responsible for Brittney getting away from me. I should have taken her to Leitha’s last night. Soon as she said she wanted to go home, I should have taken her there.

I drove to Springfield, pulled into Leitha’s driveway. Her car was there. I tried her landline and cell, no answer at either. I
mounted the porch, rang the doorbell, and then knocked hard. She should have been awake by now. She was expecting me to bring Brittney, and had even planned to cook breakfast for us. I found it odd that she didn’t answer the door. I needed to tell her Brittney was on the loose again.

I walked around back, opened a chain-link gate, followed some concrete stepping stones to the patio and a set of French doors. One of the panes near the lock had been broken, and the door was ajar.

I ran back to Jimmy and got the shotgun. I pushed Leitha’s back door open with my foot, stood back, and waited for a few seconds. Nothing happened. I walked through the door and into the master bedroom, the shotgun’s barrel leading the way.

The stench of human waste was so thick I could taste it. Leitha lay faceup on the bed, her arms and legs spread and tied to the frame with electrical cords. There was a pillowcase knotted tightly around her throat.

My face went numb. I leaned against the wall, shotgun in hand, my heart thumping and fluttering like a bird in a box.

Leitha’s nipples had been burned off, probably with a cigar or cigarette, and a tilted cross had been carved into her forehead. Her eyes were open, glazed, and fixed. Her jaw was slack, the tip of her tongue sticking out. She’d lost control of her bowels and bladder.

I walked outside and vomited, my chest heaving and burning. I couldn’t get enough air. There just wasn’t enough.

I managed to calm down enough to phone the police. I sat in the cool grass under a sycamore tree until they arrived.

By two that afternoon, Leitha was in the morgue and I was homeless.

I sat in the interrogation room, Sheriff’s Department Substation 4, wearing a nice set of orange coveralls too tight in the shoulders and too short in the legs. The clothes I’d been wearing were taken for evidence, my hands checked for gunshot residue and blood. Negative for both. I wasn’t under arrest, but they’d sealed off the Airstream and the perimeter of my lot pending arrival of an FBI forensics team. Somebody had tortured and killed Leitha. The cops figured the same someone had kidnapped Brittney. Since Brittney had last been seen at my place, the Clay County guys were in on the investigation.

“How you doing?” A homicide detective named Barry Fleming walked in and shut the door behind him. Fleming and I had history. He turned his back to me, straightened his tie in a mirror I knew was two-way.

“You got a video cam behind the mirror?” I said.

“Protocol. It’s nothing personal.”

I resented being treated like a suspect.

“Let’s walk outside,” I said. “Then we can talk. No tape recorders, no video.”

Fleming cut me in half with his eyes.

He made a signal to the mirror and we left the room. We walked down a long hallway to the emergency exit and I followed him into the sunlight. The deputies had a nice little patio setup out there. Barbecue grill, table with an umbrella, hot tub.

Fleming fished a pair of Ray Bans from a pocket. We stepped into the shade of the umbrella and sat at the table.

Fleming started: “What was your relationship with the victim?”

“The victim has a name. Her name is Leitha Ryan, in case you forgot. She hired me to find her runaway sister.”

“Why weren’t the police notified?”

I cocked my head to one side and squinted, trying to see Fleming’s eyes through the dark glasses. “Leitha was afraid Brittney would be put back into foster care,” I said.

Fleming chuckled. “That would have been better for both of them. We’ve already gotten a prelim back from the M.E.’s office. Her nipples weren’t the only thing burned off.”

I rose, grabbed Homicide Detective Barry Fleming by his fat tie, lifted him like a marionette. His mouth opened in silent protest. His eyes bulged.

“You little fuckwad,” I said. “You think that shit’s funny? I should break your fucking neck right now. But I have work to do.”

I shoved him away. He tripped over a chair and landed on his ass in the hot tub.

I walked out and started my car, burned rubber leaving Substation 4’s parking lot.

All the tools I use to make a living were sealed up in the Airstream. Computer, cameras, binoculars, micro-cassettes, everything. And the cops had confiscated Little Bill and the rest of my handguns, as well as the shotgun with no name.

I needed cash, clothes. Some sort of weapon, at least one. And I needed a place to stay.

I drove to The Parkside Motel.

The day clerk looked up from the magazine he was reading when I stepped inside. His cheeks were red, hair bleached from the sun. He took one look at me and laughed.

“Nice suit, Mr. Colt.”

“I’m not in the mood, Patrick. I need a room.”

“By the hour, or—”

“Very funny,” I said. “I need a place to stay. Maybe for a week.”

“Cash or credit?”

“Neither. I’m broke.”

“I’ll have to clear it with Mrs. Mason, of course.”

“Do it.”

Julie Mason owned The Parkside. We weren’t exactly friends, but she owed me a favor.

Patrick walked to the back office. I heard him punching numbers into a phone before he shut the door. I picked up the book he had been reading, let it fall open to the marked page. It was a poem by M. W. Jones. I don’t know much about poetry, but this one didn’t seem to be very good. Patrick came back to the front desk.

“How can you read this crap?” I said.

He ignored my question. “Mrs. Mason said you can have room two-oh-eight for as long as you need it. She’ll put it on your tab.”

Patrick handed over the key, and I left the office.

I ordered a pizza from the room, paid for it with a bad check. I choked down three slices and washed it down with a cup of chlorinated water from the bathroom faucet. Now that I had satisfied two of my basic needs—food and shelter—I needed to work on getting some clothes. Jailhouse orange just wasn’t my color.

I called Joe Crawford, my landlord and best friend.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Over at The Parkside. Two-oh-eight. They got everything sealed off over at my place, and I was wondering if you could run through Alvy’s Discount and grab me a few things.”

“Check out of that dump,” Joe said. “You can stay at my place.”

“I appreciate it, Joe. Thing is, a young woman was murdered this morning, and I’m going to find out who did it. I don’t want that kind of trouble following me to your front door.”

“Is that why you’re not staying at Juliet’s?”

“Juliet and I are through. I caught her in bed with another man this morning.”

“Shit. Sorry, man. What do you need from Alvy’s?”

“Just some shorts and a couple shirts. Get Wranglers, thirty-three waist. You know the kind of shirts I like. Get large.”

“Shoes?”

“I have my Top-Siders with me. I’m all right on shoes. Get me a couple pairs of boxers. Oh, and grab me a can of deodorant, would you?”

“No problem. I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Joe. You’re a saint, man.”

I hung up, opened the drawer on the bedside table and lifted out the phone directory. I was back in the stone ages, using a pencil and paper and a phone book heavy as a TV preacher’s heart.