Molly Brown

by B. A. Morton

  It concerned him that the guy was merely suspended from duty, for attempting to kill him instead of being safely locked up. He wondered again about Wilson and Hamilton, and whether they could be complicit in some way, but doubted it. Gerry would have spotted that a mile off, and although Gerry was adept at playing his cards close to his chest, Connell figured if the corruption went that high, Gerry would have shared his suspicions. Even so, someone had allowed Gibbons freedom to roam. Maybe they’d made a mistake or maybe they’d taken his advice after all and decided to use him as bait.

  He eased the car straight by, parked up a block away, and took a stroll around the perimeter of Frankie’s monolithic residence. Connell was impressed and disgusted in equal measures. The building was hideous, a Disney parody of Gothic grandeur, complete with turrets and gargoyles, a dramatic contrast to Frankie’s city office, and as such Connell wondered whether Frankie was just having a joke, getting the last laugh perhaps at the expense of his Eastern European heritage. Either way, it was patently obvious that crime paid. The house was large by anyone’s standards and set in its own grounds in an area where real estate, no matter how tasteless, was at a premium. Contained by a high stone wall, the only access was via remotely-operated gates at the entry. Deciding that Frankie was likely as excited to see him as he was to visit with Frankie, Connell figured the direct approach was best and strolled up to the gate.

  He leaned into the intercom, allowing it to buzz uninterrupted for the count of ten. When there was no response, he tried the gates. Grasping them with both hands and shaking them vigorously didn’t even produce a rattle, let alone gain him entry. Okay, so Frankie had no taste but his crap was well made. He peered through the wrought ironwork. He could see Gibbons’ car and beyond that the main door of the house standing ajar. Maybe Frankie and his entourage were on their way out and too busy to come to the entry-phone, but he didn’t think so. Something wasn’t quite right. He turned slowly, checked the street behind him and the road beyond. Both were empty. He aimed a kick at the gate. The fact he could see Gibbons’ car, but couldn’t get at it, added to his overall frustration. The temptation to take a look in the trunk was too great to resist.

  Deciding that Frankie was definitely not at home to visitors, welcome or otherwise, he followed the line of the wall until he was screened from the road by a small copse of trees. Then, when he was sure there was no one about, he used the low branches to assist as he hauled himself to the top of the wall. Perched on top it seemed an inordinately long way down, but he had little choice but to lower himself as far as he could and drop the remainder of the way.

  The manicured grounds appeared to be deserted, the gentle hiss of lawn sprinklers providing the only distraction from an otherwise silent vista. Connell knew from experience that situations which appeared relatively easy were invariably not. He paused, listening carefully for any additional sound that might indicate the area was patrolled by guards, gardeners or dogs. He was a dog kind of guy, as evidenced by his total lack of responsibility regarding Spidey and his amorous endeavors, but when it came to dogs that were trained to do damage, he was as cautious as the next man. When he was satisfied that the guards were shirking their duties and that the gardeners had picked up their tools and gone home, and any dogs that may have been lurking, were busy napping, he left the protective cover of the shrubbery, hightailed it across the gravel drive and sought fresh cover behind Gibbons’ car.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected to find when he popped the trunk - some clue as to the whereabouts of the Browns or a list of Frankie’s Eastern European contacts was perhaps over-optimistic, but two crates of vodka and a tire iron were a little disappointing. However, the blood soaked body of Detective Gibbons, with a crater where the back of his head was meant to be, did take him by surprise. Bingo!

  He took a hurried step back, pulled out his gun, and for the first time in a long while took some measure of reassurance from its weight in his hand. Whatever was going on, he was way too many steps behind to make any real sense of it. He needed to do some catching up and he needed to do it quickly. He did a swift three-sixty and scanned the front of the house and the yard, but there was no movement from inside or out, barring the sprinklers. Reluctantly he returned to the trunk, stifled the urge to gag and studied the bizarre scene before him.

