Raven Rain

by David Stever

  “Walking to my car.” I came up to an intersection and had to find the street sign. “Uh, corner of Rosewood and Greer.”

  “Don’t move.” The call ended.

  My pulse kicked up a beat as I scanned around to survey my surroundings. Standing on a corner in a lousy part of town made me feel a bit exposed.

  A few seconds passed when a black Camaro stopped in front of me. The window lowered. “Get in.” Monica was behind the wheel and Katie beside her. Both dressed in all black.

  I hopped in the backseat. “What?”

  “You are not going to be happy,” Katie said.

  Monica flicked on the red and blues mounted in the car’s grill and we shot down Rosewood and out to the highway. Extremely uncharacteristic, especially for Katie, neither said a word.

  “Where are we going and why the silence?” I asked.

  “Call came on the radio an hour ago. Somebody reported an abandoned car at the old quarry,” Monica said.

  “And?”

  “Belongs to Paul Ellison.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  ###

  The old quarry, and that was how everyone referred to it ever since I could remember, located fifteen miles outside the city on Spring Hollow Road, was a working rock mine for many years, mostly producing shale. At some point, the mining company dug down too far and hit an underground stream and the giant pit filled with water, making it the place teenagers would frequent to swim, dive, and party. Fence and warning signs surrounded the property, but to teenagers, warning signs were invented to be ignored.

  The place was beyond dangerous because of the jagged rocks lining the sides of the man-made crater and the unpredictable water level. But that never stopped kids from using the parking lot as a place to drink, smoke, and make out. At least once a year some kid, either drunk or high, would tempt fate and dive off the rocks and into the water forty feet below, only to never surface.

  We slowed as flashing lights filled our view. Emergency vehicles and police cruisers lined the road. Monica pulled off into a grassy area on the edge of a cornfield.

  “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll find out what I can.” She got out and headed off toward a group of officers.

  Katie turned to me. “Hey.” She swiveled around and faced the front.

  “That’s it? Hey?”

  “How was the meeting?” She stared out the windshield.

  “Interesting. Why are you not talking?”

  She turned around. “Monica. She said I talk too much and it is a sign of insecurity. So, I am making an effort to be more in control of myself, and to only talk when necessary.”

  “You not talking freaks me out.”

  “I’m trying. But I am about to explode.”

  “Talk before steam blows out of your ears.”

  “I was in your condo when Mons called, wanting you. I told her you had a meeting and she flipped out, then said she was picking me up. Here we are. She kept making me call you after I said I was to wait two hours. She is sort of intense.”

  “Mons? Yeah, she is.”

  “The meeting—tell me.”

  “DeRenzo took me to her place, not sure where, some high-rise downtown, and she denied everything. I believe she’s lying and so is Shelton.”

  “What?”

  The door opened and Monica got in. “Ellison’s car is in the lot. No sign of him. They checked his apartment and now have divers in the water.”

  “Oh my God,” Katie said. “You think he’s dead?”

  “We’re fifteen miles outside of town. Why would he be out here? Who found the car?” I asked.

  “Bunch of kids partying around a bonfire. A state trooper spotted the fire and stopped, chased off the kids, but the car stayed. He ran the tags. They came back belonging to Ellison; he called it in.”

  “I’ll be damned. I can’t imagine Ellison coming out here to what, sit and drink?”

  “I agree,” added Katie. “He can drink anywhere, unless he was following some lead and ended up out here questioning—”

  Monica and I both held up a finger at the same time. Katie stopped.

  “This will take hours. Let’s go.”

  Monica started the Camaro and headed to Port City. I laid my head back, exhausted from a day that produced way too many surprises and evoked emotions I didn’t think I had. I closed my eyes and saw nothing but the pink bunny.

