Death Mark (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 2)

by Nick Thacker

  “I don’t anything about that —“

  “Or any other coin you might have seen.”

  “I’ve seen lots of coins. This is a bar, you know that, right?”

  He sighed. “Look, man. I’ve got a family. I’ve got friends, believe it or not. And a life. I don’t want to be here any more than you do, but I was told by a… coworker you were the guy to talk to about this thing.”

  I frowned. “What coworker?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Of course you can’t,” I answered. “What can you tell me?”

  “This was found on some dead guy, three days ago.”

  “Three days ago the dead guy became dead, or three days ago you found it on a guy who was already dead.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “Does it?”

  “He was on his way to a strip club in Charleston.”

  “Okay, so he was hoping to score with the ladies.”

  “It was a gay strip club. For men.”

  “So he was hoping to score with the guys.” I was growing impatient, and I knew he was, too. “Look, pal — you got a name, or should I just keep calling you pal?”

  “Jeff.”

  “Right, Jeff. Look, Jeff, I’ve got a business to run, and I, too, have a life. Tell me who your friend is, or tell me why they think I should know what this stupid little coin is in my bar.”

  “They think it’s a copy.”

  “A copy… of what?”

  “A copy of your coin.”

  I turned and frowned at the man. Who the hell is this guy? Jeff. Jeff who? Why is he here?

  “I don’t have any coins like that.”

  He sighed, again. It was like a sighing match, and I wasn’t sure who was winning.

  “I was told you had a little… operation. Something like this, months back.”

  “Tell me who told you that.”

  “Can’t do that,” he said. “But they told me your operation was successful. Then you got out, went clean.”

  “Okay, so if I’m out of this ‘operation,’ why would I know about this other coin?”

  “Maybe they’re paying homage to you, you know? Like honoring your legacy by minting another coin, something to track —“

  I held up a hand. “Hold on a second, there. Jeff. I’m not doing this thing you say I used to do, so that means I don’t know about anyone else doing this thing. Maybe you tell me I’m a suspect and I might be more apt to go along with this story.”

  Jeff raised an eyebrow, and I found another bourbon in front of me. I nodded at Joey, who’d snuck it in, then looked again at Jeff.

  “Okay,” Jeff said. “You’re a suspect.”

  I laughed. “Well shit, that was easy. Fine — I’m a suspect. For what? Killing this guy?”

  “Yeah, for that.”

  “Okay, fine. Who’s the guy?”

  He looked at me, no doubt getting ready to track my reaction and make another tiny note about it in his tiny book with his tiny pencil.

  “You Mason Dixon?”

  “One and only.”

  “Okay, Dixon. The man we found dead was identified as your father.”

  4

  MY FATHER — DEAD?

  I RAN through the sentence in my mind once again. The man we found was identified as your father.

  “H — how was he identified?” I asked.

  “Found an ID in his wallet. Also had some neighbors and acquaintances confirm.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Probably too hard to drive all the way down here and just ask me yourself.”

  “Like I said,” Jeff continued. “You’re a suspect. So we needed to watch you, see if you made another move.”

  “And?”

  “So far, the alibi’s strong.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Anyway, you’ve got a wallet — just one you found on your dead guy — and a few neighbors who say it’s him. Sounds like a strong case you’re building there, Jeff.”

  It was Jeff’s turn to glare. “There’s still a dead guy, and it’s still a homicide. With a coin in his pocket that links your past to this guy, who we’re saying is your father.”

  I chewed the inside of my lip for a bit before responding. “Yeah,” I said. “It does sound a lot like I should be your first suspect.”

  “So you’ll come up to the office with me? Answer some questions?”

  “I’m already answering your questions.”

  Jeff looked around. Saw Joey, then turned back to me and lowered his voice. “I mean questions. I want to ask about what exactly you did back in the day, uh —“ he flipped through pages of his tiny notebook and then continued. “Back in the day, about seven months ago.”

  Seven months ago.

  I knew exactly what he was talking about, and I knew exactly who’d told him about me. I shook my head, smiling.

  This is too much.

  Seven months ago was Hannah.

  Seven months ago I saw my father for the last time, walking out from the life we’d built together, for the last time.

  Or so I thought.

  And I knew the guy who’d told Jeff about me.

  “You the only one who knows?”

  “About the dead — your father — or about your past?”

  “My past.”

  Jeff nodded. “Yeah, pretty sure. I haven’t told anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Okay, fine. Good. Keep it that way. Here’s how it’s going to work. Unless you’re arresting me, I need to finish up around here, check in with my bar man. I can head up tomorrow, first thing.”

  He seemed pleased with this, then he wrote down the address and tore it off one of the pages. He slid it over to me and cleared his throat. “First thing — so, 7am?”

  I laughed. “Are you nuts? I run a bar, man. I don’t even hit the sack until 4 am most nights — I’ll be there first thing, my time. 10. 10:30 if it’s a busy night.”

  His nostrils flared a bit, but he knew there wasn’t much else he could do. Unless he wants to arrest me.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” I said. “See you tomorrow, Jeff.”

