Elimination

by Ed Gorman

  I wanted this to be a TV episode of a crime show. Man searching in the downpour for at least one clue to the disappearance of a missing woman. In my investigator days I was usually able to formulate an alternate plan when I ran out of ideas. The problem was that I didn’t know anybody who knew her. Showalter would never tell me about her day, where she’d gone, what she’d done. As much as she wanted to put Showalter in prison – or on death row – she still had to report to him. So he wouldn’t have any trouble finding her if he’d decided to end their professional relationship violently.

  Then I remembered Bromfield and the cop bar.

  They didn’t look any happier to see me than they had the other night.

  In fact, when Henry saw me he reached down, grabbed his ball bat and set it right on the bar so I’d be sure to see it. He made sure to pop his biceps.

  The scene was the same, too. Girlfriends and groupies and the younger cops; the more sedate married pairs. The ones who stared at me the longest were the loners. I didn’t see Bromfield.

  ‘Get out,’ Henry said as I approached the bar.

  ‘I was wondering if I’d find Showalter in here.’

  ‘You got big hairy ones, I’ve got to give you that. ’Course, they may not be attached to your body much longer once I get through with this bat.’

  I tried to make my scan of the place casual. I didn’t see Bromfield anywhere. Then he pulled a Clint Eastwood. He shoved the bat across the bar and into my chest. ‘Now get the hell out of here.’

  He had now gotten the attention he wanted. We were in another D-minus Western movie written and directed by Henry. And starring Henry as well.

  A semicircle of aftershave- and cologne-wearing off-duty cops and a bully boy with a bat glaring at me.

  To my right, I saw the door of the office in back open up. I heard ‘Your turn to deal, Stan.’ And then I saw Bromfield leaving the office, laughing and saying over his shoulder, ‘Now I don’t even have enough money for any meth. I’m going home.’

  He had a surprised expression when he saw me. Probably wondered why I’d been crazed enough to come back here. But he picked up his cue immediately.

  ‘What’s this asshole doin’ here, Henry?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I’m looking for Chief Showalter.’

  Bromfield played it out. ‘Showalter?’ His eyes scanned his fellow officers. ‘When he’s pissed he’s one of the scariest guys I’ve ever seen. Even Henry here’s afraid of Showalter – even when Henry’s got his ball bat. Just be glad he isn’t here, jerk-off. Otherwise you’d be on the floor. In pieces.’

  Now it was my turn to look at them. There was no way to tell if any of them belonged to Showalter’s group. But this was their place, invitation only. And I definitely wasn’t the type who’d get himself invited.

  I shrugged. ‘Guess I’ll be leaving now.’

  ‘Wise decision,’ Bromfield said.

  Henry slapped bat against palm again. He needed a new writer. Bad.

  I was plum out of smart lines to accompany my retreat. All I did was shrug, turn around and head for the front door.

  And hope that Bromfield – who’d been damned convincing, come to think of it – would join me down the block where I’d parked.

  The chill rain was little more than a drizzle now.

  The ancient ruins of the deserted buildings on both sides of the street lent the night a feeling of despair. Their lives were over and soon enough they would be utterly gone, like the people who had filled them with the day-to-day joys and sorrows of life.

  I leaned against my car waiting for Bromfield to show up. I might be waiting forever if he’d decided helping me out would lead to trouble for him. Maybe serious trouble.

  I watched the way the raindrops sparkled off the metal hoods of the old streetlamps. They were having a much better time than I was.

  He pulled up behind me with his headlights off. Now he wore a black-hooded rain jacket. The hood was pulled so far up I couldn’t see much of his face.

  ‘Henry’s going to use that ball bat on you next time you go in there.’

  ‘No “next time” for me. I know when my luck’s tapped out.’

  ‘This could be real deep shit for me, Conrad. You got a question, you better ask it, and fast.’

  ‘You notice anything different about Showalter’s behavior the last day or so?’

  He’d managed to cup his hand around a cigarette and light it. Two cars splashed by but the puddles were thin and they weren’t going fast.

  ‘How’d you know about that?’

  ‘I may be onto something. My guess is he’s acting pretty strange. Preoccupied.’

  ‘He’s yelling at us a lot, something he doesn’t do very often. Oh, and this afternoon I guess he caught Karen Foster in his office. He was supposed to be testifying in court most of the afternoon and came back early. I hear you know Karen.’

  Heartburn and a queasy feeling in my lower stomach. ‘Yeah. I know Karen.’

  ‘Showalter sure didn’t like that. You and her, I mean.’

  She had pushed it too far. It hadn’t been bright, sneaking into his office that way.

  ‘The secretary had this dental appointment. I guess she must have thought it was safe.’

  ‘How did it end up?’

  ‘The secretary got back just in time to hear her scream at him that she was resigning. Then she walked straight out of the station.’

  ‘You happen to see or hear from her?’

  ‘Nah. We’re not big buds or anything. But I’ll tell you one thing. She’s the smartest person in the whole place.’

  We both heard it down the block. The front door of Batter Up opening and a small flood of people laughing boozily, coming out into the night.

