Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  “Elliot. Detective Elliot. A body was found inside one of the apartments. We haven’t identified the victim, a white male, probably in his late fifties.”

  “You used the word victim. That usually indicates foul play. Will a murder investigation follow?”

  “A slip of the tongue,” Elliot said. “I meant to say deceased. It appears he died of a drug overdose, heroin, we suspect.”

  The reporter’s face grew serious. “There are rumors of a drug war in Tulsa. Could this be related?”

  “No,” Elliot said, “Nothing like that. The victim’s history—” He paused. There was that word again. “The deceased’s history might reveal something other than what we think we see here, perhaps a hard-luck story of some kind.”

  Elliot stopped, realizing he’d said too much. He glanced around but didn’t see Dombrowski. He was thankful for that. Then again, Dombrowski would see it on the broadcast. Elliot wondered if he might convince Mr. Myers to edit that part out, then figured it wouldn’t be worth the try. “There will be a thorough investigation,” Elliot said, “but we don’t expect to find much.”

  A few questions later, the reporters gave up. Elliot caught up with Dombrowski.

  They questioned the other residents but didn’t get much information. The crime scene investigators had already gotten what they needed, so Elliot and Dombrowski talked with the uniformed officers until all of the team members were out of the building, then they gathered their overcoats and left as well, stepping out into the snow.

  Neither of them spoke during their trek back to the car, and once there it felt good to climb into the cab and get out of the wind. Dombrowski started the engine and pulled onto the street. “What do you say we get a bite to eat?”

  Elliot didn’t feel much like eating. He couldn’t stop thinking about the strange symbol carved into the kitchen table in apartment 3. The coloring of the wood said it was recent. He suspected it was connected with the death of the John Doe in some way.

  Chapter Six

  Back at the office, Elliot found an old case file that was remotely similar to what he and Dombrowski had encountered at Windhall Apartments, and he brought it back to his desk, where he began to flip through it. He hoped to gain some insight in reviewing how the case was solved. Captain Lundsford, Detective Lundsford then, had worked it. The victim, in this case, wasn’t exactly a John Doe—the information his fingerprints brought up hadn’t match the identification he carried—but it would have to do.

  Elliot was about halfway through the file when he heard a noise and looked up to see Detective Michael Cunningham knocking on the wall of his cube. He and Elliot had gone through the academy together, got to know each other, and now, whenever Cunningham went to the firing range or to the gym, he’d usually drag Elliot along with him. Elliot guessed Cunningham and Sergeant Conley were the closest things to friends he had around the department. He wasn’t unsociable. He just kept to himself most of the time.

  Cunningham was a good guy, and a good cop, though occasionally he liked to stay out into the early hours of the morning, making the club scene. He didn’t drink that much, but alcohol wasn’t what he was after when he went clubbing. Cunningham was a bit of a ladies’ man. That afternoon, he had a big grin on his face, like he’d just been on a date with a fashion model.

  “What’s up?” Elliot asked.

  “Some of us are stopping by Torchy’s after work, knock down a few beers, thought you might want to join us.”

  Elliot started to say no, he might have even gotten as far as shaking his head, but then he remembered wanting to talk to Sergeant Conley, and he began to entertain the idea. “What’s the occasion?”

  A curious look crossed Cunningham’s face, as if Elliot had said something he wasn’t expecting. After a moment, he laughed and said, “Nobody but you would say that. There’s no agenda.” He slapped Elliot on the shoulder. “You need to lighten up, buddy.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said, “I know. By the way, how’s your dad?”

  Cunningham shoved some papers aside and sat on the desk. “Mean as ever. He asked about you. Just a ‘where’s your seedy friend’ type of thing, but at least it was something. Sometimes he’s easy to get along with and sometimes he isn’t.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “I don’t think he even knows who I am most of the time, just somebody who comes to visit.”

  “That’s not true,” Elliot said. “On some level he does. I’m sure of it.”

