Touched By Blood

by Craig Buckhout

  Ann shot Nick a look.

  What the hell did I do, he asked himself?

  “Oh nonsense, if it were up to me you would move-in.”

  No accent now.

  Nick figured it best to change the subject. “Did you find the card?”

  “Yep, right here. And I was right, there’s a phone number on the back.”

  She handed it to Nick.

  It was just a regular business card; black on one side with white lettering that read, “Ramon Forney, Commercial and Residential Real Estate Investment.” It also listed his business and cell numbers, plus his e-mail address. On the back was a handwritten phone number.

  Nick thumbed back to the notes of his interview with Forney. The phone number Nick had for him was the same as on the front of the business card. The handwritten number didn’t match anything. Too easy he thought.

  Ann filled the tea pot with fresh water and put it on the stove while Ellen grabbed a couple of cups from the cupboard.

  He picked-up the kitchen phone and called Records. The PD contracted with a vetted computer search service for this sort of thing but to get to them he had to go through Records.

  A male voice with a thick accent answered. He gave the records clerk the phone number and hoped he’d made himself understood. He also tried to pin the clerk down on how long it would take to get the information on who the phone number was assigned to, but all he got was it was a Sunday so sometimes it took longer. Risking further confusion, he also requested a copy of Forney’s driver’s license photo printed up and ready for him in thirty minutes.

  Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly 3 PM.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Once he saw the place, he remembered it, kind of. He remembered it in the sense that he’d driven past it a thousand times but he’d never been there, either officially or otherwise.

  Like most of the rest of old Japan Town, it was a two story wood sided building, with paint layered as thick as a good wool blanket, in this case chalk white. The door stood with its toes on the sidewalk and except for the sign over it, a neon one with Japanese lettering and a martini glass, he wouldn’t have known it was the entrance to anywhere. It was just an old, single-wide door plopped in the middle of a solid wall; no windows except down-a-ways where the neighboring restaurant displayed a red Budweiser sign, just like Dodd had described.

  Nick parked out front and stepped through the door only to find a narrow wood staircase that shot straight up with no landing to catch your breath on the way in or stop your martini induced freefall on the way out. At the top of the stairs, to the right, was a curtained doorway and beyond that the bar.

  The bar, like the entrance, made no statement unless it was leave me alone, I want to drink in peace. There were about a dozen small tables scattered about the sloping plank floor, and not all of them matched. Some were made out of painted over bamboo and glass, while others were of fiberboard edged with cheap metal trim. Off in one corner there were a couple of men the far side of sixty, playing what looked like a game of dominos. At another table sat a second man, about the same age, reading the paper. Smoke drifted up like a drunken finger from a glass ash tray in front of him.

  The bar itself, the business part where booze is passed from one side to the other, looked like an original; heavy, dark, fifteen feet long, and showing the scars of a life well served. Behind it was the usual array of bottles and glasses plus an old green metal fan that gently circulated the air in the room so everyone could enjoy the benefits of second hand smoke.

  Behind the bar on a stool, with one leg hiked exposing a stripe of black between a gray cotton pant cuff and a greasy looking brown oxford, sat a decidedly expressionless man reading a paperback that he held only inches from his face.

  As Nick made his way towards him, a woman exited a door near one end of the bar, looked in Nick’s direction, and gushed a stream of Japanese at the expressionless man. Afterwards, she moved on to the patrons already seated. The bartender put his book face down on the bar and stared with hooded eyes at Nick’s approach.

  Nick put his business card on top of the bar and slid it across with the tip of his right index finger.

  The bartender picked it up, squinted at it painfully, and set it back down again. Wordlessly, he raised a nicotine stained index finger before searching behind the bar until he came up with a pair of reading glasses, minus one stem, which he then held to his face as he leaned over the card to give it a second try.

  Great witness, Nick thought. He pictured him testifying. How many fingers am I holding up mister bartender? …Okay, try this; point to where in the courtroom I’m standing. Sometimes an idea pays off and sometimes it doesn’t.

  “Ah, the police,” he said in perfect English. “Do you know my nephew, Charles Hahn, he’s one of you?”

  “Yeah, I know him. We went to the Academy together. He’s your nephew?”

  The bartender nodded his head. “He doesn’t take shit from nobody.”

  “We must be talking about the same guy, because the Charles Hahn I know doesn’t take shit from anyone either.”

  “Small world, huh?” he said.

  “Small world. Hey, were you working last Thursday night, say around 8 or 9 PM?”

  “I’m here every night except Monday and maybe sometimes a Saturday, but not yesterday, I was here yesterday, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Okay, then can you tell me if you recognize this guy?”

  Nick handed him Malone’s photograph.

  “What’d he do, kill someone?”

  “Other way around. Have you seen him before?”

  The bartender picked up the photograph and studied it for several seconds through his broken glasses.

  “Probably deserved it. Look at him. …You know, my eyes, they’re not what they used to be. No damn good for looking at pictures or people. But you know what, maybe Michele saw him. She was here Thursday night.”

  “Who’s Michele?”

