RED HUNT: A captivating detective mystery (Hard Boiled Thrillers, Noir and Hard-Boiled Mysteries) (Thomas Blume Book 3)

by PT Reade

  The deal suited us both.

  It was the morning after the day I had spent with Damian looking over security footage. He had called my phone several times for updates, but since I had none, I let them go to voicemail.

  I had visited Nicole enough over the last few weeks so that some of her co-workers had started to recognize me. Most greeted me with nods and professional smiles. I think some had started to wonder if there was something going on between us. That was fine with me.

  When I strolled into her office, she was seated in front of her computer, eating an apple. No more the five feet away, an overweight male corpse lay naked and stitched up behind her. Seeing the pale body and hearing Nicole munching on her apple gave me the creeps.

  “I don’t think you should be doing that,” I said as I stepped into her office.

  She jumped, clearly not expecting visitors. She then looked from her apple to the dead guy on the slab. She shrugged and said, “He doesn’t mind. I asked him.”

  I considered the morbid joke as my invitation to join her. I walked inside, keeping my distance from the cadaver and hugging the left side of the room.

  “You rang?” I asked, referencing her early morning phone call that had stirred me awake.

  “I did,” she said, typing a few last keys on her keyboard before wheeling her chair around to face me. The dark eye makeup and ash-blond ponytail with the red streak that I had become accustomed to were still there, as was the attractive-but-haunted look across her thin features. But today her nose stud was replaced by a small silver ring. I wondered if there was any significance.

  “So what have you got for me?”

  Nicole took another bite of her apple and ate it thoughtfully while she thumbed through some folders on her desk. In the time I had come to know her, I had figured out that she took a while to get to a point. I liked this about her, though. As a detective of sorts, I’d discovered it was best to let her get to the bottom line in her own time. It was usually worth it.

  “That body they pulled from the Bishop wreckage,” she finally said. “Yeah. Not Christina Bishop.”

  “And that’s a proven fact?”

  She nodded and slapped a file down. “It’s all right here,” she said. “You can look if you like, but it’s pretty gruesome.”

  I raised my palms. “Why don’t you just give me the rundown?”

  “The body was indeed female but most definitely not a model. The corpse was badly burned, and a lot of bones were broken, but dental records indicate the woman taken from that crash was considerably older than Bishop. While I believe in science and not stereotypes, the small traces of hair we recovered were unkempt, in poor condition. The teeth were also pretty bad—and not from the accident. Top that with the fact that the blood alcohol was high and the body was malnourished, and all signs point to the woman being a vagrant or homeless person.”

  “Hmmm. Seems fishy, huh?” I asked.

  “It does.”

  “So what do you think? Set-up?”

  “Possibly, but it’s not my place to speculate. I leave that to the detectives,” she said, taking another bite of her apple. “And there’s one other thing…one other thing that will put you deeply in my debt.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, thinking that there were far worse people to be indebted to.

  “We’ve seen plenty of vagrant bodies come through here,” she said. “In some cases, we call tell just by the condition of their skin and nails which part of the city they called home.”

  “Huh, interesting,” I said.

  “Most people call it gross,” she countered. “Anyway, the dirt under this woman’s nails is pretty unique. It contains high concentrations of petrochemicals. In particular, the type found in industrial Marine Diesel. You know, the kind used by fishing boats and cargo ships. So maybe check the port or something”

  “Or the old waterfront.…” I said absently as the connection clicked in my mind.

  The delight was apparent on my face, and I smiled as a plan came to mind.

  “I know,” Nicole said. “My genius knows no bounds.”

  “Your modesty too, it seems.”

  I had figured I would never let my guard down around another woman. Sarah had been my world, and I knew I wouldn’t rest until I discovered who had murdered her and my son, Tommy. Nevertheless, Nicole had a black sense of humor and fierce intelligence that I was drawn to. She had a familiarity with death and darkness that mirrored my own.

  Needless to say, we got along perfectly.

  “I’d love to stay and inflate your ego a little more,” I said, “but I have to go. And besides…I feel like I interrupted your lunch date.”

  Nicole looked to the man on the table and frowned. “I bet he’s going to stick me with the bill.”

  With a laugh, I turned around and headed out of the morgue.

  TEN

  Old scars marked the face of London.

  The morning was brightening, but as I neared the river, a gray mist clinging to the streets cast the area in a damp gloom. Above, a wan sun tried to push through the haze.

  It took less than thirty minutes to reach the old waterfront area, a testament to just how quickly the city seemed to deteriorate within just a small number of streets. As I made the drive, I thought of how I had learned to even look here. It struck me as almost profound that Amir had suggested these waterfront properties as a place to look and then Nicole’s lead had nailed it down. Like seeing Christina Bishop passing on the street, this was another of those instances where the chamber lined up with the barrel.

  All I had to do was pull the trigger.

  The waterfront warehouses of Silvertown were all crammed together in a short stretch along a bend in the River Thames. Like an attempt to slow infection through the city, the entire district had been condemned for fifty or sixty years. The only signs that it had ever boasted productive life came in the form of rusting ship hulks littering the shore and rotting wooden docks slouching towards watery oblivion.

