Empty Shell

by Ashley Fontainne

  “Here it is! Sorry, someone filed it under Rosala instead of Gonzales. I printed out her address and phone number, but I doubt you will have any luck.”

  “Why is that?” Craig questioned. He motioned for the manager to lower his voice before the bartender caught wind of their conversation.

  The manager huffed and slid the piece of paper across the tabletop, hissing under his breath, “Ms. Gonzales has not reported to work since the day of the murder. Hasn’t answered her phone either when we called her several times. Quite shocking, actually. She was one of the few employees we had who we could always count on. Never late. Always on time. Only missed work twice in the last three years to take her kid to the doctor. We need more like her. Lots have left after Serena’s murder. Guess they figure if the boss’s daughter isn’t safe here, no one is.”

  He kept his words short, clipped and emotion-free. “Anyone gone to check on her?”

  “No. We’ve been too busy to run around chasing employees who don’t show up. Between you cops, the media, trying to hire new employees and fixing the security cameras in various areas, things have been insane.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Jones bristled. “I don’t think you do. You have no idea the kind of heat that came down from our former manager, Andrew, when Mr. Rowland found out half our security system was dead. He spent a fortune on the system and because of lack of care, it ended up near worthless.”

  “Former? When did that happen?”

  “Mr. Rowland fired Andrew less than twenty-four hours after you guys left the hotel. When he got wind that the security cameras out front and in the parking lot weren’t functioning, he blew a gasket. Andrew’s just lucky Mr. Rowland didn’t beat him to a pulp. Sure looked like he was going to. I’ve never seen him so angry.”

  “It’s understandable why he was so upset. After all, his only child had been murdered under his roof, so to speak. And this hotel is the most expensive around and likes to promote itself as exclusive and very safe. What a way to find out it actually isn’t.”

  “No kidding. It’s been awful for all of us, but I can’t begin to imagine how hard it’s been for the Rowlands.”

  Craig decided he’d been polite and patient long enough. He pushed his empty glass aside and stood to leave, reaching his hand out to shake the man’s hand, stopping short when Mr. Jones asked, “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t check up on Ms. Gonzales yourself, or someone from your department? I mean, it’s been over a week since I called.”

  “Called?” Craig felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He hoped his pupils didn’t reflect his surprise. He eased back into the booth.

  “I called last Sunday and left a message about Ms. Gonzales. You asked me to follow up with all employees who were here that day that hadn’t been interviewed yet, remember? She was the last straggler. Since we hadn’t heard from her, I left her information with your boss, Captain, oh I forget his last name.”

  “Captain Hogue?”

  Mr. Jones scrunched his face in confusion. “Yes. I gave him the contact information already. Didn’t he pass it along?”

  He held his tongue and didn’t respond. He waited to let Mr. Jones form his own conclusions.

  “Why are you here asking for information you already have? How is secondhand news about a housekeeper a life or death situation? What’s really going on here, Detective?”

  “Listen. This investigation is over. The killer met cosmic justice already. It’s not the murder of Philip Rowland’s daughter I’m here about.”

  “Then why are you here? I don’t understand.”

  “I am not really at liberty to divulge that information, Mr. Jones. Let’s just say that I am working the angle not at the instructions of the Little Rock Police Department. Bigger dogs with larger bites and territories are interested in a case of, hmmm, shall we say, the origins and ties of certain workers of Hispanic descent.”

  “Is The Duchess under federal investigation? Ms. Gonzales—was she not legal? Oh shit, Mr. Rowland will flip out,” Mr. Jones whispered, his eyes the size of quarters and his face the color of blanched rice.

  “I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding. That’s why I need to talk to Ms. Gonzales. Believe me, I understand the stress and strain Mr. Rowland has been through the last two weeks. I plan on doing everything in my power to make this investigation go away without a peep. It’s just fortunate that the, um, big dogs came sniffing over to my side of the fence before barking at Mr. Rowland’s door. It gave me the chance to clear the doubt without Mr. Rowland ever being bothered about it. Understand what I’m saying?”

