by Matt Rogers
Chapter 5
Smith and Wesson were doing what they could with the information they’d obtained and were driving to the only place Johnny Johnson was known to have resided before he lived at the LeTorque Manor. The going was slow for they were on the streets of Dallas.
“Is this guy for real?” Smith asked.
“He does seem to breaking some kind of law” Wesson replied.
The man in front of them was driving a pickup. It was thirty years past its prime and was being employed as a dump-truck. It had on its bed a stack of forty pallets, one on top of the other which were tied down with twine.
“How does that not fall over?”
“It does seem to defy gravity.”
The man was making a run for it, going for the quick buck. The dump charged per usage so one load was more profitable than two. The only problem was local traffic violations. People wanted two outcomes which were at odds with the other; trash removal done cheaply and safely. Neither was possible if the other was enforced. The man in front of them had opted for the cheaper version and safety was tossed for profit.
“I think you should get in front of him” Wesson advised.
“I think you’re right.”
Smith was the driver not because he was better than Wesson but because Wesson was such a better passenger. Every time Wesson drove Smith screamed obscenities and stared at his feet in fear. He couldn’t control his fear of not being in control. He was even worse on airplanes. If it weren’t for the fact he worked for one of the top detective firms in the nation he could very well have landed on the governments ‘Do Not Fly’ list. The only way he was able to do so was through the use of medication.
The tricky part about navigating some of Dallas’ streets was their narrowness. They were on a back-road because they wished to avoid the freeway system. Dallas was nothing if not a freeway breeding ground. They ran through, around, past and even under parts of the city. They were wide, paved and incredibly congested. The strange truth about back-roads was it took the same amount of time to travel from point A to B on them as it did the freeways. The difference was one of movement. The freeways moved but at a snail’s pace. The back-roads moved and then stopped. Lights were everywhere and timed in just such a way to make them impossible to beat.
“Can you see around him?”
“Nope.”
Smith took a chance and veered his sedan a little to the left to see if oncoming traffic would be a problem.
“Yaaagh!”
It was. The semi which missed them did so only by an inch. When his heart finally slowed enough Smith again chanced a peek.
“It’s clear! Go, go, go!” Wesson screamed.
Smith jumped on the accelerator and the eight cylinder engine responded. They were directly alongside the illegal waste management vehicle when another aspect of back-roads life lifted its head; squirrels. Squirrels were everywhere. They resided in virtually every tree the city could produce. They gathered nuts, played with their furry friends and seemed to have an unquenchable desire to play chicken with any car they came across.
“Look out!”
The little sucker had to see them, Smith thought, for they were barreling down a road alongside a rickety old pickup truck stacked to the sky with wooden pallets. How could it possibly have missed them? Was it the most near-sighted critter in the entire universe? Another weird thing was the obvious disregard for what he knew squirrels did; they scampered up trees at the sight of anything. There were trees everywhere but the little rodent didn’t do what Smith knew he was designed for. Instead of running up a tree located on the safe side of the road the little miscreant darted in front of him which caused him to veer further left to avoid squishing the suicidal overgrown rat which caused his left-side tires to run off the pavement and onto the dirt shoulder of the road.
“Yaaagh!”
They fishtailed for a second, Smith regained control, stomped again on the accelerator and sped ahead. He didn’t need to. As he was fleeing the scene he glanced in his rearview mirror and viewed with morbid fascination the pickup truck screeching to a halt sending wooden pallets flying through the air causing a back-road to be shut down due to waste-less greed and squirrel insanity.
“My God that was close!” Wesson screamed.
