AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I guess that answers that question,” the lieutenant observed. He looked the door over up and down. “I guess we have to do this the hard way after all."

  Reaching out with one foot, the lieutenant tapped the door. Two more shots punctured the panel. The lieutenant stepped out behind them and fired five shots through the door into the baggage car.

  Corey knew what he had to do. Reaching out with his left hand as the lieutenant stopped firing, he yanked open the door and leapt inside. If Perkins's partner was hiding behind something, or the lieutenant had simply missed, then Corey was likely to be killed or wounded. Speed was his best hope for safety. He had to cover the ground between them while his opponent was still ducking for cover from the lieutenant's shots.

  Darting into the baggage car, Corey almost tripped over Perkins's accomplice. The payroll robber was lying on his back with two holes in his chest. He wasn't dead yet, Corey noted as he kicked the man's pistol farther away from his hand, but he probably would be before too much longer.

  The lieutenant entered the baggage car behind Corey and wasted only a moment looking at the dying man before going to check on his own soldiers. Three were dead. The sergeant was unconscious, breathing raggedly. The lieutenant's face had gone white, losing all of the bravado with which he'd faced storming the baggage car a few moments earlier.

  "Mr. Callaghan, would you please return to the passenger car and ask if there is a doctor on board, or failing that, if one of the womenfolk knows anything about caring for a wounded man?"

  Corey started at once toward the passenger car.

  The lieutenant stopped him. “And, Mr. Callaghan, please ask Father Murphy to come back with you. Some of these men were Irish. I think there are certain prayers that Catholics say over the sick and the dead."

  Corey went out, stepping nimbly over the gap between the cars to reach his destination. All sense of adventure had left him at the sight of the dead men. He had placed his hand on the door to open it when he suffered a vivid recollection of shots piercing a similar door on the other car. “Miss Parson!” he called out. “It's Corey Callaghan! I'm coming in!"

  The door was pushed open from the inside and Miss Parson looked out at him. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Callaghan? We heard shots. Were you or the lieutenant injured?"

  Corey stepped into the railcar. “We weren't hurt, but the same can't be said for the lieutenant's men.” He raised his voice. “Is there a doctor here? We have wounded men in the next car.” He lowered his voice to normal tones. “Father Murphy, I'm afraid we're going to need your services as well."

  Father Murphy got to his feet, but no doctor volunteered himself. The priest staggered a bit as he began to walk, but whether from too much whiskey or the motion of the rolling train, Corey couldn't tell.

  "I know something about tending wounds as well,” the priest announced, then stepped past Corey and out of the car.

  Miss Parson leaned close to Corey. “We're going to have to figure out what to do about Mr. Sully and the other man as well. They'll be back with horses just as soon as the train stops rolling—maybe before."

  "Patrick!” Corey ordered. “Help Mrs. Black keep watch on Miss Davis. The authorities will want to speak with her. We'll be talking it over with the lieutenant in the next car."

  * * * *

  Sully did not prove to be the problem Miss Parson had feared.

  The lieutenant browbeat four of the men in the passenger car to join him, Corey, and Patrick on the roof of the train to deter the robbers from returning. He armed the men with the carbines formerly wielded by his own soldiers. It was hot, dry waiting, even after they put down blankets to protect their bodies from the searing heat of the metal roof.

  The lieutenant tried to coach the men in military discipline, but Patrick fired his weapon almost as soon as the two riders and their five horses came into view. Most of the other men, Corey included, fired right after him. Between them, Corey and Patrick knew most of what there was to know about boxing, but neither was worth a damn when it came to other weapons.

  Jim Sully rode closer to the engineless railcars after the shots, just to make certain of things. He spied the lieutenant and his new troop of men and thought better of the whole payroll venture. He waved his hat in mock salute and led his partner and their horses away.

  * * * *

  When the authorities arrived, the lieutenant was the center of most of the attention. It was unclear yet if he was the hero of the piece, but he certainly was not treated as the villain. A military inquiry at Fort Bridger would eventually settle that question.

