Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  Lundsford lowered his head and began to scribble on a notepad, which meant the meeting was over. Elliot stood and headed for the exit, but just as he cleared the doorway, the captain said, “You’ve done good, Elliot.”

  Elliot paused. That was completely unexpected. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

  Elliot left the office and headed straight for the parking garage. When he found his car, he drove to the Yorktown, where Cyndi lived.

  When he arrived, he parked at Utica Square, then crossed the street and stopped at the guard shack. As soon as the guard came out, a neat young man with an athletic build, Elliot identified himself and asked if he could go up to Cyndi’s apartment.

  The guard rubbed his forehead while he examined Elliot’s badge. “I don’t think I can let you do that, Detective, not without Ms. Bannister’s okay.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but she might be in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Elliot did his best to explain the situation.

  “Who sent the e-mails?”

  “I wish I knew,” Elliot said. He paused, then added, “Why don’t you try calling her? Maybe she’s in now.”

  The guard hesitated, then ducked inside the small building where he worked. A few seconds later, he came out shaking his head.

  “What if something’s happened to her?” Elliot said. “Surely you can understand my concern?”

  “Yes, sir. But our protocol addressing the protection of our residents is strict and straightforward.”

  Elliot watched a black Mercedes exit the parking lot. “Could you have someone check on her, go to her door and knock, ring the bell or whatever?”

  The guard pulled the collar of his jacket up. “Just a minute,” he said. Again he went inside the shack. A few long minutes later he returned. “I talked with my supervisor. She’s going to send someone up to check on Ms. Bannister, but that’s the best we can do.”

  Elliot buried his hands in his coat pockets. In the silence that ensued, he heard a car door slam shut, a sound that had come from the lot across the street where he’d parked, but he saw no one.

  A few seconds later, the guard said, “I applied for the Police Academy once.”

  Elliot turned away from the lot to answer. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t get it, though. I guess they weren’t hiring then. They told me to try again later.”

  “You should,” Elliot said. “You’d make a good cop.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that.”

  “You from around here?”

  “Not originally. We moved down from Pennsylvania when I was twelve. My dad got laid off from the mill. He’d met some guy at the airport in Dallas a few months earlier. He managed a couple of hotels here in Tulsa. The plane was late and Dad had stopped off at the bar for a drink.” He paused and shook his head. “So dad calls the guy up. He gave him a job, and we’ve been here ever since.”

  The phone inside the shack rang. “Hang on,” the guard said, “that’s probably her.”

  The guard’s face said it all when he came back out. “Sorry,” he said. “Ms. Bannister’s not at home.”

  Elliot’s stomach churned. “Did they go inside?”

  “Yes, sir. The guard used his key. No one was there. The apartment’s empty.” He paused then added, “There were no signs of a disturbance, though. Everything looked okay, in its place I mean. I’m sure everything’s all right. She’s just not at home right now, that’s all.”

  The guard’s words did little to settle Elliot’s nerves. “Thanks,” he said. He handed the young man one of his cards. “If she shows up, will you give me a call?”

  He took the card. “Sure thing. No problem.”

  Elliot crossed the street to the parking lot where he’d left his car, with self-admonition running through his head. He should have paid more attention to his intuition, which kept telling him something wasn’t right when he’d talked with Cyndi. She’d seemed distracted, even confused. He dug his keys from his pocket and punched the remote, but just as he reached for the door, he saw movement from the corner of his eye, and he spun around to find himself staring into the anger-contorted face of Michael Cunningham.

  “Where’s Cyndi?” he asked.

  Elliot shook his head. “I haven’t seen her since last night.” He didn’t mention that he’d talked with her on the phone earlier. “You know you really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

  Cunningham jerked his thumb toward the building where Cyndi lived. “She’s not home, and she doesn’t answer her phone. I checked with her parents. They haven’t seen her either.”

  Elliot realized, and not for the first time, that he actually knew very little about Cyndi. He hadn’t even thought to ask about her parents.

  Cunningham took a step forward. “I need some answers, Elliot.”

  Elliot stepped away from the car. It was a strategic move. He didn’t want to be pinned against anything if a struggle broke out. “Come on, Michael. You know as well as I do that we’re not going to get anywhere this way.”

  He shook his head. “Everything was fine until you came along. This wouldn’t have happened without you.”

  Elliot took a deep breath, resisting the urge to reflect Cunningham’s aggression. He’d known when he was just a kid, even before he joined the football team and Coach Sims had confirmed it, that he was the major cause of his own problems. He’d spent a lot of time trying to distance himself from that kind of behavior. But he was beginning to wear down, and Cunningham’s irritation acted only to increase the adrenaline that surged through him. He began to assess the situation and his adversary’s ability to deal with it.

  A car in the parking lot passed by, catching Elliot and Cunningham in its lights, and for a moment Elliot thought the simple act of being exposed, taken from the darkness, might ease the tension, but as soon as the car pulled onto the street, Cunningham stabbed his finger toward Elliot’s chest. “Tell me where she is, Elliot. Don’t make me ask you again.”

