by L C Hayden
“One more thing. What kind of car do you drive?”
Clark frowned. “How is that any of your business?”
“I can check. Thought maybe you’d want to save me some time. More time I save, less angry I get. You don’t want to see me angry. You’d be surprised what an angry cop can do.” He drank the last of his coffee and smiled.
Clark sighed, looked away, and shook his head. “I drive a red Toyota Tacoma. Do you want the license plate number?”
“I’m looking for someone who drives a blue or gray sedan, possibly female. Does that ring a bell with you?”
“Not even close.” Clark stood up. “Look, I’m sorry to be so abrupt with you, but I see this as a complete waste of time. Mitch met with a tragic and untimely accident, nothing more. No need to alarm Linda with any suspicions where there’s no cause. She’s a good woman. She doesn’t need this. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear.” The busboy was now wiping the table behind them. Bronson wondered if it, too, was already clean.
Using a softer tone, Clark continued, “I’m happy Linda has someone to watch over her. Please give her my regards.” He walked away.
Bronson’s gaze shifted to the brown-skinned youth. When he looked up and saw Bronson studying him, he quickly gathered his cleaning dishcloth and hurried to the kitchen.
By the time Bronson reached the kitchen, the youth had disappeared.
TWELVE
As Bronson opened his car door, a white truck with a dented front and a broken window pulled up next to him. The driver kept the engine running and rolled down the window, but didn’t stick his head out. Even so, Bronson recognized the busboy.
“I know Ella,” he said. “Meet me at Wyoming Café.”
“When?”
“Now.” He drove off.
* * * * *
For Bronson, the Wyoming Café ranked right up there with heaven. The aroma of coffee teased his taste buds and it took every ounce of discipline he could muster not to run to the counter and order a cup. Instead, he glanced around until he spotted the youth, sitting at the back of the café, his gaze glued on Bronson. Up close, the teen looked even younger than Bronson had imagined.
Bronson pulled up a chair and sat down. “Can I buy you a cup?”
The youth shook his head.
Imagine, turning down free coffee. Amazing, some people. “Something else?”
Again he shook his head.
“Mind if I get me a cup?”
This time when the teen shook his head, Bronson wondered how the conversation would go between them. He stood up, went to order, and returned to the table holding a steaming cup of Joe. “You said you know Ella.”
The kid nodded.
Ahh. He’d gone from shaking his head to nodding. Bronson considered it progress. He leaned back in the chair, his gaze focused on the young man sitting across from him.
The youth bit his lip and looked away.
Bronson reached for his wallet, took out a twenty-dollar bill, and set it on the table.
“I . . . I am Manuel.” He stared at the money, but did not reach for it.
“Nice to meet you, Manuel. I’m Bronson.”
“You really be cop?”
“I was. I’m retired now.”
“Oh. Then . . . then . . .” He rubbed his hands.
Bronson inched the twenty-dollar bill closer toward his possible informant. “Nothin’s changed. I’m still willin’ to pay for information.”
“I have . . . girlfriend.”
“Yeah?”
“She got—how you say?—pregnant.”
Bronson glanced down at the money. Twenty dollars wouldn’t give him the information he sought. He added another twenty, hesitated, and then added a ten. “Tell me about Ella.”
“It is game.” Manuel grabbed the money with the speed of an animal not sure it could trust the person feeding it.
“What?”
“A game—you know—for machine.” He thought for a moment. “Computers. Cannot buy game at store. Internet, also no. I checked.”
Bronson poured three packets of sugar into his coffee and stirred. “What makes you think it’s a game?”
“I do two jobs so I can pay for, you know, baby. I be good busboy, but I clean too. I clean Mr. Randig office. One time, I empty his trash. I see drawing he made and threw away.”
“What did this sketch look like?”
“Like boxes you see in computer game. You see woman—she wear—” Manuel pressed his thumb and index finger together, giving the universal sign for small. “—little clothes. She hold sword up high. Name of game is Ella. Bottom of drawing say, Ella, A Computer Game. Maybe she be lady on box.”
Bronson took a sip of coffee while digesting the information. “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have the drawin’, would you?”
Manuel shook his head. “I no need it. I no want it. Stays in trash.”
Bronson retrieved his pocket notebook and wrote down what Manuel had told him. “And this was how long ago?”
“A month? Six weeks?”
Interesting. Bronson had never imagined Mitch as an artist. Normally, scientists and artists came from opposite ends. “Was Mitch an artist?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Randig.”
“Oh, him, no. I not think so. Drawing bad.”
“Then why would you suppose he’d be designing a computer game box drawin’?”
Manuel worried his lip and shrugged. “I not know.”
“What else can you tell me?”
He shrugged. “You want know Ella. I tell you. Ella is game. All I know.” He bit his lip again.
His nervousness told Bronson he knew more. Bronson retrieved his business card and handed it to Manuel. “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”
Manuel reached for the card and placed it in his pants pocket. He stood up.
“Wait.”
Apprehension swam in Manuel’s eyes. His body stiffened.
“Your gal—does she have a doctor?”
Manuel shook his head.
