I thought of different ways to gain entry, but decided knocking on the door was my best course of action. I’d wing it after that if I had to. It wasn’t like I was a cop. I had no real authority.
I knocked three times. Steady. Too loud, and they might think I was a cop. Too soft, and they might miss it. I was thinking about what I was going to say, not paying as much attention as I should. I thought I heard something inside. Just some movement.
Then came two quick gunshots from inside the house.
As I heard the shots, two holes burst out of the door. At the same time that I heard the shots, I scrambled off the cement pad in front of the door. I scurried a dozen feet to the oak stump. I yanked the pistol out of my belt as I tried to catch my breath. The stump was big enough to cover most of my body.
My heart pounded as I held the gun, ready to return fire. I glanced behind me to make sure no one was trying to sneak up on me from another direction. Not only was all clear, no one in the neighborhood seemed to have noticed the gunfire. Were things really this bad in West Nyack?
I heard a voice shout from one of the windows. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I hesitated. Should I shout the girl’s name? I decided I had nothing to lose. “I’m a friend of Ellen Guidry. She sent me to check on her daughter.”
There was a long pause. I knew there was a discussion going on inside.
I was surprised when the door opened tentatively. A black man in a collared oxford button-down stuck his head out cautiously. His hair was cut neat with a little fade.
He glared at me next to the stump. “You almost got your head blown off.”
“No shit.” I stuck the gun back in my pants and stood up slowly to show my hands were empty.
The man motioned me to come forward. He had nothing in his hands, either.
As I reached the cement threshold, he said, “We didn’t know Lizzie’s mother was worried.”
He didn’t sound like a drug dealer.
I was still pissed. “Why’d you guys shoot at me, dammit?”
“We’ve had some trouble. Local gang is catching onto us. Thought that might show them we mean business.”
I glared at him.
The man shrugged and said, “We aimed high on purpose. Didn’t figure you’d be so big. Sort’ve came a little close. Sorry.”
I stuttered for a moment. “I, I, um, is Elizabeth here?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Like I said, I’m a friend of her mom’s. She asked me to check on her.”
The man stepped to the side so I could look inside the house. Elizabeth Guidry stepped from one of the rooms in the back. She wore a clean and respectable sundress with a pretty pastel sweater. And held a chromed, semiautomatic pistol in her right hand.
I said, “You’re the one who shot at me?”
She nodded sheepishly. “Sorry.” Her brown hair lay across her shoulder in an intricate braid. “I thought it would scare you off.” She gave me an odd look, then said, “I know you, don’t I?”
She motioned me inside. I stepped through the front door that hung at an angle. I was shocked at what I saw in the house. It was immaculate. It was beautifully furnished with an Ethan Allen couch. I glanced in the kitchen and noticed all new stainless-steel appliances. What the hell?
I rotated my head in every direction, looking for pieces of this puzzle. I turned and stared at the couple. I noticed she was now holding the young man’s hand. The gun was nowhere in sight.
She said, “Now I remember you. You’re Mitchum. You deliver newspapers up in Marlboro.”
I nodded and said, “I’m a little confused. To be perfectly honest, your mother asked me to rescue you. She thought you were in some kind of a drug house.”
They both started to giggle. She said, “This is my boyfriend, Eric. Does it look like I’m being held against my will? Or that I’m on drugs?”
“No. No it doesn’t.”
“We met at Hamilton College. All we did was use our business classes and accounting seminars to start a business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I can’t say out loud. Let’s just look at it hypothetically. Say we rent two apartments in the next block. One of them sells crack and one of them sells pills and synthetic drugs. Between them, we’re bringing in about $25,000 in cash a month. Pure profit.”
“So why do you live here?”
“We don’t want the police to seize our personal property if they raid one of the apartments. Now all they get is whatever cash is there and they make the arrest of one or two of our employees. So far, we’ve had no problems in almost four months of operation. We figure another year and we can retire to a legitimate business. Does that satisfy you?”
