Days of Reckoning

by Chris Stout

  But no, that was empty too.

  There was neither an attic nor a basement, so the remaining options for hiding long guns were limited. Miranda double- and triple-checked underneath the sofa, bed, recliner and in the pantry. She even checked the toilet tank, because she knew of perps who tried to hide drugs and weapons in there.

  Nothing.

  It was as she walked back into the bedroom to sit at the computer desk that she realized how empty the apartment was. Except for a fine layer of dust on the flat surfaces, it was almost show-ready. And while she doubted her brother required too many creature comforts, she knew from growing up with him that he wasn't the housecleaning, neat-and-tidy type. His place look like it had received a professional cleaning, with all personal effects tossed away.

  She sat in front of the computer and started looking for folders. A quick scan of the computer’s files showed that almost everything had been erased. His e-mail inbox was empty, there weren’t any saved messages and his address list was blank. She clicked on the icons for two web browsers, but their histories and favorites showed no activity.

  Miranda rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. She looked for photo albums or something that might pertain to her brother. Whoever had erased everything apparently didn't want it to look like they had been there, so they hadn't wiped the hard drive. That was smart, but they'd been a little too zealous. If something had been left behind, she might not have dug any deeper. But as it was, Miranda went into the computer's control panel and launched a system restore. It might not bring everything back, but it would give her more to go on than she had now.

  #

  Social networking and browsers that saved passwords were wonderful things, and after retrieving more than she ever thought she'd find, Miranda drove ten miles out of town to a bar called Rusty's Tailpipe. The name would have made her laugh, but she was well aware of its reputation.

  Gravel crunched under her tires as she pulled into the lot. She maneuvered her car and parked facing the exit, in case a quick retreat was called for. Then she sat, debating what the best approach would be.

  Miranda had a picture. She recognized her brother, but not the man and woman who flanked him. She could tell that it was taken at Rusty's, though, because of the full-sized Harley mock-up mounted on the wall behind the trio. It gave her a place to start, and that was all she needed.

  She checked herself over. Her purse would stay in the car. Too much chance of it being lifted inside. She also opted to leave her service weapon in the car. Her Glock was just a bit too bulky to wear with tight jeans. Instead, she had her Beretta in a belly band holster. It wasn't the most convenient location, but it wouldn't be too hard to reach inside her open jacket and underneath her tank top if she needed to draw it. She put her license, department ID and some cash in her front pocket. She didn't want to badge anyone unless absolutely necessary. Satisfied, Miranda left her car and headed towards the door.

  The bouncer at the door did as he was supposed to and insisted on seeing her ID. Since he seemed reasonable, Miranda also showed him the picture she'd printed out. "You seen any of these folks here tonight?"

  He frowned with clear suspicion. It was still early in the night, and he looked like he wasn't quite ready to be breaking up fights.

  "It's not like that," Miranda said. "The guy in the middle is my brother. He wanted to meet me here. I didn't see his car, and I don't know the other two, so I just thought it'd be easier to ask you rather than search that crowd."

  The bouncer didn't look convinced, but he nodded nonetheless and pointed at the woman. "Think she came in an hour ago. Check over by the pool tables. I ain't seen the other dudes."

  Miranda did her best to give him a bright, perky smile. "Thanks!" she said, handing him an extra ten with her cover charge.

  She moved into the bar. Booths lined the outer walls. In the center were tall tables, with the bar itself stretching across the length of the back wall. To her right were four pool tables. Miranda moved there first, because it would be easier to examine people while feigning interest in the games. She saw a tall, bottled-blonde playing at one of the tables in the middle. The woman wore a sleeveless denim jacket, and a barbed-wire tattoo encircled her bicep. When she moved to the other side of the table to line up a shot, Miranda knew she was the woman in the picture.

  It looked like the game had just started, so Miranda took the opportunity to circle the bar in search of the other man in the picture. She stopped at the bar first, where she scanned faces while waiting for a can of beer. She had no intention of drinking the stuff, but they didn't offer bottles here because of the potential for using them as weapons, and she would be out of place without a drink in her hand. At least no one would be able to tell how much beer she did or didn’t drink.

  Her tour of the bar did not reveal the man, so she wandered back to the pool table. The woman with the tattoo was just about to put the 8-ball in a corner pocket and finish the game up. She sank it easily. Her opponent swore, but still shook her hand, passing off a small wad of bills in the process. The woman pocketed the bills and left the table, heading towards the bar. Miranda followed.

  "That was some nice shootin' there," she said by way of greeting.

  The woman looked at her and then turned back to the bar.

  "Can I buy your beer for you? I'm about to get another one myself."

  "Honey," the woman said, "you ain't my type. Run along now and find someone else to play with."

  Miranda set her beer can on the bar and palmed her department ID. "Ok, honey." she said. "I'd really like to keep this friendly. But if you want, I can flash my badge, and we can take a trip down to the sheriff's office and counsel you about your gambling problem. Or, I can buy you a beer, we can have a friendly discussion, and hopefully both go home happy."

  The woman waited a few beats before answering. "Okay," she said. "How about we talk outside?"

  "That would suit me fine."

