Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  "I don't get it."

  "Ever since we met Celia yesterday, I figured she was involved somehow."

  "Hindsight is an easy twenty-twenty," said Jackson, grinning at me.

  I looked at him and smiled back.

  "True, but let me tell you what I mean. I've been around a lot of different folks in my time. I can tell the difference between old money and new money. And I can tell the difference between crisp Benjamins and tarnished nickels."

  "Man," said Jackson, smiling wide, "you talk in riddles."

  "James Ensor is new money. Crisp Benjamins. Celia Ensor is a tarnished nickel looking for new money. She's blue collar, maybe even trailer trash. No disrespect, just never had the opportunities to do any better. But she tried. Her way of getting out of the bleached ghetto was to find new money. And she did with James, right? But at the same time she hadn't found out how to move within those circles yet. She's like Cinderella at five minutes to midnight. You know she's not a real princess yet even though she looks like one."

  Jackson put more food in his mouth. Dykes had finished what he'd wanted to eat and he was sucking on a Lifesaver.

  "I can see that," he said. "But that's a reach to use that to put the two of them together."

  "I don't think so. It's just using deductive reasoning, my dear Watson," I said to Dykes.

  I'd had enough Chinese food. I pushed my takeout box towards the edge of the desk and took a long drink from a can of coke. I would've preferred a beer, but Red and Gold were still on the job. It'd have to wait until I got to the hotel. Dykes shrugged at my argument, playing with the Lifesaver in his mouth.

  "We knew she was involved somehow. Most times in cases like this it's got something to do with people close to the victim. We just needed motive and evidence. We found the motive. She makes bank with Ensor dead especially in light of him divorcing her and leaving her with next to nothing. Relatively speaking that is."

  Dykes didn't say anything, he continued to look at me.

  "We followed the trail and found Gilder. Now we have the relationship between the two. Before that he seemed like a stray thread on his wife beater. Now we know better. You've just gotta be open to possibilities."

  Jackson stuffed another mouthful of food into his maw. He pushed his box away and sipped on some Sprite.

  "I liked Gibb for it originally," he said. "You know the guy had a temper, he was banging Ensor's wife. Looked like that could have turned out to be a neat and tidy little package."

  I nodded.

  "I would have rested easy with that too. If that's the way it would have gone. Or even Stark, the pitcher that's gonna get all the glory now."

  Dykes looked at the two of us as if we were playing a tennis match.

  "I'd have put money on Gibb and Celia being in it together. I figured her for a gold digger. Turns out she was, but not the murdering kind."

  "Yup," I said. "Just an attractive woman caught up between a rock and a hard place."

  On the desks that Dykes and Jackson shared stood a police radio that Jackson had borrowed from the local state police. We'd been listening to it in the background as we ate our dinner. Not much was going on. Mostly routine traffic stops. But the state troopers had been notified of Gilder and we were hoping to catch some action about that. It had been a long wait. It was coming on eight pm before we got any news.

  "Dispatch, this is Unit 22," said the male voice over the radio.

  "Dispatch here, go ahead Unit 22," said the female voice.

  "Can you give me more information on that 0110 out of Chicago, suspect's name Gilder, Forest."

  Dykes, Jackson and I turned towards the radio and craned our necks. Jackson turned up the volume.

  "Suspect last seen driving a ninety-two maroon Crown Victoria with Indiana license plate zero four two hotel golf golf. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous and might be fleeing a murder."

  "Copy that dispatch. I am in pursuit of said vehicle. A maroon Crown Victoria with Indiana plates zero four two hotel golf golf. Unit 22 requesting backup."

  "Any units in district ten available to backup Unit 22?" said the female dispatch voice.

  "Unit 33 two minutes out," said another male voice.

  "Unit 17 on my way."

  "Unit 25 two minutes out."

  "Where are they?" I asked.

  Jackson looked up at me and put his index finger to his lips.

  "They'll say any minute now," he said.

  "Unit 22, I'm traveling Eastbound on I74 about five miles out from Danville."

  "Unit 33, copy that Unit 22. I see you on my GPS."

