Spit out between clenched teeth, Ben’s “TOUCH... ME... AND... I’LL... KILL... YOU!” gave his just-hired investigator a clue that he shouldn’t even try.
Very ignominious for the respected county sheriff to be transported in an ambulance, chair and all, to the emergency room. And downright embarrassing, even humiliating, for a sixty-year-old man who’d never been sick a day in his life to have a young female doctor, after X-rays and the conclusion that his body hadn’t really snapped in two, bare his ancient buttocks to the world and give him a shot, a prescription for a painkiller, and the advice to go home and sit in a Jacuzzi, as though Jacuzzis were standard in the homes of underpaid county sheriffs.
He threw the bag into the front seat of his Bronco, sparking a stab of pain in his lower back that radiated down his legs as he drove.
He’d torn up the prescription because he never took pills and stopped at the drugstore for a sacroiliac belt. Strapping it on after a soaking—in his perfectly ordinary bathtub—he felt like an aging male film star concealing a potbelly, but the belt got him through the rest of the day and to his bed, where he gratefully stretched out until Leo’s midnight call about Curtis. Damned Rondayvoo again.
Socks in hand, he’d stared at his bare feet, wondering if he could get them on without destroying himself. He’d have hated being dressed like an infant, but Emily could have slipped them on if she hadn’t been at that seminar on her new hobby—the occult. All around us every day, Ben, she said. Sure. Maybe he could conjure up a ghost nanny.
Better be sure to wear the belt, he told himself. Five minutes later, his mind on Leo’s call, he’d walked out without it. Welcome to the World of Disintegrating Memory Cells. Next step, drooling in your sleep.
The only visible life on the dark streets of the county seat, he pulled into his parking slot before the sheriffs office a block from the courthouse, gingerly descended, and dragged the bag of clothing up the steps and into the office, where he released it in front of Leo Hansen’s desk as he shuffled toward his corner office.
Leo, six two with flowing blond hair and mustache, could have been a stand-in for one of his ancestors who once stormed the beaches of Ireland to rape, rob, and pillage. He eyed the dark green bag.
“Thanks, Ben. What I always wanted. My very own bag of trash.”
“When you make jokes, always be sure you have your next job lined up. What you have there is the man’s clothes. If he lives, send them down to him. If he doesn’t, take them to the state police lab.”
Hands braced on his desktop, he carefully lowered himself into his chair. The hot coal burned. He should have worn the belt. He should have had the prescription filled. He should have personally blown up the Rondayvoo a long time ago.
He leaned back. “Tell me what you’ve been doing to justify my hiring you, other than dream up hilarious one-liners for your Comedy Channel debut.”
“Nothing new. He’d left the bar and was at his car when he was bashed. Found a footprint of a dress shoe in the mud where the gravel had been worn away. Looks to me like a thin-soled Italian style. Rondayvoo patrons are sneaker, work shoe, and boot types. I’ll make a cast in the morning when I can see what I’m doing. Found a man named Walters who noticed three others arguing in the parking lot. No description. No lights except the neon sign, and half of that is out. He considered calling us, but fights and arguments in the parking lot are routine out there. Freddie should be able to give us names—”
“Did the others bring you up to date on him?”
“Not a candidate for church elder, is he?”
“Even the Baptists won’t go near Freddie the Foot, and they believe anyone can be saved. He’s big and he’s mean and he’s a one-man information center for the criminally inclined in three states. If you want to buy, sell, or negotiate anything illegal, see Freddie at the Rondayvoo, which is spelled phonetically so his semiliterate clientele know they have the right place. I can’t close him down because I’ve never been able to prove anything, and he draws enough honest folk willing to risk ptomaine or salmonella for food, beer, dancing, and a little romance. He’ll tell the truth only when it doesn’t matter to him.”
Leo grinned. “I guess that’s why he said two cretins—his word—named Morrisey had had a few words with Curtis earlier. Curtis was drinking beer and minding his own business when the brothers started to give him a hard time, maybe because he wasn’t local. Freddie told them to knock it off or go drink elsewhere. That was the end of it. Maybe. They could have waited outside. Could explain the three men Walters saw.”
