The Swedish Days Swindle

by J. B. Michaels

A very pleasant atmosphere.

  If only she were in a better situation with Mac at her side. Hopefully, he would be soon. Very soon. However, there was no guarantee the sinister kidnapper would simply give Mac back. There could be another task for her to accomplish, another crime to commit. This could drag on all night and into the next few days, worst case scenario.

  Millie carried an empty cash bag with four other bags inside of it, in addition to the bag of cash stuffed in her purse. The ambient glow of the yellow street lamps and the crowded streets masked her peculiar cargo.

  The good witch walked to the corner. The permanent black cast-iron trash can lay only a few paces away. She wanted to look as nonchalant and natural as possible when depositing the bags. Hopefully, no nosy people would observe her she she made the deposit.

  The steel drums picked up their pace, almost as if mirroring her pulse. The crowd in the tent and out on the sloped lawn in front of the courthouse started to cheer.

  Millie reached the can and dropped the bags inside, then pulled out the thick cash bag and placed it in. She made sure to push the detritus lower than the bags further down into the can. Her heart pumped almost out of her chest. She forced herself to switch from short shallow breaths to deep breaths with the goal of driving down her anxiety and the bile that bubbled in her stomach like a boiling cauldron.

  Now what?

  She looked around for any sign of Mac. Should she walk away? Stay here? She had no further instruction.

  Her phone’s screen lit up in from her opened purse. The concert began, the music drowning out the ringtone. She ran down Campbell, away from the white concert tent, and answered the phone. Again, Mac’s number lit the screen.

  “Where the hell is Mac you son of a bitch?” Millie didn’t waste any time.

  “As soon we have confirmation that you provided what we asked for, you will be given further instruction on where to find him. Don’t worry, he is safe. I assure you.”

  Millie noted that he said ‘we,’ meaning that he worked with a group of people. She started to walk back toward the trash can to see if she could get a glimpse of who may be picking up the cash.

  “It would be best if you stayed right where you are. Don’t come any closer.”

  Millie stopped her walk and looked to the corner. More and more people filled the area and began just taking up spots to hear and see the concert. Her view was obscured anyway. The man on the phone had watched her. He was close.

  “Let me talk to Mac. Now. I’m sick of your bullshit.” Millie gripped the wand in her purse with her other hand.

  “Now. Now. You can see Mac again. We have confirmation that you have provided what I requested. Head back to his car. He will be waiting for you there.” The sinister voice ended the call.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vince recorded the widow’s words into his small notepad in his usual, detailed, fashion. His detective notepad had blue lines and a GPD symbol as a letterhead—he kept things neat. This seemed like a pretty open and shut case.

  “You and your brother were in a bad fight with your late husband before he died. That was the last you interacted with him?” The smell of motor oil and rubber filled the air as Vince stood in a garage of a mechanic’s shop in St. Charles, Wheelaroo. It was a typical auto repair shop that since transitioned to more accessible services like oil changes, tire rotations, and so on; they of course still were a full shop. Although Vince noted that there weren’t many cars in the shop parking lot or in the garage. Business was slow, hence the contents of the shouting match the wife described.

  “Yes, that was the last time I saw him. Things haven’t been good lately money-wise. As you can see, the shop barely has any customers—we’re losing out to bigger companies. Electric cars don’t need maintenance and a lot of people are buying those up these days. Just whatever… things aren’t good. And then…” Denise, the skinny and petite widow in her early 30s, paused.

  “And then? I understand that this is fresh and shocking, but anything you can tell us will help us find who did this.” Vince nodded his head and tried to give his most comforting look.

  “Terry found a bag of money hidden in a car that came in a couple weeks ago. He then proceeded to make a deal with the owner of the car. I don’t know the terms of the deal. He wouldn’t tell me and there’s also no paperwork on the car. No receipt of service. He wanted it off the books. The owner of the car let him keep the cash. Over the past couple weeks ever since that car came in, Terry would disappear for hours at a time. My brother and I were worried Terry was doing something illegal and we confronted him. Vic and Terry got into a huge fight. Fists and everything.”

  “That would explain your husband’s black eye. You were witness to the entire fight?”

  “Yes, Vic let him leave after he punched him in the eye. Then Vic left a few minutes later.”

  “What about the car? What do you remember about it? And where did this fight happen?”

  “A black Dodge Charger. I can’t remember the license plate or anything like that. It was in and out of here pretty quick. Fight was here in the garage.” Denise lit a cigarette. There were lots of flammable materials around, yet she didn’t seem to care.

  “When did this happen again?”

  “Last night. About twenty-four hours ago, actually. Come to think of it.”

  “Denise, we need to talk to your brother. Is he around? Where can we find him?”

  “He’ll probably be at his apartment on Randall Road near the Commons.”

  “Thank you very much, Denise. Officer Jackson will keep a squad car here for you until we know more. Sit tight.” Vince walked away from Denise and Terry’s Repair Shop and back to his unmarked squad car with Officer Jackson, his partner, at his side.

  “The coroner, Missy, called. Said that the vic had his tongue removed and his throat slit. I mean we knew that grisly detail of the neck already, but the tongue? Shit. Says the body was dumped in the Fox probably around eighteen hours ago or so.” Officer Jackson opened the passenger door of their car.

