She disappeared inside for a moment and reemerged with the colonel in tow. Colonel Andrew Milton was the picture of a military man. He was still fit as a fiddle even though he was well into his sixties, hair high and tight, and perfect posture. He pants were creased and his shoes were shined.
“Stitch,” he said.
“Sir.”
“Let’s have a seat out back on the patio,” said Mrs. Milton.
The yard fell away into some big cottonwoods.
“The creek run through there?” asked Stitch.
“It does,” said the colonel.
“Any fish?”
“If there were fish in that ditch you’d have to be birddogging me from the bank instead of my patio,” said the colonel.
Stitch laughed. They all sat down.
“Sir, you said when we first met that you and Lamar were close. Talked on the phone every day, saw each other a lot.”
“That’s right. I would say we were close,” said the colonel.
“Then you know about his addiction to pills for his PTSD and how he got them?”
The colonel lowered his head and held it in his hands.
“I know its uncomfortable sir, but I need you to be truthful with me if we are going to find out why Lamar was killed,” said Stitch.
“Yes, I know he was taking a ton of pills. I am not sure where he was getting them.”
“Good, now I need to know what else you know about Lamar. Drinking, guns, other drugs, women; is there any other reason that somebody would kill him.”
“He didn’t drink too much, glass of cognac here and there. Guns were everywhere but he’s a cop and there was nothing illegal that I could tell. I don’t think he was taking any street drugs, I’ve seen men on street drugs,” said the colonel.
“What about women?” said Stitch.
The colonel looked over at Mrs. Milton. Stitch got the signal.
“Mrs. Milton, could I trouble you for a glass of water. All this talking has got my throat dry.”
“Loraina, could you get Stitch and I a beer please?” said the colonel.
She got up and went inside.
“He played around with one of his ex-partners for a while. Her name was Sheri Banford. He never indicated that it was anything serious, just a causal relationship.”
“Sir, I don’t know a better way to ask this but you are an ex-marine so I’m sure you will understand. Was there sex involved?”
“Yes, I believe they were intimate. This was a few years back and there haven’t been any women recently.”
“They broke it off?”
“He broke it off, said she was in over her head.”
“Over her head how?”
“He didn’t elaborate.”
Mrs. Milton returned with the beers.
“Thank you ma’am,” said Stitch, “Is there anything else that I should know about?”
“I can’t think of anything Mr. Stitcher,” said Mrs. Milton.
She put her hand on Stitch’s arm as he took the beer from the table.
“Mr. Stitcher, Lamar was a good man and a good cop. I am sure the colonel has told you everything he knows.”
She smiled at Stitch and shot the colonel a reprimand.
“Darling,” said the colonel.
“No Andrew, it’s OK that you know what you know. But I knew you two better than you think.”
She turned back to Stitch.
“Lamar was troubled by his time in the war Stitch.”
It was the first time she used his nickname.
“I am certain he was not randomly executed while on patrol. Now, I know you have talked to the pill supplier. Did he lead you anywhere?”
“Yes ma’am, I have a name. My contacts are trying to locate him as we speak.”
“Very well, now you have the name of the girl.”
The look on the colonel’s face was priceless. Stitch couldn’t help but smile.
“You have all the information that we can provide then.”
Stitch tilted the bottle and drank.
“Mrs. Milton, Colonel. If you think of anything else, you have my number.”
Stitch excused himself. He could still hear them talking on the patio as he climbed into the pickup. The jig was up for Colonel Andrew Milton.
“But Loraina.”
“No Andrew, we’ll talk about it now.”
Stitch headed back east on 696. He thought about Two Tone Templeton, Sheri Banford, and wondered why there were no fish in the upper Rogue.
Chapter 6
It had been a long timing coming but it was worth the wait. It was a hundred fish day, and on fly rods none the less. Stitch studied his left knuckle in the streetlight at the dock as Donnie parked the boat. It was all scuffed up from lipping so many smallies.