  Cunningham slid off the desk and shook his head. “I don’t know why that should make me feel better, but it does. Glad we had this little heart-to-heart.” As he was leaving he said, “You coming tonight or not?”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said, “I’ll be there.”

  He figured he would, too. Cunningham was right. He needed to get out more.

  A few hours later, Elliot walked into Torchy’s. The old case file hadn’t been much help, so he’d decided to make a short night of it. He didn’t see Cunningham or anyone else he recognized, but then he heard Sergeant Conley say, “Hey, Elliot. What’d you do, get lost and stumble in here?”

  Elliot walked over and pulled out a chair next to Conley, the sound of the wooden legs scraping across the concrete floor echoing loudly through the bar, and he made a mental note to raise the chair from the floor, if he decided to move it again.

  “About time you decided to be a little more sociable,” Conley said. “I was starting to worry about you.” He paused and gestured around the room. “I guess you already know everybody?”

  Elliot nodded. They were all uniformed officers, with the exception of Mendez, a new detective who’d moved to Tulsa from San Antonio. Mendez was leaning back, his chair balancing on two legs.

  “Cunningham asked me to stop by,” Elliot said. “It’d be just like him to not show up, after talking me into it.”

  Mendez laughed. “I guess we know who not to call if we need backup.”

  “Hey,” Conley said, “don’t talk like that.” He took the tone of a stern but understanding parent. “Cunningham’s a good man.”

  Sergeant David Conley lacked the formal education to move up in the department, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He was happy where he was and, Elliot suspected, about as close to the quintessential cop as you were likely to get.

  He tapped Conley on the back. “Take it easy. Mendez didn’t mean it like that.”

  Conley made some sarcastic remark, and Mendez winked and leaned even farther back in his chair. After a bit more small talk around the table, the conversation began to split up, the cops drifting into smaller groups of two or three.

  Elliot had the John Doe case on his mind but it was Conley who brought it up. “Do you suppose that poor sap back at Windhall had a soul?”

  Conley said this with a smirk, feigning sarcasm, but Elliot knew he was referring to the strange symbol he and Dombrowski had seen scratched onto the surface of the table in apartment 3. Turned out it was something called a Baphomet. Conley’s question would stick with Elliot, working heavy on his mind throughout the night. He had no answer to it, and it disturbed him that he did not. “At least you noticed it,” Elliot said. “Dombrowski didn’t give it a second thought.”

  Conley rubbed his chin. “Don’t be so sure about that. Let me tell you something about Bill Dombrowski. He’s a smart man, and not a bad guy to know. You would do well to get on his good side. Don’t let that I-don’t-know-much, Colombo act of his fool you. You think he didn’t notice something, ask him about it. He doesn’t miss much.”

  Dombrowski’s apparent lack of interest in the case concerned Elliot, but he trusted Conley, and he valued his judgment. “What’s your take on it?”

  Conley shook his head. “What’s an old street cop like me know? You weren’t taking anything at face value, though. I could see that and I’m proud of you for it. Don’t worry. Dombrowski’ll nail it. He has a way of doing that. Might help if the preliminary theories didn’t make it on the news, though.” He gave Elliot a measured l
ook then lifted his glass.

  Elliot took it as the guidance it was meant to be. “Yes sir.”

  The conversation stopped for a moment. Elliot looked up to see Detective Cunningham coming into the bar. But something beyond that had changed in the room, as if the barometric pressure had taken a nosedive, leaving in its wake a vacuum, a miniature black hole, which drew in all that was around it, leaving the inside of the bar, for a brief moment, completely silent and void of movement.

  Cunningham was not alone but was escorted by a woman, the like of which Elliot had not often seen. She and Cunningham made their way toward the group of cops, slowing occasionally to exchange a word or two with acquaintances, but keeping a steady course toward Conley and Elliot. Elliot saw in the expression of Cunningham’s date a look of apprehension, as if she recognized him, not as an old friend, but rather as someone she hadn’t expected to see.

