Hunt for a Phantom

by Stephen L Brooks

  Betsy laughed and rose from her chair. “You like my new look?”

  “I liked the old look,” he said, “but yes, this is very nice. You clean up good, Ms Connors.”

  “But you already knew that,” she said. “By the way, when do you think we might be going to the theater or a concert again?”

  At the end of the Rogers case they had gone on their first true date: a production of Carmen. It was the first time he had seen her in a dress, rather than the aforementioned office casual, and he had thought she looked fantastic.

  “Is that a hint?” He found himself smiling again.

  “No, just a question.” She shrugged slightly and her own smile, a mischievous one, began in her eyes and spread to her lips. “And I wanted you to remember: Emma Peel had her soft side too.”

  He felt the ribs that still ached a little from their close encounter and said, “I’ll try to remember that while my body heals.” He chuckled good naturedly as he went into his office.

  Betsy returned to her desk and made a show of working on her laptop. Of course she might have been updating files or some other make-work project, just for something to do; the kind of thing you save for when other work is slow.

  It wasn’t just slow, Banning thought as he sat at his own desk; it’s at a complete stop. There hadn’t been anything new from Taylor for some time; not since that DNA trace the City lab found. But even that wasn’t a help, because there was apparently no match to any known offender, either in their databases or Taylor’s. Fingerprints, voice recognition software, DNA; all were nearly foolproof means of identification if you have good samples and something to compare them too. Even with the growing local, state, and national databases of fingerprints and other identifiers the evidence taken from a crime scene was no good unless there was a match to one of them.

  This guy, whoever he was, had covered his tracks to perfection.No, that wasn’t true; all of these creeps make a slip-up. It’s just that so far they hadn’t found his.

  * * *

  Jed Hagen had started his family late in life. He was pushing forty and his two kids still counted their ages in single digits. But then it hadn’t been until he was nearly thirty that he met Connie, and knew that she was the one. But God had acted, it seemed, to make up for the wait: Todd and Angie were twins, and though there were times when he felt like banging his head against the wall, they were the kind of children he had always hoped to have.

  Jan, his wife, was ash blonde with a natural perennial tan and eyes that silently drew all your secrets from you in one first glance. It had only taken two or three dates before he openly admitted what she had known upon first seeing him: of all the men and all the women in the universe, they were meant for each other.

  It was noisy, of course, at Friday’s; it always was no matter what day you chose. But it was the twins’ birthdays, and this was their favorite restaurant. Although sometimes he didn’t hear what Jan said across the table from him because of the din, he was thankful that they hadn’t chosen Chuckee Cheese or some similar eatery designed totally for the most raucous children and their frazzled parents.

  He gazed across at Jan and at their offspring, enjoying their meals and this family moment. Todd and Angie were eight years old today, and in the fall would begin third grade. Time would start its deceptively slow acceleration soon, and soon resemble a ride in a time machine, traveling steadily yet ever faster into the future.

  But it was too early to rent tuxes and prom gowns; there was still a lot for them to see and to live before that came.

  An inaudible hum massaged his thigh. “Is that a smart phone or are you glad to see me?” always came to mind when he felt that familiar tingle. He tightened his lips an instant. I’m not going to answer it, he told himself. It hummed again. He grimaced again.

  Jan, as always, read his thoughts. “Is it your cell?”

  Jed nodded. “I’m not answering it.”

  “I didn’t think you’d have it on.”

  “It’s set to vibrate.”

  Jan smiled mischievously. “I can do it better.”

  Jed gave his “Cheese it, Jan! The kids!” look which he always did when she was suggestive in their presence. He glanced at Todd and Angie who obviously heard the goings-on but appeared blissfully unaware of their meaning. He wondered, not for the first time, how much they understood; if anything.

  The phone vibrated again, and his flinch communicated it to Jan.

  “Check it or turn it off,” she said. “Or check who it is and then turn it off.”

