Accused

by Michael Kerr

  “Too late for that,” Clayton said. “They’re nearly at the diner, and it will still be crawling with cops. I’ll just give them more space and see where they go.”

  The cab stopped on the road outside the diner, and Clayton drove by as the couple got out.

  “What’s plan B?” Dwayne said.

  “We follow the cab, stop it, and ask the driver where they originally told him to take them. And then we go there and wait for them to show up.”

  “If we do that and find out they’d asked to be taken to the diner, then we’ll lose them. We know where they are now, so we should stay close and see what they do.”

  Clayton nodded. Dwayne was right. He didn’t want the couple in the wind.

  A trooper put his hand up, fingers spread, and said, “This is a crime scene, folks. Best get back in the cab and leave.”

  “We were here when it happened,” Ellie Mae said to the young trooper. “We’ve just come from giving statements at your headquarters. I need my cell phone and purse.”

  Trooper Ralph Meakin asked them for their names and kept them standing at the property’s boundary as he made a call. He was eventually put through to Detective Lucy Pleshette, who asked him to put Logan on the line.

  “What are you doing at Dicky’s, Logan?” Lucy said.

  “Staying safe. I’m with the waitress, Ellie. We got a cab to her trailer. Someone had broken in, and from there we were tailed to Dicky’s. We’ll go to the motel I’m staying at from here. But be advised that I’m pissed at you and your less than able partner. Ellie should be in protective custody. It’s not my job to look after a potential witness that somebody wants dead.”

  “We don’t have the resources these days to look after everyone that could be at risk,” Lucy said. “I’ll okay it for Ellie Mae to collect her phone and purse. And I’ll give you my cell phone number. Any problem, call me, and I’ll have troopers there ASAP.”

  “Let’s hope that if I need to call you, I have the chance to.” Logan said. “You have killers out there that know exactly where we are at this moment in time. Their intention is to make certain that Ellie and I can never make it to a witness stand.”

  “Did you actually see the perps in the vehicle that you believe to have been tailing you?”

  “It isn’t a well lit stretch, but as we got out of the cab a black Buick La Crosse sedan went by. That’s what Ellie said the shooters were driving, so what do you think, Detective, do you believe in coincidences?”

  There was no answer for a few seconds, then: “I’ll arrange for a trooper to give you and Ellie Mae a ride to your motel, and for him to stay in the lot till daylight. How does that sound?”

  “Better than nothing. You need to realize that this was all about the owner of the diner. He knows what was going down, and who had arranged it. If he talks, the problem will go away.”

  “Mr. Dicky has told us that he has no idea who they were. He believes it was an attempted holdup.”

  “And you know that he’s lying, because one of the guys had been to see him previously.”

  “We’ll be interviewing him formally when he gets discharged from the hospital tomorrow.”

  “What about ‘Scarface’? Your partner knew who he was when I ID’d his mug shot.”

  “He’ll be lifted.”

  “Not at this time at any address that you’ve got, because he’s near the diner, waiting to see where we go.”

  “Perhaps you’re being a little paranoid, Mr. Logan.”

  “And perhaps you should be. You’re a cop, and a good cop is always mistrustful. Expecting the worst is what can save your ass, or other peoples’. I spent a lot of my time as a detective playing hunches. Sometimes they were way off the mark, but once in a while they were right on the money and paid off.”

  Logan took Lucy’s cell number, memorized it to write down later and then handed the phone back to the trooper. After a few seconds the call was ended and the trooper said to Ellie Mae: “I’m to allow you to take your phone and purse, Ms, and will then drive you both to the motel you’re staying at, after first having a word with my captain. If he clears it with the detective, I’ll be staying outside the motel until morning, at which time I’ll transport you both back to HQ. Tell me where your possessions are and I’ll get them for you.”

  Ellie Mae told him.

  Ten minutes later the trooper drove them to the nearby Pilgrims’ Rest. Logan warned him to expect trouble, but could see that the young officer was not taking the matter seriously enough.

