by B. A. Morton
“Very touching.” The voice was gravelly, encrusted with sarcasm and Connell recognized it straight off. Snitch, aka Detective Gibbons, the supposed brains of the loser tag team. He should have recognized their self-important swagger. Couldn’t believe he hadn’t made them earlier. Still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. He’d sat and watched them go into the apartment and he’d still been watching when they’d come out. How come he hadn’t recognized them right away when they’d come back and decided to follow him? Okay, so they’d kept themselves far enough away so he couldn’t see their faces, and it seemed they’d switched cars, but all the same he was slipping, and slipping of any kind was a dangerous business which usually resulted in someone face down on the floor.
Connell tightened his grip on the steering wheel, turned slowly and discovered he was looking straight into the barrel of a rather large sawed-off shotgun. Hardly police issue. He raised his eyes to its owner who was equally large, and despite his badge, not too police issue either.
“Get out of the car, Romeo.”
Connell had to give credit where it was due. They were certainly improving their game. He’d only just checked and they’d been nowhere in sight, and now, suddenly, they were practically on his lap. He feigned indifference and bided his time.
“Hey, guys, you want to take that out my face?” His own gun was in the glove box. He considered the odds on being able to reach it before the shotgun parted his hair. Unless he’d been magically empowered with the ability to freeze time, he guessed the odds were pretty lame.
The car door was wrenched open and he was dragged from the vehicle and slammed back against it with a little more than reasonable force. This was pretty unreasonable considering these guys were supposed to be cops; taxpayers these days were definitely getting the short end of the stick, he thought briefly. Heavy-handed cops were one thing, cops with sawed-off shotguns were something else entirely. Connell’s natural optimism took a dive.
Along with his aversion to bad cops he’d recently developed a similar intolerance to guns, particularly when in the possession of those with dubious intent. It was amazing how a bullet in the chest could influence a guy’s outlook on life, which explained why his own gun was in the glove box instead of secreted about his person. Connell had to admit, however, that in situations like this a gun in the hand was worth two in the glove box. Someone was obviously pissed with him, and past experience had told him that pissed off people were generally at the end of their limit, patience-wise.
“So what’s the deal, guys?” Connell smiled pleasantly and squared himself up, set his feet slightly apart and prepared himself for something. Although he wasn’t quite sure what that might be, he was sure it would hurt.
“The deal?” Gibbons stood back a step and winked at his partner. “Hey, Scotty, this guy thinks we make deals with Internal Affairs.”
“Big mistake,” replied Scott, shaking his head in pantomime fashion.
“Maybe you’re a little confused,” said Connell. “I’m not Internal Affairs.” He was about to explain the ins and outs of private consultancy but somehow didn’t think that Snitch and Snatch would appreciate the subtleties.
“No, but you’re Gesting’s little lapdog.”
Connell was insulted - bull terrier maybe, but lapdog, never.
“And you’re sniffing in shit that you shouldn’t.” Gibbons reversed the shotgun and punctuated his words by thrusting the stock forcefully into Connell’s belly.
Connell had been correct in his initial assumption; it did hurt. In fact it brought tears to his eyes and it took all of his will power, along with his excellent prior preparation, to remain nonchalant and on his feet.
“You boys are the one’s making a mistake,” he gasped. “If you think Gesting’s the only one who can smell your stink …” He smiled through gritted teeth and swallowed the wince that tried valiantly to escape. “Give it up before it gets any worse. Tell me who’s paying you to look the other way and save me the job of working it out. ‘Cause guys, I will find out and then you’re basically fucked, and you can be sure there’ll be no deals on the table then.”
Gibbons laughed out loud. “Connell, you’re so full of shit, a washed out ex-cop who can’t even pick up his own gun. What’s the matter, Tommy boy, scared it’ll go off in your face?” He joyfully landed another blow and this time Connell struggled to stay upright but struggled even more to maintain his composure. “You run on home now, Connell, and keep your nose out of business you don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think,” he wheezed. “I understand there’s money to be made by turning a blind eye and the lure of the greenback is very tempting.” He paused and sucked in a much needed breath. “What I don’t get, though, is why you’re not combing the streets looking for a lost kid. Where’s the money in that?”
