Blood and Roses

by Douglas Pratt

  “You joined to get away from him?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, he died before I graduated high school. I just didn’t want to be him. Becoming a Marine seemed like the best way. Thought I would be fighting off the bad like him. Like a knight in shining armor.”

  “Did it help?” I asked.

  Leo shook his head. “Not that the Marines didn’t change things. Nothing is more equalizing than being surrounded by death and killing. On my first tour, though I caught a guy from my unit raping a girl from a local village. He thought it was his reward for fighting the Taliban. That was when I realized that there is no such thing as knights in shining armor. We weren’t saving the world. The world just keeps going no matter what we do.”

  “I don’t think that’s always true,” I said. “Maybe we can’t save the world. Maybe the only thing that you and I can do is save one person. Think about the people you have helped. This girl, Naomi, is a good example. Maybe we can never even help her. We could fail miserably, but maybe we can save the next one. Stop these assholes from snatching another kid out of a mall somewhere. The last thing I am is a knight in shining armor. I do believe there is a saying that goes something like, the only thing that allows evil to thrive is for good men to do nothing.”

  “Think we are good men?” he asked.

  “The one thing that neither of us seems to be able to do is nothing.”

  Leo chuckled. “Be nice if the day came when we didn’t have to choose to do something.”

  “Given the course of human history, I doubt that we will ever see that day.”

  “What are we going to do about Mitchell?” he asked. “Something like we did with the clerk at the motel.”

  “You know,” I said, “Angela suggested I use subterfuge on occasion.”

  “Didn’t we just try that with Witt?”

  I shrugged. “That’s not what I call subterfuge, more like a tactical failure. I’m thinking a little deception might be better than being shot at.”

  “I like her, by the way.” He tore a stalk of grass from the crack in the curb.

  “Angela?” I asked.

  “She’s nice and funny, plus she’s crazy hot.”

  I agreed. “She is all that.”

  “You seem to like her too?”

  I felt an involuntary smile form on my face.

  Leo laughed. “Nice to see you find someone finally.”

  “We aren’t that serious.”

  “Yet,” he added giving my shoulder a playful shove. I wasn’t braced for it, and his push sent me farther to my side than I intended.

  We were both laughing when a black Toyota Corolla pulled up followed by a silver Honda. Both cars parked about five feet from us on the curb. The sticker on the front of both indicated they were with the rental car company.

  Leo stood up and said, “I’m serious about her, Max. Pretty sure that she didn’t run off after you killed a guy together. That sounds like love to me.”

  “That was you doing the killing,” I pointed out.

  “Still, she’s keeping the secret. To me, it seems like there is a lot of potential there.”

  “Maybe so,” I said.

  21

  I dropped Leo off at the Preservation. He wanted to work on tracking Witt’s next move. The trail looked pretty cold. The best bet was Witt being stupid enough to use a credit card or get a speeding ticket. Even then, that was harder for civilians like us to track. Leo, though, had friends in all sorts of government positions. He said that he could reach out to a few of them and get a rudimentary search going.

  The little part of me that loves a good heist tale, hoped that Witt was smart enough to get away with the money. That’s the part of me that’s still 15 years old and finds farts funny. It’s a pretty small part, I promise.

  The rest of my day was going to be looking into Craig Mitchell. Jason’s file included an address, but I wasn’t ready to go at him that directly. I was willing to try out Angela’s suggestion, but what I needed was an angle to pry myself into his life.

  Mitchell’s second arrest may have been the beginning of his relationship with Bryant. The arrest report Jason obtained had an address for Madison Forley. Three years ago, she was living off Perkins Road in a neighborhood that has been on a slow decline over the last 20 years as homes were being bought by out-of-town investors and converted to single-family rentals. There were three Madison Forleys in the Memphis area that appeared in a search on Facebook. When Mitchell was arrested, she was 16. I was hoping that she was taking a chance that she was still living in the same house.

  The red-bricked colonial house sat three doors from Quince Road. My rented Corolla glided to a stop in front of the house. The yard was well maintained, with flowers blooming in the beds under the windows. This didn’t appear to be a rental. Tenants don’t take that much time and care in landscaping a home they don’t own, and landlords don’t spend that much money on it for a tenant’s pleasure.

  Pressing the doorbell, I waited as the chimes rang out the Westminster gongs. The wooden door opened, and a woman in her late 40’s stood in the doorway, separated from me by a glass security door.

  “Ms. Forley?” I questioned.