  ‘I gotta get out of here.’

  ‘You got a cell phone I could call you on if I needed to?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Could you use two hundred dollars?’

  ‘Are you kidding? You know the kind of shit salary a cop in this town makes?’

  He got two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and I got a cell number.

  PART FOUR

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Except for when my father died, I’d never been in a hospital this late at night. The front part, not the ER.

  So quiet. And no medicinal smells whatsoever. Enormous photographs of medical giants down the centuries hung from the lobby walls, which had been refurbished. The expensive, comfortable furnishings were new, as was the large glassed-in office with ADMISSIONS on the door where a lone woman was busy working on her computer. She heard me approach and looked up with a smile. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Hi. I’m just here checking up on a friend of mine.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Karen Foster.’

  ‘Oh. Miss Foster.’ The smile remained but the voice bore a hint of concern. ‘She’s been in surgery for the past three hours. I’m afraid she still is.’

  ‘The radio said she was in critical condition.’

  ‘I’m afraid she is.’ She was an attractive woman, probably in her early fifties. The gray-streaked hair in a tight bun, the inexpensive gray suit still well chosen and well suited to her upper body.

  ‘I know she doesn’t have any relatives in town. Has anybody asked about her?’

  ‘Well, there’s an annoying reporter who calls every twenty minutes.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Not “inquiring” about her as such. But the night supervisor told me that two police officers are standing outside the surgery room and were outside her room on the fourth floor.’

  With absolutely no proof but well-grounded suspicion, I played out a quick scenario. A Showalter cop follows her up into the hills after she leaves the office. The dark. The rain. Slams into her hard enough to push her off the road. The descent was supposed to be violent enough to kill her. But she didn’t have the decency to die. Showalter had to be afraid now. If she could survive she could talk. And even if nobody
believed her, she would be able – and willing now – to tell the story about Showalter and his bank-robbing patriotic cops.

  Showalter was not going to let that happen.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Did I see you on TV the other night talking about Congresswoman Bradshaw?’

  ‘Yes, you did. My name’s Dev Conrad. I’m her campaign manager.’

  ‘Both my daughter and I are volunteers. I do what I can with the hours I have but my daughter goes to her campaign headquarters right after school three or four days a week.’ Then, ‘I think she’s still going to win. My husband worked at a place that Dorsey owned. Terrible place. They held out for better wages and better working conditions and he pulled a lockout. Fired them all, across the board, even some of them who’d been there thirty years, long before he’d bought it.’

  ‘He’s a piece of work.’

  ‘He was behind that fake shooting attempt, wasn’t he?’

  She answered my smile with her own.

  ‘You’re not going to say it out loud but I know you believe it, too.’

  I was thinking about Karen’s car. Specifically the rear bumper. ‘Do you know where they take cars that have been pretty badly damaged after an accident like Karen’s?’

  ‘Well, the towing company’s name is Watson’s Garage. He gets all the police business because his uncle is a friend of Chief Showalter’s. I suppose that’s where it is. That’s three blocks east of the station.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Would you mind if I called in a little while to check on Karen’s condition?’

  ‘I’ll be happy to help you but I’d give it another hour at least.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  I walked back out into the rain. I started my car but didn’t put it in gear. I just sat there continuing to go over the little information the radio story had divulged at some length.

  Sometime just after dusk, Karen’s car had skidded off a narrow road up on top of one of those steep limestone cliffs in the eastern rural part of the town. A passerby had noticed a stray beam of light angling up from the creek far below the cliff. He’d gotten out of the car to see what had happened and inched his way down in the stinging downpour. He’d related all this to the reporter in excited tones. The car had been crushed in on itself from rolling over two or three times. He said he’d seen a woman trapped inside. There was no way he could extract her. He’d brought a flashlight with him. From what he could see of her bloody face, he’d assumed she was dead. He’d called 911. They’d needed the jaws of life to extract her. He’d been surprised to hear the ambulance tech say she was still alive.

  I spent five minutes more thinking about my scenario. Unless it really had been an accident there weren’t many alternate ways Karen’s car could have been sent down the side of a steep cliff.

  The tone of my cell phone brought me out of my speculating.

  ‘It’s Bromfield.’

  ‘You going to earn your two hundred?’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you’d heard about Karen Foster.’

  ‘Yeah, I have. In fact, I’m in the hospital parking lot. She’s been in surgery for three hours.’

  ‘I’m doubting you think this was an accident.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Hell, no, I don’t. And neither do a couple of the other officers I talked to tonight. One of them said that Showalter’s out at the casino pouring them down.’

  ‘What kind of car does Karen drive?’

  ‘Silver Camry, a couple years old.’

  ‘Is it hard to get into Watson’s?’

  ‘Not if you’re a cop.’

  ‘Think I could get sworn in right away?’

  ‘No, but I can meet you there in about twenty minutes. You know how to get there?’

  ‘Three blocks east of the station?’

  ‘Right. See you there.’