The Morrisey brothers. Big and muscular and hardworking enough to wrench a living from the small farm they’d inherited, but with the equivalent of one good brain between them. Shortchanged mentally, they’d been compensated with incredible strength and quickness. Harmless, though, unless some fool thought it great sport to insult or ridicule them.
“Possible, but bashing someone with a blunt object isn’t the Morrisey style. Their fists are enough. About the blunt object. The depression in Curtis’s skull is wide and round, so look for something like a fist-sized rock.”
Ben pulled out the wallet. “Right now you’re my witness while I count this money.”
There were eight twenties, three tens, four fives, six ones—and one thousand dollar bill, crisp and new.
Leo pointed at the thousand dollar bill. “Bit suspicious, don’t you think? You couldn’t find another of those within a hundred miles. Wouldn’t have found this one if whoever hit him had known he had it, but maybe they had no chance to look.”
Irritation joined Ben’s nagging pain. Suspicious was right. Why in the hell would a man have a thousand dollar bill in this day of credit cards? It created a whole new set of questions he could have done without. Unless he put it down as possible casino winnings, turned it over to Curtis or his heirs, and forgot the whole thing.
“Speculation is the ruination of good police work. Search his clothes. We still haven’t found his car keys.”
Ben fanned out the cards from the wallet—Pennsylvania driver’s license; car registration. No credit cards? Everyone had credit cards. No health insurance I.D.? (The medical center would scream.) No ATM card? Realistically, the wallet contents were as borderline for an average citizen as the thousand dollar bill.
He fingered the driver’s license, felt and peeled away a white card which heat and humidity had adhered to the plastic back. Something that did make sense. The person to be notified was Lawrence T. Curtis, Jr. No address. Just a phone number, area code 215. Philadelphia vicinity. He tucked the card into his shirt pocket. He’d wait until he heard from the medical center before calling. The news would be either good or bad, but certainly definite.
Dropping a plastic sandwich bag containing a handful of coins on the desk, Leo dangled two keys on a ring before him. “Inside coat pocket. Strange place to carry car keys, even for a showroom-new Caddie. And this.” Leo handed him a slip of paper, RONDAYVOO lettered in caps. “Tells us he didn’t stroll into the place for a beer. What it doesn’t tell us is why. Maybe we should ask Freddie.”
“Freddie wouldn’t tell us the time if we pushed a clock under his nose. Search the car—”
“Maybe that big bill means drugs?”
“Stop thinking Hollywood style. Everything doesn’t always have to be drugs. Wear gloves. Like the clothes, we may have to send it to the state police, and since we don’t have an impound yard, bring it in, and park it out front so we can keep an eye on it. That’s the least we can do for Curtis if he’s just an unwary tourist.”
Ben locked the wallet and bag in a desk drawer. “Two hours until daylight. I’m going home for breakfast.” And the sacroiliac belt. “If that note is missing when I get back, make sure you’ve had a good head start. In the meantime, have someone call motels to see if he’s registered.”
He levered himself upward gingerly as his phone rang.
Lou’s young voice. “Anyone call you about Curtis?”
“Never has been one of their
priorities. That’s why I gave you the signal. How’s he doing?”
“The operation went well. He’s in recovery. His son is here—”
“His son?”
“I assumed you called him.”
Not unless I used subconscious telepathy.
“Right now I imagine his only concern is his father’s condition, but just mention that I’d like to speak to him.”
“Okay. I’ll call if Curtis’s condition changes.”
Ben shuffled out, telling Leo to have the Morrisey brothers brought in anyway. “Use two cars and keep them separated so they can’t talk to each other.”
* * * *
Stomach heavy from rubbery eggs, burnt toast, and weak coffee, the belt tight around his hips, he shuffled back into the office along with the dawn. The belt did nothing to ease the nagging pain but was an excellent reminder to make no sudden moves.
Leo was out at the scene. The younger Morrisey, Kermit, loomed in the unlocked holding cell, his brother George tucked away in the interrogation cubicle.
