by L C Hayden
“What about Russ? What does he look like?
“Russ? He’s short, a bit overweight. Tends to be temperamental, especially when he’s losing. He looks much older than Belen. Why is any of this important?”
“It’s all part of checking things out—just doin’ my job.” He opened his notebook, wrote down, Check on Russ and Belen Oaxaca, and returned it to his pocket. His glance traveled toward the next-door neighbor’s house and he realized his Chief Special was buried in the back of the Honda underneath some tools and a blanket.
His retired I.D. gave him permission to carry concealed. First thing he had done as soon as he retired was to make sure he had a legal permit, but what good would it do him now? He should have known better. Age or retirement was making him sloppy. He’d have to address that.
He walked over to the front window and looked out. The man he’d talked to had disappeared, but his car remained in the neighbors’ driveway. That meant he could be anywhere nearby. Bronson’s car, along with his gun, was only a few feet away, but for all they were worth, it could have been miles.
He scanned the neighborhood as carefully as possible. He spotted no one. He took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.
Ten
That pompous ass.
As soon as Carrier had seen Bronson, he’d recognized him as a cop. He could smell them a mile away, and like all cops, Bronson’s intelligence shone like charcoal. He’d actually believed that story Carrier had given him about the gray/blue sedan and its female driver. Carrier considered allowing Bronson to live long enough to make a fool of himself. Let his last earthly hours be wasted pursing a fake lead. That would serve him—and the entire police department he represented—right.
Unfortunately, Carrier didn’t have that luxury. Bronson had to die and die now. An accident wouldn’t be enough. Carrier considered his options. Shooting Bronson in broad daylight in this busy neighborhood would never do. Besides, he refused to use a gun. Carrier hated guns. They belonged to unimaginative, detached, unprofessional people who took no pride in their work.
Carrier stepped back and studied the Randig household. Tall bushes partially obscured the entrance. He could hide behind one of those and when Bronson stepped out, he’d come from behind, throw a garrote around his neck, and pull. He’d drag the struggling Bronson back inside and no one would be the wiser. Once inside, who knows? He might be tempted to release the pressure just a bit, long enough to prolong Bronson’s death.
Pull. Release.
Pull. Release.
He could almost hear Bronson’s gurgling blood.
The image pleased him.
* * * * *
Bronson opened the front door, but did not step out. He closed the door and glanced at his watch. He walked back to the study and absorbed every detail. Maybe he had overlooked something. Nothing caught his attention. In the near distance, he heard the wailing of sirens.
Only three minutes had elapsed since he opened the front door. Very impressive. By the time he reached the door again, a security guard had arrived. Bronson swung the front door open. “I’m sorry, I believe I owe you an apology.”
The youthful-looking guard unholstered his weapon and pointed it at Bronson. “Don’t move. Get on your knees. Turn around. Put your hands up. On the floor. Now.”
Bronson stared at him. What TV show had he been watching? Since this was a multiple-choice command, Bronson slowly raised his arms. He saw another security car approach. Two more guards got out. They saw Bronson with his hands up and the novice pointing a gun at him. They ran toward the front door, their hands by their weapons, ready to be released at a moment’s notice.
Bronson waited until they were within listening range. “I’m Harry Bronson. Linda Randig sent me to pick up some stuff for her. I accidentally set the alarm off. I have a cell. I’m going to reach for it. It’s hanging from my belt.” He waited for this information to register in their minds, especially that of the youth. “Any of you know Linda Randig personally?”
“We both do,” said one of the new arrivals, a stocky man with beady eyes and bushy eyebrows. He pulled on his goatee, in what Bronson assumed was a nervous reaction.
“Good, then you can talk to her. She’ll prove I’m tellin’ the truth.” Bronson focused his gaze on the inexperienced guard as he retrieved his cell and punched in the numbers. When the phone began to ring, he handed it to the goateed guard who’d spoken up.
The guard talked to Linda, snapped the cell shut, and handed it back to Bronson. “Larry, put the gun away. He’s cool. He’s telling the truth.” He turned his attention to Bronson. “Just to be on the safe side, do you have an I.D.?”
Bronson showed him his retired police identification.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” He reached in, reset the alarm, and looked at the other two guards. “Let’s go.”
Bronson stepped out. “Actually, I was gettin’ ready to leave myself.” His eyes scanned the street. “That’s my car right there, in the driveway.” He didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Maybe the precaution had been for nothing. He kept pace with the security guards.
“Make sure you disarm the alarm next time,” said the second guard.
By now they had reached his car. “By all means.” Bronson turned to open the door and spotted the neighbor as he stepped away from the bushes. The first thing Bronson noticed was that Neighbor had slipped on some driving gloves. He wondered why.
With sure steps, Neighbor headed their way. The intensity in his eyes told Bronson he had read him right. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to shoot anyone and leave witnesses behind. The security guards and the active neighborhood served as temporary shields.
Neighbor shoved a folded piece of paper toward Bronson. “This is the paper I told you about, the one your cousin is looking for.” Without waiting for an answer, he got in his car and drove away.