“So you’re not a victim, you’re drug kingpin.”
The smile spread over her face. “That’s very flattering, but I’m hardly a kingpin. I have five employees and we move a fraction of what real drug dealers do. But that’s their weakness. They’re greedy. They have no business plan.” She waved her hand around the beautifully decorated interior like she was a model in a home show. “And we don’t flaunt our money. That breeds jealousy. That gives people incentive to snitch on us. We’ve really thought this through. I hope you’re not going to screw it up for us.”
“I’m only worried about my assignment. I have no idea what I can tell your mother.”
“Don’t bother. We’ll drive up to Marlboro this afternoon. I’ll show her I’m safe and healthy. I’ll just tell her I’m living with Eric. That should be enough to keep her away.”
I liked her mischievous smile and attitude. She clearly had a head for business.
My phone rang and I noticed it was my brother. A former drug dealer. At least that’s what he told me while he was in paramedic school. I answered it quickly.
“What’s up, Natty?”
“Meet me at the hospital in Newburgh. Mom’s been hit by a car. It looks serious.”
CHAPTER 2
I RACED THROUGH the front door of Saint Luke’s Cornwall Hospital. The hospital is on DuBois Street, about a mile south of where I-84 crosses the Hudson. I slid to a stop in front of a uniformed Newburgh police sergeant. It took me a moment to realize who it was.
“Hey, Mitchum. You got here fast.”
“Bill, how’s my mom?”
Bill Jeffries was a sergeant with the Newburgh police department. He also dated my mom occasionally. He had the kind of naturally calming voice you hoped you’d hear when things went bad. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. Nothing I wanted to know, but that’s how bad news usually hits you.
Bill said, “She’s still in surgery. She’s got a broken left hip and possibly some internal injuries. They’re also worried about the way her head hit the curb. We’re waiting up on the third floor. I thought it might be best to catch you down here before you stumbled into the situation.”
He calmly led me to the elevator and up to a waiting room where my mom’s best friend, Dolores Hackmacher, sat next to my brother. She held Natty’s hand like he was a fifth-grader. I wondered if I sat on the other side of her, she’d hold my hand, too.
After settling in, I tried to make a little small talk, asking my brother how paramedic school was going and if Dolores’s granddaughter got into Syracuse. I really didn’t care about Dolores’s granddaughter. And I knew my brother was doing well because I checked on him almost every day. It’s tough to make changes like my brother had. He went from a successful drug-dealing career to trying to make something out of his life. If I didn’t realize how difficult that transition could be, I did now. And as much as he frustrated me, I was really proud of him.
Hospital waiting rooms are a scary prospect. Not only are you there because something’s gone wrong with someone you love, but you have plenty of time to think about it.
When Bill Jeffries sat down next to me, I asked him if he had any details about what happened to my mother.
“Nothing, really. She was exiting throu
gh the back of the hospital. She likes to park high up in the lot in case it rains. Just one of her cute little quirks. She was hit on Johnson Street.”
I could tell by the careful tone of his voice that he had stronger feelings for my mother than he let on. I wondered if it was mutual. I just wanted her to be happy. He seemed like a decent guy. There’s not much else a son could ask for his mother than her meeting a decent guy.
Bill cleared his throat, then said, “Two eyewitnesses said a blue SUV came down the street kind of fast and hit your mom. The witnesses said the SUV didn’t slow down. We got half the Newburgh Police Department out searching for an SUV with front-end damage.”
I said, “Did the witnesses get a look at the driver?”
Bill shook his head. “They couldn’t even agree on the exact color of the SUV. One said it was a lighter, bright blue. The other witness swore it was a dark blue. No plates, can’t ID the driver, and already looked at any security footage on the backside of the hospital. The cameras don’t cover much more than the walkways to the main doors.”
