Текст книги "On the Street Where You Die"

Автор книги: Al Stevens

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter 17  

I lay in the bed on my back, still in pain. Almost everything hurt. I got a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and fumbled with the book of matches tucked under the cellophane. Nothing is easy when only one hand works. Bunny sat up next to me, took the pack, extracted the matches, and lit my last cigarette ever.

Rodney had dropped me off at Ray’s the day before, and I wound up here at Bunny’s. I’m not sure how that happened, but I was glad.

“It’s good to be back,” I said.

“It’s better when you can move,” she said. She got up to get me an ashtray.

“You always wanted to be on top anyway.”

She handed me the ashtray. I put it on the bed next to me, and she stretched out again.

“I thought you quit smoking,” she said.

“Tomorrow.”

She pulled the sheet up over herself.

“You don’t want me looking at you?” I said.

“You’ve seen better. You married better.”

That hit a sore spot. “Don’t remind me. Besides, what’s wrong with your looks?”

“Stretch marks. Cellulite.”

“They’re nothing compared to my scars.”

“On a guy they look tough. On us we just look old.”

“Tough?”

“Well, not yet. They have to heal and scar up. Right now you look like you’ve been in a chainsaw fight.”

“But I’ll look tough? Hell, I’d have paid money for that.”

“Wait’ll you get the hospital bill.”

We lay quiet for a while, looking at the ceiling while I smoked my cigarette.

“You want to talk about us?” she said.

“About us? We’re here now. What’s to talk about?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I always left that up to you.”

She rolled over on her side and faced me.

“Maybe that was the problem, Stan. Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

“You’ve got a point. It never turned out good when you were in charge of tomorrow.”

“Give me another chance?”

“Don’t I always?”

“You do.”

“And then next thing I know you’re gone again.”

“That’s happened.”

“Why would this time be any different?”

“It could be,” she said. “Maybe it will be.”

“You making a promise?”

“No,” she said. She got out of the bed. “I got to get to work.”

“Me too. Help me get my clothes on?”

“Why not? I helped you get them off. Do you want to take a shower?”

“Not with all these bandages. I’ll get a sponge bath later at home.”

“You want one now?” she said.

“Thanks, but I really have to get to work. A sponge bath would take a long time.”

“I’d hope so.”

We got dressed with Bunny dressing both of us. Damn, I felt useless. I was able to get to her car without help. She lived on the first floor. She took me to Ray’s for breakfast.

Afterward I called Rodney to come escort me to the office and help me up the stairs. He was there in a heartbeat. Always eager to please.

“You remember Rodney,” I said to Bunny.

“Oh, yeah. The nephew. I liked the other shirt better, Rodney, but the shave and haircut is an improvement.”

We walked across the street. The olive drab Chevy was there again. They were still watching. I considered calling Bill Penrod, but by the time we got up the stairs I had forgotten about it.

“Good morning, Willa.”

“Good morning. Amanda called. Just checking up. I didn’t know where you were, so she was worried. Rodney said he left you with Bunny, so I figured you were okay.”

“Did either of you think to call my cell phone?”

“I didn’t want to get you out of the middle of somebody.”

Man, that Willa had a mouth on her.

“Rodney,” I said, “can you get us one of those whiteboards with felt-tip markers? We’re going to need one for talking points for this case. The office supply store should have them.”

“Yeah, I can get one. Am I helping you with the case?”

“Yes. I’d like to bounce some of my ideas off you, and I need the board to organize them.”

“Man, that’s cool. Can I get a badge like yours?”

“Sure. Google ‘private investigator badge’ and you’ll find them. Mine cost about thirty bucks.”

“I’ll do it when I get back,” he said. “Do I have to pay for it myself?”

“You do.”

“What about a gun?”

“No gun.”

“Why not?”

Kids always whine and ask why not whenever you tell them they can’t have or do something. Usually, “because I say so” is a sufficient answer, but in this case I had the law on my side.

“Because you have to be twenty-one to get a carry permit, is why not. Now go get the whiteboard.”

Willa gave Rodney some money from petty cash, and he headed out.

I went into my office and got Roscoe out of the safe. It hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. I took it out of the holster and unloaded it. My gun cleaning kit was in a desk drawer under a bunch of other junk. I got it out and carefully cleaned the piece, enjoying the procedure and the unmistakable scent of gun oil.

I wasn’t going to go anywhere without Roscoe now that the ever-diligent soldier boys were on my trail again. My badge was still pinned to the holster. I reloaded the gun, put it in the holster, and put the assembly into my top desk drawer.

