by Jack Lacey
The place didn’t look or have the vibe or the smell of a drug den that was for sure, which made me think I’d been given the wrong flat from the off by the trunk guys, or the dealer just wanted it to look that way in case the cops came calling out of the blue.
I stepped in, my senses reaching out before me for any ounce of danger hovering in the shadows. Inside, to my right, was a postage-stamp kitchen which smelt of strong coffee and spices. The kettle was still steaming.
I crept in and quickly found the cutlery drawer, then eased a medium-sized carving knife out that felt nicely weighted. I slid it into the back of my belt feeling better for carrying some sort of weapon, then stepped back out as silently as I’d entered. I stared at the narrow staircase to my left, then at the door opposite that was shut.
I cat-walked slowly forwards, went down on one knee and peered through the keyhole. Inside was a gaudy-looking living room with a cracked, white leather sofa, massive flat screen T.V fixed to the wall, and a mantelpiece with all sort of tacky ornaments lined up along it.
Seeing the room empty, I depressed the handle down gently and entered, gripping the knife tightly in case there were any surprises the other side. I scanned the room quickly, then walked to its end and peered through a doorway into a smaller, more softly lit room to my right.
Inside the curtains were drawn. There was some sort of treatment couch set up in the middle of the floor and a mug of steaming coffee on a fold-out table next to it. Someone was either upstairs having a siesta, or had recently gone out on a whim.
I studied the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, clocking the lipstick on its filter tip then retreated back into the lounge and stared at the urban sprawl through the window again, until the sound of a toilet flushing broke the spell.
I looked up at the ceiling anxiously then heard a door slam above. For a second I froze, unsure of what to do. Footsteps walked confidently along the landing heading for the stairs. I had just seconds before the occupant returned and clocked me in their fucking living room. Shit...
Panicking, I ducked down behind the sofa to my left, slid out the knife, then held it in front of my face in a crouching position, hoping that the owner wasn’t about to start spring cleaning anytime soon.
I counted the steps as they came down the stairs. Then I heard a voice in the hall cursing someone for having left the door open. It was the voice of a woman - a young woman. She sounded exotic. I heard the door slam shut, the security bolt slide back into position, then the person enter the living room and head towards the other room to supposedly finish off their coffee and smoke.
I gave it a few seconds then tentatively eased my head around the edge of the sofa and watched as she lingered in the doorway opposite with her back to me. She was wearing tight jeans and a flimsy turquoise blouse, and didn’t have much taste where jewellery was concerned, taking into account the hooped earrings and the clunky gold bangles on her wrists. I reckoned she was in her mid-to-late thirties and Hispanic in origin, judging by her hair and her skin-colouring.
I looked on anxiously as she fiddled with a radio for a while, then watched her pick up the cigarette and start to swing her hips to some boisterous Latin tune that was playing. Then she disappeared. I waited. All I could hear was guitars and trumpets now. Maybe she’d sat down the other side and was finishing her coffee, or preparing some oils for a massage?
Seizing the moment, I crawled out slowly, stood up, then crept one foot at a time towards the door like some amateur ninja, until the music stopped suddenly. I froze. A painful silence descended on the flat. I cursed under my breath and raised the knife, expecting her to come back out at any moment and go hysterical.
When she didn’t, I depressed the handle an inch at a time until the lock mechanism released, then fanned the door gently open, willing Sandra Raul or whoever she was, to remain inside her damned treatment room until I’d disappeared.
Safely back in the hall, I closed the lounge door, released the breath I’d been holding on to, then slid the bolt back on the main door, turned the key and stepped back outside and stared out across the city, feeling mightily relieved. It had been a close call in there. Things could have quickly got out of control, got messy...Where in the hell was the dealer’s flat anyway? Was I even in the right bloody block?
A body falling through the air made me jump back instinctively.
‘What the...’
