“Tell us,” she murmured sweetly.
Banyon sighed and began to tell about the ghosts.
“The house I grew up in was haunted,” he said with difficulty. “I know it sounds like I’m nuts, but believe me, something was present in that house. The house was built before the turn of the century. It was a Cape Cod with an enclosed front and back porch. A German immigrant, Wolfgang Becker, built the house. When the stock market crashed in 1929, Wolfgang’s business died a quick death. His wife and son returned to Germany shortly afterward, leaving a depressed Wolfgang alone in America.”
“How sad,” Mrs. Patel uttered.
“He became more despondent when in 1936 he got a letter saying that the United States government was annexing his land for a military training base. It was then that he hung himself in a bedroom closet. When we lived in the house, it was my closet.” He explained that the Banyon family all believed Wolfgang was the ghost.
“That’s fascinating,” Detective Heinz observed with a huff. “I’ve always enjoyed a well spun yarn.”
Banyon continued. “My father bought the land at an auction after the war. The going rate was fifteen dollars per acre in 1946. The house had been vacant since 1936.”
“My brother, Jim, came along in 1947. A year later, I was born. Then my three sisters spread out over the next thirteen years. Grandparents, uncles, and various other relatives had extended stays at the country house during the years. It was drafty, made noises, and peculiar things happened all the time. We all saw strange things.”
“And when did you first see the ghost?” Mrs. Patel asked as she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder in sympathy.
Banyon sucked in some breath. Heinz could clearly see he didn’t want to talk about his experiences. “I was about ten when I first became aware of the ghost. No one in my family would ever stay overnight in the house by themselves and nobody went into the cellar alone. The cavernous basement was built from bricks and mortar. It had several connecting rooms which didn’t seem to have any purpose. A constant wind blew from somewhere down there. We swore the wind sounded like moans. Anyway, I was playing with my father’s train set in the basement with my brother when something knocked the train it off the track. When we looked up we saw a smoke-like apparition glide across the room towards us. We bolted to the stairs.”
“Why didn’t your family just move out?” asked Heinz.
“In the beginning we were too poor to move, but after many years, my family seemed to adjust to the ghosts, and went about our business. The ghosts never hurt us, they were just there. Many of our friends wanted to stay overnight to see the ghosts. Sometimes the ghosts appeared with an outsider around; sometimes it didn’t.”
“You must have been very scared and brave,” Mrs. Patel commented, with deep, dark, searching eyes which locked in on Banyon.
Wanting to conclude the discussion, Banyon replied, “As we grew older, each of us left the house as soon as we could. I left when I was seventeen. We hoped the ghosts wouldn’t follow. Soon after the last child left home, my parents sold the house. My family members all know that there is such a thing as ghosts. As I’ve grown older, the ghosts still haunt me, and I still won’t sleep facing a wall.”
“What happened to the house?” asked the curious detective.
“The house now lays vacant. The last residents used it for an office for their landscaping business, but moved out abruptly when the owner had a heart attack on the premises. It stands today as an eerie monument along the Speonk-Riverhead Road. My sisters go by the house occasionally. They’re on the lookout for lights, moans, or things out of place. We all hoped we were done with the ghosts. They’ve already had too much influence on our lives, and now this.”
Mrs. Patel looked at Banyon sympathetically. “I too believe in spirits.”
“Are ghosts the same thing as religious spirits?” Banyon wondered out loud.
Mrs. Patel wanted to continue, but Detective Heinz ended the conversation. He pointed to Mrs. Patel. “You go home.” Then to Banyon, “You come with me; I want to see these bugs.”
“My home would have been the first place the men headed upon discovering that I had removed the first tracking device. The devices are probably gone.” Banyon said this as he opened the garage and went in through the kitchen door.
Banyon quickly noticed that the spice rack in the kitchen was tipped on its side. Inspecting the upstairs, he found the mirror in his bedroom was askew. The clock in the office had also been moved. Everything else in the house seemed to be just how he had left it. Passing the wall behind his desk, Banyon saw a nail picture hanger sticking out of the wall, but the picture frame was missing. My father’s war medals are gone.
Deciding there was a real mystery to solve; Banyon gave the surprised detective the first three letters of the van’s license plate. He apologized for not giving the letters to the detective sooner. He told Heinz he didn’t have much trust in the police department. Heinz nodded his head in understanding, but said nothing more.
Banyon went on to do a complete search of the house. As he moved from room to room, Detective Heinz sat at the dining room table. He began placing phone calls and making notations in his log book.
Eventually, Banyon went into the office to check his e-mails. He scrolled through the many “spam” e-mails and found two from recruiters who were requesting more information on behalf of a client. He saved those and erased the others. As the screen rebooted, one new message appeared. “Call me later. I have something to tell you, Pramilla.” A cell phone number appeared at the bottom of the e-mail. They had lived next door to each other for a long time, but strangely he could not recall ever giving her his e-mail address.
He went back downstairs to face Detective Heinz. Heinz said, “I’m going back to the shop — nothing to find here. If there were men in the house, they wore gloves.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a detective, remember?” He then added, “Do you see any cleaning bottles anywhere in your house? They took them after they cleaned up any prints.”