I may not have ever been a cop and didn’t have any formal training as a private investigator, but something inside me said this was no accident. I had to get some time to think where I wasn’t worried about my mom or how other people were reacting. I needed to figure this out.
My brother, Natty, joined Bill and me in the corner of the waiting room. Bill said, “I’ve never seen you visit the hospital before, Natty.”
He shrugged and said, “Mom sort of banned me a few years ago.”
I was impressed that Bill had enough sense not to ask any more questions. My mom told me she caught Natty trying to steal some OxyContin to sell. She’d ripped an earring out of his ear on the spot and issued his lifetime ban. I’ll admit I thought it was funny when she told me the story.
I also think Natty learned his lesson. The fact that he was trying to change his life was a great step.
A man in green surgical scrubs and cap stepped into the room. He had black and gray stubble on his chin and his eyebrows bristled from underneath the edge of the cap.
He had no hint of a smile and said, “Which of you are related to Elaine Mitchum?”
No one moved for a moment, then I said, “We all are.”
That seemed to satisfy the surgeon as he plopped into an empty chair and looked at Natty, Dolores, Bill, and me.
After a few seconds of silence, Natty blurted out, “You’re killing us, Doc. What are you waiting for? A musical intro?”
Score one for my brother.
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS ALMOST two hours later when the hospital staff allowed us to join my mother in her private room, one of the nicest. Apparently, the hospital was trying to take good care of one of its own employees. A fifty-inch Samsung TV hung on the wall, already tuned to an ESPN talk show my mom loved. She followed the Giants and the Bills on NFL Live. Then she’d watch Around the Horn, followed by Pardon the Interruption with Tony Kornheiser and Mike Wilbon, every weekday evening. She knew the line on every game and could no longer participate in the hospital football pool because she won it three weeks in a row.
She seemed content. The room looked like a resort, except for the view. No tall building in Newburgh had much of a view. Unless you consider crumbling old buildings and dead trees a great view.
Once Natty had gotten the doctor talking, he didn’t seem to shut up. But the long and the short of his explanation was that my mother would recover. I almost didn’t hear the other things he said about her bruised kidneys, broken hip, and concussion. All I heard was that she would make a full recovery. I almost cried I was so relieved.
A nurse, about twenty-five, managed to slip between my brother, Bill Jeffries, and me as he set my mom’s IVs and equipment.
My mom let him work for about two minutes before she started giving him orders. I would say she was giving suggestions, but she sounded more like a drill sergeant.
“Put both the IVs over on this side so my sons don’t trip over them. I don’t think I need the EKG running all the time. It’s distracting.”
The nurse shot me a quick, confused look. He was used to doctors ordering him around. Now it was a patient. But he knew exactly who she was. And he listened to every word she said.
My mom said, “Tell everyone at the desk, I’m a customer now. Don’t treat me like a coworker.”
As soon as the nurse was finished with all of his adjustments and my mom’s orders, he fled the room like a Giants fan slinking out of the stadium after a loss.
My mom looked at Natty and me. “C’mon, Bobby and Natty, give your mother a kiss.” Her voice was just a shade weaker than normal, but her tone was just as sharp. It gave me hope.
My mom was the only one who ever called me by my given name. Even my brother called me Mitchum. All my cousins call me Mitchum. I’m sure a few of them don’t even know my first name. I’m so used to being called Mitchum that sometimes I forget to answer when someone calls me Robert or Bobby.
A doctor walked in a few minutes later. He was a good-looking guy with blondish hair. He glanced down at a chart and said, “Looks good.”
That comment seemed to give my mom some energy. “Looks good! Looks good.” The outrage grew with every word. “Listen to me, Doogie Howser. It looked good yesterday. Today I’m a mess. I was run down by a truck.” Then she looked at me and Natty, standing in the corner of the room, and added, “On purpose.”
Apparently, this was the theory she had floated already to Bill Jeffries. He didn’t react but I wanted to hear more.