  Gibbons had been dead for some hours if the smell was anything to go by. The process of decay, exacerbated by the build-up of heat, in a car parked in the full glare of the sun. Unlike his partner, Scott, Gibbons had retained his innards, which led Connell to suppose that his demise had been orchestrated by someone else, perhaps as a result of the altercation witnessed by Marty, or maybe he’d just run up a list of folk with an axe to grind. As Connell was pretty much top of that list, he debated on the wisdom of being discovered with his hands on the body.

  Crammed to one side of the roomy trunk, Gibbons’ limbs were folded awkwardly, his jacket askew. His mouth gaped open and a neat entry hole was positioned equidistant to each glazed eye. All in all, Detective Gibbons had met a messy end. Blood pooled beneath him and brain-matter adhered to the exterior of the vodka crates, obscuring the brand detailing and counterfeit shipping information. The writing on the boxes was unintelligible anyway to anyone who wasn’t of Eastern European descent, and in truth contraband vodka was the least of Connell’s concerns. He knew where it had come from, had a good idea where it was destined, and short of slipping a bottle in his own back pocket for later, could see no value to the find. He slammed a hand at the lid of the trunk with frustration. It was hardly worth the trouble of Frankie loaning out his car if all Gibbons was using it for was to transport a few bottles of low end liquor. There had to be more than that. Why else would someone decide to put a gun to his head?

  He reached in gingerly and slid the crates aside. They moved with ease amidst the slick pool of blood, revealing something caught at the back, clutched in Gibbons outstretched hand.

  Fuck, muttered Connell. It couldn’t be at the front where it was easy to reach, that would be too damned easy. He balanced on one foot and leaned in further. Trying very hard to avoid the mess that remained of Gibbons, he grasped a manila file similar to the one Hamilton had slammed on the desk when he’d interrogated him the previous day. Not quite as thick, but Connell doubted many would have a file as full of bullshit and half-truths as his. All the same he guessed it had come from the same place. He caught hold of the corner, pulled it out from Gibbons’ death grip and flipped it open.

  Inside was a sheaf of paper with a mixture of type written text, supplemented in the margin by pencil scrawl. Along with the report were a number of A4 black and white photos. Obviously taken on a long lens with a shaky hand, they were grainy shots procured at various locations around the city, the only constant being that he featured in every one. He scanned them quickly, unclear at their purpose until he picked up the last one. This photo had been taken in the alley outside the library. He was shown paused in the doorway, Molly stood before him, her hand in his, looking directly at the camera.

  He recalled the moment vividly, the uneasy feeling that skittered down his spine as Molly held him back, the awareness that someone was out there and Molly had known it all along. He’d felt her anxiety, her surprising strength as she gripped his hand, but the look on her face as captured by the lens wasn’t fearful, it was resigned, almost regretful, as if maybe she knew exactly what was to come. He allowed the file to slip from his hand and sucked in a breath. He had the same feeling now. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and shrugged to dispel them.

  He figured now was probably as good a time as any to hook back up with Gerry. He took a step away from the car, punched out his number and waited.

  “Gerry, we have a problem. I guess we should meet and discuss it.”

  “A problem! I’ll give you a fuckin’ problem. Where the fuck, have you been? Don’t you check your messages?”

  Connell pulled the phone away from his ear while Ger
ry did his usual rant. It wasn’t like Gerry to use colorful language. Connell figured his patience was wearing thin.

  “Whoa, chill, Gerry. You’re going to give yourself a coronary.”

  “Yeah, and when I’m breathing my last I’ll know exactly who to blame. Where are you?”

  “I’m at Frankie’s. There’s been an incident.”

  “An incident? What have you done now?”

  “Me? Nothing, absolutely nothing and I just want to make damned sure everyone knows that before I’m hauled back in on another trumped-up murder charge.”

  “Murder? Who are we talking about?”

  “My best buddy, Gibbons,” replied Connell with a sly smile. “I always thought he was short on brains, and now he is.”