  The warehouses on the banks were in similar states of disrepair, some of them missing entire sections of roof. Remnants of forgotten lives long since sailed for better seas.

  I knew every city had at least one blemish it would prefer to cover up. This was London’s.

  Right away, I was struck by how unapologetic the residents of those abandoned buildings were. As I rolled by, I saw several destitute people shuffling about. One man seemed to be the perfect portrait of the homeless stereotype, propped against one of the buildings and up-ending a brown paper bag to his mouth.

  My car crawled down the decrepit streets. I couldn’t tell which of the buildings would be best to find traces of Marine Diesel. In my prime, I would have thought to ask Nicole before I left. I cursed myself for letting the booze dull my senses.

  I reached the end of the street, where there was nothing but mist-covered water to both sides and an empty lot in front, viewed through a chain-link fence. With no other alternative, I parked the car and got out. The air reeked of damp and rot.

  I’d have to go back by the homeless crowds and canvass for more information.

  I made it three blocks back the way I had come when two women approached me from an overhang on the side of an abandoned building. They were both thin as rails and dressed like some sort of obscene baby dolls. It had been a while since I’d had a run-in with a hooker—I’d booked and interrogated my fair share in New York—and these girls’ occupations were unmistakable.

  They cut me off before I could reach the end of the block. One was clearly the leader—a tall, black-haired lady who reminded me of down-market Amy Winehouse. She had probably been a decent person before life had dealt her whatever shit had brought her to this point.

  Weren’t we all?

  Her companion was a small blonde who had arms so thin that they looked like broomsticks. On those broomsticks, I saw at least two obvious track marks.

  “You gotta be lost,” the black-haired leader said. “Nobody around here dre
sses like that.”

  “Or has a car,” the blonde said.

  “Not really lost,” I said. “Just not quite sure what I’m looking for.”

  They were in front of me now, forcing me to either stop or plow right through them. I stopped.

  “Oh,” the black haired one said. “I got what you’re looking for, American boy. Trust me on that.” She laid her hand on my shoulder as she said this, and because I’m really just another dumb male at heart, I was unable to not look at the ample cleavage she puffed out towards me.

  “No, I’m not looking for that,” I said.

  “Oh, you don’t think you are. We might be in the shitty part of town, but we’re A-class, baby.”

  “I’m sure you are, but—,”

  She then put her arm around her blonde friend and pulled her close. “If you got an hour, we’ll both take you. At the same time. No rules. Anything goes. One hundred quid.”

  Ashamed that I had even let her get in her pitch, I shook my head. “Sorry ladies, I’m here strictly on business.”

  “You a cop?” the blonde asked, looking suspicious.

  “Not anymore. However, I am a man in need of information. How’d you like to earn the easiest fifty bucks you ever made?”

  At once, they both dropped the deadened sexy look. The black-haired woman’s eyes were suddenly all business. “What kind of information?”

  “Is that like fifty quid?” Blonde asked.

  “I’m looking for someone else who has been through here recently that might have looked like they didn’t belong here.”

  They both laughed at this. “Honey, no one belongs here! You just described almost eighty percent of our clients…rich college kids, family men, business guys who are getting tired of the same old snatch at home. We see them all.”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew a candid photo of Christina Bishop, one Damian had provided.

  “What about this woman?” I showed the picture to the street-walkers, and they looked at it with interest. The leader of the duo carried herself with a crude professionalism that made me pretty certain that she’d shoot straight with me and not just lie to get the cash.

  The blonde frowned. “I don’t think so. But…I don’t know…she looks sort of familiar.”

  “Yeah,” the black-haired one said. She then laughed and eyed the image closer. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen her. But there was this girl here not too long ago that could have passed for her sister. This girl had red hair and kind of acted like a stuck up bitch.”

  “Yeah,” the blonde said, snapping her fingers and suddenly excited. “At the French Brothers’ place.”

  “How long ago was this?” I asked.

  The black haired woman shrugged. “Maybe four days. Five at most, I think. But I’d seen her around before, wandering the warehouses. First time I saw her was about two weeks back. Pretty girl…I kept an eye on her because I thought she was another pro…trying to take our action.”

  “And where’s this French Brothers’ place?” I asked.

  In a motion that almost seemed to be choreographed, they both held out their hands. “Payment first,” the black-haired woman said. “And also, if anyone asks, we didn’t tell you nothing.”

  I agreed and handed them both fifty pounds. Damian would cover the expenses. They then gave me directions, and after once again turning down their salacious offers, I returned to my car. I cranked it to life and pulled back out onto the soiled street, feeling like I was finally getting somewhere.

  ELEVEN

  It made a sad sort of sense.

