Traci Tyne Hilton - Mitzi Neuhaus 02 - Eminent Domain

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  Ben lunged for her, grabbed her by the waist and swung her around. “I got away! I got away!” he cried out.

  When she was done punching him she kissed him for a while. And then she made him call the police.

  “And you’ve got to quit working for Mitzy,” Jenny said, wrapping her arms tightly around Ben.

  Alonzo paced the halls of the hospital waiting for Mitzy to be released. She was getting her leg stitched up. While he waited he called her mom. He downplayed the fire and the mafia bits and told her that the wound wasn’t so bad and was getting taken care of. Mitzy’s mom Susan was on her way anyway. Alonzo wanted to see Mitzy first. He wanted to hold her and to believe that what the nurses said was true. He hadn’t set eyes on her since she disappeared behind the burning wall.

  Alonzo leaned against the cold hospital wall and closed his eyes. He was tired but he wouldn’t sit down. He was almost asleep when he felt his hand being squeezed, longer slender fingers weaving their way through his fingers. He turned his head and opened his eyes.

  Mitzy stood eye to eye with Alonzo, in her heels. She leaned her forehead on his. He snaked his arm around her and pulled her close. “Mitzy,” he said, closing his eyes again.

  “It wasn’t deep,” she whispered. “They stitched it shut and let me go. I’ve got a little vicodin…” she trailed off.

  “I’ve got you Mitzy. Just relax.” He led her to a chair, and they both sat down. “Are you okay?” he asked, and then kissed her lips before she could answer.”

  She pulled away from him and smiled. “I’m fine. Let’s go home.”

  “We’ve got to wait for your mom. Then she’s taking you to her house. You don’t need to be alone tonight.”

  “Umm hmm…” Mitzy said. “I took a little of the vicodin.” She smiled a weak smile at him.

  “I can see that. And you didn’t eat lunch. Just relax.” Alonzo was chuckling. “They’ll release anyone from the hospital, won’t they?”

  “Do we have to talk to the police?” Mitzy murmured.

  “No,” Alonzo said. He pulled his arm out from behind Mitzy’s back and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We aren’t talking to the police. What would we tell them? But we do need to talk to the Feds. Just, not tonight.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Not tonight,” Mitzy said.

  Her mother arrived and took her home. Alonzo wanted to follow but there was no point. Mitzy wasn’t used to narcotics.

  Mitzy’s leg throbbed in pain. She had it up on the ottoman. Enid Gorely sat in the armchair next to Mitzy. She had come with a casserole.

  “You’re going to see the detective tomorrow morning,” Enid said firmly. She sipped her tea and nodded to herself. “You can’t put it off.”

  “Yes, of course I am.” Mitzy said, also drinking tea, but not feeling sure.

  “And this is the last time, right? You are giving up everything you have this time.”

  “Yes.” Mitzy said, turning her face away.

  “This was a dangerous game you were playing.” Enid said.

  Mitzy turned back to Enid and adjusted her aching leg. “I wasn’t playing a game.”

  “That’s better. Don’t get listless. Fight back. When you fight to defend yourself you find success. But when you play games you fail.”

  “I wasn’t playing games.” Mitzy repeated.

  “You were not taking your enemy seriously.” Enid said. She set her cup down and picked up Mitzy’s hand. “Right at the beginning you had a choice. You could work with the law or against it.”

  “I didn’t see it as a game. Not at all. This is our livelihood.” Mitzy said, her voice gaining strength as she defended herself.

  “Is it?” Enid asked. She gave Mitzy’s hand a little squeeze and then let her hand rest on the Bible that was lying on the small table between their chairs.

  Mitzy followed Enid’s small hand with her eyes.

  “Where is your hope Mitzy? Is it in God or in the hotel?” Enid asked.

  Mitzy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m trying to steward my resources,” she said, her voice rising in her frustration. “Besides, you were helping me try to stop the tram.”

  “And I still am helping you. Believe that you don’t need the hotel and then you will be able to save it,” Enid said. Her voice was calm and normal, as though she were talking about the grocery shopping.

