The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3)

by Linda L. Dunlap

  “His kind is around everywhere,” Bill said. “But he’s slyer than some.”

  “I’ll drive,” Joe said. “You two can blow kisses to each other.”

  Following the woman was a simple task for Joe, but he kept watch on his side for the Acura, for Stringer Malone. They took a back road, one Maude had insisted Lola take to the house on Cardinal Street, Sammy Green’s current residence. When they arrived at the address, Joe parked the unmarked car down the road, tucked behind a beater on blocks. The three detectives skirted the street and circled behind the houses, coming to the back door of 2329. All was quiet inside, sometimes a false sign where police were concerned. They stood at the back door and knocked lightly, waiting for Lola to open the screen and let them inside. Before she had an opportunity to reach the door, shots rang out from the back bedroom, and Sammy ran screaming, waving a small pistol in front of him.

  “If that doesn’t beat all,” Maude whispered. “Guess we should have figured Sammy into the equation. I’m going around and check the window. Maybe it’s open.”

  The thin curtain was blowing on the bedroom window, and Maude could smell cigarette smoke coming through the screen. She apologized to Mrs. Martinez for cutting through the mesh then slid through the opening while Joe watched from the back door. Bill had taken a quick few steps, and circled around to the front door. He tried the lock and found it to be open.

  Events happened quickly, with Sammy firing bullets wildly toward the back door, holding Lola in front of him as a shield. After popping another bullet toward the door, Sammy moved into the kitchen, pulling Lola along with him. Bill sneaked through the front door and slid along the wall, waiting for the right time to jump out and grab Sammy. About the time Maude showed up from the back bedroom, both of them jumped on Sammy, and threw him to the floor, where he landed in the cat’s litter box. Coughing and sputtering, the ex-con tried to get the gun out from under his body, but he was in such a panic, his finger pulled the trigger and the weapon fired. Sammy screamed and yelled.

  “I’m dying, I’m dying. Hot damn, I’m dying.”

  Bill stood to the side, watching, staying out of the fracas unless there was a need. He was a ride-along and knew it wasn’t smart for him to get involved in local police affairs. He didn’t intend to stand and let Maude get hurt, but it seemed to him she was taking care of business.

  Maude grabbed the gun away and clamped a handcuff around Sammy’s right hand, then pulled the other out, and fastened both behind his back. Rolling the burglar over, she discovered Sammy had shot himself in the big toe.

  Joe came in the back door to see what had transpired and tried hard to keep from laughing, but wasn’t quite successful.

  “Damn, Sammy. You’re a lousy shot.”

  Still yelling, only not quite so loudly, the shooter looked at his foot and started crying, sobbing such loud gasps the detectives could only stare.

  “Sammy, you aren’t going to die from that wound, but if you don’t shut up, I’m going to strangle you,” Maude said. She directed Mrs. Martinez to her linen closet for a long strip of gauze then proceeded to wrap the shoe and the foot in a tight bandage.

  “It’s safer to leave the shoe on. Might do more damage if we remove it. Sammy, they have a real good nurse at the county jail. I’ll make sure she looks at this foot. Meanwhile, you keep your mouth shut. Should only be a minute.”

  Sammy’s mother began rocking him in her arms and shushing, but Maude didn’t trust the man to not give them away. She pulled another piece of gauze from the roll and gagged Sammy, telling him it was for his own good, to keep Stringer from shooting everybody in the house.

  “You’ve got a lot against you already, Sammy. You tried to kill a police officer, and you burglarized my house so you could tap into my telephone. Don’t add anything else to it.”

  Sammy’s mother looked at Maude and nodded as if to say, “I’ll keep him in line.”

  Through all the shooting and the noise, Lola had been quiet, going along with her boyfriend, not believing the cops would shoot her. When she saw the danger had passed, she collapsed on the floor and began to weep.

  “Enough of that, girl,” Maude said. “You have a job to do. Your buddy is going to show up here soon, and you have to be ready as though there’s nothing going on but your desire to blow this city. If anything gives you away, he’ll kill you outright before we can stop him. You have to get him to talk, to say enough that we can hang him. Anything else and he’ll be on you like a snake after a mouse. Do you understand?”

