The Keeper Returns (The Wallis Jones Series Book 3)

by Martha Carr

  “Doesn’t matter what you want today. Even you two are not stupid enough to take on Mac and Rodney. Nobody takes on the combinating of numbers. It’d be like Batman and Robin thinking they could take down Lex Luthor and the Kracken combined. Suicide,” he said, smiling and leaning back on his heels.

  “You seem to already know why we’re here, genius,” said Buster. “And we’re that stupid,” added Buster, his deep rumble making it sound menacing.

  The mention of Rodney Parrish’s name had made Biggs a little more interested in the conversation. There it was again and somehow connected to the robberies. It bothered Biggs that he couldn’t see where the trail was taking him. He possessed a certain amount of confidence, and thought that more would be revealed. Call it a common man’s faith.

  “Me too,” said Paulie, smiling and putting up his hands. “Me too and everybody knows it. Say stuff all the time without knowing what it means. My little sugar problem keeps me in the bed anyway so I don’t know anything about anything.”

  “That’s not going to do,” said Biggs. “We’ll be needing a little more. Start with how you and your brother suddenly got enough for an above-ground pool.” One of the first things the detectives had done was to check out the living conditions of the Browning brothers and see if there were any new, shiny objects. The pool kind of stood out.

  “Living a little large for someone who’s always in bed, aren’t you? Free clinic is all you can afford but you have a pretty nice backyard going on.”

  “I think it’s got to be some kind of illegal to be hanging over people’s eight-foot privacy fence without a warrant of some kind,” whined Paulie. “That pool was paid for in full, you know.”

  “Stop making our point for us,” said Biggs.

  “And if we look in the trunk of your car?” asked Buster.

  Paulie backed up until he was resting against his car. “You have no cause,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. He knew it was pointless.

  Richmond had its own set of rules and they all started with who was related to whom. Sometimes a name made a business deal a lot easier and sometimes a different name took away a few basic choices.

  Biggs didn’t press the point. He didn’t like feeling like he was taking advantage of anybody but if someone was already there he could be quiet and listen.

  “So, it’s gonna be like that,” said Paulie. “Alright. I’ll give you a little something and then we all get on with our day.” The detectives didn’t move.

  “Look for Ralph, he knows more. He’s been hanging out with Parrish, saying he’s learning the business from him. Not too sure what that means. Ralph’s an even dumber brick to not be aware there’s no business to be learned. Geez, Parrish will keep him around until Ralph’s a problem and then we all know what might happen. Come on, you two statues cannot be that white.”

  That actually got a smile out of Biggs. “Where do we find Ralph?” he asked.

  “Try Franklin Street, that neighborhood, near Willow Lawn. I saw him last night, hanging out poolside and he said he had business over that way. He’s got no car so he should probably still be there. Town doesn’t care about the walkin’ man, not too big on buses.”

  “We know, Paulie. We’re from here,” said Buster.

  Paulie shrugged his shoulders. “Just sayin’.”

  They had kept their side of the bargain and let Paulie go on his way. They didn’t really have anything on him anyway and they always knew where to find him if the lead turned out to be completely useless. Better to keep moving for now.

  When they had left Paulie the detectives still weren’t planning on looking for Parrish. Not directly at least. Both of them liked what they did for a living and weren’t planning to boldly disobey their Lieutenant. Let the pieces all fall into place first, maybe work themselves out.

  And yet, here he was hours later on the top of a building keeping watch for Parrish, the details of the robberies more of a way to pass the time. All of the pieces of this day had led to the top of this warehouse and Parrish. Biggs wiped his face on a clean, white handkerchief. His father had always carried a handkerchief and small things like that mattered to Biggs. He pictured the body again, stiffness already setting in to the joints. It pissed him off to think he’d been a little too late.

  “Think about that another time,” he whispered, spitting sweat.