I called Ray’s Diner. Bunny answered.

“What’s for lunch?” I asked.

“How about a taco?”

After the laughter faded, I said, “Can’t make it over there today. My orderly is out on an errand and won’t be back.”

“Shall I bring you something?”

“Yeah. Bring something for Willa too.”

In about a half hour, Bunny was there with three club sandwiches in Styrofoam boxes. Willa was pleased that she wouldn’t have to go out and that we’d thought of her. I let her think it was Bunny’s idea.

The three of us ate together. Willa kept looking at Bunny with a suspicious eye. Willa did not hide her disapproval. Bunny would break my heart again. It had occurred to me too.

Rodney was back after lunch with a big flat carton. He took it into my office and took the whiteboard out of the box.

“Hang it over there,” I said pointing to the blank wall opposite the window.

He went to his truck and came back with his toolbox. In a matter of minutes the board was hanging on the wall. Accessories included a pack of markers, an eraser, and a spray bottle of cleaner. We were ready to go.

I told Rodney to stand at the board and make a chart of suspects’ names with columns alongside for means, motive, opportunity, alibi, and the date I interviewed each suspect. I called out names, and he wrote them on the board. Mr. and Mrs. Sproles, Vitole’s wife, Missy, Serena, Sanford, and Ramon.

On another part of the board I had him list witnesses along with the date interviewed and comments about what they saw or knew. So far the witness list was empty.

Rodney had nice block-letter handwriting. I was surprised.

“You know, Uncle Stanley, we could have done all this with a spreadsheet on the computer.”

“Yeah, but then I couldn’t lean back in my chair and ponder them. Call me old-fashioned. This is how we used to do it when I worked homicide.”

Across the top of the board we made a timeline that traced events related to the case by date and time. We’d add to the timeline as we learned new things.

“How about this?” Rodney said. “Every time we update the board, I’ll take a picture of it and upload it to the computer? That way, we’ll have a record.”

“Okay. And print one for Willa to put in the file.”

Willa came in to look at our artwork.

“The Y people,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“Almost everybody’s name ends with a Y. Stanley, Rodney, Missy, Bunny, Jeremy, Mandy, Vitole.

“Mandy, Bunny, and Jeremy aren’t part of this case,” I said.

“But they fit the pattern.”

“Vitole doesn’t end in a Y.

“It sounds like it does. So does Overbee.”

“You left out Mickey,” I said.

“Who’s Mickey?” she asked.

I tapped my watch. She laughed and went back to her office.

Rodney and I spent the afternoon kicking around theories and opinions about various aspects of the case. Rodney’s contributions were superficial at best, but I needed someone to bounce off whatever crazy notion I had. Penrod and I used to do that a lot, and I missed that part of being a murder cop.

Chapter 18  

When we ran out of ideas, Rodney and I called it a day. He helped me down the stairs. The effort wore me out, but I was getting better at doing it without help. He had to grab me to keep me from falling only every two or three stairs now. We went out the back door into the alley. It was dark, the only light coming from a naked bulb on the building across the alley.

“I’ll wait here while you get the car.” I told him.

The car was parked a couple blocks away. Rodney went running down the alley.

I didn’t see them coming. My vision still wasn’t what it ought to be and my reflexes not as quick. As near as I can figure, they were hiding in the next doorway up, a recessed alcove that opened into a suite of unoccupied offices. My back was to that doorway. Next thing I knew, the same two Army thugs were in front of me.

I tried to get Roscoe out of the holster, but the stupid badge got in the way and kept me from unsnapping the trigger guard strap. One of the goons grabbed my good arm and the other one yanked the holster off my belt and threw the gun, holster, and badge across the alley.

As before, one of them pinned me from behind in a full nelson, and the other one stood in front of me. My only hope was that Rodney would see what was going on and speed toward them to make them release me so I could hit them with a crutch or whatever. I know, not much of a plan, but what else could I do?

“This time we’ll finish it,” one of them said. “You don’t fuck with Army intel and get away with it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I said.

“Hitting the Captain with a shotgun. Then blowing up his boat. With him in it. That’s what I’m talking about.”

I needed to stall for time so Rodney could get there.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” I said as I struggled. “I don’t know shit about explosives.”

“Just like you didn’t have anything to do with those cops rousting us,” said the guy who was holding me. “Come on, let’s finish this and go home,” he said to his partner.

I braced myself for the first blow, tightening my stomach muscles, an effort that hurt like hell from the previous beat-down. Come on, Rodney.

