Murder in Rat Alley

by Mark de Castrique

  “Wasn’t that simply eavesdropping by the Department of Defense?”

  “Not just the DOD but the NSA—a global operation. Who better to conduct conversations with alien beings?”

  “But then they closed it down.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes. “They said they closed it down. What better cover for renovations?”

  My mind flashed to some HGTV series. How to Spruce Up Your Intergalactic Spaceport.

  “That’s why they expanded the whole tunnel system,” she continued. “I’m not saying PARI’s not a legitimate educational facility. But what’s important is what lies underneath that visitors and most staff don’t know exists. We’ve talked to former employees who confirm there are tunnels. The question is how many and how far down do they go?”

  She halted and gave a determined look, daring me to dispute her irrefutable evidence.

  “Then what is HASTE’s mission?” I asked. “To sound the clarion call?”

  “To reveal the truth, Mr. Blackman. We believe contact has been made, technology shared, and some ultimate goal established. Maybe it’s a crossbreeding of the species like aliens orchestrated between Cro-Magnons and Neanderthals.”

  I wanted to shout “Time out” but feared she would only digress into a lecture on Bigfoot.

  “I mean, what’s spreading faster than the plague?” she asked.

  I shrugged, fearful of venturing a guess.

  “Ancestry.com. The aliens helped us map the human genome, and now these DNA companies are harvesting the data.” She leaned forward and whispered like we were suddenly under surveillance. “Data about our very makeup. And guess who’s moving into data storage big time?”

  That question did prompt my response. “PARI.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Exactly.”

  “So one way or another, you see the aliens as an existential threat.”

  “Not necessarily. Like our name says, we want to expose that there’s already a secret alliance. Our goal is to bring it out into the open. The fact that superior beings haven’t eradicated us is reassuring that their intentions are peaceful. But that doesn’t mean we ignore what’s happening. I might be more afraid of who’s representing our species.”

  “Does everyone in HASTE feel the same way?”

  “For the most part. Otherwise, they drop out.”

  “Do you know the Case family?”

  Her body stiffened, and her eyes grew wary. “Those Bobby-Danny Cases?”

  “Yes. One of them has an alien on a T-shirt saying, ‘I’m coming for you.’”

  “That’s Danny Number Two, not Junior. He reads our online newsletter and comes to meetings. He’s not one of our more enlightened members.” She paused. “It’s funny you should bring him up. He called me yesterday.”

  “About what?”

  “About tunnels. The ones under Asheville.”

  “There are tunnels under Asheville?”

  “That’s the lore. One running from the Masonic Temple to city hall. Another down Patton Avenue. They did find underground bathrooms at Pack Square when they were doing renovations a few years ago.”

  I saw the connection. “He was asking about Rat Alley, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. He wanted to know if it was part of the tunnel network. I told him I didn’t know. That was before I heard about the woman being killed.”

  “He was looking for other ways in and out. Could he believe aliens were involved?”

  Bernadette spread her hands. “I believe Danny Number Two could believe anything.”

  “And act upon it?”

  “Like how?”

  “Like try to burn down PARI.”

  She paled. “You think he started that forest fire?”

  “It or another.” I looked at my left palm, bandage gone but still red from the burn. In my mind, I relived the flames crackling around Nakayla’s back door.

  “I can’t assure you that he wouldn’t.”

  The bell tinkled from the front room. Bernadette stood. “I have to go.”

  I rose and shook her hand. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I saw you looking at the mosaic by the door. That’s my hopeful vision—peace and harmony. But there’s another vision on this side of the door. The dark vision. I’m afraid that’s the one Danny sees.”

  I followed her out of the cage. Hanging on the spot on the wall directly behind the first mosaic was a nearly identical one. Five figures. An alien being and four small companions. However, the setting sun was in total eclipse, the rainbow-colored robes were black, and the four children were eyeless, fleshless skeletons.

  Chapter 16

  After leaving Bernadette, I spent a few minutes in my parked CR-V thinking through the next steps. Danny the banjo player, a description simpler than Danny second son of Bobby the twin, rose to top priority. But I didn’t want to see him or his family alone. Going up Dusty Hollar Road might be a one-way trip.

  Normally, Nakayla would have accompanied me, but she had her hands full. Still, she deserved an update, and I was anxious to learn how she was faring.

  My call went straight to voicemail without a single ring. Nakayla must not have replaced her phone yet. I called Cory.

  “Sam, I’m with Nakayla. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “Yes, if I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Cory laughed. “I think you rank above buying shoes.”

  There was a momentary pause, and then Nakayla came on the phone. “Where are you?”

  “In RAD. Tuck’s ex-wife had some interesting information about Danny the banjo player and PARI.” I gave her a condensed version of the conversation, leaving out the more fantastic alien theories.

  “So we need to see him,” Nakayla said.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Tops. Borrowing clothes is one thing, but shoes are a little more personal. And Cory’s feet are smaller.”

  Tops for Shoes was a huge shoe store in downtown Asheville. Shoe lovers didn’t just shop there. They made pilgrimages.