  Mr. Jones nodded in agreement, the look of concern creased on his forehead. “Ya, you bet I do. Okay, not a word. You were never here.”

  He smiled and stood up to leave. “Right. I knew I could count on you. The rest of the staff—not so much.”

  “That you can for sure. What’s that old expression? Mom’s the word?”

  “Mum’s the word. And if him, or anyone else asks,” Craig said as he cut his eyes over toward the bartender, “I was here about a job as the new head of security. Right?”

  “You got it. Anything for Mr. Rowland.”

  “He’s lucky to have such a devoted employee. Have a good day, Mr. Jones.”

  Craig slipped out the side door, climbed into his Jeep and cranked the air to full blast. The cold air sprayed across his sweaty brow, cooling his damp skin. He hoped that Mr. Jones bought his bogus story and would keep quiet, at least long enough for him to dig further into this nightmare case.

  He wished it would calm his thoughts, but he knew it wouldn’t. His stomach juices were on full burn. The knowledge that Melody had been right and that her husband was innocent tore at his insides. He’d come face to face with his mistakes last night when Lee shared the news. He felt just as responsible for making her a widow as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.

  His gut instincts were working overtime with all the new information spinning through his mind. He forced his thoughts to the task at hand. He’d only had this feeling of dread dance a jig in his innards twice before. Both times occurred in the dry, parched deserts of Afghanistan and both times had been dead on. He chuckled in the quiet confines of his Jeep, realizing the irony that each time a sense of dread overtook him, Lee had been involved. The first two instances, he’d saved Lee’s life. On this occasion, he wondered if the opposite would be true, because he knew himself well enough to realize that his gargantuan mistake would drive him over sanity’s edge if he couldn’t, somehow, make it right.

  He punched in the address of Ms. Gonzales’ home and waited for his GPS to pick the best route, hoping he wasn’t too late.

  While he followed the android voice giving him directions through his speakers, the knot in his gut grew bigger. If his captain had been given the information and didn’t pass it along, that spelled more trouble for him. He’d never been fond of his captain and felt that he was a whipped puppet for those who held the real power. He’d seen it before during his years on the force. Cases that were solid, evidence tight and strong, vanished under piles of red tape, or charges were dropped to insignificant misdemeanors when the guilty should have had the proverbial “book” thrown at them. Backroom deals and courtroom trickery happened every day.

  Craig knew it was like that in every police department around the country. Money bought things, including not guilty verdicts or leniency for those who could afford it and paid off the right people. He’d seen it too many times. It made him furious. All the hard work cops on the front lines put in by risking their lives to perform their duties, only to see their investigation flushed down the crapper when some slick tongued legal-eagle swooped in. Keeping the scum off the streets was a never ending battle, and one that the good guys seemed to lose more than win.

  Craig thought about last night as he drove. After his meeting with Lee, he’d stayed up all night reading through his notes again. His bloodshot eyes an
d overtaxed brain sought out the pieces he missed the first time. He honed in on the interview with Jack Dickinson’s best friend Kendal. He re-read the brief notation he’d made about a childhood enemy named Guy Powell.

  He recalled cringing inside when he read the short entry he’d made about Guy and the fact that he hadn’t followed up on the lead. During the interview, when Kendal mentioned he and Jack had a run in several months ago with Guy in Sheridan, he’d questioned him about any other threats or trouble over the last few years from Guy.

  After Kendal told him no, he dismissed the idea that a bully from countless years ago would pop up and start stalking Jack out of the blue, much less orchestrate a murder and frame Jack. When Kendal mentioned Guy’s criminal history of drug running and abuse, he’d completely tossed out the idea of Guy being involved. Drug runners and dealers didn’t work that way. If they wanted someone out of the picture, they killed them. A drive-by shooting, a staged break-in and robbery that ended with the victim’s brains splattered all over the floor and walls. Bing, bang, boom. Over. Done.

