At six feet tall, he was about the same height as Reed, though the similarities stopped there. Waif thin from an existence of energy drinks and fruit rollups, his boxer shorts and t-shirt hung from his frame, a pair of wool gym socks pulled to mid-calf. His hair rested in a misshapen tangle atop his head and several days of growth dotted the underside of his chin.
“Detective Mattox,” he said, the words almost a whisper. “Damn, I haven’t seen you in...”
“A long time,” Reed finished for him. “Too long.”
“Yeah,” Deek replied. “Didn’t even see you...”
Reed nodded, breaking eye contact as he glanced at his toes. “I know. I was there, I just couldn’t...”
An air of awkward silence fell between them a moment, both averting eye contact.
It was no secret that the two had never been especially close, the connection always coming through Riley. Reed had gone along with it because Riley vouched for Deek, who in turn provided a good work product. Deek went along with it because Riley told him to.
Never before had Reed come to him without his partner, hoping the arrangement still stood.
“Look,” Reed said, shifting his focus back, praying the sincerity he felt was evident in his posture. “I know it’s been a while, and I know we haven’t had the greatest relationship in the past, but I could really use your help right now.”
The approach seemed to throw Deek off a moment, his jaw rising and falling a few times in silence. “Oh,” he managed after a moment, not moving.
Seizing the small opening, Reed pushed ahead. “Riley always said you were the best, the guy who enjoyed digging up stuff nobody else could or that others thought they had buried.”
The situation seemed to resonate a bit with Deek as he thought on it, finally nodding once. “So it’s something big?”
“You been watching the news at all lately?” Reed asked, still remaining in place, no more than a few feet removed from the stairs.
“On occasion,” Deek replied. “Grandma always has it on. I hear it when I go upstairs sometimes.”
“Seen anything about the killer loose in The Bottoms?”
Deek’s eyes bulged as he looked at Reed, a lump traveling the length of his throat. “Damn. That’s you?”
“That’s me,” Reed confirmed. “And I could really use a hand.”
Without breaking his gaze he slid his fist into the duffel bag and extracted the whiskey, pulling it out and wagging it in front of him. “I even brought full payment. No pro bono work. I remember the rules.”
A crack of a smile showed just a sliver of teeth as Deek looked at the bottle and up at Reed. “You didn’t have to bring that, I would have done this as a favor to Riley. Since you did though, and grandma won’t let me bring it into the house myself...”
His voice trailed away, letting it be known the token would be accepted and appreciated.
Reed walked forward and extended the bottle butt first across the recliner, hanging on to it as Deek grasped the opposite end. “Before you take this I should probably tell you, I need you to hack into the expunged records of the Columbus Police Department for me.”
The half smile grew into a full grin, a jack-o-lantern opening spread across Deek’s face. He shook the bottle twice and brought it over towards himself, looking down at it but refraining from diving right in.
“I almost feel bad now. I would have gladly done that job for free.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sitting in a parked car would have been too obvious. Even on a street as dilapidated as this one, it would have been glaring. Not only was it far too nice to even be in the neighborhood, anybody that owned it would know better than to just leave it on the street, seated behind the wheel or not.
Instead the Boat Man opted to leave it parked ten blocks away at a McDonald’s, covering the remainder of the distance on foot. Sticking to alleyways and the long shadows afforded by the street lamps throwing bright orange light down in misshapen cones, he was able to move in virtual invisibility.
Most people, no matter how secure, tended to feel a bit of fear in the darkness. There was something about the unknown, of never being quite sure what could be lurking just beyond the sightline, that petrified them.
Society as a whole tended to rely far too much on their eyes for their sense of self. They used it to dictate how they regarded themselves and how they shaped their place in the world around them.
Two years before, the Boat Man had been one of those people. He had lived in a comfortable home on a comfortable street in a comfortable suburb. He had felt the tingle of fear rise along the nape of his neck whenever he was forced outside that comfort zone, always worried of what he couldn’t see, wondering what might be lurking in the dark.
Unlike most other people though, he had found out first hand. He had discovered the horrors that could be found in the shadows, had experienced the violence they could produce, far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The doctors after the fact had said he was lucky, that his life had almost been taken. What they didn’t realize was how wrong they were, how every iota of his old life had been stripped away, shattered in an instant.
In its place was what he had now become, a man that no longer feared the shadows. A person that had made peace with them, felt most at ease in their presence.
No longer was he afraid of the shadows. He was something to be feared in the shadows.
The Boat Man’s shoes made no sound as he picked his way through the back alleys, coming up on the opposite side of the intersection. Less than fifty yards away he could see the glow of the diner he had spent the previous evening in, the lights spilling into the darkness, illuminating much of the area.
His back pressed against the outer wall of an abandoned building that had once been a pawn shop, the Boat man tucked himself behind an overflowing dumpster, his body hidden from view. Bags of rubbish were piled around him, the stench of rotting food filling the air, providing him the perfect cover as he sat and waited.