  As always she offered the most logical solution. He excused himself and fished it out of his pocket. He pressed for it to display the caller: it was Grayson, with a text message. There was no attachment, so it was probably just a brief message. He excused himself again, rising from his seat and going into a corner to view it more privately. He opened the message and frowned in surprise. The frown deepened when he realized that the City forensics lab had probably noticed this right away and hadn’t shared it with them. He conjured some words to use in describing Grayson next time they met at Barney’s for having joined in the conspiracy to cut out the County from the investigation as he jabbed his Phone Book key and scrolled down to Taylor’s number. Ed needed to know this; he should have learned it way before this. Better late than never in a murder case, especially a double murder, is not the best maxim to live by. He forwarded Grayson’s message to Taylor with his own intro: Why didn’t they tell us this before?

  It wasn’t a clue that pointed to the phantom who had mysteriously left the hotel, but it was at least a step.

  Trouble was, it also made the case more of a mystery; in a novel, that was usually a good thing. In real life, it just made life a heluva lot harder.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ed Taylor was also having dinner: a KFC platter he had picked up on the way home from work. Tommy was beside him on the couch, having the same. They were watching a marathon of the Lethal Weapon movies, their plastic plates balanced precariously on their laps and their ice teas sweating rings onto the coffee table in front of them. When the damage had already been done, Taylor said a bad word and grabbed a couple of coasters, dropping one down for himself and tossing the other to Tommy. It nearly knocked his son’s glass over, which would have caused a second catastrophe; but Tommy managed to snatch the drink away just in time and set his glass on it where it landed. It had looked like quite a trick, and belonged on a sitcom; but both knew it was something they’d never be able to re-create. With a reminder not to repeat the word he’d used in front of his mother or sister, Taylor resumed his meal.

  Katie and Lucy were at his niece’s bridal shower. It was about time because she was starting to show; at least the guy who had gotten her preggie had manned up and was going to marry her. Taylor hoped that the marriage lasted at least until the unborn had graduated high school. Preferably it lasted longer; but Taylor wasn’t ready to bet his pension on it yet.

  They were having a great time, bonding over Gibson and Glover’s buddy cops and their adventures. Katie wouldn’t have approved, for the L and V content; but Taylor knew that the language wasn’t any worse than Tommy heard every day, and the violence was Road Runner versus Wile E. Coyote compared to what he had seen on the job. And Tommy had said recently that he wanted to be a cop like his dad. Of course, a few weeks before, he had said he wanted to be a cowboy. In this day and age, Taylor knew he’d be happy if his son and daughter completed high school and went on to college, stayed off drugs and did any honorable work; even if it was only flipping burgers.

  Trouble with fried chicken, besides the fact that Katie didn’t approve of that either and had stored leftovers of something homemade and far healthier for them in the fridge, was that it was very greasy. Both of them needed fresh napkins, after already going through three each, and Taylor put the movie on pause to go to the kitchen to get them. This left Gibson on the screen with his features frozen into a seemingly impossible grimace; but they both chuckled and Taylor
went on his errand.

  He didn’t get far; his cell rang before he had even left the den. At first he wasn’t going to answer it, but the reason he had it on at all was if something broke in the case. He picked up the phone and saw there was a text from Jed Hagen. “This is important,” he told Tommy.

  “Somebody from work?”

  “Yeah. I’ll just be a second.” He pulled up the message and read it. Its significance was immediately obvious. He quickly forwarded it to Banning. As he put the phone down he said, “Don’t be surprised if it rings again in a few minutes.” He resumed his errand and had just sat down when, as predicted, the phone rang: it was Banning.

  “So there was gunpowder residue on Fleming’s hand,” Banning said.

  “Yep. So he fired the gun at least once that night,” Taylor confirmed.

  “And just when were they going to tell you this?”

  “Probably never. I’ve got a buddy who’s friends with a guy in the City.”