Bronson stuffed the note in his pocket. Now he knew why Neighbor had worn gloves. No use trying to get prints from this one. This jerk fancied himself some kind of a pro, and he wouldn’t allow a small detail like fingerprints to escape his notice.
Bronson glanced at the planter. Maybe Neighbor wasn’t that much of a professional. The Coke can was still there. Mistake Number One. He hadn’t been wearing the gloves while he drank from it. Bronson looked at the guards. “Do any of you know that guy?”
“Never seen him.” Theguard pulled on his goatee again as he watchedNeighbor driveaway. “Should we know him?”
“Thought maybe he’s Russ and Belen’s friend. Someone takin’ care of the house while they’re away.”
“The Oaxacas would have told us if they had a house sitter. Why do you ask?”
Bronson shrugged. “He looked familiar, that’s all. Maybe not.” He glanced at the Coke can. “You guys cruise this neighborhood all the time, right?”
“That’s our job,” the youthful one said. “Around each block, several times. We keep our eyes peeled.”
“Did you happen to see a light-blue or gray sedan hangin’ around here about two weeks ago?”
“Can’t say we have.” The goateed guard stiffened. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Got this broad followin’ me everywhere. You know what I mean?” Bronson flashed them a conspirator’s smile. “If you happen to remember seein’ a blue or gray compact, I’d appreciate a call.” Bronson handed them his business card, which consisted of nothing more than his name, cell number, and the words retired, Dallas police detective. He doubted he’d ever hear from them. The blue/gray car story sounded as if it was just that, a story.
The guard pocketed the card without looking at it.
Bronson grabbed the Coke can. “I’ll throw this away.”
The security guards waited until Bronson drove off before they too pulled out.
A block away, Bronson checked his rearview mirror. No one followed him. He made a right turn, then a left, and finally another right. He had gone around a couple of blocks, but remained
in the same neighborhood. He knew that with the security guards still around somewhere and the neighbors outdoors, this would serve as a temporary sanctuary.
He pulled off, kept the engine going, and read the note Neighbor had handed him:
Go to the police and your “cousin” is dead. I know about The Roost Resort by Custer State Park. I will be contacting you soon.
And I’ll be waiting, Bronson thought. He dreaded the day they would confront each other.
From the glove compartment, Bronson retrieved his fingerprint kit and dusted the Coke can. Several prints appeared. He took the tape out and placed it on top of the prints. Hopefully, he’d soon get a match.
* * * * *
Carrier lowered his binoculars and smiled. Bronson had fallen for the Coke can. Soon he would know Carrier’s identity—and that would give Carrier the edge.
ELEVEN
Bronson swallowed his pride and made the call. It seemed the last few times he had talked to his old partner, he needed to cash in a marker, but he didn’t know what else to do. He felt he had no choice. He punched in the numbers.
“Homicide. Hoover speaking.”
“Hey.”
“Bronson? Something go wrong with your South Dakota contacts?”
“Far as I know, all’s well in that department.”
“Oh, oh.”
“Oh, oh?”
“That means you’re calling to cash in another marker. You’re raking them off—all the ones I owe you—real fast. What’s going on?”
“I need a creep identified. I have his fingerprints.”
“Oh man, Bronson. Do you know all the work that entails?”
“A bit of computer work, a couple favors.”
“Okay, so you know what’s involved. I’m not impressed. When can you fax me the print?”
“Prints. Got more than one.”
“Great. So when can you fax them?”
“I’m standin’ in front of the fax machine.”
“Of course. I should’ve known that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Really, don’t know what I was thinking of.”
“So, did you get them?”
“Hold your horses, Bronson. I’m still walking that way.” A small pause followed. “Got ’em. I’m on my way to see Paul. Since you’ve left, he’s become a real computer geek.”
“So I’ve heard.” Bronson hesitated before adding, “Listen, buddy, I really appreciate what you’re doing.”
“Don’t get sloppy on me, Bronson. Besides, do you know how many times I relied on you? You’ve save my hide more than once.”
“That’s part of the job.”
“And the friendship.”
“Now who’s getting sloppy?”
“You started it.”
* * * * *
Paul McKenzie sat in front of his computer. He loved the challenges that Mike Hoover brought him now and then, thanks to Bronson. These puzzles, as he considered them, challenged and stimulated him. They certainly were much more fascinating than the usual stuff he had to do. Today’s assignment didn’t provide much intrigue, but at least it offered a break from routine police work.
He entered the information into the computer and clicked the search button. While he waited, he went to refill his coffee cup and thought of Bronson. Ever since he’d left the force, the coffee urn stayed full and often the coffee got old and rancid. No one else craved coffee the way Bronson did.
He returned to his desk and saw that the computer had found a match. He sat down and stared at the image the computer offered him. His muscles tightened and he began to sweat, his mind a jumble of incomplete thoughts and emotions.