Smith could only nod his head because his heart was pumping too fast for his vocal chords to answer. The rest of the ride was without incident and they arrived at the apartment complex. They’d only come across the address because Johnny Johnson had, for some reason, slipped up. It was obvious to the two detectives Mr. Johnson had no wish to be found and had gone out of his way to hide his presence. He had a driver’s license but the address listed was in Austin. They would definitely check the place if they came up empty but other than the one mention there was nothing else. It was as if the guy didn’t really exist. They’d entered his license and received a social security number but when they entered it into the system nothing came up. The only thing which led them to the apartment complex they were visiting was a sticker. The complex had, as most did, a problem with parking for they had too many residents with vehicles than the allotted spaces available. Johnny needed a sticker which was issued to his vehicle using his license plate as the corroborating number. When they ran his motor-vehicle history the address popped up. It wasn’t listed as his home only as a possible location for his car. Unfortunately, it was all they had to go on. Miss Vivian LeTorque had proven utterly worthless in her help. It was as though she really didn’t want the man to be found. In fact, the only person who seemed interested in his whereabouts was the strangely well-connected butler, Nat.
“This is probably going to be a wild goose chase” Smith muttered.
“Probably” Wesson agreed.
The odds of the address being Mr. Johnson’s were rather small. The more obvious reason for the address coming up under his driving record was he’d sold the car and no one managed to change the title over. The vehicle was pushing twenty-five years and was probably in a junkyard somewhere after the purchaser bought it, parked it and sold it for scrap.
“Hello, welcome to the Shoreline.”
The greeter was good-looking. She was the face of the franchise and both Smith and Wesson were sold on its possibilities.
“Hello, I’m Agent Smith and this is Agent Wesson. We’re with Sunshine Insurance and we’d like a little help if you wouldn’t mind.”
Her smile faded as the prospect of new tenants dimmed.
“What kind of help?” she asked warily.
The question was expected. Over the years both detectives had observed the power of protective authority. They saw a trait in people who were otherwise strangers to be secretive with information which they felt was privileged. In the case of apartment managers they became very reluctant to provide even the smallest details on their tenants. Some even declared it a violation of the Constitution to divulge their rental information. The way around the problem was simple.
“Look, we’re not here to bust anyone. In fact, we’re here to verify a claim and help our client out.”
Good fortune was the solution.
“Verify a claim?”
“Yes.”
“What claim?”
It didn’t matter the manner in which it arrived only the benefits it brought along.
“Well, it’s a little tricky for me to say because we’re in the process of going to court. You see, we believe our client is being blackmailed. Another party has stated they were hit by our client and received grave bodily harm. We believe they are lying. We believe our client was nowhere near where they say the accident took place and it would further our case in court if we could verify the vehicle in question was registered to this address.”
“A hit and run?”
“Yes, the claim is a hit and run but we believe it’s a false claim.”
“And you need verification the vehicle was here?”
Simplicity was always preferred to complexity. Ask for the insigni
ficant to obtain the prize.
“No, we merely need verification it was issued a parking sticker here. You see, the event is reported to have occurred in Detroit. Now, I’m not saying everyone from Detroit is a little… uh…”
“Untrustworthy?” she interjected.
“Yes, untrustworthy. We believe the person bringing the suit is making it up and if we could verify our client’s vehicle was indeed issued a parking sticker to this location it would go a long way in furthering our efforts to prove his innocence” Smith replied.
Wesson, for his part, was walking around getting a feel for the place. The office was quite nice with fresh flowers, clean carpets and colorful paintings on the wall. He generally let Smith do the talking with the prettier half due to one reason; Smith was attractive and he wasn’t. Smith was over six feet and could’ve played the role of Superman. He had black hair, a chiseled chin and an air about him which caused women to fawn. Wesson didn’t. Wesson had the look of a portly Irishman with thinning hair, ill-tailored suit and grumpy personality. He didn’t mind, though, for his appearance helped when it came to men. Men distrusted Smith immediately because he was too tall and good-looking. They trusted Wesson for the opposite reason since he was absolutely no threat to them. As Smith was preparing the office manager Wesson saw to his delight the object of their visit; the computer.
“What’s his name?” he heard her ask Smith.
“Jonathan Johnson, but he goes by Johnny.”
Wesson watched as she entered his name.