Fifteen yards in front of him Scanson and Duvall Streets intersected, two thoroughfares that fifty years ago had served as the hub for The Bottoms. Now more of a cautionary tale of what had been lost, they were home to dozens of buildings just like the one he now leaned against, a refuge for the poor and destitute.
On the opposite side of Scanson was a corner schoolhouse, closed down decades before, the windows gone, standing like gaping sores on its façade. The far corner was the diner, the sole survivor of the four, the thin crowd visible through the front window showing it too fought a daily battle for survival.
The final corner of the intersection was what the Boat Man had come for, the spot he had trained most of his surveillance on the last few months. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his marks arrived, just as they had the night before, just as they did most every night.
Until then he only had to sit and wait, alone in the shadows, allowing the city to continue its slide into slumber.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
After a full hour of digging, Deek was able to only find a single mention anywhere of the Kings of The Bottoms. It was attached to a complaint from a local business owner that had since closed shop and moved across town, a citation being the only thing that had come from it.
The fact that someone had gone to the trouble of having a citation redacted seemed odd as Deek first read it off, even more so as time passed. It clearly seemed someone was going to extreme lengths to keep the gang off the books, though their motivations for doing so still eluded him.
More important at the moment though was that the citation had yielded a name, William Pryor.
Using Deek’s computer they had moved into the general police database, finding Pryor had two previous convictions for assault, both bar fights that had the charges dropped. A bit more digging proved there was nothing else on him, in the general record or expunged.
The address on file was on the edge of Franklinton, a block or two
outside of The Bottoms, though on visual inspection very much in line with its close neighbors. Most of the homes seemed to range from disrepair to condemned, trash and weeds piled high.
Under the angry glow of streetlights the situation looked even uglier as Reed rolled to a stop, long shadows cloaking most of the property in darkness. Two automobiles sat on blocks in the driveway and a sofa rested across the front lawn, all three looking like they had been there a long time.
“I’m thinking you might join me on this one,” Reed said over his shoulder, shutting the car down as Billie raised herself up onto her front paws. She remained that way, waiting as he clipped on the short lead, both of them making their way up the front walk to the door.
The porch sagged beneath their weight as they stepped up onto it, paint peeling away from the floorboards. A pair of folding lawn chairs was placed off to the side, a plastic table between them, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts perched atop it.
The scent of cigarette smoke was strong, like someone had just been outside, as Reed raised his fist and smacked it against the metal outer door. The entire thing rattled loudly on contact, Reed pausing before pounding once more and stepping back.
“Yeah, I hear you out there!” a female voice called, annoyance, frustration in her tone.
A moment later the inner door was pulled open, a wheeze escaping from the rubber stripping encasing it. On the opposite side of the door stood a woman in her mid-forties, her hair frizzed out away from her head in a lopsided afro. She wore spotted sweatpants and a tank-top, a small boy of no more than two perched on her hip.
“What?” she asked, spitting the word out. Reed sensed there was more she wanted to add, most likely a comment on his skin tone or the fact that he was in the wrong part of town, but she refrained.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Reed said, holding the badge up from its chain around his neck. “I’m Detective Mattox, I’m looking for a William Pryor.”
A sour expression crossed her face as she stared at him, her eyes flashing hatred. “What you want with Willie?”
Again Reed got the impression there was more she wanted to add, realizing from her repeated glances to the side that her restraint was for the benefit of the child, not respect for his badge.
“I need to ask him some questions about a crime that has been committed,” Reed said, keeping his answer vague, trying to follow her lead on deferring in front of the child. There was no need to mention the word murder, the effect only serving to evoke a response from the both of them.
“Willie didn’t do it,” the woman snapped. “He’s been cleaning up his act, got himself a job now.”
Reed nodded, pretending it wasn’t the same story he had heard a hundred times before, all from an angry spouse or parent.
“Don’t you guys have nothing better to do than be hassling people in the middle of the night like this?”
Reed knew from the clock on the dash in his car that it was still not even nine o’clock in the evening, though her crack was meant more for dramatic effect than accuracy.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to show up so late,” Reed said, forcing his voice to remain even, “but I really need to speak with Mr. Pryor. We don’t believe he has done anything wrong, just that he may have information about something that has happened.”
The anger retreated a bit from the woman’s features, her gaze flicking to the child and back again. “Information? What kind of information?”
Taking the cue, Reed paused, selecting his words carefully. “Information from his past that might be able to help us with something occurring presently.”
He widened his eyes a bit to try and let her know he was insinuating something more, waiting a full moment before a bit of dawning set in. Her mouth dropped open and she nodded, drawing in a short breath.
“Oh, you mean...”
“I do,” Reed said. “And it’s imperative I speak with him immediately. He might be in trouble.”