  “What’s your, name?” Logan said.

  “Meakin. Ralph Meakin. Why?”

  “Because I want to know the name of the man that is protecting us but doesn’t properly appreciate that he’s pig in the middle, between us and armed men that are determined to kill us, and will know exactly where we are.”

  “Nobody followed us here,” Ralph said. “Just relax, you’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Expect trouble, Ralph. Don’t be complacent, it can get you killed.”

  “Are we safe here?” Ellie Mae asked Logan when he’d closed and locked the door of room nine.

  “We won’t be safe until the guys that want us dead are behind bars,” Logan said. “And even when and if they are apprehended, then whoever they work for will still want us taken out. With us dead there will be no case to answer.”

  “Terrific,” Ellie Mae said as she took a soft pack of Camels from her purse, to snag one with her teeth, draw it out and fire it up with a Bic lighter. “I mind my business, serve up junk food six days a week in a glorified burger joint, and should have work that’s as low risk as the pay check I get. Instead of finishing my shift and getting driven home by Dicky, I wind up in the middle of a freakin’ murder scene.”

  Logan sighed. “It’s called life,” he said as he walked through to the bathroom to retrieve his wad of bills from the wastebasket and then remove his rucksack from the closet and put the money at the bottom of it underneath his rolled-up clothes and toiletry bag. “You never know when you get up in the morning what the day ahead has in store for you.”

  “You don’t seem particularly worried about the shit that we’re in,” Ellie Mae said.

  “Worrying can give you an ulcer. Best to just deal with a problem if and when it arises, and then put it behind you.”

  “Why are you helping me, Logan?” Ellie Mae said as she looked up into the ruggedly handsome face of the tall man who was for some reason doing what he could to protect her.

  “Because we both witnessed something that has put our lives on the line. We’re in a bind, and if I’d let you go home by yourself you’d be dead now. I guess I’ve got a conscience. It sometimes gets me into situations I’d rather walk away from, but don’t.”

  Outside, sitting in the prowler, Trooper Ralph Meakin had less than forty-five minutes left to live.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CLAYTON tailed the car from a lead position. It wasn’t the easiest or accepted way of keeping another vehicle in sight, but was much safer, especially when the driver of the vehicle behind him was a cop. Keeping well ahead, knowing that the driver behind would be checking his rearview, not what was on the highway in front of him, Clayton smiled as the prowler signaled, slowed down and made a right into the lot of a small motel.

  “Almost too easy,” Dwayne said as Clayton stopped and reversed the Buick into the driveway of a decrepit looking timber built house that had no front door and appeared to have been abandoned for years. “When the cop leaves we can move in and take care of unfinished business.”

  A half hour slid by. The cop did not reappear.

  “He’s babysitting them,” Clayton said.

  Dwayne hiked his shoulders and said: “So he gets to be collateral damage. We need to waste them and put this fuck-up behind us.”

  Clayton knew that Dwayne was right, but didn’t like the idea of being a cop killer. They took exception to one of their own being blown away. Problem was that if they didn’t act now they
may not get another chance to.

  “Okay,” Clayton said. “We walk in from here, take out the cop, and then get the night manager to tell us what room the couple is in.”

  Dwayne drew his gun, took a silencer from a side pocket and screwed it on to the muzzle of the barrel. Clayton did the same, and then they exited the car and walked back to the motel.

  Ralph had parked the Chevy Tahoe across the lot, facing room nine, with a thick row of wax myrtle hedging screening the property from the highway. Ambling across to the office, he carefully placed his Smokey hat on before reaching the door and waving to the old Hispanic guy who had watched him drive up and park.

  “Help you, Officer?” Juan Perez wheezed through the stub of the thick cigar that was gripped between his few and mainly dark brown teeth, as he unlocked and opened the door.

  “You could offer me a cup of coffee,” Ralph said. “I’ll be parked out in the lot till daylight.”

