GRAVE WALKER: A gripping noir thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries)

by PT Reade

  O’Brien regarded me for a moment, clearly on the fence. He was a man who prided himself on keeping his clients’ details hidden, but on the other hand, he was greedy, and my mention of the money had him reconsidering.

  “I haven’t seen Mr. Lem in some time, I’m afraid,” he finally responded.

  “That’s a pity,” I replied

  At that moment the waitress came over with the bill for my coffee. Wanting her gone as soon as possible I pulled free my credit card and tapped it against the card machine to pay. It was an action I had done a thousand time before but it was only when I glanced across at O’Brien that I realized my mistake.

  He was staring at the card against the machine. A card that read T. Blume.

  Shit.

  O’Brien’s eyes widened, and he stumbled to his feet as the waitress walked away.

  “Sit,” I said forcefully.

  “I, um, I really should be, um. I have to—”

  “I said, sit,” I snapped at him, and to make my point I placed my gun on the table in front of me.

  O’Brien was sweating as he slumped back into the seat opposite.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” he stammered.

  “Hopefully not, but you need to help me out.”

  He frowned at the gun. “I don’t see how I have any choice.”

  “I suppose you don’t,” I said. “So let’s cut the crap. My name is Blume, not Jameson. I’m not a cop, but I am trying to find a killer.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s not important. What is important is that Mickey Lem is the one who can help me find him. There is trouble brewing in the Lem family, and I need to fix this before it hits the fan.”

  “What trouble are we talking about?” O’Brien asked.

  “I’m asking the questions,” I said. “But here’s what I can tell you. If you help me with this, I’ll keep quiet about the illegal tenement block deal you’re cutting or the councilor you bribed for planning permission.”

  I had no hard evidence on any of these, just a few rumors and some internet speculation. But the shocked look on O’Brien’s face told me that I’d hit the mark.

  “Wh– what do you want?”

  “I need to speak to Mickey Lem, in person. See…no one knows where to find him.”

  “He prefers it that way,” O’Brien pointed out.

  “Oh, I know. But I need to speak with him, which is tricky given his unknown whereabouts.”

  “And you expect me to tell you where you can meet him?”

  “Yes. Because if you don’t, not only will the NYPD be looking very closely at a number of your deals, but a certain other Lem might hear about how cooperative you’ve been in helping the police.”

  O’Brien wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as the stress overwhelmed him. I could see his hands trembling. “Victor is involved in this too? Oh God. Look, here’s the thing…I don’t know where Mickey is right now, no one does. But I can arrange a meet.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “But it needs to happen right away.”

  “Mikhail is a very busy man and–,”

  “I know he is. But this is a conversation he needs to have or he won’t be very busy at all when his father gets out of prison.”

  O’Brien nodded thoughtfully and sighed. “Ok fine. Let me make some calls. You’ll get contacted within fifteen minutes by his people but please, once this is done just leave me out of it.”

  “Make it ten minutes and you’ve got a deal,” I said, finally moving the gun back under the table.

  O’Brien gave me a weak smile as he punched in a number from memory and brought his cell phone to his ear. After a few seconds he spoke in hushed tones down the line. I couldn’t hear every word he said over the clamor of the coffee shop, but I saw from his expression that he was too scared to try anything stupid.

  The conversation went on for a few moments. As I watched and waited, I considered making a call myself.

  I needed to speak to Zoe to ask her why the hell she hadn’t bothered telling me that she and Darcey had so much bad blood. Something definitely did not add up there.

  Just when I was starting to get frustrated, O’Brien finally hung up and looked up at me nervously. “They’ll call you in a few minutes.”

  “Good,” I replied. “In the meantime you’ll wait here. Insurance of a sort.”

  For six long minutes we sat in uncomfortable tension, waiting for the call. O’Brien looked like every fiber in his body wanted to leave. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief as the seconds ticked by. I was nervous for another reason. Every minute lost was a minute closer to Teach disappearing forever.

  When my phone eventually rang, we were both relieved. The display told me that the number had been blocked. Looks like O’Brien was true to his word, I thought.

  I answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”

  “Blume?” a man’s voice said.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “O’Brien says that you have information that may be very valuable to Mikhail Lem, is that true?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So tell me about this information.”

  “No deal. This is for Mikhail’s ears only.”

  The man on the other end was silent for a moment as he considered it. “You understand that if you are being dishonest or trying to deceive us in any way, that it could end very badly for you?”

  “While I don’t appreciate being threatened, considering the news I have about Victor Lem, yes, I do understand what you are telling me.”

  “So be it,” the man said, “Mikhail will meet with you. He will speak with you over lunch at noon. I need you to meet me at the old Michaelson loading warehouse. Do you know where it is?”

  “I do.” I was quickly not liking where this was headed. Everything was far too covert. Suddenly, I was much less worried about an ass-kicking from Kinsey and more worried about making it out of this day alive.

  “30 minutes,” the man said. “If you are one minute late, we will leave.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  The man on the other end hung up without another word.