I looked over the balcony and eyed the long-haired guy sprawled out in the car lot, a widening pool of claret seeping out in all directions from his pulverized body, turning the crisp, white snow a rich crimson. Someone had found what they were looking for obviously...
‘Fuck...’
Footsteps thundering along the corridor above made me look up suddenly. The perpetrators of the crime had decided to make a run for it...
I sprinted back to the stairwell and counted three shadowy figures flash past through the reinforced glass. I let them descend maybe a couple of floors then headed up to where they’d come from, anxious to know who they’d just thrown off the balcony, desperate to know whether Ethan and Olivia had been involved, and were hiding up there terrified somewhere, or worse...
Halfway along I found a door that had been kicked in. I pulled out the knife and eased my head around the busted frame and looked in warily, concerned someone else might be in there, gun in hand.
‘Hello…I’m just a neighbour, checking if everyone’s okay...’
No answer. I took my chances and stepped into the darkened hall, then into a gloomy living room that was empty save a couple of threadbare sofas and an old hi-fi playing thrash metal on low.
I scanned the room. Sagging black curtains were pulled over the main windows and the smell of skunk hung heavy in the air. Reluctantly I headed upstairs, knife outstretched.
As I climbed, I saw that the doors to all three rooms were wide open. That made life a little easier...The first was just a bathroom, which I ignored. The next was a medium-sized bedroom that quite simply stunk. I hovered in the doorway holding my breath, checking the room out in the gloom. The blinds were drawn and there was a dirty mattress on the floor with clothes scattered all around it. The room reeked of toxic sweat and alcohol.
I stepped in and rifled through the free-standing wardrobe then a side-table, and deduced that the room belonged to the victim judging by the needles and other drug paraphernalia lying everywhere. I placed my hand against the mattress. It was still warm. The guy had been pulled out of bed half-asleep then thrown off the balcony it seemed. Not a nice way to go.
I walked back out and along to the other room. In comparison, the second space was immaculate, with all the clothes hung up, save a pair of jeans thrown over the back of a chair by the bed, which looked as if it hadn’t been slept in recently.
On the wall to my right was a cork memo board covered with various flyers and gig tickets. I scanned it briefly and clocked the photo of a brooding youth with long, blonde hair, supping a beer in some busy-looking bar. It was the guy from Jessica’s photo, though his hair was a bit shorter in this particular shot. It had to be Ethan. Bingo...
I turned my attentions to the chest of drawers beneath it, keen to uncover something which might offer up a fresh lead. At the top was the usual cluster of pants, socks and t-shirts, in the middle some hoodies, and in the lower tier, nothing. Becoming frustrated, I checked out the bedside table knowing that the cops wouldn’t be long in coming. When I heard the wail of sirens in the distance I knew it would be sooner rather than later.
I pulled out the drawer. It was filled with a sheaf of flyers and hand-outs. I worked my way through them quickly then stopped suddenly, feeling like I’d found something of significance. It read:
STREEL LEVEL CAFÉ
LEXINGTON, KY
ACTIVIST MEETING
FEB 14th
‘SAVE BLACK MOUNTAIN’
I remembered what the girl had said in the gallery café suddenly. I’d forgotten all about it, but now it had huge signif
icance. Ethan had told her he was going to take Olivia on some road trip. Maybe that included a protest too? It was around about the right time.
Everything made sense suddenly. The film at the activists’ house, Tug’s worries that his wife had gone off to rekindle her youth, and now the flyer…She’d probably joined Olivia and Ethan on some environmental protest in the mountains down in Kentucky where she was originally from. It all fitted.
I eyed the room carefully again, then got down on one knee and looked under the bed. It was clear. Then I noticed the Moroccan rug that ran alongside it. It was kicked up in the middle...I threw it back and clocked the section of floorboard that was shorter than the rest. It looked recently nailed...
I pulled the knife out and eased it between the gap in the boards. It gave a little. I levered it some more until I could squeeze my fingertips underneath, then yanked it fully back...