  “Trouble?” Juan said, raising his thick, wiry eyebrows, that were as black as ebony; a stark contrast to his iron-gray hair.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” Ralph said.

  Juan did worry. Cops never told you anything: “Is this something to do with the big guy in number nine?” he said. “I saw him get out of the rear of your car with a woman.”

  “I didn’t see you come out of the office,” Ralph said.

  Juan inclined his head to the corner of the front window next to the door. Outside, bolted to the wall, was a round convex traffic mirror that provided a view of the parking lot and the walkway outside the rooms.

  Ralph gave the man no explanation, just said: “How about that coffee?”

  Juan wanted no trouble with the law. He went back behind the counter of the office and poured a cup of Colombian that had the look and consistency of the tar from the La Brea pits in Hancock Park in Los Angeles.: “I’ve only got powdered milk,” he said.

  “Black will be fine,” Ralph said.

  The initial assault went down fast. As they walked, they planned. Dwayne sneaked up on the cop car. The driver’s window was halfway down, so he just pushed his gun in through the gap to within two inches of the cop’s head and double-tapped him. The shots were like two polite coughs, and the young trooper had less than a split second of awareness that something was amiss before his brains were blown out. There was no time for fear or last thoughts. He was alive and then he was dead; two momentous states of being within the space of a heartbeat.

  Clayton pointed the gun at the Hispanic through the glass panel of the door and used his free hand to beckon him to come and open it.

  Juan had been out from behind the counter, looking left through the window to where the cop car was parked. He thought he saw movement, and then two bright flashes erupted in the darkness. Something was going down. He had been a gang member over thirty years ago, and knew that a gun had been discharged. And now there was some guy pointing a pistol at him, and he was in the open. If he had been minding his own business he would have been sitting behind the counter watching a late movie, or would have gone to bed in the back room, which had in past times been for paying guests but was now where he lived. What not many people knew was that he wasn’t the manager, he owned The Pilgrims’ Rest, lock, stock and barrel.

  With nowhere to hide, Juan walked woodenly over to the door and unlocked it. A smartly dressed guy with a scarred face stepped inside and told him to go back behind the counter and sit down.

  He did.

  “What’s your name?” Clayton said.

  “Juan Perez.”

  “Well, Juan Perez, you have a very tall dude staying here. All I want to know is his name and what room he’s in?”

  “He registered as Mr. Logan, and he’s in number nine,” Juan said.

  Clayton looked up at the key rack on the wall. Saw that there was a spare for nine on a hook. He then shot the sweaty little guy between his eyes.

  Juan jerked backwards. His weight upturned the chair. It clattered to the floor, and Clayton saw the soles of the Latino’s sneakers shake for a second or two as both of his legs stuck up in the air.

  Taking the key, Clayton went back out and wiped the door handle with a tissue. There would be no evidence of his having been here.

  Dwayne met him outside the office on the walkway in front of the rooms. He had a lopsided grin on his face. Killing the cop had been a fun thing to do. He’d got a hard on as the Smokey’s head had exploded. Killing people, and especially a cop, was a real turn on. He’d always enjoyed inflicting pain on others, which was why he was in this line of business. It gave him the outlet he needed, and he got paid well to threaten and sometimes hurt people that didn’t or couldn’t pay what they owed.

  “His name is Logan and he’s in number nine,” Clayton said. “Let’s do this and get back to town. I’ll go in the front door, while you check the back in case there’s a way out.”

  Outside the room, Clayton put the key in the lock, turned it, and shouldered the door, knowing that the security chain would be in place. The door only moved an inch. Something other than a flimsy chain was stopping it from opening.

  Ellie Mae had washed out the coffeemaker, set it going, and then put the TV on with the sound muted and watched talking heads appearing to mime on a local news station. When Dicky’s appeared on screen, she tapped up the volume to hear a young reporter relay the fact that six people had been murdered inside the diner, and that the owner, one Brad Dicky, had sustained a serious gunshot wound. It was earlier footage, not live, and at that time they had no further facts to relay. When the next item came up, Ellie Mae switched off the TV.