The glare of headlights turned into the alley from the end I was facing. My assailants turned their attention away from me toward the oncoming vehicle. But the one guy held on tightly, so I couldn’t break free.

The vehicle moved slowly in our direction, its tires crunching on the alleyway’s cinder paving. It wasn’t Rodney. My car didn’t have halogen headlights. It stopped moving toward us. All we could see were those headlights on full bright.

The vehicle door opened. In the glow of the dome light a shadowy figure exited the vehicle. The door closed, and the light went out. Nothing but headlights again. The Army guys froze. I stared at the guy who had been positioned to hit me. He was looking over his shoulder at the headlights. A quiet “phoot!” sounded accompanied by a flash of light from alongside the vehicle. I recognized the sound of a weapon with a silencer. The guy in front of me got a surprised look, eyes and mouth wide open. He fell to the pavement, his eyes staring into nothing, and he was motionless.

The other guy released me and started to run away toward the other end of the alley. “Phoot!” He went down with a small, blood-stained hole in the back of his uniform jacket.

I fumbled with my crutches to try to shield myself in the doorway in case I was to be next. But the vehicle door opened and closed, and the vehicle peeled rubber. Its engine roared as it backed rapidly out of the alley, the car and its occupant obscured by the bright headlights.

I leaned against the wall to wait for Rodney and looked at the two dead Army guys. This was going to be a lot of paperwork.

Rodney drove up soon and stopped short of the scene. He got out of the car and stared at the corpses.

“Uncle Stanley! You okay? What the hell happened here?”

“I’m okay,” I said. I punched the direct phone number for the homicide unit into my cell phone. “Pick up my gun for me. It’s over there.”

“Did you shoot those two guys?” he asked.

“No. I had a guardian angel.”

“That might explain what I saw.”

“What?”

“As I turned onto the side street a black SUV went screaming past behind me.”

“Did you get a license number?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Chapter 19  

We stayed with the bodies until the cops came. Then Rodney helped me up the stairs. I went into my office and put my gun in the safe. I got the bottle out of the desk drawer and was on my second drink when Bill Penrod walked into the office. He sat across from me and looked at me for a while, shaking his head. I poured him a drink. He took out his notepad and a pencil that was only about three inches long.

“USACIDC is on the way,” he said.

“What’s that mean?” Rodney asked.

“US Army Criminal Investigation Command,” I said.

“What’s the ‘D’ for?” Rodney said.

“Nobody knows,” Bill said with a smile. “They call themselves CID. Go figure. They’ll want jurisdiction, it being their guys that got shot.”

“Are they investigating the boat explosion too?” I asked.

“No. It was a civilian boat, and no body parts were found. They don’t get interested until there’s some evidence.”

He took a drink and said, “So, Stan, what happened here?”

I told him what little I could. Rodney sat at his own desk and, for the first time in his life, kept his mouth shut until spoken to.

Bill asked him, “Can you tell me what kind of SUV it was?”

“One of the bigger ones,” Rodney said. “It was dark and I couldn’t see the emblems. They all look alike anyway.”

His mail-order badge had arrived that morning, and he wore it on his belt. He sat such that everyone could see it.

“How about a license number?” Bill asked.

“No, sir. Too dark and it sped by too fast.”

“How many occupants?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“And I guess you didn’t get a look at the driver?”

“No, sir.”

Bill put his notepad away and took the final swig of his drink. I poured him another.

“Where’s that CID guy?” he said. “I want to go home. You know, the unit called me because you and I have history. I was almost home. Had to turn around and come back.” He looked behind him at the door. “Where the fuck is CID?”

“I was hoping you’d stay a while, Bill,” I said. “Help me from having to go on base for an interrogation.”

“Who do you think did it, Stan?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

But I had a hunch. Buford had said he’d get Sanford to deal with the Army guys. My guess was that either Sanford himself or one of his Men in Black had saved me. The black SUV fit my scenario.

As we talked, the outer door opened and three men in civilian clothes walked in. Rodney shifted in his chair so they could see his badge.

“Sergeant Penrod?” one of them asked.

“That’s me,” Bill said. “You guys USACIDC?”

“We are, sir,” he said. “I’m special agent Stewart.”

“You guys want a drink,” I asked.

“No, sir,” Stewart said. “We’re on duty.”

“How come you guys don’t have a TV show like NCIS?” Rodney asked.

“Too many letters,” Stewart said.

Penrod said, “This is Stanley Bentworth and his nephew Rodney. They witnessed the shooting. You guys take over, and I can go home now.”