“How far along is she?”
“Three months.”
“Her parents or yours know about the baby?”
Manuel looked down and shook his head.
“They need to know. Maybe they can help.”
“They no help.”
“Have you contacted the Welfare Department?”
“Welfare? They help on this?”
“You bet they do.”
Manuel’s face lit up. “Yeah? Hey, thanks, Mister.” He turned to leave. “Maybe I get more information, yes?”
“What kind of information?”
“You see.” With a definite spring to his step, he walked away.
THIRTEEN
Bronson finished his coffee, got to his feet, and retrieved his cell as he left the café. “Can you talk?” he said once he heard Linda’s hello.
“Bronson, hi. Yes, I’m outside. I’ve been waiting for your call. What have you learned?”
Bronson flipped through his notebook. “Your uncle—he creates computer games.”
“Yes. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
He flipped to the next page. “What can you tell me about Ella?”
“What? You’re so frustrating at times. Can’t you ever answer a question?” A small pause followed.
Bronson waited.
Linda sounded annoyed. “What did you want to know?”
“About Ella.”
“You mentioned her before. Who is she?”
By now Bronson had reached his car. He opened the door and got in. “She’s not a who. She’s a what.”
“Oh, brother. I finally get an answer and I still don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Ella is the name of a computer game,” Bronson said. “Apparently this game hasn’t been released yet, which leads me to believe it’s one of the games your uncle created. Mitch had what will probably be the cover drawing
for the game. Any idea why your husband would have something like that?”
“Mitch and Uncle Phillip often sat and talked games. At first Mitch had no interest in Uncle Phillip’s work. He considered it silly, certainly not something that a respectable, mature adult should be involved with. So Uncle Phillip started talking to Mitch, showing him the vast amount of knowledge needed to create interesting games. Eventually, he won Mitch over. After that, they would sit for hours and talk about them. As to why Mitch would have a drawing for one of my uncle’s games, I have no idea. Maybe they talked about cover designs. I don’t really know. Do you think this drawing of Ella is important?”
“Probably not, now that I’ve heard your take on it, but at least it’s one less loose end.”
* * * * *
Manuel knew he should head home. His parents expected him soon, but this couldn’t wait. He rang the doorbell and waited.
Pedro opened the door and stepped out. “Manuel, what are you doing here?” he said in Spanish.
Manuel replied in the same language. “I met a man who paid me for some information.” He retrieved the money and showed it to his friend.
Pedro’s face lit up. “What did he want to know?” He closed the door behind him.
“I told him about Ella. Now, I’m thinking if you tell him what you know, we’ll be rolling in money.”
Pedro studied Manuel. “Did you make arrangements for me to meet him?”
Manuel shook his head. “Uh-uh. Let me tell you how it’s going to be. I set up the meeting, we both go, and we each get half of what he gives you.”
Pedro squinted. “Fifty-fifty doesn’t seem fair. I’m the one who’s sticking my neck way out.”
Manuel thrust out his chin. “Fifty-fifty or I don’t make the arrangements.”
“Let me think about it.” Pedro stepped back inside. “I’ll call you.”
* * * * *
Pedro watched Manuel drive away. He could go with him and earn a little money, or he could make the call and get a lot more money. He didn’t like the idea of screwing Manuel. They were friends, and he knew Manuel worked hard to provide for the baby and its mother.
But Pedro also needed money. Next week, Mama would celebrate her fiftieth birthday and Anita—hey, what would she do if he sent her flowers?
Pedro reached for the phone and hesitated. Manuel had to take care of his girl and the baby. But screw it, Manuel knocked her up, let him be responsible for his actions.
He punched in the number and when he heard the hello he said, “Doc Ponce? It is Pedro.”
fourteen
As Bronson drove by Linda’s house, he focused on the new BMW parked in the Oaxacas’ driveway. An attractive woman in her fifties watered her yard. He stopped the car in front of the house.
The woman continued to water but watched as Bronson approached.
“Evenin’, ma’am.”
She nodded.
“You’re Belen Oaxaca?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Bronson, Harry Bronson. I’m Linda’s cousin.”
“Oh, the poor dear. I just heard about Mitch. Right after her parents . . . I can’t believe it.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “How’s Linda? Where is she? Nobody seems to know.”
“She’s on her way to see Uncle Phillip.”
“Oh, really? And she took the motor home? Whenever she and Mitch go visit up there, they stay at her uncle’s house. He’s such a sweetheart. Why would she take the camper this time?”
Bronson shrugged.
“I’m glad to hear she took the camper. When we got home and didn’t see it in their driveway, I was afraid she had to sell it to pay for the funerals.”
Bronson’s eyebrows went up. “They had financial problems?”
“Oh, dear. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth.” She turned off the water and rolled the hose. “Mitch handled all of the money.”
Bronson nodded as if he knew.
“He worried about what would happen when he retired. He didn’t think he’d be able to keep Linda in the current fashion. In fact, when I first heard about Mitch, I thought—I thought—” She bit her lip and looked away.
“You assumed Mitch killed himself? Some insurance policies pay double for accidents.”