No mistaking the relationship. Black hair, simian stance, leaning slightly forward but still well over six feet tall, heavy sloping shoulders, hirsute arms, craggy brows, and prominent lower jaws, both outfitted in XXXL shirts and jeans. He crooked a finger at Kermit and pointed at the chair beside his desk.
The chair protested. So did Kermit. “Why’d you bring us here, Sheriff Ben? We done nothing.”
Ben noted the eyes shifting and the tongue wetting the lips. Lying requires some intelligence or cunning, neither of which the Morriseys possessed to any degree.
“Freddie says you and George had an argument with that old man last night.”
“Was nothing. George went to the bar to get us a couple of beers, and the old man called him an ape. Said he must have escaped from a zoo.”
Translated, Kermit was saying that George had pushed up to the crowded bar, parting the patrons with the gentleness of a bulldozer and probably spilling drinks. Curtis had used the wrong word when he complained.
Resentment made Kermit’s voice rise. “Wasn’t very nice, Sheriff Ben. Couldn’t let that pass, no way, but Freddie told us to go sit down. So we did.”
“Waited for him outside, though.”
The eyes darted around the room. “We never.”
“Sure you did. A man saw three people arguing.”
“Weren’t us.”
Ben rose and motioned him back into the holding cell. “Wait in there while I talk to George.”
In the interrogation room, massive forearms and hands on the table, George looked up at him. “No call to take us from our work, Sheriff Ben.”
“You won’t get to it for a long time, George, if you don’t tell me how that old man got hurt.”
“Heard someone hit him with something. You know we’d never do that.”
Ben took a step, felt a lightning bolt of pain. He grasped the back of a chair for support. “George, the man may die. Now, I know neither of you intended great harm. You wanted to teach him what you call a lesson, but you or Kermit did wrong, and you should stand up to it. Now, which one hit him? And with what?”
George looked down at his big hands. Ben shifted. The stabbing pain persisted.
“Guess you’re right, Sheriff Ben,” George said slowly. “Daddy always said to stand up and take what’s coming to you. Only wanted to correct his bad manners. We told him the least he could do was ’pologize for calling us names, but that beer he drunk put him on the feisty side. Told us to go swing from a tree somewhere or he’d break our necks. Started dancin’ around with his hands up like those karate guys on TV. Didn’t help him none. I bopped him. Not hard ’cause he was old. He goes down, and we go home. Only hit him with my fist, sort of gentle, and that’s the truth.”
“You didn’t hit him with a rock?”
George held up an enormous fist. “Don’t need no rock. Could be he hitten his head on one. We din’t look.”
Not really settled, and there was still that big bill.
Ben patted his shoulder. “Thanks for telling me, George. I’m sending you home. Get your work done, come back, and we’ll talk to the county attorney. But before you go, did the man do anything besides drink beer? Like maybe talk to someone?”
“Just sat there. Oney one he talken to was Freddie. Seen him show him something.”
He radioed Leo to tell him what George had said.
“Could be, Ben, but all we found under his head was gravel. I made a cast of the footprint. Very interesting. I doubt even the lawyers in this town make enough money to buy Italian shoes.”
“I’m sure they’re working on it.”
Ben gingerly lowered himself into his chair, retrieved the thousand dollar bill, and called Aaron Parsons, manager of the local branch of one of the state’s largest banks.
“Aaron, I have in front of me a brand new thousand dollar bill. I’d call the Treasury Department, but I don’t feel like spending the morning on hold. Where might it have come from?”
Aaron laughed. “Not my bank. If I needed big bills, and I can’t imagine why, I’d have to order them from one of our big branches. Banking today is ten times more paper than cash...” Aaron paused. “Uh-oh. Hold it, Ben.”
Ben heard papers rustling. Aaron asked, “What’s the number?”
Ben read it off.
“Stolen. Part of the loot from an armored car holdup in Philadelphia three days ago. Three masked men. Two with guns and a getaway car driver. No descriptions.”
“You’re sure?”