  I’d paid him way too little. If Showalter ever found out he’d helped me to this extent, Bromfield would be out of a job. Or given what Showalter had probably done to Karen tonight, he could lose a lot more.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Watson’s Garage turned out to be part salvage yard, part repair shop, part gas station. Even this late at night mechanics were working in the bays and the open office door was noisy with rap music and yellow light.

  I waited in my car just inside the drive. I assumed that before they let me examine the car Bromfield would have to introduce me.

  Bromfield showed up about ten minutes after I arrived. He beeped and waved me on to follow him. We ended up parking directly across from the office.

  As I got out of my car, the air was rich with the scents of gasoline, motor oil, welding and that accrued mixed aroma of dying and death peculiar to metal beings consigned to salvage yards.

  Watson’s was prosperous enough to have two large, long trucks of the flatbed variety sitting side by side near the wall of cyclone fencing.

  ‘This is a big operation,’ I said.

  ‘You can grow fast when the city council gives you all its business.’

  ‘That’s what the woman at the hospital told me.’

  ‘If the state boys ever spent any time here seeing how this place is really run there’d be a whole lot of people doing a perp walk, believe me.’ Then, ‘This shouldn’t be any problem. Bobby Marie works the night shift. She’s the female equivalent of the good ol’ boy, right down to the chewing tobacco.’

  ‘Wow.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah. Wow. And she likes rap music.’

  I was still trying to process all these warring personality elements when we stepped inside and I saw a peroxided thirty-something woman with an enormous bosom packed into a pink T-shirt with the photograph of a rapper on it. She was actually pretty, in a kind of fierce way. The makeup had been put on with a paint roller and the T-shirt was ready to burst, but if you just focused on the large blue eyes you saw intelligence and kindness, even if the cobra tat on her left arm said otherwise.

  The rap music was deafening.

  Bromfield had to half shout. ‘How’s your little girl, Bobby Marie?’

  ‘I’m thinkin’ of putting her in another one of those tiny tot beauty pageants.’

  I’d once seen a documentary on those things. How the producers of the shows ripped off the parents and how the parents – especially the mothers – turned their innocent little daughters into frightened participants in a nightmare of exploitation. Mothers screaming at their daughters when they didn’t perform well; mothers even slapping already neurotic and scared little daughters.

  I had my nice liberal speech all ready to go, but I decided that this probably wasn’t the best time to give it.

  Then, ‘Just a sec.’ She turned the music way down. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A friend of mine.’

  ‘He got a name?’

  ‘Dev Conrad,’ I said.

  ‘You a cop, too?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  A true cackle. ‘Good, ’cause I can’t stand cops.’ To Bromfield, ‘So what can I do you for, Officer?’

  ‘Just wanted to check out a car that was brought here earlier tonight.’

  ‘That’d have to be that Foster gal’s. Only one we’ve had all day we had to tow.’

  ‘So I’d just like to look it over.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? You trying to bust my chops, Bobby Marie?’

  ‘No can do. Got orders that nobody sees it.’

  ‘Orders? From who?’

  ‘The boss. Gil called me even before they brought it in. Said Showalter called and said nobody was allowed to inspect it. And he meant nobody. Little Bobby Marie’s smart enough to know when the man who owns the place tells you nobody inspects it, I need to make sure that nobody inspects it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of this before.’

  ‘Tell you the truth, neither have I. A
nd I admit it’s kind of weird, but right now there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it.’

  Bromfield shrugged and looked at me.

  I shrugged right back.

  Bromfield said, ‘Bobby Marie, you sure you couldn’t just give us a couple of minutes to look it over?’

  ‘Oh, I could. But the old man’s scared he’s gonna get laid off and my little daughter’s next pageant dress is gonna cost me a lot more than the last one, so I just can’t take a chance. If my old man gets laid off and Gil decides to fire my ass, my whole family’s in a world of hurt.’

  I said, ‘Well, we appreciate your time. Sorry you can’t help us.’

  Suspicion colored her voice for the first time. ‘Gil said somebody from Congresswoman Bradshaw’s campaign might stop by and try to see it. And right now I’m betting you’re that man.’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘Well, mister, it’s nothing personal but you best scat out of here. Soon as you’re gone I have to call Gil and tell him you were here.’

  We ended on that cackle of hers. ‘I’d say Showalter don’t like you too much, you know what I’m sayin’?’

  When we were walking to our cars, Bromfield said, ‘Man, Showalter’s got this town sewed up tight. Bobby Marie isn’t usually scared of anybody.’

  ‘It’s time I talk with Showalter.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m going out to the casino and calling him out on it. It’s way past time.’

  He caught my elbow. ‘That’s a trip I can’t afford to take.’

  ‘I know.’ My smile was intended to make us both feel better. ‘But I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Casinos always remind me of being on cruise ships.

  They are self-contained and claustrophobic, filled with amusements that almost always disappoint. And if you’re not careful they can be dangerous.

  Another point: they take as their icon Las Vegas, Nevada.

  I’m occasionally dragged out there for a convention. There was even one would-be client who wanted to meet in Vegas. I backed out two days before the meeting. Vegas was bad vibes.