Morris PI
Page 16
At the curb he paused. “I’m sorry, Tate to rush outta there. Thank you so much for coming with me tonight, but I have to go. Here’s a twenty. You can still make a night of it.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Walt crossed Broadway, heading toward the Garden and the parking lot his car was in. He was happy he’d told the guy not to put his Merc too high up in the automobile hotel because he didn’t want to have to wait long for it to be brought down to him.
Tatum started after him. “What? That’s not part of the deal! What happened?”
“I can’t explain now, but I’ll call you tomorrow.” Walter reached the Kent Automatic Garage and gave his ticket to the attendant. The young man disappeared into the vast elevator banks of the Art Deco skyscraper. Somewhere inside the twenty-five-story building, among a thousand other autos, was Walter’s Merc.
“I’m not staying there alone!” Tatum almost screamed at him in an attempt to get his attention.
Walter pressed his lips and turned around. “Then I’ll call you a cab, Tate.” He walked out toward the avenue and put his hand up to hail a cab.
“To hell with that.” Tatum stormed past him and headed into the garage, where she sat down on a nearby bench to wait for Walter’s sedan. “You ain’t shaking me that easily.”
Flustered, Walter took a deep breath, walked back over to her, and tried to protest. “Tatum, I—”
“Walter, I agreed to come out with you tonight as a favor, and you just drop me because things are starting to heat up?”
“Because it’s getting dangerous,” he hoped might shake her off.
She shook her head like a small child, crossing her arms. “You got me for the long haul tonight, pal!”
“Pal? What the heck have you been listening to lately?”
A freight elevator door at the opposite end of the lot opened and Walter’s Merc came out on the electric parker, a carousel-like conveyer belt that moved cars around. Walt’s car was delivered to its designated point and the valet got in. The Merc purred to life and was driven off the platform over to where they waited.
Not waiting for an invitation, Tatum walked right over like it was her own car, opened the door, and sat down in the passenger seat.
“Tatum! Jesus Christ!” Walt said, frustrated. But she wouldn’t budge, and more importantly, he didn’t have the time to stand on Fifty-First Street and argue like an old married couple, especially if this case really was a kidnapping and Caldonia’s time was running out.
Walter realized it might actually not be a bad idea to have a woman along to deal with any kind of situation that may present itself with the victim, especially when Walt would be doing all the driving to who the hell knew where in the sticks. At least that was how the detective tried to rationalize taking a civilian, a woman for that matter, on a call like this.
Walter gave up. He tipped the attendant and got into his Merc, slammed the door shut, and turned to her. He raised a finger up and pointed it toward Tatum. “You’re only coming for the ride. That is it. You do not get out of the car no matter what, understand?” He paused. “Understand?”
Tatum nodded once, beaming from ear to ear. “Perfectly.”
Walter scowled at her. “Plus, I figure having a woman along might be a help if there’s anything immediate that needs doing like consoling or first aid while I drive.”
“Absolutely.”
He knew he was saying it more to convince himself rather than Tatum. He glared at her. “But you listen to whatever I say.”
She nodded again.
“Shut your door.”
Chapter 17
OUT, PAST LONG BEACH
Walter and Tatum traveled over the long suspension bridge on their way out to Long Island. To their right, on the other side of the East River, New York City’s dark skyline flickered in the distance.
Tatum spoke up. “So, are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
Walter reached over and turned down the radio. “My client got a call tonight. He was told to put two hundred thousand dollars in a bag and drop it off. My missing persons case has just exploded into a kidnap and ransom.”
“Wow. You could buy Rockefeller Center with that kind of dough. Was that the idea, to ask for an impossible amount of money so the victim’s family couldn’t pay? I mean, who has that kind of money?”
“Yeah, well, my client does. He’s got so much money he could make King Creosus blush. And what do these people do? Make rash decisions without consulting the supposed ‘expert’ they hired to do that for them in the first place.” Walter exhaled a long, deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “They dropped the money off without a plan and without me, hoping that the bad guys will keep up their end of the bargain and release the victim.”
Once they were over the bridge, Walter turned the radio off completely to concentrate on the signs and figure out where to go on all the new winding parkways. “The kidnappers called my client back and told them where to find her, this young girl Caldonia.”
“Wow,” said Tatum. “That’s pretty lucky they rang back.”
“Yeah. Now we just gotta take it slow. They said she’s in an old flat out on the South Shore of Long Island. They gave an address and that’s all I got.”
They sat in silence as Walt followed the signs carefully on the interchanges and transferred to the parkway heading east.
“That seems a little too cut and dried, no?” Tatum suggested.
“Exactly,” Walter answered. “And I think some of my employer’s people are playing for the other side.”
“They’re queer?”
That made Walter smile. “No, Tatum, not that other side.”
“Just make sure you’re going the right way. If it’s out in Long Beach, I know how to get there from going to Jones Beach. I went to see Guy Lombardo with my ex in his Plymouth.”
