A Killing Night

by Jonathon King

  CHAPTER 26

  When she called him, he didn’t know for sure whether she’d learned her lesson, or she was fucking with him somehow. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t feel right. Maybe he should have just done her when he had the chance and moved on.

  “Hi, Kyle. Hey, I’m at work, baby, and you know that big tall guy who came in the other day with the blonde cop? He was back in here today, asking me questions and it scared me, you know, what you said, about you getting into trouble by hanging out here?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Marci,” he’d said, trying to calm her, though there was something in her voice that sounded more like she was acting spooked instead of being afraid. And he knew her well enough now to know she didn’t scare easily. Hell, she wasn’t even scared the other night. She might have been pissed. She might have even known that if she hadn’t done what he wanted he would have killed her right there like the rest of them. But she didn’t come off scared. He liked that in a woman.

  “OK, listen. What the hell did the guy say?” he asked.

  “He was talking about missing bartenders,” she said. “Girls that had worked at a bunch of places, up on OPB and down off Seventeenth Street and even here that that blonde cop thinks were kidnapped.”

  Kidnapped, he thought. Christ, Marci, you’re such a child.

  “Yeah, well, those are a bunch of rumors, Marci. They’re like urban legends that assholes like to sit around at the bar and yak about like it’s all intriguing when it isn’t anything more than girls walking away from their job, gone down to Key West or someplace. Don’t tell me you never wanted to just walk away and get the hell out of there?”

  That fucking Richards, he thought. Still pushing that shit and now she’s got some goddamn P.I. into it because nobody in real law enforcement will believe her.

  “But this guy says that he found some kind of evidence. Some kind of body part or blood or something that’s going to prove who did it and all they had to do was find out when certain people were in the bar when Suzy disappeared,” she’d said.

  “Body parts? That’s what he said? Body parts?”

  Christ, he thought, don’t lose it. Just get it out of her.

  “He said a bunch of stuff but I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, Kyle, you know. Can’t you come over? I’m scared.”

  And this time when she said it, she did sound scared and he didn’t want to hear the rest of it over the phone, anyway, he wanted to look into her eyes and hear it.

  “I’ll be over in an hour,” he told her. “Just be calm, baby. I’m coming over.” These goddamn women can get so emotional.

  On the drive over there he’d let his own head start cranking. Body parts. That’s bullshit. There’s no way Richards or some P.I. went out in the middle of the goddamn Glades and found body parts. Shit, the gators out there would have taken care of that long ago. Sure, somebody might have found a corpse or part of one out there. Fucking mopes were dumping dopers or bad business partners out there all the time. Shit, that asshole who beat up his old lady and killed his own kid went and dumped the body in one of the canals at a boat ramp out there just last summer and a fisherman came up with part of the body. But that was stupid, in close, where people hang out.

  So they might have found something, but why come and ask Marci about it? Marci didn’t know shit unless they were trying to manufacture a case and were going to use her to set somebody up just to clear the case. That would be so typical of the detective bureau, use some poor innocent girl to make a case for them.

  He’d parked at the shopping center on the other side and then walked over to Kim’s. Don’t be in such a hurry, he told himself. You draw attention to yourself. Why the hell did you bring the squad, anyway? That wasn’t too bright, somebody sees you coming into the place in broad daylight. Jesus, Kyle. What happened to careful?

  Inside there was that group of magazine smart-asses at one end of the bar and the Schnapps guy in the middle. He went to the end and then around the corner, under the TV, instead of in his usual spot. Marci waited a minute or so before she came down and pulled a beer out of the cooler for him on her way.

  There was something very tense about her. Maybe this guy really had shaken her up.

  “OK, Marci. Tell me about it again, the whole thing, babe. Right from the point that the guy walks in here, OK? Nothing left out.”

  She pretty much repeated herself and he let her until she got to the mention of the so-called body parts and hesitated.

  “Slow down now, Marci,” he said. “You’re sure he said ‘body parts’?”

  “Well, I uh, it was something that he said was DNA evidence. He might not have said ‘body parts’ exactly but where the hell else do you get DNA for Christ’s sake?”

  Jesus, he thought.

  “Baby, it could be anything, hair from a comb, a goddamn toothbrush, a fucking Band-Aid tossed in the trash,” he told her. “Did he say where he found it?”

  “No. Just that he had it and they were trying to get some kind of verification.”

  “Did they ask you for any kind of sample? Blood or a swab of the inside of your mouth?”

  “No. Why would they want something from me?”

  That flash of tenseness was back in her eyes, he could see it in there, her fighting it.

  “Exactly,” he said to her. “He’s fishing for stuff, baby. He’s probably done this to every goddamn girl in town who serves drinks.”

  He took a pull on his beer, didn’t like the taste and put it down. He tried to make himself relax, get her to match him. She excused herself and went down to the other end and made up some pansy- ass Shirley Temples or whatever the hell it was the alternative boys were drinking.