  Elliot raised his hands, though only for emphasis, to aid in communication as he started to speak, but Cunningham took the gesture as an act of aggression. He made his move.

  He came at Elliot wide open, showing his inexperience, his chin hanging there for the taking, his arms flailing in wide arcs with no real muscle behind them. Not that he didn’t have any, he did. He just didn’t know how to use them.

  For Elliot, once a confrontation escalated to the point of physical contact, things decelerated, unfolding in a motion that was both slow and predictable. At times, the advantage this offered seemed unfair, as if he actually knew his opponents’ moves a split second before they did. Knowing this was impossible didn’t make it less real. He took a half step to his left and launched a straight right at Cunningham’s face.

  Cunningham stumbled backward, clutching his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers. He launched another attack, charging forward, again swinging wide. One of the punches caught Elliot on the jaw.

  Elliot sidestepped, then dug a hook to the body, which found Cunningham’s liver, and like an animal sensing the kill Elliot put his weight into it, twisting his body to concentrate the blow.

  With that, Michael Cunningham, former all state, offensive lineman for the Tulsa Golden Hurricanes went down. Elliot had to fight the urge to finish him off. Perhaps it was some kind of genetic memory, a survival instinct born of necessity in a time when letting your opponent off the hook went beyond bad judgment, teetering on the brink of foolishness. But he did not. He held back and watched Cunningham fall, not a merciful drop, but a slow, agonizing decent, his face broadcasting his disbelief.

  Elliot helped Cunningham to his feet. He had no fight left in him. “Where’s your car?” Elliot asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  Elliot scanned the parking lot until he spotted Cunningham’s red BMW. Throwing Cunningham’s arm over his shoulder, he walked his colleague to his car. Once there, he dug t
he keys from his pocket, then opened the door and helped him in, which more or less involved letting him fall onto the seat. “You all right?”

  Again Cunningham did not answer.

  Elliot handed him the keys. He seemed okay, so Elliot left him there and walked back to his own car.

  After a short drive, Elliot parked his car and walked into the Hive, a bar where music always played. He pushed through the crowd, making his way from one end of the bar to the other. Along the way, various girls stepped in front of him, trying to dance, but he kept moving, hoping to see what he was looking for: the sensuous face of Cyndi Bannister. It was where he’d run into her before, and he’d hoped it might happen again, but of all the people crammed into the place that night, Cyndi was not among them.

  Elliot made his way to the bar, and when the bartender saw him, her mouth began to move, but he could not hear her. The band they had on stage, a bunch of guys wearing baggy jeans and black T-shirts, had their amps cranked up too high. Elliot pointed to the kind of beer he wanted.

  Elliot stayed at the club long enough to finish the beer he’d ordered, then walked out. Several minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of his home in Broken Arrow. He didn’t know what to do next, so he sat there in the darkness, letting the events of the past few days run through his head, like some kind of late movie that he’d forgotten to shut off. Cyndi had to be somewhere. He couldn’t just give up. He had to find her.

  There were other places to search, bars and clubs where people gathered to unwind with music, companionship, and booze. He punched the garage door opener, then traded the company car for his truck.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Elliot had stayed out late looking for Cyndi, and he hadn’t found her. Morning had arrived too early. But he wasn’t walking on firm ground with Lundsford, and he couldn’t complicate things by missing the nine o’clock appointment the captain had set up for him.

  Just off Sheridan Road, Elliot found a street that led him to the address Captain Lundsford had given him, that of a newly constructed home built for Ashton and Monica Wheeler. Ashton didn’t live there anymore. He was dead.

  Elliot pulled into the circular drive and parked, but he didn’t feel like going through with this. His mind was still on Cyndi. The Llewellyn case still concerned him as well. He couldn’t help feeling as if the captain had asked him to abandon an unfinished job.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Elliot left his office and took the elevator to the parking garage. Darkness had set in, and as he walked across the concrete floor toward his car, he checked his watch. It showed 7:00 p.m. He’d spent the entire day following dead-end leads that’d come from his interrogation of Monica Wheeler, and as he climbed into his car and fumbled the keys into the ignition he began to wonder if his fate was to be assigned to one unsolvable case after another.

  Elliot wrapped his fingers around the key but hesitated as a sensation of impending danger tiptoed around his senses. He wondered if someone had tampered with the car, but then realized it was a ridiculous notion brought on by fatigue and frustration. He turned the key, but just as he twisted it he heard a noise. It was his phone. He flipped it open and brought it to his ear and the sensation of not-right intensified. “Elliot.”

  “I suggest you pay attention this time.”

  The voice that came over the phone was deep and riddled with bass, like the confidence-robbing sound of Enrique Savage, and while a tingling of nerves buzzed up Elliot’s spine, he wondered if Enrique was in the car with him, if he’d somehow busted out of his cell and was in the backseat, hunkering down with a satisfied grin on his pasty white face, and a gun pointed at Elliot’s head.

  Elliot twisted around, looked in the backseat. It was empty. He scanned the garage but saw no one. “Who is this?”

