Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “What I can't do, dumb ass. What comes as natural to you as breathing; lie, cheat, steal, and break the law to get the evidence we can't get. Then figure out a legal way to use it, tie a bow around it, and give it to me so I can be a hero – and quietly and graciously tear up your death warrant.”

  “You ought to be in a museum,” I told him. “You are a genuine piece of work.”

  “It's okay by me, Blake. You'd rather hear me recite Miranda, I know Chicago's version by heart. You have the right to remain silent–”

  “Shut up! I'm going.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Wenders made a last call, on my demand for breathing space, removing the cops he'd had staking me out. All except one beat cop on duty outside my apartment. We fought about him, in front of him on the stoop, for several minutes but it was no go. “Your apartment is a murder scene. The sentry stays!” We parted company as we usually did, fuming at one another.

  Lisa reminded me I looked like 'death warmed over' and offered me a ride to the hospital of my choice. I declined without thanks, reminding her I had work to do. A trooper, she offered me a ride to my car instead, then confused me by walking me to a vehicle that wasn't hers. She drives a speck of a car; a 1970-something Volkswagen Cabriolet. I call it her electric-yellow roller skate and tease her it's fueled by lead-free gas and pretension. She wasn't unlocking her Volkswagen. She was unlocking a rust brown two-door Ford Pinto, with seating for two up front and a rear seat in name only that could carry either long spaghetti or short snakes. Anything wider would have had to hold its breath.

  “Where's your car?”

  “At a shop in Des Plaines. That's part of the long story. I can't wait to tell you!”

  But she would have to wait. There were many things I wanted to do that minute, all with Lisa. I wanted to know how she was after her injury? I wanted to know where she'd been? What she'd been doing? I wanted to run over the details of my case, the case she'd put into motion. I wanted a thousand things. But I had no time. There'd been three murders, including Alfonso. The killer was still out there. Despite the killer being at large, the lead homicide detective was ready to arrest me for the murders. And Alida, or others at the circus, might at that moment be in danger of their lives. I had no time and told her so. I told her she needed to drop me at the car lot hiding my Jag and asked her if, after, she would run through a drive-thru for starving Willie.

  “Feed the little rat,” I told her. “Relieve him, give him something – not too much – for his trouble, then send him on his way. Make sure when he leaves he doesn't take anything that isn't his.”

  “Wait. You're going back to the office, aren't you?”

  “No. I've got corn to plow.”

  “You can't. I've got something to tell you. I solved the case!”

  I did a take. I goggled. Then, without meaning to, I initiated one of the word games Lisa so enjoys playing. Stunned, I asked, “What?” She repeated herself. “I know what you said,” I told her. “What are you talking about? What case?”

  “My case.”

  “Lisa, what case?”

  “I caught the vandals.”

  “What vandals?”

  “The ones who were ruining your stuff and your life. The vandals who destroyed your office. The ones who trashed the tires on your car. The ones who threatened your life.”

  Oh, I thought, that. I didn't have the heart to tell Lisa that, with everything that had been going on, I'd forgotten about the vandals. I didn't have the energy to tell her, yet again, she wasn't a detective and as a standing rule I'd like to kill her for pretending she was. But if she had discovered the identities if the idiots breaking my stuff… Well that was great and I didn't want to deflate her ego.

  “Don't you want to hear about it?” she asked, busting.

  “Of course I do. I'm dying to hear every detail. But you're going to have to save it. I don't have time to listen right now. I've got a couple of murders to solve.”

  Lisa looked like a popped balloon. The first action I'd taken, after not having seen her for days, was to yank the V out of her victory. I felt like crap. Lisa looked deflated. Then she looked angry. Then, to my complete stupefaction, Lisa refused to do as I'd asked. More, she poked her glasses back up on her nose, crossed her arms, and informed me the offer of a ride to my car had been rescinded… because she was quitting as my secretary.

  “You're being a terrible boss. And you're being a worse friend. There are things I need to tell you and if you don't want to hear them, I don't want to work for you anymore.” I raised an eyebrow. She raised two at me (not a good look). Then she added, “You can give me a few minutes.”