I said, “Mom, are you saying someone hit you intentionally?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And when I find out who did it, they’ll wish they only get arrested.”
I had to chuckle, as even lying in a bed, with a hundred medical devices attached to her, my mom’s threats were still scary. If she ever catches whoever ran her down, I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes, especially if they did it on purpose.
My mom turned to Bill and said, “I know that what I’m about to say will make me sound like Bobby with his conspiracies, but it’s the truth. I heard the engine rev just before the truck hit me.”
The doctor was clearly trying to extricate himself from this conversation. He casually said, “We’ll get a good view of your hip and pelvis with a CAT scan tomorrow.”
My mom said, “I can do it right now.”
The doctor said, “Let me check the schedule,” and he scooted out of the room faster than the nurse had earlier. Everyone but my mom knew he wasn’t coming back today.
I looked around the room and ran some numbers in my head. This was going to be an expensive stay. Really expensive. Even with her insurance.
I had never really worried about money. I made enough in the Navy to be happy. I lived in a comfortable but tiny house, and until recently, I had money coming in. Now I considered what my mom would need even after she was released.
Money might be one of my new worries.
CHAPTER 4
IT WAS LATE by the time I got back to my house. I ran by my mom’s house to make sure it was secure, and I grabbed her mail. Mostly bills except for her copy of Sports Illustrated and her church newsletter, The Marlboro Message. Her house is only a few blocks from mine. I sat on my threadbare couch, with my dog, Bart Simpson.
He looked like a cross between a Boston terrier and a bulldog, but I knew he was just a mongrel. There was no intentional breeding to make him come out like this. He considered himself royalty. At least that’s how he was treated. My mom baked homemade dog treats for him. Unfortunately, I found out she was doing this when I stole one from a tray in her kitchen thinking it was some kind of holiday treat. She used some kind of natural fiber to help Bart Simpson’s digestion. I can say it works pretty well.
We had the news on, but we weren’t really watching it. Bart’s head lay across my lap and I rubbed behind his ears. There were a couple of brochures spread on the couch and on the coffee table in front of m
e. One was from the Newburgh Police Department, designed to recruit new officers. Bill had tried to sell me on it several times.
I looked into law enforcement jobs. It seemed like a natural fit for a Navy vet who wanted to help people. I was amazed at the good pay and the benefits, including a great retirement. But I didn’t think I had the right temperament for it. I was never big on following too many rules. That made it tough on me in the Navy. Besides, it was pretty dangerous to be a cop nowadays. Just stopping someone for a speeding ticket could lead to an ambush. Timmy Jones, my childhood friend who worked for the sheriff’s office now, told me about a couple of his close calls. I didn’t think I could live my life worried about stuff like that.
I picked up a business card sitting on the coffee table. The top said “Non-Metric Solutions.” There was a photo of Neil Armstrong planting the American flag on the moon. Underneath that, it said “Metric system? Whose flag is on the moon?” Next to the photo was my friend’s name, DP Lampkin. We’d been in the Navy together. He was one of the smartest, funniest guys I’d ever met. Now he worked for a military contractor coordinating people in Afghanistan.
DP was one of the most interesting characters I knew. Raised in Los Angeles, he now had a home on the coast of Oregon. He said his wife didn’t mind him working overseas as long as she got to live as comfortably as she did. He loved to laugh about her saying that. I’d met her a couple of times and knew she’d stick by DP’s side no matter what.
I’d put off calling him about a job for months now. I dialed the number with an Oregon area code and waited as it routed through God knew how many satellites. At the other end of the line, I heard a groggy “Hello.”
“DP, it’s Mitchum. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Then I remembered the crazy time difference. “I’m sorry, what time is it there?”
“Six thirty in the morning. I thought it was my alarm.”
I heard him laugh and that made me smile. I said, “It’s ten o’clock at night here. How’s it six thirty there?”
The River Murders Page 15
