The Midnight Ground

by Eric Dontigney

  “I swear. You really do need a keeper.”

  “Isn’t that Lil’s job now?”

  Helena gave me a surprised smile. “Well played.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Go make your call, before your cop acquaintance decides he really doesn’t know you at all.”

  “Come on. That only happens…” I considered for a moment. “Yeah, I better hurry.”

  Chapter 20

  “MacIntyre,” said a gruff, annoyed voice.

  “It’s Adrian Hartworth. Don’t hang up.”

  There was a long pause and I could almost see MacIntyre’s bulldog face staring at the phone in his hand, trying to decide whether to slam the phone down hard, or really hard. I heard him heave an enormous sigh.

  “What the hell do you want, Hartworth?”

  “I need to call in a favor.”

  “A favor,” said MacIntyre in something just shy of a bellow. “What in almighty Christ would I owe you a favor for?”

  It was my turn to sigh. “Do you really want me to say it over an open line?”

  MacIntyre coughed and went silent again. The gears were spinning in his head, doing the math, trying to decide if I was about to pull him into some career-ending disaster. When MacIntyre spoke again, he sounded very tired.

  “Tell you what. Your name came up in a case a month or so back. Couldn’t track you down. Apparently your address is a post office box. Changed your number too.”

  “I spend most of my time traveling,” I said, flat, even, unapologetic.

  “Alright, alright. Don’t get your thong in a twist. You help me clear that up, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  I hadn’t been in California for close to six months. I hadn’t been in Los Angeles for the better part of two years. I tried to imagine how I could be connected to something in LA in the last two months and came up empty. I got very wary, very fast.

  “Ask your questions and I’ll see if I can help you.”

  “Picked up a kid named Daniel Wilkes in connection to a murder. Local thug named Julio Rubio, if you can believe that. Anyways, Wilkes looked good for it, but he says he was with you at the time of the murder. You know him?”

  I did my best to stay calm. Fucking Daniel never knew when to keep his mouth shut. Back talking to someone like Rubio sounded exactly like Daniel to me. I worked to keep my tone even.

  “Yeah, I know Wilkes.”

  “How about Rubio?”

  “Never heard the name until today.”

  MacIntyre let me hang on the end of the line for a good twenty seconds. He probably wanted to see if I’d start babbling about Wilkes or Rubio. For once, though, I had zero knowledge or connection with the dead person. That always made it easier to not talk.

  “Circumstantial evidence puts Wilkes in Vegas at the time, but it’s a pretty short drive to LA from there.”

  I said nothing. I knew it was a short drive. I’d just been thinking it was a short drive. You could make it in four hours, if the traffic wasn’t bad. You could make it in less, if you ignored speed limits and didn’t mind a ticket or two. I finally broke the silence.

  “When did this happen. Date? Time?” I asked.

  I heard some typing on the line before MacIntyre answered. “Looks like it happened around 10pm on April 15. Were you with him then?”

  I thought back. When had I left Vegas? I started subtracting my time in reverse order. Miami, Atlanta, Baltimore before that.

  “Hartworth?”

  “Just a second. It’s not like I’ve a got a day planner in front of me. I’m doing math in my head.”

  I thought it through. I was there, but was Daniel with me that day?

  “I was in Vegas then,” I answered.

  “What about Wilkes? Was he with you?”

  MacIntyre must have sensed my uncertainty, because he sounded focused and a little eager. I thought some more. I tried very hard to dredge up the details. There had been a running series of illegal poker games that blurred together, but April 15 rang a bell in my head. There was something attached to it, something about dancing. It came back to me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He was there. He dragged me to a dance club.”

  There was total silence on the other end of the line and then MacIntyre let loose with huge, booming laughter. It annoyed me.

  “What?”

  “You,” he wheezed, “in a dance club. Were you wearing a suit? One of those double breasted jobs you like?”

  I rolled my eyes. I had worn a suit.

  “Yes,” I muttered.

  More laughter.

  “Probably wore a tie too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said through clenched teeth.

  He laughed even harder. I let it roll on for as long as I could stand. Entire seconds passed. “Yes, yes, you’ve had your fun.”

  “Tears, Hartworth,” said MacIntyre. “Laughing so hard, I’m crying.”

  “Any time you want to get on with it.”

  MacIntyre snickered some more and then quieted down. “Can you tell me what you did there?”

  “It was a dance club. So, mostly, I went deaf.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Some girls Daniel met. Can’t remember their names. A blonde, a brunette, both lookers, neither was terribly smart. I guess I was supposed to be his wingman or something. We drank. They danced. I didn’t. I think he took them both home with him.”

  “He didn’t leave at any point?”

  “Not for longer than you need to take a piss,” I said.

  “You remember what time you left the club?” he asked, barely suppressing his laughter.

  “Pretty late. It wasn’t last call, not that Vegas casinos have a last call, but it was definitely after one in the morning.”

  There was some more typing. “Well, shit. Guess he really didn’t do it.”

  “You liked him for it?”

  “Maybe, but it’s hard to know for sure. He rubbed me the wrong way. I held him overnight for being a smartass.”

