by Al Stevens
“How did you know it was this much trouble,” I asked. “When I called, I didn’t know he was here yet.”
“We know the Captain,” Stewart said.
“He’s in the house at the window,” I told Stewart. “He has an old shotgun and my pistol. He has hostages, my sister and her son.”
“A child?”
“No. Teenager. They’re both tied up in the kitchen at the rear of the house. I have a man sneaking in the back way to get them out while we keep Pugh occupied.”
“Isn’t your man likely to get hurt going in there like that?”
“He can take care of himself. Pugh has been getting chummy, so maybe we can talk him out. Do you know him?”
“Yes. He’s been on our radar for a while. Had to pull him out of Afghanistan. Post traumatic stress disorder. He ought to be in a hospital.”
“I need to go back and keep him talking.”
“Well don’t trust him to stay friendly. He has a short fuse. One minute he’s your pal, the next minute he’s in your face yelling and screaming.”
“So I’ve seen. My guy will sneak the hostages out and, your guys can deal with the short fuse.”
“Okay, we can give it a try if you think your man can handle it.”
“He can. Pugh told me that he had his boat blown up to fake his death so you guys wouldn’t send him to the funny farm.”
“Figures. My guys can take him out. He’s in clear view in the window. Fool.”
“Absolutely not. Let’s get the hostages out first.”
Stewart looked at me as if to ask where I got the authority to run a hostage situation. Before he could raise the question, an unmarked police car pulled up. Bill Penrod got out and came over to where we were crouched behind the Army cars.
“What’s going on here, Stan? Willa called.”
I explained the situation to him.
“I better get our SWAT team over here,” he said.
Everybody wanted to shoot this guy. Must have been a slow SWAT day.
“Look around, Sergeant,” Stewart said. “We have ours in place and ready.”
“So you do,” Bill said. “But these are civilian hostages on civilian premises. The police department has jurisdiction.”
“Hey, guys,” I said. “It’s kind of busy here. Let’s not get into a turf war.”
A black SUV turned the corner and came toward us. It pulled up behind Bill’s car and stopped. Sanford held a skinny arm out the window and gave me a thumbs up. I went to the SUV and looked in. Amanda and Rodney were in the back seat looking frightened and tussled but none the worse for wear. I grinned at them and went back to Bill and the Army.
“He’s all yours, guys. The hostages are out.”
“Is there a phone in there?” Stewart asked.
“Yes, on a table next to the window.” I said and gave him the number. He called. We could hear the phone ringing through the open window. After about seven rings, it stopped.
Stewart said, “Captain Pugh. This is Special Agent Stewart, USACIDC. We got the hostages out. You’re all alone. You want to come out, or would you rather die today?”
“Man,” I said to Bill, “That’s a hell of a way to negotiate.”
He shrugged and said, “I wouldn’t do it that way. I guess they have their methods.”
Stewart turned to me. “He wants to talk to you.” I took the phone.
“What’s up, Jeremy?”
“Bentworth, this is going to come to a bad end, I can tell. Those guys want to shoot me.”
“It doesn’t have to happen. What can I do?”
“Come back up here so we can talk without them listening in.”
“You won’t shoot me, will you?”
“No. I give my word.”
Do you take the word of the guy who tried to have you killed then took your sister and nephew hostage? I wasn’t sure.
About five police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck turned onto our street, lights flashing, sirens quiet.
“I called them,” Bill said.
The cops stopped, piled out of their vehicles, and crouched behind them. More guns came out and were pointed at the house.
“The militia is here Jeremy,” I said. “They’ve got guns trained on you. They’re ready to take you down. Get back away from the window. I’ll call you again and let you know what’s happening.”
I hung up.
“Why’d you tell him that?” Bill said. “Now we might have to put men at risk.”
“Wait,” I said. “There’s an easier way.”
I went over to Sanford’s SUV.
“You think you can get him out of there without killing him?” I asked Sanford.
“Piece of cake,” he said.
I went over to Bill and Stewart.
“I don’t want my sister’s house all shot up,” I said. “And let’s not be so quick to shoot this guy. He’s sick. My colleague and I can get him out. Hold your fire, and let us try.”
“Okay,” Bill said, looking at his watch. “But only because it’s you. You got ten minutes. Then we go in. You agree, Agent Stewart?”
“Yes.”
I went over to Sanford’s SUV and said, “Let’s go.”
He got out of the SUV keeping his back to all the cops and soldiers. We walked down the sidewalk away from them and the row of official vehicles, more or less out of sight of the house.