  Lola sniffed and nodded a few times. “Uh-huh.”

  “Then stand up and start pretending.”

  Approximately a half-hour passed before a knock on the front door told them Stringer was there. Joe went out the back door and circled around, waiting at the side until the killer was in the house. He ran low, under the window, toward the door, ready to run inside quickly when he was needed. Dogs were barking in the neighborhood, and Joe was afraid Stringer would get wise. Mrs. Martinez was in one of the bedrooms with Sammy, keeping him quiet. Maude, along with Bill, waited in the darkness of the small bathroom.

  Lola opened the door and managed to look surprised. “I thought you were going to call me first.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t see a need to go to trouble. Where’s everybody?”

  “Who do you mean? The old lady? She’s out with her little boy, buying him some new clothes. Never mind them, where’s my money?”

  Stringer relaxed, then moved toward Lola. “Well, see, there’s a problem. There isn’t going to be any money.”

  “What do you mean, no money? I’ll talk, I swear, I’ll tell what I know about you killing that woman.”

  “What do you know, Lola? Where were you when I sliced her open? Were you in the room, or were you lying in bed with Sammy?”

  “I, well, I know you did it. You said you killed her.”

  “Yes, Lola, I killed her, hit her in the head when she came in the door. Opened her up and let her bleed all across the floor of her house. Then I cut her heart out. How do you like that?” Stringer moved closer and reached out, ready to grab her.

  “Get away from me, you murderer,” Lola screamed, just as he touched her arm, ready to pull her against him. In his hand he held a .45 automatic with a silencer. “You never tried to get my money, did you?” Lola said, sidling away from the gun.

  “No, I always intended to take care of you. Don’t you remember? I told you. You’re a liability and you have to go.”

  The door flew open and Joe ran forward, reaching Stringer before he had time to pull the trigger. Using his fists, Joe slammed the bad guy in the side and grabbed him by the arm, lowering the trajectory of the gun away from Lola. He felt the heat of the bullet when it seared his thigh, the pain overwhelming, but he couldn’t give in to it. He continued holding his own against the gunman, until Maude stepped to Stringer’s side and put the barrel of her weapon against his ear.

  “Put the gun down, Horace. Lay it down or I’ll take the buzzcut clean off the top of your head.” She wasn’t making an idle threat, and Stringer knew it. He leaned forward and laid the weapon down as Bill called 911 and reported two shootings at the residence. Maude covered Stringer, allowing Lola to back away then cuffed him to the chair. Maude pulled her radio from her pocket and called for assistance, stating that an officer was down at 2329 Cardinal Street, with a large bullet wound to the thigh.

  Joe sat down on the floor, his leg bleeding badly above the knee. Yelling for Mrs. Martinez to bring the first-aid kit, Maude got down on the floor, ignoring the pain in her knees as she opened his pants leg with the scissors from the kit. The wound was bad, pouring blood as she grabbed a large handful of gauze and pressed it into the wound, holding it tight against him. Joe was fading in and out from the pain and blood loss; his face had paled, and his eyes were half closed with the pain.

  “You’ll be okay, Joe,” Maude said, trying to keep him awake. “The wound is bleeding, but it isn’t spewing, so no
fountain. Seems to be in the meat, and not the bone. Joe, can you hear me?”

  Joe opened his eyes and tried to grin. “Of course, you haven’t shut up since I got shot,” he said. “Do I hear an ambulance? Does that mean I lose you for a nurse?” he asked in a whisper, leaning over against her.

  “Indeed it does, Joseph Conrad Allen. Indeed it does.” Maude held on to him, waiting for the medical staff to come through the door.

  A patrol officer showed up early and Maude told him to watch Stringer who sat mumbling on the kitchen chair, his hands cuffed behind his back. Lola stood to the side and removed the itchy recording device from around her waist. She had been instructed to turn it on when needed, then off afterward to avoid recording anything other than the conversation with the murderer. When the door opened, and Stringer entered, she had reached inside her shirt and restarted the machine. All his threats and admissions had been recorded.