  “I am going to see Detective Backman tomorrow,” Mitzy said. “I’ll be working with the law from now on.”

  “Good girl,” Enid said nodding, “Now tell me all about the trouble you had at that little scooter shop.”

  It seemed to Mitzy that Enid had all the answers and that they were so very simple. Just trust God. And Obey. She poured out the story of the text message and the fire, Enid nodding and shaking her head at the appropriate moments.

  “It was terribly exciting, wasn’t it?” Enid said.

  Mitzy nodded.

  “Well then you need to rest up. I think you will need a reserve of strength to get through this yet.” Enid kissed Mitzy on the cheek and let herself out of the apartment.

  Mitzy wanted to think over Enid’s advice and the strength she took from her faith, but the medicine was too strong and Mitzy slept instead.

  “Worthless,” Detective Backman said, throwing the papers on her desk. She clenched the edge of her desk, knuckles white, and leaned forward, her voice low. “Your furniture was worthless, and these papers are as well. Why do you continue to think we are a joke?”

  Mitzy took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t argue this time. “My instructions from the beginning were to give you everything. This is the last of it. The city is going to demolish the house. We’ve been through every inch of it. This is the last.”

  “We don’t care about some woman’s club from 60 years ago. We don’t care about a wedding from a hundred years ago.”

  Mitzy refused to be drawn into an argument. She’d never tried that before, but she liked it.

  Detective Backman sat down in her desk chair. She picked up each paper off of her desk, looked at it and dropped it in the bin. “I do like the receipt,” she said. She tucked that paper into a folder. “We have the receipt and we have the sofa. Where is the box?”

  “The box?” Mitzy asked, her eyes popping wide open.

  “I see you know what I am talking about.”

  “About this size?” Mitzy asked, framing a rectangle with her hands.

  “Most likely,” Backman said.

  “Those are the papers from the box! You must have what you want now.”

  “I want the box,” Backman said.

  “But the box was destroyed in the fire at the scooter shop. I know it was. It had to have been. I had all of the papers, but Ben had the box and everything Ben had was destroyed.”

  “At the scooter shop?” Detective Backman rose to her feet, yelling. “You let the box go to the scooter shop?”

  “I-I- I didn’t let it!” Mitzy stammered and then yelled. She stepped back and took a deep breath, determined not to fight. “The box was in the side bag on his scooter. His scooter was in the shop. His scooter was destroyed in the fire, and everything that was with it.”

  “The box wasn’t destroyed.” Backman said.

  Mitzy didn’t respond. Everything had been destroyed in the fire at the scooter shop.

  “You don’t know who owns that shop. They have the box and now we will have to start over.” Backman sat down again. She opened her file and looked at the receipt. “We know what used to be in the box and how the box got out of the prison furniture shop. We know who received the sofa.”

  “So you needed the receipt then,” Mitzy said.

  “We need the box. We don’t know who made the box.”

  “If you know who made a box that fit inside the arm of a reproduction Victorian Sofa that was built at the Oregon State Penitentiary furniture store then you will know…what exactly?” Mitzy asked.

  “Then we will know who the insider is.” Backman closed
her file. “You know enough already. Don’t come back unless you have the box with you.”

  Mitzy turned to leave but then remembered something. “Enid Gorely thinks James Simonite made the box.”

  “James Simonite?” Detective Backman said.

  The door to Backman’s office creaked open. Mitzy turned at the sound. Ben tipped his head into the room.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Yes?” Backman said, frowning.

  Ben came into the room, one small step at a time, shutting the door behind him with care.

  Mitzy pinched her lips shut, eyes, glued to Ben.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Hey, Mitz,” he said. “Alonzo said you’d be here.”

  Mitzy smiled, but not with her eyes. She had just started to get somewhere with Backman.

  Ben pulled his fist out of one pocket. He shoved his arm out and uncurled his fingers. “I found this,” he said.

  “And?” Backman said, spitting the word out.

