by LS Sygnet
"Before we hit the homeless shelter that Cox targeted, would you show me exactly where his body was recovered?"
Briscoe snorted, but agreed. "If you wanted to see the crime scene, you could've come on over when I called you Saturday night. Although I think it's pretty obvious why you weren't so eager to end date night."
"Knock if off, Tony," Crevan jumped to my defense.
Briscoe turned left on Third Avenue, another block that revealed more of the same types of rundown buildings and turned right between a diner and a pornographic book store. The small alleyway terminated in a painted brick wall.
"Has anyone analyzed the graffiti down here for specific gang affiliations?" I asked. Several symbols I'd seen on the drive over were repeated, and visible in bright orange paint on the wall at the end of the narrow alley.
"The only gang activity in these parts is the whiskey-swillin', leather-wearin' variety," Briscoe said.
"Bikers? Where do they hang out?"
"Little further down the way."
"And how far is the shelter Cox targeted from this location?"
"Three blocks over on the corner of Sixth and Northeastern," Crevan said. "Why? Is that significant?"
"Hmm." I peered over the dash from my perch between the captain's seats in the surveillance van Briscoe and Conall brought to keep tabs on me. "I think this is where you should let me out, guys."
"No way, Eriksson. We ain't got indefinite range on that wire you're wearin'," Briscoe argued.
"Then you can stay in range by slowly following me while I work my way through this neighborhood over to the shelter."
"I don't know," Crevan said. "It seems like a lot more could go wrong if you're out walking through this neighborhood alone, Helen."
I pulled the holster off my shoulder and removed the gun. Plenty of space to secure it in the back of my baggy jeans. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing, and I know what I'm talking about. I need to be seen trolling the street looking for Preacher. It gives credibility to my search. Don't kid yourselves, guys. Word travels fast in a neighborhood like this one. You've got three minutes to do your sound check, and then I'm outta here."
"I thought you said you didn't do this part," Briscoe grumbled, remembering my resistance to going to my first crime scene in Darkwater Bay.
I jabbed his shoulder with a fist. "Things have changed. Hurry up. I'm eager to get out and start talking to people."
They poked around and wasted ten minutes of my life that I'd never get back before I was allowed to climb out of the side door of the van. The odor in the alley made my nose constrict in revolt. Death, rotting garbage and old urine, probably emanating from a discarded mattress perched at the end of the alley, contributed to the bouquet. I shivered in the chilly October breeze and wondered how summer's heat must multiply the stench in such places.
I left the Rolex on the stand beside the bed this morning, and had no clue what time it was. Turning back to Conall, I tapped my wrist.
"Almost nine thirty. If you need the time, get out of sight and use your cell. Don't forget the code word if you sense trouble."
I rolled my eyes. Raspberry. Yet another bit of ribbing I had to endure thanks to Orion's public display of affection. At the same time, I wondered what he was doing this morning. My pulse quickened. Not because I thought of Johnny; at least that's what I tried to tell myself.
The posture stooped into the wind when I stepped out of the alleyway. Left or right? Up the street, I could clearly see evidence of the biker gang Briscoe mentioned. Long rows of Harley Davidson motorcycles lined Third Avenue approximately three blocks to the west. It took me in the opposite direction of Northeastern Street.
Patrons from the diner sifted out, pulling coats tight for protection against the damp chill. If I were wise, I'd forget the bikers for a bit and start searching for my "brother," the soon to be well known Preacher. It made the most sense to start at the diner instead of my other immediate option, the adult bookstore.
On the other hand, where better for a preacher to reach lost souls than to harass the patrons of pornography?
I turned west on Third and marched straight to the entrance of the purveyors of skin. The door stuck and required a harsh yank to pry it out of its moisture swollen wood.
An obese man with not many more teeth than strands of greasy hair grinned at me. "You here to apply for the live show, sweetheart?"
I limped across the dirty floor toward the counter. "Do I look like an exotic dancer to you?"
"If you got tits and ass, that's all that's required for the job."
I pulled the photo out of my pocket. "I'm looking for my brother. Somebody said they thought they saw him out front, preaching to your customers."
The man barely spared a glance at the photo. "Yeah, I seen him, but his vice of choice wasn't my place. Just like every other guy on this block, J-man didn't mind a bit of a view if you know what I mean."
"J-man?"
"Yeah, you know, Jesus-man. Some called him that, some called him –"
"Preacher," I said.
"Uh-huh. I take it you never heard the J-man thing before now." He eyed me critically. "You don't look like a sister. You sure you ain't his mama?"
I imagined Briscoe's gales of laughter over that one. "Pretty sure. He's my little brother. When you said this place wasn't his vice of choice…Preacher wasn't drinking again, was he?"
"That boy liked his whiskey rot-gut, from what I saw."
"I see. I don't suppose you know of any free clinics around here where he might've been getting his medication."
"Nope. No free clinics. There's a shelter up on Sixth that's got one of them clinics on wheels that shows up once a month to pass out methadone. That the kind of meds Preacher took?"
I cleared my throat. "No."