  Soon the room was filled with police and emergency personnel who took charge of Stringer Malone as a dangerous prisoner. Joe was wheeled to an ambulance after technicians assessed his condition and reassured Maude they would take care of him. The wound was bad, but the bleeding was under control, they said.

  Sammy was put into another bus, and carried along to the hospital, as well, which left Lola and Mrs. Martinez in the house with Bill and Maude.

  “Lola, you’ve done well, and I’ll speak to the district attorney on your behalf. Meanwhile, you can’t leave town. You’re out on bond; remember that.” Maude wished she could do more for the woman who had risked her life two different times, doing what the police asked of her. That had to go for something. Sammy’s mother was crying, imagining her baby boy in jail. Maude figured the woman would head down there to see him as soon as they left her house.

  “You got place to stay, Lola?” Maude asked her.

  “Yeah, I can go to my aunt’s house. Her husband don’t like me, but she does.”

  “Make sure you get me an address. You are out on personal bond, so don’t mess it up.”

  “Bill, how about a cup of hospital coffee?” Maude asked with a smile.

  He smiled back and took her hand, leaving the house for others to analyze and collect the evidence.

  Chapter 21

  The trauma rooms of Madison hospital were busy, with few open beds left for the injured. Joe Allen was in Room 6E, with drip lines attached to his wrists, and bandages on his leg. The surgeons had worked on the delicate tendons and ligaments, as well as the thick muscle within his thigh. The slug had done some major damage, but the specialists were hopeful that he would heal quickly, with little or no nerve damage. Maude had been right: the artery wasn’t hit by the bullet, but enough had been done to put the young detective out of business for at least six to eight weeks. He was looking at desk duty for a while. Grumbling at the news, Joe lay in the bed, wishing he had done something different and maybe avoided getting shot. Maude had told him not to worry, the time would pass, and that he could be proud of saving Lola’s life, for Stringer had been intent on killing her until Joe attacked him.

  Maude was congratulated at work for solving the murder case of Eve Devine, after Lola gave a statement and the recording of Stringer’s confession to murder was taken down and transcribed to reports. He even described the kidnapping of Maude’s niece. Maude was curious about the ease with which it was wrapped up. Stringer had said nothing more afterward, and on Maude’s testimony, he was held without bond as an escape risk, awaiting the grand jury’s indictments.

  Before Bill went back to Philadelphia, she surprised him on his last evening by wearing one of her three dresses to go out to dinner. He complimented her so often she vowed to do it again, even though she felt naked when the wind blew beneath the hem. They spent a few hours talking, and making plans for when he moved to Texas. Nothing specific had been said, but she caught him once measuring the size of her fingers with his hand. That gave plenty for both of them to consider.

  The house was quiet after he left, but there was work to be done to help fill the void. CID removed the wiring and the listening device from her phone a couple days after the shootings, and Maude’s privacy was finally restored. After that, she went to the jail and asked Sammy about the hole in her backyard, but he wouldn’t talk about it. With Stringer’s silence and Sammy’s refusal to elaborate on any of the details, Maude believed the case was still open. She tried talking to her captain about it, but he told her to calm down, and be glad it was over. Frustrated with the criminals’ code of silence, she began looking for ways to break through the barrier.

  The September air was cooling some, even though everyone knew it was temporary, for, after all, it was Texas. Along and in front of the railroad, the Madison-MacArthur Hospital for the Criminally Insane was booming after opening its arms to several new patients, replacing those lost. A few patients had been in accidents, but most had good reason for dying, like sickness and heart attacks. It was the nature of hospitals that some lived and some died. Two men on the twenty-second floor had fallen during their individual showers and broken their skulls, but there was no connection between the two, other than they were both from wealthy families.

  Robert Dawson was still believed to be catatonic, and his new doctor supported that belief to the rest of the staff. Doctor Ponder had recently purchased a new Ferrari, and made no attempt to hide it, parking it in the staff lot near the building where he once parked the Porsche. No one wondered how he afforded it, even with two ex-wives in California demanding monthly alimony payments. No one, that is, except his nurse, Ellen Goodbody.

