Stewart played one more game and the alcohol he consumed was taking effect. That and the man he played was a lot better which was the real reason he lost. He had tried to con Stew into a hundred-dollar game which the usually cocky P.I. sensibly and out of character turned down.
Stew paid the man the twenty, drained his glass of Miller, strolled to the bar and took a seat. The bartender brought him another shot of bourbon — the cheap stuff — and a glass of beer. Before the bartender could retreat, Stew tossed down the shot and started to speak. “Great day today, Paulie,” he said to the bartender. “I’m tellin’ ya’, my ship is about to dock.”
Paul, and most of the bar’s regulars, had heard this or similar versions of it numerous times. “That’s great, Stew,” the man said as he tried to back away.
Stew looked at his twenty-dollar watch and said, “I’m feeling so good. I think I’ll go get laid. Give some lucky lady a good time tonight.”
“Have a good time, Stew,” Paul said while thinking: don’t forget to take enough cash to pay her.
Byron Stewart was a forty-eight-year-old retired Milwaukee police detective. His original plan when he joined the department, was to put in thirty years, retire with a full pension then get a gravy gig doing corporate security. By the time the first twenty years were up his superiors let it be known they wanted him out, now.
Corporate security jobs did not beat a path to his door so he became a P.I. Two years later, wife number two was gone which left Stew alone with his drinking problem. Between the amount of his pension that the ex-wives did not get and the money he hustled as a P.I., Byron Stewart got by, barely. And then he saw the news from St. Paul.
A slow afternoon in his rundown office left him with time on his hands to check up on the news from his hometown. It was the same day that the story came out about Mackenzie Sutherland and Frances Cartwright. Their pictures were staring back at him from his computer and they looked very familiar. An hour of online research led him to the conclusion that Donna Hayes, a client of his, was the same person. Byron Stewart, while seated at his desk, looked heavenward and thanked his lucky stars. Keeping an eye on the Hayes kids was the easiest gig he ever scored and it was about to become far more lucrative than it already was.
The conversation he had with her a few days ago confirmed that his ship was, indeed, about to come in. Donna Hayes would be back in Milwaukee tomorrow with a suitcase full of cash. And if she thought that would be the end of it, she would have to be taught that Byron Stewart was nobody’s fool. He was going to live a very long and comfortable life on her money.
“Paul, I’ll see you later,” Stew yelled out to the bartender. He slid off of the barstool, hitched his belt up under his over-hanging gut, looked at his watch again and went through the front door.
When he reached the sidewalk he stood for a minute looking up at the sky. He knew he had a little too much to drink so he took in several deep breaths to clear his head. Stew turned to his right to go to his car parked half a block away. As he did this, he removed his phone from the inside pocket of his cheap sport coat. He stood under a street light and dialed the number of the prostitute he wanted to see. She answered on the second ring. They made their business arrangement and Stew replaced the phone and continued down the street.
As he approached his car he noticed a medium sized person in a dark, gray hoodie walking toward him. Probably some punk, black kid acting like a tough guy, Stew thought.
He reached his car at the same time the hooded stranger got to him. Stew looked at the hazy yet familiar face and opened his mouth to speak.
Mackenzie pulled a small, .22 caliber revolver from the pocket of the sweatshirt. She leveled it at the P.I. took one step closer and from barely three feet away shot him once in the face. The bullet entered his head at the corner of his right eye a quarter inch from his nose. It traveled upward into his brain and being a soft-lead, hollow point, mushroomed and ripped his brain apart.
Her victim dropped like a rock onto his back. Although already brain dead, the body had not yet received the news. For another five or six seconds his mouth opened and closed like a fish, his hands fluttered and feet twitched.
Mackenzie quickly knelt down next to him and removed his watch, wallet and phone. She also unclipped the holster from his belt with the 9 mm automatic in it. She quickly ran her hands over him, especially his ankles, looking for any more weapons. Mackenzie stood up, slightly crouched over and quickly walked back in the direction she had come from. She would be in her car, the hoodie removed and in a plastic shopping bag, within one minute.
“You hear that?” Artie asked his neighbor, Franklin Carver. Franklin was out walking his dog and Artie had been on his front steps enjoying the pleasant night. Franklin lived two doors down and both men, widowers each, lived across and down the street from Hanlon’s. The noise Artie referred to was the gunshot that had killed Byron Stewart.
“Yeah, sounded like a gunshot,” Franklin said. “There he is.” He was referring to the dark figure who had stood up at that moment and was walking away from the scene. There was just enough light from the streetlights to illuminate the person but not enough to see clearly who it could be.
“Goddamn little black-ass, sonsobitchin’, gangbangers comin’ around ruinin’ our neighborhood…”
“Franklin,” Artie said. “You’re black.”
“So what?” Franklin angrily replied. “Am I supposed to like these worthless little assholes?”
“Should we go check it out?” Artie asked.
Both men looked around to see if anyone else had heard or seen anything. They saw no one else on the street and no one coming out of Hanlon’s.
“Yeah, he’s gone. You think he shot someone?” Franklin said as the two men and the dog began cautiously walking across the street.