Belen glanced back at Bronson. “Please, don’t tell Linda. That’s just my thoughts. I don’t even know what the police said.”
“The police ruled it an accident.”
“Thank God.” Belen placed her open hand on her chest. “I don’t think—no, in fact, I know—Linda had no idea Mitch worried about finances, but he confided in me.” She half-smiled, still looking tearful.
Bronson nodded. He should check on Mitch’s insurance policy. “Glad to see you and Russ made it safely back home. House was okay when you arrived?”
Belen’s eyebrows pinched together. “Yes. Why would you ask?”
“Just a question, ma’am.” Bronson’s cell rang. The caller I.D. read Mike Hoover. “I have to take this call. Excuse me.” As he headed for his car, he flipped the cell open. “Hey.”
“Bronson.”
Not good. Anytime Mike began with his name, it meant bad news. “What gives?”
“Those prints you sent us belong to Benjamin Carrier.”
Bronson’s hand, holding the ignition key, froze on the way to the slot. “They can’t be. He’s dead.”
“Or so we thought.”
Bronson’s mind pulsated with questions. He knew his ex-partner had a run-in with Carrier before Bronson came along.
“You never worked his case,” Mike said.
Bronson sank back into the car seat, focusing on every word Mike uttered. “Never had the pleasure.”
“What do you know about him?”
“I know his record is longer than our arms put together. I know he’s the reason you limp, and I have a rough idea what happened that night. Aside from that, I don’t know much. When you were working this case, I was in Missing Persons. By the time I transferred to Homicide, Carrier was dead and history.”
“That’s what I thought, so I put a package together that I’m faxing you. Carrier is a real bad ass and you’ve got to watch your own. He likes to play with his victims. He stalks and terrorizes them for days. Then he moves in for a slow kill. Never with a gun—too impersonal. He gets his thrills by getting so close he can smell their fear. He uses knives and wires. He’s even known to beat his victims to death. Three of them, he cut their limbs off while they were still alive.”
Bronson inserted the key in the ignition. Angie McKenzie, Paul’s wife, popped into his mind. She had been a pretty thing. Dainty, kind, always wore a smile. She and Paul had been married for only three months when Carrier murdered her.
Mike pursued him and eventually corralled him in a deserted warehouse. In an effort to escape, the bastard set it on fire. Mike barely escaped as the inferno erupted. He got out with bad burns, mostly on his legs. Carrier had burned to death, or so the police had assumed.
The only time Mike and Bronson had discussed the case, Mike said, “I’ll never forget the acrid odor of burning flesh. As a child, my mom used to take me to my grandparents’ farm. I still hate the smell of burning chicken feathers. This was similar, but worse.” Mike had never mentioned the case again, until now.
Bronson asked, “You’re sure those are Carrier’s prints?”
“Positive.”
“So who died in that fire?”
A small pause followed. When the answer came, Mike’s voice quivered with emotion. “I guess we’ll never know. The body had been reduced to ashes, destroying all chance of finding usable DNA, but we found other evidence that led us to believe Carrier burned. His ring. The knife he used—they were there with the body. Other stuff, too. Now it looks like it was all a setup.” Mike cleared his throat. “He led me to that warehouse with the full intention of setting it on fire. The poor guy who burned to death was already there with Carrier’s ring, knife, and personal s
tuff. Maybe he was unconscious or already dead. We’ll never know, but Carrier had this planned from the beginning.”
Bronson shook his head in bewilderment. “That conniving worm. How’s Paul takin’ it?”
“He fell apart. He asked for a leave of absence. He plans to fly there and personally hunt Carrier down.”
“He can’t do that. He’s a lab tech. He doesn’t have any street experience. He’s going to get killed.”
“Exactly what I told him.”
“What’d he say?”
“I’ll quote him: ‘As long as that S.O.B. is alive, I’ll hunt him down. I don’t care if he kills me. I’d rather be dead.’ ”
Bronson looked out the window. Belen had resumed her watering. “Mike, you need to stop him. He’ll only get in the way and make things worse.”
“You know that and I know that, but I might not be able to stop him. If Paul goes, I’m going with him. You’ll need all the help you can get.”
“Tell him the police will take care of Carrier.”
“I have, but Paul’s not listening, and speaking of police, your Wyoming police contact is Captain Samuel Marshall. He’s eager to talk to you about Carrier.”
Bronson wrote the name and number down. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, the captain is getting the same fax you are. I’ll send yours to the same place I faxed the other papers. Is that okay with you?”
Bronson waved goodbye to Belen and started the engine. She waved back and Bronson drove off. “Yeah. Give me fifteen minutes or so.”
“Can do.”
“And speaking of can do, you keep Paul in Texas.”
“I’ll try, but I’m sure that won’t happen.”
fifteen
Bronson sat in the car, reading the fax. He read it a second time, making notations. When he finished, he set it aside and reached for his cell. He needed to contact Captain Marshall. Instead, the cell rang in his hand. Bronson didn’t recognize the number on the caller I.D. “Bronson here.”
“Mr. Bronson? Manuel. We talk. You remember?”
