“Forty-two. I’m inching my way through it.”
“Hand it over.”
“What, my forty-two names?”
He nodded with his hand extended.
Pulling up the file on my phone, I said, “Dude, I don’t want you to lose your job too. Somebody has to keep paying Justin when we drink here.”
“No more freebies,” Justin yelled from across the bar.
Henry ran a hand across his face. “I’m sick of these bombings, tired of the whole city being held hostage. And I don’t know if this Tanner guy is telling the truth about anything.”
“Did he give much of a description?”
“It sucked. He couldn’t even provide the color of the man’s skin. First it was white, then brown. No clue about ethnicity. Height had a range of five six up to five ten. Nothing stood out. He did say the guy had a cheesy, thin mustache.”
Twisting my lips, I could sense the prospect of Tanner leading us to the bomber drifting away like an early morning fog.
“But at least we know it’s one guy, if Tanner is telling the truth.” Henry could see doubt wash over my face.
“That one guy could still be representing a group or a cause.”
Henry nodded. “True, but we won’t know until we do the legwork.”
“We?”
“The collective we, but not really me.” He chuckled at his own play on words. “The Feds are looking up every tree; we just have no idea which one. I think your angle makes as much sense as anything.”
“I’m batting a thousand right now, on the negative side of the ledger.”
“Which is why I’m risking my job. You give me the forty-two names and I’ll download the files with more information than your cop buddy gave you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m in the DA’s office. They give us a higher security clearance. Don’t ask. Now read me the names so I can send you the report and run back to the office.”
Ten minutes later, Henry shook my hand, standing near the stained glass and wood door of The Jewel.
“It’s a race, you and the Feds. I don’t care who gets there first, just someone needs to get to this guy fast. It’s been too long.”
“Like we’re pushing our luck.”
He nodded again.
“Thanks, Henry. I owe you one.”
“Given your new line of business, we’re going to have to figure something out. I can’t continue to play Russian roulette with my career.”
Patting him on the shoulder, I replied. “Maybe I can get you a date with my neighbor?”
Both eyebrows popped up. “Care to share more details?”
“When we have more time,” I said, shifting my neck to see if my crick had disappeared. It hadn’t.
“By the way, Tanner gave up the names of his two buddies almost too easily, like he wanted to share the burden a little bit. Authorities should start interrogating them today.”
Having experienced a similar grilling a few days earlier, I could have felt sympathy for the guy. It wasn’t going to happen. But I felt certain life wouldn’t be the same tomorrow.
31
Pebbles popped under the tires of my Saab, leaving a small, dusty plume in my wake as I pulled into the parking lot at Uncle Charlie’s apartment building. A sweeping purple hue and brush strokes of pink clouds painted the sky. Kids of all ages darted around, as if the cover of nighttime added an element of excitement. Some played tag, others took turns bouncing a basketball on the uneven, rocky surface, and a few brave souls were playing a mean game of football on a small patch of weeds and dirt.
Just as I yanked the parking brake under Uncle Charlie’s second-floor apartment, the smallest kid in the football game made two lightning-quick spin moves, stiff-armed another defender, and high-stepped it the last few yards into their makeshift end zone—Deion Sanders style. Looking more closely, I noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes. Not uncommon for kids who’d be lucky to have a decent meal on the table once their parents called them inside—if their parents called them inside.
I’d dropped by Uncle Charlie’s to help him move out a few pieces of old furniture, hoping the crick in my neck wouldn’t impede me much. Considering he was a borderline hoarder, I couldn’t blow off this opportunity to extricate a wee bit of his six hundred foot junkyard.
Splat! A basketball bounced off the hood of my precious little gem, and I winced, lowering my line of vision to see if I noticed a dent. Nothing obvious.
“Sorry ’bout that. Lost control on my wraparound, no-look pass,” a little boy no more than ten years old said, the ball now wedged under his arm.
“That’s cool,” I said through my open window. “Even Jordan turned the ball over occasionally.” I gave him a wink and motioned for the ball.
“Who?” His face was blank, his eyes droopy and confused.
“You mean to tell me, you don’t know Michael—”
“If I could be like Mike. I’m just shitting ya,” he said, now grinning ear to ear.
“No need to cuss now.” Leaning out the window, I spun the ball on a finger, shifting it to each finger on the same hand. Then I curled up my hand into a fist and popped the ball back at the kid, who caught it and ran off.
Unscrewing bottled water, I tilted my head back and took a long drink. Alisa and I had just finished a marathon session of reviewing the reports Henry had sent. Five straight hours. She had volunteered to help me when she saw my frustration at the sheer volume of data in the reports. We made remarkable progress, mostly thanks to her ability to quickly understand the purpose of the exercise and the incredible efficiency in how she worked. Honestly, I think she felt sorry for me, yet I’d never seen her so excited about work. I never asked, but maybe she felt that similar feeling of wanting to do anything possible to protect our city, our home, our friends, even our enemies.
