Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

  They responded: Do not approach. They were right. It wasn’t yet midnight, so I decided to wait.

  The sirens were first and then red and blue flashes lit up the pier. Two cars at first followed by two more. Two PCPD officers from each car jumped out and surrounded the Lincoln, weapons drawn. They shined flashlights into the car while one officer ran back to his cruiser and grabbed a crowbar from his car. He came back to the Lincoln and used the tool to pop open the trunk. They all took a step back; then, cautiously, they all came closer to the car and peered into the trunk. Something told me it was not an expensive set of luggage they were examining.

  “Dead all right,” one officer quipped. “Call it in.” My heart sank as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The officers huddled together, and I tried to guess what they were thinking. Decision time. Their next order of business would be to notify the coroner’s office, cordon off the area, and then begin a search. I couldn’t move from here without them seeing me. If they discover me hiding, then I’m rung up: suspect number one. If I come forward, I might have a chance to get out in front of this and save myself. I sent a text to Mike and Marco. Cops on scene. Need help.

  I stepped out from my alcove with my hands in the air. “Officer. Name’s Delarosa. I’m retired from the job.” The officers all instinctively reacted with guns drawn. I had eight Glocks pointed at me.

  “Down on the ground—now.”

  I did not hesitate and went to my knees as they surrounded me. They pushed me flat on the pavement; they pulled my arms around my back and slipped a zip-tie around my wrists and pulled it tight.

  “I’m on a job. I can explain.” They yanked me to my feet, patted me down and took my Beretta. “Name’s Delarosa…”

  Two officers were holding me when a third got in my face.

  “You’re on a job? What kind of job?” the officer yelled. He had sergeant stripes on his sleeve.

  “I’m ex-PCPD. Now a private investigator. Supposed to meet a guy here.”

  “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Brindisi.” Can’t give up Rosso just yet. “I have a bad feeling it might be him in the trunk.”

  “How do you know what’s in the trunk?”

  “I don’t, but—”

  “What do you know?”

  “The car. It’s Brindisi’s.”

  The sergeant glanced around at the other officers. “You have any ID?”

  “Of course. Jacket pocket.” One officer reached in and fished out my wallet. He went through it, found my private investigator’s license and my PCPD retired card and handed them to the sergeant.

  “You want to explain what you’re doing here?”

  My mind raced—I didn’t want to explain Claire and the money and the entire case but, I needed to come up with something legit. “This guy Brindisi was flipping evidence in a case I’m working on.”

  “What case?”

  “Why don’t we take these cuffs off, and I’ll be happy to help?”

  “Why don’t I decide what we do?” offered the sergeant.

  Another car pulled up to the scene and, thank God, it was Marco and Mike. Marco got out and had his badge in front of him. “Who’s in charge?” he asked.

  A uniform pointed to the sergeant. The sergeant met him halfway. They talked for a minute and both came over to me.

  “Is it Brindisi?” asked Marco.

  “I haven’t looked in,” I said. The sergeant had two uniformed cops walk me over to the Lincoln. It was Brindisi all right. Beat to shit. His skull had a fatal four-inch gash and blood covered most of his head and face. “It’s him.”

  The sergeant faced me. “Detective here says you’re legit, but I still got to take you in.”

  Marco nodded at me and I knew the sergeant had no choice. “Tell Mike to call Jim Rosswell.”

  “Will do, buddy.”

  The uniformed officer grabbed my elbow to move me but I was fixated on Brindisi, dead in the trunk of his own car. The same car he used to kill Sammy. I thought about that the entire drive to the station house.

  Chapter

  45

  I drove in a police cruiser thousands of times over my twenty-year career, but last night was the first time I was in the back seat. I have been in the city’s main lock-up thousands of times but today was the first time I’d seen the view from the inside of a cell looking out. No fun.

  I went through processing at two o’clock in the morning. Mug shot and finger prints. I wasn’t charged with anything yet, but they had plenty to hold me. I understood the sergeant on the scene last night had no choice. He had a dead body in the trunk of a car and me hiding in the shadows. A rookie cop would have locked me up, too.

  My home away from home was a ten-by-ten holding cell with benches along the three walls and a toilet in a corner. I sat upright with my back against a wall the entire night. I tried to sleep but the other customer in my cell, an old wino who was passed out on the opposite bench, snored so loud sleep was out of the question. He also wet himself in the middle of the night while trying to find the toilet so the cell reeked of urine. It was one of those odors that gets in your nose and doesn’t leave.

  I played the entire case back through my mind. Rosso got wise to Claire’s quest from his step-mother Elena Garver, and, what? Suggested Claire use the Harbor Court as home base for the operation? Why would she do that? She had me on the search, why involve anyone else? I’m thinking Rosso injected himself into her plan and was holding her to make sure he got his slice of the pie. He sends me warnings to let me know he’s a tough guy, involves Brindisi to do dirty work, and then kills him to tie up the loose end?

  The old wino fell off the bench and landed on the floor with a thud. I called to the duty officer. “You got a man down in here.”