Gibbons cocked his head and raised his weapon. “What kid?” He shot an amused glance at his partner. “Do you know which kid he’s talking about, Scotty?” Scott shrugged and Gibbons turned back and tightened his grip on the shotgun. “Forget the kid, Connell, unless you want to lose one of your own.”
Connell raised his head, blinked slowly and looked Gibbons straight in the eye. He felt the thrum of something nasty begin to rise inside and allowed it full rein, the pain in his gut forgotten. Nobody, but nobody, got away with threatening his boy. The last person who’d made the mistake of doing that, well ... the less said about that, the better ...
“Fuck you!” he snarled, launching himself away from the car, which in hindsight was misguided, considering the car was the only thing keeping him upright. He was rewarded for his dubious bravado with the butt of the shot gun slammed against his temple. He did drop then, like a stone, and when he was down, Gibbons stood back with a grin and waved his partner forward.
“Scotty, I believe you had something you wanted to say.”
“Sure thing, buddy.” Scott, who lacked the eloquence of his partner, let his boots do the talking for him. It was a short but succinct conversation, and when it was over, Connell was left to ponder rather painfully on the disadvantages of looking into things that he shouldn’t.
Gibbons squatted down, with some difficulty due to his bulk, and took hold of Connell’s hair in his meaty fist, yanking his head roughly from the ground. “Go home, Connell, you hear me? We see you around here again and we won’t be quite so accommodating. I’d hate to see you get mixed up in something dangerous and have to go tell your little English girl that you’d met with an accident. Poor little thing - all alone. Who knows who she’d turn to for comfort?” Releasing Connell’s hair, he let his head smack to the ground.
So, he’d been warned, and as he lay in the dirt and tried to reset the default button on his senses, he accepted that although Gibbons and Scott may have assumed they knew him, they didn’t know him well enough if they thought he would give up that easily. Those guys were involved in something more than backhanders for favors and now he was going make it his personal mission to find out exactly what that was. More significantly they’d made their biggest mistake ever. They’d threatened the two most important people in his life, his son Joe and the love of his life, Lizzie.
He pulled himself up with the help of the car door and stood a moment, bent double, debating between pulling in much needed air and throwing up his lunch. As his lunch had primarily been of the liquid variety, the air won out and his innards settled. Blows to the belly and kicks to the kidneys he could just about live with, blunt weapons to the side of the head were something else entirely. How was he going to explain that to Lizzie?
He opened the car door, slid with some relief behind the wheel and let the tense muscles in his abdomen relax. Rummaging in the glove box he ignored the gun, pulled out a fast food napkin and wiped away the blood which had begun to trickle down the side of his face. He angled the rearview mirror and checked out the damage. It wasn’t as bad as it felt and the gash responsible for all the blood was under his hair, so he figured not only
would he survive the injury, he’d probably survive Lizzie’s scrutiny, as long as he kept his hair neatly combed.
A movement in the mirror drew his attention away from his injury and he tensed in case officers Gibbons and Scott had decided to return for the second act. He’d survived the first beating; he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to do the same with another. He’d have been surprised by such a prompt return, seeing as how they were so busy at the crime incorporated business, but what he did see surprised him even more.
A small child stood framed in the glass. Sticking out ears, coke bottle glasses, and pigtails so bent out of shape it appeared they’d been braided with wire. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets, her knees slightly knocked, and simply stared at him until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Then suddenly she blinked, the spell was broken, and Connell swung around in his seat. The alley was empty. Molly Brown had disappeared - again.
