Four Ways To Midnight (An Anthony Carrick Short Story Collection Book 1)

by Jason Blacker

  I nodded. Any of those reasons were good enough for some people to kill someone. In my time I'd seen people murdered for less.

  "Gregg was wearing the same blue UCLA t-shirt that you're wearing. Do you know how he came by it?" I asked.

  "I gave it to him. I've given all the students from this program a t-shirt just like it. I find it helps keep them motivated. I give it to them when they're in grade twelve usually. You'll be amazed at how just a simple memento like that can feed their dreams and help them stay focused and determined."

  I looked over at Roberts. I couldn't think of any other questions to ask. As usual, the early part of this investigation was filled with more questions than answers. Roberts looked over at me and then at Vanessa.

  "Thanks for your help," he said, offering her his card which she took. "If you can think of anything, please give me a call."

  We stood up and Vanessa shook our hands, and we started to leave, when I turned around to her.

  "I just had a thought," I said. "Where can we find Stephanie?"

  "She lives with her parents. I'll forward her address to you," she said, looking at Roberts.

  We left her and made our way back to the car. Just before we got in, Roberts turned to me.

  "You know the Trece Noches have killed over less," he said.

  "True, but I'm skeptical. I want to find out why he needed a job so urgently."

  "Maybe because he wanted to go out on better dates," said Roberts.

  "Right," I said, and climbed into the passenger seat.

  Washed Up: Chapter Four

  East 109th Place is a rundown street a couple of blocks away from Locke High School in Green Meadows. How do I know this? Because Roberts and I had just arrived to pay a friendly visit to Zaira Estrada.

  Most of the houses along this street like most of Green Meadows are rundown bungalows with metal arrowed fences and brown grass. Trees were sparse and the driveways were cracked and stained with oil. The stucco on the Estrada house was peeling and cracked and the window trim needed more than a coat of paint. This wasn't the kind of place that shouted pride of ownership. In fact the only thing that seemed to have been shown some tenderness was a pimped out late 80s Cadillac de Ville that sat in the drive.

  As we drove up the driveway I noticed a "Beware of Dog" sign. Perhaps what it should have read was "Beware of God". The fear of God might have encouraged some of these folks to work for a living instead of looting and killing. The same sign was stuck to a window by the door. The door was open but the metal mesh security door which also needed a coat of paint was locked.

  Roberts banged on the screen door and waited. I turned around and looked up and down the street. It was quiet. Maybe most of these people were actually working. Across the road an infill was being built. In some places it would fetch half a million, here it looked out of place like a Jehovah's witness.

  "What you want," said a short fat and bald Hispanic wearing a white vest and the requisite tattoos of Trece Noches.

  Roberts pointed at his police badge stuck to the right side of his pants.

  "I'm John Roberts and I need to speak with Zaira Estrada about Gregg Gelvan."

  The Hispanic took a swig from the can of beer he was holding.

  "You got the wrong house."

  "I've got the right house," said Roberts.

  "Well, she don't want to talk to the cops."

  "Let me hear it from her."

  "Unless you got a warrant, I ain't gonna talk to you."

  Roberts fished out a card and handed it through a slit in the metal door.

  "Ask her to call me," he said.

  "Yeah, I'll do that," said the Hispanic sarcastically as he walked away.

  I could see straight through the house to the back door past the kitchen. I couldn't see any weapons visible in the house and I couldn't see or hear a dog. Roberts stepped off the porch and started to walk down the driveway.

  "What are you doing?" I asked.

  "Anthony, I don't have a warrant and unless we have some evidence or a warrant I can't just force myself into his house, as much as I'd like to."

  I put my hand up to my ear.

  "Do you hear that?" I asked him.

  "What?"

  "Someone's crying for help from inside," I said.

  "Bullshit," he said, shaking his head at me. "Listen, if we want to catch the killer we have to play by the rules."

  "You have to play by the rules," I said. "Just give me a minute, let me see if I can't reason with the guy."

  "No, Anthony, that's not a good idea."

  "Listen, you know me. I can be charming when I want to."

  I left him to think about it for a minute as I walked around to the back of the house. These gangsters aren't always that smart. Take for instance the back of their house. Now most houses I know have a front door and a back door. Most times these gang bangers don't install a metal security door on the back. Don't ask me why. Maybe they're just frugal like that.

  And the Estrada's place was no different. Even better, the back door was open. It was getting warm this morning. So I walked in. Now I know that's technically breaking and entering but I figured these guys wouldn't mind.

  Two Hispanics were sitting at a small kitchen table. The fat one was facing me as I walked in. He had a cigarette in his mouth. I noticed by the kitchen sink there was a gun. I skipped in to stand between him and his gun. The other Hispanic who was thin but otherwise dressed the same with the same haircut now saw me.

  "What the fuck, man!" said the fat Hispanic.

  He got up, taking his time like he was going to show me out again. As soon as he stood up I planted a punch right on his soft nose. It sat him back down again, as the blood started pouring out.

  "You mother fucker," said the thin Hispanic.