  “Yes, sir.” Her face showed that concerned look that everyone has when receiving a surprise visit from a stranger.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I began, “my name is Max Sawyer. I’m hoping I could talk to you and, maybe, Madison about Craig Mitchell.”

  Her face scowled at the mention of Mitchell’s name. She stared at me with narrowed eyes without saying a word.

  “I think he was involved in the disappearance of a girl,” I explained, “and I’m trying to find her.”

  Her features softened a bit. She asked, “Who is the girl?”

  “Her name is Naomi Clements. She was kidnapped a year ago, and a recent breakthrough may point at Mitchell.”

  She let out a guttural growl. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she snarled.

  “I don’t have any evidence yet, and I’m trying to learn as much about him as I can.”

  “Are you with the police?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. Naomi is the daughter of a friend of mine.”

  She cocked her head and asked, “Are the police investigating him too?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t think so. It’s complicated.”

  She unlocked the glass door and opened it. “I’m sure it is. Why don’t you come in, Mr. Sawyer?”

  “Max,” I said.

  “I’m Shannon.” She extended her hand to take mine. “I’m sorry, Madison isn’t here, and to be honest, I don’t want her to even hear about Mitchell. She has come a long way from that, and I don’t want to see her go back.”

  “I understand,” I assured her. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I just want to try and find this girl.”

  “I guess you must be good friends with her family,” she said.

  “Unfortunately, I’m not really,” I said, dropping my head a bit. “Her dad and I went to school together, but we hadn’t talked in years. He was in town looking for her when he was murdered.”

  “Oh my gosh,” she uttered. “He was murdered? By Mitchell?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t think he killed him. I think it was someone else, but I’m trying to finish what Nathan started by finding his daughter.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Come, sit down,” she beckoned me into her living room. I settled into an overstuffed chair, and she rested on the couch across from me.

  “Can I ask,” she started, “if you aren’t a detective for the police, how do you think you can help?”

  “I have some investigative experience. I was a journalist for a number of years, and now I do some freelance work.”

  It wasn’t really a lie, I told myself.

  I continued to explain, “When I learned about Nathan’s death, I started piecing togeth
er the puzzle.”

  She nodded along. “What makes you think Craig Mitchell is involved?”

  “I have a source that said Mitchell was involved with other parties that seem to be a part of Nathan’s murder. It’s very likely that this girl is now being prostituted somewhere, and the people behind it are very dangerous.”

  “I believe Mitchell is, for sure,” she stated.

  “Can you tell me about him?” I asked, adding, “This is all background for me. I just want to know how to get to him.”

  “He’s horrible,” she said, “he didn’t kidnap Madison, but he met her at the mall. He’s maybe eight years older than her, and he was a smooth talker. Convinced her to keep their relationship secret. Started giving her drugs. When he got her hooked, he started…”

  She paused for a minute, trying to compose herself.

  She began again, “He had her…doing things…for money. So he could ‘afford’ the drugs he gave her.”

  I continued to listen to her intently.

  “We knew something was wrong. She was skipping school, almost got expelled. She would disappear for days. Finally, Andy, my husband, waited one day for her to leave. He followed her when Mitchell picked her up. Once they went back to his place, he called the police.”

  “Ms. Forley, what happened with that? The charges of statutory rape were dropped.”

  She curled her lip, almost baring her teeth. “The detective that made the arrest said that the D.A wouldn’t prosecute without stronger proof that Mitchell had done anything. By then, we had Madison in rehab, and she was admitting everything that happened. The detective said that if we pursued the charges against Mitchell, then it was likely that she would end up in juvenile court. He said that because she had been an accomplice, then the courts could drag her through a trial. We couldn’t afford that.”

  “This detective. Do you remember his name?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. He was black. Think his name was Detective Brant.”

  “Bryant, maybe?” I asked.

  “Yes, that was it,” she said as her eyes lighted up with recognition. “Have you talked to him yet? He seemed like he was really trying to help.”

  “Yes, I’ve met Bryant,” I confirmed. “How is Madison now?”

  “She’s doing well. She is a sophomore at Ole Miss now. She wants to be a lawyer.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s good news.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her pupils tightened. She said, “I hope you find this girl, and I hope Craig Mitchell goes down at the same time.”

  22

  The bartender placed the tumbler with two ounces of brown whiskey in front of me. My nose dove into the glass to inhale the slight aroma of vanilla and, maybe, daffodils. The bar was stocked with only a few single barrel bourbons, and I decided to go with the Four Roses. It’s an enjoyable whiskey, but not top of the line. In my personal, and somewhat dilettante, opinion, the flavor is perfect for drinking neat.

