Replaceable: An Alan Lamb Thriller

by Bouchard, J. W.

  “Maybe.”

  “What about an actor?”

  “An actor?”

  “Like a body double. Someone that looked like the suspect. Maybe Sitka was kidnapped, and the perps used a double.”

  “Must be a pretty convincing double if no one at the bank noticed.”

  “What if they did though? It would explain how they claim Sitka was at the bank and tied up at his house at the same time.”

  “It’s elaborate. Maybe too elaborate. It also doesn’t explain the similarity of the prints.”

  “Maybe they lifted prints off Sitka after they assaulted him. Then had a way to transfer them to the vault and the car. I saw something like that in a movie once.”

  “If that was the case, wouldn’t the prints match exactly? Why leave prints at all? They would have known that Sitka’s prints would have been all over the vault and inside his car already. It would have been pointless.”

  “And you don’t think Sitka was lying?”

  “If he is, he’s damn good at it.”

  “Shit,” Gant said. “I’m out of ideas.”

  Gant wasn’t a slouch when it came to the art of deduction, but he had spent enough time behind a desk for the gears in his brain to get rusty. It wasn’t quite like riding a bike. Alan knew you had to keep the equipment running; keep the wheels turning, well-oiled, get them moving every day or your mind would inevitably start to slow down. The ideas tended to run out more quickly; the dead-ends came rushing up on you sooner.

  For a moment, Gant only stared at him. “We’re flying blind here?”

  “Close to it.”

  “It’s a real conundrum.”

  “That’s a good word for it.”

  “You know that crossword puzzle they put in the morning paper? I do it every morning. Helps keep the mind sharp.”

  “It shows,” Alan said.

  Gant chuckled. “Bullshit.”

  Alan had the impression that the conversation had gone on too long. They had nothing else to say to each other. It was like two friends that hadn’t seen each other in years, but when they finally sit down to catch up, they both realize even the passage of many years wasn’t enough to carry them through five minutes together. People moved on, changed, and later discovered that they no longer had anything in common. Alan always tried to avoid those moments; tried to leave the conversation before it settled on the weather.

  “We’ll get a break,” Gant said, trying to sound optimistic. “Someone will slip up. It always comes out eventually.”

  “Except when it doesn’t,” Alan said.

  Alan did legwork on the Peoria case from his desk. His first call was to the Peoria PD to a detective named Hodgens. Hodgens was fifty-six and within spitting distance of retirement. He had worked a beat on the street for twelve years before doing a three year stint in Vice and then finally got around to being promoted to detective in the Commercial Crimes Division. His plan was to serve out his remaining four years and then call it quits.

  Over the phone, Hodgens sounded much younger than the fifty-six year old he claimed to be. He was also a loquacious fellow.

  During the span of the twenty minute phone call, Alan also learned that the detective had a daughter that had just graduated from high school back in May and was planning to attend Chicago State this coming fall. Alan couldn’t explain it, but he had a peculiar knack for getting people to talk. Maybe it was something about his demeanor, maybe it was the tone of his voice, but he had a way of getting complete strangers to unburden themselves of their life stories. Lucy attributed it to him having a soothing aura; something mellow and inviting about it that emanated positive energy. Alan didn’t buy it for a minute.

  After pleasantries had been exchanged, Detective Hodgens had finally seen fit to get down to brass tacks. The robbery had taken place at First National. For all intents and purposes, the circumstances involved in the First National robbery were virtually identical to those of the Mellencott Bank robbery in Augusta.

  They had security cam footage showing a bank teller, Susan Carville, wheeling money out of the bank on a bright orange dolly. An hour following the robbery, Carville was located in the backseat of her Nissan Sentra, bound and gagged with duct tape. She reportedly had no clue as to what had happened and no recollection of robbing First National, the place she had been gainfully employed by for the past six years.

  Although Alan didn’t like to judge people over the phone, his initial impression of Hodgens (in addition to the newly-discovered fact that the man liked to gab like an old lady at a bingo game) was that the Peoria detective wasn’t as perceptive as Detective Weathers of the Augusta PD.

  “Found her hog-tied in the back of her Sentra,” Hodgens said. “Strangest way to create an alibi that I’ve ever witnessed. Talented girl though, to tie herself up that way. We checked her out. No criminal history. Not so much as a speeding ticket since she was seventeen. Lifted her prints off the vault, but that doesn’t mean jack squat seeing as how she has daily access to it. One odd thing though.”

  Alan held his breath for a moment. He thought he knew what was coming. He said “You came up with a set of unidentified prints.”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “Just a hunch. Let me guess, they weren’t Carville’s, not an exact match, but damn close?”

  “You must be psychic,” Hodgens said.

  “Far from it,” Alan said.

  “That’s exactly what happened. The examiner couldn’t quite believe it himself. He said he almost didn’t even bring it up, wondering if maybe he was losing it in his old age. You gonna pay us a visit?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Do me a favor though. See if there’s anything Carville left at the bank we could pull DNA off of. Send it up to our lab if you can.”

  Alan gave Hodgens the address in Omaha.