  With no time to lose, I sent the perspiring Mr. O’Brien on his way, much to his relief, and left the coffee shop quickly for my car around the corner.

  I considered calling Rey to fill him in on what was going on. This was quickly getting dangerous, and I was sure that my lies to Mickey Lem were going to come back to bite me on the ass—but getting the NYPD involved at this point would only slow things down.

  Once again on my own, I hustled through the foot traffic as quickly as I could, all too aware that I was headed to meet with one of the most elusive men in New York City.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I arrived at Michaelson’s loading warehouse with about five minutes to spare. It was an old industrial site that had last seen business around 2005 when it had been forced to close its doors due to surging gasoline costs. The lot was well-known among locals due to the sheer size of the place and the fact that it had remained empty for so long despite pressure from developers and city officials to turn it into something more useful. Instead the old building was crumbling, and the concrete had started to grow weeds. Graffiti was tagged along the walls, blending into the grimy brick exterior.

  Overhead the clouds had started rolling in from the east. The heat and closeness of the last few days would soon give way to one hell of a storm.

  I pulled my car around back, staying hidden from the slow trickle of traffic that passed by along the front of the site. The back of the building was completely featureless and forgotten. It was the type of place where you could be killed and no one would find the body for months. When a car came creeping in from the other side and parked nose-to-nose with my own, it did very little to ease my mind.

  I slowly got out of my own vehicle, feeling a slight sense of comfort at the weight of the Glock strapped to my hip. As I closed the door, two men got out of the car in front of me. They both looked s
lim and were dressed smart but casual. One wore a plain black tee shirt and black jeans. The other was wearing a gray, pin-striped shirt and navy blue slacks. Neither of them looked particularly threatening, but I knew better than to make such assumptions.

  “Hello, Detective Blume,” the man in the black tee shirt said.

  “I’m not a detective anymore,” I replied flatly.

  “You carrying?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re going to need to hand that over.”

  I hesitated for a moment but knew that it would be pointless to argue. They were in control here and we all knew it. I unholstered the gun and then made a show of removing the magazine. I tossed the mag into my car and extended the gun to them.

  Black Tee Shirt raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust us?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said.

  The one in the pin-striped shirt came forward and took the gun from my hand. As he did this, the one in the black tee shirt removed a white strip of cloth from his back pocket. He extended it, and my first thought was that they intended to tie my hands behind my back, or worse, gag my mouth.

  “Calm down,” Black Tee Shirt said, obviously noticing my uneasiness. “It’s just a blindfold. We can’t have you seeing where Mr. Lem lives.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, even though I did not like it one single bit.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Let’s go already.” I was trying to play it cool, but I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all myself. Blind, unarmed, and outnumbered; I was nervous as hell.

  I walked over to their car and allowed Black Tee Shirt to put the blindfold over my eyes. I stood still for a moment once the blindfold was applied, letting my other senses realize that they had to work overtime for now. One of the men then led me to the back of the car, opened the door, and pushed me inside.

  Seconds later, I felt the car backing out of the lot and back out onto the street. I didn’t bother trying to keep track of the turns they took as they drove on. I really didn’t care where Mikhail Lem lived. Neither of the men spoke as they drove—not to me and not to each other. It was an eerie quiet, especially without the aid of seeing their expressions or where they were taking me.

  Several minutes later, I heard the ringing of a cell phone. One of them answered the phone—I was pretty sure it was the guy in the gray shirt—“Yeah, what is it now?” he asked in an irritated voice.

  I listened to one end of the conversation and, bit by bit, realized that I was getting a treasure trove of clues to Darcey’s case, and these morons didn’t even know how they were assisting me.

  “Well, how the hell do I know?” the guy in the black tee shirt said. “Yeah…well, of course. Hey, that’s Walker’s business. You want to get into it, you be my guest, but– uh-huh. Yeah. Take it up with him then. Your funeral, man. Yeah…okay. Bye.”

  The other guy started snickering a bit. “Walker,” he said, with some reverence. “Who stepped on his toes this time?”

  “Too many people,” the other guy said.

  As if they sensed that I was finding their conversation incredibly interesting, both men fell quiet right away. The car became silent again, and I remained quiet, too. The car bounced along, leading me straight into the lion’s den.

  ***

  When we came to a stop, I heard the opening of doors and birds singing somewhere nearby. I was helped out of the car and ushered along for a minute or two before the blindfold was taken off. I was beyond surprised to find myself standing in front of what appeared to be an elevator. There were no other windows and the only lighting came from the neon strip lights overhead.

  As we waited for the elevator to arrive at our floor, I glanced around at what appeared to be some kind of basement or service level. I could just make out several washing machines and the smell of detergent was strong in the air. Around the corner, the edge of a sign protruded. “-Sea” was all I could make out.

  Were we near the coast? Or maybe it was—

  “Eyes front,” one of the men warned.