  #

  They walked through the lot and stopped by a beat-up old Chevy. The woman leaned up against its fender. Miranda leaned beside her.

  "So, what's your name, and what's so important that you want to try and arrest me in a biker bar?"

  "My name is Miranda."

  "I'm Alice."

  They didn't shake hands. Instead, Miranda pulled the picture out of her jacket pocket and passed it to Alice. "Can you tell me who these two boys are?"

  Alice didn't hesitate. "Sure. In the middle is Justin Leider. His friend's name is Damon Shearer, if I remember right. Only met him that one time though."

  "But you took a picture with them?"

  "Sure. Justin asked for it. Wanted one of his favorite gal and his new best friend."

  "So you two are close?" Miranda was skeptical. Alice looked to be a good ten years older than her brother.

  "Sure. When he comes around, he stops by. We spend the weekend drinking and fucking. He heads out again. No strings, no drama."

  That came as a surprise, and Miranda's face must have registered it.

  Alice laughed. "Sometimes all a girl wants is a good screw. Justin is sweet, and he's got stamina. Doesn't make demands or try to hit me. I ain't seen him in a while, though. Kind of miffed, to be honest. We were supposed to hook up a couple weeks ago, but he never called or showed. But that's the way it goes sometimes."

  "Did you ever hook up with Damon?"

  "I don't do that on the first date. But, he ain't bad looking. If you know Justin, you might want to let him know I'm thinking about branching out."

  Miranda breathed in the night air and looked at the sky. The lights of the bar obscured any starlight, and the air smelled like exhaust. She wanted to leave this dive, but she still needed more information. "That night that the picture was taken. Did you guys talk at all? Did Damon say where he was from, if he worked here, anything like that?"

  "Yeah, sure. Damon said he worked for Henry Beaumont at the Guns and Gear store. He also had signed up for classes, but he didn't thin
k he was going to go to any of them. He said he just needed the dorm room to stay in, until he found something more permanent. I thought that was kind of nutty. He could have stayed with Justin or somebody, I'm sure. Maybe his parents were making him go. Don't know."

  "And you didn't see him again after that?"

  "Nope. He left right after that picture was taken. Justin and I had a few more beers and then went back to my place. It was a good night." She winked, and Miranda tried to push that image out of her mind. "So what'd this kid do?"

  "Damon? I don't know yet. But I'd like to talk to him if I can find him. Justin Leider's body was found earlier this week. It'd be nice to know what happened to him."

  Chapter 4

  Sam Connor knocked on Chief Wainwright’s door. The older man looked up from his desk and shook his head. “Forget something this morning, Detective?”

  The itch on his face reminded Sam he still needed to duck into the men’s room for a quick shave. “Sorry boss. Late night at some neighbors’.”

  “Partying on a work night?”

  “I wish. Barry and Loretta were at it again. I had to go over and calm things down. Barry didn’t want me to leave in case Loretta got started again, and Loretta didn’t want to go sleep it off because she though Barry would ‘get her’ while her guard was down.”

  “Jesus. Sounds like you need to move. So, what can I do for you?”

  “Is Miranda in yet?”

  “Said she might be in a little bit later today. I told her not to worry, but she’s pretty stubborn. Why?”

  “I think I might have found out why her brother killed himself.”

  Wainwright’s brows furrowed and he stiffened in his chair. “I thought that was the Sheriff’s case.”

  “Yeah, well, they didn’t seem to be doing a whole lot with it, so I thought I’d ask a few questions myself. Help Miranda out. Instead...” He walked over to Wainwright’s desk and handed the Chief a sheet of paper. “Have a look at this.”

  Wainwright studied the drawing for several minutes. He set it on his desk and looked up at Sam. “Have a seat and talk to me.”

  Sam lowered himself into a chair. “That came from the West Virginia State Police. Seems there was an arson case a few weeks back. Killed two people. This John Doe was seen fleeing the scene.”

  “Pretty rough sketch.”

  “Yeah, but the description matches Miranda’s brother. She said before he always hung around with the wrong people. Maybe this time he got in too deep.”

  Wainwright blew out a heavy breath and rubbed his chin. “You talk to her yet?”

  Sam shook his head. “That’s why I wanted to know if she was here. See if she has any idea about this.”

  Wainwright looked at his watch. “Don’t you have an assembly to be at in a few minutes?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess, but don’t you think this is a little more important?”

  “Sam, we promised the high school to send someone over. You’re the best I’ve got. Besides, everyone else is out on patrol. Do the assembly, keep the citizens happy. Half this job is about PR. When Miranda comes in, I’ll sit down and have a chat with her.”

  “But Chief-”

  Wainwright held up his hand. “Her brother may have been dirty, but Miranda’s one of the good guys. This is gonna be pretty hard to stomach. Let’s go easy on her, okay?”

  Sam hesitated and then nodded. “Okay.”

  “Thanks for doing this Sam. And for letting me know about Justin Leider. I’ll make sure to contact West Virginia and let them know we’ve probably got their man. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to us or the Sheriff. Is there anything else?”

  Sam shook his head and took the cue to leave. “No sir. Thanks for your help.” Wainwright waved and went back to his papers. As he left the station, Sam had the distinct feeling that he’d just been railroaded. Now why would the Chief do that?