  Miss Davis was taken into custody, although Corey doubted that anything too serious would happen to her. Her connection to events was all too vague, and Corey suspected she would gaze on the jury with her pretty blue eyes and mournful frown and the twelve honest men would acquit her.

  As for the rest of them, it appeared that they were off to Fort Bridger—Corey, Patrick, Miss Parson, Father Murphy, and even Mrs. Black and her children. The lieutenant had asked them to come and serve as witnesses to what had happened before a board of inquiry. No one appeared thrilled at the prospect, although Mrs. Black assured them it was “the proper thing to do."

  "Do you really want to go to Fort Bridger, Mr. Callaghan?” Miss Parson asked him.

  Corey honestly did not want to go. He felt he'd done enough for the lieutenant. Now he would like to find some nice town with decent prospects where he could restart his training—not a fort in the middle of nowhere on the edge of Mormon and Indian territory. Still, he was pretty certain that the lieutenant had flattered Patrick into agreeing to go, so he put a brave face on the situation. “One place is as good as another, I guess. And with all of those soldier boys about, I'm sure Patrick will have no trouble fixing me up a fight or two."

  "Soldiers also gamble,” Miss Parson observed, as if she too was trying to convince herself that helping the lieutenant was the right thing to do. “If they can be convinced to let a lady join the game."

  "You'll convince them,” Corey smiled. “It's what you do best—convincing men to listen to you."

  "Why, Mr. Callaghan, I'm not sure whether or not I've been complimented."

  "You have,” he assured her.

  "Do you really want to go to Fort Bridger?” she asked again.

  "I don't mind,” Corey admitted, “so long as you are going too."

  Copyright (c) 2007 Gilbert M. Stack

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  DX BTW PQB, UYDXI WYGGIPMJ, XNTX NI WTB DX: XNIVI BTW T ETWI TCTDPWX NDL. OTWEDPTXIG, NI BTXENIG DX CVQBDPC, CVQBDPC, MDSI WQLI LQPWXVQYW XVQRDETM RMTPX.

  —TMGQYW NYFMIJ

  CIPHER: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  DEATH AT MY DOOR by Percy Spurlark Parker

  * * * *

  Joel Spector

  * * * *

  The green glow of my clock radio told me it was 3:17 A.M. as the doorbell prodded me awake. It wasn't all that unusual an occurrence, Vegas is a twenty-four-hour town, and I carry a P.I. license.

  The name's Trevor Oaks. I have living quarters over Miller's Game Room, an arcade I own just north of the Stratosphere on Las Vegas Boulevard. I climbed out of bed as the doorbell rang again, made it out of the bedroom at a fairly steady stride, and aimed myself in the direction of the apartment door. All in all a considerable feat, taking in the fact that my bum knee had been acting up for a week.

  I made it to the door, pushed the intercom button. “Yeah, who is it?"

  Nothing. Great.

  "Okay, you got me up now. What the hell do you want?"

  Still nothing, or almost nothing. It was very faint, like a slight cough.

  I started to go back to bed
, but hell, I was up and already at the door, and whoever was down there could start ringing the doorbell again. I opened the door to my apartment and hobbled down the stairs to the front door. Looking through the peephole the only thing I could make out was a car parked halfway onto the sidewalk, its headlights still on. Maybe some drunk had an accident.

  He must have been crumbled at the base of the door because when I opened it he fell into the foyer. Dennis Rimmey. He lay on his back across the door's threshold, a .38 snub nose on the sidewalk inches from his hand. From the blood on his shirt he'd been shot at least twice, once in his chest and once just above his belt line. A trickle of blood smeared the right corner of his mouth, and there wasn't a flicker in his open eyes. The little cough I'd heard had probably been the last thing he'd uttered.

  Looking down at him I tried to remember if there had ever been a time I liked the guy, even if it was just to the point of saying, “Rimmey? Yeah, he's okay.” I couldn't come up with anything. The dislike ran both ways. Neither one of us had much use for the other. It wasn't because he was white and I'm black, at least not on my part. It wasn't because we were both in the P.I. game and therefore competitors of sorts, although our clientele rarely crossed paths. It was just something instinctive and deep, and there from the first time we met. Rimmey was a class A slimeball and his word was as good as the next Grant that hit his palm. Although I'd never wished him dead, I didn't feel any remorse either.

