by R. D. Hunter
A cold sneer touched Hawkins’ lips.
“Oh really?” he said. “Well why didn’t…” He was interrupted by the arrival of a 6”2, 240 lb. black man barreling into him hard enough to send his body skipping across the cement like a flat stone on a lake. Bill had arrived.
“You hurt?” he asked, helping me to my feet.
“Only my pride,” I groaned, “and everything else. Nice hit. Good distance.”
“Thanks. It’s all in the legs. It’s important to push off the ground at the right angle.” We watched for a second as Hawkins rolled around on the ground like a dazed fish on land.
“Let’s get him up,” I said. “He’s got some explaining to do.”
CHAPTER NINE
We took Hawkins back to Headquarters and stuck him in an interview room. We didn’t say anything the whole way and left him by himself for close to half an hour. This was a standard interrogation tactic, designed to throw potential suspects off their game.
When someone who’s guilty is left to their own devices for an extended period of time, their mind starts to play all sorts of tricks. Even better, paranoia starts rearing its ugly head. That’s when they start questioning themselves.
How much do we know? Who else knows? Did they leave any evidence behind? Did we find the evidence? And round and round it goes until they’ll almost jump at the first opportunity to confess, just so they won’t have to speculate any more. Of course, innocent people didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing, but I had a feeling Hawkins hadn’t been “innocent” since the early days of grade school.
While we were waiting for him to soften up, I called one of my best friends and the only other private investigator I knew, Lacy Shade. Unlike Hawkins, Lacey worked out of an upscale office in Atlanta. She had a secretary, an after-hours answering service, and had numerous five-star reviews on all the major online platforms. Oh, and she was also a vampire.
No, not the blood-drinking, sleep in a coffin, repulsed by holy relics vampires. Those didn’t exist, at least to the best of my knowledge. She was an energy vampire, meaning she sustained her mental and physical faculties by absorbing the emotional and life energy of those around her. She could even do a bit of magic with the excess, but it was a totally different breed from witchcraft.
We tried to meet up at least once a week for drinks or a movie, but that had fallen off lately, mainly due to my increasing work load. I had to do something about that. I couldn’t let my job be all that I had. She answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Mel,” she said cheerily. “Calling to reschedule those drinks? Remember, you’re buying the first round.” I winced. The last time I’d canceled I’d promised to make it up to her with free drinks.
“I haven’t forgot,” I said. I’d totally forgot. “Actually, I’ve got one of your colleagues up here and was wondering what you could tell me about him.”
“Who is it?”
“Darren Hawkins.” There was a retching noise on the other end of the line. “So, I take it he’s not well liked in the P.I. circle?”
“Please! He represents P.I.’s like warts and green skin represent witches.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. He’s that bad. Known for taking any case, no matter how immoral and will use all means at his disposal, be they fair or foul, to get results. Trespassing laws don’t apply to him and he’s even been known to squeeze kids for information when it suits him. Guy’s a real creep.”
“Doesn’t suit your pallet, huh?” I cracked.
“Not even with side of fava beans and a nice chianti. Anything else?”
“Nope. That’s it. Thanks, Lace.”
“Anytime. That’s two rounds you owe me now, and I intend to collect.” We made tentative plans for three nights from now and hung up.
Lacey was a good person despite, ya know, not being human. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask to be born the way she was. As far as I knew, she only fed in short, little doses, which might leave someone feeling a little tired, but did no permanent harm. Other times, we went out to a baseball game or night club, where the excitement in the air was so palpable even I felt like I could drink it in.
Thanks to her, I had at least a little better idea of who Darren Hawkins was. I’d known he was a lowlife, scumbag who offered semi-professional snoop jobs at a cutthroat rate, but I had underestimated the lengths he would go to on a case. It takes a real sleazo to use kids for your own, personal gain. Maybe I’d have a chance to tell him so when I interviewed him.