  He was much faster than the fat one, he came at me quickly but I sidestepped him and used his momentum to ram his face into the corner of the kitchen counter. It got him right on the bridge of the nose. He dropped like a sad sweaty sack of rotten apples. I left him there to bleed on the floor. I picked up the gun that was by the sink and put it in my pocket.

  "My partner asked if he could speak with Zaira," I said. "Are you gonna let him?"

  "You cops can't just break into my place," said the fat Hispanic as he sat wiping blood onto his forearm.

  "I'm not the cops," I said.

  "Then what the fuck do you want?"

  "I want you to stop cursing and let my partner in so we can talk to Zaira. That's all we want to do. Just talk to her."

  I heard footsteps running down the hall to the front door. That had to be Zaira. I turned to follow her down the hall, as I got there she was just exiting the metal security door and running straight into Robert's arms.

  "See," I said to him, "they want you to come inside."

  Roberts grabbed Zaira by the arm and pulled her into the house. She was yelling and screaming and telling him to let go of her.

  "I'm a cop," he said, "and I just want to talk to you about Gregg."

  He pushed her down onto the couch as I went into the kitchen to see what was what with my two new friends. The fat Hispanic had decided to grab a steak knife and made a thrust for me. I dodged out of the way and grabbed a wooden cutting board off the drying rack just as he came back at me with the knife again. I slammed the board down hard against his wrist hoping to break it. He dropped the knife and yelled in pain. As he reached for his limp hand with his good one and brought it towards his chest and I smacked him up the side of the head as hard as I could with the cutting board. He dropped as if I'd cut his legs out from under him.

  I picked up the steak knife and put it in my pocket. I helped the thin Hispanic up.

  "Are you gonna behave now?" I asked him. "We just want to ask Zaira a couple of questions.

  He nodded at me through watery eyes and a swollen bleeding nose.

  "Good," I said, "then grab your brother and drag him into the other room. I want to keep my eyes on you."


  He did as he was told. I put the wooden board back down and put the knife into the sink. I grabbed the roll of paper towels and followed them out as he dribbled blood on the floor like rose petals as he dragged the fat one into the living room.

  Roberts watched us as we came in. He was sitting on the couch next to Zaira.

  "What have you done to Pampy," she said, and she started to punch Roberts on the shoulder and chest.

  He had to restrain her until she settled down. Then he let her go. He looked at me and shook his head like a disapproving father. It didn't bother me. I knew deep inside he was grateful for my help. I gave the thin Hispanic the roll of paper towels. He took a couple of sheets and dabbed carefully at his nose as he sat down in a chair opposite the couch. The fat one started to get up too and touched the side of his head gingerly.

  I pointed at the other chair next to the thin one. He sat in it and took a couple of paper towels from it and started to wipe his nose.

  "Now that we're all here," I said, looking around the room, "I'm gonna assume that you're Zaira Estrada." I looked at her and she nodded carefully. Then I turned to the fat one.

  "You must be Pampín Estrada." He nodded. "Which makes you Ezra Estrada," I said looking at the thin one. He nodded too. "Good. Now I want everyone to behave. We only want to ask some questions. Comprender?"

  I looked around at everyone and they all nodded. I stood close to the door but halfway between the couch and Pampín.

  "Fire away, John," I said.

  John looked at Zaira.

  "I want to ask you about Gregg Gelvan," he said.

  "What about him?"

  "He was murdered," said Roberts. "A couple of days ago."

  Zaira furrowed her eyebrows and shook her head.

  "No," she said, "that can't be."

  She seemed upset but she wasn't a cloud of tears.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "He was stabbed," said Roberts.

  "Why?"

  "That's what we're trying to find out."

  "You and he dated for a while."

  Zaira nodded her head.

  "We met in grade ten and we dated until a few months ago."

  "What happened?" asked Roberts.

  "He told me he had started seeing someone new."

  "That must have pissed you off."

  "I know where you're going with this. I love him, okay, I didn't kill him."

  "I didn't ask you that," said Roberts.

  "But you might have," I said, looking at Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  "Nah man, you've got to be crazy, why'd we kill Gregg?" asked Pampín.

  "Because you threatened to kill him if he hurt your sister. And he hurt your sister."

  "Where'd you hear that?" he asked.

  "From Gregg himself."

  "Nah man, that was just crazy talk, you know. We were just looking out for our sister. Brothers say shit like that. Don't mean we meant it."

  "They didn't do it," said Zaira. "It's just like Pampy said. They were only trying to protect me. Besides he didn't really hurt me. He never beat me or nothing."

  "When did you see him last?" asked Roberts.

  "Last weekend, he said he wanted to get back together with me. He said he was tired of that high maintenance bitch taking up all his time and what little money he had."

  "You mean the woman he had been seeing."

  "Yeah."

  "When on the weekend did you see him?"

  "He came by on Saturday evening. Pampy and Ezzy were here."

  I looked at them and they nodded.

  "That's a convenient alibi,” I said, “but its not even big enough to be a spittoon."

  Zaira shook her head and squinted at me. She had no idea what I meant.

  "Did you hear him saying he wanted to get back with your sister?" I asked Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  Pampín shook his head.

