C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  The fellow behind the counter said our crepes were ready. I got them, and my parents eyed mine suspiciously. They didn’t even cut into their own crepes, instead waiting for me to try mine. I thought about keeping them in suspense, but they were picking up the tab, so I cut into it and tried a bite. Considering I had no idea what to expect of a crepe filled with bacon and maple syrup, I found it delicious. The sweetness of the maple syrup offset the saltiness of the bacon. My parents waited until I gave the thumbs up before they started eating their own.

  While I ate, I thought of a way I could involve Rich without making it seem like I had gone running to him for help. I resolved to call him after lunch.

  “You’re lucky the Ravens have a bye this week,” Rich said over the phone.

  “It’s good to know your pursuit of justice stops for nothing but the NFL,” I said.

  “If you were a fan, you’d understand.”

  “I’ve been gone for three and a half years. Give me some time to soak it all in again since I’m back.”

  “Whatever,” Rich said. “You said you wanted to do a stakeout today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you even know what a stakeout is?” I could hear amusement in Rich’s tone.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You know no one serves you a steak, right?”

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  Finally, the laughter slipped out. “Of course I am. You don’t know the first thing about being a detective, and now you want to have a stakeout.” Rich paused. “Wait a minute. Is this related to that woman whose husband wrecked in Herring Run Park?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still think it wasn’t an accident?”

  “I think there’s a decent chance it wasn’t, and I want to pursue the idea.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Rich said.

  “There’s an easy way to find out: do the stakeout with me. I’ll fill you in on what I know so long as you promise not to charge in and screw everything up.”

  “Because you have everything under control.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I do.”

  Rich chuckled. “This should be interesting,” he said. “Since my ride-alongs are over, I have a few days off. I had hoped to spend them more productively, but you know what? This might be better entertainment. Sure, I’ll do this stakeout with you. When were you planning on starting?”

  “Meet me at my building at seven,” I said.

  In the meantime, I tried to watch the NFL games on TV. Without the Ravens being involved, though, I couldn’t get into the games. I hadn’t seen much football during my time in Hong Kong, and while I wasn’t the type to paint my face and run around in a jersey, I had been a fan. Maybe I would be again, but I wasn’t going to make a lot of progress on my fandom this week.

  Rich came by sharply at seven o’clock. I insisted he drive, since his unmarked police car looked a lot more official than my Lexus. My car would let us be stealthy, but the police cruiser would get us out of more binds. I didn’t plan on landing in the soup but I hadn’t planned on trouble in Hong Kong, either.

  Armed with two bags of food in a cooler, a thermos of hot tea, and two bottles of water, I rode along and directed Rich where to go. We ended up in Canton Square, about half a block from Margaret Madison’s front door. Rich looked at the cooler full of food on the backseat. “Planning on being here a while?” he said.

  “You never know,” I said.

  “Usually, someone will make a food run while they’re on a stakeout. So you know in case you ever rope me into this again.”

  “I figured bringing good food would be better.”

  “Only you would haul such a huge cooler to a stakeout,” Rich said.

  “Hey, you can’t spell ‘stakeout’ without ‘takeout.’”

  Rich rolled his eyes. “Whatever. As long as the food is good, I’m OK with it.”

  “Do you think I would bring lousy food?” I said.

  “No,” Rich said. “You’re too much of a food snob for mediocre grub.”

  “And a snob in general, right?”

  Rich shrugged. “Hey, you said it, not me.” He paused and sighed. “Whose house are we watching, anyway?”

  “Her name is Margaret Madison. She’s a pretty girl in an ugly business. She works for a bookie.”

  “Do you know which upstanding gentleman employs her?” said Rich.

  “Remember Vinnie Serrano?”

  “Hmm.” Rich frowned in thought. “The guy you went to school with?”

  “The same,” I said.

  “How does he fit into all of this?” I explained Vinnie’s connection to Alice Fisher, what Paul did to pay off his wife’s debt, and the fact Paul and Vinnie being in regular contact. “Doesn’t mean Vinnie killed Paul,” Rich said.

  “Of course it doesn’t, but it’s the only real lead I have, so I’m following it.”

  “If anything, he doesn’t figure for bumping off the husband. The guy was a source of money. Guys in the business of squeezing people for cash don’t do things to make the well go dry.”

  “Vinnie said pretty much the same thing.”

  “You went and talked to Vinnie?” Rich frowned.

  “What?” I said. “We have a history. He’s not going to have me shot in public. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  “Vinnie probably has thugs working for him.”

  “At least two. Not counting Miss Madison, who seems to be his principal bet-taker. I saw her get rough with a guy around here—she can definitely hold her own.”

  Rich watched Margaret Madison’s house. We hit a lull in the conversation, so I did the same. One light remained shining on the second floor. I wondered if she had gone out and left a light on when it suddenly went out. A few seconds later, a light on the first floor came on and shined through the bay window. A minute after, Margaret Madison walked out of her house, locked the door behind her, and headed up the street.

  “She is a looker,” Rich said. “Seems an odd choice of business for a pretty girl.”

