Blood Games

by Lee Killough

Obviously an old familiar insult. The Pieces rolled their eyes. The one in the bathroom said, “Try to focus, okay? Ev, get the door and the lights.” Then as his brother came in, closing the room door and flicking off the lights: “Now if I can have everyone in here...” In the darkened bathroom he switched on a blue spotlight and pointed it at the raised toilet seat, then handed it around to let each of them peer through the orange filter attached to the top of the spotlight. “Today’s blue light special.”

  When Garreth’s turn came his pulse jumped. They forgot the underside of the seat! Fingerprints fluoresced on it. And several had a tented arch.

  He handed the light back to ET Reece. “We lifted a tented arch from the rearview mirror of the van that ran Maggie Lebekov off the road.”

  Reece squinted through the filter toward the seat. “I’ll lift those first. Okay...the party’s over. Out of my way and let me work.”

  They cleared out. Back in the room Kreutzer asked Sparacino, “Did you find anything else of special interest?”

  “Some fibers that look like wig fibers...hardly a surprise when we know the suspect was wearing one.”

  “But useful for comparing to the wig fibers we found in their first van,” Garreth said.

  Kreutzer glanced toward him. “Speaking of vans, now would be a good time to check car shops.” He opened his phone and punched a number. Calling his buddy at the police garage?

  Garreth pulled the Lincoln Yellow Pages from the bottom of the bedside table. In the albino’s place, this was what he would have checked somewhere...at a convenience store or restaurant. The auto section had a staggering number of listings, even limiting the search to the shops specializing in body repair and painting. What would catch the albino’s eye? A name that put that shop at the front of the listings, like A-1in Baumen? Flashiness of the ad? The inclusion of a map to find the place?

  Then a small ad jumped out at him...a frame of elaborate swoops like pin-striping around five lines of text with a look of skilled hand lettering. Night Wolf Custom and Paint. Below that an address, the information motorcycles welcome, a web site, and at the bottom, across from a phone number, the information Evening hours. Evening hours.

  Kreutzer folded his phone and turned to Garreth. “My buddy’s given me a dozen names. Come on. We’ll call them from the office.”

  Garreth pointed to the ad. “Is one of them Night Wolf Custom and Paint?”

  Kreutzer turned to eye him. “No. That guy I’m familiar with and he’s into the art of motor vehicles. Chopping, fabricating, pin-striping, flames...murals on the sides of semi cabs. He’d sooner cut off his hands than ‘repaint’ a car. He definitely doesn’t do muffler repair.”

  “What direction is his shop from here?”

  Kreutzer’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s go.” He led the way out. At the elevators he stabbed the Down button. “The shop is northeast of here. Is that the ‘right’ direction?”

  Of course Kreutzer remembered the earlier comment. Garreth gave him a shrug. “I know it sounds weird.”

  Kreutzer leaned into the elevator button again. “So I suppose you want to skip calling these other places and go straight out to Night Wolf’s.”

  “If you’ll indulge me.”

  The elevator doors opened. Two men and a woman in the car stepped back to let Garreth and Kreutzer on, never missing a beat of their discussion on barrier and alarm efficiency.

  Kreutzer said nothing until out in the car. “I’m going back to the office. In the first place, the guy doesn’t get up before mid-afternoon. Second, I don’t believe this psychic bullshit. It’s just lucky guessing and you know it. You had a fifty-fifty chance of being right about the room. If it’d been the victim’s room you could just claim you ‘felt’ the suspects because they left such a strong psychic scent or some such.”

  Garreth blinked. Kreutzer’s voice could have scratched diamonds. Something had pushed his buttons big time.

  “It’s one thing for an old woman who grew up around voodoo mumbo-jumbo to believe this crap but someone who’s supposed to be educated and logical has to be playing games. It isn’t a game I’ll play! We work my way or you can go back to Kansas. You have a problem with that?”

  Now Garreth understood. Even though he tapped the button, Reece’s wisecrack jammed it home. What does your grandmother do that embarrasses you so much? he wanted to ask. But Kreutzer’s declaration to the contrary, they were playing a game...Kreutzer’s. So Garreth folded. “No problem.” Hopefully he had never acted embarrassed about Grandma Doyle’s Feelings.