  The sun was finally getting a little lower in the sky and was at least no longer beating directly on the top of Biggs’ head. That was something even if the wet heat would hang on long into the darkness.

  Biggs position was a little higher than the surrounding buildings with a clear view of a short side street not too far over from Grace Street. Just beyond that was the governor’s mansion that looked like a smaller version of the White House but with far less security. Nearby, office workers could sit on the green lawn during their lunch hour and gaze up the small, rolling hill at the large front portico.

  Biggs usually ate his lunch in the front seat of the older Crown Vic he was issued, running the details of whatever case he was working on through his head, looking for the pattern.

  He was standing on the rooftop, wondering what it was about these owners that made someone want to rip them off.

  He settled back into a comfortable stance, ready to run. The dense humidity in Richmond was hanging well into October and making his shirt cling to his back as he stood up straight. The winters were always mild here but the summers could beat a man into the ground and were known to slide into the fall, some years.

  He looked across the buildings and gave a small wave to his partner who stood down below where he could see most of Biggs’ blind spots. The older detective got the lookout that came with fewer stairs.

  They were working off of the tip they got out of Ralph who always liked to talk too much. He was the last person who should have been hanging around someone like Parrish but Biggs figured that was their problem.

  They had stopped Ralph on Franklin Street, wandering down a narrow section where it picked back up again between the Fan neighborhood and the West End. He was balancing a large speaker on his shoulder trying to make his way in the direction of Broad Street, the only place where the buses would be running.

  “What you doin’, Ralph? Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Buster asked, taking on a casual tone as he leaned out of the car window. Ralph had glanced back and seen them coming. They had noticed his pace slowly quicken, as much as it could with a large speaker clearly weighing him down.

  “Prefer walking,” he said, like he was trying to be indifferent to the whole thing. It was hard for such a round man to look so indifferent in this heat. The heavy speaker wasn’t helping and his suit jacket was soaked through with sweat. The combinating house insisted all of their workers wear a suit.

  “Nice day for it,” said Buster. Biggs was driving, keeping the car at a pace with Ralph’s footsteps. “Where’d you get the electronics?”

  “Made a trade for it. Fair and square. You got nothing today, gentlemen,” said Ralph. Biggs stopped the car and quickly got out.

  “Traded who for what?” Ralph looked startled. Biggs had heard the mistake even before Ralph realized what he had given away. He stopped and stared at Biggs like he was measuring out what to say next.

  “Don’t go with, none of your business,” said Buster. “You know that never plays well with us.” Ralph looked over at Buster and shifted the speaker, letting a long trail of spit loose that landed between them.

  “Shit, you know you’re gonna’ get me killed one of these days.” Ralph shook his head and set the speaker down. “What are you trading for my information?” he asked, trying to look determined. “When they beat my ass later I’d like to know I got something out of it.”

  That made Biggs smile. “You have a point, Ralph. How about we let you keep the speaker and we don’t ask too much about the original owner? Who did you trade for what?”

  “The Dark Lord,” said Ralph, raising an eyebrow. “Par
rish. Scary son of a bitch. Don’t really like to have anything to do with him but he wanted something from me and I happened to be in need of a speaker, for no particular reason.”

  “We heard you were working with him,” said Buster.

  “Mac’s idea,” said Ralph, scowling.

  “Not yours?” said Biggs. Ralph gave out a laugh that sounded more like he had lost a bet.

  “What did he want from you?” asked Buster.

  “I know, I was as surprised as you gentlemen to hear there was something Rodney Parrish would need out of me. Turned out to be nothing. He even paid me a little something for it,” he said, nudging the speaker with his toe. “He just wanted an address for some old broad. Alice Watkins. Said he had unfinished business. I do small fixit jobs for her, keep her lawn. She paid me extra to keep that quiet. Rodney found out and paid me more, plus the speaker. Fair and square.”