  #

  While Henry Beaumont appreciated the tax-free business, a call from the Sparta Militia always made him sweat. Beaumont was too old and overweight to be running around in the woods, training for the revolution, but he supported the unit behind the scenes. Procuring weapons and ammunition was his specialty, helped by the fact that he owned the local Guns ‘N Gear store. Anything Beaumont couldn’t get clean from other dealers, he managed to scrounge up with his contacts in the National Guard.

  He rubbed his neck and turned to the new kid he had recently hired. Damon Shearer didn’t seem to have any kind of past, but he came with the Chief’s blessing, so that was good enough for Beaumont. This wasn’t the first time he had helped house or employ new members of the militia. As long as no one discussed the topic or asked too many questions, there wasn’t anything to worry about. But he knew that new recruits usually meant new business, so he wasn’t surprised when the telephone call came in on his private number.

  “Damon, can you keep an eye on the store? I gotta take this call, and it could be a while.”

  “No problem, Mr. B.” Damon patted the .357 riding at his waist. “We’ll be fine.”

  Beaumont turned and went into the storeroom behind the shop, leaving the door cracked just an inch.

  #

  “I need some heavy weapons, Henry, clean ones.”

  Beaumont twirled a pen through his fingers and clicked the top rapidly. “Well, I can probably get you a Minimi, maybe a couple of M203’s.”

  “Skip the grenade launchers. They’re more likely to be missed.”

  “You sure? I know a couple of guys with legal ones. There’s even a Vet who brought back a LAW from ‘Nam. Says he still has six rockets.”

  “The Minimi should be fine. What kind of sniper rifles do you have?”

  “You name it, I can get it. The best are mostly available on the civilian market anyway. I’d recommend an HK. You can still find 93’s pretty reasonably. You wanna go for the PSG, I can do that, but it’ll cost the same as a new truck.”

  “Money’s not a problem. Go for the PSG. I like those Heckler and Koch rifles.”

  “You need anything lighter? I got a couple of MP5’s I can make disappear.”

  “Yeah, two or three should be fine. And Henry, make sure all of the weapons can disappear.”

  “No sweat,” Beaumont said, wiping his brow.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Alright, I’ll get on it. Let you know in two or three days where we’re at. How do I get them to you?”

  “I’ll send someone over after you’ve got everything together.”

  That was how it usually went. The militia always contacted Beaumont with little or no notice. Supposedly it was safer that way, although he couldn’t fathom why they always used the phone to place an order. “Anything else you need?”

  “That should do for now. Keep me posted.”

  “I will. And hey, don’t get killed by whoever you’re gonna use these on.”

  #

  Finding the owner of Justin’s apartment took Miranda less than five minutes. She checked in at the station, explaining that she wanted to keep busy until the body was released for burial. At lunchtime, she walked a block over to the county courthouse and went into the auditor’s office. A few keystrokes on one of the public terminals gave her the name and address she needed. Miranda smiled at the clerks and left the building.

  It was almost five in the evening when Miranda pulled her car in front of Sparta Guns ‘N Gear. Henry Beaumont and his store were well known to the local law enforcement community. He was one of the major suppliers of equipment for officers in the area. Miranda was surprised that her brother never mentioned Beaumont as the owner of his apartment. She wasn’t sure what information the dealer might have, but at the very least he might be able to tell her if anyone had been asking around about Justin.

  A three-tone alarm sounded when Miranda opened the front door. She walked in and looked to the back of the store. Two men stood behind the counter and looked as though her arrival had interrupted a conversation. She recognized
Henry Beaumont immediately. Then the younger man turned around, and she recognized him from the picture taken at Rusty’s. She watched his eyes. They widened a bit, which she found curious. Miranda checked her blazer and blouse to make sure she wasn’t displaying any more cleavage than necessary, or that there weren’t any terrible stains marring her image. Satisfied, she looked back up at the men. Beaumont smiled; the other averted his gaze.

  “Can I help you, miss?” Beaumont said.

  She didn’t frequent the store very often, but she was surprised he didn’t recognize her. Maybe that’s for the best. “Just browsing right now,” she said.

  A telephone rang from the back of the store. “’S’cuse me, I gotta take this. If there’s anything you need, Damon here will be happy to help.”

  Miranda watched Beaumont disappear into the back room. She adjusted the purse on her shoulder, and in the process patted the comforting bulk of her service pistol through the blazer. She walked up to the display counter and leaned against it, inspecting the contents below the glass. Bulletproof, she thought. Her hand remained on the strap of her purse.

  “Lookin’ for anything special?” The voice had a distinct drawl. Damon was either local or from West Virginia.

  “Not really,” Miranda said. She studied Damon more closely. He was lanky and tall, with dark hair pulled into a short ponytail. An insincere smile revealed teeth stained yellow from nicotine or chewing tobacco. He had large hands, one of which rested lazily next to a large revolver on his right hip. Miranda thought it looked like a .357. If she needed to take cover, the counter wouldn’t last very long. She studied the boxes of ammunition lining the wall behind Damon. “Got any specials on forties?”