  He tried to get a picture of the big, lanky guy who’d walked in that night before Richards. He’d sat at the other end and acted like he was friendly with Laurie. Tanned guy, he remembered. Not an office man. He looked more like a boat captain or construction foreman. All he’d noted was that the guy was drinking his brand of beer and then that bitch had come in and he had to bolt.

  Marci came back down to him, exhaled, was more relaxed.

  “No big deal, baby,” he said. “Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll find out from the inside what the rumor is and let you know, OK?”

  She nodded her head.

  “This guy didn’t say anything about me, did he? I mean, he didn’t ask if any other cops had been in here or drank regular here?”

  “No,” she said. “But I wouldn’t have told him anyway.”

  “Atta girl,” he said and she had an odd look on her face when he said it, one that held some kind of inside smile, like she’d accomplished something. He ignored it, thanked her in his customer voice and walked out into the late sunlight and back to his patrol car.

  He was running a plan through his head while he sat at the first traffic light on Sunrise. Should he ignore the whole damn thing? If they had anything to connect him to the dead girls, wouldn’t they be on his ass already? They’d have called him into his sergeant’s office for a little face time to at least warn him that the Richards bitch was coming down on him.

  But what if this P.I. was teamed up with Richards and they were trying to show she was right and prove everyone else wrong? Then why come to Marci? Showing up twice meant they didn’t get enough from Laurie to keep them away, and that wasn’t good. When the light changed he went west on Sunrise and pulled his visor down to block the glaring sun.

  The P.I. said “DNA evidence”—he kept tumbling Marci’s words in his head. Of course she didn’t get the conversation exact. Body parts. DNA evidence. What the fuck did the guy have, if anything? Shit. He’d just ended it with Suzy. Her body would still be pretty fresh, even if the gators did get to it. He ought to just go out to the spot now, see if there was any sign that anyone had been out there. Answer the goddamn question so he’d at least know what he was dealing with. It’d be better than most of the mopes that he arrested who just sat there waiting for shi
t to come through the door and then it was too late, then you were already playing their game.

  He was watching half a block ahead like he usually did and saw the traffic starting to jam up on the left and he knew some dipshit was trying to make a left against the light like they always did and he slid over to the right lane. He would have gotten snared up, too, but he used his lights and a couple of hits on the siren and skirted by the on the right.

  “Fucking lemmings,” he said aloud and then looked up into his rearview to watch the mess and registered in his head the midnight blue pickup truck that had just run a red light half a block back. He kept driving. Maybe he ought to wait. But shit, he’d be back on shift tomorrow and that would only give him the daylight hours to get out to the Glades site and back in time, and he was even more wary about doing anything in the daylight. Only bad shit happened in the light, he thought. Right now he could stop out there and check for fresh tire tracks or signs of disturbance with a flashlight and be a hell of a lot less conspicuous.

  He went through the intersection at Ninth Avenue and glanced at the old bagman starting across the street. Christ, I just busted that guy for carrying dope two weeks ago and he’s already back on the street, he thought and looked back to see for sure if it was the same guy pushing the same old grocery cart. That’s when he saw it again, the blue pickup, charging through the intersection, but then easing back. Following.

  At the next light he made a hard right and watched his mirror. He saw the pickup hesitate and then make the same turn.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said and slowed down, watching his mirrors, trying to see the single driver, his image behind the windshield high up over the one car between them. A minute later he snatched up his radio.

  “Two-fourteen. Two-eighteen. This is two-oh-four in need of assistance. Switch over to tack channel three,” he said into the microphone.

  CHAPTER 27

  I sat with both hands on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock. I didn’t know what Morrison might have called in, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Make no quick moves and keep your hands in full view. I watched the three cops in front of me huddle at Morrison’s trunk, talking and cutting their eyes to me. It was Morrison’s meeting and I watched him, trying to match him up with the figure I’d seen briefly at the bar. He hooked his thumbs into his polished leather belt, turned his face to me a couple of times for emphasis. It was the same face as in the photo. They talked for a full two minutes and I did not move my hands, not even to turn off the engine.

  Finally, the two other officers nodded and started toward me, one moving to the left, the other to the right of my truck. Morrison leaned back against his trunk and crossed his arms and stared into my face. His eyes felt much closer than they physically were.

  “License and registration, please,” said the cop who came to my open window.

  “What, uh, seems to be the problem, officer?” I said, truly interested in what they were going to come up with.

  “License and registration, please,” he repeated.

  The other cop was at the passenger window, looking into the seat and on the floor and checking what he could see in the bed of the truck.

  “May I go into the glove box?” I asked before leaning over to turn the knob.

  “Sure,” said the cop. “Turn off the ignition first, please.”

  I shut down the engine and then reached in and got my registration and insurance card. I asked if I could get my wallet from my back pocket. Again he agreed, but I noticed that he had flipped off the strap on his 9mm holster and was resting the web between his thumb and forefinger on the butt of the gun.

  I handed him the documentation and he said: “I’ll be right with you, sir.”

