by Kirk Dougal
I noticed Shea had moved to the end of the bar, close enough to be at my side in a breath but far enough away to give the woman and me a little privacy.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I was afraid you were going to catch it.”
She walked to Shea’s chair, her steps slow and stiff, and eased down to the seat. “How did you know there was a bomb?” Her voice crossed between us, a golden river of honey but there was a bite to it, a promise of steel in the words.
“When somebody dressed like a Bruno walks into a building with a briefcase, leaves a second later without it, and then dusts out like he’s got someone on his tail, nothing good is going to happen. I’m just glad I was close enough to get to you in time.”
“A Bruno?”
I shrugged. “A tough guy, enforcer for one of the gangs. I recognized the driver and the car.”
“Big C.” She spit out the words. “He has been blackmailing all the merchants in this section of town and forcing them to pay a merchants fee for insurance. And if they don’t, well, you’ve seen firsthand what they do to the people who refuse to pay.”
“I know what they do,” I said, “but I wonder how you know, Miss. Excuse me but this really doesn’t seem like one of the things someone like you would understand.”
She stared out the window. “I’ve seen it before,” she answered after a while.
A commotion at the door made us both turn that way.
“Go see how many wounded we have in here and if we need an ambulance,” Dutch said to three uniformed policemen. He turned and noticed me, a grin splitting his face. “I should have known you’d be living the life of Reilly.” He stopped and covered the ground between us in two quick strides. “Jesus, RJ, you’re hurt. How close were you?”
“Too damn close, Dutch.” I felt the heat rise to my cheeks when the woman cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. Detective Hanson, this is Miss… I didn’t catch your name.”
“But you managed to catch me.” Her eyes twinkled when she spoke. “Detective, I am Mrs. Evelyn Borget. This gentleman saved my life so if he needs any medical attention, I want to see he is taken care of.”
Dutch almost choked on his mustache. “The police force will certainly keep that in mind, ma’am. RJ, did you see what happened?”
“Apparently the deli owner did not want to pay up on his local merchant tax. I got here in time to see a black Lincoln with two men in it stop out front. One hopped out with a case, went inside the shop, and then came outside without the bag. Then the fireworks started.”
“Was the owner one of your clients?”
“No. I was just at the wrong place at the right time.”
Dutch smoothed down his mustache. “Any idea who it was that pulled the plunger?”
“It was Big C’s men.”
The detective let out a low whistle. “Sounds about right. This is Rose territory but the word is that Big C is trying to muscle in.” He turned to Evelyn. “So, he helped you get away after the blast?”
She laughed. “No, he knocked me to the ground.” She laughed again when Dutch’s mouth dropped open.
“She was climbing out of a taxi when I noticed the briefcase inside the deli door. I figured what was going to happen so I tried to get her out of the way and we ended up on the sidewalk. The bomb knocked me stiff and when I came to, she was already across the street.”
“It was a guy all dressed in black,” Shea said as he stepped closer.
“What’s that, lad?” Dutch asked.
“A man in a black suit and black hat helped the lady across the street while I tried to wake up Mr. D. His hat was down real low so I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Well, he got a good look at my watch,” Evelyn said. “He was trying to rip it off my wrist when I woke up. I cried out and two men chased him off before they brought me here.”
I felt my chest stop, my last breath hanging in the air. The situation was too much of a coincidence for the man in black to be at the shoot out yesterday and to know how to find the IP tag for players.
“Dutch, do you need me to stay?” I asked. “I was on my way to a client when this happened.”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll swing by your office later and get your statement. Besides, I may have something for you on that other case by then.” He gave me a knowing look and I thought about the Roberts murder. “Mrs. Borget, if you stay here I will have one of the uniforms take you home.” He walked outside.
“Thank you again, Mister…?”
“Dowland. RJ Dowland.” I stood up and reached into my pocket, pulling out the little Brownie. “I think this is yours, Mrs. Borget.”