  5

  I WAS LATE, BUT I sort of already knew I’d be late. I knew I would be late the moment I told Jeff I’d be there around 10am.

  The car ride was uneventful, and I got to Jeff’s office a little after 10:00 in the morning. Actually, a little after 10:20 in the morning. There wasn’t an obvious place to park, as it was downtown Charleston, so I rolled around the block for a few minutes until something opened up. A businessman on his way to an early lunch, I suppose.

  I parked, walked into the building at the address Jeff had given me, and was immediately struck by the plainness of it. Dark gray, marble walls slid straight up, forming the exterior facade of the place, and a single, narrow hallway provided access to a set of stairs that had been recessed into the middle of the building.

  This isn’t a police station, I realized. Or a private detective firm.

  Police stations looked like, well, police stations — they had no reason to mask their true identity. PI firms, on the other hand, loved the subtlety and aesthetic of well-designed, yet well-camouflaged buildings. From the street a simple bookstore, perhaps, or a women’s apparel store, but once inside a great oak or mahogany desk would welcome you in. Possibly even a secretary or admin assistant if the firm was large enough.

  The point was that a PI firm or private detective’s office had to at once alert its possible clientele to the fact that they were in the game, that they understood the nuances and necessities of espionage, yet they had to do it in a way that still wasn’t shady or sketchy. Like a gambling ring for the rich and high rollers, it had to scream ‘we’re worth your money but we’re still a secret’ from the first impression.

  My first impression of this building was: rented space.

  Whoever I was going to meet in here was a vagabond, a nomad. They weren’t here for business, they were here to meet me. To p
lan something, then to move on. They needed a room or three, and they didn’t much care for where it was or what it looked like.

  I walked up the concrete stairs and thought I could smell a faint whiff of urine. This building wasn’t in a bad area of downtown Charleston, but I knew that there weren’t any downtown spots in any cities that were safe from the ‘street folks.’ With such an unassuming and simple appearance, I wouldn’t have been surprised if this was a common overnight setup for the homeless.

  There was a single door at the top of the stairs, and I briefly considered knocking. I changed my mind and turned the handle, but soon as I did I could feel it moving on its own. Someone on the other side of the door was already opening it.

  I took a step back and felt around my back for the 9mm I’d tucked into my belt. I was sure I wouldn’t need it — no one schedules a meeting for the next morning just to kill you — but I wasn’t one for being unprepared.

  The door swung open and Jeff’s bloated face pushed out from behind it.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “I’m here,” I answered.

  He snorted, or coughed, I wasn’t sure. He cocked his head and motioned me inside, so I followed him. He offered no introduction, no handshake, no formalities of any kind.

  He also didn’t offer me coffee, which sort of made me angry. He knew this was considered an early morning for me, and besides, wasn’t he supposed to be still pretending he was a detective? What detective’s office — or office of any sort — doesn’t offer its visitors a cup of coffee in the morning?

  I looked around, but it wasn’t easy. Hardly anything was lit, and what was wasn’t lit well. A couch in the corner, with a blanket and pillow on it, and a card table on the opposite side of the room. A mini fridge and a small television that had been made last century sat in the corner.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  Jeff grunted again and kept walking down the hallway. There were three doors — one at the end of the hall, and one on each side of the hallway. He headed for the one at the end, then knocked twice when he’d reached it.

  “Yeah,” a voice said from the other side.

  He opened the door and bright, yellow light came pouring out, suddenly illuminating the main room. The carpet, I could now see, was dirty, worn, and threadbare in spots. Stains and marks on the wall told me that this room had been used, abused, and subsequently evacuated quickly. The current tenants, of which Jeff was probably one, apparently had no desire to clean it up for guests.

  Jeff held the door open and I walked in. I waited for him to step inside, but instead he let it close and then I heard the lock engaging.

  Great, I thought. Locked in a dingy apartment.

  I didn’t worry much about my location, however. It was the two men already sitting in the room that held my attention.

  6

  I SAT ON THE OTHER side of the power table. It was, of course, a normal table. But the location of this particular table made it into what I called a ‘power table.’ Situated inside a cell of a room, inside a crypt of a building, inside a maze of a city, I was at the mercy of whomever was opposite me at the table.

  And, at the moment, the person opposite me did nothing to lessen the impression of the ‘power table.’

  “Where are you headed, Dixon?” the man asked.

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  He waited. Power.

  I sighed. “God. You guys and your tables, and your ties, and your shitty black coffee.”

  Still, he waited.

  “Fine,” I said. “You know where I’m headed? Nowhere. I’m sitting right here, doing absolutely nothing but answering your questions?”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you answering our questions?”

  The second man leaned forward. I assumed, by his expression and his clenched fists, balled up and smashed up against his jowls, that he was trying his best to play ‘bad cop.’ “Listen, Dixon,” he said, with a voice that destroyed any chance he’d ever have at playing ‘bad cop,’ “if you don’t like the coffee you don’t have to drink it.”

