The Highest Stakes

by Rick Reed

  “Jack,” Stu said with a huge grin, “meet John Keep.”

  “That’s First Officer Keep to you, Sanders.” Keep took Jack’s hand in a viselike grip. “I’m the navigator.”

  “Did I mention I’m armed?” Jack said, only half-joking as he rubbed the ache out of his hand.

  “I’m giving Jack the fifty-cent tour,” Stu said. “Maybe Captain Bruce will continue.”

  “Anything for a hero,” Bruce said and pointed to the elaborate control panel in front of them. “We use radar and navigation just like in larger bodies of water.” A black screen was backlit with fluorescent green lines and marks like square objects. He pointed to one of the objects. “That’s a barge coming at us at five knots.” Other gauges showed the river depth, water temperature, and so on.

  “This boat is an exact replica of The Robert E. Lee steamboat, a side-wheel racing boat that was built about one hundred and thirty years ago. The City of Evansville, she’s called, and she’s three hundred foot long by seventy foot wide and weighs in at 1,589 tons. Without passengers of course.”

  “That perfectly describes my partner,” Jack said. “I named him Bigfoot because he weighs in at full-grown yeti.”

  Stu rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Captain Bruce. Jack’s brain is oxygen-deprived from walking up three flights of stairs.”

  The captain let Jack put the boat into reverse and lock on the autopilot to take her back to dockside. He explained that Mister Keep would do the final docking.

  They thanked the captain and First Officer Keep for their hospitality, shook hands, and headed down to the second level.

  “Well, you didn’t sink the boat,” Stu said.

  “And I didn’t have to swim back either.”

  Stu got serious. “What’s going on, Jack?”

  Jack told Stu about the FBI agents. “They had FBI badges but they seem more like NSA or CIA or one of those other three-letter agencies. They got here way too quick if they really came from D.C. Why wouldn’t they just use the FBI agents here? I don’t trust them.”

  After they docked, Stu made a Xerox of the 5x7 photo of Moon Pie and gave it to Jack.

  “Can you tell how much someone has spent gambling, Stu? Or do I need a subpoena?”

  Stu laughed. “I can run that for you, but it will take a bit. You want it on West and Moon Pie, right?”

  “Thanks, Stu.”

  Jack headed for the detectives’ office. He needed to look into the background on Skippy Walker and Shirley West. His drowsiness had passed and he was wide awake. Possibly a result of the nicotine in the cigar.

  * * *

  As Jack drove to headquarters, he felt a thrill of excitement. He finally had a lead. He hoped he wouldn’t run into the Feds again so he decided not to use the computer in his office. It was between shifts so he could use the computer in the empty motor patrol workroom. He pulled up the files on Skippy Walker, aka Moon Pie, and Shirley West. He got their addresses and telephone numbers along with photos of them in uniform. Skippy definitely had the whole Jay Leno thing going. Shirl had the appearance of a Marine drill sergeant with his short stiff buzz cut of gray hair.

  He had worked with Shirl years ago when Shirl was still a detective sergeant. When Shirl wasn’t drunk he was a good investigator. But like many alcoholics, booze finally got him. Shirl was shit-faced drunk and on duty when he’d shot a kid who was holding a cap gun. Shirl was lucky he wasn’t fired and/or charged with manslaughter. The kid’s family received a huge monetary settlement from the city.

  Jack called Susan from the workroom phone. Her answering machine picked up on the third ring. “Hello,” the disembodied voice said. “If you have dialed correctly, you have reached the person you were calling . . .”

  Jack recognized the voice as that of Miz Johnson-Heddings—Susan’s receptionist. Her tone was funereal and reminded him of something from a horror movie. Before the rest of the message could play, Susan picked up the line.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Miz Johnson-Heddings?” Jack asked.

  “Don’t knock it. Her voice discourages salesmen and other evildoers.”

  “Good choice. Almost discouraged me,” Jack said.

  “Must be an important call then, huh? And you remembered my home phone number.”