  There was one thing that popped into my head: Knowing the dislike we had for each other, what the hell was he doing here?

  * * * *

  "You sure he didn't say anything? No whisper? No gesture?"

  "He was dead, Joe. I've already told you that."

  We were upstairs in my apartment. The guy sitting at my kitchen table with me was Detective Sergeant Joe Grover. We've known each other since our UNLV football days.

  "You're being straight with me on this, Tree? No bs?"

  Calling me “Tree” was another sign of how long we've known each other. Back in the day I was Trevor “Oak Tree” Oaks, second string offensive end. I was sure to be a starter my senior year, but I messed up my knee the year before, which ended any thought of a football career.

  "I've told you the way it happened, Joe. There ain't nothing else to say."

  "You and Rimmey weren't working on anything together?” Joe asked, narrowing his gray eyes on me.

  "Get real."

  "No mutual clients or friends?"

  "None that I'm aware of. I mean, I'm sure we knew some of the same people. You can't help that in this town. But that's as far it went."

  Joe leaned back in his chair, a slight frown on his square-chinned face. “I'm having a problem here, Tree. As a friend I tend to believe you. As a cop it just doesn't ring true. I consider you one of my closest friends, but if I had a couple of bullets in me, I can't see myself parking on your doorstep, when the nearest hospital is what ... a hot fifteen, twenty minutes away."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I want you to level with me."

  I'd made coffee for both of us, instant and strong in oversized mugs. I took a swallow of mine. It was still hot and burned going down.

  "Well?” Joe said, with a hunch of his shoulders, his brows knotting slightly.

  "I've said what I've had to say. I don't know why he picked my doorstep to die on. Maybe I should've dragged him next door and gone back to bed."

  Joe shook his head, dug a pack of cigarettes out, and lit one. I'd never picked up the habit, and of late he'd said he was trying to quit.

  "I'm going to need you to come down to the station for a deposition,” he said, blowing smoke from his nostrils. I'm telling you, this ‘I know nothing’ bit isn't going to set too well with my bosses."

  "It is what it is, Joe."

  "Sure,” he nodded.

  * * * *

  I stood at my window looking down at the street below, waiting until I saw Joe drive off in his unmarked car before I went back to my closet where I'd stashed the photograph. Percentagewise, I'd been about ninety-five percent upfront with Joe. I didn't tell him I'd taken a folded photograph from Rimmey's inside jacket pocket. I didn't know what it was at first. I just saw something sticking out of his pocket, and curiosity got the best of me. Once I got a look at it, however, there was no way I could turn it over to Joe.

  Mira Navilone was in all her skinny glory. The only thing that adorned her were a pair of dangling diamond earrings, and one strapless spiked heel on her left foot. The two guys with her wore Halloween masks. The black guy had on a George Bush mask, and I guess for political correctness the white guy wore an Al Sharpton mask. Their positions might have been choreographed by Cirque du Soleil.

  Rimmey had left the keys in the ignition, the motor running, and the driver's side door opened. I'd taken the keys and did a quick but thorough search of the car to make sure there weren't any other photos around before I called Metro. I gave the keys to the first cop that arrived, telling him I took the keys to prevent a passerby from seizing the opportunity and making off with the car. He gave me a short speech about tampering with evidence, then got busy with crowd control.

  Risqué photos, risqué cabaret acts, even risqué slot machines are pretty much commonplace here. Aside from the various decency groups who keep trying to bury Vegas's old tag as Sin City, I doubt too many people would care one way or the other if the photo was hung from every lamppost on the Strip. Mira wouldn't be thought the worst for it. In some circles she might even be praised. But I knew one person who would be spitting fireballs. Belle Navilone, Mira's grandmother.