  "Unit 22, driver is the single occupant in the vehicle. Obeying speed limits. I'm going to attempt to pull him over before we get too close to Danville and populated areas."

  I figured that Gilder probably wasn't aware of his tail. It was dark and maybe the state trooper had only pulled onto I74 recently.

  "Unit 33, I'm right behind you Unit 22."

  "Unit 22, copy that Unit 33."

  "Unit 25, not if I get there first Unit 33."

  "Dispatch to units involved in the traffic stop on I74. Caution is advised. Suspect considered armed and dangerous."

  "Unit 22, copy that. Lights on. Suspect is slowing and pulling over."

  Silence was on the air for a few moments.

  "Unit 25, at scene."

  "Dispatch, copy that Unit 25."

  "Unit 33, at scene."

  "Dispatch, copy that Unit 33."

  "Unit 22, suspect has pulled over and stopped. Will attempt extraction."

  There was more silence on the air. I wasn't expecting to hear the next few minutes until Gilder was in custody. Then the state trooper's would likely come back on air.

  "Unit 17, arriving on scene."

  "Dispatch, copy that Unit 17."

  "Unit 17, we're approaching the vehicle."

  More silence. This was the nerve wracking part. I was hoping for a peaceful arrest. But you never knew with a guy like Gilder with two recent murders under his belt. Worst case he was going to end up dead and we'd never know why he did it or what he was trying to accomplish. Best case, he'd be in our custody with a couple or three hours.

  The three of us stared at the scanner as if we were watching TV and could actually see what was going on. Time marched on like a line of soldier ants along a sticky path of spilled cola. It was achingly slow. I was desperately hoping for a quiet unobtrusive arrest. But you never knew in cases like this. A fleeing fugitive with a loaded gun was a fifty-fifty event. I'd never make a bet like this in Vegas. Depended on whether Gilder fancied living or if he was at the end of his rope. I was hoping a narcissistic asshole like him would choose the living fork.

  "Are we feeling confident on a living Gilder at the end of this?" I asked, looking from Jackson to Dykes.

  Dykes unrolled more paper from his tube of mints. He offered them around. I took one. It was something to do. Jackson declined and sipped on more Sprite. Dykes shrugged.

  "I'm hopeful," he said, popping a mint into his mouth. "Or maybe I'm just hoping we'll get some one on one time with him to figure out why he did this."

  "I think we already know why," I said.

  "Sure, it's a viable motive, I'd like to get confirmation though."

  Jackson nodded. He had taken his eyes off of the scanner and was looking at us.

  "Gun to head," he said, grinning, "if I had to make a call, I'd say this asshole is gonna want to live."

  "Gun to head, hey?" I said, grinning back at him. "That might be happening right now to our perp.

  Jackson nodded.

  "We can hope," he said.

  I was trying hard not to start chewing on my mint. I kept rolling it on my tongue, eager to ride it out. But the waiting was driving me nuts. I could use a cigarette, a whiskey and a slap on the face from a beautiful woman. What I had was a mint and silence and dread. We all waited. Jackson sipped Sprite. He fiddled with the volume dial. The seconds dragged on into minutes which seemed stuck in
a month of murders.

  "Unit 22, Gilder is in custody. We have located the Ruger SR9."

  Jackson pumped his fist.

  "Yeah!" he shouted.

  Dykes and I grinned, letting out air like an old boxer sucker punched in the gut.

  "Dispatch, copy that."

  "Unit 22, I'm driving him back to Chicago. Lane on the air?"

  "Lane here, Unit 22," said Lane's baritone.

  "Where do you want the package dropped off, Captain?"

  "Bring him downtown to headquarters. Detectives Dykes and Jackson will take him from you."

  "Unit 22, copy that Captain."

  The rest of the chatter coming from the scanner now seemed unimportant and irrelevant. Units 33 and 17 had signed off and headed back out on patrol. Unit 25 was following 22 back up to Chicago with our package.

  "Well, we've got about two and a half hours to kill before Gilder gets here," said Dykes. "Time to review the file."