  He was a younger man, sandy blonde hair and skin that was too fair for the semitropics. He was wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hips and the short sleeves of his shirt were too tight to fit comfortably around his biceps. He nodded at the other one over the hood and then walked my paperwork back to Morrison.

  We were a good forty feet apart and maybe I could feel his sneer more than actually see it. Morrison was cupping his elbows now, looking nonchalant, but there was something misshapen about his mouth that gave the effect that his whole head was tilted. He took the documents from the other one’s hands and stared down at them. I got the sense that he could memorize the pertinent facts and did not write them down. In fact I doubted that he wrote anything down with the exception of work-related reports that were mandatory. He was a man whose secrets would all be filed inside his head.

  After another minute, the two men nodded in affirmation and as muscle boy walked back toward me, Morrison turned and got back into his squad car.

  I watched him do a three point turn as the younger cop approached my window and said: “Mr. Freeman, step out of the car, please. We are going to have to conduct a roadside sobriety test, sir.”

  As he drove out and past me, Morrison did not meet my eye. He stared straight ahead and did not acknowledge me at all, as though I were something not worth his time or effort. He was leaving my detention to other, less important persons while he attended to something more pressing. He knew who I was now. But for the next twenty minutes, while I went through a small humiliation, I would shed an entire layer of doubt about his involvement in something ugly. And that, I promised, would not be a good thing for Kyle Morrison.

  If they had tested me a few hours later at Billy’s penthouse apartment, the cops might have actually been able to hold me. I was working on my third beer and it had been no struggle at all. Billy was sipping from his crystal wineglass and his fiancée was out for the evening, “clearing her head.”

  On the drive back north I’d called O’Shea and told him that our tail had called in his backup to make a bogus DUI stop and then split, ending any further chance of surveillance. He would be watching now, and he was no slouch when it came to paying attention. I had figured he’d be too caught up in Marci’s story to notice what was happening around him and I had been wrong. I wouldn’t underestimate him again.

  “Sorry I had to leave you like that, Freeman. But you know my circumstances. Brushing up against rogue cops isn’t what I need right now,” O’Shea said. “So I figured if I got dealt out of the cop chase, I’d make myself useful and go back and set up on the girl.”

  It was the smart thing to do. O’Shea had to be given credit, but even when I did it it felt like begrudging credit.

  “You’re smarter than you look, O’Shea. Are you good to stay on her when she leaves?”

  “Fuck you, Freeman. And yeah, I’ll hang with her. If you want, I’ll tail her to her apartment and babysit all night.”

  Maybe he was just being a smart-ass, but I quickly agreed and told him I’d get back with him later. But before he could disconnect, I asked him one last question.

  “You know what this is, don’t you, Colin?”

  “I’m not stupid, Freeman. You’re figuring this cop for the abductions and ponytail is his next victim.”

  “No, you’re not stupid,” I said. “You’re deductive.”

  “I’m not deductive,” he answered. “I’m experienced, Freeman. I’ve seen this before, remember. But even if you’re as wrong on this guy as they were on me up in Philly, I’m still willing to help you find out this way instead of sticking the guy’s face into the official IAD toilet where innocence don’t mean jack.”

  This time he was quicker on the button and the connection went dead. I might not like his attitude, but O’Shea was right. We were both hanging it out there. But I also took some peace knowing he was looking over Marci’s back. He would call me if Morrison showed up. And I’d spell him in the morning.

  When I called Billy it was late but he invited me over and I launched into the story of my botched plan to follow the cop on the long shot that he might lead us to something worth more than speculation. When I got to the part about the DUI trap he winced. We were on the patio with the black, colorless ocean out in front
of us. He listened intently, like he always did, before offering a question or opinion.

  “So you d-don’t think they were in on anything t-together, this Marci girl and M-Morrison?”

  “She doesn’t strike me as a user,” I said, shaking my head. “Or someone who’d get into the drug thing. She comes across too smart and too proud. When he raped her, he made one hell of an enemy.”

  “But you said she was s-scared of Morrison.”

  “Scared and pissed at the same time. She said she wouldn’t press charges, that she knew she’d lose because he was a cop and she hadn’t struggled enough.”

  We were quiet at the thought, looking out into a sea we could only hear and smell. The wind rustled the palm fronds and a crinkle of laughter from some balcony below found its way on the breeze up to us.

  “W-What’s your next move?” Billy finally said.

  “Don’t know.”

  He waited a moment.

  “Liar,” he said.

  “OK. I’ll have to talk to her again. Try to get something out of her we can use. Some detail she doesn’t know she has that can trap this guy.

  “It will be difficult. M-Maybe someone else should be the interviewer?”

  “Richards?”

  “It would m-make sense. Woman to woman.”

  I sipped at the beer, thought about the possibilities.

  “Sherry is going to l-listen to a woman in pain, M-Max. No matter what.”

  I brought the bottle down.

  “I’ll call her tomorrow,” I said.

  “You can do it from here,” Billy said and I could tell by his tone that he was leading me. I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “S-Stay here in the guest room tonight,” he said.

  “No thanks. You know? You guys deserve some guest-free living.”