  The caller did not answer right away. Elliot could hear him breathing in the background.

  “If you want to see your girlfriend again,” he continued, “do exactly what I tell you. The slightest deviation will not be tolerated.”

  The phone went dead.

  Elliot hit MENU then CALLS, but the phone number had been blocked. The phone dropped from his hand and fell to the seat. The car was running but he hadn’t put it in gear. A current of fear ran through him “My God. What have I done to you, Cyndi?”

  In a near involuntary action, Elliot slid the car into gear and backed out of the parking space. He dropped it into drive and pressed the accelerator, driving into the night. He had no idea where he was going. Do exactly as I tell you, the voice had said. But how could he when the caller hadn’t told him anything? He’d left him hanging, like he was supposed to figure it out on his own by utilizing the kind of hoodoo magic Captain Lundsford was so fond of ridiculing.

  Elliot drove until a particular brand of sign, glowing through a window, caught his attention, and he had to confess to not knowing exactly where he was, but he’d found a bar and right now that’s exactly where he wanted to be. He parked and went inside. He couldn’t remember having been there before, and several of the rough-looking patrons turned their heads as he walked by, which told him it was one of those places you didn’t go unless you belonged there. He didn’t really care right now. He went to the bar and ordered a beer, then sat a table in the corner.

  Elliot’s present state of mind didn’t lend itself to the accumulation of details, but what he’d seen behind the bar didn’t require a heightened state of awareness to get his attention. Pinned to the wall alongside an array of required permits, was a sign of hate, a swastika. These people had no use for him, but he had news for them. It was right back at them two fold. He reached inside his coat and readied the Glock.

  Elliot finished the first beer and was halfway through the second when a couple of guys with shaved heads decided it was time he left their little hideaway. They got up from their tables and walked over to his.

  One of them leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “You look a little out of place, mister. Are you lost, or just stupid?”

  That’s when Elliot’s phone rang. He knew who it had to be, which meant he had to take the call, and he didn’t have time for small talk with his new friends. He wasn’t sure what came over him at that instant, a sort of craziness to be sure, but his next actions were those kind that exist only within the confines of our imaginations, that secret world of fantasy where we play out ridiculous scenarios, knowing full well that we would never actually do such things. Elliot flipped open the phone and brought it to his ear, and at the same time he ripped the Glock from its holster and planted the barrel firmly against the forehead of the man who had spoken to him. As a silence fell over the bar, Elliot spoke into the phone. “Elliot.”

  The other party didn’t answer, but Elliot knew he was there. He could feel his presence. Keeping both the Glock and the phone in place, Elliot pushed away from the table and stood. He forced his opponent to sit in a chair at the same table, then he slowly backed out of the bar. Luckily, his welcoming committee didn’t try to follow.

  Once he was outside, alone on the sidewalk, Elliot pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Who the hell are you,” he asked, “and what do you want from me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Detective Elliot. Your lack of good judgment got us in this little jam. Now it’s up to you to get us out of it.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  The voice that came over the phone was just as intimidating as before, but this time Elliot detected something that he hadn’t picked up on earlier, a trace of apprehension and a mechanical quality, as if the caller was speaking into some kind of voice-scrambling device. Elliot thought about the listening equipment the individual who’d parked outside his house had dropped as he’d sped away. The equipment could have been purchased at the same outlet. He made a mental note to do some checking around, find out who’d recently acquired such things in the Tulsa area.

  Once again Elliot’s phone relayed the distorted voice. “Are you listening?”
Without waiting for an answer, the caller instructed, “This is what I want you to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Douglass Wistrom pressed his face against the cold steel of the gate and peered into the black expanse ahead of him. The compound was supposed to be a self-sufficient community, like a town unto itself where the followers of the Church could live in harmony with church and community being one and the same, but it didn’t work out that way, becoming instead just another eccentric neighborhood in a town where normalcy was the exception and not the rule. Most of the cottages were empty now, and the smattering of small white houses that were still occupied needed fresh paint and a host of other repairs.

  Just outside the gates of the dwindling community, Douglass stood quietly in the darkness, which he’d been waiting for, contemplating what he might do once he reached the reverend’s house. As he started to climb the fence, however, his phone went off. He wanted to believe that he’d simply forgotten to turn it off, but to be honest he hadn’t even considered it, and he cursed quietly as its ring tone reverberated through the night, breaking the silence like an alarm tripped by a careless burglar. He wrestled it from his pocket, its light shining like a beacon as he flipped it open and brought it to his ear. But the familiar voice that came over the phone eased his anxiety, and he had to admit to being both surprised and relieved that she had called him. Hearing her voice brought a touch of sanity to an otherwise desperate situation.

  Being in Donegal had unraveled his nerves, affecting him on levels of consciousness that he’d buried, and for good reason, but he’d be all right as soon as he got out of this place, and back to never-never land. He paused as he realized he’d never said that before. Those were her words, and she had been just as shocked as he was that he’d used them. But a lot had happened in the last few days. He wasn’t himself, or was he? Was he the man behind door number one or the imposter inside box number three?