Flash and Bang

by J. Alan Hartman

  “Definitely.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The way she moves. You fight with somebody, you get to know her.”

  “That’s from the shore, obviously. The cops down there are circulating this.”

  “The rich guy who OD’ed. Duane Antonelli.”

  “He was from around here. And you remember his name.”

  She knew she had to tell him. It was going to come out sooner or later. “He was a client.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “I don’t really see how, but I thought I’d better tell you. I spent an afternoon on his boat a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I guess he invited her, too. And she thanked him by helping him OD.”

  “Any idea who she is?”

  “Not unless she showed you her driver’s license before she tried to stick you.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, and she could see his mind working. A lot of people might have been fooled into seeing a dull, plodding cop, but she wasn’t one of them. He knew the young hooker would be coming for her. Diana was a living witness.

  “You understand we can’t put surveillance on you. We don’t have the manpower.”

  “You’d just kill my business, anyway.”

  “The best we can do is have your local guys drive by as often as possible.”

  She smiled as she thought of the police in her hometown of Driscoll babysitting a hooker.

  “No, I’m wrong,” he said. “The best we can do is find her fast.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get a uniform to drive you back to your car.”

  The officer wasn’t feeling talkative, which was fine with her. She had some thinking to do.

  Her first idea was to spread the word in the online discussion groups for women in the business. But she dismissed that. It took references to get access, but at some point the woman could have fooled someone.

  Working the phone would take more time, but it was the only way to go.

  The first call was to Mary Alice Mercier, aka Crystal, Diana’s closest friend in the business, after they had settled a few differences. It was a long story.

  She told Mary Alice about the bad date with Stephen.

  “Damn,” said Mary Alice. “When are you going to learn and stop going down to Morristown?”

  It wasn’t a real question. Mary Alice knew that hookers went where the money was.

  “She’s going to come for me,” said Diana. “I want to get it over with. So if somebody asks, go ahead and tell her. She’s the kind who doesn’t have friends, and it would never occur to her that you might warn me.”

  Nothing happened for twenty-four nerve-wracking hours. Even clients stayed away. That happened sometimes, and she didn’t usually fret. But this time it was hard to avoid imagining the young brunette methodically slaughtering them.

  Then Mary Alice called back.

  “I got a bad feeling. Bitch.”

  “What?”

  “Not you. The cat won’t stop climbing on me.”

  “You don’t have a cat.”

  “I do for the next three weeks. You remember my neighbor, Fred? Cute young guy?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “He dumped her on me while he’s away. Cats can tell when you hate them, and they’re all over you.”

  Mary Alice was always letting cute guys impose on her. Sometimes it even cut into her business. Diana never let that happen, but now wasn’t the time to lecture her friend.

  “So what’s this bad feeling about?”

  “Victoria. I tried getting in touch with her about this thing, but she’s not answering her personal cell or her email. And she’s always on the discussion group, but not a peep for a couple of days now.”

  “Would she know how to find me?”

  “I might have mentioned something,” said Mary Alice. “I know I told her some of your regular clients. Just to give her the lay of the land. I mentioned Stephen, matter of fact.”

  “So that bitch might have gotten to her.”

  They listened to each other’s breathing.

  “I’m here for the afternoon,” said Mary Alice. “I’ll keep trying her.”

  It was against Diana’s hooker religion to initiate contact with the cops, but Breitwieser needed to know this. She made the call.

  “Interesting,” he said. “You know this Victoria?”

  “I’ve seen her in a couple of parking lots. She’s just starting out, and she’s older than most newbies.”

  She heard tapping on a keyboard.

  “Well, look here. Her real name is Sallie Antonelli.”

  That didn’t surprise Diana. Cops always knew who was doing her kind of work. A uniformed officer saw the same car parked at several motels and somebody ran the license plate.

  “Makes me think, ex-wife,” said Breitwieser. “Maybe a bad pre-nup left her hurting financially.”