“Okay then, Tate, keep your eyes peeled and just keep pointing me in the right direction.”
They drove for just over another half hour on the parkway. They saw one of Walter’s favorite billboard campaigns for Burma-Shave, then passed a huge billboard sign erected high up in the sky on a steel arm that read “Stanley Levi Development Project: Levittown.” Just off the highway, acres upon acres of forest were being leveled and the land dug up and paved. They passed entire neighborhoods under construction. Miles and miles of suburbia, each house a duplicate of the next, stood in various stages of development. The future of America.
“I guess all the soldiers returning are gonna need a place to call home too now, once the war is over,” he remarked, more to himself than to anyone.
Tatum nodded in agreement.
After stopping for directions at an all-night greasy spoon, they bought a local map and made their way out into rural Long Beach. They drove through flatland wooded areas, in and out of view of the ocean, past secluded bungalows, fisherman cottages, and hermit shacks. The air was filled with the smell of salt water, and when they put the windows down, they heard through the darkness the sounds of the Atlantic.
After much searching, Tatum spotted the street that the house was on. It was a long, overgrown gravel road with a few scattered homes toward the end. From what they could make out in the darkness, they looked to be quite old and dilapidated. Each house was on its own good chunk of land, perhaps a half-acre or less, and hidden from view by thick trees, bushes, and forest.
They found a mailbox post with no mailbox on it next to a long driveway leading into darkness. Cross-referencing the other addresses on the street, this had to be it. Walt passed the driveway, and once they were a distance away, he jumped out and Tatum slid over behind the wheel. With the fancy flashlight he’d insisted the Merc have, he crept over by the post and quickly discovered the rotted mailbox in the thick grass. He kicked it onto its side and saw the fading address they were looking for.
The house couldn’t be seen from the road because of the thick trees and bushes. It had to be right up on the water though, judging by the distance they were from the ocean. However, he had to admit that the lack of streetlights could throw anyone’s bearings off.
“Which way is it?” Tatum whispered.
Walter pointed into the night where he thought the place was. “I think it’s down that driveway there.”
Once their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, they both thought they could see some sort of faint glow in the woods. It was just too obscured by the trees to clearly make out what the light source was exactly. Walter guessed that it had to be where the house was. Somewhere toward that light.
“Listen, Tatum. You to stay here and do not, under any circumstances, get out of the car. Understand? Just sit here with the doors locked and keep a lookout. If you sense any kinda trouble, lay on the horn. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know what condition the victim might be in, so be ready for anything. And I may need your woman-type help here, depending on her situation, you get me?”
She smiled reassuringly at her friend. “I understand, Walter.”
“If need be, I got a first aid kit in the trunk.” He placed his hand over hers and looked directly at her. “If comes to it, you get the hell outta here and go back to that old truck stop on Groversville Road and bring back the state troopers, okay?”
She grinned. “We both know I won’t be doing that!”
Walter slid out one of the hidden trays underneath the glove box, quickly going over in his mind the requirements ahead. Tatum’s eyebrows raised with a nervous energy, her eyes glancing down at all the weaponry available.
“Probably not the best time to tell you I’m a pacifist, Walter?”
He grabbed the stiletto, a long, slim flashlight, and handed Tatum the smaller one he had in his hand. He skipped over the .38 revolver and the .22 automatic. “I might need something with a bit more stopping power than normal, something where if I shoot, I would only have to hit them once. That would keep ’em down and give me time to get outta there.”
Tatum nodded at his lesson. “Sure.”
Walt picked up the Colt 1911 .45 automatic and two magazines from the tray. He checked that the mag inside the gun was full, then got the spare.
“Okay, Tate. Lay low and stay safe. I’ll be right back. Be ready to go if we need to get outta here in a hurry, and open that back door for me if I’m carrying her.” Walter took a deep breath. “Alright….”
The surrounding woodland had already started to reclaim the property that the rotting colonial-style house sat on. An odd design close to the ocean. The place was once nicer than the other shacks and one-story cottages scattered around. It was maybe once an old farmhouse. Now it was the worst looking house they’d seen in the area, due to wear and tear of the erosion from the salty sea air.
Out of the darkness came Walter, hunched over low with his .45 in hand, crept cautiously toward the house.
Everything was wild and overgrown around the house. The grass was at least three feet high, full of thick brushes and weeds. The paint on the wooden siding was falling off, and the overall state of disrepair made the house look uninhabitable. Once there was a clear view of the house, a faint light was visible deep inside. Walter thoroughly examined the front of the property. He kept low and made his way around to the backyard.
The screen door was hanging by one hinge, and the screen itself had long since been torn out. Walter tried his best to get the screen door open without making any noise, and he then tried the back door. It was locked. He took out the stiletto and dug at the jamb where the deadbolt connected to the door, and within seconds he was able to pry open the door with minimal noise.
He clicked on his flashlight and crept into what had been, at one time, the kitchen. Gun drawn, he surveyed the room with his light, always keeping the beam pointed straight at the floor so it was diffused, the ambient spillage his source.