Inside the cavity were a half-dozen blocks of cannabis covered in plastic wrap, as you’d expect to find in some dealer’s pad. It wasn’t a smart place to hide them...I ignored them, not wanting to leave my prints anywhere near them. Then I clocked the DVD in a transparent sleeve lying close by, the initials J.H written on the side.
I picked it up intrigued. It could be important...I slid the disc into my jacket, lowered the board, then rolled the rug back and headed downstairs, knowing I had to get the hell out of there and fast.
As I left the flat the wail of police sirens grew louder, drew close. Now my departure had to be faster than fast or I’d be seriously in the shit.
I ran to the lifts and pushed the call button. It sounded a mile away. Cursing, I cleaned my prints off the knife as I waited then tucked it behind a fire hydrant. Twenty painful seconds later it finally reached my floor.
I stepped into the foul-smelling elevator hoping my obvious choice of exit would absolve me of any suspicion. When the doors scraped open again I quickly discovered that I couldn’t have been more wrong. There were two cops waiting outside, guns raised...
‘Okay, hit the ground!’ the officer on the left shouted, knees bent, arms extended, as I stepped cautiously out.
I raised my hands casually and lowered myself to the floor, keeping them in the air until I was almost laid out flat and my face was pressed hard against the asphalt. The next thing I felt were hands frisking me roughly for a weapon.
‘Okay, he’s clean. Stand over there please, sir.’
I stood back up, dusted myself off and did what I was told, unsure of how trigger-happy the cops were in this neck of the woods…
‘Do you live here, sir?’ the fresh-faced cop demanded firmly.
‘No, Officer, I was visiting a friend of mine, up in one-one-five.’
‘Yeah, who was that?’ an older uniform pushed, looking like he was about to have a cardiac.
‘Sandra Raul,’ I said, as if I’d known her all my life.
‘Good friend of hers, are you?’ he probed.
‘Sure.’
‘So she doesn’t charge you then? You’re special?’
I realized the hole I’d dug for myself and tried to change tact.
‘Look, I know what Sandra does, we all do, right, but we’re just friends. Even a hooker is allowed to have friends, eh, Officer?’
‘Who said she was a hooker?’ the fresh-faced cop interrupted smugly.
‘What?’ I said sensing the even bigger hole I’d dug for myself.
‘Sandra’s does pedicure from home and all that crap. She’s a beautician,’ the older guy added in that I-know-better-than-you kind of tone.
‘Yeah, I know that. I was just playing with you…really,’ I said forcing a laugh.
‘Well,’ the young cop said, pulling out his cuffs. ‘We were only messing with you, ‘cus she is a hooker. She does a nice little massage with a few extras thrown in, you get me? You don’t know her from shit, buddy, do you? Now tell us what some English guy with blood on his jacket is doing in this neck of the woods and then we’ll let you go? You’re one hell of a ways from the tourist trail.’
My head lowered in defeat, a plausible explanation evading me for once.
‘It’s okay boys, I know this guy,’ a gruff voice announced suddenly from behind us.
I looked up. It was Tug. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘You’re sure? the older cop pushed. ‘This guy’s story seems real shady to me.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Where are you from exactly, and what’s your name please, sir? Have you got I.D?’
Tug took a step forward.
‘His name’s Blake. He’s from London. And he’s looking for some missing teenager for a friend of his back in England. I would imagine he’s snooping around a dirt hole like this trying to get a lead on her because he’s stupid, and doesn’t know how dangerous it can be around here. He’s not connected to that scumbag dealer, Bob. I’ll vouch for that,’ Tug said confidently.
The youngest cop holstered his weapon.
‘You’re hanging around in the wrong places, sir.’
‘It’s a habit I’m trying to shake,’ I said with a wry smile.
The cop looked at Tug.
‘You sure you can vouch for this guy? He looks mighty suspicious to me.’