  28

  The truth, or lack of, had kept me in business for the last six years. People lie. Lie to their spouses, employers, employees, colleagues, associates, lawyers, judges, and—believe it or not—to the police. I dealt with people who are less than forthcoming every day. Stan Shelton was holding back information, contradicting himself twice: once on whether he talked to Dee Dee on the night of Kenzie’s murder, and once with the alleged blackmail scheme. Was it an extortion attempt or was he trying to wiggle out of a deal? How did I keep his name out of the news when he was not honest with me?

  Talia Thorne denied any involvement with Kenzie, which I expected, and denied any business arrangements with Stan. I wanted to believe her, but my cop instinct and the voice on the phone telling Stan to stick to the arrangement were sent me a much different message.

  All the thoughts on truth crowded my brain until I walked into McNally’s. Mike and Katie had the local morning news on the television and the lead story was how divers found the body of Detective Paul Ellison in the old quarry last night. No details of his death and a “no comment” from PCPD, other than he dedicated his life to serving Port City for over thirty-five years, and it was a shock to everyone in the police department.

  Katie saw me come in and pointed to the screen. “Can you believe this? There is no way he drove to the quarry and accidentally fell in. He was murdered. Why won’t they just say it?”

  “Investigation first. Evidence.”

  “We both know somebody did not want him working the Kenzie case.” She was dressed in all black again this morning. Jeans, polo, and running shoes.

  “You cannot go there without any kind of proof.”

  “Yeah, what if he jumped?” Mike said, jaded, but a good cop needs to ask all the questions.

  Katie glared at him. “He did not commit suicide.”

  “Hey, maybe he thought it was a huge pool of Jack Daniels and dove in.”

  “You think that is funny? You’re an insensitive jerk.” She aimed a finger at me. “And you are not going to say anything?”

  “Mike, he did not jump. Paul Ellison enjoyed the way he lived and loved a challenging case. From what I witnessed the past few days, he was full up with both.”

  “Yes, dear.” Mike snickered. “Hold up, hold up…” Something caught his eye out our front window. “We got company.”

  Katie and I looked. Two black sedans on the street, definitely cops.

  “Katie,” I said. “Do not say a word. You are a bartender only until they leave.”

  “Why? I am part of this agency.”

  “Please.” I pointed to the bar. “Go.”

  The expression on her face made it clear she was not happy, but she complied. The door opened and Monica Mattson walked in with Captain Elliott Lane and two other detectives behind him. The color drained from Mike’s face. Either this was about Paul Ellison, or the jig was up on his friends with benefits relationship with Lane’s wife. The next few minutes could define Mike’s life, as in whether he lived or not.

  Lane extended a hand. “McNally, how the hell are you? Haven’t seen you since you retired.” He was tall, well over six feet, salt-and-pepper hair, mid-fifties, lean, but a man-sized gut on him.

  “Captain Elliott Lane. I’ll be damned,” Mike said. They shook hands.

  Katie turned her back to Mike and Lane. Her jaw dropped to the floor and her eyes went huge. She mouthed, “Abby Road’s husband?”

  I nodded.

  They talked for a minute, as if they were old pals. Mike razzing him for not coming into the bar. He eventually pointed to me.
/>   Lane smiled and walked over and shook my hand. “Delarosa, how are you? Still getting yourself into hot water?”

  “As much as I can,” I said. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  “I wish this was pleasure and not business, but I’m sure you heard the news about Paul Ellison?”

  “Yes. Really sorry, too.”

  “Can we talk somewhere?”

  I brought him back to my booth. Mike and Monica followed, while the other two detectives hung back, admiring the view of Katie.

  “You remember Detective Mattson?”

  “Sure do.”

  Lane’s friendly attitude toward us threw me off. I thought for sure he had wind of Ellison’s investigation and was about to grill me on my knowledge of Kenzie, Stan, and Entertainment Ventures.

  “I took on Ellison’s death myself. Want to make sure no stone is unturned.”

  “Smart.”

  “I understand he would come in here every so often.”

  “He did. Would stop in now and then. He was here the other day. Can’t tell you how upset we are. Any leads as to what happened?”