When they found Byron’s body, Artie said, “You want to wait here and I’ll go call?”
“Hell, no. What if he comes back? I’ll go with you and we’ll both wait for the police.”
The two detectives parked across the street from where Byron Stewart was lying. There were two Milwaukee PD squad cars, an ambulance and an M.E. rep already on site.
“What do you have?” the older detective, Norm Bleeker asked a uniformed cop, a sergeant who had taken charge.
“One DOA. White male; probably late forties early fifties. A GSW to the face. No wallet, watch or phone,” the cop told him.
“Robbery?” Bleeker asked.
“Looks like.”
The sergeant led the two detectives to the body. The M.E. rep was leaning over him examining the wound with a small pen light. The second detective, a younger woman, Justine Carver, shined her flashlight on the victim’s face. There was only a small trickle of blood from the wound, barely enough to see where the bullet had entered.
“Holy shit,” Bleeker quietly said when he saw the man’s face. “It finally happened and why am I not surprised?”
“You know him,” Carver said to her partner.
“Don’t you recognize him, Sarge?” Bleeker asked the uniformed cop.
“No, should I?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Bleeker said. “It’s Byron Stewart,” he told him as he leaned down for a closer look. “Hey, Doc, what do you have?” he asked the M.E.
“Looks like a single shot. Hit him in the corner of the eye probably directly into the brain. Would have killed him almost instantly.”
“We got a couple of witnesses, Norm,” the sergeant said.
Bleeker stood up and he and Carver walked over to the two men standing by with another uniformed officer. The detectives introduced themselves to the two men and heard their story.
“You’re sure it was a young, black man?” Carver asked when they finished.
“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin told her. “Dark hoodie them gangbangers like to wear.”
“We didn’t actually see his face but in this neighborhood…” Artie added.
“We canvassed the people in Hanlon’s. H
e was there but the bartender said he left alone. Nobody in there heard a shot,” the sergeant told them.
“Was he carrying a gun?” Bleeker asked.
“Don’t think so. We didn’t find a holster.”
“Odd that he wouldn’t be carrying,” Bleeker commented. “He had a P.I. license. I’ll bet he had a gun and the killer got that, too.”
“Would we have a record of it?”
“Sure,” Bleeker said. “If our gangbanger uses it, we’ll find him.”
Mackenzie had left St. Paul that same morning and arrived in Milwaukee in mid-afternoon. She drove her dead husband’s eight-year-old Tahoe SUV believing she would blend in a little better with that than her new BMW.
After receiving the call from Byron Stewart a few days ago she quickly made up her mind what to do. She also decided on the simplest way to do it. Look for an opportunity and don’t hesitate.
Mackenzie had followed Stewart to the bar he frequented. Believing he would be there are at least a couple of hours, she drove back to his office. It was an old three-story brick building from the 40s and the lock on his office door probably came with it when it was built. Using a credit card the way she had seen on TV, she was inside the office in ten seconds. Mackenzie went to his file cabinet and much to her relief, found it unlocked. She quickly found the file for Donna Hayes and removed it. As she was about to leave she noticed the P.C. next to Stewart’s desk. Did he have a file of her in the computer? She thought about removing the hard drive but knew she didn’t know how and now was no time to learn. For a brief moment she considered unplugging the computer and taking the entire box. Believing Stewart was probably not the most computer savvy guy she decided to take the chance that he did not have client information on it and quickly left.
When she got back to Hanlon’s, she checked to be sure Stewart’s car was still there. Mackenzie then spent another ten minutes driving around the neighborhood looking for something specific.
After finding what she wanted, she drove back to the bar and parked around the corner from the local tavern and waited. From where she was parked, she had a clear line of sight of the front of the bar and a good getaway route. There was a light above the bar’s entryway which clearly illuminated anyone coming out. She could also see Stewart’s car and could easily get to it before he did.
She watched as Stewart exited the bar and stood in front of it for a few seconds. Mackenzie pulled up the hood on her sweatshirt and went after him. She was wearing surgical gloves and in her right hand pocket she had a small, cheap .22 caliber revolver. Totally untraceable, Mackenzie purchased the gun for protection over twenty years ago. While loading it that morning, she was careful not to touch any part of it or any of the bullets without wearing the gloves.
Within less than a minute she was back in the SUV and driving down the street after doing the deed. Another minute later, she stopped at the street corner she had found earlier. She lowered her window and tossed the handgun she had taken from Stewart onto the sidewalk. One of the four young black men standing on the corner heard it land and before he retrieved it, Mackenzie was gone. If he was ever caught with the gun he would have a difficult time convincing the cops it wasn’t him that popped Byron Stewart.
Having planned ahead, Mackenzie headed out of town but made two quick stops on the way. One was at an office building with a dumpster in back. She removed the hoodie in the plastic grocery bag and shoved it into the dumpster under several larger garbage bags.
Her next stop was after crossing a bridge over the Fox River. She got out of the truck and hurried down to the riverbank. This was the most dangerous part. If a cop came along and caught her she would be looking at life in prison without parole. Still wearing the gloves, as soon as she was close enough, Mackenzie took the small pistol out and threw it fifty feet into the water.