  The room inside the station was barren, just plain drywall walls the color of steel and a steel table the color of drywall. The chairs were purposefully uncomfortable, and I had noticed within ten seconds of sitting in one that they had been designed just a few inches too low. I had to sidle up to the damn thing so far my chest hurt just to get my elbows high enough to lay them on top of it.

  Their chairs, I noticed now, were not placed too low.

  Power chairs.

  “The coffee’s fine. Fabulous, actually,” I said. “I like it like I like my women. Bland, with that perfect amount of je ne sais quoi that makes you wonder where the hell you found it.”

  The ‘good cop,’ the guy doing most of the interrogating, looked at his buddy. No glance was exchanged.

  “But I’ll play along, since I know I’ve done nothing that warrants my being here. Maybe you’ll believe me, and feel horrible for it, and throw yourselves off a bridge for putting me through it.”

  Good cop narrowed his eyes at me. Fat, pudgy things that could hardly be seen poking out through the rest of his face skin. I took a second and marveled — I wasn’t actually sure which of the guys was fatter. I pursed my lips, really trying to focus and get into it, when the good cop snapped a finger.

  “Okay, Dixon,” he grunted. “So tell us.”

  “Well — let’s see,” I said. “You’ve told me absolutely nothing, because — I’m guessing here — that’s what you’ve seen on TV. The ‘good cop,’ ‘bad cop’ routine, done up real nice in a place that actually looks like a station. You’ve got the table, the chairs, the fat guy just wanting to get home to his flat wife — still not sure which of you that one is — and all the little details in place for a real intimidation session.”

  I saw bad cop, the guy on the left, fidget. He’s considering it, I thought. He thinks I’m right.

  Or he’s just fat.

  I was no expert, but I’ve observed plenty specimens of the human race in my day, and the ones who were on the range of overweight to obese typically had a hard time getting comfortable. I don’t know why — I’d always been skinny, even ‘skeletal,’ as my old man once lovingly said — but I tended to believe it.

  So this guy was either acting fat or acting like he was considering my train of thought. So, never one to need much egging on at all to continue giving my opinion, I continued giving my opinion.

  “Last night I was in my bar. Night before, I was in my apartment. Night before that, I was in my bar. Before that… look, you get the point, right? I work six days a week, and on the seventh day I work some more. Shopping for the bar, pricing and planning out for the kitchen stuff, Amazon for the cleaning and maintenance supplies. Joey helps with it, that’s what I pay him for, but it’s my bar.

  “So you brought me here because you think I know something about this dead guy you found you think is ‘my old man,’ but I can assure you, I do not.”

  “Well we’re after assurances, Dixon,” the bad cop fat guy said. “What assurances do you have?”

  “Besides a rock-solid alibi?”

  “You got anyone to corroborate that?

  I did — Joey. “No,” I said, without hesitation. “My bad. I didn’t think to put someone in place for the arbitrary and still unknown-to-me window of time to which you’re referring.”

  “So… what assurances, then?” the good cop fat guy asked.

  “Well, for one, you’re bullshitting me. You have been from the moment you sent in your shitty excuse for a hired PI, and you kept it up — admittedly, good work — when I got here. This —” I waved my hand around and elaborately called everyone’s attention to the perfect replica of a stereotypical interrogation chamber these goons had constructed, “this is grand, really. But it’s nonsense. What the hell am I really here for, boys?”

  Again, another expressionless glance.

  “Exp
lain.”

  “No.”

  “Explain, Dixon.”

  “No, asshole.”

  Bad cop sighed. I had been wrong. He was the good cop, I guess. He broke first. “Fine, Dixon. You’re right. We’re not a PI firm. Nothing like it.”

  “Got that. Thanks.”

  The other guy jumped in. “But I assure you, we’re on the same side.”

  “Now you’re giving assurances.”

  “We are. Just trust us.”

  “You’ve given me plenty of reason to trust you so far. Thank you.” I wasn’t sure if my no-bull voice gave them the assurance that my statement was loaded with bull or not, but I went on anyway. “So I trust you. You’re the pinnacle of trustworthy. Stand-up guys, both of you.”

  Bad cop shook his head. Just briefly, just slightly. But it was there, and I caught it. I almost frowned, but I refrained. I didn’t want to give anything away like he had, but I mostly just wasn’t sure what that head shake meant.

  “Anyway, I know this isn’t a police station. And there’s no PI firm on this side of the country, much less Charleston, big enough to justify a place like this. So who are you?”

  It was an appeal to ethos: they tell me who they are, I might be willing to work with them to figure out their dead guy situation.

  “Why are you ignoring the fact that your father is dead?”

  “I’m not. It’s just that it’s not a fact.”

  “It’s not?”

  “I haven’t seen the body with my own eyes. So no, it’s not a fact.”

  “We have verified reports —”

  “From who?” I asked. “My old man knew about four people, and two of them are long dead. The third is me, and the fourth…”

  Shit. They’d caught me. I knew it, right then.

  “The fourth is who, Mr. Dixon?”

  I sighed again. Fine. Resigned to my fate, I looked both of them in the eye and then continued. “The fourth is my brother.”

  7