  “I know who Moon Pie and the other cop are,” Jack said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  By the second half of the nineteenth century, Evansville was a major trading port for steamboats and flatboats hauling goods along the Ohio River. Then the railroads came, and the need for the waterway diminished. Three of Evansville’s most iconic buildings, the old post office, old courthouse, and Willard Library were built as monuments to the geographic placement and abundance of natural resources found in the bend of the river. Hardwood lumber from the area fed the Reitz Sawmill that resulted in a growth of Victorian-era homes along the riverfront. Susan lived in one of these.

  Susan had inherited a three-story, brick and Bedford stone Victorian home that faced the Ohio River. Across the street was a spacious park with a children’s playground and a grand view of the riverfront. Behind the house sat an old carriage house with heavy iron hinges and old-fashioned carriage lamps high up beside the massive doors. When Jack had first met Susan, she was fixing this place up to be a bed-and-breakfast. But when she took the job in Indianapolis she had stopped the renovations. The last he knew she hadn’t decided whether to complete renovations or just sell the house. He didn’t see a Realtor’s sign in the yard.

  Jack parked in the drive where a cobblestone pathway led to the vintage front door. Mounted in the middle of the door was an ornate lion’s head knocker. The door opened as he approached.

  “Come in, but watch your step,” Susan said. She was shoeless and wearing a knee-length painter’s apron with a pink T-shirt and on her head was a once-white painter’s cap. The legs below the apron were bare. She was a runner, so her legs were as spectacular as he remembered.

  “Let’s go back to the kitchen table,” she said. “I have some news for you.”

  Jack followed her into the kitchen and let out a whistle. “Wow! This is different,” he said, taking in the new appliances, cabinets, tile flooring, and brightly painted walls.

  She smiled and motioned him toward a chair at the table. She poured two cups of hot coffee and they both sat. “Do you want cream or sugar?”

  “I like my coffee like I like my women,” Jack responded. “But enough about me, tell me your news first.”

  “No, no. You first.”

  “Okay,” Jack said. “I have a friend with the State Police that is assigned to the Blue Star Casino. His name is Stu Sanders. I just talked to him and found out this is Moon Pie.” He showed her the photo of Skippy Walker. “And this is Moon Pie’s partner, Shirley West. Shirley’s a guy, by the way.”

  She studied the pictures. “I’ve seen this guy before,” she said, tapping Shirl’s photo. “But I’ve never seen the other one. Are you sure that’s who Coin and Payne were talking about?”

  “Stu’s into weightlifting. He showed me a picture of one of his competitions, and Moon Pie was in the background. Shirl is tall, thin. Shirl’s sixty-two and has to retire in three years. Sixty-five is mandatory retirement age for EPD. Moon Pie is short and muscular, twenty-five. I don’t know much about Moon Pie’s past, but Shirl is an alcoholic. He was almost fired a few years ago. He shot a kid that he thought had a gun. Shirl was a sergeant in detectives at the time, and he was dead drunk. Now he’s a patrolman and working with Skippy Walker.

  “We probably have the right guys that Coin said were policemen. And I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut that Khaled is Modock. What are the chances that Khaled’s not involved?”

  She took a sip and made a face. “Oh, that’s bad.” She sat her cup down. “Just playing devil’s advocate. All of this hinges on Coin. And Reverend Payne. If Coin is lying or maybe he’s just mistaken, then this is all conjecture.”

  “I agree that Coin could be l
ying or mistaken, but there’s just too many coincidences,” Jack said. “And my gut is never wrong.”

  Susan got up and took Jack’s hardly touched cup and poured both coffees in the sink. “Okay. Since you put it that way I believe you. But why is this going on?”

  “Beats me. If I knew that I’d have the shooter’s throat in my hands. Now it’s your turn to spill.”

  “Mabel called me just before you did.”

  “Who’s Mabel?”

  “You know her as Miz Johnson-Heddings,” Susan said. “Mabel was very upset and that’s not her nature. She said that after I left work two FBI agents came in asking questions about Khaled and demanding to see not only his file, but Eddie Solazzo’s file as well. Mabel tried to call me, but the agents wouldn’t let her. She got them the files but they didn’t even look at them. She said they just took the files. She tried to stop them but they threatened to arrest her.”