“Not quite,” Stewart said. “We’re not taking jurisdiction.”

“Why not?” Penrod asked.

“Your two stiffs aren’t ours.”

“What do you mean not yours?”

“They aren’t Army personnel. No dog tags, no ID, no insignia, bad haircuts, and the wrong kind of shoes. Those guys were pretending to be Army. Even the uniforms aren’t standard issue. Probably from a costume store.”

Bill said, “Stan, how come you didn’t notice all that?”

“I was too busy getting the shit beat out of me to notice details,” I said. “What about the car? It looks real.”

“That is ours,” he said. “Signed out to Captain Pugh. If you don’t mind, Sergeant Penrod, we’ll take the car now. The keys are in it.”

“Damn!” Penrod said. “I was hoping to go home sometime tonight. No, I don’t mind. You can take it.”

“Wait,” I said. “Couldn’t those guys be Army Intelligence? Under cover? They were working for Captain Pugh, who is, I believe, Army Intelligence.”

“Was,” Stewart said. “He was Army Intelligence. Nobody’s seen Jeremy since his boat blew up. So, as far as we’re concerned, if he isn’t dead, he’s AWOL. And if those two guys lying in the street out there were ours, we’d know them. Nope. Not our jurisdiction. We’re out of here. It’s all yours. Here’s our card. Call if anything changes.”

He passed out cards to Bill, Rodney, and me. With that, the three agents turned and left.

“Shit,” Penrod said. “So much for getting home on time. Stan, I’ll need your piece for a ballistics match. I’ll get it back to you after the lab eliminates it as the murder weapon.”

I went to the safe to get Roscoe. Now Rodney knew where I kept it. I took the pistol out of the holster, gave it to Bill, and sat down.

Everyone left and we closed shop. This time, I had Rodney walk in front of me while I groped my way down the stairs without help. One more hurdle cleared. We went out the front door to avoid the crime scene. I walked with him to the car. He started to get in the driver’s side, but I said, “I’ll drive.”

The drive back to Amanda’s house was okay. I managed to work the shifter and pedals even though I still had casts on.

When we got to Amanda’s house, I told Rodney, “I’m going home. You get your room back. Thanks for all your help.”

“No problem.”

Why do people always say that? Whatever happened to “you’re welcome?” If there had been a problem, does it mean they wouldn’t have done it? I wonder about shit like that.

“Tell your mom thanks too. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Bring my clothes and shaving kit.”

I drove home and managed my way from the parking lot into my apartment. I called Bunny at the diner and invited her over.

“Bring supper,” I said.

Things were looking up.

Chapter 20  

I started my investigation into Vitole’s murder at his house the next morning. His widow answered the door. She was startled by my appearance. All the bandages and bruises. Nothing like having a mummy on a crutch show up at your front door. That’s right, I was down to one crutch. It was like being released from bonds. I had my good hand free.

Stella Vitole was as I remembered her. Plump and unattractive. Like many such ladies, she overdid it with makeup, hairdo, and perfume trying to compensate, trying to be young again. Some people refuse to age gracefully. Others have no graceful beginnings from which to age. I should talk.

I introduced myself. “Mrs. Vitole, I am detective Bentworth. I am investigating your husband’s murder.”

I flashed my P.I. badge. She barely glanced at it. The shiny gold shield had done its job. She thought I was a cop on the job, and I let her think it.

She said, “A Sergeant Penrod already took my statement.”

“I know. This is just some follow-up.”

“Do you work with Sergeant Penrod?” she asked.

“I did before he made Sergeant.” Not a lie, but not exactly truthful either.

“Please come in.”

She led me to the living room, the same room where I had delivered a veiled threat to her husband.

“Please sit down,” she said. “How did you injure yourself?”

“In the line of duty. A different case.”

I sat on the sofa, careful not to bump my casts on anything.

“Can I get you something?”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine.” I took out my notepad and pencil. “You told Sergeant Penrod that your husband said you and he would be coming into some money related to Buford Overbee?”

She sat in the chair and looked at me.

“Yes, I did. And now you people have him charged with my husband’s murder. That was really fast. My congratulations and appreciation.”

“I’ll pass your comments on to the sergeant. Do you know your neighbors, the Sproleses? Your husband’s murder happened in front of their house, I believe.”

She got quiet and looked out the plate glass window into her back yard. Then she said, “Yes. We used to be friends.”

“Used to be? Aren’t you still friends?”

“No. Marsha and I had a falling out.”