  When I reached the building, I’d expected a run-in with “The French Brothers,” maybe a kind of thugs or pimps running the area. But the warehouse the hookers pointed me at was nothing more than a huge storage shed that looked older than everything else in the area. It had a rustic wooden exterior and boasted ancient faded letters that read “French Brother’s Grain.” The faint sound of water lapping at the banks of the river carried on the air while raucous seagulls cried overhead. Somewhere out of sight, a diesel engine rumbled with discontent as a boat passed by on the river.

  I parked in the desolate lot, stepped out of the car, and locked my doors. Within two steps, the parking lot alone told me what type of place this was. The butt end of a smoked joint, several empty beer cans, and a broken syringe littered the ground between my car and the gate guarding the entrance to the place.

  Approaching the entryway, I considered knocking but guessed that would scare off anyone who might have any valuable information. Instead, I pushed the creaky door open and stepped inside.

  The smell of dust, sweat, and piss assaulted my nostrils but I manned up and strolled in as if I belonged there. The interior was basically one large open area supported by rusty iron beams and graffiti-covered concrete. Several people sat on the grimy floor among old machinery and wooden boxes. Above us, a crumbling roof let some of the afternoon sunshine in through a filthy skylight, but it did little to brighten the place. Some of the homeless had made seedy little shelters out of plastic sheeting and garbage bags. One was particularly innovative with an old car door and several scraps of sheet metal. A home away from home—almost palatial in comparison with its neighbors.

  I headed for this particular shelter first. The man that sat at the corner of it was smoking a roll-up cigarette and staring at me as I approached. He didn’t look at me with fear, though. It felt like he was sizing me up, trying to figure me out.

  “Hey buddy,” I said, drawing near. “I’m looking for some help.” I could smell his body odor from three feet away, but I managed to get closer without retching.

  “Not much help to be had here, man,” he said lethargically.

  I handed him the picture of Christina Bishop. “Have you seen this woman lately?”

  The man studied it for a while as he drew from his cigarette. “Nope. Damn shame, too. She’s a pretty’n.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yup. I’d remember something that looked that good. Sorry, boss.”

  I retrieved the picture and then headed to the next man. He had no shelter and was simply slumped against a stack of old builder’s pallets. Even before I spoke to him, I knew it was a lost cause. His head was tilted back, and he was snoring loudly. A thin trail of drool ran over his lips. I assumed the reason for his condition was the empty copper-colored bottle that sat between his legs.

  I bypassed the snorer and moved to the next shelter, this one nothing more than a tent made of thick sticks, a few nails, and a plastic sheet. An unshaven man and a pale woman sat underneath inside. The man was eating from a package of dry crackers as if it were his first meal in a week, which it might have been. I showed them the picture, and the man barely even looked at it. He seemed more worried I’d steal his crackers.

  The pale woman, though, nodded. She had a broad, welcoming face and bright blue eyes beneath the dirt and grime. She must have been pretty at some point in the not too distant past. “Yeah, I saw her, but not in here. She was on the street, walking like she was lost,” she said.

  “But you didn’t speak to her?”

  “Nope. She stuck out, though…you know? She was dressed down, but not many people that pretty come through here.”

  “Do you know anyone else that might have known that she was here?”

  “I think I saw Ruffles talking to her.”

  “Ruffles?”

  “Skinny little bastard down that way,” she said, hitching a dirty thumb to her left. “Blonde hair and probably wearing that Hendrix shirt he loves.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I reached into my pocket, took out a few coins, and gave them to her. She looked up to me as if she had won the lottery and took the money greedily.

  I made my way through the rest of the large open space, and within a few minutes, I spotted a man with shaggy blonde hair and an unkempt beard. He was wiry and lean, wearing a tattered Jimi Hendrix T-shirt that looked about three sizes too large. I walked over while he
tinkered with an old Walkman, apparently trying to get some unspooled tape from a cassette out of one of the wheels inside.

  He peered up and saw me coming. He raised an eyebrow skeptically and for a moment, I thought he was going to stand up to greet me. Instead, he dropped the Walkman and bolted like a greyhound towards the back of the building where everything looked dark and threatening.

  “Ruffles?” I yelled, realizing as it came out alarmed and confused just how stupid of a name it was. “Hey! I just want to ask you some questions.”

  Behind me, a few others in attendance started chuckling. Someone with a voice like gravel said, “Don’t let him get too much of a head start on you. He’s a fast little bugger.”

  It seemed like great advice, so I shot off after him, breaking into a run. I had no desire to head into the shadowy areas of the building, but there was no choice. I dodged broken masonry and rusting machinery. As I dashed, my hand stretched out and picked up a loose piece of board jutting from a wall, no doubt a failed piece of carpentry from one of the makeshift shelters.

  Within a few strides, Ruffles had reached the back of the building. One of the large holes in the roof let in enough sun to illuminate a sizeable crack in the back wall. He was twenty feet from me, headed directly for it. About to get away.

  I threw my projectile.

  The board struck the wall and clattered to the ground, missing Ruffles by half a foot, but it had the desired effect. Ruffles paused in shock.

  We collided just as he had gotten a single foot through the gap. I grabbed the back of his filthy shirt and wheeled him around to face me.