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

by Doug Lamoreux

  The Pinto's engine roared back to life. (Roared might be a bit strong; it was a Pinto.) With Tommy still shouting curses at us, I jumped back into the car and told Lisa to burn rubber. For the second time in an hour my certain conclusions about the identity of the murderer of the drowned man – and his circus cohorts – had been blown to smithereens.

  “At the risk of asking a stupid question,” Lisa said. “If that was Tommy Dagger back there, then who is it again that we're chasing?”

  “I haven't a damned clue. Which means we'd better catch them or we're sunk.”

  You'd have thought by then we were so far behind we had no chance of catching them. But the fates hadn't finished teasing us yet. The traffic on Lake Shore Drive was thick, nasty, and slow. As a result, the white van had only just merged from Grand Avenue and, thanks to the bold circus colors of its paint job, was still easily visible as we left the Pier.

  “There, Lisa,” I shouted. “Heading north!”

  She popped the clutch and stomped the gas. She squealed her tires intruding onto Grand and nearly sideswiped a checkered cab. A thousand yards further on she cut a sports car off stealing into the right lane. She banged the bumper of a yellow cab merging onto Lake Shore Drive. Willie screamed in the back seat, hugging his sling and wounded shoulder. I hugged my knees, trying not to scream, up front. My mind took a nerve-wracking trip around our current situation.

  The oil crisis of 1973 (coupled with the oil crisis of 1978) made our pursuit vehicle, the Ford Pinto, the perfect car, not only for an indigent tree-hugger like Lisa, but for chasing a crappy old van. Speed was less important than the ability to sneak in and out of tight traffic. And the sub-compact got great gas mileage if you could only find a station with gas. On the down side, the fuel system of the Pinto (responsible for the largest recall in auto history owing to its potential fire hazard) made it the less-than-perfect vehicle to have wrapped around you during a bumper-smashing breakneck car chase.

  Every working brain cell told me to tell Lisa to slowly pull over and forget it. As usual, the owner and rag-tag employees of the Blake Detective Agency were on a fool's errand. We were going to wind up dead if we kept up the chase. Worse, we could end up being murdered ourselves if and when we caught the killers. Having reached that conclusion, I shouted, “Step on it, Lisa. We've got to catch them!”

  “Hey, Blake?” Willie squeaked. “Too bad we ain't got my car, huh? The ole' Mustang would catch 'em with no trouble, huh?”

  Dear God, perish the thought. It was bad enough being pinched into Lisa's borrowed Pinto. I could see the three of us jammed into the criminal slug's car with the bald tires, shattered left headlight, dented green left and rusted blue right quarter panels highlighting the faded Madagascar Orange body, racing through the streets of Chicago, burning oil, the engine coughing huge clouds of black billowing smoke. That's assuming he could have gotten the engine started. But Willie wasn't wrong. In his car we'd have had a better chance of survival. Unable to catch the van, we'd have safely finished the pursuit by pushing his ole' Mustang back home.

  The honk of a car horn – or three – shook me from my reverie. Lisa was zigging and zagging up North Shore Drive keeping the van in sight, if not exactly closing the gap, and infuriating dozens of drivers around us in the process. She was having the time of her life. Riding her new high, she said, “As long as you're a captive audience, Blake, you can hear the end of my story.”

  “What story?”

  “My detective story. The Case of the Violent Vandals. I didn't tell you the end.”

  “What end? Didn't you turn them over to the cops?”

  “What good would that have done? Misdemeanors for everybody. Whoopee!”

  “I'm afraid to ask.” Only Lisa could make me grip the dashboard with white knuckles and sigh in despair at the same time. “Well… what did you do?”

  “I confronted them. I barged into their house… Well, Norman's house. His garage really. They live a couple of houses apart in the same block in Des Plaines, did I tell you that? That's why my car's there. That's where it broke down. Anyway, the two of them, Leon and Norman, were in Norman's garage and I walked up and confronted them.”

  “Geez, Lisa, they could have killed you.”

  “You don't know those two.”