He climbed out of the car, and turning slowly on the spot, he scanned the alley carefully. He wasn’t sure how she could have disappeared so quickly, or indeed whether he had actually seen her or merely imagined it. A blow to the head could have strange consequences, he knew that, but she’d seemed real enough to him.
“Hey, kiddo, you hiding out there somewhere?” he called softly. “My name’s Tommy, Tommy Connell, and you don’t need to be scared of me. I’m just looking out for you, that’s all.” He was met with silence. “Lydia is worried about you. She just wants you to come home safe.” Again silence and he tried once more. “I really don’t want you hanging around in dark alleys on your own, Molly. It can get really scary at night. You want to come out and see if we can find somewhere better for you?”
He was deluding himself; the alley was empty. He left the car and walked the alley’s length, checking for any doors or windows that might have been left unlocked. The library occupied one side and there were a variety of offices on the other. Everything was locked down tight. No one was going to risk defaulting on their insurance down here.
Maybe she’d headed home and maybe he should swing by there again and double check. He was already running late and he still had to go sniff around in the shit that he wasn’t supposed to, but what the hell? If he took his time maybe it would be dark when he got home and Lizzie wouldn’t notice he’d had the crap kicked out of him - again.
Chapter Five
Lydia had gone when he returned to the apartment, and he found it necessary to utilize some of his less than lawful skills to gain entry. By the look of her empty room he figured Charlene had been successful and Lydia was safely ensconced at the shelter, but there was no sign of Molly. Connell wandered back into the sad little room, tried to take advantage of the solitude to focus on what had initially bugged him about this whole situation, but found he was once again distracted by the books.
He wished Lizzie were with him: she had a mind for puzzles and details that was far superior to his. As she wasn’t, he pulled out his notebook and pencil and began to sketch the layout of the room and the location of the contents.
He was no artist, but by drawing a simple grid, he was able to plot the items fairly accurately. There were twelve piles of books, each stack of varying height, containing a random number of books. If this had been Joe’s room he could have easily explained the layout by adding some racing track to the top of the stacks and letting the cars free-wheel to negotiate the twists and turns. He doubted little Molly Brown spent her time playing with cars. He jotted down the numbers; perhaps Lizzie could puzzle it out.
He picked up the top book from the nearest column. Molly had run out of cardboard and glitter. The bookmark was a simple folded scrap of newspaper and Connell found that incredibly sad. He added it to the one in his pocket and turned to leave, pausing when he became aware of movement just outside the apartment door.
Someone had stopped outside. The handle turned and the door opened with a slight jolt that revealed that whoever it was shared Connell’s skills of illegal entry.
Connell crossed the hall, slipped into Lydia’s room, and positioned himself behind the open door. Holding his breath, he kept watch through the gap between the door and the frame. He half-expected kids, Terry and his buddy’s perhaps, who’d heard the property was empty and ripe for a little burglary.
But it wasn’t kids who came quietly into the hall.
The man was taller than Connell and bone thin. He wore a dark suit on his gaunt frame and his shoulders were slightly stooped in the posture that very tall individuals often adopt to assist their anonymity. He paused just inside the door and gently closed it behind him.
Connell let out a slow measured breath, raising his brows in alarm when the man cocked his head in a reptilian manner and scented the air. Oh shit, this guy was some kind of serious freak and he was blocking the only exit. Not for the first time that day, Connell wished he’d gotten treatment for his little gun problem, and instead of it being locked in the car, he had the aforementioned weapon safely secured in his sweaty palm.
The man turned away, presumably content that nothing threatening lurked in the shadows, and Connell accepted that the guy’s lizard senses were probably on the money. Connell certainly didn’t feel threatening, his intimidation factor having already hit zero. In fact, if anything, he felt a mite unnerved. He watched from the doubtful safety of the door as the man crossed into the living room and began to go through the various scraps of family life. Systematically he scanned the contents of every drawer and cupboard, and turned over the various pots and dishes scattered around the place, in his search for ... something. Connell was puzzled; this wasn’t a random burglary.
