Lemons 01 Darkness Once More

by Grant Fieldgrove

  Not sure where the term Private Dick came from?

  Cinemax maybe?

  I don’t know.

  Yeah. I’m bored.

  After a while, Elise came back in to remind me that I have successfully been in bed the entire day, and that dinner was almost ready.

  “Yeah, I haven’t even peed today. How is that even possible?” I asked her.

  “I’m surprised that Rockstar didn’t cut through you like a shark’s fin through water.”

  “Right? I need to get up anyway before they amputate my legs like in that terrible Clint Eastwood movie.”

  “Really. How did that beat The Aviator and Sideways at the Oscars that year?”

  “The world may never know.”

  “Well come on, Roger Ebert, dinner will be ready in five.”

  15.

  Anderson had called me again while we were eating but I didn’t answer it. I wanted to enjoy the meal with my family with no interruptions about work. Elise had made spaghetti with vodka sauce and garlic bread. I had never even heard of vodka sauce before tonight; I even asked if the kids should be eating it. Sometimes I’m pretty clueless. I thought my lack of knowledge was limited to what the kids were listening to these days, but apparently it extends all the way to grocery products. Anyway, this vodka sauce stuff is amazing! I highly recommend it.

  After we ate and polished off the rest of the cookies, I promised the kids I would watch TV with them for a while, but I had to make a quick call first. Elise said she would get them ready for bed while I made my call and we could meet in the family room afterwards.

  I returned to my room and called Anderson back, which is just what his message told me to do and nothing more. He answered with a Hello.

  “Hey Detective, it’s me. Sorry about earlier, I was eating dinner, didn’t have my phone on me.” A lie.

  “No problem.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “I managed to get a couple hours before I was woken up. Got some more news for ya.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Okay, so the cab, right, we got the warrant to search it and everything because we want to do this by the book, and if we end up finding something in there and nailing this rat bastard I don’t want some piece of shit defense attorney to find a loophole and have the case tossed.”

  I decided it was best to keep the fact that I often did work for a defense attorney here in town to myself. He continued, “So first off, we run the plates. Shit comes back to us registered to some woman who doesn’t even live in town. Her and her family spent one night here at a hotel and didn’t even notice the license plate was missing on the front of her car until she gets a phone call from us.”

  “So this guy is driving around in a cab with a stolen license plate? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It gets better. We contact the cab company that is listed on the registration and they tell us that this cab was stolen months ago. We pull the report and sure enough, they filed a stolen vehicle on November third of last year. Susan Moore, that’s the woman the plates were registered to, she tells us she stayed one night in our fair city while passing through to head up to San Francisco to visit family, with her husband and her daughter. I ask her the date and she tells me it would have been the first week of November. So, there, the timeline makes sense. Some asshole steals the cab then steals a license plate from a traveler who probably wouldn’t even miss it. Probably just grabbed the first California plate he could found at the hotel.”

  “But why? This still makes no sense.”

  “Not sure why, but I’m told that the CB in the cab still works and it’s still set to the same frequency the cab company uses, and the meter still works. I’m kinda thinkin’ that maybe this asshole intercepts random cab calls and gets there first and just pockets the money. He can also pick up random people on the street and start the meter, collect the cash, and no one is the wiser to it.”

  “I guess that makes sense, but still, what about the blood?”

  “Well, something obviously went wrong somewhere along the line. I’m just giving you the facts about what we know so far with the cab.”

  This all fits in with everything I knew about the cab so far. Monica Fick calls for a cab, this guy intercepts the call and happens to pick her up and collect her money. Maybe he even offered to wait for her for free while she went in and met with me. This would make sense, seeing as he would get another fare to go back and wouldn’t be losing any money and wouldn’t have to fight for another call. I liked that. It also fits with why he picked up Mallory Fick. He could have offered her a ride somewhere for free and again not been out any money since he would just be driving around anyway. But did something go wrong with Mallory? Did he attack her? It’s not impossible, she was a young and very attractive woman and he was a low-life car thief at the time. Seems reasonable. I just hoped I was wrong. The only thing I couldn’t figure out was why I kept bumping in to him.

  “Hold on, Detective, let me ask you this. Where was Susan Moore’s car parked when you think this guy stole her plates?”

  “The only place the car was stopped during their entire visit through here. The parking garage of the Mon Signor Hotel.”

  The pieces to my puzzle were starting to snap together.

  While sitting in the living room waiting for the kids to pick out a movie, I kept going over all the facts I had just learned and trying to piece them together in chronological order. I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the case when Elliot finally decided to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Part 2. My night of work was as good as over as learning the secret of the ooze was all that was important to me now.

  After the movie, Elise told the kids it was way past their bedtimes and they needed to brush their teeth and head straight for their rooms. There was a minor argument about which room Wrecker would be sleeping in tonight but I ended it quickly when I said I wanted him to keep me company tonight. Off to their rooms they went.