  “At the shop. In the box,” Ben stuttered his big brown eyes wide and his face pale.

  Backman picked the small memory card up with a pair of tweezers. “This was in the box?” She asked.

  “How? Where?” Mitzy asked. “I took everything out of the box. That wasn’t inside!”

  “It was kind of like a puzzle box. It had a false bottom.” Ben said, shoving his hand back in his pocket.

  “Well done.” Backman said, still examining the card.

  “But that means the box hadn’t been hidden for years and years.” Mitzy said.

  Backman slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Seriously, Mitzy? Of course it hadn’t been in hiding for decades. If it had been why would we want it so badly? Why would the Mafia want it?” She turned back to Ben. “Was this all you found?”

  “I was kind of in a hurry. It might have been all but I can’t guarantee it.” Ben said.

  “It’s a good start.” Backman said.

  “But now you don’t need my house,” Mitzy said, picking at her fingernail.

  “Yes, they do,” Ben said.

  “And why is that?” Backman asked, the card still pinched in the tweezers right where she could see it.

  “Because that card was hidden in a space less than an inch wide ticked inside a quarter inch of myrtle wood behind a paper thin sliding door. Who knows what is still hidden in that house.”

  “Sit down, Ben,” Backman said. “The three of us need to talk.”

  Carmella stood behind her reception desk, taking notes while Detective Backman walked up and down the foyer giving instructions.

  “Do you understand all of this?” The detective said.

  “I’m not stupid. If any of these things happen I call you right away on your cell.”

  “That’s right. What do you do if two cars pull up into your driveway, exchange something through the windows and drive away?” Detective Backman asked.

  “Call you. I said I would call you if anything on this list happened,” Carmella said.

  “What if something from the museum goes missing?” Detective Backman asked.

  “I call you.”

  “Vandalism?” Detective Backman asked.

  “I call you,” Carmella said again. “I really do understand. If something suspicious happens at the Miramontes I call you.”

  “What if someone leaves without paying?”

  “I call you,” Carmella said.

  “Please don’t,” Detective Collins said. He was lounging on the sofa in the foyer. “I don’t think we need to know about everyone who sneaks out without paying.” He yawned and looked at his watch.

  “You call me,” Detective Backman said, turning her back on Collins. “At this inn, everything is related.”

  Alonzo and Mitzy drove up to the inn. They were meeting the detective and Carmella to talk about the new and special relationship between their business and the FBI. Mitzy wasn’t thrilled with it, but in the end, Carmella was manager and Carmella could handle herself.

  She stepped out of the pick up truck on to their newly paved driveway.

  “I can’t believe how far we’ve come,” Mitzy said.

  Alonzo came around to her side of the truck and shut the door. “The front is looking good anyway. You were right about curb appeal. I’m glad the fountain is coming next.”

  Mitzy lingered by the car while Alonzo walked to the front door. He turned, admiring her in the sunshine where she stood by the car. “You coming?” he said.

  “I want to admire it for a while,” she said with a wistful smile. “Just in case the city follows through with their threats.”

  “Not likely now, eh?” Alonzo said.

  “I’d like to think not, but I’m not putting my whole weight down on the FBI. Not yet anyway.”

  Alonzo laughed and went inside.

  A car pulled up next to the pick up truck. Mitzy didn’t turn to look. The more Feds the merrier, she thought.

  She felt hot breath on the back of her neck first. She stepped forward and turned, but a fat, coarse hand smacked her in the face, covering her mouth. Her feet gave out from under her as she was pulled backwards. She clawed at the fat hand with her nails and tried to regain her footing but whoever had her was strong and determined. She wriggled in his arm; her head clamped tight beneath his hand, as he opened the door to a car and shoved her in. She was panicking, her breath coming too fast through her nose. His hand was sour like onions.

  She kicked wildly, connecting only with the seat of the car. The man was heavy and lumbering, but he shoved himself in next to her, his weight smashing her injured leg.

