Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

  “Thin Jake, real thin.” Barnes paused for a moment. “Listen, call down to that kid out front and tell him to clear Blaine for bagging the body, okay?” He listened to Watts bark into the radio and heard the confirmation.

  “All set. So what is it that’s thin?”

  “I want to talk to the tenant in 302. A Mr. Quinn Boyd. You feel like taking a walk down there with me?”

  A crooked smile creased the already creased face of the Sergeant. “I’d like nothing better Bob. Stairs or elevator?”

  “I never mind walking down Jake. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 13

  Quinn

  Quinn swam out of the groggy haze of a dead sleep. As consciousness battered at him, he tried to make sense of what was going on. A car door slammed, then another slam. Goddamn morning people. He groaned aloud as he raised his head from the pillow. He felt as heavy as roadkill. How late did I stay up last night? Quinn tried to remember what time he had gotten to bed, but he could not come up with the hour. His memory of the end of the night was a clean black slate. He shook his head in the darkness of the bedroom. Heavy drapes blocked out the evil morning light, but street sounds penetrated the walls of the old building. More noise, voices barking in the street below. Quinn looked at the clock, groaned at the early hour, and pulled a pillow over his head. Please people, I understand you need to commute, but could you do it quietly? He burrowed back under the comforter and fell into an uneasy doze.

  The threadbare carpet muffled the sounds of the two men’s footsteps. Barnes walked just behind Watts and a little to the right, a phalanx of two. The Sergeant’s radio crackled. He stopped in the middle of the hallway. Watts keyed the mic and spoke in a low voice. He listened for a response, acknowledged it, and turned to Barnes.

  “Boyd’s car is in the parking lot. An older Honda.” The man spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  “Right. Doesn’t mean he’s here, but it ups the odds. 302 has to be at the end of the hall.” Barnes indicated the direction with a thrust of his jaw.

  The two men resumed their quiet march to the end of the hallway. The heavy wood-paneled door was stained a dark mahogany. Three brass numbers ran across the width of the center stile. Barnes took up a position to the left of the door, Watts to the right. The space directly in front of the door of 302 remained empty. Midway down the hall an elevator bell chimed. Two uniformed police officers emerged from the elevator as the door hissed closed. Barnes held up a hand. The officers stopped where they were, each scanning the expanse of the hall. Barnes turned back to Watts and nodded his head. He saw Watts rest his right hand on the Glock at his belt. Barnes eased open the side of his suit coat with his right hand. Reaching up with his left hand, he beat a stern tattoo on the dark wood of the door.

  “Mr. Quinn, Portland Police department.” Rap, rap, rap. “Portland Police, Mr. Quinn. We need to speak to you please.”

  In the middle of the hallway, a door popped open and a woman’s head appeared. Sergeant Watts threw a sharp point at the officers near the elevator, and then at the woman. The two officers moved toward her. Satisfied, Watts looked back to Barnes, cocking one eyebrow. “Heavy sleeper?”

  A muffled conversation drifted down from the neighbor’s door. Barnes ignored the distraction. He raised his hand again and the rapping noise resonated off of the door. “Portland Police Mr. Quinn. Please open the door.”

  From behind the door came the sound of a muffled thump, a curse, and then a voice.

  “Yeah, sorry, be right there.”

  Bang, bang, bang. The harsh knocking drove a wedge into Quinn’s brain. He sat bolt upright in the darkness of the bedroom. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 8:47. Bang, bang, bang. Someone was shouting. Who shouts at this time of morning? One of the tenants must have left the front door open again, the stupid bastards. What was the good of a security door if no one closed it? Quinn fished around on the floor for his discarded jeans, found them, and stumbled for the bedroom door.

  The horrible light flooded into his eyes as he yanked open the bedroom door. Wincing against the brightness, he was struggling into his jeans when he heard the words clearly. Portland Police. What the hell was happening now? Crossing the living room, Quinn collided with the low coffee table, barking his upper shin. Goddamnit to hell. C’mon, get a grip Bucko.

  “Yeah, sorry, be right there.” Quinn hobbled across the living room.