  Those types of criminals killed for two reasons: to rid themselves of an enemy and to send a message to other enemies not to cross them. They didn’t go to elaborate extremes of digging through someone’s personal life, discovering the dirty deeds they may or may not be involved in, buying clothes that resembled ones the victim wore, then following them to a hotel to kill a lover and pin the murder on their target. Nope. Not only did most common street thugs not have the time to plan something like that, but most of them had ruined so many of their brain cells by some means that plotting something out to that detail would require more brain matter than what was available to them. Besides, it made a bigger statement to the other thugs when the life of someone ended with a bullet to the head and blood in every direction.

  He concluded that it would take someone with intimate knowledge of Jack, his lifestyle and the fact that Jack was doing the booty-bongo with Serena to pull off what Kendal had suggested.

  However, after going over his interview notes like a hawk, he decided he needed to exhaust every possible suspect, since the guy he arrested sure didn’t seem to be the right one. It took was less than a half hour of points and clicks on the Internet to discover that Guy Powell wasn’t the killer, either. Though they did have almost identical body structure, Guy had been a guest at Pulaski County Detention Center, awaiting someone to bail him out when Serena was strangled.

  He’d felt dejected and elated at the same time, for Guy could be scratched off the list as being Serena’s killer, but couldn’t from Jack’s. He wondered if Guy’s presence in the same jail as Jack tied in somehow with the fact that Serena’s ex-boyfriend, Bill Witham, worked there as well. Was it possible that Guy and Bill were working in cahoots together? Did Bill Witham, the jealous ex, kill Serena when he discovered she was seeing someone else and pin it on Jack?

  He shook his head at that thought. He’d looked up Bill Witham online and found several articles from years ago when he was a basketball star, listed at six foot five, which was two full inches taller than Jack. The person who exited the elevator the second time was close to an inch shorter than Jack. Was it possible that Bill hired someone to kill Serena and frame Jack? God knows Bill was surrounded on a daily basis with the dredges of society and could have easily found a willing assassin. Craig wondered if Bill had somehow found out about Serena’s pregnancy and snapped, realizing that any hope of resurrecting a relationship with her was over.

  It was possible. He’d worked other cases over the years with lesser reasons for people committing murder. Sometimes a motive wasn’t even necessary. But there was the odd twist with Guy Powell. If what Kendal had related to him about Guy’s hatred toward Jack were true, it was within the realm of possibilities that Guy was connected, at least on the outer fringes. Had Guy stalked Jack and found out about his affair with Serena? Could he somehow have managed to find out about Bill Witham’s ties to Serena, and maybe the two of them concocted a scheme to kill Jack once he became an inmate at the jail? Or was it just some weird, cosmic accident that brought Bill and Guy together and culminated with the deaths of Serena and Jack?

  The annoying voice of the GPS pulled Craig’s attention back to the present. “You have arrived at your destination.”

  Rather than stopping, he continued to drive past the small, dilapidated house on the left. He noticed no cars were in driveway and the curtains were pulled shut behind the black bars over the windows. He felt a bit of anger rise up. All the places on the street were shanties—an embarrassment to the city. If it were up to him, he’d raze the entire area and build a park, anything to rid the area of the drugs and violence that infested it.

  He wasn’t quite ready to stop. The area of town he was in was rough. The year wasn’t even half over yet and ten murders, mostly drug related, had already occurred in the three block radius of Ms. Gonzales’ house. Had he been in his unit, he wouldn’t have batted an eye because he knew the hood rats would scurry off to hide from the police. Since he was driving his Jeep, he figured he would be accosted by the local thugs who trolled the streets, thinking he was trouble. He knew from years of experience that those who called the squalid area home remembered every vehicle that came through, for their survival depended upon it.