“Um, okay, we’ve got a lot of Johnsons in here. Let’s see… oh, here’s one, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, he’s listed as a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“Yes, sometimes our tenants have out of town visitors stay with them for a while. When it happens we recommend they pay for a visitor’s parking sticker so they can use the above ground garage. It really is difficult to find a spot on the street. Anyway, it seems your client was only a visitor to this complex.”
“May we have a copy of that report?” Smith asked and Wesson readied himself for his part.
“Well, I’m not sure I’m allowed…”
“Ma’am?” Wesson interjected.
“Yes?”
Good fortune can come along at any minute and change perspective. Apartment managers all had one thing in common which was they were undercompensated for the work performed. It was a common practice employed by landlords because the only qualifications for the job were a pretty face and the ability to deal with unruly tenants. Good-looking women were the answer. Few people insulted them for who knew what beast they might be dating? Furthermore, everyone wanted to be in the good graces of those with genetic looks for they were the ones who had all the fun. Thus, landlords hired pretty women to run their franchises but did not pay according to value. There were enough beauties to go around so the price of employment was low. It took fifty dollars to get the printout they required.
“Which apartment?”
“Three-zero-five.”
They made their way through the complex until they found the right place.
“Why is it always the third floor?” Wesson asked.
“It’s not. You only remember the third-floor ones because you’re fit as a pot-bellied pig.”
Wesson didn’t really care for Smith’s assessment of his physical form but kept it under his breath as he huffed and puffed his way up the flights to the landing thirty feet above. They knocked on the door and were not surprised when no one answered.
“How long ago did he live here?” Smith asked.
“The sticker was issued three years ago” Wesson answered.
The computer was the godsend for detectives because it stored information for an eternity if not purged. Apartments were no different than other businesses. They relied on customers and therefore kept track of who was purchasing their services. There was no reason to destroy records of previous tenants because the problem of storage had been solved.
“Who was the actual tenant?”
“A Jason Johnson.”
“You think maybe they made a mistake with the sticker?”
“Why would he buy a visitor’s sticker?”
They looked around in an attempt to see if there was another way inside but quickly determined there was not. They were prepared to come back later and see if Jason Johnson might be a relative or a friend who knew Johnny and were about to leave when a neighbor’s door opened and a little lady emerged.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” she inquired.
She looked about fifty with thick glasses and a dress best worn in private. It was essentially a curtain with holes cut for limbs.
“Yes, Ma’am. We’re with Mutual Magazine and we’re attempting to locate a Mister Johnson” Smith said.
“Mutual Magazine?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“What’s a Mutual Magazine?”
He held her interest so probed further.
“Oh. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us. Hmm, I guess we are pretty new down here in these parts. Well, anyway, we’re a consortium of online magazine companies and we’re here to present Mr. Johnson a check for fifty-thousand dollars as our first ever winner in the Mutual Magazine Monopoly Money Mega-sweepstakes.”
Her eyes widened even further behind her soda-pop glasses and Wesson swore he could see her retinas enlarge.
“A sweepstakes?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And he won?”
“Yes again, Ma’am.”
“Which one?”
The question was awkward and Smith wasn’t sure if he was dealing with a person lacking short-term memory or not. He was about to go, once again, into his pre-planned spiel of instantly acquired unearned wealth when she clarified her statement.
“I mean which Mister Johnson?”
“Oh, we actually only have the gentleman’s first initial. It was sort of an oversight on our part but, well, hind-sight’s perfect clarity so we were hoping the problem wouldn’t come up. Are you saying there are two Mister Johnsons living here?” Smith asked.
Wesson was hoping for an affirmative answer. Sometimes cases solved themselves so easily he was embarrassed to take the client’s money. He took it, of course, he was just a little red in the face while doing it.
“No” she answered.
“Oh, so there is only one?”
“No” she replied again.
Once again Smith was worried he might be dealing with a person lacking a full deck.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand” he replied.