  “That would make sense. Mary Alice probably knows the story. They’ve talked.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “She’s not your biggest fan, either. If you want, I’ll ask her.”

  “Let’s do it that way to start with. I can concentrate on looking for Sallie.”

  Diana hung up and felt cabin fever closing in on her. She decided to use her feet instead of the phone. Mary Alice lived just a dozen blocks away in an apartment over a barber shop in downtown Driscoll.

  The walk appealed at the moment, and if that blue-eyed psycho was lurking on the way, they would settle this thing. But nothing happened to get her adrenaline working.

  The entrance to the residential second floor was around the side of the building. Diana rang the doorbell and waited.

  Nothing happened. She swore and then scolded herself. Mary Alice could go out on the spur of the moment if she wanted.

  But then the door buzzed. Diana pushed it open and started climbing. At the top of the stairs she knocked on the door to the apartment. It opened. She stepped inside.

  “Oh,” she said.

  The young woman in Mary Alice’s kitchen wasn’t Mary Alice, but she looked familiar, even without a syringe in her hand. A gun had taken its place.

  “I learn from experience,” said the young woman.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Roxanne. March.”

  “Roxanne March. I’ll remember you.”

  “March, as in get moving.”

  Roxanne nodded toward Mary Alice’s living room, where Diana had been a few times.

  Mary Alice sat on her aging sofa against the far wall. Next to her was a blonde woman in her forties. Diana looked at the woman and knew where she had seen Roxanne’s pale blue eyes before.

  “Sallie. You’re her mother.”

  “Right,” said Roxanne. “And you’re thinking I’m a second-generation whore.”

  “Give me a chance, and I wouldn’t think about you at all.”

  “Well, I’m not a whore. I don’t fuck anybody for money, and I wasn’t about to fuck my stepfather at all.”

  She gave a nasty grin.

  “He had a different idea. I wonder where he got it.”

  “Duane Antonelli. So what did you have against Stephen?”

  Roxanne gave her a contemptuous look.

  “Oh,” said Diana. “You used him to get at me. I guess you really aren’t a whore, because you don’t get it. I’m not the other woman. It was just business.”

  “I don’t care. I take care of my mother.”

  “I can see what a great job you do.”

  “I talked him into writing her a nice check. You’d think she’d be a little bit grateful.”

  Diana glanced at Sallie, who sat there with a stunned look on her face.

  A phrase came into Diana’s mind, something biblical from way back in her Sunday school days. “The fruit of thy loins.”

  Sallie was contemplating the fruit of her loins and wondering how she had gone so wrong. She also looked as if she had given u
p hope.

  Mary Alice seemed to have more presence of mind, but she was leaving it to Diana to get something started.

  “You going to shoot us?” said Diana. “That’s not going to fool anybody.”

  “I still have my syringe. My mother will inject both of you.”

  “Not much of a choice for us.”

  “How’s this? If you hold still and cooperate, somebody might even find you in time. If I have to shoot, I’ll make damn sure you’re dead.”

  Movement down at floor level caught Diana’s eye. Mary Alice’s cat for three weeks looked unimpressed by the drama around her. She went straight to Roxanne and started rubbing herself against the young woman’s legs in their distressed jeans.

  “Get away,” said Roxanne.

  The cat ignored her. Roxanne hooked her right foot under the cat’s ribcage and heaved the animal toward Diana. The cat rolled in mid-air and landed on her feet.

  “Shit, I hate cats.”

  So did I, Diana thought. Until now. She stooped and scooped up the cat. In the same motion she flung the beast back at Roxanne’s face. The cat screeched and extended her claws.

  Roxanne raised her left arm to protect her face. Her gun hand dropped to her side. She managed to parry the flying cat, but then Diana was right on top of her. Diana put everything behind her right elbow, as she drove it into Roxanne’s face.