Walter crossed into an adjoining room and peered in. The floor in this room was completely warped and on the verge of collapsing. At the other side of the room was a closed door which seemed to lead to the room where the light was coming from. He headed back into the kitchen to find another way around.
He moved through the kitchen and entered what looked to be the parlor. An old rusty stool was on its side next to the remains of a stand-up piano. Trash and empty cans of food littered the floor. Walter crossed the room and entered the main hallway with his gun raised. Although he hadn’t heard any noises coming from within the house, he took his time being careful. But as always, the quieter he tried to be, the louder he was. At the other end of the hall, Walter found the closed door that concealed the lit room.
He passed the staircase that led up to the second floor, quickly scanning it with his flashlight, but from the looks of it, they hadn’t been used in years. Next to the stairs was a half-open door. When he peeked in, he saw some rickety steps leading down to an oh-so-creepy-looking basement flooded with a foot or so of water. Walt continued down the hall toward the closed door, which presumably led to the room where the light was. He turned off his flashlight as he got closer to the door. He pushed it open, keeping tight against the wall. It creaked noisily, taking its time before swinging back and hitting the wall. Then silence. Walter stuck his head around the corner to get a peek into the room.
Inside was a single bulb dangling from the ceiling by a long cloth-covered wire, and a candlestick phone on the floor next to a wooden chair. A yellow-stained mattress was strewn across the floor on the far side of the room. There were numerous metal tins on the floor which had recently been eaten from. Maggots wriggled inside the steel cylinder containers. Walter lowered his weapon and took a second look around the room. He stood for a minute before walking over and picking up the receiver. He heard the clicking of an open, working telephone line. He replaced the brass receiver on the hook and sighed. He was going to have to search the entire house just to be safe.
Thoughts of his little brother sprang up in his mind. He’d spent the last moments of his life being lured to a house just like this, a deserted, rotting shell of a house in the middle of nowhere. The thought repulsed and frightened Walter. Exhaling, he forced the memory out of his head as quickly as it had come, the same way he usually did.
He clicked his flashlight back on, but before he could move, he heard a slight creak from out in the hallway. He turned his head in that direction and realized someone was definitely out there. He placed his flashlight on the floor next to the chair and ducked behind the door in two long but silent strides. Keeping his breathing steady, he waited patiently, ready for anything. The door started to open, and he leveled his gun at where he estimated the head of the person entering the room on the other side would be.
A very elderly man wearing thick glasses and suspenders walked into the room and looked around. He was carrying a lantern in one hand and in the other, a double-barreled shotgun under his arm, his hand in his pocket. When he turned his head toward the door, he saw Walter aiming his .45 directly at him. Eyes wide, the man instinctually dropped his shotgun on the floor and threw his hand up in the air, his focus on the muzzle of Walter’s automatic.
“Whoa there, fella! Don’t shoot me, take whatever you want!”
Walt exhaled a breath in relief. What else did he expect from a redneck farmer coming across a strange black man hidden in an abandoned house in the middle of the night? The situation was almost comical. Walt lowered his gun.
“I’m not gonna shoot you.”
“Don’t shoot me!” the man screamed back.
“I said I’m not gonna shoot you!” Walter said a little louder. “Who are you?”
Walter smiled. “One question at a time, and I asked first. Who are you?”
“I live down the road and take care of these properties.” He paused while Walter sheathed his automatic. “Now, who the hell are you?”
“Phillip Marlowe with the zoning department.”
The man looked confused. “Zoning department? At this hour?”
“Uh, surprise inspection.”
“Lots of people have been showing up around here, holing up in these condemned houses. I thought you might be a robber.” He rubbed the silver stubble on his chin, looking intently at Walter, obviously sizing him up.
“You’ve been getting traffic around here recently?”
The watchman lowered his lantern. “At all hours of the night and day, that’s why I’m here. Since I live down the road, I told them I’d start to keep an eye on all these places, to keep the riffraff out.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I told you, I’m the caretaker.”
“I mean who owns this property?”
“Used to be the Mitchell clan until they were forced out by the highway department. They were gonna turn the land into luxury homes and private beaches, so the Mitchells were the last ones to be foreclosed upon and—”
“Who owns it all now?”
“Astitate Incorporated,” the old man said.
“Astitate Incorporated?” Walter’s brows furrowed. “That rings a bell.”
“Hold on a minute, fella. I think I wanna see some identification. If the zoning department is sending coloreds to come check their land in the middle of the night, that’s fair enough, but you should have some identification to back that up.”
There was another noise out in the hall that got both their attention. The old man instantly shut up and his face completely paled. Walter drew his weapon and motioned with his head for the man to get behind him. They simultaneously stepped behind the door. Walter leveled his gun to the estimation of where the head of the other person coming through the doorway would be. He looked down at the double-barreled shotgun on the floor then back up at the watchman questioningly, who answered the look with a shrug.