  “That’s not funny, Tommy.”

  “No?”

  “What happened?”

  “He took a bullet in the head, close range. He’s been hanging out in the trunk of Frankie’s car ever since. It’s a bit of a mess. I hope Frankie’s insured.”

  “Are you alone?”

  Connell shot a quick glance towards the house. “Pretty much. Just me and the dead guy.”

  “Then you need to get out of there, now.”

  Connell shook his head. “No, not yet. I’m going to take a quick look in the house, see if I can find the girl.”

  “What girl? Molly?”

  “No, the girl that Gibbon’s picked up at the warehouse. The one I told you about on the phone, the Eastern European kid who dropped out the bottom of Frankie’s truck. Gibbons brought her here last night.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Marty followed them.”

  There was a pause and Connell imagined Gerry shaking his head and counting back from ten. He could almost write Gerry’s script, he was so predictable.

  “I thought Marty was your buddy?”

  “You know he is.” Connell wanted to add, and I thought you were too, but decided that on this occasion Gerry probably wouldn’t agree. But yeah, he was right. He had put Marty at risk, which wasn’t a good buddy thing to do.

  “Where’s Molly?” Gerry asked eventually, when ten seconds had turned into twenty.

  “Forget Molly …”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened. I’m just going after the girl.”

  “No, for once in your life, Tommy, listen to me. Forget the girl. Do not interfere any further in the crime scene. Do not interfere with any witnesses. Do you hear what I’m saying? Get far away from Frankie’s. There’s been a development.”

  “A development? You’re not wrong there. Gibbons is missing half his skull and someone has been following me all over the city taking photos. You know anything about that?”

  “I know a lot of stuff, Tommy, and so would you if you’d been taking my calls.”

  Connell tucked his gun back in his belt and reached up to close the trunk. No sense in a yard full of flies making a meal out of Gibbons and skewing the crime scene any further. “I’m going to have a quick look anyway. The place looks deserted …”

  “I said leave it. Meet me at your apartment in an hour.”

  “Sure, sure …” Connell reached in to retrieve the file. He didn’t understand why Gerry was so anxious for him to leave and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a nose around in Frankie’s dirty laundry before the police started taping off the place. “I’m on my way,” he lied.

  He heard the noise behind him at the same time as the trunk lid was slammed down on his head and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about either. His phone flew out of his hand and landed with a soft thud in Gibbons’ congealed blood. His arms were brutally yanked back, and as he struggled impotently against his attacker’s greater strength and the disabling effect of a head wound, he was bundled into the trunk of the car alongside the body and the lid slammed shut.

  He came to sometime later, groggily, in a semi-lucid state with an overwhelming urge to vomit. The heat and the smell in the trunk were unbearable. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious or where he was headed, but the vehicle was in motion and he was jammed awkwardly between the crates, the wheel arch and the sticky remains of Gibbons. He groaned as the car made a right turn and his stomach rolled. Another turn and he discovered the whereabouts of the tire iron. He reached out in the darkness and retrieved it from the small of his back. He didn’t know who had decided to take him for a spin but when they got tired of driving and got around to chatting, he’d be ready for them, sure he would.

  The air in the confined space was limited and stale with exhaust fumes and death. Connell struggled against his very real need for oxygen and his reluctance to breathe in any more toxins. He located his cell phone, sticky but still working, and pressed redial. After repeated attempts to locate a signal, he was met with Gerry’s message service. So much for Gerry being anxious to talk.

  “Gerry,” he gasped as he drew in a fetid breath and his stomach recoiled in response, “I guess you were right. I should have high-tailed it when you told me. If you’re there, pick up. If you’re not, then I’m pretty much fucked.” He let his eyes drift shut, tightened his hand around the tire iron and inhaled reluctantly.

  Sooner or later they had to pull over.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When he came to for the second time, he was laid in a crumpled heap on a cracked linoleum floor, his hair matted with blood, his jacket a sticky mess of second hand brain matter. The room spun as he raised his head. Intense pain seared through his left temple. He fought to keep his eyes open and his stomach contents where they should be.