  I'd seen her temper in action a time or two. Her husband had been one of the old Vegas mob bosses. He'd taken his life as the Feds were closing in on him, or so the story goes. Belle was left with enough money, property, and businesses in her own name that the Feds hadn't been able to touch her.

  I'd first met Belle when I'd tracked down her nephew for his ex-wife. Before the whole thing was over, both the nephew and the ex-wife were dead. The culprit, Belle's handyman slash chauffeur slash bodyguard, was also moonlighting as Mira's lover. I'd been the one who figured the whole mess out. Since then Belle and I had developed a relationship that I would say was more than an employer-employee type of thing. But I couldn't go as far as declaring it a friendship either.

  I didn't get back to sleep, I didn't even try. My head was too full with Rimmey dying at my door and trying to decide what my next move should be. Destroying the photograph and pretending I'd never seen it would be one way of going, although I knew that really wouldn't help. Rimmey dying at my door put me into this thing, whatever it was, and I was going to be in it until I found some sort of solution.

  Who killed him? How did he get the photograph? Why did he come to me? Big questions with not an answer in sight. I went through two more mugs of coffee, a couple of different CDs of Motown's Greatest Hits, and a long hot shower before I locked in on what I should do.

  * * * *

  Mira ran the day-to-day operation of Belle's check cashing and loan stores. There were nine or ten Helping Hand Money Marts throughout the valley. Legal loan-sharking was about the best description for the places. It wasn't the only business Belle owned or had money invested in. If you asked her, it all belonged to the family, which consisted of her and Mira. However, I doubted if anything was in Mira's name.

  Mira worked out of the largest of the stores on Boulder just north of Tropicana. I pulled my Town Car into the parking lot of the strip mall just before eight, wanting to catch her on the way in. It was a twenty-four-hour operation, but if I remembered correctly she usually made it in about eight thirty. I didn't see her Caddy Escalade so, so far so good.

  The Helping Hand sat in the middle of the storefronts and took up more space than the others combined. Dark green dollar signs were plastered about the pale green building and on the glass windows and danced on the neon sign on the roof.

  It had been raining off and on all week. No great d
ownpour, just enough to keep my knee bugging me. A few handfuls of drops hit my windshield, then stopped before I could decide if I should bother turning on my wipers.

  The Escalade pulled into the lot, parking two spots over from me. I made it out before she did. “Morning, Mira."

  "Oh, Trevor. I thought that was you."

  The Escalade was Belle's idea, it had to be. Left on her own, Mira probably would be driving around in a VW Beetle. By far, she wasn't the ugliest woman I've ever encountered. And by the same measurement, she wasn't the prettiest either. Skinny, homey, or mousy came to mind. She'd dyed her hair since the last time I saw her. It was black now, cut short and pasted to her head like a curly skullcap. The hair and the heavy eye makeup took away from her overbite. She wore tan tailored slacks and a darker brown satin windbreaker zipped low enough to expose the triple strand of pearls around her neck. Someone had been working overtime on her wardrobe.

  "What brings you out this way?"

  She was smiling, coyly perhaps; there was even assertiveness in her stance. But that all went away when I pulled the photograph out of my pocket. The pale blue eyes encased in the heavy makeup grew large and piercing.

  "Where did you get this?” she snapped, grabbing the photograph out of my hand with such force she lost her balance, taking a step back to right herself.

  "I took it off of Dennis Rimmey's body. Somebody put a couple of bullets in him last night. He died on my doorstep."

  "I ... I, uh."

  "Maybe we better go in your office and talk."

  "Yes...” she said, folding the photograph and jamming it in her purse.

  She started toward the door to the Helping Hand, stopped, then looked back at me. “I think Lucky's would be better."

  Lucky Frank's—booze, food, and gaming—anchored the right corner of the strip mall. It was a dimly lit joint. A stab at trying to appear intimate, I guess. From the smell of the place, the low lighting probably also helped when they served their food.

  There were only two people at the bar when we came in, both sitting far enough apart they could do their drinking in solitude. We grabbed a back booth, and I went up to the bar and got us a couple cups of coffee.