“Thanks Donnie,” said Stitch.
Donnie handed Stitch his gear.
“You remember how to get back to where you parked?” asked Donnie.
“I got it. You sure you can’t stop off for a cold one?”
“No, I have clients in the morning and have to get everything cleaned up and ready. I’m low on gas and beer, no thanks to you.”
Stitch ignored the gas and beer comment, “OK. Thanks again. It was worth the wait man.”
Stitch wandered down the long, dark dock with his fly rods in his hand. He leaned the rods against the wall of the dry dock building and ducked into the Porta-John. He locked the door and wrinkled his nose from the smell. Somebody jiggled the handle.
“Be out in a second,” said Stitch.
Stitch could hear a car approach from around the corner. He tried to wrap things up quickly. There was another noise on the plastic, outside.
“Shit,” said Stitch.
The Porta-John started to slide.
“Donnie, stop fucking around man.”
There was laughing.
“Aw hell,” said Stitch.
He braced himself just before the Porta-John went over on its side. The pink solution, full of sewage, spilled out. Stitch held his breath and locked his arms and legs. He knew what was coming. The toilet jerked one more time and took off.
“Whoaaaaaa shit!” said Stitch.
He blew out a stream of spit to get whatever was on his face off, took a deep breath, and held it again. The John went sideways and whatever attached it to the back of the vehicle broke. The toilet rolled to a stop. Stitch pushed himself up to keep his head out of the sewage. Car doors slammed.
“Stitcher, stay the fuck away from Sheri Banford,” said a voice.
Stitch wiped the shit from his eyes and cocked his head to concentrate on the voice. It was a white guy for sure. There was some laughing again.
“You ain’t the only one with inside information motherfucker.”
It was a different voice this time, kind of gravely. Stitch could tell there was a little New England in it.
They laughed again, doors slammed, and the car sped away. Stitch kicked the door open and tried to get a look at the car and the plate. It was too late. He could just see one taillight as they took the corner out onto Jefferson. He hobbled back to the dry dock building on sore knees, his kidneys hurt. He picked up his fly rods and headed back down the dock toward the boat.
Donnie was hosing things down. He saw Stitch coming and put a foot on the gunwale.
“What the hell happened to you?” Donnie said.
“Sons of bitches drug the John all the way from the dry dock, down the driveway, and out to Jefferson.”
Donnie laughed, “Well, at least they didn’t break the fly rods.”
“Yeah, that’s comforting.”
“Come closer,” said Donnie, “that turd on your shoulder, I think somebody had peanuts.”
Donnie laughed again and squirted Stitch with the hose. Stitch held his arms out to his side and turned around in the stream.
Chapter 7
Jenny Stancheck came out of the house and got in her car. Stitch sat up in the seat of the old pickup and wat
ched as she drove away. He followed.
“Donnie’s right, this does feel funny.”
She pulled out onto Harper made a right on Twelve Mile and grabbed Jefferson heading north. She pulled into the parking lot at The Blue Goose. Stitch thought it was perfect. It was much easier to have a random meeting with somebody at a bar than a pre-school. He didn’t want to follow her right in so he made a phone call to check on the progress with locating Two Tone Templeton.
“Headquarters, this is Robinson.”
“Lonnie, The Bird, Robinson. What’d you get for me on Templeton?”
“Shit Stitch, I told you not to call me on this line. I’ll call you back in a minute.”
Stitch hung up. His phone rang again a few moments later.
“Stitcher Investigations,” said Stitch.
“Cut that shit out man. You know who it is.”
Stitch laughed out loud, “Alright Birdman, what’d you get for me.”
“Dontell, Two Tone, Templeton. He’s got a rap sheet thick as the bible, both testaments. Last known address is over on the west side, off of Joy and Evergreen.”
Stitch grabbed a pen out of the ashtray and wrote down the street number.
“Any unusual arrests or charges?”