“There’s no Mister Johnson living here anymore. There were two for a time, well, one for most of the time but they overlapped a bit and the second left about a year after the first.”
“Huh?”
Even Wesson was becoming concerned over the little lady’s mental acuity.
“The first Mister Johnson went to prison and the second one is probably on his way.”
His face must have registered confusion for she went further.
“The first Mister Johnson did something and the police came for him. The second Mister Johnson took over the place shortly after. I think there might be something wrong with the apartment because soon after the second one moved in he left. I was here when the manager came by to check because his rent was past due and do you know what they found in his place?”
“What?” Smith asked.
“A dead body. They found a dead body in the bedroom closet.”
Wesson became fully concerned. Vivian LeTorque told them specifically Johnny Johnson was not wanted by the authorities. Now the neighbor, the cute little bespectacled witness was indicating he was most definitely wanted by the authorities. Maybe they didn’t suspect him of murder but they’d surely want to get his statement about a body found in his closet.
“And you think Mister Johnson had something to do with it?” Smith asked.
“Well, now, I’m not on
e for spreading rumors…” she started to Wesson’s delight for he knew the first rule of gossips was to deny gossiping.
“… but what I heard was the man’s arms and legs were taped and someone broke his neck.”
Smith was outwardly relieved but inwardly anxious. What if this Mister Johnson was guilty of something? What about the unlimited funds? What if the nice raise he’d already subconsciously given himself was instead an illusion brought on by a moral clause the company held about withdrawing if the client was doing something illegal?
“Okay, um, do you know which Mister Johnson was here when this happened?”
“Obviously not the one in prison.”
Smith grimaced inwardly but kept a calm face as he proceeded.
“Yes, obviously not the one in prison. Do you happen to know the first name of the Mister Johnson who was living here when all this occurred?”
“I think it started with a J” she replied and Wesson saw Smith’s tolerance reach its limit.
“Mrs…?” he interrupted.
“Newton, my name is Miss Newton” she answered with a smile.
“Miss Newton, my name is Wesson and I’d like to try something if you don’t mind.”
Smith could see it but he couldn’t believe it. The woman was actually smitten with his partner. In all the years he’d known Wesson he’d never come across a woman who could overlook his shortcomings. Smith could, he was his best friend, after all, and he secretly rooted for the day Wesson would find a life-partner. Now, he didn’t particularly want it to be a partially blind woman in hideous attire who swept him off his feet but if it was okay with Wesson it was okay with him.
“I’m going to say a few names and if one pops up I want you to say so, okay?”
“Okay” she replied smiling wide and revealing a partial set of teeth the delightful color of mustard.
Smith was fascinated his partner could so easily avoid staring at the nicotine-stained dental stubs in the woman’s mouth.
“Okay, let’s begin. Was it Jerry? Was it Joseph? Was it…?”
Smith listened as his partner rattled off every name he could think of which began with a ‘J’ but was not one of the two they were looking for.
“Was it Jacob? Was it Jamal? Was it…?”
She responded negatively to them all and when Wesson began using Spanish names Smith jumped in.
“Was it Johnny?”
“Yes!” she responded like the winner on a game show.
“His name was Johnny?”
“Yes. I always thought it odd for a person to have the same two names and that’s why I couldn’t forget. He had the same two names.”
Smith decided to ignore the point of her not remembering the man’s name until it was spoken because he had proof the man they were looking for was going to be a lot easier to locate. If indeed, Johnny Johnson was occupying a residence where a body was found the police would definitely have some information about him. It may not be information he wanted to hear but it would certainly be information he could use.
“Well, I guess there’s nothing we can do about it. Too bad. Oh well, win some, lose some I always say. Thank you very much for your help Miss Newton…” Smith began by way of extrication but paused when he realized the little lady hadn’t heard a word he said. She was staring with unadorned adulation at Wesson who was, for his part, soaking up the love-struck gaze like a teenage swimsuit queen in a tanning booth.
“Wesson?”
“Yes, Smith?”
“Time to go.”