  “Not really,” I said. “Think about it—men are suckers for girls they want to sleep with. If she can bat her eyelashes or show some cleavage and get a guy to make a bet he wouldn’t otherwise make, it’s all good for the business.”

  “Fair point. She could probably talk me into a bet or two.”

  We watched the house for another few minutes. When it became apparent Margaret wasn’t returning quickly, I unlocked my car door. “I’m going to see if I can get into her place,” I said. “There might be something useful in there. Keep an eye out. My phone’s on vibrate—call me if she comes back, or if someone else comes by.”

  “You’re going to break in?” Rich looked at me as if I had grown a second head.

  “I think we’ll learn more inside than we will out here in this car.”

  “Breaking and entering?”

  “What if she left the back door unlocked?” I said.

  Rich sighed. “And you wonder why I question you and your methods.”

  “I’m not bound by all the same rules you are.”

  “B and E is illegal for you, too,” Rich said.

  I gave Rich a smile. “Like I said, maybe she left the back door unlocked. Then I’m only guilty of entering. Are you going to keep an eye out for me while I’m in there?”

  Rich shook his head and sighed again. “Why am I not surprised? Yeah, I’ll keep an eye out. Hurry back.”

  I got out of the car and closed the door behind me. “I hope not to be gone long.”

  Baltimore is a city full of rowhouses. Many of them have stood for ages, predating even the families who handed them down. Within the past generation or two, rowhouses got reborn as townhouses, but these very Baltimore structures still use and deserve the old name. Few have anything in their front or back yards except steps, clotheslines, and concrete. A good feature, because limited street parking means most have have alleys running behind or alongside them.

>   Margaret Madison’s row featured such an alley behind it. I went into it and looked around. I didn’t see anyone milling about or taking an interest in me. Margaret’s back gate opened simply by lifting the latch. I ducked so my head didn’t stick up over the chain-link-topped stone fence, entered the backyard, and closed the gate behind me. The backyard was mere concrete broken by grass growing in the cracks.

  The rear entrance had a storm door covering it. It wasn’t locked. I took my special keyring out of my pocket. This was something I couldn’t let Rich see because the police would consider it a set of burglar’s tools. While in Hong Kong, I learned a lot about burglary and received two identical sets of special keys as a gift. Even though I broke into businesses and a few homes overseas, I could never bring myself to steal. I only wanted to know how to do it.

  This lock was an older Schlage Margaret should have replaced a couple years ago. I took my small LED flashlight out of my pocket, turned it on, and held it in my mouth. I got the lock to click open in under a minute using a tension wrench and a slender steel rod. Before rushing in, I waited to hear if anyone stirred inside or if a large dog came thundering in my direction. To be safe, I knocked on the door and waited a few seconds more.

  The house sounded empty, so I went in, relocking the back door behind me. I didn’t want to turn the lights on because any neighbor who saw Margaret leave would become suspicious. The LED flashlight would have to be enough. I walked into the kitchen, which Margaret hadn’t bothered to straighten. Two pans sat on the counter and another two in the sink along with a bunch of used plates and utensils. The dining room looked immaculate by comparison. The table had a white floral print tablecloth atop it. A small china cabinet filled with average dishes stood in the corner of the room.

  I continued into the living room. Margaret left the light on in here, so I put my flashlight away. I still didn’t know what I was looking for. Margaret may not have been involved with Paul Fisher at all. Even if she had been, she wouldn’t leave a smoking gun lying around for some dashing and ingenious detective to find. Maybe I could learn more about her from her house. Maybe there would be something I could use to uncover more about what happened to Paul Fisher. The police would do this with a warrant. They would also have a better idea of what they were looking for.

  Margaret had a nice flatscreen TV mounted onto the right-hand wall. A thin bookshelf packed with DVDs sat to the right of it. A glorified TV stand held a DVD player and a game console, along with a few games I never would have fired up, even in my videogame heyday. Her leather couch looked and felt like it came from a department store and was set against the wall opposite the TV. A dark wooden coffee table didn’t go with the couch at all but was positioned about a foot away. I sat on the couch and looked at the coffee table. It held a pile of papers and envelopes. I leafed through Margaret’s mail. It was mostly bills, the occasional magazine, and some envelopes of indeterminate origin. Judging by the pile, it looked like Margaret routinely tossed the mail there and went through it when the mood struck her. I did the same with my mail.

  I stood up to look around some more when I heard the storm door open at the back of the house. “Shit,” I said under my breath. Why hadn’t Rich called me? I could go out the front door, but my exit would make noise and be suspicious to the neighbors. As quietly as I could, I went toward the rear of the house. The door to the basement was between the dining room and kitchen. I heard laughter coming from the back door as a key went into the lock. I opened the basement door, went down two steps, and pulled it shut behind me. I heard the back door open.

  The laughter continued into the kitchen. The back and storm doors both swung closed. “Looks like you need to hire a maid,” I heard a male voice say. It sounded an awful lot like Vinnie Serrano.

  “Maybe you need to pay me more, then,” came Margaret’s response.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs and negotiate your raise?” It figured Vinnie would sleep with her—or at least try. For someone like Vinnie, the good thing about running an illegal business is workplace harassment laws can’t be enforced. Vinnie could paw at Margaret all day and what could she do about it?