Bill and I entered the cramped interview room and closed the door behind us. Hawkins was looking a little worse for the wear. His greasy hair was disheveled and sticking out at odd angles. There was a large, angry looking bump on his forehead and a severe streak of road rash graced the side of his face, courtesy of his unexpected trip across the concrete. But his eyes were clear as he looked at both of us and his hands didn’t shake. Apparently, he had something in the way of a spine under that cheap, polyester jacket.
“Why’d you run?” I asked without preamble.
“Why’d you chase me?”
“Because you ran. We just wanted to have a nice, civil conversation with you. Right, Detective Perkins?” My partner nodded, never taking his eyes off Hawkins. “So, tell me, why would you get so spooked when you see two people waiting outside your door? I mean, you’re a private investigator, right? We could have been clients.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Look, the truth is I owe some people money and I thought you were there to collect. I’m a little short right now so I ran to buy some time until I could pay them off.” His eyes flicked left and then right as he spoke. I leaned across the table, invading his personal space and commanding his attention.
“Do I really look like the type of muscle a loan shark would send to collect a debt from a military vet?” I asked slowly. “Think carefully on this one. Your answer will show how stupid you are.”
No answer. He knew it was B.S., and, more importantly, he knew I knew it was B.S. I leaned back and sat down across from him. Bill remained in the corner, never breaking eye contact with Hawkins.
“Ok. Fine. Let’s talk about why you’ve been cruising around Nichole Barret’s neighborhood lately.” There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes at the name, then it was gone.
“Who?” he said unconvincingly. “I don’t know any Nichole Barret.”
“Then why were you in her neighborhood?” He shrugged.
“I got a girl that lives out that way.”
“Really? That’s funny. I never told you where she lived. How could you know she lives close to ‘your girl?’” Check and mate.
I watched with hidden pleasure as he realized he’d just given himself a way. This was the crucible. He’d either give everything up in a last-ditch effort for leniency, or he’d square his shoulders, bite his tongue and declare the interview over. After a tense moment, his head bowed almost to the table. Got him!
“I was hired to watch her,” he said miserably. I glanced over at Bill who was fighting back a victorious grin.
“Nichole Barret?” I clarified. Hawkins nodded. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t believe me. Hell, I hardly believed it myself. Thought it was a joke, but the money was good so I took the case.”
“Why?” I repeated, more forcefully. He sighed and I could tell he was casting about for another lie to tell. Finally, though, he settled on the truth…and it turned my blood to ice.
“Because I was hired to find someone who could do magic.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Real magic,” Hawkins stressed. “Not the fake stuff.” I glanced over at Bill who rolled his eyes.
“What do you…what do you mean ‘real’ magic?” I asked.
“You know.” He wiggled his fingers mystically. “Real magic. Spells, and hoodoo and whatnot. Paid a pretty penny for it too.” My mouth was dry as sand and I didn’t trust myself to speak for a few moments. Sensing my hesitation, Bill
spoke up.
“So how did this lead you to Nichole Barret?” he asked.
“Common sense mostly. I figured if anyone in this burg could actually do magic, they’d want to keep it a secret. Probably kept to themselves. So, I did a search for everyone who worked from home inside the city limits. That only got me about fifty thousand hits. So, I narrowed it down by looking for folks who kept to themselves, didn’t get out much, that kind of thing. Then I staked out a couple of the local herb shops, apothecaries and naturalist stores. After a week, I had a little over a dozen promising leads.”
“And Nichole Barret was one of them,” I said hoarsely. Hawkins nodded.
“Yeah. I tailed a few of the other ones first. They were dead ends. Mostly wannabe goths who watched too many movies. But then I saw your gal, Nichole, and knew she was the real deal.”
“Bullshit,” I all but spat. “You watched her. You invaded her privacy and didn’t give a damn about what it did to her.” Hawkins recoiled slightly and his eyes grew wide. Bill shifted uncomfortably where he stood.