  He lay a moment, re-arranging his scrambled brain, trying to establish how he’d ended up where he was. He’d been speaking to Gerry. He recalled his exasperation rather than his words, and held on to the hope that Gerry would send in the cavalry. In the meantime, it was down to him to try and reverse his fortunes.

  With a hand on the wall, he dragged himself up and stood a moment, head bowed, hands on his knees. His vision was blurred. The smell of death so strong he could taste it against the back of his throat. He cast an eye around, convinced that the deceased Detective Gibbons must have accompanied him, but no, the stench was entirely covering him. He shrugged out of his jacket and with considerable relief, let it slip to the floor. He’d pretty much hit rock bottom and hoped things weren’t going to get even worse. As old man Parker would have said, he wasn’t dead … yet … even if he did feel like shit and smelled almost as bad.

  When the room eventually slowed and could be viewed without the accompanying nausea, Connell took the time to assess his surroundings. Some kind of utility or workroom, the walls were poorly painted block-work, the only window too high and too small to be of any use. A single wooden chair occupied center stage. Beneath the window there was a cracked enamel sink with a single rusted faucet dripping brown water. He imagined what prolonged exposure to the incessant dripping would do to him in his present condition. His head was already banging and every solitary drip magnified the pain ten times over. If his enemies wanted to get rid of him, they only had to leave him with a gun and by morning he’d be ready to do the job for them. He accepted, wearily, that in all honesty he only had himself to blame. He’d already been told in no uncertain terms not to interfere in things that he shouldn’t. Maybe it was time to start taking advice.

  He checked his pockets and wasn’t entirely surprised that he’d been relieved of his cell phone and weapon, or that despite his bravado and best efforts to the contrary, his hands were shaking. Holding them out in front of him, he stilled the tremors through willpower alone. He could do nothing, though, about the fact they were stained with a dead man’s blood. Revulsion ripped through him. He scrubbed them against his pants. It made no difference. He’d had blood on his hands for longer than he cared to remember.

  When his equilibrium was pretty much restored and he could walk in a straight line without keeling over or throwing up, he abandoned thoughts of rescue, crossed to
the door and banged his fist against it.

  “Hey, anyone out there?”

  His voice bounced hollowly back at him from the block walls. He listened for a moment, his ear pressed against the door, not sure whether he was hearing distant footsteps or merely the damned water hitting the sink. He tried again with a frustrated and ultimately futile kick at the door.

  “You know you’re going to have to let me out sooner or later. May as well save yourselves some grief and get it over with now.” Again he was met with silence punctuated only by the rhythmic dripping.

  After five minutes of taking out his frustration on the door and cursing at an empty space, Connell gave up. No one was going to open the door because nobody was there. And, try as he might, kicking at a metal door just wasn’t going to achieve anything. It might have worked in the movies but it certainly didn’t for him.

  He turned back to the room and his attention was drawn reluctantly to the sink. With an equal measure of distaste and desperation, he turned the faucet and tried his best to clean the remains of a dead man from his skin with water so full of toxins he’d likely need shots to negate his exposure. Once he’d finished, he returned his attentions to the door.

  It was a sure sign that the blow to the head had addled Connell’s brain to the point of stupidity when he realized that after huffing and puffing and attempting to blow the door down, all he actually had to do to effect an escape was reach out, turn the handle and pull the door inwards.

  He paused in the doorway, a wary animal released from captivity, a little cautious now that freedom was on the cards. Considering he’d made enough noise to raise the National Guard, there was little chance of him sneaking away unnoticed, if indeed there was anyone left to sneak past. Once again he wished he’d retained his gun, or the tire iron, or even a bottle of Frankie’s vodka. He glanced back at the rickety wooden chair and smiled. One kick had it in pieces. He hefted one of the wooden legs. Okay, back on the horse.