  “Not yet, but I got a real problem,” he said.

  “Yeah?” I thought, here it comes, and I sneaked a peek at Monica, who sat beside Lane in the booth. Her eyebrows arched, waiting for the hammer to fall.

  “Ellison never wrote anything down. He picked up the murder of the hooker a few nights ago, but no notes, nothing. Kept it all in his head. He told some of the guys how he hung out here lately, but he left us nothing. Whatever information he had, he took it into the quarry with him. Sorry, don’t mean to be crude.”

  Shock registered on Monica’s face.

  We caught such a break. That meant Lane had no clue of Stan Shelton’s involvement with Fantasy Escorts or Entertainment Ventures. Or Talia.

  “All we know is the dead girl worked for the escort service Monica is tracking in an investigation. If he found anything to help her, we’ll never know,” Lane said. “I hoped he mentioned something to you guys.”

  “I wish, but he never talked shop. All social, except about him retiring. Sad. What’s your gut telling you?” Mike asked.

  Lane shook his head. “Got drunk and wandered off the edge. Why he was there is a mystery. Anything comes your way, give me a call?” He threw down a business card.

  “Sure, sure.” Mike squeezed out of the booth and we followed. “Captain, huh?”

  “Wonders never cease.” He slapped Mike on the shoulder and then handshakes all around.

  I patted a barstool. “Got a seat for you, anytime.”

  “Be careful, might take you up on that.” Lane and the other detectives went out.

  Mike went back to the booth and collapsed on the bench with his head on the table. “Oh my God.”

  “You are one lucky son-of-a-bitch.” I slid Lane’s business card to him. “You want this souvenir? Stick it on the refrigerator?”

  Katie came over, her hands on her hips. “Sweating, weren’t you?”

  Monica said, “Am I missing something?”

  29

  “To Ellison,” we all shouted as we each threw back a shot of Jack Daniels in his honor. Mike, Katie, Monica, and I stood around the bar and thought it was the least we could do for taking my client off the hook and the front page. More importantly, he was a damn good cop.

  “Shelton is charmed,” Mike proclaimed, as he helped himself to a second shot. “My God, first the girl who was supposedly blackmailing him is murdered, end of the blackmail, and now the detective putting this puzzle together is also dead. Either Stan is killing them himself, or he is charmed.”

  “And he is nothing but walking contradictions. The story changes with each conversation. If I didn’t listen to the last call myself, I would dump him,” I said.

  “What about the woman who owns the escort service?” he asked.

  “She denies any involvement with Stan, other than him being a client, or Kenzie. She passed her off as a troubled soul, mixed up with the wrong people. But there is something with this woman, Talia. Too guarded, secretive. I had one of my feelings.”

  “Well, those feelings served you well over the years. Tell me how I can help. Right now, though, I got to open this joint.” Mike offered another round and we all partook. He unlocked the front door, as Katie, Monica and I retreated to my booth. Katie opened her laptop for a check on Stan’s car.

  “What I’m lacking is insight into the escort business. How it works, how these girls are hired.”

  Katie snickered. “Mons, you have come to the right place.”

  “Follow me,” I said.

  We scooted out of the booth and headed for the back door when Katie stopped us. “Wait, wait. He’s on the move, south of the city.” She moved the computer around for us to observe.

  “We’ll call him from the car. So much for him staying home.”

  We rode in my BMW, and I connected the phone to the car’s speaker system.

  He answered on the first ring. “Johnny, boy, how the hell are you?”

  “I’m fine, Stan. I hoped we could meet later.”

  “Can’t today. I’m on my way to a golf outing in Myrtle Beach. Benefit for old NFL players and their health and welfare fund.”

  “Myrtle Beach? When are you coming back?”

  “Tonight. Quick trip.”

  “Are you at the airport?”

  “Hell no, on my way to Davis Airfield. I keep my plane there. We’ll shoot down, I’ll do my thing, and come up tonight. Only way to go.”