“What was the nature of that falling out.”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” she said.

“Well, this is a murder investigation. If there’s something I should know...”

“Perhaps you should ask her, detective.”

“I will. Have you returned to work yet?”

“No. I will soon. My employer has been understanding throughout all this.”

“Where do you work in case I need to contact you during the day?”

“The Arnold Locksmith and Security Company in town. Here’s a card with the phone number.”

“The falling out you had with Mrs. Sproles. It wasn’t about her and your husband’s affair, was it?”

That took her by surprise. She took a while to answer.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, detective. I just buried my husband. What kind of question is that?”

“Just trying to get all our ducks lined up, ma’am.”

“Well, line them up somewhere else. I want you to leave now.”

I thanked her, got no “you’re welcome” in return, not even a “no problem,” and went out to my car.

The Sproles house, two doors up, was almost the identical model as the Vitole house. I rang the doorbell and waited. A woman answered the door.

“Yes?”

Marsha Sproles was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties. The pictures I had of her didn’t do her justice. She was standing in a darkened doorway when I took them, and she had just come from a roll in the hay.

Today she wore a house dress that neither flaunted nor hid her trim figure. Her brunette hair was pinned up, and she wore just a hint of blush and lipstick. The all-American girl next door. I couldn’t blame Vitole for going for her.

She too reacted to my appearance. What was this battle-worn, beat-up, and bandaged guy doing on her doorstep? Certainly not selling Girl Scout cookies.

“Mrs. Sproles. I’m detective Bentworth.” I flashed the badge. It worked again.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“This is about the murder of your neighbor, Mario Vitole.”

She got a pained look on her face. I couldn’t interpret its meaning.

“Yes. Terrible, wasn’t it?”

“I need to talk to you about the murder taking place in front of your house. Do you know why he was there?”

“No.”

A lie. We both knew why he was there. Except she didn’t know I knew.

“I was in the house and heard the shot,” she said. “I ran and looked out the door. He was lying in the street.”

“How long from when you heard the shot until you saw the body?”

“Less than a minute. I had something on the stove and had to turn it down.”

What presence of mind. Tend to the soup, and then go see why there’s a corpse in the street in front of your house. I didn’t pursue the illogic of that.

“Did you see anyone else out there?” I asked.

“No. The other policeman already asked all these questions.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sometimes a witness recalls details they had overlooked before. It’s routine to do a follow-up interview.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

“No thank you,” I said.

She got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. I wished she’d have offered a drink. But then I’d have had to do the I’m-on-duty routine, so what would be the point?

“Mrs. Vitole said that you and she have had a recent falling out. Is that true?”

She let go of a big sigh as if I had just opened a door that ought to be left closed. “I suppose you could call it that,” she said. “Stella’s a jealous woman. She thought Mario and I were having an affair.”

Bingo. The affair is in the air.

“Were you?”

“Of course not.”

“Did your husband share her suspicions?”

“I don’t think so.” Now her voice was worried. “I think he would have said something.”

“Where was he when the shooting took place?”

“At work.”

“Where does he work?”

“Arnold Locksmith and Security.”

Things were starting to fall into place. That was interesting. And maybe relevant. The husband of the adulteress and the wife of the cheating husband and victim worked together.

“With Mrs. Vitole,” I said.

“Yes. He hired Stella last year as dispatcher. To dispatch the service trucks.”

“Is Mr. Sproles a locksmith?”

I needed a suspect who could open the trunk of a Rolls Royce.

“No. He’s general manager.”

“Does he have other duties besides management?”

“Sometimes when they’re shorthanded, William goes on service calls.”

“So he does have locksmith skills.”

“Not at a very technical level. He can install locks and fix alarm systems and like that.”

“Can he pick a lock?” The sixty-four dollar question.

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Just gathering information. Now, did you say that you saw a Rolls Royce parked at Mr. Vitole’s house earlier that same day?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why did you think that was significant?”

“The other detective asked me if I’d seen anything unusual. A Rolls Royce parked in this neighborhood is unusual. That’s all.”

It was time to spring it on her.

“Ma’am, are you aware that Mr. Vitole had a snapshot of the two of you embracing in your doorway?”

“What? What snapshot? What do you mean? Have you seen such a snapshot?”

“Do you think Mrs. Vitole might have found it and shared it with your husband?”

“What are you suggesting? You people caught the man who killed Mario. That big shot financier. It was on the news. Why are you out here—”

“Just some routine follow-up, Mrs. Sproles. I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”