Having another human being to bounce ideas off of, to test theories, and to gauge my intuitive thoughts was priceless. I witnessed Alisa work the Internet and its related search engines like a master violinist, matching the report data with current information, verifying home addresses, and in some cases identifying new facts. Without asking, on two separate instances she picked up the phone and dialed potential employers, pretending to be a customer service rep from Visa. She said they had detected possible fraud on an account and needed to verify the whereabouts of Xavier Melton, suspect number twenty-four. Once the employer’s name and address had been validated, she even knew to ask if Xavier had been traveling, telling the employer she had to ensure that charges coming in from Toronto, Canada were truly fraudulent.
It was pure genius.
Alisa and I tackled the mound of data and associated investigative work like we’d been partners for years, knocking off thirty-seven more names from the original list. For the remaining five potential suspects, nothing obvious stood out, but we also couldn’t verify their innocence either.
Of the data we reviewed and attempted to hunt down on our own, there were no known affiliations with extreme or fringe groups, and all were believed to be employed, mostly at normal jobs. One report showed the possible suspect worked as the light bulb changer for the Bank of America building. Every night the structure’s green glow lit up the skyline.
Another guy had his own lawn business. Two others worked retail jobs, and one owned a mobile food truck business. Checking my watch, I fully intended to personally visit each of the last five tonight, after creating additional personal space for Uncle Charlie, and after I accompanied the two main ladies in my life, Eva and Samantha, to a little friend’s birthday party.
Locking my car and clicking the alarm button, my boot hit the first stair, and I heard a chirp. I stopped and pulled out my phone. A text from Felix:
Best piece of trace evidence but still unknown origin. U never got this from me. Out.
Tapping the tiny picture, it expanded into a larger window. I couldn’t make much sense of the jpeg, and I brought the phone closer. It looked like
a mangled screw. Part of it was black, likely charred from the explosion, but it also appeared to be made of brass, maybe gold.
Sliding the phone back in my pocket, I jogged up two flights of chipped metal and cracked concrete stairs, a little more juice flowing through my body, although I couldn’t pinpoint why exactly. Sounded like Felix was telling me that authorities had yet to identify what this object was…which baffled me. They had the resources of the federal government at their disposal. For a case of this magnitude, if they asked for it, they received it—access to information, bodies to do legwork, lawyers, suspect profilers, CSI techs, bomb techs—all of whom were most likely at or near the top of their field. If Uncle Sam wanted it bad enough, quickly enough, money wasn’t an impediment.
But I could imagine infighting, or at least bureaucratic bullshit, slowing down progress. Perhaps someone, even unofficially, strongly suggested that Felix send me the text. I knew my cynical side had been inflamed from my recent experience with Internal Affairs and KY strongly encouraging me to tell a different story about the incident with Sims. Hell, they’d wanted me to lie.
And now Sims had been implicated—albeit by a con artist—for stealing drugs from the department’s evidence room and turning around and selling those drugs back into the community. Damn, that asshole was a low-life. I had no idea how I could prove it, at least not while some lunatic was getting his jollies by setting off explosions, maiming, and killing dozens.
I wrapped the hollow door three times and attempted to tame my inner fury.
“About damn time you got here.” Uncle Charlie stood in the doorway, his forehead crumpled.
“Sorry, we got buried in reports and data. I couldn’t leave until we made some serious progress,” I said, taking a step in his apartment, not believing what I was seeing.
“We?”
All I could see were stacks and stacks of papers, magazines, boxes, an occasional toaster, a shadeless lamp. Walls were hidden from view until you got close up to them. I saw two paths, one left, and one right.
“We?” he asked again, his voice tilting higher.
“Uh…sorry,” I said, still distracted. “Alisa and I.”
“That girl you boinked back in college?”
“What?” I literally shook my head. “How did you know about that?”
“Because you told me. You used to tell me everything.”
Putting my arm around his shoulder, I smiled and said, “Uncle Charlie, eventually we all grow up. It’s not about the conquests; it’s more about the journey.”
Finally, an authentic Uncle Charlie smile, one that included three huge gaps, and one tooth larger than the rest. I always wondered how that was possible, but I never asked.
“It’s kind of cool to know you listened to a little bit of what I told you over the years,” he said, jabbing my ribs like he was Muhammad Ali.
“More than you think.” I stepped inside the maze and almost immediately felt boxed in, like the walls of crap might crumble on top of me.
Taking in a deep breath, I scratched the back of my head. “Uncle Charlie, you know this isn’t very safe. I’m worried you’re going to get buried alive.”
“Boy, you know I can take care of myself. Everything has a place.”
I let out another exasperated breath, knowing it would be next to impossible to get him to change his ways.
“Don’t fret now, Booker. We all get old eventually. We just take our own paths.”
Another bit of wisdom, but I only saw two paths. I could have probed a bit more, but I didn’t have the time. I clapped my hands. “Okay, what did you need help with?”
“Follow me to the West Wing.”
Meandering through endless mounds of stuff he’d never use or look at, I had to withhold the urge of grabbing twenty garbage packs and hauling this shit to the dump.
“It’s over there.” He arched his arm forward, angling it over the wall of crap.
Peeking through legs of a circa 1960s wooden side table that had been placed on top of three boxes, I spotted an olive green sofa with a coat of dust so thick it looked like a glazed donut.