  At Headquarters, Garreth swung by his car and picked up his laptop. Standing with the door open, he considered not catering to the detective’s hang up, just visiting Night Wolf on his own. But the LPD had that print from the toilet seat. He needed to stay allied at least until they heard back on it. So he slung the computer case’s carrying strap over his shoulder and trudged across the street to where Kreutzer waited inside the front door.

  At least the daylight had dimmed. Clouds rolling in from the west covered the sun in an ever-thickening layer. To the west they looked almost purple. A thunderstorm coming. His choice for daylight weather.

  Inside, Kreutzer watched warily while he set the laptop on one corner of the semi-cubicle’s desk and connected his cell phone to it. “What’s that for?”

  Garreth shrugged. “I thought I’d check out the Night Wolf web site.”

  Kreutzer’s mouth thinned. “You people just won’t let go of it, will you.”

  Garreth sighed. “Look, I’m just--”

  “So let’s take care of this right now.” Kreutzer grabbed the phone book and checked the Auto listings....dialed. From the length of time he waited, the phone must have rung close to ten times. Kreutzer started to hang up, then stopped. “Good afternoon, Mr. Francis. I’m sorry if I woke-- ... Oh, good. This is Sergeant Kreutzer of the Lincoln Police Department. Tuesday afternoon or evening, or any time this week, did anyone bring you a white, 1988 Aerostar delivery van to work on? ... We’re not sure. It could be either a man or woman, but he or she would have been over six feet tall and probably thin. ... We don’t know that, either. Maybe to remove a bakery sign on the side or paint over it. Have you see the vehicle? ... Well, thank you very much.” He hung up. “He hasn’t seen any Aerostars lately, let alone agreed to work on one. Satisfied?”

  “Are you satisfied he was telling the truth?”

  Kreutzer sighed. “Yes. Why would he lie? Now, do you want to help me canvass the places your albino would have gone to?”

  “Sure.” He could be wrong about Night Wolf. He had no justification for concentrating on the shop other than thinking a vampire--real or wannabe--would be attracted by the hours. Taking half Kreutzer’s list, he dialed the first number. At the same time, however, he logged onto the Internet and typed in www.nightwolf.com.

  The web page opened with a bang. Sprach Zarathustra accompanied a morph that transformed a rusted hulk labeled 1953 Allard into a gleaming restoration. Then the site introduced Night Wolf, born Marion Wolfgang “call me Wolf” Francis, in the back seat of a 1965 Riviera. It trumpeted his artistic talents, expounded his beliefs on the Automobile As Rolling Art, and bewailed the homogenization of body design that now made one make of car virtually indistinguishable from another. Judging by the pictures in his gallery pages, he followed rhetoric with action by waging a campaign for individuality. Decorating cars with not just pinstripes and flames and airbrushed murals, but stringing garlands of mums and bronze roses across the hood and along the cream-colored doors and body of a Rolls Royce bus the size of an extended van. Garreth had never realized Rolls Royce made buses. Its body style put it in the World War I era or early twenties. Night Wolf had also wood-grained the sides of a Falcon station wagon to mimic a Woody. He chopped and reshaped to create a little Mustang station wagon and, shades of Travis McGee, turned another Rolls into a pickup.

  At the bottom of the gallery pages appeared a link to Works In Progress. Garreth clicked on it. Like the
opening page it showed a group of thumbnail images. A sleek shape teased him into clicking on the one labeled Atlantic reproduction. For a minute he could only sit and stare at the machine the text said reproduced a 1995 Chrysler concept vehicle...all sleek, swooping lines, slung low between four huge wheels. Even with its exterior dull with primer, he wanted to climb in for a test drive.

  Reluctantly he backed up to the thumbnail page.

  Where a square white shape in the last thumbnail, labeled Watch This Space, caught his eye. He clicked on it...and found himself staring at a white Aerostar with a faint kery visible on its side. A blank canvas, the legend under it said, ...an opportunity pregnant with boundless possibilities. What can we create from it? Stay tuned and see!