  “Should I bring a U-Haul?” I asked.

  “Not till I get my insurance check. I’m meeting my agent at two. Also, the dealership is bringing a replacement key for my car. Do you want to see Danny Case after that?”

  “I think you should take care of what you need to and not worry about the investigation. I’ll meet you at my apartment this evening.”

  There was a long pause. I knew what she was thinking.

  “Sam, there’s no way you’re going to confront any of the Cases alone. Losing a house is one thing. Losing you is another.”

  “I wasn’t going alone. I thought I’d see if Newly or Tuck can go with me.”

  “On what pretext?”

  “Simple. To ask about tunnels and aliens. Then we’ll see if we can bring the questions more down-to-earth.”

  Another pause followed by a sigh. “All right. But you promise me you’ll go with someone.”

  “I will. And I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Sam, I love you.”

  “I love you too. Now go shop.”

  I dropped the new phone on the passenger’s seat and started the engine. I planned to return to the office and see if Newly or Tuck would join me in calling on the Cases. Showing up in an unmarked police car promised greater impact than arriving in my Honda.

  Under normal procedures, the homicide detectives wouldn’t let me tag along, but the attempted murders of Nakayla and me elevated the stakes. I counted on Newly and Tuck to feel some concern for my safety.

  The phone rang. I kept the transmission in park and answered. “Hello.”

  “Is this Sam Blackman?” The voice was old but familiar.

  “Yes.”

  “Theo Brecht here. You left me a message. Sorry to be so late getting back to
you.”

  “That’s OK. Let’s just say I’ve had a long morning as well.”

  “You said you wanted to talk about Frank DeMille. Does this have anything to do with Loretta’s death?”

  “Possibly. But I’m working for Frank’s family. You might be able to help us, and I was hoping we could meet in person.”

  “Certainly. Today, I’m at the Federal Building. I usually knock off between five and six. We could grab a drink nearby.”

  I mentally calculated how the afternoon might play out.

  “That would work,” I said. “Are you OK if I get tied up and have to cancel?”

  “No problem. Or if you need to slide it later, I’ll just keep working. They’re used to my coming and going at odd hours. Call this number when you know your schedule.”

  Again, I dropped the phone on the seat. Again, it rang. I glanced at the number to see if perhaps Brecht had changed his mind and was calling me back. I didn’t recognize it, but the 828 area code suggested it was local.

  “Sam Blackman,” I answered, ready for sharp words if some telemarketer was spoofing an Asheville identity.

  “This is Special Agent Lindsay Boyce. How are you, Sam?”

  “Well, I guess you’ve heard Nakayla and I have had a little upheaval in our lives.”

  “I did. I’m really glad to hear you’re both OK.”

  Lindsay Boyce was head of the FBI’s Resident Agency in Asheville. We’d crossed paths on a few cases. For a fed, she was a straight shooter. She didn’t throw her government badge around like it was a royal scepter. But she was no pushover either. Her trim, slim, attractive body housed a spine of pure steel. And although her concern sounded genuine, I knew there was more to this call than checking on our well-being.

  “Listen,” she said. “I know things must be crazy, but would you and Nakayla have time to meet this afternoon?”

  “Nakayla’s slammed, but I could. Where and when?”

  “My office. Say four thirty?”

  The meeting would jam up my afternoon plans, but the FBI was the FBI.

  “OK. I’ll see you then.”

  I dropped the phone on the seat and glared at it, daring the device to ring again. It only flashed the time. One o’clock. If I wanted to see the Cases and get to the FBI by four thirty, I needed to head to Dusty Hollar Road as soon as possible. My office would have to wait. I sighed, picked up the phone, and speed-dialed Newly.

  He echoed Agent Boyce. “How are you, Sam?”

  “Still pissed that someone tried to kill us. Where are you?”

  “Physically or with the investigation?”

  “Physically.”

  “At my desk. What’s up?”

  “How would you and/or Tuck like to ride with me to see Danny Case the banjo player?”

  He paused, evidently surprised by the request. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Sheriff Hickman came by the office this morning asking about last night’s fire. It became clear to me he suspects one or more of the Case family of setting the PARI fire. He was interested in how ours started.”

  “And were the methods the same?”

  “No.”

  Another pause. “Well, I don’t see how we make a play. True, we’re working Loretta’s murder, but the Cases have given their statements, and I’m not going to make a move until I get the ME’s report.”

  “In his statement, did Danny the banjo player mention tunnels and aliens?”

  Newly laughed. “You caught me. It’s the one question I forgot to ask him. Come to the station. We’ll take my car.”

  * * *

  I rode in the front passenger’s seat as Newly drove the unmarked. Efird had remained at the station, waiting on Loretta’s autopsy report. I’d briefed Newly on my conversations with Sheriff Hickman and Bernadette, plus the phone calls with FBI Special Agent Boyce and Theo Brecht. I still didn’t mention Eddie Gilmore’s army buddy, Chuck McNulty, because he appeared to have no connection to Loretta’s death or Nakayla’s fire, the two crimes falling within Newly’s jurisdiction.