‘Look, Tug’s right. I am looking for a missing girl, and my lead took me here. I heard that she was dating some guy who she met at the Longfellow Gallery, who’s the nephew of the director there. He lives with the dealer who’s just got himself thrown off the eleventh floor. He wasn’t in when the trouble came knocking, luckily for him.’
‘Did you see the guys who did this?’ the officer pressed, pulling out a notebook.
I shook my head.
‘Not clearly. Two guys and a girl I think, all of medium build, and that’s it. I only saw them through the obscured glass on the stairwell.’
‘And nothing else?’
‘No.’
Tug interrupted.
‘You sure do like to follow trouble around, Blake.’
‘Yeah, I guess I do,’ I said.
‘Look, I’ll take over, guys, take down any more details,’ Tug declared, a hand on each of their shoulders.
‘Okay...if you say so, Tug. But it’s on your head,’ the younger one replied, heading over to where a small crowd was gathering around the dealer’s pulverized body. ‘But you’re carrying the can if he ends up being involved, big guy...’
*
I sat in the front seat of Tug’s squad car and was glad to be out of the elements, glad of the piping hot coffee and the doughnut he’d brought from a nearby snack van. Spring seemed somewhat schizophrenic in this part of the world and felt very much like winter still to my way of thinking. It was a world away from Vegas that was for sure...
‘You’re some sort of private detective, aren’t you?’ Tug said casually, staring out of the snow-speckled windscreen.
I nodded, my mouth full of doughnut.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Because on the whole, you guys don’t have much time for our sort, do you?’ I replied eventually.
‘I guess so…’ He sighed. ‘So Henry sent you over here because the other two chicken-shits pulled out on him, is that it?’
‘Yes, he thought that if he employed someone closer from home, it might get a quicker result.’
‘And who do you work for exactly?’
‘A London agency, that specializes in tracing work.’
‘And what about all that stuff about your daughter?’
‘That’s true. I don’t know why I told you that...’
Tug sighed then took a long pull on his coffee, twisted in his seat and looked over at me with inquisitive eyes.
‘So what did you learn from those gutter punks on Thirty-Sixth?’
‘That your wife’s probably gone on some mountain protest down in Kentucky.’
‘Jesus, you serious? My hunch was right then?’
‘That’s the way it’s looking at the moment, Tug. I found this flyer in the boy’s room at the deal
er’s place.’
He looked at it in silence.
‘Not a wise move snooping around a murder scene, buddy. Your prints will be all over the show.’
‘I know, but I needed the lead,’ I said, feeling tired suddenly.
‘Well, it looks like my Chrissie may have headed down there alright. She has family in that neck of the woods, near Lexington in fact. Not that they’d tell me if she was there, as I said. They’re a tight-knit bunch.’
I pulled out Jess’s photo and saw that same sadness return in Tug’s eyes.
‘Well I be damned...’
‘It was taken around four weeks ago they said, just before the three of them left.’
‘And that’s your next stop, right?’
‘All I need is some money to pay for the trip down there and I think we’re finally in business,’ I said fishing.
Tug tipped his hat back from his forehead.
‘You ain’t got no money? What sort of private detective are you?’
‘My wallet and the rest of my clothes were stolen last night.’
‘What from your car at the motel, where you tripped over the bins?’ he said half-amused.
I paused, debating how much more to tell him. He’d saved me from getting arrested after all. There was room for manoeuvre.
‘Look, if you want me to help find your wife, then I need to know that I can trust you.’
‘Well, as long as you ain’t gone and killed no one or planning to, then I’ll help out if it means finding my Chrissie.’
‘My stuff got torched in that truck fire last night in Arden Hills. I was hitching a ride with the driver and went to get a burger from the diner at the truck stop we’d pulled up in, while he headed off with some hooker. Later on that night, the manager started taking some heat from a load of bikers who turned up wanting a free meal. I decided to help him out...’
‘That was mighty big and mightily bloody stupid of you, buddy, especially if it was the Mustangs. Those guys are usually cracked-up to the eyeballs.’