* * * * *
A small town in Wyoming, Two Forks’ charm came from its historic, Western heritage and splendid scenery. Its abundant homes and buildings rich in the Western architectural style lined its streets.
For a town such as this to be the home of something as futuristic-sounding as McGory and Stein Pharmaceutical Research Center and Lab seemed inconceivable to Bronson. He expected a renovated warehouse sporting a western motif to serve as headquarters for the place, located off Interstate 18 outside the city limits.
His eyebrows arched as he pulled into McGory Rd. The Research Center loomed before him and filled him with awe. The pond alone, with a water fountain at its center, occupied at least an acre. What seemed to be the original five-story, C-shaped building contained wings that went every which way, as though additions had been built without a plan.
Bronson parked the car and headed toward the receptionist’s desk. A youthful-looking woman with a round face greeted him. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Henry Clark.” He smiled, offering all the charm he could muster.
“Certainly, sir.” She looked down at her list. “He’s in Room . . .” She frowned. “Who did you say?”
“Clark. Henry Clark.”
Her index finger moved down the list of approximately ten names. “Oh, he works in the lab.” She stared at Bronson through huge, round brown eyes.
Bronson had seen more intelligence in a box of rocks. He leaned toward the receptionist. “So where’s the lab?”
“Down the hall, but you can’t go there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a restricted area.”
“Then can you please call him and tell him I’m here to see him?”
“He’s in the lab, sir. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s working.”
Bronson made a mental note to stop at a toy store and buy an official-looking badge. He retrieved his I.D. card and flashed it. Hopefully, she hadn’t seen the retired part. “This is police business. I can talk to him here or have him dragged down to the police station. I’ll make sure the press knows he works here. Why, I’ll even haul you in for obstructing justice.”
As impossible as it seemed, her eyes widened further. “I’ll call him.”
Good girl, Bronson thought.
She picked up the phone and gave him her back.
He occupied his time by studying the floor plan of the research center under the glass on the receptionist’s desk. The lab where Clark worked had a door that led outside. Bronson filed that information away.
The receptionist hung up. He stepped away from her desk and saw a thin, wiry man approaching. He was almost bald and wore thick glasses. On a scale of one-to-ten for looks, he scored a negative three. Bronson guessed this must be Henry Clark.
“May I help you?” the man asked.
Bronson bridged the gap between them and offered his hand. “I’m Harry Bronson. Doctor Clark, I presume?”
Clark stared at it as though unsure what he was supposed to do. Hesitantly, he shook it. “I’m Henry Clark.”
“Is there a place we can talk?”
“There’s a cafeteria on the third floor. I haven’t eaten. We can talk and eat.”
The receptionist frowned, visibly disappointed that she wouldn’t be privy to any gossip.
* * * * *
“What’s all this about?” Clark asked as he transferred their plates from the tray to the table and sat down.
“I’m Linda Randig’s cousin.” Bronson stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.
“The receptionist told me you’re the police.”
“I am—or was. I’m just tryin’ to help my cousin.”
“Mitch and Linda never mentioned your name.”
“We’re not that close, but with Linda being left all alone, I figure someone needs to look after her.” Bronson used the last cream on the table and spotted some more on the one to his right. He reached for two more containers and poured them in.
Clark crumbled some crackers and stirred them into his chicken soup. “What exactly is it that you want?”
“I want to talk to you about Mitch.”
“Me? Why me?”
Bronson took a sip of his coffee. Way too hot. He put the spoon in and stirred the contents. “You were his partner.”<
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“Yeah, so?”
“Sometimes you tell your partner things you wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Things. Secrets. Feelings. Thoughts—that kind of thing.” Bronson drank his coffee. Ah, good coffee. Freshly made.
“Mitch and I were not personal friends.”
“Linda tells me you were often at the house.”
“For business.” Clark bit into his sandwich. “Strictly for business.”
“So you never discussed anything personal.” Bronson watched a brown-skinned youth—perhaps part Indian—clear the table to their left.
“No, never.”
“What about retirement?”
Clark opened his sandwich and took the tomato out. “What about it?”
“Surely he told you he planned to retire.”
“He did.”
“How did he feel about that?” The busboy moved to a different table and wiped it down even though it looked clean. Bronson continued to watch him.
“He was apprehensive.”
Bronson’s attention bounced back to Clark. “Apprehensive? Why?”
Clark opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and ate more of the sandwich. He took his time chewing and swallowing. “Guess it’s just natural to be apprehensive. You know, a new way of life, very different than what he was accustomed to.”
“But he never told you why he felt that way?”
Clark set the rest of the sandwich on the plate. He ran a trembling finger over his thin mustache. When he noticed Bronson studying him, he quickly moved his hand away. “Tell me, Bronson, what is this really all about? Are you thinking somebody did Mitch in?”
“Should I be thinking that?”
“That’s absurd.” He pushed his plate away. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.” He started to get up.
“Just one more thing. Does the name Ella mean anything to you?”
Clark’s eyes bounced around as though searching for an answer. “Can’t say it does. Is that all?”