  Jack couldn’t imagine Miz Johnson-Heddings being bullied by anyone.

  “Let me guess,” Jack said. “The FBI agents were from D.C. One was an old guy dressed badly, and the other was a younger guy straight from the cover of GQ magazine.”

  “So you already know about these creeps. Excuse me, I mean these federal agents.”

  Jack told her about Captain Franklin introducing him to the suits. “They don’t act like any FBI I’ve ever known. I’m not sure they’re really FBI.”

  “What do you mean, not FBI? Who are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “I mean, they could be the real deal, but it’s just too strange.”

  He told her about the timing of the agents showing up, and questioned again why the local FBI wouldn’t be involved.

  “Jack, do you think those guys know we were at Khaled’s? I mean, why would they pull his file?”

  He thought about it. “I don’t know. If they do, they haven’t said anything. Maybe they’re interested in Khaled for some other reason. Maybe Khaled poses a biological threat because of all the grease in his hair.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack,” she said.

  “What? You didn’t think that greaseball was a threat to public health? And who knows what he was up to in that disco bedroom. Okay, here’s our bigger problem. The FBI took Eddie Solazzo and Khaled’s files. They are putting things together, just like we did. Miz Heddings doesn’t know anything, but you do. If they contact you and ask anything about this just tell them I had you take me to Khaled’s house. You don’t know why. If they know we went back to Khaled’s you tell them I made you. Tell them I’m unhinged.”

  “So I should tell them the truth.”

  “Yes.” Bitch.

  “Listen to me, buster. These guys took files from my office and abused my receptionist. They’re the ones that should be scared to see me.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You always get your way, don’t you? Of course you do. What was I thinking?”

  “So what now?”

  “I’ve got to find Khaled,” he said. “I’ll call you when I’ve got him. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  Jack sat in his car out front, thinking about where to go next. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t insisted on going, but he was relieved. He needed to call Liddell, and he needed to check on Killian, and he needed to find Khaled, among a dozen other things. And he was bone tired.

  There wasn’t much else he could do tonight. Shirl and Moon Pie weren’t very good suspects in Killian’s shooting, and Misino or Franklin would laugh in his face if he asked to bring them in for questioning. His case was circumstantial. Shirl and Moon Pie patrolled the sector where Killian was shot. A drunk, unreliable snitch (Coin) had told Reverend Payne he’d seen two policemen in the shack across the street from where Killian was shot. The policemen were talking about explosives, but Coin couldn’t remember anything in detail. Coin had come up with the names Moonie or Moon Pie and Modock. Jack had stretched the rest of it to fit what he knew about Khaled and Shirl and Moon Pie.

  Until Khaled could be found and made to talk, this wasn’t going anywhere. And to boot, he now had two funky FBI agents from Washington, D.C., messing around. He’d had to talk to them about Khaled because they were already on to him. But he hadn’t told them about Shirl or Moon Pie or Coin or Reverend Payne. Information was power.

  His cell phone vibrated and he didn’t recognize the number but he answered, “Murphy.”

  “Ask and you shall receive,” Sergeant Elkins said. “We found your guy. Khaled Abutaqa.”

  “Did he come in to report his house had burned down?” At last something was going his way.

  Elkins responded merrily, “No. Actually he wanted to report that someone murdered him. I wasn’t real interested, but you know, I thought about how you were looking for him and I didn’t want your brass screaming at me like a bunch of old women.”

  Jack shut the engine off and listened. Sergeant Elkins told him that two boys were down at the river under the Twin Bridges to set off fireworks when they stumbled across a body. The sheriff was called and when the deputy arrived they showed him where the body was, and the deputy found a van nearby.

  Elkins said, “The plates were removed, but we traced it back to Avis on Franklin Street. They’re closed but I’m trying to get someone to come in and give me some info.”

  “Have someone drive by Avis and see if Khaled’s Toyota RAV is in the lot or parked nearby.”