“Will you give me a ride?” It had occurred to Banyon that he had parked his car at the station house only three hours earlier, yet it seemed like centuries ago. “What should I do? I can’t come back here.”
“If I were you, I’d find someplace else to stay tonight,” the detective advised him.
“I understand,” Banyon replied sadly. He was in essence kicked out of his home because someone had committed a crime there.
“Listen, I’ve got work to do back at the station. I’ll run the plates on the van,” Heinz said. “You can stick around if you want.”
“No, that’s okay,” Banyon replied.
On the ride back to the police station, neither man spoke.
Once at his car, Banyon got in and then jumped out again. He looked under the car but saw nothing.
He failed to notice the face in the station house window that was staring at him with unmitigated hate.
Chapter Eight
A few minutes later, Detective Heinz had just added sugar to his coffee in the small kitchenette at the station when Officer Dean stormed into the room. “Chief, can I go now? I need to check up on something,” he pleaded in a rush.
“Don’t call me chief, or captain for that matter,” Detective Heinz blustered. “You know I’m only filling in until the town finds a new Captain.”
“Yeah, yeah, can I go now?” The officer responded. Detective Heinz didn’t appreciate Officer Deans attitude. He sometimes showed no respect. He needed a lesson.
“Have you checked on the suspect van and plates, as I asked you to do an hour ago?”
“Sure did!” The officer said in a cherry manner.
“And?”
“The van was stolen today at around two o’clock this afternoon. The plates don’t belong to the van. They were reported stolen about three hours ago in a separate incident,” Officer Dean replied professionally. “The reports are on your desk.”
“Did you include the names and addresses of the victims?”
“Of course.”
“Did you talk to the victims?”
“I haven’t had time yet,” Officer Dean protested.
“Well, you’re not going anywhere until you finish the job I have assigned you,” Detective Heinz said as he added more sugar to his coffee.
Dean stomped from the kitchen like he had been grounded. Soon Detective Heinz heard Dean slamming his fist into his desk. He watched Dean from the window in the kitchen and noted the raw hostility. He’s angry about something, I wonder what?
After a few minutes on the phone, Dean collected some papers from his desk, stomped into Heinz’s office and dropped the papers in the inbox. He turned around and went back to his desk. Detective Heinz watched from the kitchenette.
Heinz eventually returned to his desk and started his computer. He called up the system and queried Colton Banyon’s file. The detective noticed that there was virtually nothing of interest in the file, just the usual statistics. He also noticed that Officer Dean had recently opened the file. He first thought Dean had looked up the Lincoln, even after he had been told not to bother. However, the time stamp said the lookup had been done yesterday. At that point, Heinz spilled his drink and began wiping up coffee from his lap. Where is Dean?
Chapter Nine
His mind was completely confused as Banyon headed out of town in his car. He believed the men who were after him would have a larger area of search if he put distance between himself and Streamwood. Who is after my family? What do they want? When can I go home again? Fragmented thoughts passed through his mind. What about Officer Dean? My neighbor is all of a sudden very friendly. Is Detective Heinz a friend or a foe?
He suddenly felt an urge to talk to someone and picked up his cell phone. He called the number supplied to him by Pramilla.
A man’s deep voice, with a hint of an Indian accent, answered. “Hello, Patel residence,” he spoke into the phone.
“Pramilla, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Colton Banyon, your neighbor.”
“I’ll get her for you right away.”
That went better than I thought it would, Banyon considered.
“Colt?” She said it in a silky sweet voice as soon as she came on the phone. “I knew you’d call.” It was a simple statement. I am too predictable, he thought.
“I got your email message,” answered Banyon. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, but I wanted to tell you something.” She sounded excited, the way a woman sounds when wanting to tell how much she saved on a new dress.
“All right, what is on your mind?”
“They’re all racists you know,” she said loudly.
“Who’s racist?” The concern was evident in his tone.
“The police, they’re all racists. Believe me, I know, I’ve seen the results in this village,” Pramilla Patel gushed.
“Can you be more specific?” Banyon asked with added confusion. He didn’t get the sense that Detective Heinz cared enough to be a racist.
“Two of my friends were beaten and money extorted from them. As soon as I moved in here a policeman came to my door and warned me that it was a dangerous neighborhood. He said it was expensive to look after us, and demanded money.”
Banyon inquired. “How much did he ask for?” He knew shakedowns were a common occurrence in many parts of the city, especially in the Asian and Indian communities. After all, this was Metro Chicago.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Did you pay?”
“Of course! We have corruption in India, too.”
“How many times have you been approached?”
“Just once, but I’m afraid Officer Dean will come again soon.” She said this as if resigned to the inevitable.
“Did you say Officer Dean?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
Banyon wasn’t too surprised. He had begun to put the pieces together. The small amount of money figured, too. These guys don’t want to be noticed, so they took what they could get, and ran like thieves. It sounded as if Officer Dean was involved in some kind of extortion ring. Banyon now wondered about his accident from last year. Dean was probably involved in that too, he decided. After all, Banyon’s completed accident report had mysteriously disappeared.