  That made Biggs’ stomach churn. Parrish was a numbers runner for Mac and the gambling house on Broad Street and notoriously cheap. Everyone knew he made most of his money doing odd jobs, mostly for cops. If Parrish wanted an address badly enough to pay for it, then somebody bigger needed a favor.

  Nobody asked Parrish to do anything unless they thought a little violence might be in order.

  “What’s the address?” asked Buster. Ralph let out a sigh. “Just off Patterson Avenue, not too far from here. You know, one of those little bungalows. Nice little place. She’s only had it about a year. Moved out of the suburbs where she was living with that family. Can’t blame her though, crazy family. You remember the place. Deputy went buck wild or something, shot up the place. The grandma took him out. Jones something, I think. That was a couple of years ago but still, you have to wonder. That was you that figured it all out, wasn’t it?” asked Ralph, pointing at Biggs and smiling.

  Biggs didn’t return the smile.

  “He tell you why he wanted it?” he asked.

  “Nope,” said Ralph, “but I can’t say I really pressed him for much of an answer. Not a good idea. There was one thing, though. He did say the two had met before and they were some kind of friends. Funny, kind of when you think of it. Parrish being friends with some old white lady in the suburbs. Not his usual traffic. Makes you wonder why.”

  Chapter Three

  “Go!” Biggs practically yelled it into the radio. Parrish was coming down the alley, exactly where Ralph had said they would find him. He was on his way to make some pickups for Mac. There were always a few people every week whose old debts had come due. Tuesday was when Parrish would go hunting for them. Ralph had learned the usual route from hanging out with Parrish.

  The same people were always getting into the same trouble, every Tuesday. Parrish had perfected scaring most regulars into paying up on time without having to do that much anymore but there were some stubborn holdouts who seemed to believe that somehow this week would have a different ending for them. Ralph not only knew where the debtors were but when Parrish would pounce.

  Ralph talked too much as a rule but he wasn’t worried about the two detectives busting up Parrish for the numbers. No one got in the way of Mac’s business. Too many people benefited one way or the other from what Mac was doing whether it was from the chance to win a few dollars or get paid off with a few more. It wasn’t even something that too many judges would be happy to see on their docket. Best to pick a different battle. It never occurred to Ralph there might be something more and that made him chatty.

  He coughed up Alice Watkins’ address and was relieved when the two detectives let him go on his way. His day was going pretty well.

  Biggs insisted they swing by the little bungalow on Malvern, over Buster’s complaints about getting mixed up in any of it. They were supposed to be heading over to Queen’s to ask the owner some more questions. Buster was always more pragmatic and didn’t see the point of getting that far into other business.

  That is, until they went inside the little bungalow. That changed Buster’s mind for good. It just wasn’t right.

  Biggs covered the few steps to the fire escape in seconds. The radio crackled and spit. He could hear his partner breathing hard and the sound of running footsteps. The detectives were using walkie talkies they had gotten from a local big box store in order to keep their chatter to themselves.

  Parrish was in one of his trademark skinny-leg suit and ties, swinging his briefcase. He even looked like he was dancing just a little.

  Biggs took the thin, metal steps down the side of the building as fast as he could, each step rattling and shaking from the heavy thuds as he threw his weight forward. He wanted to get to Parrish ahead of Buster for the privilege of pitching him on the ground.

  He came spinning around the corner, sliding to a stop just as Buster got to the end of the alley, staying just out of view. Parrish stopped in mid-stride and cocked his head to one side. The two men were well acquainted. Richmond was a small town, after all.

  “Detective Biggs,” said Parrish, nodding his head.

  Biggs took a step forward and Parrish straightened up but made no move to run or turn away, until he saw Buster step out into the open holding a weighted flapjack.

  Something about the way they were moving seemed to let him in on all of it. They weren’t going for their guns or pulling out handcuffs right away. If they were there to arrest him, that would be only an afterthought.

  No one was going to be able to protect him in this alley, either. They had stopped on Malvern Avenue at the little bungalow.