  Thirty feet away the officer grunted as he got up and moved his chocolate-frosted fueled body down the hall. He got to the cell and observed the scene. “Is he breathing?”

  “Appears to be.”

  “Call me when something serious happens.” He waddled back to his desk.

  The jail got busier as the morning progressed. It’s usually the case after the bars close down and people lose their minds. Two guys were brought in on DUI charges and thrown into the cell across from me, and a woman argued to the duty officer that she was not a hooker and it was all a misunderstanding. Life’s a misunderstanding, sweetheart. Good luck.

  The fat duty officer slid in a tray of breakfast around seven: cold toast, oatmeal that tasted like concrete, a cup of lukewarm coffee. Talk about police brutality. Mike and Katie came in at eight. Mike knew the duty officer, a Sergeant Peterson, and he allowed them back to visit me.

  “It stinks in here,” Katie said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You look like shit,” Mike said. “Get any sleep?”

  I pointed to the drunk, who was still sawing logs.

  “Jim?”

  “He’s on his way. Marco said he’s coming, too. Try to spring you without too much hassle. Raised a lot of questions last night.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Rosso? Any idea where he is?”

  “No. Any luck with Claire’s phone?” Katie had her hand cupped over her nose and mouth.

  “I called, but it goes straight to voice mail. Must be turned off,” she said through her hand. “Anything else I can do?”

  I shook my head. “I was thinking of getting a tracker on Brindisi’s car, but too late for that. If I can keep the cops away for another night or two, we’ll hear from Rosso. He can’t drag this out any longer. Brindisi’s death will point to him.”

  The wino let go of a long, loud fart.

  “I’m done.” Katie flew out of the cell area.

  “All right, keep the faith. Peterson said he’d call me when something happens,” said Mike. “I’m headed back.�
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  “What about Claire’s credit cards?”

  “Ask Marco. He’ll have to keep it quiet, though.”

  “Okay. At least it’s an idea.”

  Mike left and I leaned back against the wall and slept for twenty minutes. I woke to the sound of Marco’s voice. He was at the duty desk, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. After a minute, he came back to the cell.

  “You’re leaving a trail of dead bodies, old friend.”

  “Marco.” I got up and talked to him through the bars. “Find anything?”

  “Only that everywhere you go we find a dead body.”

  “Did they process the car?”

  “Yep. Didn’t find one fingerprint.”

  “No way.”

  “Smelled like bleach. They sanitized it. Good for you, though. No physical evidence to tie you to Brindisi.”

  “They find a phone on him?”

  “Nope. Nothing. Only one beat-to-a-pulp little junkie. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Who tipped the cops last night?”

  “Harbor police got an anonymous call about a body in a trunk.”

  I had no way around this now. Rosso kills Brindisi, calls in the anonymous tip, and leaves him for me so I’m jammed. Didn’t he realize that will shine the light on him? No telling what this dog would do. He stayed one step ahead of me now for a week, but I had to clue in Marco at this point—and beg him for one more day.

  “Rosso. Remember, from thirty years ago? He’s back.”

  “He’s back in Port City? I told you the money would unearth the worst of the worst.”

  “He’s been in Port City. Goes by Karl Boyd. Manages a motel on Harbor Boulevard owned by his step-mother, Elena Garver. Which means he and my client, Claire, are cousins. Sort of. He’s holding her till the money comes through.”

  “Damn. Holding her?”

  “I think. He wants the money—says it’s his. Says he’ll release her when I come up with the missing two mil.”

  “That’s kidnapping for ransom.”

  “But something tells me they’re a team. I need to force his hand—or hers. Somehow.”

  “Did you actually find the money?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Johnny…?”

  “We have a lead, not confirmed.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Claire’s credit cards. Can you run them?”

  “Man, I don’t know…”

  “We have dead bodies. Probable cause.”

  He thought for a second, nodded. “All right. I’ll see.”

  Jim Rosswell walked in—my attorney, friend, and golfing buddy. “Well, isn’t this a mess—Jesus, it stinks in here.” He turned to Marco. “Is that you?”

  “It stinks like that when lawyers walk in.”

  “Could we cut the repartee? Jim, give me some good news, please.”

  “You’re out of here within the hour. Officially a person of interest. The DA wants to interview you later this afternoon.”

  “Can you get me out of that?”

  “I’m your attorney. Not a magician.”

  “You guys can take it from here. I’ll check with you later.” Marco left. Jim came closer to the bars, out of any earshot of the duty officer.

  “Are you clean on this?”

  “Yes. Brindisi was a CI on a case. He got caught up.”

  “Okay. I’ll take your word. I’ll meet you at three at the DA’s office.”

  Jim left and thirty minutes later, I got sprung. I signed some documents and they handed me my wallet and phone. Outside, I found Katie waiting for me in her car. I got in the passenger seat.

  She put the car in gear but paused and lowered all four windows. “I can still smell it. I hope the stink doesn’t stay in my car.”

  “Please drive.” I laid my head back, closed my eyes and prayed for sleep.