  Through the door, the two men heard the sound of a chain sliding and a deadbolt rolling back. From the corner of his eye, Barnes saw Watts tense. No one is going to get the drop on Jake, he thought. The door opened to reveal a very disheveled man in a rumpled t-shirt and baggy jeans. The man seemed very confused.

  “Quinn Boyd?” Barnes’ voice was clipped and professional.

  “Yes, sorry, I’m Quinn Boyd.” The man standing in the doorway ran a hand over an unruly mop of sandy hair.

  Under his suit coat, Barnes slid his right hand from the butt of his service pistol to his breast pocket. He found the flat leather badge wallet pressed against his notebook. He opened it, flashing the badge at the man blinking in front of him. “I’m Detective Barnes and this is Sergeant Watts, Portland Police. It looks like we woke you. Sorry about that.”

  “Um, yeah.” The man seemed to be trying to clear his head. “Sorry. Detective, Sergeant. I’m not much of a morning guy. What can I do for you?”

  Barnes’ eyes took in the man standing in front of him, making quick mental notes. Six feet tall, wiry, one-eighty give or take, mid-thirties. Partial tattoo sleeve right arm, no facial hair, hair on his head sticking up everywhere. That shit must give a barber nightmares. This guy wore his confusion all over his face. Not a poker player. Barnes felt himself relax.

  “Mr. Quinn, there’s been an incident in the building concerning one of your neighbors. We’re checking with all of the tenants to see if anyone might have any information. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  The young man seemed to be regaining a little focus.

  “No, no problem, I don’t mind at all. Whatever I can do to help. Would you Officers like to come in? I’m going to need some coffee before I’m going to be very helpful. Like I said, not much of a morning guy.” Quinn Boyd took a half step back from the doorway.

  “That would be fine Mr. Boyd, if you’re okay with that.” Barnes caught a sharp look from Sergeant Watts. He returned the look with a nod and a slight raise of one hand. “Okay, Sergeant Watts, I think Mr. Boyd and I can handle this from here. Could you check in with the uniforms and see what they’ve got?” Watts seemed to come to a conclusion. The faintest of smiles creased his face, disappearing in an instant. “You got it Detective. Mr. Quinn.” Watts gave a curt nod and moved down the hallway as silent as a cat.

  “The kitchen is this way Detective.”

  Barnes pushed the entry door closed behind himself as he entered the apartment. Never taking his eyes off the back of Quinn Boyd, he followed the barefoot man to the cramped kitchen. Barnes watched him enter the small space and stopped in the doorway. Hell, there’s not enough room to swing a cat in here. At least this guy isn’t going to pull a runner.

  “I just need to get this kettle going if that’s okay?” Quinn paused with his hand over the device.

  “By all means, Mr. Boyd, whatever you need to help you wake up, within reason.” Barnes allowed himself a small smile and relaxed in the tight doorway. Not a threat, thought Barnes, but no reason to be sloppy either. The detective kept a sharp eye on Quinn’s hands without seeming to do so. Barnes watched Quinn set some plastic gizmos on the tiny counter and measure coffee beans into a grinder.

  “I guess this is what you would call cozy, right?”

  “Yes Sir, that’s one thing you could call it. These old buildings, they have their charms, but big kitchens aren’t one of them. Sorry for the noise.” Quinn pushed down on the top of the grinder and an electric whine filled the tiny space. Both men stood still until the buzzing of the grinder ceased.

  “May I
offer you a cup, Detective Barnes?”

  Good grammar, noted Barnes. He could use a cup of joe, protocol be damned.

  “That’s very kind of you Mr. Boyd. I have to say that I am well overdue for a second cup. I wouldn’t say no, provided you don’t poison me or rat me out to the department. Besides, that stuff smells pretty good.” The sharp aroma of the freshly ground coffee was tickling at Barnes. He listened to the muffled sound of the electric kettle heating up. Nifty toy, that. Never seen one of those before.

  “Yes Sir, special beans from Nicaragua. I know a couple down there who run a coffee bean business. Great stuff, but I have to warn you, it’s pretty stout. Um, I don’t think I have any milk but I probably have sugar.” Quinn fussed with the two presses, wondering what in the hell was happening to him. When is this cop going to get around to whatever he has on his mind? The morning was going south in a hurry.

  “Not to worry Mr. Boyd. I like my coffee like I like my women: Strong and Black.” In Barnes’ case, this was not a cliché.

