Blood and Roses

by Douglas Pratt

  The sedan couldn’t make the turn, and when it hit the brick column, bricks toppled over. I pulled my eyes off the mirror and slammed my brakes. A large oak tree had dropped a thick branch in the alley.

  I cursed aloud.

  The sedan doors opened. Two figures stepped out. In the half a second before I ducked down, I was certain that was one of Manning’s bodyguards.

  The alley echoed with gunshots as they fired at me, cowering in my Hyundai. Glass shattered around me. I grabbed the shifter and jammed it forward from drive to reverse. The car jerked backward as I shoved the pedal to the floor.

  Blindly I turned the wheel sharply. Gunfire continued as the car lunged backward. A split second flutter went through my stomach as the car came off the ground. I lifted off the seat and into the air. I slammed into the shifter knob as the car hit the ground. The rear end dropped, and the car stopped and rolled over like the last domino hitting the ground..

  My body was crumpled against the ceiling of the over-turned car. I gasped, trying to fill my lungs after having the wind knocked out of me.

  Move, my brain said.

  Twisting around, I attempted to orient myself. My hand started trying to find the door. Wrenching the door handle, I pushed the driver's door open. The crumpled frame stopped it halfway. Squeezing through the opening, I scraped my back against the bent frame.

  A groan came out of me as the metal ripped through my shirt and skin.

  Crawling from the wreckage, I peered back at the damage. The rented Hyundai was upside down in six inches of water. The rear window and backseat windows were all shattered. The car rocked until it came to a rest on its roof. Standing up, I realized I had driven the Hyundai into a drainage ditch about 12 feet deep. The ditch ran under the neighborhood.

  Shouting came from above me. From the direction of the silver sedan, or at least the direction I assumed the silver sedan was.

  My feet splashed through the stale, sour puddles of mud as I took off running from the mangled car, the yelling voices, and any more bullets they might want to send my direction. A large culvert about five feet in diameter fed into this drainage ditch. Ducking down, I scrambled through the opening into the dark.

  The blackness seemed endless as I pushed deeper. The only sound was a consistent trickle of water. My hands were moving along the slimy concrete sides. When I felt a corner, I turned to the left. My progress was slow-moving as I was somewhat fearful of what might be sharing this hole with me. When I was only a few feet into my pitch-black escape tunnel, I realized that my phone wasn’t in my pocket. Most likely a shattered mess somewhere on the shattered mess of a rental car, I thought. Not that I even considered going back for it.

  Glad I opted for the insurance, I thought.

  My leg hurt. My back hurt. My ribs hurt. Not to mention, I still had a headache from the bottle to my skull the other day.

  And my socks were wet. I can tolerate a lot, but wet socks might be the worst.

  Ten minutes later my sloshing around in the dark was rewarded. A faint glow of daylight filtered into the abyss from somewhere. The sides of the drainage tunnel began to take form. My pupils adjusted and I could see an intersection. At that turn, daylight was visible.

  Elated, I stumbled through the opening, squinting into the sun.

  I blinked a couple of times to adjust my eyes. The tunnel opened up at the bottom of another ravine, similar to the one where I crashed my car. The sides of the ravine were made of concrete that had aged with the millions of gallons of water rushing over it. Chunks were missing, and metal rebar jutted from the jagged breaks. Hoisting myself up the concrete facing, I used the metal as handholds as I climbed out of the ditch.

  Along the edge of the ravine, a line of hedges had been planted to hide the drainage canal from the neighborhood. Cowering behind the shrubs, I peered around for anyone that might want to fill me with bullet holes. A breath of relief left me when I saw the street was empty.

  Sirens wailed somewhere nearby. Blue lights were flashing against the treetops a few hundred yards away. Apparently, the police had responded to the gunfire.

  When I realized that I hadn’t gotten as far from the scene as I hoped, I got very nervous. The question started rolling around my brain. Were the guys in the silver sedan also lurking around the corner? The police would be on my trail as soon as they identified the rental car. As far as I could tell, I did nothing illegal. Hiding from the law seemed pointless. Besides, that might be the safest place for the moment.

  The entire inner debate I was having, rendered moot when a blue and white patrol car turned on the street behind me.

  “Remain still,” the patrol car’s loudspeaker ordered. “Place your hands on your head and get on your knees.”

  12

  The Memphis Police Department substation where the patrol car took me was built sometime in the early 1970s judging from the architectural style. The walls were grooved concrete construction, rough to the touch. The tile floor was at least newer, but the city had decided to go with a cheap, white, industrial type of linoleum that had years of waxy build-up creating a yellowed tint. While the ceilings had been repainted, the years of cigarette smoke were pushing through the white paint in light brown blotches. This was probably not a building that many city officials visited often enough to warrant a complete renovation. Out of sight, out of mind.

