Traci Tyne Hilton - Mitzi Neuhaus 02 - Eminent Domain

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  The door swung outward with a fast thud. Her feet slipped on the damp wood of the step sending her backwards. Her back slammed into the wall of the shed. She inhaled sharply and thrust her arms out, shoving the door of off or her. Her foot slipped again as she stepped forward. She grabbed the door handle for balance. Shaking herself straight, she took off from the step. She ran, her long legs crossing the yard like nothing.

  The white-shirted man was just ahead of her so she leapt forward and tackled him, dropping them both to the ground. She rolled him over with her knee then jumped up, pinning him with the pointy heel of her Fendi platform pumps to his neck.

  He was a small man with day old stubble on his cheek. He glowered at her and choked for air.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He didn’t respond.

  She pressed the heel of her shoe down on his neck harder. “Who are you?”

  “Greg.” His voice was a horse whisper.

  She slid her shoe carefully up his chest, taking the pressure off of his throat.

  He tried to push her off of him but she held him down.

  “No it’s not. You have an accent. Did you know the other yard is full of cops?”

  Someone fired their gun and the sound reverberated through her chest. She turned towards the sound. “Greg” tripped her as she turned, scrambled to his feet, and ran.

  She didn’t follow him but pushed her way through the hedge back to the 72nd house. Shannon was alone inside and Mitzy wanted to get to her. Mitzy made her way around to the basement door and let herself in. She stepped down the wooden staircase and collapsed against the concrete wall. She was breathing heavily and tried to compose herself. Greg? That man was no Greg.

  Taking a few more deep breaths, Mitzy straightened up and let herself into the family room. Shannon wasn’t waiting at the base of the stairs. Before Mitzy could panic Marcus spoke.

  “I’ve got her,” he said.

  Mitzy turned and saw them sitting together on the love seat.

  “She’s okay,” he said. Mitzy opened her mouth and then shut it, at a loss for words.

  “Attempted hit and run suspected drunk driving. Suspects exited car with knives. After they were taken into custody we found illegal substances in their vehicle. We are attempting to contact the owner of the Escalade.”

  “Did you get all four men?” Mitzy’s breath came shallow and rapid.

  “Four men?” Marcus asked.

  “The other one, in the white shirt…” Mitzy sat down.

  “Sorry. There were only three men in the car.” Marcus looked at her with his eyebrow raised.

  “Okay,” Mitzy said. She gazed at the staircase as her mind wandered for a moment. “Greg” hadn’t been in the car. “Greg” was hiding for some other reason.

  Marcus and Shannon whispered together for a moment. Then Marcus laughed. “Yeah. I do like this house.”

  Shannon whispered some more.

  “What can I say? I had a standoff here. We’ve bonded.” Marcus said with a smile.

  Mitzy turned back to her clients. “The police action didn’t put you off the neighborhood?” She asked.

  “It’s not very common over here.” Shannon said. “And the school is so good.” She smiled at her husband, her hand resting on his knee. She was the picture of security.

  “Mitzy,” Shannon said, “I think we’re ready to make an offer.”

  Mitzy took a deep breath and stood up. Time to get back to work.

  The three sat together at the kitchen table and worked out the details. It wasn’t a full price offer, why would it be? Mitzy thought. Everything in town was on discount. But the couple was ready to pay their own closing and had their financing in place. It looked like she had finally sold the Smythes’ 72nd house.

  Mitzy went straight from the open house to Detective Backman’s office downtown. The line between the threat to the inn and the threat to herself was uncomfortably blurred.

  “What do you think of the Portland City Council?” Mitzy asked Detective Backman. She offered her a vente caramel blondie crème from Bean Me Up Scotties coffee hut and took a seat before the federal agent could send her away.

  “Is this related to the case?” Detective Backman asked.

  Mitzy took a drink from her coffee and didn’t say a word.

  “You would like this to be related to the case?” Backman asked, frowning.

  “How much access do you need to my property?” Mitzy asked.

  “After what you finally gave us, I’m tempted to have the place shut down entirely and take it over. You say you got it all, but you aren’t known for being forthright with me,” Backman said.