“Yeah, he’s got some weapons charges and a charge for false imprisonment. Says here he got busted with some AK’s and a grenade launcher. Also says he had some underage girls living with him on the imprisonment charge.”
“Got it. Weapons of mass destruction and sex slaves,” said Stitch, “Thanks Birdman.”
“Alright man, but don’t call me on that damn line anymore.”
Stitch hung up and held the phone for a moment before stuffing it in his pocket. He could picture Birdman’s face but it was always the crazy face he was making just before they crash landed in the desert. He walked into The Blue Goose, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a beer. He spotted Jenny sitting in the corner with a glass of wine, she was alone. It was now or never. He took his beer and walked over. He stopped as he passed her and took two steps back.
“Jenny Stancheck, is that you?”
She didn’t recognize him.
“It’s me, Linus Stitcher. You know Stitch, from high school.”
Stitch could see the light bulb starting to come on. He checked her finger for a ring or a witness of a ring. There was neither.
She got out of her seat, “Stitch, wow I can’t believe it. I heard you went to Iraq, spent six years in a Turkish prison, and took an Arab wife.”
She came around the table and hugged him, “Sit down.”
He pulled up a chair.
“I was in Iraq. But sorry, no Turkish prison and no Arab wife,” said Stitch, “What about you, did you ever take an Arab wife. I mean, you ever get married?”
She giggled, “I was married for a while. It didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, any kids?”
“No kids.”
“Then surely you are meeting a boyfriend or fiancé. A good looker like you can’t be single?”
She laughed and shook her head, “No, no boyfriend.”
It was working out just as he had planned. Now, if she just turned out not to be a psychopath. Stitch looked across the table and locked eyes with her.
“Can I buy you a drink, maybe some dinner? I have no plans for the evening.”
She smiled at him, “This isn’t as awkward as when you asked me out in high school.”
“Yeah well, I guess we’ve changed a little since then.”
A band came in after dinner and Stitch asked her to dance to one of the slow songs.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I was special ops in Iraq. So, I spent a lot of time gathering intelligence and working closely with intelligence. When I got back I went into business for myself as a private investigator.”
She laughed, “So is that how you found me? You gather intelligence on me?”
Stitch lied.
“No way, I’m just a guy that stopped off to have a drink and ran into an old high school friend.”
“An old high school friend that he had the hots for back in the day,” she said.
Stitch stopped dancing and she stumbled a little. The wine was getting to her.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Stitch, “Gather intelligence on you.”
She fanned herself with her hand, “Is it hot in here or is it just me. I don’t think the drinks are affecting you like they are affecting me.”
Stitch leaned in close, “I’m a Marine. When we aren’t fighting we are drinking. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
She tripped over his feet.
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” he said.
They stood on the porch in silence staring at each other.
“Well, it’s been great catching up,” he said.
She smirked, “No kiss? No trying to get me in the sack?”
“Another thing I learned in special ops is patience. Besides, you’ve been drinking.”
He turned to walk off the porch.
“Stitch, wait.”
He turned back toward her and into a kiss. She pulled back.
“Maybe we could have dinner again sometime.”
“Sure.”
“But only if you admit you were stalking me?”
“That’s crazy.”
“Then sitting in trucks under big Maple trees is just a way to pass time for you and Donnie Pratt?”
Stitch smirked. He had been caught.
“Dinner sometime soon, I’ll call you.”
Stitch jumped off the porch and walked back toward the old Ford.
“Don’t you need my number for that?”
“Nope, I’ve already got it. Special ops, intelligence remember.”
The Ford turned over and rumbled down the street. She watched the taillights disappear and went inside. She wondered if she should have told him about Neil, just in case.
Chapter 8
Donnie got in the pickup and closed the door. He sniffed the air like a hound dog.
“Let me guess, that perfume I smell is Jenny Stancheck’s?”
Stitch smiled as he rolled out of the Marina and onto Jefferson.
