by Theo Cage
THE WOMAN IN THE TRUNK
By Theo Cage
Copyright © 2014 Russell Earl Smith
Published by Shaylee Press December 1, 2014
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, companies and incidents are fully the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, establishments or events is entirely coincidental.
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BOOKS BY THEO CAGE
SPLICER (2012)
BUZZWORM (2013)
SATAN’S ROAD (2014)
CRISPY CRITTERS (2014)
ON THE BLACK (Early 2015)
DAREDEVIL’S CLUB (2015)
CRISPY CRITTERS 2 - THE PHOENIX (2015)
EMERGENT (2015)
RAY GUN (2016)
THE WOMAN IN THE TRUNK
Originally titled THRIFT SHOP
Everyone who works with or knows cops has heard a “coincidence” story: a suspect discovered sitting next to an off-duty cop in a theatre, bumping into an escaped prisoner at the mall, etc. One detective I talked to had a missing murder suspect show up at his wife’s garage sale on a Sunday afternoon. They had a countrywide BOLO on him. He just walked up the driveway and right into handcuffs. Another Sergeant I knew who worked for the Drug unit, had a local gang open a marijuana grow-op right next door to his house in the suburbs.
So coincidence is a daily part of life in the world of police work. Call it luck; call it karma. This story is about a very dedicated Homicide detective who has learned there are things you can control - and things that just happen to you. And you have to watch out for both.
THE WOMAN IN THE TRUNK
She knew something her husband didn't.
She knew that if she just stood out in the front doorway of their store, sales would go up. She would tell Tony she was bored, or hot, or she was just checking out the traffic, but the real reason was quite different. The very same reason she wore high-heels to work every day, even though it wasn't practical - because they accentuated her calves, made her rear end more pronounced and pushed out her breasts.
Sonya would rotate her hips, lift her arms up to the sides of the doorway when the traffic was inching along, and watch the heads turn. At her street corner, only a few buildings away from the lights, traffic would move a little slower. Some of the drivers just weren't in quite the same hurry anymore to rush home to their newspapers and the six o'clock news.
Within a few minutes a man, maybe two, sometimes a woman, would wander into the store - the White Street Trading Shack. They would ask politely about an old chipped armoire, the framed copies of old pages out of Life magazine hanging crookedly on the walls and priced at $50 each. Or even an old coke bottle collection. But they really came for Sonya. Sonya in the tight black dress, her hair teased too high; her rouge too red; what they used to call "fuck-me" boots, laced up high on her chunky legs.
She smiled and bent over slowly when they asked to see something. Then they opened their fat wallets and she would separate them from their hard-earned cash. That was her job. Her husband just didn't understand. And it was all so sad in a way. It was pathetic too, and so obvious, but sexy at the same time in a way she hardly understood.
What knocked her over was how the other wives in the neighborhood acted like they found her husband so sexy. Sonya couldn't understand that. He had never been romantic. He was pushy and hard and demanding. Maybe this looked masculine from a distance - all that snorting and bluffing.
These other men though, her customers, their faces perspiring in the un-air conditioned heat of the musty store, were like children being led to some uncomfortable sticky fate they couldn't resist. That felt right to her. It was the only power she wielded.
This morning, it was hotter than usual in the tiny store. Humidity had drawn ugly circles under Tony's arms while he worked, moving furniture around in the back room.
Sonya snapped her gum and sneered. The front counter was a mess; a new box of 78's spread across the top in mid-inventory. Dust was everywhere, and Tony was stirring up more with his useless reorganization.
She wanted to sit down, but couldn't find a clean enough spot.
Today she wore a bright pink halter-top, which left her shoulders and mid-riff bare, but it didn't seem to help with the humidity. Washington was a hell of a place to have to spend summers. Anyone with money was gone till September.
Sonya was just about to take up her position in the open doorway, when someone stepped in, his body so wide and high he almost blocked out the sunlight. He was a human eclipse. He wore a worn, brown hound’s-tooth jacket, a plain white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably bought at Wal-Mart, judging by the rest of his outfit.
The visitor swung around his big wide head covered in short blonde hair. He hesitated while his eyes adjusted to the gloom, but she caught the slightest expression of curiosity in his facial features when he brought her into focus. This didn't surprise her much. In fact, it still gave her a lift. Men found her physically attractive; it was that simple. They just never seemed willing to take her home to momma.
Tony didn't have a momma so that about explained her present situation.
This customer looked right at her, which was unusual. Typically they had their heads down, avoiding any eye contact that might lead to a quick sale.
The man turned down an aisle and jabbed his hands into his pant’s pockets. She watched him for a minute, then clicked over on the worn hardwood flooring.
"You a Big Band fan?" she asked. He was staring at a signed photo of the Tommy Dorsey Band. She had caught him off guard.
"No. Just surprised to see some of this . . ." he waved his hand at the wall. “I thought you just sold furniture."