“Yeah, okay, so I watched her. That’s my job. I watch people. If they didn’t want to be caught doing something, they shouldn’t have been doing it in the first place.” I all but gagged at this lesson in morality from the cretin seated in front of me.
“What did you see?” Bill asked, getting us back on track.
“It was about three o’clock in the morning. I was getting ready to pack it in, when suddenly your gal comes out into her back yard carrying a bowl with something in it, some rocks and a black candle. She sat ‘em all down on this little folding table she had with her, lit the candle, then started chanting or praying or whatever. I wasn’t close enough to hear what she said, but after a while she gathered her things up and went back inside.”
I recognized all the signs of the malicious detection spell Beth told me Nichole had cast a few days prior. It always worked better when cast under the light of the moon. If Hawkins or anyone else had meant her any harm at the time the spell was cast, the candle would have flared up, signaling hostile intent. The brighter the flame, the closer and more potent the malice. The fact that it failed to react at all told me Hawkins truly was just a low-life peeping tom, in it for the money.
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“Nothing. I went home, compiled my report and turned it into my client. I could have milked it for another week or two, but I was tired of chasing after these freaks and weirdos. I cashed in, got my money and never looked back.”
I was caught somewhere between horror, panic and outright rage. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw things. I wanted to inflict grievous injury on the little pissant in front of me for what he’d done. But, in the end, the more rational part of me knew it wouldn’t do any good and I swallowed those urges. They went down bitterly.
This is what every member of the Fringe was most afraid of; someone being in the right place at the wrong time and exposing us for all the world to see. Doing so would end our lives as surely as any bullet or knife, but this had the added consequence of implicating our friends and families as well. Not to mention hardcore proof of the supernatural would almost certainly kickstart a massive witch hunt in both the figurative and literal senses of the word. A lot of innocent folk as well as Fringe would find themselves in the cross hairs of an angry mob at the slightest provocation. This had to be shut down and it had to be shut down now. Which meant I had only one question left to me.
“Who?” I asked. “Who was your client?” Hawkins crossed his arms and set back in his chair; a defiant look plastered across his face.
“Come on, you know I can’t tell you that,” he said. “It gets out I’m giving clients info to the cops, I might as well nail a CLOSED sign to my door.”
“Here’s what I know.” I leaned forward intensely. When I spoke, my voice was as cold as a snowman’s heart. “In about ten minutes, I’m going to be at my desk typing up a press release on Nichole Barret’s death. Now, it can either say we are diligently pursuing our investigation and will follow any and all leads to their conclusion, or it can name you, personally, as a person of interest who is cooperating fully with the police. It’s your call.” I felt a flush of satisfaction as I watched Hawkins’ face go pale at my words.
“But that’s…that’s slander. It’s not true.”
“Oh, it’s true enough. You are a person of interest in this investigation, Hawkins. Specifically, I’m interested in who your client is. Now, once I have that information, I’ll no longer be interested in you, so there’ll be no reason to mention your name. How does that sound?”
I watched his thought process as it took shape. It was a safe bet that Hawkins performed plenty of work for some unsavory characters; characters that wouldn’t want the nature of their business exposed if the police took a closer look. As unprofessional as Hawkins may have been, even he had to keep records, and there was no telling what was in those records.
In order to keep their dealings on the hush, these unsavory types might find it in their best interest to eliminate Hawkins all together, after obtaining whatever info he had on them and making sure there were no copies laying around, of course. And when I mentioned that he was cooperating fully with the police, as was only fair and proper, he could kiss any future business dealings goodbye. No one wants to hire a snitch.
Hawkins must have come to the same conclusion I did, because a second later he said, “Okay, you win. I was hired by Harold Mason.”
Bill and I both stared at him for several seconds.
“Harold Mason?” I repeated. “The Harold Mason?” He nodded glumly.