  “Neither did you!”

  “But I did! I did what you taught me. I didn't just find these guys, I studied them, got to know them. Despite the dumb death threat they left on your answering machine, they weren't going to kill you.”

  A horn honk interrupted. Lisa veered hard left, accelerated, then veered right again. My stomach did the same an instant behind. “They weren't going to kill me either,” she continued. “Neither of them could hurt a fly. Anyway, I took them by surprise. Walked right in. Watched Norman suck in his gut, and Leon runs his hands through his hair, and both of them lick their lips, like men do when they see a woman they don't know. They thought I was lost or had a flat tire or, who knows, maybe they–”

  “Lisa!”

  “Anyway,” she said. She honked her horn (I mean the Pinto's). “I told them who I was and why I was there. You should have seen their faces. They denied everything, of course. But that did them no good.”

  “You laid the evidence on them?”

  “I was going to,” Lisa said. “But after all they put us through I decided to be nasty instead.”

  “What does that mean? What'd you do?”

  “I got their wives. Madge, Norman's wife, and her younger sister, Jeannie, who married Leon. I brought them out. There in the garage I accused them of vandalizing the office and your car, and leaving that horrible threat on the phone, in front of their wives.”

  “And?”

  “They tried to deny it. But their wives could tell they were lying. Women know, Blake. Leon held out the longest. But it did him no good. When I offered to produce the proof I'd collected, Norman broke down. He cried like a baby–they took the ramp!” Lisa shouted, interrupting her own story. Sure enough, the van was headed into the north suburbs. Lisa fought her way to the same exit, eliciting as many honks, banging as many bumpers, and infuriating at least as many drivers getting off Lake Shore Drive as she had getting on.

  The traffic pattern changed in the uppity residential streets of the far north side but we soon picked up the van again. Lisa found her groove tailing it and, at the same time, eased back into her story as if she'd never left. “They tried to blame you.”

  “Who?”

  “Leon and Norman. Said you ruined their lives, so their vandalism was your fault. I didn't let them get away with it. I said, 'Yeah, Blake did it. Tomorrow he's going to make it rain.' ”

  I shook my head at the thought of the fired lab tech and shamed medium in tears – again. The poor guys. Maybe I had ruined their lives?

  “Don't get me wrong,” Lisa went on. “I don't use that kind of sarcasm. But I figured that's what you would have said, Blake. Or something worse. So I said it. Right?”

  “Probably. Finish your story.”

  “The bottom line is they're both repentant.”

  “Repentant?”

  Lisa nodded. “Leon phoned in your death threat before they attacked the office. Then they attacked the office and hit me with a brick. Then they felt sorry. They didn't want to hurt anyone, especially me. In fact they followed me to the hospital and home because they felt bad. They were outside my place, trying to decide what to do, when you showed up to check on me. As soon as they saw you, Leon got mad again and slashed your tires.”

  “Nice guys, Lisa.”

  “They're impulsive.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Anyway, they promised Leon would get help for his addiction. They promised to pay for the damage to our office, your tires, and my Emergency Room visit. And they promised to leave us alone.”

  “Yes. With their wives breathing down their necks.”

  “You really are a cynic.”

  “For these promises, you offered them
what?”

  “We will not sick the cops on them.”

  “That's where you left it?”

  “Pretty much. I gave them a Jack Webb 'Jesus speech' to make them feel bad. Then I forgave them.”

  “Goodie.”

  “And told them you forgave them too.”

  “I don't forgive them.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I don't. You might as well learn, Lisa. In this business, we detect. That's it. We find the bad guys and gals. We turn them over to the cops. We do not negotiate their penalties.”

  “This is a special situation. We were the only victims so we can decide their fate. I turned them over to their wives and I forgave them. You will forgive them too, because they're going to be better people. And you're going to be a better person. While you're at it–”

  “What now?”

  “You should congratulate me on solving my first case.”

  “I would,” I said, smiling. “But you're not a detective.”