"Tony's a pack rat. That's him over there." She pointed, purposefully like a five-year-old. Her eyes never left his. "He wouldn't know a big band from a Big Mac." She picked up the dusty framed photograph. "This is priced way too low. You could steal it, you know, if you buy it quick before his IQ goes up any higher." She was standing close, way too close for his comfort. She liked that. She liked to give big guys a woody and a heart attack all at the same time.
"Is there a Sonya working here?" he asked finally, tired of avoiding the reason he came to this House of Junk.
She smiled. "I'm Sonya. You heard about me?"
"You're Sonya Ellis?" She frowned when she heard the surname.
"Used to be. Now it’s Catelli." She nodded her head in Tony's direction. "Like the noodles."
“I’m Detective Hyde,” he said simply, showing her his badge. Her cheeks suddenly reddened. She stepped back on her high heels. “I’m here to ask you about your father,” he said.
"Oh," was all she said, her smile going flat. "Well, that's too bad."
"Too bad?"
"He forgot to send me a Christmas card," she said.
Hyde squinted at her. A wave of discomfort had hit him. A sense of something not right. "I'm sorry?"
"Yeah, Christmas 2009." She wiped a line of dust off a display of cracked dishes. "And 2010. And 11. Most of that decade actually. And the rest in between. What did he do now?"
"I usually ask the questions, Mrs. Catelli."
"Well, no big deal, Mr. Hyde. It's not like you found a Russi
an mole or a super-spy or something. All you found was me." She brushed her hands on her jeans. "Is Harry trying to make up again, because if he is . . ."
Hyde swallowed. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Catelli. Harry Ellis was murdered last night." She looked at him for a few seconds, her mouth open and uncertain, then her eyes rolled back, and she fainted dead away.
Hyde tried catching her, but she slipped through his arms like a child and folded up by his feet.
When Tony came running over, Hyde was on his knees, trying to put her head back against the floor. Her husband glared down at Hyde with his mouth set hard. Sonya's halter-top had slipped up to reveal part of one breast. Hyde's hand hovered over it.
"She fainted," Hyde said, angry with himself for getting in this situation. While off duty no less. A fight about to break out over nothing.
Tony shook his head. He was short and stocky, hair like a wire brush and shiny. "She does that all the time. Whenever there's any real work to do." He knelt, surveying the situation.
"Maybe you should…" Hyde pointed to the out-of-kilter halter.
"Go ahead," said Tony. "Just be quick about it."
Hyde leaned back. "Isn’t that your job?"
"You trying to offend me?"
"What?"
"Just fix her up before a crowd starts to form, for Christ sake. You're closer." Hyde took a deep breath. Pretty soon they'd be taking measurements - like they do at a Horseshoe match to see who was closer to the pin. He opted for the quickest solution and just hooked a finger under the springy material of her top and pulled it down and let go. When he released it, with a snap, she murmured.
"You know each other?" Tony asked matter-of-factly, chewing gum.
"I’m Hyde. District Homicide. I came here to tell her that her father was murdered."
Tony sneered "Lucky you."
Hyde swung his broad face toward the perspiring husband. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Tony stood up and puffed out his chest. He held up two fingers. "Which part of it don't you understand? The lucky part . . . or the you part?"
Hyde fought down his anger. This guy seemed like another two-dimensional idiot, but he had made a promise to himself not to punch anybody today. It might be a tough promise to keep. "Are you Sonya’s husband?”
Tony looked down at his unconscious wife. “Guilty as charged.”
“Where were you last Saturday night?” asked Hyde.
“You think I killed her daddy?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Saturday night was our anniversary. Seven years. We spent it at home with a bottle of red wine. Then we went to bed, if you catch my drift.”
Hyde looked down at Sonya, who had picked herself up on one arm and had her hand on her forehead. She moaned softly.
"So the perv, your step-daddy the jerk-off, is out of your life for good, baby,” said Tony. “This calls for a celebration."
She shook her head, some of the teased hair falling in loose curls around her face. She was pretty, thought Hyde, but not in a girl-next-door kind of way. Her eyes were hard for someone her age. But she couldn't be more than 28.
"Tony, take a hike. Go do something useful for a change," she moaned.
Tony shrugged. "If she faints again? Do me a favor and roll the bitch out into the street." He left.
"He's a charmer," grunted Hyde, helping Sonya to her feet
"He doesn't hit. In my neighborhood, that's as charming as it gets."
"You alright?"
She looked up at him and pulled off her high-heels. "How did Harry die?"
Hyde just stared at her. It was a simple question. “Can we go someplace private to talk? I need to ask a few questions.”
"Private? Sure." She shook her head and looked out through the dusty front window at the street beyond. "My step-dad had a lot of demons, you know? And he fucked up his little girl’s life royally. So I'm pissed off. His being dead doesn't change that one bit. For the past ten years, he's been zero to me."