  Garreth waited for Kreutzer to finish his call, then turned the laptop to show him the screen. “Sergeant?” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “Check out this page of Night Wolf’s web site.”

  Kreutzer’s mouth tightened. After several moments he stood, kicking back his chair. “All right, we’ll go see--” He broke off, frowning past Garreth. “What’s up?”

  Garreth turned to see evidence tech Reece trotting into the room grinning. “You’re gonna love me. We scanned our tented arches into AFIS as soon as we got back here.” He paused.

  Garreth’s heart leaped. He held his breath.

  “And we got a hit.”

  Reece paused again, obviously to draw out the suspense.

  The albino had actually been arrested? Garreth waited in agony, wanting a name, yet praying it had occurred in a time frame reasonable for the suspect’s apparent age.

  Kreutzer showed no appreciation for suspense. “And!”

  Reece’s smile faded. “According to the FBI, the print belongs to a Cameron Dark, arrested buying crack in San Francisco three years ago.”

  “I’ll query the SFPD for details.” Kreutzer headed for the door. “We should have them by the time we’re back from Night Wolf’s. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “Wait.” Garreth logged off the Internet and began shutting down the laptop. “Let’s take my car. It may catch him off guard, or at least amuse him. I’ll be waiting for you at the front door.”

  Kreutzer’s upturned eyes said: Why me, Lord? He sighed. “Okay. Fine.” And disappeared out the door.

  “You’re welcome!” Reece called after him.

  “Here.” Garreth reached into his computer case for the photocopies of the bb’s prints on his car. “Use these for comparison with prints in the suspects’ room.”

  The clouds continued to thicken and darken, Garreth noticed with satisfaction as he crossed to the parking lot, and from the west came a distant rumble of thunder. Music to his ears.

  When Kreutzer stepped out of the building five minutes later, a trench coat over his arm, he stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk for a moment, staring at the car, then came around it and folded into the passenger seat. “We’ll amuse him, I think. Head north and catch 180 to the Cornhusker.”

  While he drove, Garreth thought about the albino. The print had a name attached to it, but did they finally have his name. Cameron Dark sounded like another alias. The arrest bothered Garreth. Why would the albino be buying crack? A vampire would not use it, and had no need of it to render someone else compliant. Maybe the albino was just a wannabe after all?

  By the time they reached the interchange connecting to the Cornhusker Highway, the storm clouds had darkened the afternoon to twilight, turning on the streetlights. Motorists had begun switching on headlights, too. Garreth welcomed the gloom. It made the afternoon almost bearable.

  Kreutzer said, “Wolfie’s going to be a tough nut to crack. He doesn’t like cops.”

  “He’ll talk.”

  “Like Becker?” Kreutzer eyed him, grimaced, then cleared his throat. “Ah...look. About popping off on the psychic thing...you have to understand. I’ve caught a ton of grief ever since my grandmother waltzed into the department one day and offered to help find a murder weapon for us. She--she thinks she can find things...” He grimaced again. “...by dowsing for them. She even brought along her wires to demonstrate how they worked.”

  So that was her big offense. Garreth tried to imagine how he would have reacted if Grandma Doyle did something similar. Certainly not with anger and embarrassment. But then, he believed her Feelings. “I take it the department didn’t accept her help?”

  The color across Kreutzer’s cheekbones darkened. “I hustled her away before she could make a bigger fool of herself.”

  He did not even let her try, not even in private, with just him watching? “Was the weapon ever found?”

  After a long pause, Kreutzer said, “No. Oh...in case you haven’t felt it, you need to take this upcoming exit.”

  Garreth took it without comment. Overhead, thunder grumbled closer.

  Night Wolf Custom and Paint occupied a former car dealership, fifties vintage judging by the semi-circular showroom and the black-and-white tiled floor. The Mustang station wagon from the web site sat on display there, even cooler looking than in its picture. Garreth parked in front of the two roll-up garage doors and climbed out.

  Kreutzer reached over and leaned on the Porsche’s horn. “The doors will be locked.”