“Can you walk any faster?” Sanford asked.
“Not much,” I said.
“Okay. I’m going ahead. Go down half a block, turn up the side street, and come to the back door. It’ll be open. You can just walk in.”
“What if you don’t have him?”
He looked at me like he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Sorry,” I said. “Proceed.”
He went off at a medium trot, his black trench coat flapping in the breeze. I followed at a slow cane-assisted stroll. It took a while, and I was worried about Bill’s ten minute deadline.
When I got to the back door, it was open. I went in, looked from side to side, scanned the kitchen, and peered into the dining room. Nothing in sight, no sounds.
I felt naked entering an unsecured crime scene without Roscoe. Old habits die hard. I moved cautiously across the kitchen. My cast and cane made thump, thump sounds. I couldn’t help it.
Sanford called out, “Come on in, Bentworth. I got him.”
I went in and found Sanford holding his gun on Jeremy, who was on his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back. The shotgun was on the floor, and Roscoe was on the coffee table. I went over, picked it up, and stuck it in my belt.
“Any trouble taking him?”
He gave me that look again.
“Where’d you get the cuffs,” I asked.
“Keep them. I have others. You can take him outside. I’m out of here.”
He want back through the kitchen and out the back door. I opened the front door and yelled, “Hold your fire, we’re coming out.”
I leaned over Jeremy, took hold of his cuffs with my good hand, and pulled him up to his feet. He helped, so it wasn’t that difficult. I pushed him ahead of me and stepped out onto the stoop. In no time at all, two policemen had him on the ground, were putting their own cuffs on him, and reading him his rights. Just like on television. Except the cops weren’t all that handsome.
They tossed Sanford’s cuffs to me. A souvenir. Never had my own cuffs since I left the force. I’d need a key. No problem. Once size fits all. The cuffs could keep Roscoe company in the safe.
For the first time in hours I breathed easily. My injuries were aching from the walk and the stress. I needed to sit down.
Jeremy looked up at me and said, “I thought I could trust you.”
“I saved your life, Jeremy. If these cops didn’t get you, that shotgun would’ve blown up in your face. I just hope you get the help you need.”
Don’t ask why I gave a shit about his welfare, given all the grief he’d handed down. Just my nature, I guess.
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Sanford’s SUV backed away from the curb and into a driveway. Amanda and Rodney got out. The SUV pulled onto the road, turned away from us, and drove away.
Bill walked up. “Your friend is leaving. I never got a look at him. Who was it?”
“An associate,” I said. If Sanford didn’t want to talk to cops, I wasn’t going to intervene.
“Did you cut Overbee loose?” I asked.
“Not exactly. He cut himself loose. I went with the tech guy to get the bracelet after our meeting this morning. When we got to his house, there were reporters all over the place. I don’t know how they got past the guard.”
“Old Bob? Probably time for his nap.”
“The ankle bracelet was already off Overbee and on the leg of a statue in the foyer. He didn’t tell me how it got there, and I didn’t ask.”
Good for Rodney. I could forgive him for pinching Roscoe as long as he never did it again. I walked over to him. “Where’s my holster?”
“In my truck.”
“Go get it.”
He went to his truck and returned with the holster. I put the pistol in it and clipped it to my belt.
“What made you try a stunt like that?”
“The guy’s a nut, Uncle Stanley. He was coming after my Mom. You’re all crippled up. Somebody had to do something.”
“So what did you learn from all this?”
“Learn?”
“Yes, learn. What did you learn?”
“Not to take your gun?”
“No. You learned that having a gun doesn’t make you the baddest badass on the block. You walked right into it. He took the gun away from you, and you’re lucky he didn’t shoot you with it.”
“He was already in the house when I got there, but I didn’t know that. When I went in, he was standing there pointing Grandpa’s shotgun at me. He tied me up, and when Mom got home he tied her up.”
“Yeah. I heard all that.”
“What’ll happen to him?”
“The cops and the Army will have to fight that out. I don’t care as long as they put him away somewhere for a long time.”
Amanda said, “I’m proud of both of you.”
She rubbed Rodney’s hair, and he squirmed to get out from under her caresses.
“That man who got us out of there,” she said, “we met him in the hospital. Who is he?”
“A very good friend named Sanford. Wants to maintain some distance. But we all owe him big time.”
Rodney said, “I feel a ‘hiyo, Silver’ coming on.”
“I should cook dinner for him,” Amanda said.
“I’ll pass the invitation on. He’ll say thanks and decline. But you owe him your lives. Chances are if the cavalry had come storming in, Pugh would have killed both of you before they got him.”