“Don’t worry,” soothed Banyon, “I don’t think he will return. I believe his boss suspects him and will stop him.”
“I hope you are right.” She suddenly asked, “Where are you, Colt?”
He wasn’t sure if it was safe to tell her. She was still a mystery, but he decided she was trustworthy; it would be fine. For some strange reason, he wanted to trust her.
“I’m out looking for a place to stay for tonight since I don’t think it would be wise to go home. At least until Detective Heinz tells me otherwise.”
Suddenly animated, she made an offer. “Why don’t you stay here? I have an extra room. Just leave your car somewhere. I’ll pick you up.”
“No, I couldn’t,” he quickly replied. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself around such beauty. Banyon had a definite weakness for beautiful women.
“Nonsense,” Pramilla huffed. “We have a separate bedroom in the basement and it has a lock on the door too.”
After he carefully considered the offer for three or four seconds, Banyon replied, “Can you pick me up at the Airport Hilton? I’m going to park my car in the lot. I told several people I’m going out of town.”
“I’ll be there in a half-hour.”
“Thanks, Pramilla,” he said solemnly.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she interjected. “I want to hire you.”
***
As he stood in front of the stylish Hilton Hotel at O’Hare Airport, Banyon had the sensation of having been there before. Of course, he had been, countless times, waiting for someone to pick him up. However, he was usually waiting for a limo, not some mysterious woman. I wonder why she mentioned the bedroom had a lock on the door?
He’d been flying in and out of O’Hare for over thirty years now and had racked up over a million miles on several major airlines. In the last several years, however, he’d hardly been to the airport. He was not afraid of flying, but rather it was because of the drop-off of his business. It was just hanging on by a thread. His reminiscing was broken by the sound of a horn. He noticed a small gray Honda parked down the driveway. A thin delicate hand snaked out to wave.
As he opened the door of the Honda he realized he had not planned on what to say on the drive back to Streamwood. He was, however, aware of the scent which would forever remind him of Pramilla as he dropped into the seat, closed the door and fastened the seat belt.
“Thanks. You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know, but you’re my neighbor. Besides, I’m kind of involved since you put that device on my car.” She spoke gaily with a smile on her face.
Banyon quickly put up his guard. Women had an uncanny ability to make him feel guilty — everything was always his fault.
“I am truly sorry about that. I’ve dragged you into something that you shouldn’t have to deal with.”
“Nonsense,” she snorted, jerking up her head as she spoke. “I’ve already had experience with these racists remember? Maybe you and I can stop them.”
Banyon doubted it, but he said nothing. Glancing sideways, he took notice of her appearance. She was now dressed in tight black spandex shorts and a hugging red tank top. For the first time since he knew her, he saw her legs. Banyon was truly a leg man. He didn’t care about breasts like most men. Pramilla had great legs. He could see they were long and well tapered. She was very light-skinned, the color of coffee with milk.
Suddenly curious he asked her a question. “What did you tell your husband?”
“Well, actually,” she said with embarrassment, flipping her delicate hand for emphasis, “I’m not married.”
“B
ut…” It was as far as he got.
“Do you think I’d tell that racist cop I was single?” It was spoken with a fire in her voice. “I’ll tell them nothing.”
“But…” Again, he was quieted by her retort.
“It’s my sister, Previne, who you have seen with Keri. We are very similar, Previne and me.”
Banyon was mystified for about thirty seconds. A beer commercial was playing in his head. “I love parties that never end … and twins.” They were twins. An erotic thought passed through his mind. His cheeks turned red at the thought.
“Well, that certainly explains a lot,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
“I thought it might,” she said with a provocative smile.
At least now he wouldn’t have to be worried about a knife cutting off some of his private parts in his sleep. “I’m feeling a little more comfortable now. At least I have someplace to stay tonight and can face tomorrow with more energy than I feel right now. Thank you Pramilla,” he said happily.
“Colt,” Pramilla said, “I remembered something else about the people who tried to take my video.”
“What?”
“The young one wore shorts with a logo on them. The logo was ‘88’. I checked it out on the Internet. Do you know what it means?”
A bell went off in Banyon’s head. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. The letter ‘H’ is the eighth letter in the alphabet. ‘88’ stands for Heil Hitler.”
“Those men who attacked me were racist bastards weren’t they?” Pramilla asked.
“It appears so,” he replied solemnly. “The only one I had a look at had a swastika tattooed on his neck.”
“And do they have their own clothing line too?”
Banyon felt a need to explain. “A couple of years ago a large discount chain had inadvertently been selling merchandise with the ‘88’ logo for a few months. A lot of people were very upset and the product was pulled from the shelves. It was a public relations nightmare. The Altar of the Creator Church, a racist front company, sold the merchandise to the retailer. You should call Detective Heinz and add it to your statement, but I don’t think it will matter.”
Colton Banyon Mysteries 1-3: Colton Banyon Mysteries (Colton Banyon Mystery Book 20) Page 5