  A minute later a door between the garage doors and showroom opened. The man standing there reminded Garreth less of a wolf than the cartoon Tasmanian Devil...head about level with Garreth’s shoulder, no neck, shoulders almost as wide as the doorway, straining at his paint-stained t-shirt, but almost no hips or legs in his jeans. He leaned on crutches secured to each wrist with a metal cuff and eyed them through a fringe of hair protruding below the bandana tied around his head. “Yeah?”

  Kreutzer climbed out, badge case in hand. Garreth jumped in front of him, pointing up at Motorcycles welcome on the building sign. “Hogs are welcome. What about pigs?”

  Why the double take? Garreth wondered as the man started, then frowned at them. Thunder boomed closer. “From what department?”

  He had certainly caught that reference fast. Garreth pointed at the Porsche.

  Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “I never heard of Bellamy County. What brings you into Lancaster County?”

  Kreutzer reached over Garreth’s shoulder to dangle his ID in front of Wolf. “Let’s discuss it inside.”

  Wolf did not move except to peer past the ID at Kreutzer. “I just talked to you on the phone.”

  “Now I want to talk to you again.”

  Thunder boomed even closer. A gust of wind slapped them. Wolf looked ready to shut the door in their faces. “I already told you I don’t know anything about your Aerostar.”

  “What about the one on the Works In Progress page of your web site?” Garreth asked.

  Wolf stared at them a moment. “You actually thought to check my web site?” Heaving a sigh, he worked his way back out of the doorway.

  They followed him. Another gust of wind caught the door and slammed it behind them.

  The only lights inside flooded down over a Model A, mottled with patches of Bondo. Beyond the Model A, the rest of the garage disappeared in darkness. Garreth’s vision, though, let him see racks of tools, welding and cutting equipment, hoists, and one end of the garage walled off with a compressor outside and breaker boxes on the wall with the arms up in the Off position. A paint room? The Atlantic reproduction sat in a corner with its hood off and a small block V-eight engine hanging from a hoist beside it.

  Wolf led the way around a corner past a lift up to a loft area and into an office with sketches and photos pinned all over cork-covered walls and every horizontal surface except the computer section of the L-shaped desk piled high with car magazines. A window looked out into the showroom. He plopped behind the desk in a high-tech swivel chair and peeling the cuffs off his wrists, hung the crutches on the edge of the desk by their grips. “Clear yourselves a place to sit.”

  Garreth moved a stack of Hemmings from a cane chair to the floor. Kreutzer continued to stand, hands jamme
d in the pockets of his trench coat. “Why’d you lie about the Aerostar?”

  Wolf leaned back with his hands behind his head. “I remember you. You used to be on the Northeast Team...always coming around looking for evidence of a chop shop.” He shook his head. “Just because I’ve got biker friends and like working nights. But...” He focused on Garreth. “...exactly who are you, deputy?”

  “Wolf--” Kreutzer began.

  But Garreth had already pulled out and handed over his ID.

  After a glance, Wolf tossed it back. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  Kreutzer stiffened. “I can take you in for obstruction.”

  Wolf shrugged. “You do what you have to.” He reached for his crutches. “Just let me tell my old lady what’s happening.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “What do you think?” Wolf’s mouth twisted. “I’m going to take to my heels?”

  “No need to come upstairs, Wolfie darlin’.” In the office doorway stood a woman in her mid-twenties, wrapped in a terrycloth robe, a mane of dark honey hair falling down around her face and shoulders. A faint scent of honeysuckle drifted from her. She strolled over to Wolf and leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose. The action opened the top of her robe enough to show she wore nothing under it. “And I’ve heard enough to assess the situation.” Honey filled her voice, too.

  Wolf stroked her forearms. “You’re up early.”

  “Well, it’s such a lovely day I decided to enjoy it with you.” She pulled his hand into the robe to her breast while a deafening crack of thunder shook the building.

  Garreth glanced out through the office window to see the first few raindrops hit the showroom windows.

  She flipped up the arms of the chair and swung astride Wolf’s lap, baring both her legs to the hip...quickening Wolf’s breathing. “But before afternoon delight, we need to send these good gentlemen on their way. So why don’t you go ahead and talk to them?”

  Despite the obvious flare of desire in him, a heat Garreth felt echoed in himself, watching her, Wolf scowled. “But he’s from the same--”