  Roxanne’s head snapped back. Diana grabbed her right wrist with both hands and twisted. The gun fell to the floor. Diana didn’t want to let go of Roxanne, and she didn’t have to. Mary Alice launched herself from the sofa and dove for the gun. She scrambled to her feet and backed up. To give Mary Alice a clear shot, Diana shoved Roxanne away from her.

  “Sit,” said Mary Alice. “There.”

  With her free hand she pointed at the space she had vacated on the sofa. Roxanne hesitated, but Mary Alice could look pretty scary when she needed to. Roxanne decided to obey. She sat next to her mother, who edged away. The younger woman touched her nose and looked at the blood on her fingers.

  “That’s better,” said Diana.

  The cat was sitting in the corner and licking a paw. Diana went and picked her up, which the cat tolerated.

  “Pretty girl. What’s your name?”

  “Jezebel,” said Mary Alice.

  “Sweet,” said Diana. “One of us.”

  The Raymond Chandler Con

  Earl Staggs

  Harry Phillips sat at his desk thinking murder was not supposed to happen in a small town like Sentry, Texas. That’s why he moved here and took the job of Police Chief after twenty years as a cop in Dallas, where murder happened every other day.

  His Chief Deputy, Pete Wilson, and two others were still at the home of the victim, Martha Robinson, processing the scene. Harry had gone there with them when the call came in first thing that morning. It was nearly noon, and he was anxious for their report.

  A minute later, his secretary, Glenda, buzzed him. “Harry, there’s someone here to see you. She says it’s important.”

  Harry groaned. He had a homicide to work on. He didn’t have time to listen to a complaint about someone’s SUV blocking someone else’s driveway or someone’s cat raiding someone’s garbage can.

  “Send her in.”

  When she entered his office, Harry stood and invited her to sit by his desk. “How can I help you?”

  She was short and heavyset and wore jeans, white sneakers, a Cowboys tee shirt, and thick glasses. She hadn’t taken any pains with her short brown hair or makeup that morning, and her eyes looked swollen like she’d done a lot of crying.

  “Chief Phillips,” she said. “I’m Beth Harding. My best friend, Martha Robinson, was murdered last night. I know who did it.”

  Harry knew where this conversation was going. It was common after a killing. People always came forward to turn in the evil culprit who happened to be someone they hated and wanted to get even with for something. He had to humor them. It went with the job.

  “I’m very sorry you lost a friend, Ms. Harding, but who do you think did it?”

  “It was Richard Jennings.”

  “What makes you so sure it was him?”

  “Martha dated him a couple times. He was nice enough at first, but she soon learned he was vulgar and mean and drank too much. She broke it off about a month ago, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. He harassed her and stalked her. Everywhere she went, she’d see that big red pickup of his. I told her to get a restraining order against him, but she wouldn’t do anything like that. She didn’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

  “We’ll certainly check him out, Ms. Harding. Do you know where he lives?”

  “In Keller.”

  Harry buzzed Glenda. “Glenda, call Keller P.D. and see if you can get anything on a Richard Jennings.” He thought this would satisfy Ms. Harding that he was taking her seriously.

  She looked at him with wide, slightly reddened eyes. “Can’t you just go arrest him?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Harry smiled across his desk. “Ms. Harding—”

  “Please. Call me Beth.”

  “Okay, Beth, thank you for coming in with this information. We will definitely talk to him.” He stood up, expecting her to do the same.

  She didn’t. “That could be a mistake, Harry. If he knows he’s a suspect, he could skip to South America or somewhere.” Her voice weakened. She reached in her pocket for a tissue and wiped her eyes. After a moment, she clinched the tissue in a fist and continued. “Are you familiar with Raymond Chandler?”

  “One of our best crime writers.”

  “The very best, as far as I’m concerned. I remember a short story of his, one of his Philip Marlowe ones, with a situation like this one. Marlowe knew who the killer was, but he had no proof. He conned the guy into a confession.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “He told the guy he witnessed the murder and would go to the police unless the guy paid him ten thousand dollars. The guy paid him, which was the same as a confession.”