  She screamed in agony. Her leg felt like it was on fire. He shoved an apple in her open mouth and pinned her flailing arms with his hands.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m going to dial the Mayor and you are going to tell him that you approve of the Baltimore tramline, you got that?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Let me try again.” He kept her arms pinned down while he picked his phone up off the dashboard. She was stuck, prone in the car like a teenager on a date, her back pressed into the e-brake. He was sitting on her legs and holding her arms down with one hand. With the phone in his teeth he pulled a Leatherman multi-tool out of his glove box and popped the knife out. He grinned and the phone fell to his lap. “Understand better now?” he said.

  “I thought Mitzy was coming in with you,” Detective Backman said to Alonzo after he had been inside for a few minutes.

  “She’s here. She’s just admiring the view,” Alonzo said.

  “I heard a car pull in. Is she talking to someone?” Carmella asked.

  Backman and Collins exchanged a glance. “That woman can’t be left alone for five minutes,” Backman muttered, but she ran out the front door with her hand on her revolver.

  From just a few feet away Collins saw the knife glinting in the wan morning light. “Hold it,” he said.

  “I see it,” Backman said nodding. They slowed down and walked almost silently to the passenger side of the car. Backman held her finger to her lips to silence Mitzy, and Collins was shaking his head no.

  Alonzo was on their heels. He ran past them and pulled the door open with a yank, “Get out of the car!”

  Mitzy pressed her knees into the man’s guts with all her strength while Alonzo pulled at his back. He tumbled out of the car, his knife and phone clattering onto the asphalt.

  “Walter?” Alonzo said.

  Walter rolled over to his knees, scrambling for his knife.

  “Hands in the air,” Backman yelled.

  Walter shot his hands up.

  “That’s right. Now stand up slowly. Turn around and put your hands on the car. That’s right. Now don’t move.”

  Walter had slowly hitched himself up and put his hands on the hood of the car.

  Collins ran up to Walter and got him cuffed.

  Mitzy stayed in the car, blood seeping into her jeans. “He sat on me,” she said, pressing the wound wit
h her hand to stop the bleeding. “He sat on my leg and opened the wound.”

  Alonzo turned to Walter.

  “Back off Miramontes,” Backman said. “We’ve got him.”

  “He wanted me to call the Mayor’s office and approve the tramline,” Mitzy said, her breath fast and shallow.

  “The tramline? He did this for the tramline?” Backman said.

  “He’s going to lose his house,” Alonzo said. “Aren’t you?”

  “I want a lawyer,” Walter said.

  “If the city doesn’t condemn his house he will lose it,” Mitzy said. “Frankie told me that but I didn’t believe him.”

  Detectives Backman and Collins put the handcuffed city councilman into the back of the car.

  “So if Mitzy gets held up at knife point, I call you, right?” Carmella said.

  “This is not the time,” Alonzo said, but Mitzy laughed.

  “I’d say so,” Mitzy said.

  “Come on,” Alonzo said. “I’ve got to get you back to the doctor.”

  “We’ll come back and finish up our plans after we take care of this guy,” Collins said. He and Backman drove away with Walter Reynolds. His hopes for the tram were dead.

  “Mitzy, it’s over.”

  “Don’t be hasty Ben.” Mitzy was back at the Neuhaus New Homes office, her job at the inn passed off to Carmella without a bit of hesitation. Everyone agreed that Mitzy should sell the houses, Carmella manage the start up, and the FBI could handle anymore mysteries. Mitzy’s leg was healing and she was off of the pain pills.

  “No. It really can’t go on like this. In the last year I’ve been beaten, kidnapped, tortured, and had my scooter and my Mac Book burned up for your real estate office.”

  “Tortured?” Mitzy said, rolling her eyes.

  “Do you know what it did to me to miss the cake testing? Psychological torture. I can’t live like this. It’s time to for me to move on as a designer.” Ben held a lime green plastic crate full of the contents of his desk.

  “You don’t have to do this. I think the crazy times are behind us now.” Mitzy stifled a laugh. Ben stared at her with hooded eyes and his full lips pouting.