  Logan had checked the bed nearest to the door. It was on casters, so he’d pulled it away from the wall-mounted headboard, flipped it over and manhandled it into place in front of the door. It was wide and heavy; a reasonable obstruction to stop someone being able to gain easy access. The bathroom was at the far end of the long rectangular-shaped room, and there was a small window at the rear of it. The window was locked, but a powerful upward blow from the heel of his hand resulted in the lever shooting up as the mechanism broke. After opening it a couple of inches he had felt slightly more in control of the situation. If the shooters came, then it was odds on that one would cover the rear and the other would come in the front shooting.

  Ellie Mae didn’t even hear the sound of the two muffled shots.

  Logan did, but wouldn’t have done if the TV had still been on. He knew that the young state trooper would now be dead, and that the old guy in the office would be next, as soon as he had told them which room they were in.

  “In the bathroom, now,” Logan said to Ellie Mae. “Grab a blanket and lay down in the tub. Don’t move until I tell you that it’s safe to.”

  “They’re here?” Ellie Mae whispered.

  Logan nodded.

  Clayton attempted to kick the door open, but it didn’t move more than an inch. It felt as if there was a dead elephant stretched out behind it.

  “Open the door, Logan,” he said through the gap. “We need to talk to you over what went down at the diner.”

  Logan said nothing. Just switched off the bedside lamp and went back to the bathroom.

  Dwayne walked through long sawgrass up to the darkened window at the rear of the room. He’d had to count his way to it as he kept close to the wall. Moonlight had lit the way, illuminating a lake behind the motel and the silhouettes of large firs that were part of the extensive preserve.

  The window was slightly open. Dwayne aimed his gun at it and used his free hand to carefully open it all the way. It didn’t make a sound. He expected to hear the soft blat of silenced shots any second. Clayton would move in fast and shoot the couple, and then they could resume normal business without the fear of any witnesses remaining alive to identify them.

  Something was wrong. Dwayne heard what sounded like the motel room’s door being kicked, and then Clayton shouted something, but he couldn’t make out what with the bathroom door being closed.
>
  Dwayne was young, fit and agile, and relished the thought of surprising the big guy and the woman and capping them. He levered himself up over the window ledge and was about to twist and lower himself down when a crippling blow to his right wrist made him gasp with pain as he dropped the gun from fingers that now had no control over it.

  Logan stood to the side in the gloom and waited. The window had been opened and someone was now partway through it. He used nothing more substantial than the edge of his hand to deliver a powerful chop with all the force he could muster. He felt some of the eight small carpal bones in the wrist fracture as the handgun clattered on to the tiled floor.

  Dwayne had no time to react. The shock froze him in place. And even as he thought to throw himself backward, out onto the grass below the window, he was dragged forward and tumbled down on to a hard surface, cracking his forehead hard and almost passing out.

  Logan stepped forward and kicked the dazed intruder in the side of the head, twice, but not hard enough to kill him. He then stooped and picked up the silenced gun.

  Opening the bathroom door, Logan said in a firm voice to whoever was out front, “Who are you?”

  “I’m one of the guys that you and the broad saw in the diner,” Clayton said, and then dived sideways as a bullet ripped through the door, missing him by less than an inch.

  “You need to know that your dumbass partner is out cold in the bathroom, Scarface, and that your best course of action now would be to catch a red-eye to somewhere a long way from New Orleans.”

  Clayton got to his feet and emptied his gun through the door in the hope of hitting and killing the guy who’d somehow got the upper hand. He then turned on his heels and ran across the lot, out onto the edge of the highway, not stopping until he got back to the Buick.

  Logan heard the sound of foot fall receding on the gravel and knew that Scarface had fled. For the moment they were safe. He intended to check on the cop and the motel manager, and then talk to the lowlife that was unconscious on the bathroom floor, before he phoned the police and told them what had gone down.