  Right then, Rich decided to call me. My phone vibrated on my hip. I grabbed it and turned it off quickly. They probably heard the noise.

  “What was that?” Margaret said.

  Yup. They heard it.

  Chapter 12

  “I know I heard something,” Margaret said.

  “I didn’t,” Vinnie said.

  “It sounded like it came from the basement.” Footsteps pounded toward the door. I considered going down the stairs. They could be old and creaky, which would give me away even more. Of course, if Margaret opened the door, I had a big problem. Vinnie wouldn’t let me talk my way out of this one. Stairs are noisiest and creakiest in their centers. I kept to the side and backed down, trying to be as quiet as possible while still getting to the basement floor at a good pace.

  “You probably have a rat. Everyone in Baltimore has rats in their basement.”

  “I do not have rats in my basement,” Margaret said, her voice full of indignation. Vinnie had to be careful, or there wouldn’t be any negotiation of raises tonight. I got to the bottom of the stairs and crawled off to one side.

  “Do you want me to go down there and see what it is?”

  A set of wooden walls, open at the rear, framed the staircase. I crawled under the stairs. I didn’t see anything I could use to cover myself. If anyone came down, I had to hope they didn’t see me. There was plenty of room under the steps, so I situated myself as far into the shadows as I could.

  “Could you, Vinnie?”

  “Sure.”

  The door opened. Vinnie flipped on a switch. The stairs were off center in the basement. The bulb was off to one side. Luckily for me, it happened to be the far side. It didn’t shed a lot of light on the other side. I could see the ceiling was barely high enough for someone of average height, let alone someone as tall as me. Good thing I had been crouching the whole time.

  Vinnie came down. I heard him reach the bottom and walk toward the light. I still couldn’t see him; the wooden walls under the stairs blocked my view of most of the basement. I pulled my sweater up over the lower half of my face. The .45 dug into my hip. I hoped I wouldn’t need it. Vinnie prowled around the far side of the basement, passed in front of the stairs, then and puttered about on the near side for a minute. “There’s nothing here,” he said.

  “I was sure I heard something.”

  “I’m telling you there’s nothing down here.”

  “All right, come on up, then. I opened a bottle of wine.”

  Vinnie bounded up the steps and closed the basement door behind him. He didn’t even turn the light off. I let out a breath I had been holding. “Looks like a nice red,” Vinnie said when he got back to the kitchen.

  “It seemed like a nice way to begin negotiations.”

  I rolled my eyes. They chatted for a few more minutes as they drank wine. Then they retired to the second floor. At that point, I couldn’t hear them anymore. I crawled out from under the stairs and stood up as far as I could. This basement had been made for someone five-eight; I stood six inches too tall for it. Even the gap between the wooden beams didn’t allow me to stand straight.

  This seemed like a good time to leave. Vinnie and Margaret were two floors above me and obviously distracted. A few moans from up there pierced the silence. Negotiations were going well. I crept up the stairs, got to the basement door, and opened it an inch at a time. It didn’t creak. I stepped out into the hallway and closed it behind me. Now I heard the moans louder. I padded toward the back door, opened it, and eased my way outside.

  I walked from the backyard, closed the gate behind me, and entered the empty alley. I kept low so the fence would hide me from prying eyes, only straightening when I hit the street. I jogged back to Rich’s car and opened the door.

  “I called,” he said right away.

  “Yeah, after I h
id in the basement,” I said. “The vibration almost gave me away. If they hadn’t been horny, I might be in a bind right now.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t go breaking in to people’s houses.”

  “Maybe you should keep a closer eye on things.”

  “They hit the alley from the far end. I couldn’t be sure it was them. I only knew when they turned the porch light on.”

  “You could have called and given me a heads up.”

  Rich shrugged. “I didn’t want to worry you for nothing,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s almost like you wanted me to get caught.”

  “Of course not. If there’s something to investigate here, I want to see it investigated.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But there’s a right way and a wrong way to go about it.”

  I looked at Rich. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll keep poking around and making the case my way. You can follow your little police manual and make sure all the Is are dotted and the Ts are crossed. When I figure out what happened before you, I’ll call you in to make the arrest. We’ll see how strong your principles are then.”

  “Why would you call me in for the collar?”

  “It might help your career. You get to arrest a murderer, or a manslaughterer, or whatever the lawyers figure out that it is. You broke a case your fellow detectives didn’t. It’ll make you look good. You might even get a commendation.”

  “You assume you’re going to solve this case. Hell, you assume there’s a case to be solved.”

  “Of course I do. I can’t work from the assumption this is all too much for me, and I’ll never put two and two together.”

  “You have to roll with the punches.” Rich looked at me and frowned. “It’s the part you don’t understand. You think you can sit behind your computer, maybe venture out here and there, and figure everything out. That’s not how it works. You have to hit the streets. You have to put in your time. You can’t go out and party every night. You can’t sleep in all the time. You’ll have days where you can solve every problem and others where the smallest thing trips you up. I don’t think you understand the basics.”