  “Yes, I can,” I agreed. “Of course, I can. Drop me at my car. Get food. I'll meet you at the office.”

  She beamed. I shoehorned myself into her loaner Pinto and we were off.

  I beat Lisa back to the office (Wenders had kept his word, the prowl car was gone) – and got my first look at Willie in over twenty-four hours. He sat at Lisa's desk looking like hell's own mess. He was unshowered, unshaved, unfed, and under watered (apparently the doofus didn't know how to operate a tap). Even his sling was sagging. Still the slug had the nerve to tell me, through his sinuses, that I looked awful. Sigh.

  I promised Lisa I'd hear her exciting detective story, and intended to. Beyond that, on the trip back to the office, I'd see-sawed back and forth between 'Discuss my case with Lisa' and 'Skip it for now and get to the circus' so many times I'd lost count. I was back to 'Get to the circus' when Lisa pulled in. Food in hand, already chewing fries, she hurried inside.

  Willie nearly took her fingers off wrenching the bag of burgers from her and, one-handed, tore into them like he'd never eaten before. I did my best to ignore him, plopping down in one of two waiting room chairs that seldom saw paying customers, and gave Lisa my attention. “Okay. While Willie serenades us slurping shakes and swallowing cheeseburgers whole, give me the short version of your story. Save the details for later.”

  She lit up again as happy as a pig in poop.

  “The short version,” I repeated. “You promise?”

  And here, sisters and brothers, is something I promised you many chapters ago: that part of the adventure where I – meaning Lisa, of course – tie in and tie up the two rambling stories I told you at the beginning of this case.

  You probably remember as well as I do the morning after Lisa received her injuries; her excited determination as she declared her intent to track down the vandals that had damaged our offices and her head. I demanded she forget it – and thought that was the end of it. But I know Lisa and I should have known better. I should have guessed once she'd made up her mind to solve the mystery she wouldn't stop until it was solved. Especially after she'd gone to the trouble of giving it a file name right out of Perry Mason. I was an idiot not to realize that, unspoken and outside of my knowledge, she'd assigned herself 'The Case of the Vicious Vandals'. God help us all.

  “Do the names Leon Darvish or Norman Narque ring any bells with you?” Lisa asked, spitting masticated potatoes in her excitement.

  “No,” I told her. “Should they?”

  “Yes. You've met both. More than met them. But you're busy and you've met a lot of people and I won't hold it against you.” I followed Lisa as she paced the room because, one, her channeling Philip Marlowe was kind of cute and, two, the only other thing in the room to look at was Willie scarfing his meal and he was making me sick. “Leon Darvish,” Lisa said, “was a pharmacy tech at the Chicago-Loop Memorial Hospital. You caught him stealing narcotics and shooting up on the job. You tackled him in a stairwell and got him fired. You also got yourself kicked out of the hospital.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  Lisa nodded. “Norman Narque, with a 'q-u-e' not a 'c', you may remember better as Master Criswell, a small medium – if that's not too confusing – whose séance you disrupted with your head thingy and who, as a result, lost his best
paying customers and his business. You got us both kicked out that time.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now I remember. What about them? Are you telling me they're the vandals? Both? Together?”

  “Yes. But I'm telling you more than that. They're brothers-in-law. Leon recently married the younger sister of Norman's wife.”

  “How do you know that? How do you know these people?”

  “How do you think? I know them because I met them. I met them because I detected them!”

  Alfonso was dead and Lisa was a detective; it was turning into one of those days. Rarely did I want one of Lisa's stories to go on but, this one, I had to confess, I wanted to hear. She obliged.

  “While I was lying in bed,” she said, “my head throbbing from the brick I took for you.”

  I glared at her. I glared at Willie in his sling behind her. I sighed. She went on.

  “I determined I would solve the mystery of who attacked our office.”

  “My office,” I injected to keep her in her place. “You're not a detective.”

  “Our offices. I have a desk.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “I was going to detect the culprit. But I didn't know how to start. Then you visited, finally; it took you long enough.”