“Yeah, that’s part of the reason I could milk this gig for two- or three-weeks’ worth of retainer without him batting an eye.”
Harold Mason was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the city. Every week there was something in the paper about some new deal he was backing, charity drive he was organizing or political candidate he was endorsing. His million-dollar smile and striking good looks were only a touch less dazzling than the expensive suits he wore, and he had a different model on his arm for every social function. All he needed was a cape and a penchant for fighting crime and he’d have been Bruce Wayne.
If Hawkins was lying, it would look very bad for the department if I questioned him regarding an ongoing murder investigation. Worse yet, if he was telling the truth, it meant he was aware of the Fringe and was actively seeking us out. Not a lot of good outcomes in either one.
“If you’re lying to me,” I said, “you’ll be done in this town.”
“What’ll you do?” Hawkins asked smugly. “Rat me out to Mason’s receptionist?”
“Worse. I’ll rat you out to his lawyers.” I let that sink in for a second. “When they hear that a licensed private investigator is naming Harold Mason as having connections to a murder victim, they’ll rake you over the coals so fast you won’t be able to tell which testicle is on fire. They’ll sue you for everything you own and then go after the fillings in your teeth. So, think carefully before you send me off on a wild goose chase after this man.” Hawkins sat back and appeared to be on the verge of panicking.
“I swear, Harold Mason was the one who hired me. Look, I can prove it was him. I record all of my clients when they come in the door. Part of the job, ya know.”
“And a good way to blackmail them afterward,” Bill interjected. Hawkins shrugged.
“Only if things get tight. Look, I’ve told you everything. Can I go now. I was serious about owing people some money. I gotta get out there and earn a living.”
I thought about keeping him around. Not because I liked his company, mind you, but if things didn’t pan out with Mason I’d want to talk to this shit-stick again, or at least have a look at whatever info he had on the Fringe. But scum like Hawkins was a bit like Waldo; no matter how hard he tried to blend into the background, you could always find him if you looked hard enough.
“Don’t leave town,” I said, tossing him my
business card. Hey, I’d always wanted to say that to a perp. Sue me.
I came out of the interview room feeling confused and on edge. Things didn’t improve when I saw my boss, Captain Gary Barker, standing at the door to his office and motioning for me to join him.
Captain Barker was a good supervisor, unlike his second in command, Calloway. He didn’t micromanage and treated everyone under his command with respect and confidence. As long as you did your job, didn’t cut corners and stayed on the right side of the law, you were golden. Screw the pooch on any of those three things and he’d be the first one in line to nail your carcass to the wall. I liked him.
I came into his office and took the seat he offered. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the thermos he kept under his desk and offered me some, which I politely declined.
“That was a hell of a job you did in there,” he said. “I was watching the video feed from in here. Do you trust this Hawkins guy?”
“Not for a second,” I said. “But I believe his intel is good.”
“And what do you think about this whole magic business?” I had to tread carefully here. Barker could spot a lie from a thousand paces.
“I think it doesn’t matter one way or the other. An innocent young woman is dead. And whether or not she can pull rabbits out from behind your ear while reading your palm is irrelevant. The killer left a trail, and I have to follow it, even if that trail leads to Harold Mason.”
“You be careful, Detective,” Barker said, his voice filled with caution. “You know what kind of clout that man wields. I’ve seen the career of more than one good officer hit a nose dive because they inconvenienced themselves on Mason. I’d hate for that to happen to you. You sure you want to pull on this thread?” I didn’t hesitate for a second.
“I’m sure, Sir.”
“Okay, then. If you go at him, you go at him respectfully. You don’t accuse him of anything. You merely ask about the report Hawkins sent him regarding Nichole Barret. Make it sound like there was something in it that might give you a clue as to who the murderer is. And, above all else, never let on that you suspect him of any kind of wrong doing. Thank him for his time. Compliment his tie. Make him think he has you wrapped around his little finger. Flirt with him a little.”