“You got it,” said Stitch.
“She know you were stalking her?”
“It isn’t stalking,” said Stitch, “but yeah, she has an idea. She saw us sitting under the maple tree one day.”
“Shit man, now I’m an accessory to your creepy ass love life.”
The Ford rumbled onto I-94 and Stitch merged onto westbound I-96.
“Where we going?”
“Two Tone’s got a place on the west side.”
Stitch stopped at the light on Joy and Evergreen.
“Shit man, this neighborhood is just as good as Delmar’s,” said Donnie.
It was an old neighborhood of duplexes and old style Tudor’s. There were twice as many vacant houses but not as many vacant lots as Delmar’s hood.
“How we going to play this one?” asked Donnie.
“Don’t have to play it. That’s our boy right there. We’ve been made.”
A tall black man in a nice suit with his foot up leaning on a stoop looked right at them as they stopped. He had on two tone saddle shoes.
“So, that’s why they call him Two Tone,” said Donnie, “So, how we gonna play this?”
“We got to go right at him now. Good cop bad cop, just follow my lead.”
Stitch got out of the truck and walked straight at Two Tone.
“Dontell, Two Tone, Templeton?”
Two Tone lowered his foot from the stoop and took off between the houses. Stitch saw Donnie peel off and head between the houses one yard over. Donnie was quick as the wind and blindsided Two Tone as he tried to jump the back fence. Stitch thought he heard ribs crack and laughed even though he was out of breath. He helped Donnie up and doubled over, his hands on his knees. Two Tone writhed on the ground in pain.
“Where were yo
u?” said Donnie.
“I ain’t as quick as I used to be,” said Stitch as he kicked at Two Tone, “Two Tone, did I mention that I hate running.”
Two Tone grabbed his side and tried to get up. Donnie drew down on him.
“Don’t move.”
Two Tone put his hands up.
“Who you boys, ATF, DEA?”
Stitch flashed his ID, “We’re all of those and then some.”
Stitch straightened Two Tone up and pinned him against the fence and gave his ribs a jab. Two Tone recoiled and doubled over.
“Ribs hurt huh?”
Donnie stepped in between them.
“C’mon you know we don’t treat suspects that way.”
“Yeah, motherfucker we don’t treat suspects that way,” said Two Tone, “Thanks for standing up for a brother man.”
Donnie shot Two Tone a look, “Don’t expect a birthday gift.”
“We’re looking for information on Lamar Milton, now spill,” said Stitch.
“Naw man, you mofos got to take me downtown. I want to go downtown,” said Two Tone.
Stitch drew the Red Hawk and cocked it, “Fuck it, this saddle shoe wearing son of bitch ain’t going to talk. I say we waste him. Plant that gun on him that we took off that terrorist we busted over in Dearborn.”
Donnie stepped in again, “Now wait a minute, we ain’t wasting anyone, at least not yet. Bro, it aint’ going to be good for you if we take you downtown with your fingerprints all over a known terrorist’s gun. You can kiss the guns and the girls goodbye.”
Stitch pushed Donnie aside and pressed the Ruger against Two Tone’s cheek, “Look bro, I need to know what you know about Milton or I’m going to paint the grass with your brains.”
Stitch leaned down close to Two-Tone’s ear, “Which crib is yours? I got all day we can check each one till I find the guns, the pills, and the girls. I know you got em all. Then we can run downtown with that gun and the fingerprints. That shit might even land you at Gitmo with a non-pork diet and a prayer rug.”
Two Tone looked straight at Donnie. Stitch knew their game was working.
“Fuck it man, I’ll talk. But only about Milton, I ain’t giving up nothing on the other shit I got going.”
Two Tone pointed at Donnie.
“I’m only talking to this motherfucker man. I ain’t got nothing else to say to your ass.”
Detroit Gumshoe: Linus Stitcher Episode #1 Page 2