She started to reach for the gun but stopped. “I seem to have dropped my purse, Mr. Dowland. Would you keep it for me until I have a chance to see you again?”
I tried to breath but the bar suddenly felt very hot. “Yes, ma’am. I would be happy to hold on to it for you.”
Chapter 24
Shea drove for a few blocks before we found a corner grocery. I picked up enough meat and bread for a couple of days’ worth of sandwiches and loaded up on cigarettes before he took me back to the Lansford. A handful of people moved through the lobby as I waited for the elevator, the hoist’s creaking and whining making me wish I had taken the stairs. I made the mistake of glancing at the front desk and the man behind the counter gave me the same knowing smile and wink he had used the day before. I gripped the groceries tighter to keep from walking over and slugging him in the face.
The elevator screeched to a stop and the operator pulled back the metal safety gate. “Going up, sir?”
I nodded as I walked past him. “Seventh floor.”
The ride up was quiet except for the creaking of metal. In fact, the whole building felt abnormally hushed, the air holding still and waiting for its own explosion like the deli. I moved the grocery bag to my other arm so my right hand was free to go after the gun hanging beneath my suit.
A couple waited on the seventh floor and, when the elevator stopped, they both stepped aside, their faces showing the wary masks of people not accustomed to cities and hotels. I wondered for a second what brought them to a place so obviously out of their comfort zone but then my thoughts returned to everything else swirling around me in the game. Voice, the explosion, Gretchen—not to mention the real reason I was inside—Raven. I had to applaud the programmers; they certainly kept players busy.
I turned down a side hall and walked to the back of the building to the doorway of the stairwell. I slipped inside and waited. I had not heard any doors open in the hallway as I walked and if anybody had tailed me from the lobby, they needed to sprint up the front stairs to catch the elevator. After a minute of silence, however, I was sure no one had followed me so I walked down to the sixth floor.
Rooms 625 and 626 sat across from each other and I listened at the door of 626 for a few seconds but heard nothing from the other side. I moved across the hall and knocked on 625. Voice did not answer the door. I put the grocery bag down on the floor and pulled my gun, switching the weapon to my left hand while I fished the room key out of my pants pocket. The key turned easily and I pushed open the door.
Voice sat on the edge of the bed, his unblinking eyes staring at the wall beside the door. I recognized the look. His avatar had shut down while the real Voice, the gamer, was out living in the world. I grabbed the groceries and went into the room.
The bottle of rye sat on the nightstand and I helped myself to a snort while I glanced over the room. Voice had not stayed active for very long after I left him, or at least he had not moved much around. The unwrinkled bedding, except for where he sat, the empty ashtray, the full bottle of liquor, and the silent radio—they were all the clues I needed to know he had jumped out soon after I left the hotel. In fact, if his body had not been holding down the corner of the bed, I would have thought the room had been deserted.
I knew Shea was waiting in the cab but I wanted some answers. Voice’s con gone bad, the explosion—a lot of thi
ngs in the game were pointing toward Big C and I wondered if Raven and the mobster were somehow tied together. But to know that answer, I needed more information, something only Voice could provide until Dutch came through.
The meat went into the ice chest and I stacked the bread and other items on the table by the window. My first two cigarettes were crumpled in the ashtray and Voice still had not moved before I decided to hit the bricks. I wrote a note telling him to stay put and leaned it against the loaf of bread before I left.
I grimaced when I looked down at the message, wondering why I cared enough to leave the instructions for Voice. He was not the reason I had returned to the games. Enough was enough.
Time to find Raven.
*****
I was startled to see a man sitting in the outer office across from Gretchen. I was even more surprised to notice it was Jim Black. He smiled when he saw me, a humorless grin that made me want to drive back to the Lansford and make sure Voice’s body still sat safely on the edge of the bed.