  Harry grinned. “That might work in fiction, but not necessarily in real life. Besides, there are a lot of legal issues involved in something like that. I’d have to assign an officer to work undercover and—”“You don’t have to assign anyone. I’ll do it.”

  “I can’t let you do something like that. You’re not a trained police officer. I can’t put you in a dangerous situation like that.”

  “There wouldn’t be any danger. You’d be close by to make sure of that. I’ve read everything Chandler wrote, Harry. Twice. And I watch every crime show on TV. In fact, I’m thinking about becoming a private detective. I can do this. You’ll see.”

  Harry groaned inside. Just what he needed, another amateur P.I. running around loose. “I’m sorry, Beth, but it’s out of the question. Reading books and watching TV do not qualify someone to be a detective. As soon as our preliminary investigation is done, we’ll begin checking out suspects, and Mr. Jennings will be one of them.”

  She sat up straight and rigid in her chair. “Is that all you’re going to do?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the best we can do for now. Please leave your phone number with my secretary, and we’ll let you know when we come up with something.”

  She stood up abruptly. “Certainly, Chief Phillips, I’ll do that,” she said as she left

  his office.

  Harry didn’t miss the trace of anger in her voice, and that she was not calling him Harry anymore. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything foolish.

  An hour later, Deputy Pete Wilson came into Harry’s office. “Harry, we dusted all the usual places in the house for prints and DNA traces and came up with nothing. Even the doorknobs have been wiped clean. No sign of the murder weapon either. Her purse is missing and there’s an empty jewelry case in the bedroom, so robbery could be the motive.”

  “Or it could be personal, and he only wanted it to look like a robbery.”

  “True. We canvassed the neighborhood and didn’
t get much. Guy across the street noticed a red pickup cruising the block several times in the last couple weeks, including last night. Could be something, could be nothing, but that’s all we got. I stopped by the M.E.’s office and he drew a blank too. No traces on the body.”

  “Did the neighbor happen to get the plate number on that red pickup?”

  “No, he wasn’t close enough.” Harry’s intercom buzzed.

  “Harry, here’s what I came up with on Richard Jennings,” Glenda said. “He’s no stranger to Keller P.D. He’s had three arrests for barroom brawling and lost his license twice for D.W.I.s. There were two arrests for physical abuse against women, but the charges were dropped both times. Keller is sure he paid them off. Interesting?”

  “Very interesting.”

  “There’s more. Keller considers him their worst nightmare—a low-class redneck with money. His parents left him a few hundred prime acres, which he promptly sold to a developer for a healthy fortune. He not only has low morals and bad habits, but plenty of money to indulge them. I went a step further and checked with motor vehicles. He drives a red Dodge pickup, and I have his license number if you want it.”

  “A red pickup, huh? Thanks, Glenda.” Harry hung up and spoke to Pete Wilson. “Let’s bring Richard Jennings in for questioning. Glenda has his address.”

  *

  Pete Wilson called in at two o’clock. “No luck with Richard Jennings. No one here at his house, and his neighbors said he has no set schedule, just comes and goes at all hours.”

  “Thanks, Pete. Sit tight in case he shows up. I’ll get a BOLO out on his vehicle.”

  After he’d arranged for the Be On the Look Out notice, Harry worked at his desk until six thirty. Still no sign of Richard Jennings at his home, and no results from the BOLO.

  When the phone rang, Harry answered. Beth Harding said in a matter-of -act tone, “Harry, if you want proof against Richard Jennings, be at Moe’s Diner on Denton Highway at nine tonight.”

  Big red alarm signals went off in Harry’s gut. “Beth, what have you done?”

  “I called him and told him I saw him coming out of Martha’s house late last night. I said I wouldn’t tell the police if he paid me a hundred thousand dollars. He agreed to do it. I’ll have a tape recorder in my purse, and we’ll get his confession when he pays me the money.”