  After the officers on the scene established that I was not the perpetrator but the victim of the shooting, they put me in the back of the squad car and brought me here. It was clearly established that I wasn’t under arrest, but that detectives would like to talk to me about my statement. I decided that the inside of a police station was safer than waiting on the street, even if I was sure that the silver sedan was now miles from the scene of the crime.

  The officers on the scene seemed impressed that I was able to walk away from the mess of crushed metal that had once been my rental car. The running joke between every different uniformed officer was “I hope you got the insurance.” I stopped chuckling at the joke after the fourth time. Even my eye rolls ended when I heard it for the fifth time. I started preempting them with the statement, “Don’t worry, I got the insurance.”

  Now, I sat in an empty cubicle with an empty Styrofoam cup that had once held six ounces of Maxwell House or, at least, a generic knock-off. The cup was now slowly being torn in small quarter-inch pieces from the rim. After the last few hours, the nervous energy coursing through me was making me fidget.

  Maybe I should go for a run when I get out of here, I considered. A crazy concept for me given my hatred of jogging. I do it, but I hate it with a passion. Right now, though, I was twitching and jittery.

  “Mr. Sawyer,” Detective Terry said as he stepped into the small cubicle. “It seems you are having a lot of trouble with vehicles this week.”

  “I’m starting to feel like it’s personal,” I said as the detective took a seat opposite the empty desk I had been calling home for the last hour and a half.

  “Might be,” Terry commented, “you want to work on your people skills.”

  I shrugged. “My mom taught me to be polite. I can’t imagine that’s the problem.”

  “What happened here?” he asked leaning back in the chair. “I get a call that a witness to my murder just turned half of midtown into a scene from the Fast and the Furious.”

  Twisting my face, I said, “I was hoping for something more classic, like Bullit or The French Connection.”

  “Who shot up your car?” Terry asked sternly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone who doesn’t like fuel efficiency.”

  “Was it the same guys that shot up your truck in Mason?” he asked, ignoring my humor.

  “No, these guys were black. The bikers in Mason and I might be wrong, but, they didn’t look like the equal opportunity type of guys.”

  “Are you saying that you have two groups trying to kill you?” he asked. “I’d rethink those manner lessons your mama gave you.”

&nbs
p; “In fairness to the bikers, I was nowhere near the truck when they shot it up. I think that was just a message.”

  Terry shook his head. “You think this time it was a message.”

  “Probably,” I said, “but I think they only intended on delivering it once.”

  “Who are you pissing off?” he asked. “Better question is, ‘How does this involve Nathan Clements?’”

  “After we talked the other night, I called Nathan’s ex-wife. I wanted to check in with her.”

  Terry interrupted, “I thought that you and he hadn’t spoken in ten years?”

  “We hadn’t. But I felt responsible. We were still friends at one time. If I had answered that night, then maybe things would be different.”

  Leaning back in his chair, the detective crossed his legs and said, “You do know that it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course, Detective. I’m logical enough to know that even had I answered, nothing would have changed. I still consider his call like it was a request for help.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to grab dinner with an old college buddy.”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a hint of annoyance in my voice. “His wife…ex-wife…told me that their daughter had been kidnapped last year.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said.

  “I gather you talked to her too,” I said. “You know that she got a call that sent him down here looking for Naomi.”

  Terry nodded.

  “Well…to make a long story short, I did some digging, and I ended up having a conversation with Elon Manning.”

  Detective Terry uncrossed his legs, leaned forward with widened eyes, and asked, “Manning? The guy that owns all the strip clubs.”

  “And apparently has his hand in all the prostitution that happens in this city. Or most of the prostitution.”

  “There’s no evidence of that,” he said.

  “If there was,” I responded, “I would hope that someone would have arrested him.”

  “You think this was Manning that ran you off the road?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t Manning, himself. I didn’t give a formal introduction to the man, but he might have the resources to find out who I am. Obviously, my name is attached as a witness to whatever file you have on Nathan’s murder.”

  Terry shook his head in disbelief. “Let’s back up. Tell me about talking to Manning. What did you say to him?”

  “Asked him where Naomi Clements was.”

  “I’m guessing that the man said he didn’t have her.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. He went on about how he didn’t kidnap people. He was just a businessman. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “And?”

  “I pointed out that I wasn’t going to stop, and it might be better for him if the girl just showed up. Otherwise, I would keep digging.”