  “The timeline matches up then. Terry left here twenty-four hours ago and was brutally murdered about eighteen hours ago. She didn’t seem all that upset, did she? She lit up that cigarette and that was the only tension I felt. You know that she needed a cig and was trying to hold off until we were done.” Vince started the car.

  “Yes, but she could have just been in shock still. I can do some more digging after we question the brother,” Officer Jackson said.

  “Speaking of brothers, should I get Mac on this?” Vince pulled away from Terry’s.

  “He has a knack for cracking cases. It is up to you though, I mean, I think we can handle it. I’ll see if Denise’s brother has any priors.” Officer Jackson typed into the computer on the squad’s dash.

  Vince could sense a bit of jealousy in Jackson’s response. He was right. He and his actual GPD partner could figure this out without Mac’s help. He would give Mac an update tomorrow. This one felt pretty open and shut. The brother probably did it.

  Not every case was as complex as Mac liked them to be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Millie weaved in and out of the pedestrian traffic to the Tiny Wanderer. Mac had parked his car on the side of the world famous Tiny Wanderer near the yellow awning.

  His Cinderella blue Chevy sedan sat in the spot closest to the entrance. He was usually the first customer inside the Wanderer every day for his morning writing routine and breakfast. The yellow glow of the ambient street-lamps showed nothing. No Mac anywhere: not on the street or near the car.

  Millie peeked inside the car. There he was: laying on the back seat, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes closed. Not moving. Any air that was in Millie’s sails suddenly dissipated. She’d hoped he was just unconscious and not dead.

  She opened the car door and put her head on his chest.

  A heartbeat.

  Thank God.

  “Mac! Mac! Wake up!” Millie shook him.

&nb
sp; Mac didn’t budge. Just a steady rhythmic rising and falling of his chest.

  “What the hell did they give you?” Millie stood up next to the open car door. Her hand massaged the back of her neck. She shook her head.

  Her phone lit up once again in her open purse.

  A blocked number appeared across the screen.

  She answered sharply. “What the hell did you do to him?”

  “He will most likely wake up in three to four days. I would keep him out of any hospitals. Just leave him. He will survive. Go about your business and all will be fine. No cops. No one is to know or worse things will happen to him and to you and those you hold dear. Pleasure doing business with you.” The sinister man kept an even keel throughout his delivery. It was maddening.

  “Wait!” Millie’s attempt to garner more information failed. He’d ended the call.

  Millie bent down into the car and patted Mac’s shorts for his phone. A note was attached to it that read: Leave him be.

  Millie ripped the note off the screen of his phone, crumpled it up, and threw it on the floor. She fished Mac’s car keys from his pocket and kissed him on the forehead. She’d realized that they used his phone to call her. They probably knew everything there was to know or, at least, as much as they could in the small amount of time they had his phone. The contact list. His most recent phone calls. Calls to Vince, etc. Maybe that was why they were so adamant she not alert anyone, other than the obvious ‘committing of crimes and not getting caught’ reasoning. Also, Millie couldn’t prove it was them who called her during the time of the theft because it looked like Mac was the only one to call her on the call record.

  The last call could help her case of being blackmailed and coerced, forced under duress to rob the bank—except it was blocked and couldn’t be traced anyway. Right now, should Gerald realize the bank had been robbed, Mac and Millie were to blame. It fit the frame perfectly.

  Not good. She had to return the money somehow before the bank opened Monday morning. And Mac was unconscious. Apparently, she couldn’t do anything to him or else. What the hell did that mean? It didn’t make any sense. How would they know if she brought him to the hospital? She immediately pressed the side button on Mac’s phone to turn it off when Vince’s number blinked onto the screen. She hesitated, she thought about answering it.

  She held it in her hand and took a deep breath…but continued to power down the phone.

  She could figure this out on her own.

  As of now, she heeded the controlling criminal’s threat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Officers O’Malley and Jackson rolled up in their squad car to an older, past due for a rehab, apartment building behind the Geneva Commons. The home of Vic Sabatini, the person they needed to question about the death of Terry Murtaugh, owner of a car repair shop who apparently got caught up in the wrong crowd and paid the ultimate price for such egregious error in judgement. All for the almighty dollar.

  That is, should Denise the widow’s story be trusted.

  “Looks like Vic Sabatini, brother-in-law of Terry, has a long list of priors. He is a thief: but nothing major and nothing that would have caused him hard time. He is no slouch, though. His place is on the top floor,” Jackson said.

  “Wonderful. I suggest we take the necessary precautions. We know he is violent, he beat the hell out of Terry last night. Gun clean? Loaded?” Vince exited the vehicle and unbuttoned his side holster.

  He left his suit jacket in the car. He had no idea why he even wore it on such a hot day. It still felt warm outside even now that the sun had set. Humidity made the climate worse. Vince placed his right hand on the gun grip and walked up the external stairwell to the top floor. The apartment building looked like it had been built in the 1970s from the brown and tan brick. It alternated in certain spots as if to denote some sense of artwork.