  On his second circle of the block, he eased his Jeep to the curb in front of the short driveway. He slid his Glock in the side holster mounted on the driver’s door. He knew it was a risky move, but if he showed up unannounced with his gun on his hip, he stood no chance of anyone opening the door to him. He scanned the area and made sure no one was around, then stepped out into the heat. He locked his Jeep and strode up to the door, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. The weird sensation of being watched pricked at his sticky skin and grinned a bit, enjoying the thrill of the game. He’d been addicted to the adrenaline surge ever since he was old enough to grasp the concept of the sensation, which is why he’d joined the military and then become a cop.

  If anyone was inside the house, they had no intention of answering the door. He called Ms. Gonzales’ cell phone with the hopes that it would ring inside. When it didn’t, he debated for only a split second and opted not to leave his card. He didn’t want to scare her off when she did arrive home, nor give his boss any hint of what he was doing.

  Right now, he was working for himself.

  Irritated, he walked back to his vehicle, clicking the key fob to start his Jeep when he was a mere ten steps away. The hackles rose on the back of his neck, his senses aware that he was not only being watched, but stalked. Two hooded figures flanked him on the left and two on the right, all moving in fast. He knew that if he bolted to his Jeep, the predators would jump to action and give chase. He surmised he could outrun the ones on his right, but the ones on his left were closer. Instead of running, he lengthened his strides. When his feet hit the black pavement, he hit the alarm button on the fob. He knew the shrill sound wouldn’t stop the men from following him, but it did surprise them enough to slow their gait down. It was just enough time for him to reach the driver’s door and yank it open.

  In one swift movement, he was on even ground. He pulled his gun and braced his back against the door frame. The incoming gang froze in their tracks. “Not here to cause any trouble, gentlemen. Just wanted to talk to Ms. Gonzales is all. She hasn’t shown up for work in over two weeks and her boss is worried.”

  “Ain’t nobody care about us. Whatcha comin’ up in here for, lyin’ like that for? Cops don’t go checkin’ on people, makin’ sure they’s a’ight. Ya’ll only come here to pick up bodies,” the closest man argued.

  “Any other day, I would agree with you. Today, that isn’t the case. The folks over at The Duchess are concerned about Ms. Gonzales. Said she’s one of their best employees and since I’m still working a homicide case that happened there not too long ago, they asked me to stop by to check on her.”

  “Yo, I know you. You worked on Jamal’s murder case, right?
”

  Craig cut his seasoned eyes over to the voice on his right, giving the kid a quick once-over. To his relief, he recognized him as well. Jalel’s older brother, Jamal, had been gunned down last year less than a block from here. Jamal had been seventeen and Jalel around thirteen. Smart kid with inquisitive eyes, ones that had yet to be tainted and turn dark from the drugs his older brother had been dealing. The boy holding a gun at him now had the same features, but the look of innocence was long gone.

  “Yes Jalel. It’s me, Detective Knowles.”

  “I told you he was a cop!” the one closest to Craig crowed.

  “He’s lyin’. He’s just here to harass us! I say let’s send him home in a body bag. Send a message that we aren’t to be messed with. Don’t come snoopin’ ’round our hood. We take care of our own.”

  “Shut up! I got this. Y’all leave us be. It’s cool. It’s cool. Me and the Detective are just gonna chat a bit, then he’ll be on his way, won’t you?” Jalel barked.

  “Sure thing, Jalel. Just as soon as I confirm that Ms. Gonzales is okay.”

  Jalel motioned for the others to leave with a curt nod of his head. They followed his instructions, muttering as they walked away, their posture and attitude leaving a trail of anger lingering in the air. It was obvious to him that Jalel had taken his brother’s place in the neighborhood. The kid wasn’t even old enough to vote or drive, yet he commanded respect from the others, who were at least five years older than Jalel. He wondered how long it would be before he was working Jalel’s homicide, after one of Jamal’s underlings went rogue and killed him over a drug deal gone bad.

  When the three other bangers disappeared around the corner, Craig eased himself into the leather front seat and pulled in a heavy gulp of cold air from the vents. He motioned for Jalel to join him on the passenger side. With the grace of a jungle cat, Jalel moved around the vehicle and was in the seat next to him. “Nice ride. Why’d you come here in this?”