  “Wenders occupied my time. Besides, he said you were all right and you needed to sleep.”

  “You didn't want to face my mother, did you?”

  “Not a lot. You said this would be the short version.”

  “Anyway. After I told you what I knew about the drowned man and what he said about The Canary, and after you left, I got my first clue. Mother brought me something to eat and told me she saw the guy who slit the tires on your Jaguar. She got his license number.”

  “Your mother..? She got the..? Why didn't she tell me?”

  Lisa cocked her head, staring at me like I was the stupidest creature on God's green earth. “Would my mother tell you, Blake? She hates you. She only told me to share her joy with someone.”

  “But you digress,” I said urging her on.

  “I detected. I called a friend at the PD. She ran the plate for me and came back with Leon Darvish. So I had, potentially, the name, address, and the employer of the culprit. But I didn't have any evidence or opening. So rather than go there and give away the game, or spook him, I did as you do and started asking myself questions. Was Darvish the suspect? Why had he done this? Did he act alone? Was the vandalism to your car connected with the vandalism to our office? What was his likely next move? So I called a friend in the Security Department at the Chicago-Loop Memorial Hospital–”

  “Where did you get all these friends?”

  “I'm secretary for the world's greatest detective, aren't I? I have sources too, you know, and they're not all in Homicide. He got me a copy of Darvish's ID photo. Then I knew that I knew him. He was the pharmacy tech with a great reason to hate you.”

  “I just don't… When did you do all this?”

  “You ordered me to stay in bed, which was silly. But you didn't expect me to be in the office.”

  “I held down the office,” Willie whined between bites of what, by then, had to be either Lisa's or my sandwich.

  “Yes, you did, poor thing,” Lisa told him. She turned on me. “You haven't exactly been checking in regularly on your case, you know. So I took a few days away from the office to stake out Darvish's place. I noticed a visitor I recognized, a frequent visitor; namely Master Criswell, the medium. I ran his plate and got his real name, Norman Narque; 'q-u-e' not 'c', and I found he lived right down the street from Darvish on the same block. I was going to take pictures of their meetings. But I didn't have your equipment or a budget.”

  “You're not–”

  “A detective, I know. Turned out, after I checked, it didn't matter. Narque used to drive for Checker Cab. The city had a photo on file. There you go. Darvish and Narque are brothers-in-law. Together they decided to get back at you for ruining their lives. That's what the vandalism was about.”

  “I ruined their lives? So they decided to ruin mine.” I stood, shaking my head. “Unbelievable. Little did they know card-carrying experts work to ruin my life on a daily basis. Those poor slobs couldn't hold a candle to the real villains I know.”

  “Wait,” Lisa said. “Where are you going?”

  “I've got to get going.”

  “But you haven't heard the end.”

  “I want to. I will. And I'll have a million questions when I do. But right now, I've got to go.”

  I shouldn't have waited that long. The Major was out there. He had buried motives or was plain crazy. Alida Harrison might well have been in danger. If I screwed up and let him kill Alida, I knew Alfonso would never forgive me. He'd haunt me for eternity, swearing at me and blowing smoke in my face, from beyond the grave.

  “I'm going with you,” Lisa said.

  “No,” I said with meaning. “You're not. If you're feeling up to it, you're three days behind in your work here. Or…” I pointed at Willie, all ketchup and grease, with a bright pink strawberry shake mustache. “If you're really champing to do something, clean that up!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I headed back to Navy Pier with my foot heavy on the pedal and The Major heavy on my mind.

  The employees had the night off and the show was dark. Whether or not that would work for or against me had yet to be seen. Getting onto the Pier and into the performers' dorm was no trouble; not for an old trespasser like yours truly. And, after slinking in, getting a look at The Major's room was easier than anticipated because he wasn't there. My only worry was he might appear unannounced. I took the chance.