  “Somebody assigned to the case?”

  “Yeah. Guess his conscience got to him.”

  “Guess so. Look, I’m busy tonight.”

  “So am I; bonding with my son over Mel Gibson.”

  “Okay...” Banning wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue that. “How about we meet for breakfast tomorrow? Say about seven?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Make it the I-Hop near me, the one on Belair Road.”

  “Nothing doing; I’m gonna get beat up by my wife for the KFC we’re having tonight. Make it the Dunkin’ Donuts near you; at least I can get a whole wheat bagel and call it healthy.”

  “It’s a date. See you tomorrow.”

  Taylor hung up and noted that the screen had run out of patience with his constant phone calls and gone blue. “That’s it for tonight; I promise.”

  “Is this about the girl and her father who were killed downtown?” Tommy asked.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t talk much about work at home; there were certain things about it he didn’t like to share with the kids. “What do you know about it?”

  “Only what’s been on the news. It’s sad; do you have any idea who did it?”

  “No, and the message I just got makes it even more mysterious.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Taylor pressed the play button on the DVD player. Mel Gibson’s frozen grimace re-appeared. “Tell you what: don’t worry about the murderers I’m after and just concentrate on the one these guys are chasing.” He gestured the remote toward the TV. “Deal?”

  “Okay; deal.”

  Taylor pressed play again and the movie resumed. The bad guys in the movies were always so easy to spot; not the ones in real life. At least, not all the time. And he figured this was probably one of those times.

  * * *

  Banning returned to the den. Betsy, in the same virginal white blouse and serious navy skirt as before, sat on the sofa waiting for him. They were at her place, at her invitation, having Thai take-out and a chick flick. He guessed this was another effort by her to show her softer side and had agreed to come only after warning her that next time it would be Checkers burgers, loaded fries, and a shoot-‘em-up, blow-‘em-up action film at his place. She also had agreed, so he was making good on his part of the bargain.

  “Was that about the Fleming case?” she asked. “I heard his name mentioned.”

  “Yeah. It looks like they found the rental car.”

  “The one the phantom drove from the hotel?”

  “The very one.”

  “And what else?”

  “Taylor said there’s more info coming.”

  Their musings over the new information were silent for several minutes.

  “Wanna have breakfast with me and Taylor tomorrow?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re meeting at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Belair Road about seven. You’re invited.”

  “Oh. All right. I thought maybe you meant something else.”

  Banning started to reply but thought better of it. They resumed the movie. Banning had to admit to himself that, on one level, he was enjoying it. But he wasn’t going to tell Betsy.

  * * *

  The Dunkin’ Donuts was small, but there were a few seats inside. Peggy was already there, working on her fifth Munchkin and a high octane, high fat latte. When Banning arrived and acknowledged her wave, he remarked to himself how she consumed so much of that stuff and yet stayed trim. Her metabolism must run at warp speed, he decided. He had just paid for his coffee and egg sandwich when Betsy came in, with Taylor right behind her. He beckoned to them and indicated the table Peggy had snagged for them before going over to join her.

  She had the cupful of Munchkins in front of her; that is she had the cup that had been full of Munchkins when she had bought it. The cup was now nearly empty, and Peggy grabbed the last two before Banning could lay claim to them.

  “Isn’t that supposed to be shared between at least two or three people?” he asked.

  She watched him unwrap his sandwich. “I’ll bet there’s no more fat in those doughnuts than there is in the egg, bacon, and cheese in that.”

  “Touché,” he said, undaunted, taking a large bite of the sandwich.

  Taylor and Betsy arrived a few moments later. She was in a nice plaid skirt today; again showing off her feminine side. He remarked to himself that Peggy was in her usual jeans and short leather jacket. Maybe Mariska Hargitay was Peggy’s role model.

  “Did you two come together?” Banning teased.

  “Hey, we’re cousins,” Taylor said defensively. “We’ve been hanging out since we were both in diapers.”