  “You own a plane?”

  “Beechcraft six-seater. Gorgeous.”

  “Remember I wanted you to stay home?”

  “Can’t cancel this one. I booked it months ago. Sorry, but we’ll be back tonight.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.” I closed the call. “So much for him staying home. I had no idea he had a plane.”

  “I don’t envy you. He’ll be tough to wrangle in,” she said. “Wrangle in the truth, too.”

  ###

  Club Cuba enjoyed a reputation as one of Port City’s premiere restaurants and supper clubs. Great food from a James Beard award-winning chef and the hottest Latin bands in the area, made reservations a two-month wait, all because of the class and dedication and the owner, Leah Love. I told Monica the story of Leah and our relationship, and how I fell in love with her on the night I arrested her for running an illegal, high-class, call-girl ring. These were the days before escort services legitimized, or masked, the real business. When the heat was turned high on her business, she walked away with a lot of cash and set her sights on nightclubs.

  Leah and I had an understanding. More like a long-distance relationship, even though we lived in the same city. She enjoyed her life as an entrepreneur, fulfilled by the work and her customers, and I enjoyed my independence. About once a month, we met for an evening of dinner, drinks, dancing, and a night cap at her place in the exclusive, oceanfront Atlantic Shores building. We would update each other on our lives and talk about the future we both wanted, but not now.

  “Sounds like the perfect arrangement to me,” Monica said.

  “It works for us.”

  We pulled into the lot and parked. The restaurant did not open until four, but Leah was always in early to handle the admin tasks.

  Julio, her bar manager, waved as we walked through headed to her office. The door was opened but I announced us with a knock. She was in jeans and a white blouse, her black hair pulled back. But no matter what she wore, she was still the most beautiful woman I ever encountered. She removed her reading glasses and greeted me with a hug.

  “Leah, meet Detective Monica Mattson.”

  They shook hands, and we all took seats around a small coffee table. Leah was always the warmest, engaging, and most welcoming person in the room. It was what made her club so successful. She introduced herself to each guest and told them she would take care of their every need personally if she had to. It kept them coming back, time after time.
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br />   But I immediately sensed her guard went up when meeting Monica. Was it a natural reaction when two beautiful, successful, and confident women were put together in a room? Or was this Leah’s natural response to being in the presence of a cop? She told me hundreds of times she had an inherent distrust of police, and that I was her exception to the rule. She said she tuned in to my tendency to bend the rules, much like the way Talia Thorne loved how I “stuck it to the man” by shielding her from Child Services.

  They locked eyes and I sensed it was two females sizing each other up. It was in my best interest to break the staring contest and get the party started. “Leah, Monica is working a sex trafficking case where girls are moved through Port City on their way to New York. A local escort service, Fantasy Escorts, popped on her radar as possible facilitators. In your past life, ever run into any traffickers? We were hoping you could shed some light on the escort business and how they could be involved.”

  “Are you working this, too?” she asked, pointedly, staring at me.

  “No. I have a client who got himself in hot water hiring girls from Fantasy. Our paths crossed during the investigation.”

  Monica nodded. “I hadn’t seen John in years.” She put a hand on my shoulder and held it there for a moment. “We were both so surprised to see each other again. He was the only detective I respected, and trusted. For many years, I always wanted to work with him. And now’s my chance.”

  Oh boy. None of what she said, and did, was necessary. I wondered whether she fired a shot across the bow, only to provoke a reaction.

  Leah’s response was diplomatic but loaded. “Good for you. He is a thorough detective. My experience with…John…has been more than satisfying. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Recruiting girls. Was it difficult?”

  “No. I only advertised once, when I began the agency. After that, it was all word of mouth.”

  “You screen these girls prior to hiring them?”

  “Yes, and you’d be surprised. Most came from nice homes and backgrounds. No street trash worked for me.”

  “You had a reputation,” Monica added.

  “Damn right.”