  A ping sounded in front, and the elevator doors opened. I was marched inside and the man in the tee shirt stabbed the button for the top floor. Thirty seconds later, we emptied out onto a floor with several doors on it. It reminded me of an apartment block or hotel, but the layout was unusual. As I peered over the edge, I saw that the whole building was centered around a wide staircase that snaked down to the ground floor. The design seemed retro, almost Victorian with wrought iron handrails and thick wooden doors throughout. The whole place felt strange…and yet somehow familiar.

  My two escorts remained quiet as they led me along the polished tile floors toward a single black door. The man in the pin-stripe shirt knocked gently. Within a handful of seconds, it was answered.

  Mickey Lem stood on the other side, all smiles. Slim and handsome in a plain kind of way, Mickey seemed like a well-groomed version of his father, with dark hair combed back neatly and a pair of fashionable eye glasses that suited his face. He wore a fitted polo shirt and khaki chinos that made him look more country-club member than mob boss. As I stepped forward, he gestured to the other two men and waved me inside.

  I knew that a beaming smile could easily lead to a knife in the back, but I’d be damned if I didn’t feel like Mickey’s welcome was almost genuine.

  “Mr. Blume,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you. Come on in and have a bit of lunch with me, won’t you?” He then looked to my two escorts and gave them a nod. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  With that, the two men who had brought me made their way back into the hallway. Meanwhile, Mickey placed a hand on my shoulder and politely escorted me into his place. It was a large apartment with high ceilings, perfectly in sync with the style outside. Dark wooden floors, art deco style windows, and a scattering of tasteful artwork decorated the immaculate white walls.

  “I’m afraid lunch won’t be much of anything,” Lem said. “I can whip us up some salmon and cucumber sandwiches. I find making food helps me think. Besides, I picked up the fish myself just yesterday at the market. It’s an excellent cut, no tinned garbage for me. Ordinarily I would have also prepared us a drink to go with it, perhaps a nice white, but I’m in a bit of a rush—a meeting at one o’ clock—so I’m afraid we will have to make do.”

  It all seemed strange. The tasteful decor, the well-dressed man who loves to cook. Mikhail Lem was not the mobster I expected.

  “I understand,” I said. I wondered how quickly this pleasant demeanor would crumble when he found out I was lying to him.

  “I suppose I’ll let you go first,” Mickey said as he began bustling around the kitchen, preparing the food. “And here’s the thing I want to stress before you do, Detective. Be honest. Do not lie. If you stick to that, you and I won’t have an issue.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Well, I’ll go ahead and tell you right now that I lied to Quincy O’Brien,” I said. “I need to speak with you…that much is true. But it honestly has very little to do with your father.”

  “I figured as much,” Mickey said. He didn’t seem angry, just curious.

  “Here’s the deal…or part of it,” I said. “I’m in town for a limited time and have been assigned to a particular case. Digging for clues, I came across your father. I thought he could provide information.”

  “And did he?”

  “Sort of. I’m pretty sure that what he did do was somehow order a hit on me yesterday afternoon. There were two men shooting at me. Then there was a car chase, and it really all got out of hand. I was lucky to survive.”

  “That does sound like something dear old dad would have a hand in, that’s for sure. But, again…tell me why you needed to speak with me. As I said, I don’t have much time.”

  “I’ve been assigned to the case involving Darcey.”

  I intentionally left out the last name. I wanted to see his reaction at the name. And as it turned out, it worked.

  “I see,” he said. The cheer started to
vanish, and I could see something else underneath—not the ruthless Russian Mafioso the press liked to paint, but a sad and heartbroken man instead. “I’d heard it was likely to be ruled as a suicide.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But as I’ve been digging, I’m nearly certain she was murdered.”

  Mickey looked up to me with suspicion in his eyes, and I was suddenly aware of the large chef’s knife in his hand. “And I guess you think I did it?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. “But it did seem strange to me that you two were an item and yet no one knew about it. What was the reason for being so secretive?”

  Mickey shrugged and went back to his task at the chopping board. “You’ve met the reason. Victor...my father has connections on the outside, as you well know. If he does plan on taking over the business when he gets out, he’ll take it. I know he would never harm me physically in any way, but my business partners and friends are all fair game. That’s just how he works, and because of that, I keep my acquaintances off his radar. Especially since he blamed Darcey for the direction I took the business.”

  “And what direction is that?”

  “Forward, Mr. Blume. Not backward, like he would have us go. My father lives in the past and believes everything can be solved with violence and threats because that is all he has known. But the world has changed, and we can too. I have tried hard to use our family influence as a force for good. I have invested in parts of this city that will help others, not keep them in fear, and I have made…deals, deals to keep the peace.

  I wasn’t sure whether to buy the sob story of the mobster gone good, but compared to Victor, his son seemed like Mother Theresa. “So your operation is legitimate these days?”

  “I’m getting there, it’s hard to change things overnight, but progress is happening. Unfortunately it has split our family’s operations in two. Many have sided with me…and many still side with my father. I believe in what I have been doing…and so did Darcey. She and I were so similar. She gave me the strength to challenge my father’s opinions and strike out on my own.”

  “How long did you date her?”