  I apologize for the rambling, sisters and brothers, but now that part of the tale is told. If you're wondering, yes, we were still in a chase trying to catch the Callicoat Circus killers. It probably should be said that we were lucky they were driving The Major's old van, a vehicle that had seen better days. Whoever we were after was an experienced driver; if they'd also had a good car we'd have been lost.

  “Where are the murderers leading us?” Lisa asked.

  I didn't want to admit I'd traveled the same route only that morning and had a good guess where we were headed. With The Major dead, and Tommy out of the frame, the facts I'd gleaned over the last three days were sorting themselves, finding places in several new theories. Frankly, I didn't want any to be true. So, pretending I had no guess, I answered Lisa's question by stating the obvious. “We're headed for the monied side of the tracks.”

  “But who are we following? Do you know?”

  I shook my head. It wasn't a lie. I thought I knew, but I didn't know for sure, so it wasn't a lie. “I don't want to think about what's in front of us,” I told her. “Any more than I want to think about what's behind us.”

  “You mean all the murders?”

  “No. I mean what's behind us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don't you ever use your rear-view mirrors?”

  Lisa checked hers and saw what I'd seen. Our high-speed chase had picked up several outriders. A block behind, but gaining rapidly, were two police squad cars. I wasn't sure who they represented, the City of Chicago or the suburb through which we were currently jetting, but they'd evidently taken notice of our tiny parade. If their red and blue flashing lights were any sign, they didn't approve and wanted to tell us in person.

  “Oh, God!” Lisa exclaimed. “What should I do?”

  “You have to ask?” I pointed forward. “Catch that van!”

  I hated what was happening. We were only in this sickening mess because of my original desire to keep Lisa out of a mess. Hadn't that worked out just peachy? Now, unless we caught our quarry, and pinned the works on them, I was going to end up tagged with four murders instead of one. And Lisa, and maybe even that hapless slug, Willie, might well end up tagged with me as accessories. Trust me, I was hating myself. Little did I know my favorite obnoxious homicide detective, in his vehicle listening in on calls, had heard the curious traffic reporting a white circus van being pursued at high speeds by a rust colored Ford Pinto. Wenders wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but, able to add two and two, had chimed in to say he was joining the chase. If only I'd known, I'd have hated myself harder.

  “It's turning,” Lisa shouted.

  I'd seen it already and was shaking my head, without being exactly sure why. A little confusion? Perhaps at first. Disbelief? That all depended upon who was behind the wheel. A lot of disappointment? Same answer for the same reason. Either way I let it slip, “They're home.”

  “What?” Lisa asked. “Who's home?”

  “That's a good question.”

  The late Major's white van squealed its tires as it turned into the drive of the Callicoat Estate. The huge security gates were wide open as the van passed in. Those same gates began immediately to close. There was no way we would get there in time. Lisa didn't say a word. She just kept going.

  We'd only started through when the gate halves came together with a tinny crunch on each side of the Pinto, behind our front tires, pinching us like tweezers. The car lurched. My knees racked my chin. Willie screamed. Lisa bit her bottom lip, redoubled her grip on the steering wheel, and floored the pedal gunning the engine. It felt as if the car would be crushed and sounded like we'd driven into a chipper shredder. Lisa yelled but didn't stop. The gates bit into the metal of both doors, Lisa's and mine, and shaved them. The amputated tin cartwheeled to either side of the drive as the Pinto squirted through. The shaking gates slammed shut behind us. We must have been a sight, with both doors missing their skin, the tinny ribs showing nakedly, as we passed onto the estate and around into the dark after the van.

  “Nice digs,” Willie whined.

  “Don't even think about it.”

  In the distance, the van skidded to a stop on the gravel drive near the pole barn; Reginald Callicoat's wagon pavilion and altar to the memory of the circus. A shadowy figure jumped from the van.

  “The driver's out,” Lisa shouted.

  “Stop here. Don't get any closer!”

  Lisa hit the brakes and, even with her clown car, managed to throw a fair share of gravel. Willie yowled. I did too as my knees almost broke my nose.