  In one graceful move he swept the briefcase up, under his arm and turned to run, already in mid-stride. Surely, with his short, lean frame he could outrun two old bulls.

  Biggs was on him before he had gotten very far. He even lifted Parrish a little in the air before he shoved him hard into the solid, stone pavers.

  His head gave a nice bounce, thought Biggs.

  The detective felt the anger rise up in him again and fought the urge to lift Parrish back up over his head, to see if he could crack him in two against the pavement. He sucked the air in between his teeth, trying to calm down as he thought about the case. Narrow area, owners all belong to the same men’s club, planned jobs, no fingerprints. It wasn’t helping.

  He watched Parrish’s teeth rattle and clack together. It was a good hard tackle, worthy of what was surely going to follow for the detective from taking down Parrish.

  Parrish finally lay still, his hand clutched around the briefcase. Buster came around Biggs, shaking his head. “Don’t know if it’d be better if he was alive or dead.”

  Biggs kicked Parrish hard in the ribs and Parrish groaned but didn’t move.

  “He’s alive.”

  The dead body flashed through his head. He kicked Parrish again, hard.

  By the time the two detectives had gotten to the little bungalow what blood there was, was already congealing.

  The front door was locked, no sign of forced entry. But Parrish had a style and was considered the best at breaking and entering without ever leaving a single clue. Anyone who had a reason to get tangled up with him knew that about him.

  People who were robbed by him generally didn’t even know they had been robbed. He was very good at cleaning up after himself.

  Biggs looked in the window, cupping his hand around his eyes with his face pressed up to the window pane, hoping to see anything that would give him probable cause for what he knew he was going to do anyway.

  There was nothing, and in the end he told himself that was the reason. Everything appeared to be exactly where it was supposed to be and who really lives that way. He broke a couple of the small panes in the narrow window that ran alongside the front door and pulled his sleeve tight around his hand so he could reach in and unlock the door. He still managed to knick one of his knuckles on broken glass.

  They found the body of Alice Watkins lying in the bathtub, her throat slashed and a look of surprise still on her face. Buster pointed out the bruising on her knuckles and Biggs nodded, hoping h
e’d find matching bruises on Parrish when they found him.

  There was no mess to clean up, no blood splatter. Her death was probably quick and whoever had done it had cleaned up everything.

  “Parrish,” Biggs spit out. “I knew it.”

  “Let’s go hunting,” said Buster.

  They called in the murder but didn’t stay on the scene. The radio dispatcher came back with orders from Lieutenant Greevey to return to the scene, oversee the case. He must have suspected what they were about to do.

  There was really only one reason they would have left Alice Watkins by herself, even if she was dead. It wasn’t right.

  Still, as Parrish lay there in the alley, the only marks on his suit was the little bit of blood from what Biggs had done to him and dust from the alley.

  Buster kneeled down and broke open the briefcase and found tools carefully rolled up in soft grey felt. They appeared clean but Buster knew that a little testing in a police lab might reveal traces of Alice Watkin’s blood. Maybe even a little of Parrish’s blood as well.

  Biggs nudged Parrish with his toe. “Come on, get up. You’re coming with us.”

  Buster looked up at his partner. “You sure about this?” he asked.

  “You really feel good about just letting it go?” asked Biggs.

  Buster didn’t answer him but took out a plastic tie and rolled Parrish over, pulling his wrists together to restrain him. Parrish was starting to regain consciousness.

  “You think he broke anything?” asked Buster, as he hauled Parrish to his feet. Parrish groaned and sunk back down to the ground before Buster roughly lifted him quickly to his feet again.

  Parrish let out a yelp and opened his eyes wide.

  “Maybe,” said Biggs, not feeling any real satisfaction. “We need to make a stop.”

  “Seriously?” asked Buster. “You putting off the inevitable? It won’t help. It’s going to be hard as hell to get him booked as it is, without someone intervening. The faster, the better.”