  Terry folded his arms. “No wonder he wanted to kill you.”

  “My high school guidance counselor said that I was difficult to be friends with.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “What about the bikers? How do they tie in?”

  “They don’t. I was helping a friend who was doing a skip trace. They didn’t like us nosing around their yard.”

  “Leonard Taylor?” he asked.

  “You really checked up on me, huh?”

  “The two of you seem to find problems all over.”

  “Not me, I try my best to stay out of trouble.”

  “Good. Now, listen to me,” Terry said sternly. “I need you to stay out of this. I don’t want some washed-out journalist getting himself killed.”

  “Washed-out? I quit of my own accord.”

  “Whatever,” the detective said. “Stay out of it. Take a vacation or something. Let Manning forget about you. Stay out of my investigation.”

  I cocked my head. “What about Naomi? Are you looking for her?”

  “I’m not. I’m a homicide detective, not vice. If her disappearance is related to Clement’s murder, then it will become relevant.”

  Glancing at his hand, I noticed a gold band. “Do you have kids?”

  “Don’t start,” he said. “I agree. It’s a shitty thing. But it’s also out of my control.”

  “I’m not in your investigation then,” I stated. “I’m looking for a missing girl that you, at the moment, are not.”

  “You’ll end up getting yourself killed here.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said, “but I need to at least try. The fact that Manning tried to kill me says a lot.”

  Terry gave a disapproving look. “Not necessarily. He might have just taken a disliking to you. I certainly have.”

  “Then you’ll have a nice headstart when he kills me.”

  “Great,” he said scathingly.

  “Do you know Detective Bryant in Vice?” I asked.

  Terry lifted one thin eyebrow. “Yeah, his desk is actually in this building.”

  I straightened up in the chair. “Really?”

  “He’s also a Lieutenant now.”

  “Do you think you could point me in his direction?”

  Terry rolled his eyes. “He’s going to hate you. I don’t really like you, but, damn, Bryant is going to hate you.”

  “I keep hearing that,” I said. “I’m really a great guy when you get to know me.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Wait here,” and then he was gone.

  Ten minutes, maybe more, passed before a short, bodybuilder in a suit that was a year or two past its prime stepped into the cubicle. In a second, I could tell that he was overcompensating. The man was about 5’2”, and his biceps stretched the limits of the polyester sleeves.

  “Sawyer?” he scowled at me.

  Rising to my feet, I extended a hand. “Lieutenant Bryant?” I asked. I thought a degree of courtesy and respect might help the man appreciate my charm.

  He ignored my hand. “Terry said you were looking for a missing girl.”

  Retracting my hand, I said, “Yes. She was taken in Cincinnati last year. There was some reason to believe she might be in Memphis.”

  “Yeah, he told me. A caller ID.”

  “Yes,” I said politely.

  “That doesn’t mean she called from here.”

  “I know,” I conceded, “but there isn’t much else to go on.”

  “Do you know how many kids are trafficked in this state alone?”

  I shook my head.

  “Close to a hundred a month. Just in Tennessee. In the whole country, that number is worse.”

  “Where can I start then?” I asked.

  “You don’t. The odds of finding this girl are much lower than the odds of someone killing you. Something, I understand, has already been attempted today.”

  “Someone knows where she is,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, and they aren’t talking. You think someone like Elon Manning is going to fret a former frat boy who demands anything from him. Doesn’t matter what kind of back-up you take in there. He’s not going to admit to it. Easiest thing for him to do is take the girl out and put a bullet in her head.”

  “You’re saying just let her stay because living in slavery is better than dying?” I asked, losing my polite tone. Anger was seething to the surface of my skin. Whether Bryant hated me or not, I found that I wasn’t liking him much myself.

  “No, I’m saying that you…you aren’t going to find her. I’ll make sure to spread her picture out in case someone comes across her. But, if you make her a liability, then her life might as well be forfeit.”

  “I’m not sure life, as she is living it, would be worth it.”

  Bryant leaned toward me. “That’s not your call to make.”

  “No, it’s hers. She can’t make it where she is.”

  The lieutenant straightened up. “Fine, look for her. Go through every fleabag no-tell in town. The only way you’ll find her is by luck. There are hundreds of girls on the streets. From nine-year-olds to nearly seventy.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I hate everything about these people.
Personally, I’d like to see every one of them get there due. You, though, will only cause more problems. Either she is in Memphis, and you get her killed. Or she was never here, and you piss off the wrong people for no reason.

  “Whatever it is. I’ll make sure to toss you in jail if you cross the line.”