  “Yeah, Daniel has that effect on people,” I said.

  MacIntyre went silent for another long pause. “Alright, Hartworth, you held up your end. What do you need from me?”

  “Information.”

  “Someone going to wind up dead if I give it to you?”

  It was a fair question. Things had gone that way once, though not by my choice. Even MacIntyre admitted it was self-defense when it was all said and done. Still, the question irked me.

  “No. The people in question are already dead. I’m trying to figure out if there was a reason for it beyond stupid bad luck.”

  “Jesus, you’re a godawful liar.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You damn well know there was some reason. I can hear it in your voice,” MacIntyre said. “This is one of those things, one of those Hartworth things that don’t make any God damn sense, isn’t it?”

  “Probably,” I admitted.

  “Fuck. Please tell me you’re not in town.”

  “I’m not in town. Not even in the state.”

  “Why call me?”

  “The couple that died lived in California for a while. Separately and then together. I just need to know if there was some kind of trouble, especially for the wife, while they were out there.”

  “You thinking some kind of domestic abuse?”

  “First thing I asked, but the consensus seems to be no. Honestly, I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for, or even if it exists.”

  MacIntyre heaved another enormous sigh. “Way to narrow it down for me.”

  “I would if I could.”

  “Give me whatever information you’ve got.”

  I rattled off the salient, non-mystical details to MacIntyre. He broke in a few times to clarify spellings and to try to pin down dates more specifically. MacIntyre was good at his job and, I suspect, would have made lieutenant if he didn’t hate politics so much. He was the kind of guy who would slide into retirement using his detective
shield as a sled. He liked the investigation, building the chain of logic, assembling the evidence and cuffing the suspect. It usually worked out that way, at least when I wasn’t involved.

  “Mind if I ask what your interest in all this is, Hartworth?”

  “Got a nagging suspicion. I think that someone might be targeting their kid.”

  “Their kid? If they had a kid, couldn’t be older than, what? Eighteen? Twenty?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Christ, Hartworth, you should have opened with that.”

  “I didn’t want it to come off as emotional blackmail.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line and I had the intuition that MacIntyre wanted to say or ask something.

  “You gonna help that kid?” he asked.

  “I’m going to try,” I said. “If I can.”

  There was another long pause. “This a good number to reach you?”

  “It is, for now anyway.”

  “Okay, I’ll get back to you tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”

  I was surprised. “That fast?”

  “A fifteen-year-old kid, Hartworth. I don’t much like you, but I won’t drag my feet when a kid’s life is at stake.”

  “I appreciate it, Kyle.”

  I heard a quick inhalation. I hadn’t used MacIntyre’s first name in a long time. It didn’t seem right to me, given the angst between us.

  “Don’t go soft on me now. I’d still break your nose if you gave me an excuse,” said MacIntyre. “Adrian.”

  Then he hung up on me. I smiled for a second. I didn’t think for a minute that we’d broken through any kind of barrier there. He would break my nose, given the opportunity. He was going to help, though, or at least make good on a favor. That was enough. I just hoped it would give me something to work with, because Abby needed help. She was going to be getting out of the hospital before too long. She’d be in the open. She’d be vulnerable. It was a race against time and I was still in no condition to run.

  I leaned my head back against the headrest and gave the hospital a baleful look through the Neon’s windshield. I still hated hospitals and probably always would. That the hospital was Abby’s only safe haven was an irony that wasn’t lost on me. I got out of the car and went inside to say hello. I’d been more or less absent the last few days and figured I should make an appearance.

  I found Paul in the lobby, wearing a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt, typing on a laptop. I made my way over to him. It took him a minute to realize I was standing there. He looked up, blinked at me, and then his face split into a smile.

  “Adrian,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  I returned the man’s smile. “Paul. How are you feeling?”

  He shrugged. “Not a hundred percent yet, but I guess they’ve decided I won’t keel over without constant supervision. At least it gives me a little time to catch up on some work.”

  “Antique business keep you busy?”

  He blinked up at me warily and answered slowly. “Yes. It does keep me busy. How did you know?”

  “I saw some antiques in your house.”

  He stared hard at me. “When?”

  “When I came in to pull you and Abby out. I notice things,” I said, trying to wave off his look of consternation. “I didn’t stop to look around. I just noticed them.”

  “You’re either a very strange or very remarkable man, Adrian.”

  “Strange,” I assured him. “Definitely strange.”

  He smiled a little at that. “I don’t doubt that’s true. Still, most people wouldn’t recognize an antique if they had the time to look. You recognized antiques at a glance, while dragging an old man and a teenage girl out of a burning building? You in the business?”

  I shook my head. “Not to speak of. I’ve worked a lot of different jobs over the years. I was a personal buyer for a while. My client had a taste for antiques. I picked up a lot of general information and never really got out of the habit of noticing them. I wouldn’t think there would be a booming trade in antiques in a town this size.”

  Paul snorted. “There isn’t. I’ve got a tiny little store, but mostly it’s there so I’ve got a physical address. Most of my business happens online.”

  The old man picked up the laptop and turned it so I could the screen. It looked like he was in the administrative section of a hosting service. I was impressed.