  “No shit, Jack. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Jack knew Elkins wasn’t pissed at him. He was mad because this would put him in the spotlight, and that’s not where he ever wanted to be. He was like the opposite of Double Dick, who would do anything to put his face in the public.

  “How did he die?”

  Elkins said, “Here’s the summary. Kids find the body. Our Crime Scene finds the van.”

  “You can skip ahead if you want.”

  “Okay. I will,” Elkins said. “Khaled was about twenty feet from the van, faceup on his back on the ground, one or two bullet holes in his right eye.”

  “Was he shot anywhere else?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not done. Sheesh! Okay, so we figure two bullet holes because there are two exit wounds on the back of his skull. My crime scene guru is under the impression that one shot was fired while Khaled was sitting in the driver’s seat of the van. Then he was drug out on the ground onto his back, and shot again through the same eye. Forensic evidence shows the head was moved and someone dug into the ground beneath the skull. My guru thinks they dug the bullet up. We didn’t find the bullet—either bullet—and there are no shell casings. That would mean a revolver was used, or the killer picked up his brass after he killed this guy.”

  Elkins told Jack they identified the body by the Indiana driver’s license in his wallet. Cash and credit cards were still in it. They could rule robbery out. Khaled’s body had been taken to the morgue at the coroner’s office.

  Jack said he would meet Elkins there, hung up, and punched in another number.

  “Bigfoot. What are you doing?”

  “I’m talking to you, pod’na,” Liddell answered.

  “I need you.”

  “You charmer. Where am I going?” Liddell asked.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Jack told Susan about Elkins’s call and where he was going next. She agreed to wait for his call. He then went straight to the morgue.

  The morgue was in the Vanderburgh County Coroner’s Office building, a squat, ugly, tan brick structure. The flat-roofed building had the personality and appeal of Hillary Clinton and that was being generous. The woman standing at the front door was short and ugly like the building.

  Lilly Caskins held the front door open and motioned for Jack to get moving. She had been chief deputy coroner since before Jack was a gleam in his father’s eye, or so she said. She was a diminutive woman whom everyone called “Little Casket.” It was a nickname that suited her well, for she was evil looking, with large dark eyes stari
ng out of extra-thick lenses inside horn-rimmed frames that had gone out of style during the days of Al Capone. Think Wicked Witch of the West, but smaller and nastier tempered. But the thing that bothered Jack most about Little Casket was her bluntness at death scenes. She had no compassion for the dead or patience for the living.

  “I wondered when you were going to get here,” Lilly said. “The FBI called. They want an immediate autopsy on this guy. I told them our pathologist couldn’t parachute in. They said they’d be here in an hour, so we’d better get this party started.”

  Jack again wondered what the FBI had to do with Khaled, and how they knew about this murder so quickly. Khaled’s house was in the county, so the arson was the sheriff’s case. His murder was in the county also, although barely, so again, it was the Sheriff’s Department’s jurisdiction. Jack wouldn’t have known about the murder so quickly if Elkins hadn’t called to tell him. Who was the FBI getting their information from?

  “And your captain is coming with them,” Lilly added.

  “You could have told me that first,” Jack said. He hadn’t yet told Captain Franklin about the possible link between Killian and Khaled. He hadn’t mentioned that he had visited Khaled’s house twice today. Or that he had found a bullet lodged in a wall stud or about the computer or picture or that he was in Khaled’s house when it was set on fire. At best he was withholding evidence of arson and now a murder investigation. At worst, he might become a suspect in both events.

  Little Casket puffed up and said, “You’re a detective. I thought you knew everything. How am I supposed to know who’s got you in their sights this week? You make enemies like cockroaches make babies.” She walked inside, and Jack followed.

  “So what’s up the FBI’s twat?” she asked Jack. “They ordered me not to touch the body until they got here.”

  “Am I going to get a look first?”

  “FBI don’t pay my salary.” Her almost lipless mouth tightened. “You don’t pay it either, for that matter, but you’re already here and they’re not.”