He crept forward as far as he dared in an attempt to see and understand what was going on. When the man rolled back the fireside rug and lifted a loose board, Connell’s curiosity overcame his natural instinct for survival, and he left Lydia’s room, moved carefully along the hall, and flattening himself against the outside of the living room wall, he watched through the crack in the door.
The guy lifted out a collection of papers and envelopes with torn edges which were gathered together with a rubber band. He sifted through them with the ease of a man who knew exactly what he expected to find. He gave a tight smile when he found it and slipped the envelope into his pocket before returning the remaining papers and rolling back the rug.
He stood and gave a last glance around the room before turning and heading for the door.
Connell would have had every chance to duck back into Lydia’s room, and maybe follow from a safe distance, if Marty hadn’t chosen that precise moment to call his phone. Connell hadn’t lost all common sense - he’d had the forethought to put the cell on silent before he’d entered the apartment - but when it vibrated against his leg at such an inopportune moment, his involuntary intake of breath could be heard almost as loudly as his escalating heartbeat.
Okay, there was only one way to deal with a situation like this - bluff. Connell stepped into the open doorway, squared himself up and confronted the man.
“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?” he demanded and was disappointed when the man stared back at him impassively. Okay, so still zilch in the intimidation department. He began to understand how men of a certain age felt when their equipment failed at crucial moments. He tried again. “Who are you? What you doing’ messing around under the floor?”
The man merely cocked his head and looked Connell up and down, slowly - too slowly. Connell got the uncomfortable sense of being scrutinized and found lacking. The man blinked once when he was done and returned his gaze to Connell’s face. His dark eyes added to the illusion of otherworldliness and Connell half-expected additional lizard-type lenses to sweep the orbs clean.
Despite the real urge to take a step back, Connell shook his hackles out of hiding instead and took a step forward. The man reciprocated with lips that twitched with amusement and a reproving shake of his head. With surprising speed for such an ungainly individual, he shot out his hand and thrust
a taser, close range, into Connell’s chest. Connell went down for the second time that day and the intruder calmly stepped over him and left the room.
* * *
“Tommy, you gotta get yourself an answering service or learn to pick up your cell. I’ve been calling for the last half hour. Where you been, buddy?”
Connell rearranged himself with his back propped against the wall and rubbed his chest and shoulder painfully. With friends like Marty he didn’t need enemies.
“Oh, just lying low, you know how it is. What you got for me?” He checked his watch; he was definitely running late now and he still wasn’t done. Lizzie was not going to be happy.
“What do you know about Frankie Vasin?”
Huh? “He owns the lease on my apartment building, along with a few others in slightly better locations,” replied Connell.
He flexed his arm and hand. Damn tasers should be banned, if it was a taser. It felt more like a beefed-up cattle prod, and considering he was nowhere near the weight of a steer, it had certainly knocked out his stuffing. Who the heck carries a taser anyway? Maybe old ladies might have a need to carry a little zappy thing in their purse along with a can of mace, but not weirdo lizard house breakers. Just what was the story there? The guy had been looking for something specific, and found it by all accounts. Connell was confused and admitted, reluctantly, that these days it didn’t take much.
“Yeah, but what do you know about him?” pressed Marty.
Connell dragged himself back and tried to concentrate. His skin burned and he pulled his shirt away from it.
“Buddy, you still there?”
“Sure ... I’m thinking,” muttered Connell.
He knew Frankie and his buddies had lost a boatload of money when the markets were down. He also knew Frankie was an arrogant prick who had tried to play games when he’d tried to sell back his apartment to Frankie’s company. Connell had wanted out of the city in a hurry two years ago and Frankie thought that gave him a license to steal. Connell had declined his pathetic offer and leased it out instead. No way was some jacked-up developer going to steal from him. But that was the extent of his acquaintance. He didn’t know the guy any more than he knew the Mayor or the Chief of Police.