“Mr. Black has been waiting to see you,” Gretchen said. “I didn’t know what time you would be back.” NPC or real woman, I did not need to know what she was thinking to understand she was more than a little mad.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Black. I had something unexpected pop up this morning.” I waved him toward my office. I waited until he passed before I mouthed, “five minutes,” to Gretchen. She sniffed and looked away, suddenly very interested in the file on the corner of her desk. The planned interruption I wanted may not arrive.
“Was your meeting this morning about Eric?” Black asked.
I smiled and shook my head. “No, I’m afraid not. I was working another case this morning.”
“Have you had any luck finding him, Mr. Dowland?”
We were not standing on a street corner at night and this was not some old speakeasy with shadows playing across the walls. We were in my office with the lights on and the sunlight playing through the windows. Where before I had only thought the man shy or afraid, now I watched his eyes dart back and forth as he lowered his head, taking in every nook and cranny of my office. I already knew Black was not Voice’s brother and the lie rankled me. The anger that drove me to find Voice, even though the search took me away from locating Raven, flamed again. But now, as I watched Black trying to dupe me another time, I fought the urge to yank out the .45 and plug him in the chair where he sat. I held back, however, knowing I needed information from him if I was ever going to decide what to do with Voice.
“Some. I found where he’d been flopping at the Jorgenson Arms but he dusted the joint long before I got there.” I knew from experience a good lie needed some truth to be believable. Besides, in the event I had been spotted down by the Jorgenson and this visit was Black’s way of seeing where I stood, I better give him a little taste of what was going on before I spun him off.
“The Jorgenson. I never heard him mention that place before.” Black rubbed a hand across his chin. “Do you think he’ll go back there?”
“No. My guess is he spotted some of Big C’s men and lit out. He won’t chance going back there again.” Now was the time to shift gears. “Finding him may take a little longer than I thought, Mr. Black. This brother of yours is pretty good at making himself scarce. The case might be more expensive than I first thought.” I hoped the greedy detective line would convince him I was still hooked and playing along.
Black stared at me, forgetting for a moment to keep up his anxious role. Anger flashed across his eyes, an instant of lightning, and then it was gone, leaving the distant rumble of thunder.
“I might be able to come up with a little more,” he said, glancing down at his hands. “I’m no rich man, Mr. Dowland, but you’ve got to find him. If something happens to him…” I almost felt sorry for the man until I reminded myself Voice did not have a brother.
“Mr. Dowland.” Gretchen opened the door to the outer office. “I’m sorry to bother you but Detective Hanlon is on the line and he says it’s important. Shall I have him call back?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I said as I stood up, Black taking my cue and doing the same. “We’re done for now.” I walked around the desk and shook the man’s hand, feeling the need to immediately walk over to the sink and wash off whatever clung to his skin. “I’m sure it won’t be much longer, Mr. Black. If anybody can find your brother, I can.”
I waited until I heard the office door close before I turned back to Gretchen. “That was a fast five minutes.”
She sniffed and turned, tossing her hair in the process. “Dutch really is on the telephone,” she said through the doorway. “Otherwise I would have left you to stew in there with Black all afternoon.”
My telephone rang and I answered.
“Dowland.”
“RJ, it’s Dutch. I glommed some information for you on the Roberts murder. He lived in a house at 1222 Oak Street. Seems he was some kind of special reporter for The Globe, looked into things some people probably didn’t want looked into.”
“How’d he die?”
“His throat was split from ear to ear. No sign he put up a fight so whoever did it must have surprised him. The detective in charge of the case said they found evidence of a woman staying at the apartment but she never showed. She might have been involved but more likely she blew town after she saw what happened. A dame called in the report of Roberts’ murder but didn’t give her name.”
“Sounds about right. One more thing, Dutch. Was he wearing a watch when your men got to the apartment?”
Dutch laughed. “A watch? You ask the damnedest things, RJ.” I listened to the shuffle of papers through the telephone for a few seconds. “Huh. No, he wasn’t. The report doesn’t mention any jewelry when he was killed. The notation says that’s what made the detective think the murder might have been a robbery gone bad.”