“You know how it works. Whenever serial numbers are available, the FBI circulates them throughout the banking system, hoping a thief will be dumb enough to pass one of the bills. I generally don’t pay much attention to lists from holdups hundreds of miles away because it isn’t likely any would turn up in our little backwater metropolis, but your bill is on the one that came in the other day. Looks like you made the big time. Better call the regional office of the FBI.”
And he’d been tempted to let it slide.
“How much was taken?”
“Ninety thousand, but only sixty was new money.”
“Sixty? Looks like they split up the loot.”
“The FBI will still be happy to hear from you.”
A grinning Leo was standing before the desk when he hung up.
“Want to totter outside and see The Treasure of the Rondayvoo Roadhouse, appearing now at your local sheriffs office?”
Ben rose painfully. “Next guy I hire better not have a goddamn sense of humor.”
Curtis’s Cadillac was backed up to the curb, a deputy named Ted standing alongside, his grin as wide as Leo’s.
“Show him,” said Leo. “Man, this calls for a trumpet fanfare.” Ted raised the trunk lid slowly and dramatically. The rug had been partially pulled back, exposing bills that matched the one in the wallet spread over the floor of the trunk between sheets of newspaper. Ben didn’t have to count to know there were fifty-nine.
“No reason to suspect there was anything there,” said Leo. “I can’t even tell you what made me look.”
“Never admit that, dummy. You looked because you’re smart and talented beyond belief. Anyway, congratulations. You’ve recovered what appears to be the loot from an armored car heist. Now lock the trunk, and you, Ted, sit on it until I tell you to get off or the FBI does, whichever occurs first. Since you did something to earn the big bucks I’m paying you, Leo, you can call the FBI. And don’t disgrace me by acting like an excited rube cop. Act bored, as though we do this every day.”
“Looks like Curtis—” Leo began as he followed him in.
“We don’t know that. He might only be a messenger, trusted to sell the new money at a discount. My guess is he went to Freddie for a buyer, and no one would have known if he hadn’t been hit on the head. Not our problem now. Belongs to the Feds.”
Elizabeth—tall, thin, dyed blonde hair appearing to have been clipped with manicure scissors—who handled the phones du
ring the day, waggled fingers terminating in two inch silver nails. “Lou Merlinsky on two.”
He rolled his eyes. She could probably tear a deer carcass apart with her new fashion statement. “No change in Curtis,” said Lou, “but his son seems very anxious about his father’s car and personal possessions. I told him you had them and there was nothing to worry about. He said that since no change was expected in his father’s condition for a few hours, he’d drive up with a friend and get them. That was an hour ago, so he should walk in at any time.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Leo appeared in the doorway. “The Feds will be here as soon as they can arrange for a helicopter.”
“Always go first class at taxpayers’ expense,” grunted Ben. “Don’t ask why, but tell Ted to hide that Caddie behind Stan’s service station and stay with it.”
He shuffled after him and looked around. Amato was at his desk. Good. As soon as Leo returned, there would be three of them in the office. He glanced at the duty board. Two at the courthouse today, three out on the roads, Pickwell one of them. Pickwell’s dream was to stop a rich and beautiful blonde breaking the speed limit in a convertible, who would instantly fall madly in love with him. If it happened in the movies, why not in real life? Half bald Pickwell never considered that he looked nothing like any male lead in any movie ever made.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “tell Pickwell to put his daydream on hold and bring in Freddie.”
Leo came back.
“Curtis’s son and a friend are on their way to collect his personal effects,” said Ben. “No matter what I tell them, back me up.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
Ben tried to arch his back and suppressed a moan. “How the hell do I know?”
They walked in shortly thereafter. One wore the universal casual uniform: jeans, loose-fitting black T-shirt—very loose, thought Ben—and sneakers, his hair tied back in a long brown ponytail. The shorter one—solid body; round, heavy face; styled wavy brown hair—was dressed like a tourist trying to impress the natives in a silk, short-sleeved, cream-colored shirt and creased slacks.
The Cutthroats and Criminals Megapack Page 22