  “That’s Michele.” He pointed at the woman who had spoken to him earlier. “She’s Charlie’s cousin. Their mothers are sisters. One of them had all boys and the other all girls. You know Charlie, huh?”

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  “He don’t take shit from nobody.”

  Nick thanked the man and picked-up the picture of Malone off the bar. As he was doing this, the bartender resumed his place on the stool.

  The woman was younger than the man, a lot younger, maybe in her late twenties. She wore a pair of black pants, a white blouse, and shoes that looked more like slippers. She moved as if on autopilot, soundlessly from one table to the other, picking up the empties, wiping up debris, and in one case swapping a full ashtray for an empty one.

  “I figured you’d get to me. I saw you show him a photograph,” she said at Nick’s approach. “Uncle can’t tell the difference between a hundred dollar bill and a one dollar bill. Believe me, I know. I have to do the cash drawer at the end of the night. He needs surgery, but he’s stubborn about it. One of these days he’ll go blind and …let me put this down and then I’ll look at what you have.”

  Nick followed her over to the bar where she put her tray down.

  “Uncle, I need a sake, and a bourbon and water, light on the bourbon because Sammy has to walk home.”

  She then turned to Nick and said, “Now what’s this all about?”

  He handed her his card and said, “I want to find out if someone came in here in the last few days.”

  She looked at his card and asked, “Do you know my cousin Charlie? He works with you guys.”

  “From a long time back, actually.” Nick then handed her a photograph of Malone and asked, “Do you recognize this guy?”

  “Oh yeah, he comes in here sometimes. There’s something about him that I don’t like. It’s not just how he looks; it’s more of an attitude. Why; what did he do?”

  “When was the last time he was here?”

  “Well, let’s see. Today’s Sunday, so it was
either Thursday or Friday. It definitely wasn’t yesterday and I’m off on Wednesday, my other cousin works on Wednesday, so it’s got to be Thursday or Friday.”

  Nick took all the photographs he had out of an envelope and handed them to her.

  “Take your time and look at all the photos. After you’ve had a chance to look at them all, tell me if you recognize anyone else.”

  “Okay, but we get a lot of people in here so sometimes I don’t remember faces.”

  She shuffled through the pictures, giving the group shots a longer look. Nick was closely watching her when she came to the photograph of Ramon Forney but didn’t see her pay any more attention to it then she did to the others. After reaching the end, she went through them again until she came to one of the group shots Jim Westin had taken. She set it on the bar with the others next to it before putting her finger on Roger Templeton’s face and saying, “Him, I recognize this one.”

  “You’ve seen him in here before?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah, he was with the other guy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Al ceremoniously unwrapped the paper. “Tell me you brought hot sauce, the red stuff, I love the red stuff,” he said.

  “It’s in the bag with the chips.”

  “You brought chips? Oh man, they’re gonna be so pissed at me. We gotta clean the crime scene before you go.”

  He smelled the burrito as if it was a vintage wine. “Sour cream and guacamole, I’ve died and gone to cop heaven. …So where’s Ellen? She didn’t come with you this time?”

  Al took his first bite and rolled his eyes back. Nick noticed that the hair on the back of his partner’s head was spiked up and twisted from the pillow.

  “I shouldn’t have brought her the first time.”

  “You shouldn’t have… Are you nuts?” He was talking with his mouth full now. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty because she’s a witness? Tell me that’s not true. If you let her walk you’re an asshole.”

  “You’re getting a little ahead of yourself don’t you think.”

  “Oh, bullshit. Nick, what, you think I’m blind? You’re all over that and the feeling was mutual. Where’s she staying; your place right? You’re squeaking the bedsprings already, aren’t you?”

  “She’s not at my place.”

  “Where then, your mother’s? That’s it, isn’t it; she’s staying at your mother’s and you’re staying there, too. And I’ll bet your mom likes her, huh?” He took another bite. “You’re screwed, buddy. I wish I was there to see it.”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  “If you say so, but if you let that go, you ought to be shot.” Hot sauce stuck to his bottom lip.

  “That your last word on it?”

  Al took a drink of water through a straw.

  “That’s my last word on it.”

  “Good, now let’s talk about the case and get off mine.”

  “Sure, why not, but first, do you know what is long and hard that a Polish bride gets on her wedding night? …No? Okay, I’ll tell you; a last name.”

  Al started laughing, then choking, then moaning and grabbing his ribs. Nick didn’t make a move to help him, but instead just sat there watching.

  “Those Polish jokes are gonna kill you one of these days.”

  “Asshole.”

  Nick could see that Al had gotten sauce on his hospital gown where he grabbed his ribs.

  For the next fifteen minutes Nick brought his partner up to speed on the investigation. After he finished, Al said, “So you got Blaine in the wind and a dirty picture in his desk drawer showing his wife and Edna doing the wild thing, which makes Blaine a liar for telling you he didn’t know any of the dancers at The Rack. You got this guy Forney’s business card in Molly’s personal belongings with a number on the back, which makes him a possible liar for saying he didn’t know any of the dancers at the club either. And you got a connection between Templeton and Malone, which makes Templeton a liar for saying he didn’t know him.”