  Elise offered me something to drink, which I declined, and then told me it was past her bedtime, too. 5am would be coming mighty soon, I suppose. She told me that she would be trying to look for a job again tomorrow, but it was hard because she always had Eric with her, and without a job to pay for it, day-care was an absolute last resort. Her savings account was dwindling at a rapid pace. I told her I would always be there to watch the kids when she needed me and I’d keep a look out for places hiring. She gave me a smile and told me thanks. I said goodnight to her and watched her walk off to her own room as I struggled to raise my beaten body off the sofa. She quickly popped her head back in the room and said, “Hey, the keys you gave Detective What’s-His-Name are on the counter in there. Make you sure you put them back on your key ring before they get lost.”

  “Thanks. Wait. What’d you say?”

  “Um, I put your keys on the…”

  I cut her off, “Never mind. I’m tired. Thanks Elise. Sleep well”

  A piece clicked into place. I now knew why there was no forced entry into Amanda Colley’s house.

  I made it to my bed and decided to try to get some sleep. I was going to do a little surveillance work tomorrow, bruised ribs or not.

  16.

  I woke up when I heard the door close as Elise and Eric took Elliot to school. As quickly as I could, I rolled out of bed and made my way towards the bathroom. I had a lot of work today. I noticed sitting on my dresser were my freshly clean and folded clothes and my wallet, along with a note from Elise telling me to have a good day and that her and Eric had a few errands to run this morning. I took this alone-time opportunity to hack into her laptop and pay her mortgage payment for her from my checking account. I’m nice like that. I then went to an online shop I frequented often and ordered her two new TVs. Again, I’m such a nice guy. And I’m not poor so I certainly don’t want to watch TV like I am. That’ll be a little surprise for her in a few days.

  I started the shower right after I shut the computer down because I
absolutely cannot change clothes without showering in between. It just doesn’t feel right. The water heated up and I got in and did a quick wash then was right back out drying off and getting dressed within three minutes. Hurt like hell.

  I grabbed my phone off the charger, but decided to leave my laptop behind. I would have to go to the office anyway so I could just pick up my iPad which I could use the internet with outside of Wi-Fi range, anyway. I grabbed my wallet and both sets of keys and was out the door and into my car.

  I pulled up to my office about twenty minutes later and gave a quick looky-loo at my surroundings, even though I had no idea what I would be looking for, especially since the cab was in the impound lot. I didn’t notice anything suspicious so I got out of my car, which was nearly as painful as getting in my car, and headed towards the lobby of my office building.

  There were a few people around, including the receptionist downstairs who said hello to me and asked what the hell had happened. I told her I was in a car accident then said I would tell her the rest later. I made my way over to the hallway where the elevator was located and gave it a long stare, contemplating it. Was it worth the risk, or should I play it safe and take the stairs even though it would hurt like hell. I closed my eyes and hit the UP button. The doors opened immediately and I quickly stepped on and hit the CLOSE DOORS button repeatedly. Whew. I clenched my eyes shut.

  I arrived on the second floor and to my office in a few seconds and very quietly fit the key into the lock and opened the door. I don’t know why I was being so careful, but sometimes my paranoia just completely overtakes me. This was one of those moments.

  I stepped into my empty office and quickly gathered up some items including my iPad, a car charger for my phone, which for some reason I didn’t just keep in my car, the files for both my current cases and all the Sugar-Free Rockstars from my mini-fridge. I looked around for Monica Fick’s card but couldn’t find it anywhere. No bother, the ball was in her court now; she had to call me back.

  I was in and out and back to my car within ten minutes and soon on my way to the Mon Signor Hotel, where I would park my car down the street and set up shop. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find there, but I figured I would know it when I saw it. The pieces to the puzzle connected so-far fit into a perfect picture of the hotel. I arrived and waited.

  I took my phone out and called Detective Anderson’s number. He told me he was in his office going over all the fingerprints pulled from the cab. He said it was going to take a while because there were a lot of different prints left behind and even several on the steering wheel, most of which were smudged to shit. He assured me they’d get it, though.

  He went on, “I’ve been working on that kid from the field. We got the ID back from his dental records not too long ago. Kids name was Wayne Brandon. Or Brandon Wayne. I forget which one it was. Fucking hate when people have first names as last names.” I heard some papers rustle around and Anderson’s voice came back on the line, “Yeah, Wayne Brandon. So far, all we have is that he was a student at the University here. We’ll check it out this afternoon, go over there and see what we can find out.”

  My mind was clicking puzzle pieces around and I told Anderson to hold on for a minute while I worked on something. I had something but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I couldn’t let myself get frustrated over this. Not right now. What was my brain trying to tell me? My skin started to crawl and I could see myself having an attack if my brain wouldn’t click together soon.