  The Belmont Grill was a Memphis mainstay, located in East Memphis on Poplar Avenue. The inside of the Belmont Grill was illuminated with strings of Christmas lights and a few dim incandescent bulbs. The crowd was still small, but it was only an early Thursday evening. The crowds would be picking up within minutes. During the summer, Thursday night seems to be the start of the weekend.

  Sipping my whiskey, I attempted to maintain an appearance of normality. An average guy from out of town just trying to kill some time.

  Seated two barstools away from me was Craig Mitchell. If I was going to employ the subterfuge that Angela suggested, I needed to be someone else. My job was to connect with Mitchell and try to become his new buddy.

  Leo and I found the address listed as Mitchell’s residence in Jason’s files. Mitchell’s home was a condominium in East Memphis. We had only been parked in the parking lot of his building for about 20 minutes outside his home when he came out. His trail led us here.

  Leo dropped me off so that I could keep an eye on Mitchell. He suggested that I was a more likely candidate for a businessman. I wasn’t sure he meant that as a compliment, though.

  Despite that comment, I agreed. Leo was certainly better equipped to take the other approach. By now Leo should have been able to get inside his condo for a look around.

  Mitchell was the kind of scrawny that looked like he was born that way. He sported a dirty blond beard and a Five-Finger Death Punch shirt that he bought at Hot Topic. He sat on his stool, drinking a cheap domestic beer from a bottle and staring at a baseball game. From my quick glance, the game appeared to be the Braves playing someone, but I’m not much on baseball.

  “Who you pulling for?” I casually asked.

  “Got a few bucks on Atlanta,” he said taking a drink from the bottle.

  “Yeah, who are they playing?”

  “The Orioles,” he said.

  I nodded as if I knew what an Oriole even was. “Looks like you could use another beer,” I pointed at his nearly empty bottle.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled before swallowing the last bit.

  “Can you get him another beer?” I asked the bartender who nodded.

  “Here ya go, Craig,” the bartender said when he cracked the top on another bottle.

  “Thanks, Jay,” Mitchell said to the bartender before looking to me. “Thanks, man.”

  “I’m Lee,” I lied as I extended my hand. “Craig, is it?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, grabbing my hand.

  I’m not sure if it was bias on my part, but his voice and demeanor made me feel dirty.

  “You from around here?” I asked.

  Mitchell nodded. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Just in town for a meeting. Might as well run up the expense account, you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” he said as if he knew exactly what I meant.

  “Where you from?” he asked.

  “Bentonville.”

  “Arkansas?” he asked.

  “Yeah, heading back tomorrow.”

  He didn’t answer, he just offered an affirming motion. The conversation stalled, and he turned his attention back to the game. My phone vibrated on the bar, and my fingers swiped it open.

  The text read, “He has a party pack.”

  A picture of several bags of varying recreational drugs popped up on the screen. There appeared to be quite a collection, including some weed, coke, heroin, and several bottles of pills.

  “Anything else?” I typed.

  A thumbs up appeared. He had something but didn’t want to share over a text message.

  “Standby,” I responded. I didn’t want him to leave yet. We might need to toss the subterfuge out the window and follow a more direct approach.

  The next image I got was a dancing baby that left me wondering what he meant.

  I deleted the last picture and message.

  “Hey, Craig, I got a question, man,” I said after a few more moments of staring at the ball game. “I have to head back tomorrow, but do you know where a guy could pick up some party favors?”

  Mitchell glanced over at me. “Whatcha mean?”

  “Something a little more relaxing than whiskey. Maybe even a good place to find a few girls. I hate to miss an opportunity to prowl around when I’m ‘single’ in a different city.”

  He shrugged at my question.

  “Sorry,” I said, faking a stammer. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just like a little trouble when I can. I just thought you might point me in the right direction. This place seems a little quiet. I was hoping for some ladies to chase after.”

  “It usually gets busy later. Wednesdays are better than today. That’s ladies' night. Think they get half-priced drinks or something.”

  “Damn, a day late and a dollar short,” I said, then I pulled a couple of hundred dollar bills from my pocket. “Well, not a dollar short.”

  Mitchell grinned and bobbed his head.

  “Maybe the bartender can help,” I said. “Any good bartender can point you to the easy
fruit.”

  I held up one of the hundreds as if I was flagging Jay, the bartender, down. Mitchell put his hand on my forearm and pushed it down gently.

  “What do you have in mind?” he asked, curiously.