  “Okay Detective. Strong and black is what you’re going to get with these beans. Um, you said you had some questions for me?” He looked over his shoulder at the cop, trying to affect a casual air and failing miserably.

  “Coffee first, wasn’t that what you said?” That stopped him, noted Barnes.

  “Um, okay Detective. It will just be a sec.” Quinn began pouring the hot water into the presses.

  Barnes watched the man fussing with the coffee devices. He had never seen such an odd method for making a cup. “Interesting way to brew coffee Mr. Boyd.”

  “Yes Sir. I’m sort of a coffee freak, as you might have guessed. This press system is great for getting a single clean cup. You can really taste the characteristics of the beans.” Quinn finished pressing the first mug. He carefully placed the plunger device in the sink and handed the steaming mug to Barnes.

  The older man brought the mug to his lips as the aroma washed over his face. He kept his eyes on Boyd through the rising steam. Damn, that was a fine cup of coffee.

  “Well done, Mr. Boyd. I see what you mean. Dark, strong, but not bitter. Rich. That’s just what I needed. Thank you.”

  Quinn readied his own mug and for a moment the two men sipped at their coffee in silence. Quinn braced himself and looked the cop in the eyes. Time’s up, Bucko.

  “So Mr. Boyd, how well did you know James Watson, your neighbor in 410?” He watched for the kid’s reaction.

  Quinn was genuinely startled. “Past tense Detective. What is this about? Did something happen to James?”

  “Mr. Watson is dead. A passerby found his body on the walkway alongside the building. We got the call about 7:30 this morning. Did you know the deceased?” That confusion is real, thought Barnes. Maybe he’s clean. Yeah, and maybe he’s just a good actor.

  “Hey-Zeus Christo. Dead? Wow, I’m really sorry to hear that. Shit. What happened?” Inside his chest, Quinn’s heart was pounding so loudly he was sure the cop could hear it. What is happening here? What is this?

  “We aren’t sure what happened. It seems that Mr. Watson fell from his balcony. Can you tell me anything about this that might help us? Were you home last evening, between say eight PM and midnight?”

  “Yes Sir, I was home all night, here in the apartment and up on the roof.”

  “What were you doing up on the roof?” This kid looks shell-shocked. But he’s not lying. Not yet anyway.

  “I was smoking Detective, having a cigar. I have an old camp chair up there. The rooftop is my hideaway.”

  “Okay, so you were up on the roof. Did you hear or see anything while you were up there enjoying your cigar, anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No Sir, nothing. I was pretty preoccupied actually, thinking about some stuff, but nothing weird happened. Just sitting and smoking.”

  “What were you preoccupied with, if you don’t mind my asking?” Jesus, this kid is an open book.

  “I was going over an article I’m working on. I’m a writer. I was just trying to put some pieces in the right order I guess.”

  “And you were alone all evening, no company down here or up on the roof?”

  “No, I was by myself all evening. My girlfriend had a girls’ night, so it was just me.”

  “Okay Mr Boyd. So you don’t recall hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary while you were up on the roof. Can you tell me what time you went up there and when you came down?”

  “Well Detective, I wasn’t paying much attention to time. I guess I went up about eight or so. I’m not really sure about what time I came back down. I sort of got lost in my thoughts if you know what I mean. Maybe midnight, maybe later.”

  The kid looked puzzled. Interesting. “So, four hours on the roof, give or take. I’m guessing two cigars then?” Leading question. Yeah, but we’re not in court. Not yet.

  “Yes, two sticks for sure. Like I said, I just wandered off in my head.” What the hell time did I come down here? Why can’t I remember going to bed? Quinn needed time to sort this out, needed it very badly.

  “Okay Mr. Boyd. Not much that we can work with there. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Watson, maybe about how he was as a neighbor, anything that you think might help us out?” He saw the younger man flinch. Okay, that hit a nerve.

  Quinn drew in a breath and let it out. He took a pull from the mug of coffee and set it down on the counter.

  “James and I were not the best of neighbors. I’m sorry he’s dead, that sucks, but the truth is that we did not get along. In fact, he accused me of vandalizing his car. That was, um, Tuesday of this week. He called the police and told them that I had fucked up his Saab. He is, um was, very fond of that thing. So this is the second time I’ve had to talk to the police this week. Not something I’m accustomed to.”