  That hurt. Honesty had been as much a part of Mitzy’s character as being debt-free and enthusiastic. Chagrined, Mitzy spoke again, “I don’t want to play games. I’ll be completely forthright. I want to save this stupid hotel. But the City of Portland wants to tear it down and build a parking lot.”

  Backman looked at her, eyes narrowed and intense. “Why should I believe that?”

  “I know. After the toilet pods I guess you shouldn’t. But you can check on this one. You can call the council and ask about the plans for their Baltimore Street redevelopment. They intend to condemn a whole street to put in a tram and a park and ride area. I think you want more access to the house. I’ll give it to you. But I can’t give you anything if they tear the house down.”

  Backman stood up. Their talk was over. “I may or may not care if your house is demolished. I’ve got work to do.”

  “About Diego Jr.…” Mitzy started to say.

  Detective Backman opened a file on her desk and refused to look at Mitzy.

  Mitzy tried again with a different topic, “I think I had another run-in with the mafia,” she said.

  Backman slammed the palm of her hand on her desk. “What does this have to do with the city council?”

  “The city council wants to tear down our house, but the mafia is still after me. It can only be because of the inn.”

  Taking a deep breath Detective Backman said slowly, “You think the mafia is after you?”

  Mitzy knew she sounded paranoid, but she went over the scene at her open house step by step, finishing with, “He had a very heavy accent. He was absolutely not a guy named Greg. Check out the guys who got arrested. I’d put my name on them being in the mafia. It was a drugs bust. I think they were meeting Greg there.”

  “So was it a drugs crime or a Mafia crime and why do you think it had anything to do with your inn?”

  Mitzy stopped herself from saying instinct. “They were meeting at that location because that was where I was. They were multi-tasking. If you look into it you will see it is related.”

  “So you have no reason to believe the man you chased through someone’s private property and assaulted was mafia except that he had an accent. And you have no reason to think that he was related to the arrest except that he had an accent. And you have no reason to think any of this has anything to do with your inn.”

  “But if you write it down it’s related!” Mitzy said, exasperated.

  “I’ll look into it. But I won’t promise you it is related to your problems. And leave the city out of it, will you?” Detective Backman turned back to her paperwork.

  Mitzy took her cue. It was the best she could do for now, though it might cost her the inn just the same.

  Ben rocked back in his chair and thumped the legs on the floor. He did it a couple of times. “Hey! I need a bathroom!” he called out.

  The sneering man with the ash blonde hair came. He stood in the doorway with his arms across his chest.

  “Can a guy use the bathroom? I mean just once every couple of days?” Ben asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I do it, like yesterday?” Ben said.

  “I was paying for the pizza,” The ash blonde man said.

  “So…you’re here now. Bathroom?”

  “Fine.” He crossed the room slowly. He muttered under his bre
ath as he worked at the knots in Ben’s rope.

  “What?” Ben said.

  “I said the knots were over-kill,” he said. He got the ropes loose enough and made Ben shimmy his way out of the chair. “Come downstairs. Use the bathroom and eat.” The man walked out of the room and didn’t look back.

  Ben rubbed his wrists and pouted as he followed his kidnapper downstairs.

  After his bathroom visit he was allowed to sit at a vintage aluminum table with the men who were holding him hostage and eat. “Cool table,” he said. “I’m Ben.”

  “Vasiliy,” the ash blonde said.

  “Sergei.” The man with the broken nose said, smiling.

  “I don’t know about the box,” Ben said, looking at Vasiliy.

  “Apparently not,” Vasiliy said.

  “So can I go now?”

  Vasiliy looked at Sergei. Sergei shook his head no.

  The back door off of the kitchen creaked open and a small tire pushed in. A slight, thin-shouldered man with thick brown hair was pushing the scooter. He got it in and sat down at the table for pizza.

  Ben looked at the bike. He turned and looked at the guy that had rolled the scooter in. He stared at the stranger as he put half a slice of pizza in his mouth at once. Ben looked over at the bike again and swallowed.

  “That’s a Bashan mini-chopper,” Ben said.