The move was one Riley had been famous for, being able to take the anger of someone and turn it around on them. Three minutes before the woman had hated the police, all but tried to come through the door and throw Reed off her porch. Just by telling her that William wasn’t in trouble and might himself be in danger her entire tenor had changed.
Reed only hoped it was enough to extract what he needed from her.
Almost a full minute passed as the woman chewed on the information before finally nodding once. She tilted the top of her head towards the boy on her hip and said, “This is his son, Willie, Jr. For his sake, I’ll tell you Willie still spends most of his evenings down at the old Mobil station. Don’t do nothing wrong, just him and some friends like to get together and talk.
“Been doing it for years.”
Chapter Forty
Reed thought of leaving the short lead attached to Billie’s collar as he pulled away from the Pryor residence, but decided against it. She was trained to react to the sound of his voice and he wanted her to have the freedom to rove if need be.
He wasn’t sure what he would find in the gas station lot, but felt reasonably certain there would be some posturing once he arrived. In his experience, rare was the time when a group of young men didn’t try to hassle an officer at least a little, even when there was no reason to.
He understood it was all part of the imagery of being affiliated with such a group, but that didn’t mean he had to make it any easier on them.
Reed knew the way to the place even before the woman had told him, it being the same parking lot he had met with McMichaels and Jacobs in just a couple days before. The added benefit of the location was that Billie had already searched it—an odd bit of luck.
Without any real reason for it, Reed felt his pulse rise as he drove towards the location. He knew there was an eatery nearby with a full visual, and that it was still early, though walking up on a group that may or may not have been a gang in recent years left him feeling uneasy.
The thought of calling for backup occurred to him, dispelled just as fast by the knowledge that showing up with an entourage would likely only escalate any potential confrontation.
A pair of cars was parked in the center of the lot as Reed approached, both long bodied cruisers, each looking to have been constructed in the seventies. Against either of them leaned a single individual, both openly staring as he pulled into the lot and parked perpendicular to them, the nose of his car aimed out towards Scanson Street.
“Come,” Reed said, his voice sharp, letting Billie know they were on-duty the moment they exited the car. She responded in kind as he climbed out and opened the rear door, her ears raised, her body poised.
“Hey man, you lost?” a voice called out to him, a trace of amusement, a bit more of a challenge in the tone.
Reed ignored it as he walked around the front of his car, letting Billie and his badge both be seen at the same time. On sight both men exchanged a glance, shifting a bit, placing the brown paper bags in their hands at arm’s length away from them.
What good they thought that would do Reed wasn’t sure, though at the moment he didn’t much care what they were drinking.
“William Pryor?” Reed asked, moving forward and coming to a stop at the end of the two cars. On his right was the tail of a Buick Skylark with a faded orange paint job. To the left was the front grille of a purple Pontiac Tempest.
Both looked like they had at one point had a great deal of money sunk into them, though years of abuse and neglect had ebbed away their potential luster.
At the sound of his question one of the men snorted, the other scowled. He cast a sideway glare at Reed before looking across at his cohort, the same look still in place.
Taking the look as a cue, Reed shifted his focus to him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt, trying to seem as unimposing as possible.
“I take it you must be William?” Reed asked.
Again the man to his right started laughing, raising a hand to cover his mouth. He was lean,
his hair shaved tight to his head, skin dark black. A diamond stud was in the ear closest to Reed, a thick braided chain flashing around his neck.
“Man, ain’t nobody named William here,” the man on his left said. Anger was apparent in his posture as he said it, continuing to glare at Reed. “My name is Dub-P.”
It was a common form of slang Reed had learned over the years, using initials for a moniker. In the case of the letter W the word dub was inserted, making William Pryor now Dub-P.
Why he couldn’t have just answered the question, Reed wasn’t sure.
“Alright,” Reed said, moving on without acknowledging the name. “Do the names Edwin Mentor, A.J. Wright, or Mason Durell mean anything to you?”
The mirth faded from the man on the right’s face as the two exchanged a glance, neither saying anything.
“Is that a yes?” Reed asked again.
Sidestepping the question, Pryor made a face, pushing himself up from the hood of his car. “Man, what the hell is this? We’re not doing anything wrong here. You can’t roll up and start heckling us, hiding behind some damn badge.”
“Yeah, I think you might be best served to take your dog for a walk somewhere else,” the other man added, raising his head to look down his nose, trying to appear tough.
Reed had seen both of the moves so many times before it almost brought a chuckle to his lips. Normally he would go back and forth with them for a while, letting them think they had the upper hand, trying to get them talking by placating.
Tonight, he had neither the time nor inclination.
“Alright,” he said, the jovial manner gone, his voice and features both hardening, “here’s how this is going to go. I tried to be nice, but at this point I need information and you’re going to give it to me.”
“And if we don’t?” Pryor asked, taking another half step forward.
Reed had anticipated the move, responding by raising his fist by his shoulder, a lightning quick movement that he had practiced a hundred times but never performed on the streets before.
The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 15