  There wasn't much there. I'd come to the conclusion that traveling light was the way of all circus lifers. The bathroom contained the usual toilet accoutrement, including a safety razor, but nothing with which to stab or evidence he'd done so. The clothes niche held several worn but serviceable suits for managing in and several sets of jodhpurs and red long coats to don while acting the ringmaster. Two top hats and three pairs of white gloves rested on the shelf above. One pair of business shoes and two pairs of black riding boots stood against the wall by the door. If he was a killer, he was a rather dull one. The drawers of the lone dresser held the usual, socks and smalls, until I reached the back of the bottom drawer and hit a gusher. Beneath an out of place T-shirt lay an oddly lonesome cigar box. I'd never seen The Major with a cigar. I took hold of the box – and a kaleidoscope exploded in my head.

  There followed the familiar heat, pain, and blinding flashes of light. Whatever the box contained, it must have been the mother lode, as I found myself back at the start of the case. Meaning I found myself on the fore deck of the USS Silversides. I must have been Mickey as I was stabbed in the back. I fell to the deck. The knife was pulled free and I was shoved over the side. I didn't fall cleanly into the water because, of course, I wasn't me and Mickey hadn't. I hit the side of the boat, above the sharp metal flashing of the engine exhaust port. The flashing caught my coat. I hung there a second, then the lining tore and I fell with a cold splash into the water.

  The heat and pain again. Another flash of light behind my eyes and suddenly I was in Wisconsin, in the Sideshow train car, the Bearded Lady's temporary digs, at the circus museum. I was stabbed from behind. I was suffering Sybil's death again. The murderer had me by her necklace and was choking me to the floor. The necklace ruptured and came apart in the killer's hand. I got a fleeting glimpse of Alfonso under the bed, then loose pearls rolled past my blood-filled eyes like shot marbles.

  Heat. Pain. Another flash of light. Before I had time to see or identify where I'd gone, I was sorry I was there. Something heavy and blunt smashed my skull. Broken glass rained on my head. I screamed, swearing in Alfonso's gravelly voice. I kept swearing until my mouth filled with blood and gagged me. I swallowed more than I wanted. It went down like bad medicine, touched bottom, and bubbled within me. It started to return climbing my gullet like a furious snake. It poured back int
o my mouth and erupted from between my lips. Blood painted my chin and chest. At once I was Alfonso, Benga the Pygmy, Binky the Clown, and Blake – the biggest clown of all – rolled into one and dying all over again in Alfonso's stead. One by one, The Major killed them all and I was along for the ride. Sick and dizzy, I held on, waiting for the horrendous vision to come to its end. But it didn't end.

  It didn't end at all. Out of the blue, I was in a new vision. I was suddenly on the run, past canvas and poles, past circus wagons and animal cages, running for my life… through the backstage area and into the dimly lit center ring of the Big Top. That was new!

  There was no crowd. The seats were empty. There was no show. The ring was silent. I saw no one but I felt a presence behind me. I was being chased. I wanted to turn, to look, to face my tormentor, but I couldn't. I was not in control. I was living someone's experience; meaning someone else had died violently. I was in their shoes and they either didn't want to know, or they knew already, who was at their heels. So I ran breathless, terrified, and completely ignorant of my pursuer. But fully aware of what was about to happen. Any instant I would feel it, as Mickey the Geek had, as Sybil had; the cold razor steel would be launched and land in my back.

  But it didn't come. What came instead was brutal and merciless physical force as I was tackled from behind. I went down like a felled tree. Sawdust blinded me, filled my nostrils and mouth, and the air was blasted from my lungs as I hit the ring floor with my attacker on top of me. Gasping for a breath that wouldn't come in a cloud of sawdust, I didn't waste a thought wondering what was happening to me. I already knew. My only questions were: Who was I? And why was The Major killing me?

  My attacker raised himself off of me and, still gasping, I fought to rise. I felt the dull kick of a leather boot in my side and went down again. Any second I expected the murderous blade. But it didn't come. Instead my head was jerked up off the floor by my hair. The sawdust swirled as a rope was thrown about my neck, cinched tight, and my head left to fall. I heard the crunch of my attacker's boots as he walked away.