  Thursday was always a busy day, with off-site doctors coming to visit, and family sessions for the less-dangerous inmates. Ellen had been working specifically with Doctor Ponder for three and a half weeks; she remembered the day he had asked for her and changed her into a seven-to-three person. She loved the day shift, and never wanted to go back to working nights. Problem was, her conscience was getting the better of her, because she knew her new boss was dead rotten, and hiding the truth about some things. She had asked around, and some of the nurses said there were people who once worked in the hospital who bragged about making side money while on duty. Ellen knew that was wrong, but having no proof of anything, just suspicions, she kept her peace, and her eyes open.

  On that Thursday, that busy day, Ellen saw something that made her hair stand straight up. She knew no one would believe her without more than her say-so, but she felt she had to tell somebody what she saw in 73’s room. Out of the blue, pulled to his door by a strong force, Ellen peeked in. There he was sitting in a chair, using the telephone as politely as you please. She ducked down just as his eyes moved toward her hiding place. The devil walked across her grave and a shiver went straight down her spine from the fear of him. Back to work she went, and no one else the wiser.

  Later that same day, she heard noises coming from the room and sidled up to the door. It was Doctor Ponder and someone else. All she heard was “My money’s gone!” On Friday, the next day, when she arrived at work, hospital staff were talking about a miracle. Robert Dawson on the twenty-second floor was finally awake and making loud noises and gnashing his teeth. Doctor Ponder had brought in two more specialists who tried to calm him, but it didn’t work.

  She heard it again: “My money’s gone!” The rest of the staff speculated on what had happened—how did he wake from such a long sleep, and what was he talking about? Finally, a few days later, Doctor Ponder showed up but the Ferrari didn’t, and it wasn’t long before Ellen was assigned to work with other doctors. Thank God, she thought, I still work the day shift. That was the day Ellen thought she had better find that card the lady detective gave her, because her nose had started itching.

  Maude answered her cell phone while she sat at the desk writing reports, doing the necessary duties a detective was required to complete at the end of each case. Even though she didn’t believe it was done, her boss did, and wanted to make sure every loose end was tied up. She took some time to
rehash the Horace “Stringer” Malone arrest. The man’s attitude bothered her. His aplomb hadn’t altered since he was cuffed and taken into custody. It was as if the whole incident would be reconciled in a few hours and he could go about his business. Surely, she thought, he’s smarter than that.

  Sitting at her desk gave time for remembering the sweetness of Bill’s visit. The few hours they worked together had made her feel young again, and the light banter between them had been that of old friends who tease one another with affection. Maude’s head was suddenly filled with memories of partners long since gone—some dead, some out of the murder business. She shook it all off, determined to get back to the bothersome facts and theories surrounding Robert Dawson. If she were to assume he had orchestrated the murders of Eve Devine and Henry Fonda, she had to figure he had some motive other than capricious revenge. The two victims were unconnected to his welfare; in fact, the murders simply shone a bright light upon him, a situation he had always avoided in the past.

  Her cell phone sounded the irritating buzz she had set to get her attention. A too-quiet sound went unnoticed if other activities were going on.

  “Maude Rogers, Homicide,” she answered, then waited for someone to speak.

  “Detective, this is Ellen Goodbody from the Crazy Hospital. I hope you remember me.”

  “Yes, I do. What can I do for you, Ellen?” Maude asked, her blood pressure rising with the thought of the Heartless Killer locked away, yet possibly still doing harm.

  “I’m not real sure what’s going on, but you should know, 73 is awake, and seems to be very upset about his money. I overheard him talking to the doctor. I thought you should know,” she repeated.

  “When did he make it known he was awake?” Maude asked, getting extra ammunition for her Glock.

  “A few days ago, after I came on duty, the rest of the nurses were all agog about the miracle. Of course, I knew he was playing possum all along, but there must be something big to get him up out of the bed. Today he seems worse than ever, and there’s trouble in the other cells.”