  “302 Diablo,” Sergei said.

  “That’s scooter’s trick,” Ben said.

  “You didn’t get Mitzy,” the new guy said to Sergei.

  “We got Ben. It’s a good thing,” Sergei said. “Did you get the…merchandise?”

  “No.”

  Vasiliy turned, his eyebrows drawn tightly together, his jaw clenching, “No?” he said.

  “Complications. I do wish you had gotten Mitzy though.” Grigory rubbed the back of his neck with his thin white hand and shook his head.

  “Don’t worry Grigory. We’ll get what we need,” Vasiliy said.

  “I ride too.” Ben said, still staring at the scooter. “I’ve got an Eton Beamer.”

  “Why are you on your bike?” Sergei asked.

  “I said there were complications,” Grigory said. He took a piece of pizza from the box and sat down at the table.

  Grigory looked at Ben. “The Beamer’s a good ride,” he said, nodding his head.

  “It’s fast. Good mileage. Not that mileage is everything,” Ben said.

  “Diablo doesn’t get good mileage. But…” Sergei said.

  “Diablo doesn’t need an explanation,” Grigory said with a frown.

  Sergei smiled. “Yeah. She doesn’t. She’s tight. The Beamer’s good too.”

  Vasiliy laughed. “Those are both girl scooters. American girl scooters.” He bit his pizza and smirked.

  Sergei leaned over to Ben and whispered, “He rides a Vyatka.”

  “Cool,” Ben said. “I’ve ridden an Apé. Vespa Apé.”

  “My grandma wouldn’t drive an Apé,” Vasiliy said.

  “Come on, a 1965 Lastenroller. Your grandma would ride it if she could find one.”

  “Only good, Soviet scooters for me. 1956 Vyatka.” He thumped his fist on the table. “An Apé is an old smart car. It’s for girls. A Vyatka can run in a real Russian winter.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said sighing. “I’d like to ride a Vyatka.”

  Vasiliy snorted.

  “He could see one though, right? We could take him to the shop and show him the Vyatka?” Sergei asked.

  “Yes,” Grigory said. “We should take him to the shop and show him the Vyatka.”

  “We could stop and get my scooter on the way,” Ben said.

  Grigory shrugged.

  “Sure we could, Ben. And while we are getting it, you could think about the box some more.”

  Ben dropped his eyes to his plate. That box again. “Sure. I’ll think about it more,” he said. He’d say anything to get to sit on the 1957 Vyatka.

  Sergei took Ben outside. Vasiliy lingered in the kitchen, his hand on Grigory’s back. “It won’t be good for us to lose the merchandise my friend.”

  “It’s over,” Grigory said. “We need to cut our losses. We need to leave.”

  Vasiliy pushed Grigory’s shoulder, turning his so they were face to face.

  “The cops got the boys. All of them. We need to get out of town.”

  “And the shop?” Vasiliy said.

  “Sergei will need to take care of it. Let him take Ben there. He can meet us in Seattle when he’s done.”

  Vasiliy nodded. “He can ride the Vyatka.”

  Paperwork sent, all Marcus and Shannon could do was wait. They went home to pace for up to two days.

  Mitzy wasn’t in the mood to pace. She called the Smythes at both their numbers. She knew they’d call her back as soon as they heard she had an offer. She was too nervous. It was just a home offer. And yet, the tussle with “Greg” had her on pins and needles. To calm down she needed to be useful. She looked at Ben’s empty desk and wondered if anyone had thought to lock up his scooter. It was sitting in a parking garage. Usually he pulled it into his apartment at night. Mitzy headed for the apartments to see if she could move Ben’s scooter for him.

  Mitzy stood next to Ben’s little scooter. It had a black nylon bag hanging over each fender. She clicked open each side and looked inside. His Mac Book was in one of them, but his iPhone wasn’t there. There were a couple of books and some tools. She took out the Mac Book and put it in her bag. Thinking better of it, she opened her bag and took it out again. She’d hate to wreck the little computer. She took the myrtle wood box out of her bag and opened it. The Mac Book fit inside the box. She put the box back in her bag and looked at the scooter again.