“Jesus, Uncle Charlie.” I smacked my face, slowly stretching it.
“It won’t take long. I’ll help,” he said, both arms at his waist like an eager little kid.
We played Rubik’s Cube with the piles, sliding a stack in one direction, then a series of shifts and moves. We repeated that process a dozen times before we’d cleared enough space.
I spit into my hands to get a better grip, then took hold of the dust muffin. A fog billowed off the arm, and it invaded my senses. I released a sneeze, then glared at Uncle Charlie.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Pulling out my phone, I realized I had fifteen minutes to finish this job and drive over to Eva’s place to pick her and Samantha up for the party.
“Look out, I’m coming through,” I warned.
Turning the sofa on one end, I scooted it along the path as it nudged both sides of the great wall of Uncle Charlie. Once at the door, I moved my body on the other side and let the sofa collapse on my back.
“Clear the way down the stairs,” I grunted to Uncle Charlie.
“Look out below,” he yelled.
I didn’t say a word, but instead focused on each step, ensuring my shoes avoided the cracks. Finishing two flights of stairs, I eyed the dumpster across the lot. In the distance, I heard someone yell out, “Hey, look! Superman has returned. Where’s your cape, number twelve?”
The voice sounded familiar, possibly an old teammate from our days as Trojans. Just before I was going to lift the couch into the green bin, I heard Uncle Charlie behind me. “No, don’t throw that in. That’s a perfectly good sofa. Just set it down. I’m sure someone who needs one will pick it up before daylight.”
I knew he was right, especially in this neighborhood. Stretching my back, we walked back toward his apartment.
“Got a cold one in the fridge just for you,” he said.
“I’ll take a quick glass of ice water instead.” I pulled out my phone, hoping to see positive news coming in from Henry, or maybe Alisa letting me know she’d uncovered something about a suspect that would shift our focus to one person. What was I thinking? Undoubtedly, she was racing around the bar ensuring all of Justin’s customers were happy. Those tips paid her bills.
“What you got there?” Uncle Charlie asked, glancing at my phone while handing me the water.
Normally, in an official police matter, I wouldn’t share any component of a case. But this was far from official, and I’d obtained the image in a manner that was borderline illegal—at least on Felix’s part.
“It’s a piece of trace evidence found at one of the bomb sites. Actually, they think—”
“I know what that is,” Uncle Charlie said matter-of-factly, returning the water jug back into the fridge.
I paused, letting myself replay his feedback. “What is it then?”
Holding up a finger, Uncle Charlie shuffled into his East Wing. He took twelve paces, then stopped in front of another wall of crap. Leaning down like he was looking for a book in a library, the silver-haired man pulled open a flap on a box.
“Just where I thought it was.”
His eyes lit up as he reached an arm in, drawing out something that fit in his hand. He clicked the top, and it popped open.
“A pocket watch,” I said.
“Exactly. I got it from your great grandfather. Used to wear it when I was younger, with the chain sticking out of my pocket. Girls thought I was pretty cool. I can’t seem to find the chain though.”
I held the phone near the brass pocket watch. “This picture…is that the top thing there?” I pointed.
“It’s called a crown or a winder, yes. I’m guessing it’s from an old railroad pocket watch. It nearly matches mine, which was made by Waltham Company.”
“How do you know all of that?”
Shifting his neck back, he said, “How do I know anything? I asked
questions, read a book. People could learn shit before Al Gore invented the Internet.”
Uncle Charlie set the brass, family heirloom in my hand, then curled my fingers around it.
“It’s yours. If it helps you find the bastard who’s terrorizing our city, all the better. But there’s history in that pocket watch. And someday, when we both have a few minutes, I’ll share it with you.”
Fingering the engraving and the outer edge of the case, I shuffled to the door then turned back around. “This means a lot, Uncle Charlie.”
“Come on now, it’s just a pocket watch. A damn nice one, though.” He rubbed his scruff.
“What I meant to say is…Dad’s been a ghost most of my life. I’ve grown into the man I am because of you. Thank you.”
I walked back and hugged the old guy, thumping his back twice.
“Make us proud, Booker. That’s all I’ll say. Make us proud.”
I planned on it.
32
A strum of a guitar, possibly U2, played in the background; glasses clinked, and sounds of talking, laughing, and an occasional shout all masked Alisa’s mild country accent. “I can’t really talk right now, Booker. Hold on,” she said. In a more muffled tone, I heard her say, “Six brewskis for your six bros. Got it.”
Knowing Alisa, she just turned her back and rolled amber eyes into the back of her head.
With the noise pollution cranked back up, her regular voice returned. “You still there?”
“Loud and almost clear,” I said from the driver’s seat in my Saab.
“It’s a crazy night for some reason.”
“Full moon, it appears.” I lowered my head, peering through the Saab passenger window, and spotted the veiny moon hovering over a legendary, white Georgian mansion atop a majestic hill.
“I have to run before the animals rebel and take over the zoo. I’ve got a break in ten minutes. I’ll take a look at the info you sent, do some quick research, bounce it off the remaining suspects, and call you back.”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 22