  Moments later, the couple arrived, stopping only a few feet away. Elliot forced himself to look at Cunningham and no one else, but still he imagined the heat of Cunningham’s jealousy upon him.

  “Hey, Elliot. Glad you could make it.”

  Elliot silently prayed that the pair in front of him would simply turn and walk away, but instead Cunningham said, “Cyndi, this is Kenny Elliot, one of the guys I work with.”

  Cunningham introduced the lady as Cyndi Bannister, whereupon she extended her hand, smiling as she ran her fingers through her blonde hair. Elliot knew that touching her would be a mistake, but he ignored his instincts and did so anyway, feeling her warmth course through him, as he’d feared it would. He knew only, too well of such things as this; instant attraction, natural chemistry. He just never expected it to happen to him twice in one lifetime.

  When the two of them finally took a seat, luckily a few chairs away, the conversation continued but Elliot could tell by the look on Cunningham’s face that he wasn’t happy. The thought crossed his mind that this girl must be someone special. Cunningham had many lady friends, and he wouldn’t ordinarily get his feathers ruffled over someone giving a little too much attention to his date. Still, Elliot couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances in her direction.

  Elliot looked away, staring at his hands folded on the table. He knew her from somewhere, must have met her before, though he could not recall where and when. If not, could he be so completely attracted to a total stranger, feeling the pangs of love for nothing more than eyes, and hair, and sensual movement? Yet in their earlier meetings, his feelings had not made themselves known; she must have made a different impression, must have appeared, if not ordinary then certainly not extraordinary. This evening, however, she did not look ordinary but quite seductive, her eyes full of mystery, as is the evening upon the setting of the sun.

  To make matters worse, Elliot caught her looking back, her big eyes darting quickly away in an attempt to avoid direct confrontation. He suspected she didn’t do this out of fear. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to act on the attraction. He understood that feeling as well. He felt pressure on his arm and realized it was Sergeant Conley.

  “Pull your tongue back in, Elliot. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Elliot glanced around the table. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Hell yes and then some. I got to admit she’s a real eye-catcher. Every one of us was looking, but you were looking. She’s with Cunningham. Show a little respect.”

  Conley was right and his words were not lost on Elliot. He felt bad about it, though his eyes still wandered in her direction. “Thanks,” he said. “Glad you were here to pull me back down to reality.”

  He had to get out of there. It was the only way to avoid trouble. He made an excuse, said his good-byes, and walked away.

  Outside he stood for a moment, his breath vaporizing in the cold air. He had plenty of things to think about, but only one had his attention, pushing aside even the deeply disturbing baphomet symbol. No matter how he tried to redirect his thoughts, they ended up in the same place. Scenarios of his being with Cyndi kept sprouting in his imagination where they would grow wildly out of control. He wasn’t sure whether to embrace those feelings, which might well lead to their becoming real, or consider their disconcerting aura as a warning and do his best to abate them.

  It was Carmen Garcia all over again.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Elliot sat in Detective Dombrowski’s office, though his thoughts were more on Cyndi. Her eyes haunted him, and he could not decide on their color, whether they were blue, or if they were gray. They seemed to be both and yet neither. He finally decided they were the color of the sky, not the deep blue of spring, but rather like that of a summer afternoon, when the blaze of the sun has all but drained the color from it.

  Elliot leaned forward. “I’d like to talk to you about the John Doe case,” he said.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t think we should just write it off. Something tells me it’s not as straightforward as it looks. There’s more to it.”

  After what seemed an unbearable amount of time, Dombrowski said, “What makes you think we’re going to write it off?”

  Elliot considered his answer. He hadn’t expected the question to be turned around on him. “You seemed distracted at the scene, your thoughts elsewhere. I got the impression you’d already decided everything was just as it appeared to be, even before we left the apartment building.”