  Mitzy wanted to ride the scooter home and put it in her garage for him but she didn’t have a key. She didn’t even know how to start it. She stared at the bike. She was trying to save everyone all by herself again, though she knew she had none of the tools to do the job.

  It seemed likely that Ben would come back for his scooter when he was ready. Since his computer was here she figured he’d even return to the scooter before he went back to Jenny. She pulled her box out again. If she took the Mac Book he’d think it was stolen. If she left it in the little bag that could only clip shut it probably would get stolen. But a plain wooden box might not. She unclipped the saddle bag on Ben’s scooter and put her box inside. It was a compromise. She had wanted to do something to help. Maybe she just made his Mac Book safer. But it was hard to know. Where was Ben? Why had he left? She shook her head in frustration. Of all the times to be a useless git, Ben chose now. Mitzy left, not entirely satisfied with her contribution.

  Vasiliy drove Ben in his pick up while the other two followed on their scooters. They had decided to get Ben’s scooter but not let him ride it. When they got to the parking garage at Ben’s apartment, the scooter was still there.

  Ben waited in the car until Vasiliy got out and opened his door. He had been having fun talking about scooters with the guys. It was taking mental effort to remember he was being kidnapped.

  He took deliberate steps to his scooter. He touched the handlebars gingerly. Thirty-five miles an hour wasn’t a great getaway speed. He patted the gear bags on the side of his ride. It felt like his stuff was still there. He looked over at Grigory.

  Grigory parked El Diablo. He grabbed the Beamer by its handlebars and lifted it up. He carried it over to the truck and put it in the bed.

  “It’s never been hauled before,” Ben said. “It’s a great ride. Fast, flickable. You should ride it to the shop.”

  Grigory shook his head.

  Vasiliy grunted.

  “I don’t think so,” Sergei said.

  “Take him to the shop,” Grigory said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “Don’t let him touch the Vyatka,” Vasiliy said. “He can look at it, but not touch it.”

  “Can I get my saddle bag off?” Ben asked.

  Sergei shrugged.

  Ben scra
mbled up the back of the truck and removed his side bag as quick as he could. He took a deep breath. It was good to have his Mac Book back.

  The shop seemed like a standard showroom. Scooters lined three walls and a register was at the front. The back wall was filled with gear bags and accessories. There was an old-fashioned popcorn machine by the register and vintage scooter posters on the walls.

  The Vyatka was displayed in the middle of the showroom floor. It was immaculate and gleaming. Ben was disappointed in it. He wanted to see a scooter that someone was still riding. Not a showroom piece. It was mint green like a Soviet hospital or a Martha Stewart towel. He got on his knees to look at it in detail.

  The seat showed signs of wear but wasn’t ripped or patched. It was a perfect long, golden brown, oval of vinyl, ever so slightly contoured to accommodate two riders. The cording around the edge hadn’t cracked or pulled away. Ben wanted to sit on it. He reached his fingertips towards the seat and let them linger over it. He stood up and pulled his hand back. He wouldn’t touch the bike.

  He looked at it from the front. It had one huge headlamp centered between the handlebars, as far as Ben could tell, totally original. The grill, under the handlebars must have been re-chromed, which disappointed Ben. He wanted to see the grit of 50 Soviet winters on the bike. He could stare at this scooter for hours. With a little dirt and grime this would have been a real man’s scooter.

  Sergei was making a lot of noise in the back room. Ben wandered to the back of the shop and looked at the accessories. They had some quality merchandise. The Rockhard American Classic helmets were right for the Vyatka. He let himself imagine the winding roads of the Ural mountains in the winter. He put his bag down and picked up the tan helmet. He could use a new helmet. He put the helmet back. It was possible he wouldn’t hit the open road anytime soon.

  Ben picked up his gear bag and slid his hand in to pull out the Mac Book. There might be wireless in the area. His hand slipped over the smooth surface of the box once or twice before he registered that it felt wrong. He pulled it out quickly. It was a punch to the gut. There was a box in his bag. In his hand. It had been in his bag and now it was in his hand. They would probably kill him over this.