  “Didn’t let the march of technology leave you behind?”

  “Didn’t seem prudent to me. I made a point to start getting savvy about computers back in the late Nineties and launched the website about ten years ago. Best thing I could have done for myself. Quadrupled my business in a year.”

  “Nice. So, they’re letting you out?”

  Paul nodded. “Good thing, too. I need to find Abby and me a place to stay. At least until they can decide if the house is salvageable.”

  He went quiet then, his eyes losing focus, and it didn’t take a genius to realize he was thinking about all the years he’d lived in that house. Its loss would be a blow to him. I thought he’d recover from it, but it’s a hell of a thing to lose a home, for any reason. I would know. He shook off the distraction.

  “I’m going out this afternoon to look at some rental properties,” said Paul.

  I nodded and a thought occurred to me. “Mind if I tag along?”

  Chapter 21

  I discovered that looking at apartments was unbelievably, drive a pencil into your own eye, boring. For my part, I hovered in the background and engaged in covert psychological warfare. I raised my eyebrow at minor problems. I murmured disapproving noises. I eyed things askance. The realtor looked ready to crucify me after the first couple hours. As we drove to the next place, Paul gave me a bemused look.

  “I get the impression that you don’t approve of my temporary housing solutions.”

  I shrugged. “Apartments are fine for a single guy. I was thinking about Abby. She might like something, I don’t know, a little homier.”

  Paul frowned at that idea. I was sure that he was engaged in straightforward man-think. Shelter must be provided. Therefore, find shelter that is not too offensive. If all they needed was something to keep the rain off their heads, I wouldn’t have cared one way or the other. There were, however, practical considerations unrelated to mere physical shelter that Paul knew nothing about.

  “You think so?” Paul asked.

  “Well, I don’t know much about teenage girls, but the women I’ve known all seemed fixated on having a homey place to live.”

  Thank God for convenient truths, I thought. The real reason was that a place where people had lived their lives, a place with memories in the walls, would afford Abby some of the same shelter that her home had provided. It wouldn’t be as good, but it would be a damn sight better protection than an apartment.

  Paul took that advice under consideration and asked the realtor if she had any small houses he could tour. She had been giving me dark looks, but brightened up considerably at the prospect of renting a house. We went to four before we found what I was looking for in a place. It wasn’t a house so much as a big cottage. The kitchen and living room ate up the lion’s share of the space, but there were two bedrooms and a full bath. Even better, it was furnished.

  I ran my hand along one wall, reaching out with my mostly adequate sixth sense. It was there, the imprint of memory and emotion that only a permanent home acquired. From the feedback I got, it had been a mostly happy home for whoever lived there before it became a rental property. I smiled around at the place. In another life, I could see myself living in a little cottage like that one. Paul gave me a sidelong glance, saw my smile, and nodded to himself.

  “I think I’ll take this one. How soon can we get the paperwork dealt with?”

  “We can take care of it today, if you have the time,” said the realtor with a big, fake smile.

  Okay, maybe her smile wasn’t fake. It was possible that I projected my own cynicism onto the situation and assu
med she had ignoble intentions. It was also possible that she was just as cynical as me and perfectly willing to give an old man a huge, fake smile in order to make some money. Sometimes, you just can’t tell. Paul dropped me off at the hospital on his way to the realtor’s office.

  “I don’t think she likes you very much,” said Paul.

  “I can’t imagine why,” I said. “I’m so charming and easy to please.”

  Paul shook his head and drove off to sign a lease. I pulled out my phone and looked at it for the twentieth time since I’d talked with MacIntyre. It was a useless exercise. MacIntyre would call when he knew something or discovered there was nothing to know. I turned the phone off, pushed it back into my pocket and went inside. I knocked on Abby’s door and a voice called out a moment later.

  “Come in.”

  I stepped in from the hallway. Abby and Helena were playing a card game I didn’t recognize. Abby beamed at me. Helena was right that Abby looked better. She was less gaunt and had some color in her cheeks. Her arm was still wrapped in bandages from wrist to mid-bicep, but she seemed to be moving it without too much pain. Helena gave me a little nod.

  “Hi, Mr. Hartworth,” said Abby.

  “Abby,” I said and mentally drop-kicked the impulse to ask how she was feeling. “Are you winning?”

  Abby frowned down at the cards on the table tray, then at the cards in her hand, then at over at Helena. She shook her head, shrugged and laughed. “I have no idea.”

  I grinned, infected with her good cheer. I dragged over the only other chair in the room and sat next to Helena. I watched the two of them set out cards, discard cards, and then play cards that seemed to create tidal shifts in the game. Face cards did something special, but I couldn’t quite work out the rules.

  “What are you playing?” I asked.

  “Cuttle,” said Helena.

  “Cuttle?” I asked. “Never heard of it.”

  “I hadn’t either until a year or two ago. It’s good for two players,” said Helena with a shrug. “I bet you’d have picked poker, wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably,” I muttered. “I know how to play that.”

  They kept playing for another twenty minutes before Abby’s eyes lit up. Her eyes moved over the cards she had set out in front of her. It looked like she was counting.