  Dombrowski’s face remained flat, expressionless, as if his emotions had been drained from him. He raised the file he’d been holding and held it out, in front of Elliot. “Well, I guess it’s your lucky day. John Doe is your problem now. I’m turning it over to you.”

  Elliot felt his face flush. Conley had tried to warn him. “Turning it over to me? Why?”

  “Captain Lundsford’s been asking me about it. I’ve been watching you. You pay attention to detail. I like that. The Captain and I both agree it’s time you started handling your own cases.” He paused to grin. “This’ll be a good one for you to start on. It’s different, a little offbeat.”

  “So you think I’m offbeat?”

  “I didn’t say that. But being a little unorthodox might not be such a bad thing, in small doses.”

  Dombrowski paused to sip his coffee then continued. “Let me give you some solid advice. Good detectives solve crimes by using scientific methods, gathering hard evidence.”

  He paused and lit a cigar, blowing the smoke into the air. “Start with Conley. Find out what he knows about the computer techs that were in the area. Maybe they saw something. After that, see if you can find anything on the long-haired man that came out of the apartment building just as we arrived. And”—he flicked ash from the cigar into an ashtray on his desk—“if it’s not too much trouble, try to keep it off the news.”

  Elliot walked out of Dombrowski’s office with a newfound respect for the man. He decided to set aside his suspicions about the strange symbol for the time being and follow the more experienced man’s advice. On the way back to his desk, Elliot stopped by the break room. Detective Cunningham was there, stirring something in a cup, some kind of instant cereal. Elliot stopped beside him. “Morning, Cunningham.”

  “Hey.”

  Elliot got a Styrofoam cup, filled it with ice, then added water. “I’m sorry about last night. I was acting like a jerk.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Cunningham’s nonchalance was unconvincing. He was more upset than he was letting on. Elliot pretended to examine the cup he was holding. “I feel bad about it.”

  “Well, you really don’t get out much, do you? Probably not used to seeing lovely ladies?”

  Elliot frowned. “That’d be funny if it wasn’t so true.”

  That got a laugh out of Cunningham. He left the break room and started toward his office. Elliot followed. Once there, Cunningham sat in his chair then took a bite of the cereal. “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “If it’d been a little more one-sided, I wouldn’t have gotten so miffed
.” He paused then shook his head. “She was checking you out, too. Do you know each other?”

  Elliot recalled that same thought going through his mind earlier. “No. Not that I’m aware of.” He immediately realized no man in his right mind would forget someone like Cyndi. “Well, anyway, I’m sorry.” He turned to leave. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  Elliot walked away, wondering about Cunningham’s last statement. It was a common enough thing to say, but he’d never heard Cunningham say it. When he reached his office, Elliot called Sergeant Conley and asked him to meet him for coffee so they could talk about possible witnesses at Windhall.

  Less than an hour later, Elliot talked with Stella Martin, his only witness at the apartment building where the incident occurred.

  The trip hadn’t been wasted. Stella described the woman who had been with the John Doe in such detail that a sketch artist could easily work up a drawing.

  Elliot’s luck didn’t stop there. When he pulled onto the roadway, leaving the parking lot, he saw the man with the dirty blond hair, the same one that’d come out of the apartment building when he and Dombrowski were there, investigating. Patches of ice dotted the sidewalk, but the man maneuvered past the other pedestrians, weaving around them with a practiced skill, his eyes seemingly trained on a distant focal point. Elliot wondered where he might be going.

  He decided to find out. He waved traffic past, then crept onto 15th Street, staying behind the suspect, out of his field of vision.

  The leisurely drive didn’t last. Impatient drivers blew their horns and swerved around. Not wanting to draw attention, Elliot drove past the suspect and pulled into the parking lot of an insurance agency, just west of Lewis Avenue. Seconds later, the man stepped from the sidewalk and crossed the street. Elliot grabbed some papers from the seat of the car and pretended to examine them. When the suspect drew near, he slowed his pace then altered his course and continued to the other side. He was now heading east.