Mackenzie had a small, muslin bag with draw strings. She placed the gloves, wallet and watch in the bag. She then removed the battery from Stewart’s cell phone, tossed the battery into the river and put the phone in the bag also. She found two good sized rocks and for weight placed them in the bag. She tied the drawstrings and threw it into the river as far as she could.
Within five minutes she drove down the westbound ramp onto I-94 and took the first relaxed breath she had since pulling the trigger. Looking at the car’s clock she figured to be home by 5:00 A.M. While she drove away from Milwaukee she ran down a mental checklist. Get rid of the clothes she was wearing, everything including shoes and underwear and run the contents of the file she stole through a shredder was all she had left to do. All of that would go out with the garbage to be picked up around 7:00 tomorrow morning.
Mackenzie took a few minutes to think about Byron Stewart. Feeling a bit remorseful, she rationalized it by reminding herself he had brought it on himself. It was his idea to try to blackmail her and Mackenzie was certain the payments would never end.
TWENTY-FOUR
Marc parked his Buick SUV on the street in the cemetery near the Sutherland’s plot. It was easy enough to find. There were four TV news vans from local stations and several cars already parked along the same street. A black hearse from the Medical Examiner’s office was parked on the grass near the grave and a backhoe was working on the project. In addition, there were about two dozen people, including reporters and camera operators, watching the excavation crew.
Marc put his phone in his pants’ pocket, left his suit coat on the front seat and headed toward the crowd. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny mid-August day and Marc was thinking how odd it was for him to be where he was. At least you get to bill your client for it, he thought.
One of the reporters, a young woman from Channel 6 spotted him and made a beeline for him, her cameraman in tow. All of the others noticed this and quickly followed suit. Marc held a mini-press conference which amounted to him telling them he was there only as an observer.
“What’s the matter, don’t you trust us?” Heather Anderson asked him with a smirk. Marc had spotted her standing with Max Coolidge and Anna Finney then walked over to them. Marc said hello to all three of them before answering Heather’s question.
“No, to be honest, I don’t. Should I? You don’t exactly have my client’s best interest at heart, do you?”
The four of them stood together silently watching the backhoe operate. It took about ten minutes to get down to the casket. At that point, the operator backed it away from the gravesite. As soon as the backhoe’s bucket was clear of the hole two men with small shovels carefully climbed down to finish the job.
When this occurred Marc turned to watch the media members. The four local TV stations represented were all filming the entire process. As he watched the two men climbing into the grave, the woman from Channel 6 strolled over to him without her microphone.
“Are you really going to put this on the air?” Marc asked.
“It’s going out live now,” she said.
“Seriously? This is on TV now?”
“It’s not my idea,” she shrugged.
Marc was talking to her with his head turned toward the street and the line of parked cars. He saw a black BMW 750 pull up and a well dressed woman exit the car. He immediately began stalking off in her direction to get to her before the media saw her. Unfortunately, they noticed this and were in force right behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said when Marc reached her. He stopped in front of her and gave her his best angry dad look. “I couldn’t stay away. It’s like watching a car accident. I had to see for myself if they were really going to do this.”
“The big sunglasses aren’t much of a disguise,” Marc said just before the reporters started hurling questions at her.
Marc held up both hands gesturing for quiet. He noticed Heather and the two detectives were now barely twenty feet away and watching.
The reporters fell silent and with Mackenzie standing slightly behind him, Marc addressed them. “My client has no comment to make. She is here as a spectator watchi
ng the authorities who, for no worthwhile reason, are desecrating her husband’s final resting place. She will not be making a statement.”
Undeterred, two or three of the reporters shoved recording devices at the two of them and shouted questions. The questions were mostly along the lines of: was she afraid of what would be found?
Marc held up his hands again and they took a minute to settle down. Marc looked them over as an adult would speaking to a group of unruly, simpleminded children.
“Okay, here it is,” he finally said. “Here’s your quote. If she was afraid of what they might find, would she have agreed to this in the first place? Thank you and that’s it.”
Marc led Mackenzie through the gaggle of reporters who still persisted in shouting questions.
“How do they always know when to show up for things like this?” Mackenzie asked Marc.
“They have sources in the police departments and prosecutor’s offices around the Cities. Many of them even pay for the tips. They’ll slip a cop fifty bucks for a juicy piece of news. Stuff like that. There’s nothing illegal about it. It just seems a little sleazy, but it really isn’t. They’re just looking for information; for stories.”
When they reached the gravesite, Marc and Mackenzie stood apart from everyone else.
“Hi,” she smiled and said to Marc when no else could hear her. “I’ve missed you.”
“Hello, to you,” he smiled back. “Are you getting a little itch?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she quietly, seductively said. “Can you do something about it?
“I just might be able to fix that,” he whispered while hiding a smile.
Marc’s phone went off, he pulled it from his pocket, read the ID and a wave of relief come over him.
“Hey, thanks for calling, Jason,” Marc said without preamble. “Give me some good news.”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 198