  Suddenly, a calming came over me and the pieces snapped. “Hey Detective, I have a really long shot. You said the body was found on Saturday morning, right, and a couple of miles away from where I was hit?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “And the body was torched…”

  “Yeahhh…”

  “Remember when you said the cab driver smelled like BBQ?”

  There was silence on Anderson’s end. He was thinking things over.

  I went on, “Well, when I was searching his trunk I saw a plastic squeeze bottle of charcoal lighter fluid. Obviously, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it should still be there. You say he smells like BBQ, he has a blood soaked car and a bottle of lighter fluid…”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Get this Brandon kids blood type somehow and I’ll bet it matches the blood type in the cab.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll find his medical records”

  “Do me another favor. Try to get me a list of all the missing persons reports filed since November first. I have a bad feeling about this. Or a good feeling. Depends how you look at it.”

  “I’ll get someone on the list ASAP and relay it to you when they finish. Meanwhile, looks like my partner and I have some work to do.”

  17.

  I sat in my office on wheels for what seemed like hours. I checked the clock on my phone. It had been sixteen minutes. I don’t even know what I’m doing here or what I plan on finding. I’m just going on a gut instinct, I suppose. To kill the time I click on my iPad and do a quick Google search of Wayne Brandon. A lot of random stuff showing up for WAYNE or BRANDON so I decide to log into my Facebook account and search there. What college student didn’t have a Facebook, right?

  Sure enough, the first person to pop up on my list was my guy. It said his hometown was Stockton, California, but he attended the Cal State College here in town. It had to be him.

  I clicked through all his pictures and almost always saw a young man with friends, always smiling and appearing to have a good time. One or two pictures were of random things or of girls or whatever, but for the most part, they all featured him doing various college-aged activities. I checked his Wall for recent posts and was intrigued by the one on the very top from an Alan Simpkins. It read, “What the fuck man did you seriously drpo out? text meee!!!”

  Facebook: Where grammar and common sense go to die.

  Not sure what “DRPO” means, but I was able to piece together that, apparently, our Mr. Wayne Brandon had dropped out of college. I decided the Mon Signor could wait; I needed to go pay a visit to Alan Simpkins.

  I arrived at the Cal State campus in less than ten minutes. It was located near where I had my encounter with the Dodge. The morning traffic was light and should stay that way until lunchtime. I drove around the school a few times trying to locate the main office where I could start asking questions. After my third lap, I gave up and just parked my car in the lot. I would have to actually ask for directions.

  The first person I passed was a young Asian girl who looked nice enough. I decided I’d ask her. She was very helpful and pointed me in the right direction. She told me she had no idea what the Deans name was though. Oh, college.

  It was a nice campus but I didn’t really take the time to look around. I had attended the local junior college for a few years but quickly looked for other routes my life could take because I realized rather quickly that I hated school. My grades were always good enough to go to a UC straight out of high school, but I just didn’t want to. I didn’t think I could handle it. Too crowded and too hectic. I needed to be close to home so my dad could calm me down if I had an attack. This was back when I was having them quite often; even with all the medication I was taking. I gave the medicine up shortly after I gave school up and have been working on my interacting skills ever since, drug free. I’ve come a long way.

  I finally made my way to the main office and when I walked in, I was ignored by the women sitting behind the counter. I stood there and tried to wait them out.

  Well that didn’t work. Frustration and anger was turning my face bright red, I could just feel it.

  “Helloooooooooo! I’m standing right here! Seriously, anyone?!”

  One of the women looked up with expressionless eyes, “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “Wow, hey thanks, I do exist! Fantastic. I feel all warm inside now.”

  “What do you want, sir?”

  “Oh, I’m sir now. I’m movin’ on up to t
he east side now. Look at me, gonna get me a dry cleanin’ business!”

  Her expressionless eyes now showed pure hatred as she stared a hole through me. “I’m pretty sure I asked you what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, who runs this shithole?”

  After being escorted out, I decided to try the dorms, see if anyone recognized the names Wayne Brandon or Alan Simpkins. It must have been my lucky day because the very first men’s dorms I entered, a young woman at the front desk was able to look their names up on a computer and inform me that my two guys were roommates in that very building. I told the young woman who helped me that she should be promoted to the front office and was on my way to the stairwell, room number in-hand. The elevators were way too crowded here. I would have to man-up and walk it.

  After the most painful stair climb EVER, I finally hobbled out onto the fourth floor and gimped my way to dorm 408. I listened at the door for a few seconds, but heard nothing. I knocked anyway. I heard someone from inside telling me to hold on. I complied.

  A young man in his late teens answered the door. He was wearing sweatpants and a wife-beater shirt. I recognized him from many pictures on Facebook. “Yeah?”