  The shadow ran into the pavilion. “It's not The Major,” Lisa said. “It isn't Tommy. So who is it?”

  “It has to be Rudy.”

  “Who?”

  “Rudy Ace, Mrs. Callicoat's chauffeur.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He had a control to the front gate, he's male, and we're here. There's nobody else it could be. Stop missing staff meetings.” I grabbed the door handle. “You two stay here.”

  “I'm not staying here.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I don't want to argue. This is real detective work, the dangerous part, and you're both staying here.” I opened what was left of the door on the passenger's side and freed my cramped legs.

  “Nod,” Lisa said. “You can't leave me behind when you're going after a murderer.”

  “Don't be thick. That's why I'm leaving you behind.”

  I stood outside the car, considering the fastest safest route to the pavilion, when I heard a metal bark that could only have been the compartment doors on the far side of the van coming open. An indistinct shape appeared at the boxy corner of the van's rear and stooped to the tail light. I goggled because I'm an idiot. I was still goggling when I heard the crack of exploding powder. On its own, my face switched to arched brows and a wide O mouth as a bullet sailed through Lisa's windshield.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I should have ducked. Anyone with a brain would have found cover in the midst of incoming fire. But I'd heard the howl of a kicked dog erupt from inside the Pinto and my mind was occupied. “Lisa!”

  “I'm all right! It wasn't me!”

  The front windshield had only a small hole in it but had cracked into a massive spider's web. Lisa appeared to be unhurt. Willie, on the other hand, had disappeared into the dark back seat.

  “Willie! Willie, are you all right?”

  “I'm shot,” he screamed.

  God, not again! “Is it bad?”

  “It's terrible!”

  I strained to see him in the dark and was well rewarded; what a sight. He'd let go of the left arm he'd been supporting in the sling and, with his bad hand, was holding what had been his good right shoulder. As was becoming the new norm for the little creep, he was leaking red through his fingers.

  “Who told you to get shot again!” I hollered.

  “I only came to help,” Willie bawled through his nose.

  Lisa was b
awling herself. “This isn't my car! Don't bleed on the seat!”

  The bullet had passed between Lisa's and my empty passenger's seat, into the back, straight through Willie's right shoulder, and out the rear window. That wasn't a guess. The window had completely shattered and Willie lay covered in broken glass. Like I said, he was a sight.

  Though I have no clue how she managed it with those long legs, Lisa slid under her steering wheel and dropped to the floor. From that position of questionable safety, she screamed the patently obvious, “Nod, he's shooting at you!”

  “Yes. I know.” Having concluded that, one, Willie's wound was not life threatening; two, under the circumstances there was nothing I could do to help him anyway; three, I couldn't assuage the guilt I felt at his having been shot again in my company; and four, Lisa was right, someone was shooting, I dropped to cover beside the car. “Did you see Rudy leave the barn?”

  “No,” Lisa replied from below the dash. “I didn't see anyone.”

  “It must be his partner, the second shadow. The same one who shot at me in the Big Top.” My mind was racing. “But that doesn't make any sense.”

  “What are you arguing with yourself about?” Lisa demanded. “Someone is shooting at you! Does it matter who?”

  “Of course it matters. Every time I'm ready to name a killer I'm wrong. It just happened again.”

  “It's not Rudy?”

  “Yes, it's Rudy! I'm talking about his accomplice. Whoever that is,” I jerked my head in the direction of the van. “They're a lousy shot. That's the second time tonight they missed me by a mile.”

  “A mile!” Willie screamed. “A mile my–”

  “Shut up!” I shook my head – at my life. “It can't be who I thought it was.”

  “What does that mean?” Lisa asked.

  I gave it another thought and nodded. “It means I finally know who it is.”

  I scanned the distance but could no longer see the shooter at the rear of the van. They may well have used the moment I'd taken with Lisa and Willie to follow Rudy into the pavilion. Or they might have merely taken a step back and were patiently waiting to take another shot. Not knowing which made me unhappy. So did the remains of the tin foil door I was using as a shield. “I'm going to put an end to this. Please, stay here.”