  Jackson followed. They ascended the rusted, metal stairs carefully as to not make much noise. The stairwell really could have used some paint—it was a wonder it was still upright.

  “It is 408. The apartment number.” Jackson whispered.

  “Thanks. I was just going to ask you which one it was.” Vince reached the top of the stairs at the north end of the building.

  “410. We are close.” Jackson reached the top and then walked ahead of Vince. He stopped at a door.

  The numbers read 408.

  “Let’s just knock and hope he cooperates. Don’t freak him out.”

  Jackson rapped on the door.

  No response. The sound of someone walking to the door could be heard through the very thin wood. Then suddenly the footfalls stopped.

  Jackson knocked on the door again.

  No noise this time.

  Vince nodded his head, “Hey Vic, this is the Geneva Police Department. Just need to ask you a few questions. That’s all.”

  “Go away. I don’t have to answer the door.” A deep male voice with a thick Italian accent spoke. He sounded like Luca Brasi: he talked like he had a mouthful of food or cotton balls.

  “We understand, but if you don’t answer we’ll just come in anyway, Vic. Seriously, let’s just make this easier on everyone and your neighbors and just open the door. A couple questions.” Vince looked at Jackson. They each took a deep breath. The police pair stood on each side of the door, just in case Vic decided to shoot through the paper door.

  Silence filled the air. The longer they waited for Vic, the more tense the situation. Vince pulled his gun from the holster.

  “Shit. Let’s do this Jackson.” Vince moved to the door and lifted his foot to kick the door in.

  The door opened.

  “I did it. I killed Terry.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Millie drove to Mac’s condo building, not far from 272 WitchHazel Circle just down the street. Millie didn’t really know if she was thrilled with that. Her parents were close and that comforted her. She may need their help getting Mac out of the car or, if the coast was clear of neighbors, she could use a lifting spell. Mac lived in a nice place. Perfect for a bachelor.

  She pulled into the basement garage and stopped the car next to the elevator entrance. After Mac was inside, she would come back down and park in his numbered spot.

  It was 8:45 pm. No neighbors were around. They were probably at Swedish Days or asleep already. Mac lived among many older people. The place didn’t have many issues: the occasional nosy or cranky neighbor complained about something in the strict HOA, but for the most part, people kept to themselves. That worked to Millie’s advantage.

  She exited the car and opened the rear door. A steady glistening stream of drool leaked from Mac’s mouth. He was seriously out cold. Millie grabbed Mac’s ankles and pulled.

  “I know you aren’t that fat Mac. Jeez.” Millie giggled, desperate for some levity and pulled again.

  Mac didn’t move at all, as if he suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

  “Okay. Time to use a lifting spell.” Millie took out her wand and aimed it at Mac.

  The witch took a look at her surroundings in the concrete basement adorned with load-bearing posts painted red. All the cars were lined up and parked on the sides of the garage—and still no one around.

  Good. She could be a little louder.

  “Atlas!” She pointed her wand at Mac. With immediate and unforgiving force, Millie was thrown away from Mac’s car and at the trunk of an SUV across the parking garage. She hit the back of her head on the rear window of the blue Explorer and landed on her bottom. The shock overwhelmed her. She hadn’t lost consciousness but tongues of flame did blanket her vision for a few seconds.

  Millie blinked and blinked until the flames dissipated. The hot pulsing pain shot from the back of her head down her spine. Her butt didn’t feel great either. She’d hoped she didn’t break her ass.

  Millie gulped air. “Shit. Shit.”

  She pulled herself up to her feet. Her left hand rubbed the back of her head, her wand in her right felt warm to the touch. Tha
t could mean only one thing.

  She had to get Mac to 272 as soon as possible. Her Mom may know a way to break the powerful curse placed on her dear Mac.

  Not curse. That seemed too weak of a description.

  It was more like a major hex. A hex of dark magic.

  Her overuse of essence of hummingbird maybe did raise too many red flags. Someone noticed. A criminal noticed. A criminal with magical powers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What is happening, Millie?” Becca asked.

  “Mom, just open the garage door. Let me park in the garage.”

  “Your father will have to move the table he is working on. Just give me a minute. I wish you would just tell me what is going on.”

  “I will when I get there.”

  “Hank! Get up! We have to move the table. Millie needs to park in the garage.”

  “You move it.” Millie could hear her father’s voice in the background.

  “Hank. Get up now. Our daughter needs us. I am going to murder your father. Maybe you should say bye to him now,” Becca laughed.

  “Great. Mom. Please, just get the garage ready, I ‘m opening the gate now.” Millie ended the call and was in no mood for their antics.

  She drove up the winding driveway to the yellow, gothic house.

  The garage door opened and her parents were yelling at each other while moving the table. 272’s garage could hold three vehicles, except now the conversion to a furniture workshop severely limited capacity. Still, Millie could and needed to fit Mac’s small blue sedan inside.

  Millie pulled in as her parents moved the table—and themselves—to the right side of the garage.

  “Mom, please close the garage if you can.” Millie stuck her head out the window.

  “Will do. Hang on a sec.” Becca ran to the garage door and hit the green-lit button. The loud, buzzing drone of the door echoed through the big garage.