  “That’s about it,” Nick said.

  “So basically, they all look dirty, some more than others, but that’s it.”

  “Basically.”

  Al put another bite of burrito in his mouth and said, “Okay, what’s next?”

  “Well, I want to listen to the tape of what happened in Edna’s hotel room. Gotta do backgrounds on Forney and Templeton, and then there are the phone records. Who’s calling who, the number on the back of the card, try to breakdown the alibi’s for Forney, Templeton, and even Blaine some more. When you getting out of here?”

  “They say maybe I can go home the day after tomorrow. But I tell you what; if it starts to really roll, I’ll cut out early. I got some getting even to do with that asshole.”

  “I’ll let you know, but I don’t think it’s going to happen that fast. Hey, before I go, is there anything you need?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah, bring Ellen by for a visit …and a nice piece of pie.”

  “I thought you said your last word on that subject.”

  “Ellen? Not by a long shot.”

  Outside in the parking lot Nick heard a car alarm go off. He cruised by it only to see someone from the hospital come out and click it off with the remote. Then, as he turned out onto the street, an idea came to him. He hopped up onto the freeway and headed towards Templeton’s business.

  He arrived about twenty minutes later, parked, and got out on foot. On the wall up near the roofline was an alarm box with the company name, Specter Security Systems, printed on it. There was also a phone number written below the name. He called the number and asked if they had an active account for “Manage Your Affairs.” After being told that they did have such an account, he asked if it was monitored or if it was audible only. It was a monitored account.

  Another forty minutes later, he was lying in bed next to Ellen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nick spotted a pencil sticking out from under a half price coupon for an all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant on top of Al’s desk blotter. He grabbed it, slipped on the headphones, and punched play.

  At first, the only sounds were of Edna moving around the room, going through a few drawers, laying on the bed, getting off the bed, using the bathroom, and laying back down on the bed again. After a few minutes of silence he heard her say, “It’s nice and soft here Nick, you don’t know what you’re missing.” Nick smiled. Then the TV came on and he could hear her running through the channels before stopping on one playing music.

  He listened to a couple of minutes of rock, hit the fast forward button, let it run a couple of seconds, and returned it to normal speed. He repeated the process until he picked-up voices and stopped the tape. He tore off the coffee stained top sheet from his legal pad and recorded the tape recorder’s counter number so he could easily find the place again if he needed to.

  The first words he could make out after hitting play again were, “Hi, come _ _ _ who _ _ _ you?” The voice sounded like Edna’s. She had that gravelly smoker’s voice. He rewound and replayed this part of the tape several more times, but it didn’t get any better. At best, hidden microphones made listening difficult. With the TV on, it was worse.

  The next words he could make out were those of a woman, not Edna, so by process of elimination, Melanie Blaine’s. “You said _ _ _ hurt.”

  These were followed by Edna again, who said, “_ look _ let me _ _ _. I won’t say _ _ _ please.”

  She did what she was told to do, Nick thought; “just let me out of here” was the bust signal; her 911. The trouble was that nobody could hear it. Should have followed my gut, he told himself. Another wave of guilt swept over him.

  It sounded like a man’s voice next, “Shut the _ _.” After three or four rewinds Nick still couldn’t recognize the voice. There wasn’t enough there.

  He tried to picture the scene in his head. After they entered the door (the front or back he couldn’t tell), Edna first saw Melanie, greeted her, and then saw the killer
, who probably had his pistol out. She backed away from him, probably to the bed, where her body was eventually found.

  The light on his phone lit-up, so he stopped the tape, pulled off the headphones, and answered it.

  “Sergeant Zajac, this is John over at Specter Security Systems. I’ve got the information you asked for. Do you want to pick it up, or can I fax it?”

  “Fax it if you will, but hang onto your copy and make a note of the date and time of this conversation in case you later need to recall it.”

  “Not a problem, I’ll send if off right away.”

  Nick thanked him, gave him the fax number, and hung-up. He then put the headphones back on, only to take them right back off again when he saw Andy from Records enter the office, make eye contact, and start his way.

  “We got the info back on that phone number, but you’re not going to like it,” Andy said.

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Because it comes back to one of those pre-paid cell phones you can buy at just about any Wal-Mart in the world, so no owner information.”

  “Can the phone people say what store it was sold in?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Can we at least get information on who the purchaser called and was called by?”

  “I was only asked to check the number,” Andy said. “Nobody asked for any of that other stuff.”

  “You want me to handle it?” Fanucchi asked.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Nick said. “I owe you one.”

  “Just one?”

  After Fanucchi left, Nick went back to the tape. He re-wound and replayed what he had so far and heard a woman’s voice, he wasn’t sure whose, say, “No, please,” followed by a gunshot.

  This was followed by not exactly a scream, but more of a cry and the words “_ are _ doing?” These words sounded as if they came from Melanie. Then there was another gunshot. No further words were heard after that, just noises, until Nick and Rene entered the room.

  Nick stopped the recorder and went over what he’d written so far.