“Thanks, Dutch. Could you check and see if there have been any other murders like this in the past few months? Stiffs found without their watch or jewelry.”
“You thinking this might be some guy’s signature? Killing people for a simple pocket job?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Swell. Okay, I’ll look into it. Keep your head down, RJ. Try not to get yourself blown up.”
Chapter 25
I understood how the street received its name after the first block. Oak trees lined both sides, protected from the road by rows of white fences and green yards. I slowed, letting the Ford idle forward as the last of the sun fought to light the neighborhood. A shiver shot through my body and I dropped my elbow from the window, grabbing the wheel with my left hand so my right remained free.
It wasn’t a cold breeze that caused me to pull back inside the car and think about the gun. No other vehicles moved on the street. No husbands smoked on their front porch. The silent street missed the laughter of children playing or mothers calling them home for supper. A closer examination of the houses revealed dark windows and untended gardens. The neighborhood had started a slide and now the area balanced on the edge, waiting to see if it would be filled with life or fade away, dead from disuse.
I rolled into the 1200 block and eased to the curb. Dusk descended over the street as I smoked a Lucky, my attention divided between Roberts’ house and looking for signs of life around me. One cigarette turned into two while my skin crawled under unseen eyes.
Dark fell before I had enough. Not a single car had driven by and still no lights brightened windows in the houses for as far as I could see. Only the flickering street lamps on corners, placed far enough apart to allow plenty of shadows in between, cast dim circles of light on the sidewalks. I stepped out of the car and walked the rest of the way to Roberts’ house, the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention the entire time.
I turned off the concrete and went straight for the back. The door was locked but the window beside it hung up a few inches, perhaps the entry into the house for someone before me. I pulled out my gun before opening the window more and sw
inging my leg inside.
I sat there for a minute on the sill, listening for sounds of movement. Just like the rest of the street, the house also felt deserted. But the feeling of being watched still followed me so I lifted the rest of my body through the window and moved along the wall, feeling for the light. Beside the back door I found the buttons and the lights popped on when I pushed the top one.
I stood in the kitchen. A few dishes sat in the sink and two glasses, one with lipstick, sat on the countertop. Otherwise, the area was clear so I walked into the next room and turned on the lights.
I knew immediately Roberts had died in this room. The faint odor of rotting flesh lingered in the air, fed by the blood spread out over the floor and table. No longer a red liquid, it had dried to a dark, cracked layer on the wood. I did not know who left the kitchen window open but I was thankful fresh air had reached this room.
Roberts’ body was gone but from the marks in the dried blood, I saw where he had been sitting at the table when Raven slit his throat. In my mind, I imagined the panicked look on his face, hands grasping at his neck to hold back the flood cascading through his fingers. Splatter droplets landed as far away as four feet from the chair so either he thrashed as life oozed past his palms or the blood spurted with the final beats of his heart. Either way, Roberts had died as his killer stood by, coldly analyzing their work with the assurance of holding plenty of time to watch.
I stared at the table top, noticing a pattern in the blood. One portion of the remnants held a straight line and I leaned over, trying to imagine the object that caused the mark. I glanced at the floor and partially solved the mystery. A pencil was embedded in the caked blood underneath the table, most likely falling during Roberts’ last struggle. My imagination added to the final scene, seeing him sitting at the table, writing, when the murderer struck. But the paper had disappeared, probably been taken by the killer but I made a note to check with Dutch later.
An open, double-wide doorway led into a neat sitting room and the front foyer. A quick search revealed nothing of interest so I walked down a short hallway on the opposite wall. Here, at least, I found some idea of why the police thought Roberts had a lady friend. Two toothbrushes, a flowered robe and a few items of make-up led me to the same conclusion. Experience told me there was not enough product in the bathroom for her to call this place a full-time home but she obviously spent enough nights here to feel the need to leave a few important things for the mornings.