  “One other thing. See if Carville has any relationship with a man named Howard Sitka.”

  “Should that name ring a bell?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Some strange business,” the detective said. “And given what I’ve seen, that’s really saying somethin’.”

  “Something new every day,” Alan said politely and hung up the phone.

  Two cases. Almost identical. In both cases, the main suspects were also the primary victims (or had at least tried to give the appearance that they were).

  Coincidence maybe? Alan didn’t believe in coincidence, but he acknowledged the fact that such things did in fact exist. They happened a hell of a lot more often than he liked to admit, especially in his line of work. The real problem was in believing that something was a coincidence without investigating it further. In an investigation, you didn’t write anything off until you had examined it six ways from Sunday, studied it with all your senses, and buried it in the ground.

  The circumstances of the Sitka and Carville cases were too similar to be isolated incidents. There had to be a connection. Either Howard Sitka and Susan Carville knew each other, or an unknown third party had orchestrated both crimes. Alan wondered if the locations mattered. He entered the details on his phone. Augusta and Peoria were over twelve hours apart by land.

  Alan felt tired. He wanted nothing more than to go home and turn his brain off for a while, but he knew himself well enough to know that there would be no respite from work. His mind craved mystery (and hated it just as passionately), and it would go on attacking a case from all angles until it zeroed in on a plausible solution.

  It was going on six o’clock. He pushed his chair away from his desk and leaned back in his chair. After a moment, he scooped up the two file folders and tucked them under his arm.

  “Calling it a day?” Lucy asked.

  “Yeah, I’m beat.”

  “Travel will do that. I was getting ready to leave, too. Want to walk me to my car?”

  “You need an armed escort now?”

  “You don’t have to,” Lucy said. “I’m sure I can manage.”
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  She stood up, slung her purse over her shoulder, and headed for the door in a hurry.

  Alan sighed and followed after her, catching up with her at the elevator. “Wait up.”

  “Oh, so you changed your mind all of a sudden?”

  “I look at it as doing my one good deed for the day.”

  “You’re not a very ambitious man if you settle at one.”

  They rode down in the elevator together.

  “So any breaks in the case?” Lucy asked after they had departed the elevator and stepped outside.

  “Nada,” Alan said. “If things keep going like this, I might have to consult one of your psychic friends.”

  “That sounds like a desperate measure coming from you.”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Desperation is never an endearing quality in a man. It’s a turn off, really. It’s a proven fact that women are attracted to men with a high degree of self-confidence.”

  “Is this your passive-aggressive way of inquiring about my love life?”

  “I might have a vested interest,” Lucy said, smirking at him before changing the subject. “Were you serious about hiring a psychic?”

  “No. I’m not that desperate. Not yet anyway.”

  Lucy stopped. “This is me.”

  Alan wasn’t surprised to find them standing in front of a battered ’79 Volkswagen Beetle. The bright yellow paintjob had seen better days. It appeared ancient compared to the other vehicles parked in the spaces surrounding it.

  “It suits you,” Alan said.

  “What that?”

  Alan pointed at the Beetle. “Your car. It fits your personality.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

  “I was being serious. It was a compliment.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  Alan moved around to the driver’s side and opened the door for her. Lucy slid in behind the wheel. “Very chivalrous of you.” She turned the key in the ignition and the tired old engine whined to life. “I was serious, too. You need someone in your life. Someone to talk to. And I don’t just mean at work. You need to get out and do stuff. You aren’t your job, Alan.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Thanks for walking me to my car.”

  Alan closed the car door. He walked back to the sidewalk and watched the Volkswagen pull out and merge into traffic.

  Chapter 4

  When Alan pulled into his space in front of Room 154 at the Patriot Inn, he saw Guy Bernard sitting in a folding lawn chair on the upper level, the door behind him (Room 255) stood slightly ajar. Guy’s Belgian bull of a bodyguard, a bald-headed man composed entirely of muscle stacked atop muscle, was seated in a chair next to him. The only thing Alan knew about Guy’s bodyguard was that his first name was Bruno and that at one time in his life he had had a “roid” problem. Despite having gotten off the juice several years earlier, he still suffered from anger management issues.

  Alan climbed the stairs to the second story walkway. The sweet smell of cigar smoke hit him as he reached the top and made his way over to Guy and Bruno. Guy struck Alan as more of a character out of a movie than an actual human being. For starters, Guy was always puffing on a cigar. It was almost cartoonish. A blue cloud of cigar smoke seemed to hover perpetually over his head.

  Guy ran his own private investigation firm. Other Guy Investigations. Room 255 of the Patriot Inn served as his office space. It wasn’t the most likely place to hang a shingle, but according to Guy, he didn’t pay a dime for this so-called office space.

  His arrangement with the motel entailed getting his room free of charge for services rendered. ‘Services rendered’ meant running background checks on prospective employees as well as performing certain ‘housekeeping’ duties on an as needed basis. In this instance, housekeeping meant that he and Bruno dealt with some of the motel’s shadier clientele, which included forcibly removing them from the premises when necessary. So, basically, they handled the taking out of the trash.