  Jackson nodded. He opened up his notebook and Dykes got onto the computer and opened up the hardcopy file.

  "I'll be with you guys in a minute. Need to grab some fresh air."

  They nodded and I left, making sure to take my visitor pass with me.

  Outside it was a dark night, and for the first time since getting here, the wind was as still as a whisper. Trees dotted the front of headquarters and lights from cement planters and pylons lit the sidewalk with a smokey yellow. I was glad to be closing this up. I'd be making fifteen hundred bucks for three days work. That was enough.

  This was a case that hadn't gone how I'd expected. From a bag of lucky surprise suspects that turned up empty to a battered woman looking for a white knight, what we got was that root of human evil, jealousy and his bastard son anger, and the two of them had committed a couple of murders. I sucked on my cigarette and blew rings out into the night air. It was hard not to be cynical about this. It was hard not be cynical about any murder. The fickle finger of humanity's stunted maturity stirring the boiling cauldron of our dark sides.

  I watched folks pass me by oblivious to this dark underbelly until they got caught in its mouth. Men in business suits heading home. Young kids out partying before the World Series started. And a lone gumshoe trying to clean the shit from the sole of his shoes. And I couldn't help but keep stepping in it.

  TWENTY

  The Daily Grind

  IN the police locker rooms of the basement at headquarters where they kept the gym was a dark room. It had 4 beds in it with plastic sheeting and woolen blankets that you wouldn't let your dog sleep on. It was something though. Better than nothing. Meant for officers who had come off shift and needed a few hours shut-eye before having to appear in court. It served its purpose.

  Jackson had told me about it. It was either try to take a couple of hours shut-eye or find a local watering hole. And I was still technically on the job. So I went for shut-eye. Jackson had taken me down to show me the room. It was just a room with four walls and a door and these four single beds with firm mattresses, the kind you might find in an insane asylum. Each bed was tucked up into one of the corners of the room. I chose the one furthest from the door as you entered on your left. I also put the pillow up against the far wall.

  I shut the door and had to feel my way back to the bed. It was pitch black. A black that I hadn't experienced in a long time. The kind of black that even with your eyes adjusted they couldn't drink in any light. The only light was sixteen red numbers and eight blinking dots from the four clock radios on a small side table by each bed. I set the alarm for ten thirty. Nobody else was in here with me. I'd find it hard to sleep if there was.

  LAPD headquarters had a similar set up that I'd used on occasion. After I'd set up the alarm which I'd done with the door open, I fiddled with the dial to find a jazz station. The one that I came to first was WDCB somewhere around ninety on the FM dial. It was the closest to jazz I found. The DJ was Nick Spitzer and the show I was listening to was American Routes. Some jazz, blues and the like.

  I took off my shoes, closed the door and fumbled back to the radio and bed I'd chosen. I turned the volume real low and looked at the time. It was eight thirty-seven. The last thing I heard was Count Basie's “I Ain't Mad At You.” That seemed apropos.

  Ten thirty woke me from a bad dream like an angry fishmonger yelling down at the docks. The yelling beep of the alarm clock hit me like a sledge hammer to the back of the throat. It took a few blaring beeps to wake me up. I'd incorporated it into my dream. Last thing I remembered was grabbing Gilder by the throat and hitting him in the face over and over. He was grinning like a bloody Joker and each time I hit him he made this weird sound, which I realized was the alarm beeping until I woke up.

  I pushed a bunch of buttons until the damn thing shut off. I sat on the edge of the bed and put my feet awkwardly onto my shoes. It hurt, so I placed them back on the thin, firm carpet. Took me a moment to figure out I was awake. I felt like a drunk man brought back to life from an alcoholic blackout. I felt like shit. I hadn't been drinking but still I felt worse than when I'd laid down.

  I tried to remember where the door was. I walked towards where I thought it was with my hands held out like a zombie. As I got closer to it I could vaguely see it from the dim bloody red glow of the radios closest to it. I fumbled for the door knob and opened it. The light jumped into the room like a sucker punch to the face. I walked back to the bed, sat back down and put my shoes on. I walked out and found the sinks. I splashed cold water on myself and started to feel like a human being.