She made a hand gesture; finger and thumb together, long pink fingernails. "A big nothing." She looked at him now, as though she realized she had pushed too hard. Made her look bitter. She was, but she didn’t like that side of herself.
. . .
Hyde and Sonya were soon crowded into a tiny office with three unmatched chairs coming apart at the glue joints. The wall was covered with old calendars, like faded wallpaper; the desk buried in bills and invoices and candy bar wrappers. Hyde sipped his coke. She had mixed whiskey with hers from a bottle in the drawer and then held the glass to her forehead, her arm on her knee.
"Who did it?" she asked.
Hyde sat back in the squeaky chair. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“What you’re sayin’ is, you don’t know.”
“We don’t have any suspects yet,” said Hyde.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Hyde took out his notepad from his inside coat pocket. His hand brushed up against his gun in the process. “He was last seen alive at a bar on Broad Street called The Brown Fox. Saturday night. We found him early in the AM. Lying by a dumpster in the back alley.”
Hyde looked up from his notes. Sonya’s eyes were still closed. "He was killed with a knife. His wallet was stolen.” Hyde didn’t say anymore. He could tell her that her step-dad was sliced from abdomen to heart and was found with most of his insides lying by his feet. Like someone had made a point of eviscerating him. And that her father hadn’t died quickly either. But what would be the point?
She sighed, her hair covering her face. "You expecting me to bawl my eyes out?"
“I’m just here to ask if you knew anyone who might be a suspect.”
She downed her drink completely and shuddered. “How about me, Detective. He did things to me when I was little that should never happen to anyone. Things I can never forgive. So screw him. I hope he’s in hell being diddled by the devil.”
"I’m sorry. I didn’t know. There’s nothing in the file.”
"You’re right. How could you know? The only person who could have done anything to help was my mother. And she was always too stoned to notice.” She poured another drink. “Join me in another?”
“I don’t know. I should go.”
“You owe me, Mr. Hyde. For the bump on my noggin.” She touched the back of her head, then poured several ounces of Scotch into Hyde’s half-finished coke. “It’s a wake. Let’s drink to me. Finally, free.”
Hyde raised his glass and drank. What did Harry Ellis do to this girl? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. And would it help his case? “Tell me about your step-dad,” he said, feeling the alcohol already. And she did.
. . .
Hyde swallowed another gulp of the warm Scotch. He had patiently listened to Sonya’s whole story. At some point, his view of the victim had shifted. Ellis was no longer an innocent. He was an abuser, a defiler. One of many he came across in his job. Hyde still wanted the killer. Only now, the motivation was different. He wasn’t acting for Ellis anymore. He was doing his job.
He looked at Sonya, knowing the next question would hurt her. He had to ask though. All part of the job. "Do you have an alibi for Saturday night? The fifth?"
"Am I a suspect now?" Sonya asked, just a hint of something new in her voice, a subtle slurring. “What time? What time did the asshole die?"
"Around midnight."
Sonya laughed. "I wish I was hanging out at bars at midnight. Do you know what time we open Sunday?"
Hyde shook his head.
"Ten. If I was twenty-one, and I’m not saying I’m not, maybe I could manage partying till all-hours in the morning, then show up here on Sunday not reeking of Margaritas and stale cigarettes."
“Was Tony with you?”
“He gets up for ten too.”
Hyde said nothing.
"Of course, you know I'm not twenty-one," she added.
"I was going to say twenty-four," said Hyde.
Sonya
smiled. "Where's your partner? Don't homicide detectives work in pairs?"
"Why are you asking?”
“Just curious which one you are - the bad cop or the good cop."
"Neither. I'm the smart cop."
"Oh." Sonya lifted an eyebrow.
"And I'm alone because it's my day off. My partner has a family. So he's at the museum today with his kids. I'm here."
"Dedicated. And divorced."
"How did you know?"
"I'm smart too. You're not wearing a ring. Just because I wear a halter top doesn't make me a bozo."
"I don’t think that. I like your halter top." Hyde was trying to be kind, but he realized it might not have sounded that way.
"Yeah. Tony told me how much you admired it. First time I've seen him jealous in ten years."
"Maybe you should faint more often."
Sonya giggled, then put down her glass. “I have to get back to work,” she said, instantly sober.
“Me too,” said Hyde.
“On your day off,” added Sonya.
Hyde nodded. “On my day off.” He stood up to leave.
Sonya squinted at him. "Why are you here today?”
The detective looked around the room like he was searching for an answer. “It’s what I do,” he said.
“Don’t you have any hobbies? Isn’t there something else you can do on a Sunday?”
“This is my hobby.”
“Do all cops care this much?" Hyde thought about all the police officers he knew who were in counseling, who considered suicide at some point, who died just doing their job.
“I don’t know. Some people come into the force because they like to wear a uniform and carry a weapon. But most of us do this because we just want to catch the bad guys.”
“But somebody already caught your bad guy,” said Sonya.