  Chapter

  46

  We got back to McNally’s, I went up to my condo and poured a bourbon and allowed it to burn in my stomach as the hot shower burned my skin. I had the water as hot as I could stand it and feared it was not hot enough to ever get the stink off my skin and out of my nose. I toweled off, got dressed and went down to the bar. The warm aroma of fresh brewed coffee felt like a blanket wrapped around me. Mike, bless his soul, had scrambled eggs and toast ready. Katie stared at me while I ate. “What?”

  “Since I started working for you, I’ve been on a stakeout, learned about GPS tracking, posed as a hooker, pretended my uncle died to get access to his safe deposit box, lied to sneak into a hotel room, and seen the inside of a jail.”

  “Told you it was boring.”

  “And it’s only been one week. Just wanted to say thank you.”

  “This is not a typical—”

  “I know. Not a typical job. You keep saying that.”

  “So now that you’ve got all this experience, what do we do next?”

  “We review. Claire is kidnapped by Rosso so he can get his share of the loot. But, we don’t have any leads on the money except for Mrs. Finley at First National.”

  “Right. And don’t forget, we’re not sure that Rosso is holding Claire. They could be working together,” I added.

  We were sitting at the booth. She nodded and went back to her files which she now had in a fancy file box from an office supply store. An upgrade from my cardboard box.

  “She hires you to find the money. Then all these other goom—what’d you call them…?”

  “Goombahs. An Italian mob…”

  “I know, I watched The Sopranos. Goombahs come around looking for their share.”

  “Only Rosso. Remember, Tony warned me to not dig around for money. What he said is exactly what happened and now Sammy is dead.”

  “And now Brindisi.”

  “Yep, Brindisi. Too bad, but he was on the fast-track to his two-by-six apartment anyhow.”

  “Two-by-six?”

  “Coffin.”

  She smirked and crinkled her nose. “I need to learn these street terms.”

  “You will. Pull out everything we—you—have on Boyd-slash-Rosso. He’s gotta be somewhere and I want to find him before he contacts me again. He’s not going to let this go past another night, though.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Cops are involved now. Matter of time before they find him. He’s been one step ahead of me. He knows he’s now on the clock. Time is on our side now.”

  “What about the money? He’s going to want something. He won’t give her up without the money.”

  “You’re right.” I finished breakfast, gathered up my plate, and went to the bar. I fixed two drinks—my usual and a small vodka tonic—and brought them back to the table. “Short one for you.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What are we missing?”

  She sipped the drink while she thought. “We don’t know where they are. Brindisi is gone. So is his car. Rosso must have other guys working for him, right?”

  “Right.” It was good to have two brains on this. Rosso had been one step ahead of me for two nights now. My turn to be in front.

  “The only thing we discovered was who his stepmother is and—hey, could they be staying there?”

  “No. I checked on that. Too obvious. People would spot them. They’re holed up somewhere.”

  “Well, we need to find something, so…we go back to the motel?”

  “Not bad.”

  We decided to use Katie’s red Honda in case Rosso and company had a tag on my cars. Katie pulled into the lot of the Harbor Court and parked in front of the office. We burst through the front door with my badge held high, like I did with Candy-girl. This time the big black guy was working. I wore a jacket and jeans and Katie had on slacks and a blouse. At least we look
ed the part. “Detective Delarosa, and this is Detective Smith. Looking for Karl Boyd.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s on vacation. Been gone about a week.” He talked to me but kept glancing at Katie.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Maurice. Maurice Myers. I’m the assistant manager.”

  The TV blared out some mindless drivel from one of the afternoon shows where a bunch of pseudo-celebrity women sit around and talk about issues of the day. “Could you turn that off?” asked Katie.

  “Sure, sure.” He looked back at Katie while he picked up the remote and clicked off the TV. “Don’t I know you?”

  “No,” she said.

  He stared at her; his eyes went to the counter and he fidgeted with some papers. He knew.

  “Who’s he hang around with? Any scumbags come around here?”

  “Look, I don’t want to be mixed up in anything—”

  “Maurice.” Katie’s voice went up, stern and strong. “We’re investigating Mr. Boyd—and you know that’s not his real name, right?—on some serious charges. I suggest you tell us anything you know or you’ll never get that promotion to manager.”

  Damn. Her cop voice might even have fooled me.

  “Boyd’s not his real name?”

  “Can you say witness protection?”

  Maurice’s eyes got wide. “Really?”

  “So if the cops don’t find him, you-know-who will. And if you-know-who gets here first, do you think they will care about you?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Umm, lately this little slimy guy would come around. Drove a big Lincoln.”

  “Yeah, he made an untimely exit last night.”

  “You don’t say?” His eyebrows shot up.

  “Who else?”

  “Umm, the only other guy I ever saw was this big white dude. Called him Mouse, I think. Yeah, Mouse.”

  “Mouse?” Katie took out a pad and wrote it down.

  “Yeah, but I think his name was like Moskowski. Something like that. I heard Boyd say that once. He would pick Boyd up when his shift was over.”

  “What kind of car did he drive?”

  “Mouse? Mercedes. Like twenty years old. One of those big boxy things.”