Neighbors started to come out of their houses and line the sidewalk. They watched the vehicles pull out. Amanda and Rodney went into the house. The neighbors talked among themselves, speculating about what had taken place.
A Channel 6 news van pulled up. Late to the party. A cameraman and a pretty woman holding a microphone got out.
“What happened here?” the woman asked, her microphone stuck in my face and the camera pointed at me and grinding away.
“Beats the shit out of me,” I said and walked away toward my car. The news team went to interview neighbors. I hoped they’d leave Amanda alone. If not, Rodney could tell them how he had saved his mother from a horde of madmen, home invaders, stalkers, and rapists.
I got in my car and headed to the office. On the way I stopped at the liquor store to get another jug. This time I got the good stuff, went to the office, climbed the stairs, got my cell phone from Willa’s desk, and sat alone at my desk. I sipped bourbon and thought about the day. Two cases closed on one shift. It doesn’t get any better than that.
I looked at my cell phone. Buford had called. I punched the redial button. He answered right away.
“Sanford called,” Buford said. “He says you got your Army problem cleared up,” he said.
“Yes, I did with his help. I can’t thank you guys enough.”
“You earned it. I’ve got to clear out of here. The mob knows where I live and who I am now. Hell, the whole fucking world knows who I am and what I look like. Reporters and cameras all over the place.”
“Maybe Sanford can shoo them off.”
“Yeah. Well, anyway, I’m out of here. Want to buy a mansion? Real estate’s way down.”
“Where will you go?”
“Offshore. I can run my business just as easily from some island. I never did get face-to-face with most of my clients anyway. And Serena can get that year-round tan she’s always wanted.”
“And you can be closer to your money.”
“Right.” He laughed for the second time since we’d met. “Thanks for everything, Stan. If I ever need somebody found, I’ll call. Do I owe you any money?”
“No. We’re good. Keep in touch.”
There goes my perpetual retainer, I thought. I knew it was too good to be true.
I didn’t want to get drunk tonight, so I paced myself and used the time to update the files on the Overbee case. There were no files on the Jeremy Pugh case, it being a personal matter, so I wrote entries in my journal to capture for posterity all the relevant times and events. Maybe I’ll write a book some day.
Chapter 31
I got home at about nine o’clock. I was hungry. A pizza slice or something edible might be in the freezer. I had a surprise waiting.
Bunny sat on the stoop in front of my door, a big grocery bag on the sidewalk next to her. She gave me that doe-eyed look. I knew she was playing me, and it was working.
“Can I come in?”
“What for?” I wasn’t about to give in right away. I intended to be strong.
“I brought groceries. I can fix you some supper.”
Strong, my ass. I am one weak son-of-a-bitch. The combination of the woman I want and a home-cooked meal was too much. My resolve collapsed.
“Come on in,” I said with a heavy sigh.
We went into my apartment, and I tossed the cane in a corner and collapsed on the couch.
“I’ve had a day,” I said.
“You can tell me about it after I get this going.”
She took a bottle of wine out of the grocery bag and opened it. Wine? I don’t drink wine. But my only jug of bourbon was at the office. So, I lit a cigarette and sipped the wine.
She unloaded the rest of the groceries. “I thought you quit smoking.”
“Not in months with an ‘R’.”
She got supper going on the stove and came over, pushed me onto my side against the back of the sofa, stretched out beside me, and began unbuttoning my shirt. She took the burned-down cigarette out of my mouth and stamped it out in the ashtray. The kiss she followed up with was to die for.
“The Spoiler,” I said.
“What?”
I said under my breath, “Two stones that pass in the night.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Bunny. Just thinking out loud.”
“Now you can tell me about your day,” she said, cuddling up and kissing my chest.
“Oh, nothing special,” I said. “Just your typical boring, routine day in the life of a private investigator.”
I lit my last cigarette ever and settled in.
From the Author
Thank you for reading On the Street Where You Die, the first in the Stanley Bentworth Mysteries series.
If you enjoyed this book—or even if you didn't—please visit the site where you purchased it and write a brief review. Your feedback is important to me and will help other readers decide whether to read the books.
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Al Stevens, 2015
About the Author
Al Stevens is a retired author of computer programming books. For fifteen years he was a senior contributing editor and columnist for Dr. Dobb?s Journal, a leading magazine for computer programmers.
Al lives with his wife Judy and a menagerie of cats on Florida?s Space Coast where he writes by day and plays piano, string bass, and saxophone by night.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