  “I hope you were long out of diapers before I came along,” Betsy said. “Let’s see; you’re how many years older than me? Six? Eight?”

  Taylor shook his head and dismissed his last statement with an agitated wave. He was indeed several years older than her. “Skip it.” He regarded the whole wheat bagel and then the Munchkins, chocolate covered donut, and egg sandwich his companions had. With a resigned sigh his hunger overcame his resentment and he started the bagel.

  “Okay,” Banning began, “so they found the rental car. Where was it?”

  “Abandoned on a park and ride lot in White Marsh.”

  “Didn’t anybody at the MTA get curious when the car was sitting there that long?” Betsy asked.

  “The MTA can’t even get their busses to run on time consistently. You think they’re gonna police their park and ride lots?”

  “Pardon my naïveté,” Betsy said. “Even so, you’d think one of the commuters would have called it in or emailed or something.”

  “Thing of it is,” Taylor said as the licked cream cheese from a finger, “that lot is also used for a couple of tour lines. Guess whatever fees the tour company pays the MTA keeps bus fares down.”

  “Wait a minute,” Banning said. “White Marsh is here in the county; and the city cops are claiming credit on this one?”

  “Oh, a commuter who got tired of seeing the car called the county cops and had it towed. When the plates were run, it showed up on the city list as missing. So the city cops took it over.”

  “And the county cops didn’t have on their list as stolen?” Betsy asked.

  Taylor and Banning both turned to Betsy at this.

  “Oh,” she said. “My bad. I never turned it over to the city cops; or the county cops, for that matter.” She turned to Taylor. “You gonna spank me?”

  Banning had another suggestion. “I can just get Betsy to spar with you again.”

  Both women chuckled; Taylor was clueless.

  “I’ll explain sometime,” Betsy promised.

  “Back to business,” Banning said. “Were there any prints?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Guess he was wearing gloves or something.”

  “Nothing to tell who he is?”

  “About the only thing we have is that photo the girl gave us at the rental place. We’ve got a face, one face, but a whole series of fake n
ames and addresses to with it.”

  * * *

  He couldn’t stand it anymore; he had to do it. He had to make a contact, he had to find a girl to...

  There was that one that sounded hot last time he was on; what was her name? Oh yeah; he remembered.

  He reached for his phone.

  * * *

  Dana Fisher felt the buzz of her cell in her jeans pocket. The teacher was expounding on some kind of nonsense about the Middle Ages. Certainly nothing she would ever need to know about. Long practice had made her expert at drawing the cell from the pocket and holding it below her desk.

  There was a text message from IronGuy, one of the men she had contacted over the Web. She opened it and smiled. Raising her eyes to the front of the room she thumbed the keyboard, replying to the text one-fingered by touch. The teacher was still talking about something that happened hundreds of years before. And then the Europeans blah blah blah. And the Turks yadda yadda yadda. And the war was a thing and a thing. Screw that, she thought, as she got a reply. She giggled a little louder than she intended as she read it. She looked up. The teacher was still talking, but she was looking her way. So what? She turned her attention to her cell, replying to the reply, and glanced up to feign paying attention.

  The teacher wasn’t at the front of the room anymore.

  “I’m sorry your texting is so much more important than the Romanians battling the Ottoman Turks,” Ms Gilbert said. She was holding out her hand; Dana looked at it and her as though she had no idea what the teacher wanted. Ms Gilbert stretched her hand closer; Dana knew she wasn’t allowed to touch a student, but she also knew very well what Ms Gilbert wanted. Reluctantly she handed her the phone. “You’ll get it back at the end of the day,” she said.

  “But, that’ll make me late!” Dana complained. “I’ve got a bus to catch!”

  “Maybe you can call for a ride from one of your parents. They can meet you here in my classroom. It will give me a chance to have a nice chat with them.” She held out her hand relentlessly.