  There was a phone on the side of the wall close to the exit. I picked it up and dialed Jackson. He'd given me his cell number. He picked up quickly. I asked if our package had arrived. He said no. Said Trooper Harvey Rampton had an ETA of about eleven on the nose. I thanked him and hung up. I had time for a smoke and a coffee. I walked out of the locker rooms and up to the main floor and headed outside, my visitor pass around my neck like a schmuck. I took it off and put it in my pocket. I took out a cigarette and lit it. There was a woman outside to my left having a smoke. I moved over to my right. I was still in no mood for chit chat.

  She looked over at me. I could see her from the corner of my eye. She gave me the up and down and then tossed her head back like I was some sort of bum. I was trying not to encourage conversation. I didn't know her and I didn't want to. Across the road was a local coffee shop. It was called 'The Daily Grind'. That was my kinda coffee shop. I walked towards it. I looked both ways for traffic and sauntered across the road like a pimp looking for his girl.

  It was dimly lit inside. I liked that too. There were just a handful of people inside. I looked at the business hours by the front door. They were only open till ten on Thursday night. But now it was coming on quarter to eleven and they were still open. I took a couple of big, quick drags on my smoke then tossed it on the ground and stepped on its neck until its lights went out. I exhaled the ghosts of cigarettes past and walked into The Daily Grind. Two things smell the best to me. Cigarettes and coffee beans. I'd put whiskey in there too, but whiskey is nuanced. It punches you in the gut but tickles your nose. You have to get up close to it like a flower.

  A bald guy behind the counter greeted to me. He looked like Mr. Clean. He was big and muscled in a black tee. He had an earring in each ear. He would've looked more at home in a gym than a coffee shop. But he was friendly.

  "Three coffees... large," I said.

  He looked me up and down.

  "You look like a heavy weight," he said, grinning.

  I looked him up and down with a furrowed brow. I'd never punched heavyweight. Middleweight was my style.

  "What kind of roast do you want? We have heavyweight or lightweight. Dark or light."

  I got it.

  "Heavyweight it is. By the way, I need a tray and a carafe of cream."

  He nodded.

  "Seven buckaroos," he said. He was a chipper lad for a slow Thursday night.

  I handed him Hamilton.

  He wante
d to hand me back three Washingtons, I declined. He was happy with that. He turned around to pour three coffees. He placed them in sleeves and topped them with lids and those stupid green stoppers like I'm a geriatric who can't hold a coffee cup without bouncing it around like juggling balls. He poured cream into a small cup and capped it with a lid and a green stopper. He slid them over to me.

  "So you working late on a case?" he asked.

  He seemed like a good kid, so I threw him a bone.

  "Yeah," I said, "that Ensor murder."

  He shook his head.

  "That sucks man, I was sure hoping for a Cubs win, now I'm not so sure."

  "Me neither."

  "Still, a guy can dream, right?"

  Dreams are like bubbles, I thought, just looking for a prick to pop them. Instead I said something like, "Sure thing."

  "So do you know who did it?"

  I nodded.

  "Can't say yet. It'll be on the morning news though. Stay tuned. What's the time?"

  He looked at his register.

  "Ten to."

  "What time you close?"

  "Midnight while the World Series is on."

  I nodded and picked up the tray of coffees. I raised it at him. He nodded at me and I walked out the coffee shop. The woman across the road at headquarters had disappeared. I had to get my game face on. I was in a mood to bust this nut wide open. I wanted answers, and I had a feeling I was gonna get them.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Answer To Everything

  DYKES and Jackson were grateful for the coffee. Between the three of us we used up all the cream, but not all the packets of sugar I'd smuggled out of The Daily Grind. Jackson and Dykes liked their coffee. I liked any dark, hot liquid that posed as coffee at eleven at night on the ass end of a homicide investigation.

  "Rampton should be here any minute," said Jackson.

  "We're gonna take him to room oh forty-two," said Dykes.

  I smiled broadly. I took a long sip of my coffee, as long as it could be without burning my tongue.

  "That's terrific, we'll get the answers to everything."