  “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to explain your being with me,” Newly said. “Do I mention Bernadette?”

  “No. Danny may think she came to us and betrayed him. We should put it all on me and my theory that aliens could be involved. As preposterous as that sounds to you and me, Danny might have a different reaction. Tell him I pitched that idea to you and I said he might know something about it. I saw the T-shirt he was wearing at Jack of the Wood. You say you think I’m nuts, but to humor me and to keep me from bothering him and his family, you agreed to come with me.”

  Newly shook his head. “You’re right about one thing. I think you’re nuts. But if you’re willing to look foolish, I’ll stand on the sidelines and cheer you on.”

  We were about halfway to our destination when Newly’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the number. “It’s Tuck.” He pressed the Accept icon, then pressed again. “What’s up, partner? I’ve got you on speaker with Sam, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. He’ll weasel the information out of you anyway. Loretta’s autopsy just came through. As was obvious, death was caused by strangulation. No sign of a struggle, no skin under her fingernails. No bruising other than her neck and the subconjunctival hemorrhages in her eyes.”

  I knew those hemorrhages were ruptures of the small blood vessels in the eye and could be the result of strangulation.

  “Whoever killed her knew what he was doing,” Newly said. “Fast and lethal. Loretta probably couldn’t utter a sound.”

  “Anything distinctive about the bruises?” I asked.

  “There was no cutting through the skin,” Efird said. “The ME’s pretty confident the killer used a wire but one that would compress the carotids and windpipe, not sever them.”

  “Like a guitar string,” I said. “The thicker wound ones for the lower notes.”

  Newly shot me an approving glance. “Yeah. A guitar string. Not exactly a scarcity in the Case family.”

  Nakayla and I had already crossed paths with a killer who garroted his victim with a guitar string when we’d investigated a suspicious death at the Carl Sandburg farm. A guitar string made a beautiful sound when in the hands of a master picker. In the hands of an assassin, a guitar string made no sound at all when pulled tight around a human throat.

  We turned onto Dusty Hollar Road, and the conversation stopped. Like me, Newly’s thoughts must have turned inward as to how we would handle Danny. My presence would change the dynamics of Newly’s earlier interview at the police station. Newly would be looking for inconsistencies. I would be looking for connections to the fires.

  We’d just rounded the bend approaching Loretta’s house when Newly braked the car to a sudden stop. “What the hell?” he muttered.

  A pickup truck was parked next to the front porch. The tailgate was down, and two straight-back chairs were loaded in the bed. No one was visible. Newly eased the car off the road and onto Loretta’s driveway. He stopped again, silencing the crunch of gravel before we got too close.

  “Have you had forensics go through the house and release it?” I asked.

  “Tuck and I came out with a team yesterday afternoon. We didn’t find anything that shed any light, but fingerprints needed to be run, her computer drives analyzed, and personal papers reviewed. We sealed the house, and until we know what her will might have stipulated as to heirs, we weren’t allowing anyone on the premises. That’s clearly posted on the front door.” He gave a pat to the left side of his chest where he wore his shoulder holster. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes. My Kimber was safely in my car during the fire. Now it’s tucked in my back.”

  “Good. But you don’t pull unless I do.” He opened his door. “Easy does it. I’d like to get the drop on them.”

  We walked along the edge o
f the driveway, keeping our footsteps on the soft earth and not the gravel. When we reached the rear of the pickup, Newly stopped.

  “Aren’t we going in?” I whispered.

  “No. I want us to witness them actually removing something from the house.” He leaned against the tailgate and folded his arms.

  I did the same.

  A few minutes later, the backside of faded blue jeans and a dingy T-shirt filled the doorway. As the figure took slow steps onto the porch, I saw he was carrying one side of a flat-screen TV. His cohort emerged, and I recognized one of Loretta’s twin brothers. I didn’t know which, although he appeared to be the one with the more prominent beer gut. His mouth popped open like a sinkhole appearing in his gray beard, and for a moment, he nearly lost his grip on the television.

  “Taking that to a repair shop, Bobby?” Newly said. “I didn’t realize it was broken.”

  The younger man facing away snapped his head around and froze. Since he wasn’t Danny the banjo player, I assumed he was Bobby Junior.

  “We were afraid someone would steal it,” the old man answered.

  “I see. So you’re protecting it by stealing it first.”

  Sweat beaded on Bobby Senior’s forehead. “It ain’t stealing when it belongs to you.”

  “Oh, where did you find Loretta’s will? We looked for it yesterday.”

  “Well, who else is it going to belong to than her next of kin?”

  “I don’t know,” Newly said. “That’s why we’re looking for her will. That’s why this house was sealed. That’s why I’m inclined to lock you both up for breaking and entering.”

  “You can’t do that,” the old man yelled.

  “And an additional charge of resisting arrest.” Newly pulled back his coat to reveal his pistol in his shoulder holster. He unsnapped the flap.

  Bobby Junior’s eyes widened. “Pa, me and the boys have got play dates. I can’t afford to go to jail.”