  "Nah man, they were in Zay's room. But when he left Zay seemed pretty happy. She told us they were going to get back together."

  "And you didn't see him since then?" I asked.

  Zaira shook her head. I looked at her two brothers. They shook their heads too. Pampín and Ezra had clumped soggy balls of pink paper towels in their laps. If those balls were any bigger I might have confused them for cheerleader's pompoms.

  "You knew Gregg well. You're from the same neighborhood. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?" asked Roberts.

  Zaira shook her head vigorously.

  "No, everybody liked him. I mean sure, there were a couple of the students that got pissed because they didn't have the chance he had been given. But they wouldn't have killed him over it."

  Pampín looked at his sister and raised his eyebrows at her. He thought he was being discreet. But when you've played poker awhile you can see a novice tell this side of the river.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Nothing," said Pampín looking down at his soggy ball of paper towels.

  "We came here for a civilized, honest chat, and now you're holding out on us. If that's how it's gonna be, we'll take you downtown to think about it."

  Pampín looked up at his sister and nodded at her carefully, slowly, like he had a big pain in the back of his neck. Zaira looked over at Roberts. Everyone was ignoring me. That was fine, I wasn't looking to make any friends around here.

  "Tell us," encouraged Roberts.

  "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now," she said. "I mean Gregg's dead. But he shouldn't have gotten into UCLA."

  "What do you mean?" asked Roberts.

  "He cheated," she said. "After his mother got cancer he really wanted to get into UCLA to make her proud. But he had ADD or something and he wasn't good at studying. So with the help of me and my brothers he cheated."

  "How did he cheat?"

  "We knew a guy who could get access to the final grade twelve exams and so he gave Gregg the answers. If you look at his grades up until the final exams you'll see he was getting like Cs and Ds. Then in the finals he got high Bs and low As."

  "This guy also found someone who could take the SATs for Gregg with fake ID."

  "And you think this guy wanted to kill Gregg?" asked Roberts.

  "I don't know. All I know is that this whole thing cost ten grand. Ten grand that Gregg didn't have. He was nervous about it. He told me this guy kept hounding him for the money and threatening him if he didn't pay up by the time school started."

  "Does this guy have a name?"

  "Dennis Evans," said Zaira.

  She looked nervously over at her brothers. Pampín nodded at her again.

  "What's that about?" I asked.

  Pampín looked at me.

  "She's worried about ratting out on Dennis. But we can take care of her if he tries anything."

  "Nice of you," I said sarcastically.

  "You three stick around," said Roberts standing up from the couch. "I might need to talk to you again. Next time, just let me in nice and easy."

  He looked at Pampín hard, like he thought he was Uri Geller. Pampín bent his head down in acknowledgement. I needed to ask Roberts how he did that.

  "You've got my card. Use it if you think of anything else," said Roberts.

  We walked out of the house and down the driveway where we crossed the road and stopped by the car. It was going to be a warm day. I took out Pampín's gun and handed it to Roberts.

  "I doubt this is registered," I said.

  "You're psychic," he replied, grinning at me.

  "Where to next?"

  "I want to visit the other love of Gregg's life. See if she's got any light to shed on this."

  We got into the car and Roberts called UCLA. Stephanie Eastman was in class until noon. They said they'd call her to the counselors’ offices and at that time we could interview.

  Washed Up: Chapter Five

  We parked in the same black scorched piece of tarmac we had the day before when we visited the counselor. I was starting to feel like a senior about to grad
uate. I wondered if I could choose my degree. We walked up towards the building as the unrepentant vigor of youth leered at us with their perky bosoms, six pack abs and smooth as pudding skin.

  "Did you visit his mother yet?" I asked as we walked towards the entrance.

  He looked at me and grinned.

  "I sent Schaal and Campos yesterday afternoon."

  "You cowardly bastard," I said to him.

  "Hey, that's the perks of being the Captain of homicide. What would you have done?"

  "Exact same thing," I said grinning.

  "There you go."

  At the main desk in the counselors’ reception area, Roberts introduced himself again and showed his badge. The receptionist left her desk and disappeared. She came back out with Vanessa. I wasn't surprised about that.

  "Hello again," she said, greeting us as she led us into the main area and towards her desk. "I wish it was under better circumstances."

  "Agreed," I said, though in truth I enjoyed any reason to see her.

  Vanessa let us in to her office, where Stephanie was seated on the couch. We stood in front of her as Vanessa went and got a chair. I took it from her and sat down in it. Vanessa sat in her easy chair close to the sofa and Roberts sat down on the couch next to Stephanie.

  Stephanie was a plain looking woman with thin lips and a pudgy face. She had dirty blonde hair that dropped to her shoulders and overall she was soft and pillowy. A slimmer version of the Michelin man, but by no means to be mistaken for the svelteness of a model. On the desk in front of the couch a half empty box of tissues was available. Stephanie had been making good use of them.

  Her eyes were swollen and red rimmed. She had been crying. A clump of crumpled origami tissue balls were lying on the desk within reach of her and she clutched a damp one in her hand.

  "I take it you've heard about Gregg," said Roberts in his caring uncle's voice.