  “Okay Mr. Boyd, I appreciate your openness about this. I’d like to ask you a few more questions, but I want to be clear that you do not have to answer me if you’d rather not. Are we clear about that?”

  What kind of horrible déjà vu is this? “I’ll tell you what I know Detective. It’s just that I’m more than a little stunned by all of this crap happening so fast.”

  “Right. I understand. Really. So Mr. Watson accused you of vandalizing his car. And you talked to the officers that responded, is that correct?”

  Yeah, you know the whole story, don’t you Mr. Cop. This guy held all the cards. Quinn was very much wide awake now.

  “I’m betting that you already know exactly what happened that evening Detective.” Quinn said it a bit more sharply than he intended. He saw the big man watching him, watching him like a cat watches a mouse, without any reaction. “I’m sure you can ask the two officers who were here that evening. They asked me some questions, asked me where I had been that evening, showed me the car, and that was the end of it.”

  “And have you seen or talked to Mr. Watson since Tuesday evening?”

  “No Sir, I haven’t. As you can probably imagine, I didn’t have any desire to talk to him.” Quinn could feel his jaw stiffening. “Officer Perkins told me to steer clear. That was Tuesday night. I thought it was good advice.”

  “Good advice indeed. I’m going to ask you two direct questions Mr. Boyd, and you can refuse to answer either one. Clear?”

  “Yes Sir. Go ahead.”

  Yeah, there was a little bit of steel in this one after all. Barnes took a sip of the coffee. Regardless, the kid made a mean cup of joe.

  “Did you have anything to do with the vandalism of Mr. Watson’s car?” No flinching this time. Interesting.

  “No Sir, I did not.”

  “Fair enough. Second question, you said that you have not seen or spoken to Mr. Watson in the time since the officers were here on Tuesday evening. Does that still stand?”

  “Yes Detective. That still stands.” Quinn’s voice was finding its edge.

  Even more steel, noted Barnes. Good for you Mr. Quinn Boyd. Without stepping into the kitchen, Barnes set his coffee mug down on
the cluttered counter.

  “I think that about wraps it up Mr. Boyd. Thank you for your cooperation and for the coffee. We may have some other questions over the next few days. Do you have a good number I can reach you at?” Barnes pulled the notebook from his pocket. He jotted down the number that Quinn recited. Sliding the notebook back into his pocket, he caught the younger man staring at him.

  “May I ask you a question Detective Barnes?”

  “Fire away.” Good, ask me a question Kid.

  “James’ death, was this an accident or something else?”

  That’s the right question, thought Barnes. Good for you. “I honestly don’t know Mr. Boyd. That’s what we are trying to figure out. Anything else?”

  “No Sir, I guess not.” There’s that look again, thought Barnes, that confused look. Not everything is right here. Nothing clear cut, not a junkie holding a smoking gun, but something.

  “Okay then. Again, thanks for the coffee and for your cooperation. I can see myself out. You have a good morning Mr. Boyd.” The detective straightened up and turned away from the man in the kitchen. He walked straight to the front door of the apartment, making careful note of everything along the way. Barnes disappeared through the door, closing it behind himself with a firm hand.

  “Fucking hell!” Quinn felt his hands begin to shake. “Fucking hell.” What was happening to him? You have a good morning Mr. Quinn. Not bloody likely. Was that some standard phrase from the cop training manual? Like anyone was going to have a good day after something like that. Quinn snatched up the remains of his coffee and walked out of the kitchen. He crossed to the apartment door and twisted the dead bolt closed. Then he threw himself on the couch and buried his head in his hands.

  James is dead. The thought resonated through Quinn’s brain. Dead. Dead, dead, dead. Yeah, okay, I got it. Not an accident. If it was an accident, the cop would have said so. Quinn rubbed at his eyes with his finger tips, then his forehead. Think, goddamnit. You have a serious conflict with your neighbor. Two days later that neighbor is dead and the cops are at your door. In a matter of a few days you’ve gone from a normal life to a nightmare. What the hell? And why can’t I remember coming down from the roof? Quinn played back the evening in his head, not happy with the results.