  The Patriot Inn was in the process of getting a much needed facelift. For a time, living at the Patriot Inn had been akin to residing in a third world country. It was its own entity, a land of excess and decay. It had a reputation as being a haven for drug addicts and prostitutes. The management was trying to change all that. It had been one thing to sink money into repairs and improvements, but quite another to remove the criminal element. Without the latter, the former was no better than putting lipstick on a pig.

  Which was where Guy came in. Guy was here to change all that.

  “How’s it going this fine evening, Agent Lamb?” Guy asked, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke.

  “Not bad.”

  “There’s another chair inside if you’d care to join us.”

  “I think I’ll take a rain check,” Alan said. “I’m beat.” And that was the truth. He felt like he could have slept for a week if it hadn’t been for the two cases that had taken up residence in his mind.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Business is thriving. As long as there are crack fiends, they will keep trying to congregate here, which means I will always have job security. Isn’t that right, Bruno?”

  Bruno grunted and leaned forward in his chair, picking up a dumbbell that rested on the ground at his feet. He commenced doing bicep curls. His arms were a topographical map of bulging hills and winding veins.

  “How are your anger management classes going?” Alan asked.

  “I’m learning to meditate,” Bruno grunted between reps. “They’re teaching us to be at peace with ourselves.”

  “As if,” Guy said.

  Down below, the motel manager, Erik, walked by as he did his daily room checks. He waved up to them. Guy waved back, while under his breath he said, “Little poof.”

  “Poof?”

  “Yeah. Have you ever had occasion to talk to the man?”

  “Sometimes he’ll stop by to shoot the breeze. Seems nice enough.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he’s nice enough all right. But he’s a total flamer. Always out basket shopping.”

  “Basket shopping?”

  “Checking out a man’s junk. Do you get a discount?”

  “On what?”

  “Your rent. Did he give you a discount?”

  “Come to think of it, he did.”

  “There you go. That’s how it starts. He’s just sizing you up now, but it’s only a matter of time before he drops the bombshell on you. That he’s as gay as a summer day is long. Once he’s confided in you, that’s all he talks about. Believe me, I know things I never wanted to know about. Like how his boyfriend, this plump little Mexican dude, is a big clean freak, and I don’t mean he likes to clean house. According to Erik, he has to douche before they have sex. Erik says it’s kind of a turn off because the little fruit can’t be spontaneous. Always in agony over whether his shit’s clean. Literally. Erik says he wishes he could get it dirty once in a while. Meaning he’s okay getting shit on his dick.”

  “Damn.”

  “Word of warning. Once he comes out to you, once you’re privy to his condition, he’ll start talking dirty to you. In fact, he won’t shut up about it. In his mind, there’s no such thing as a straight man. We’re all waiting to be turned. We’re all just hiding in the iron closet.”

  In an effort to change the subject, Alan said, “How’s the wife?”

  “Aloof. As usual.”

  Guy and his wife, Darla, had separated several months ago. Guy had been trying to win her back ever since.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Speaking of which…” Guy pulled out his cell phone and brought up his text messages. “Looks like the old lady is at the No Frills on 72nd.”

  “You have your wife under surveillance?”

  “I call it killing two birds with one stone. I send new recruits out to keep an eye on her. If they can do that for an extended period of time without being made
, there’s a good chance I’ll hire them. Darla’s the paranoid type. Always thinks she’s being watched.”

  “I don’t know if it qualifies as paranoia if she’s actually being watched.”

  “I don’t like to live under a rock, Alan. You know what my worst fear is? Being in the dark. Having my head in the sand. I don’t like to waste my time either. I’m committed to fixing this thing, but if she’s moved on, I wanna know about it. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble. And if she has hooked herself a new beau, I want the chance to show her I’m the bigger man. Send him a note of congratulations. Of course, I’ll have that note delivered in person. By Bruno.”

  “Murky waters,” Alan said.

  “Is there any other kind? The entire world is gray.”

  “Not mine.”

  “You say that, but I’m not sure you really believe it. Some men cling to their black and white version of things because they fear the other colors.”

  Alan stared at him.

  “Just an observation.”

  Guy’s gaze settled on the manila folders tucked under Alan’s arm. “Bringing your work home with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “More of a mysterious nature, really.”

  “We’re always taking on new clients,” Guy said as he chewed on his cigar. “If I can ever be of service…”

  “One day I might just take you up on that.”

  “Friends get friend prices.”

  Alan nodded. “I should get going.”

  “If you aren’t busy later, swing by. We’ll have a beer and shoot the shit while we wax poetic about our respective cases.”

  “I might just do that.”

  “Take it from me, Agent Lamb. Get out once in a while. Observe your surroundings. Get to know the people. Sometimes you can have your head buried in the sand without even knowing it.”

  Guy Bernard’s words of advice stayed with him that evening as he sat down at the small table next to the television stand and opened the case folders. The air conditioning unit housed next to the window rumbled to life. Strangely, Guy’s advice mirrored what Lucy had told him earlier that day.