"And you ain't sayin'," Fat Man chuckled. "You don't look like you're livin' far from the streets yourself. You could make decent money in one of my booths. I'd even spring for a dye job to get rid of that gray."
"That clinic on wheels, do they pass out any other kind of medication? You know, like…for voices…and stuff."
"It ain't no secret that Jesus-man thought God talked to him, missy. If he weren't downin' the booze from Uncle Nooky's, he was railin' against it out front."
"Uncle Nooky's?"
"Roughneck bar up the street. I ain't sayin' anything bad about the place, mind you. Some of Nooky's regulars are my best customers. Damn, but they'd get a kick outta watchin' you dance. How tall are you, sweetheart?"
The ear bud crackled to life. Crevan's voice floated into my head. "Don't even think about going to Uncle Nooky's alone, Helen."
"Thanks for your help. Gotta pass on the dance thing. I'm having a good day if I can manage to walk." I turned around and limped for the front door.
"We got somethin' that might get rid of that pain, you got," he called after me. "Let me know if you change your mind."
On the sidewalk, I muttered, "Did you guys hear that? I think he offered me drugs for my pain. No wonder Cox thought the drug angle was his best bet. It's no surprise he decided his vice of choice was booze."
"Helen, do not go to that bar," this time it was Briscoe issuing stern commands.
"Relax. You guys will hear everything that happens. And I don't expect my disguise to attract any interest from them at all, despite what Fat Man thinks."
"Fat Man?"
"Mr. Porn Pig," I muttered. "And isn't this hour a little early for a bar to have so much business? There must be sixty bikes up the street."
"If you step one foot near the place, I swear to God, I'm callin' Johnny," Briscoe warned. "I mean it, Eriksson. That bar is off limits unless you walk in there with backup and a badge and gun in plain sight."
"Fine," I muttered, "but I've got to get inside eventually."
"But not today," Briscoe said. "Now get your ass headed in the opposite direction, preferably to the shelter like we planned all along."
I had other ideas, but Briscoe was ri
ght. The men at Uncle Nooky's bar needed a jolt of reality, not the hag limping up and down the street looking for her brother. I started plotting when and how I would return on my way to the shelter.
Chapter 14
After what felt like an unending succession of neighborhood regulars who recognized Preacher with only two reactions, I realized it was time to move on. The consensus was split. Preacher was a harmless lunatic religious nut, or he was a harmless lunatic in general. Both groups felt little tolerance behind their need to actively avoid him. If the shelter yielded no better results, we'd be back to square one. Either Jake Cox was the worst undercover ever, or we were seriously looking in the wrong places for his rapidly cooling trail. The notion of Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill as the more likely link to Detective Cox's forced methamphetamine overdose made more sense to me than anything else. But the idea that the literal cause of death of our homeless victims could've been caused by some sort of farm implement wouldn't rule out this shelter either, not if Cox's reports of recruitment to Dupree Farm were accurate.
The biting wind made me eager to reach the shelter. On the corner of Northeastern and Sixth, its building was a rundown hotel, decades past the glory years, but with a glimmer of the once stately edifice remaining. Paint peeled off the Greek columns supporting the overhanging balcony. The marble stairs were cracked and chipped. Mortar eroded between the red bricks of the hotel's exterior.
"Georgian style, all the way out to the Pacific," I murmured.
At the top of the four story building, the old hotel marquee was still visible, though someone had painted over what once read The Hotel Northeastern with Sixth Avenue Men's Shelter. The garish green paint stood out like the orange graffiti in the alley where Detective Cox had been found in the dumpster.
I wrapped the thin flannel around me a little more snugly and hurried up the walk to the shelter. Hopefully, it was warmer inside than it was outside.
The former lobby of the hotel probably hadn't looked much different than it did in the shelter. Except it had to be cleaner when it was the jewel of Northeastern. I imagined the marble floor polished to a high shine, the brass and cut crystal chandelier gleaming prisms of light into the airy space. The hotel had two wings, each stretching half the block of the intersecting streets of Northeastern and Sixth. Through the dingy, grime coated glass panels of rear windows that ran the length of the once stately lobby I caught a glimpse of an overgrown courtyard littered with the detritus of decades of neglect.
The current incarnation was filthy. What wasn't coated under layers of oily dirt, was scuffed, tarnished and covered in a fine layer of cobwebs. The chandelier barely gave off enough light to reach the far corners of the massive bell shaped lobby. The furniture was gone, probably cannibalized at some distant auction when the hotel business folded under economic pressure. The only other fixture in the room that hadn't been lost to time and neglect was the ornately carved mahogany front desk. It curved diagonally along one corner of the airy room.
Someone had added his own tribute to the master carpenter's efforts. Profanity had been scratched into the surface of the wood in ugly gashes that looked like scars on an aging body. A young man, the only clean fixture in the room, looked up at me.
"Sorry ma’am. If you're looking for a room, this shelter is strictly for men, but the kitchen is open to all. We serve meals at seven, twelve and six. Feel free to come back then."
"You don't understand," I limped across the floor. "I'm not here for a place to stay or a hot meal."
His eyes appraised my appearance, judging that perhaps I could use a bath and a hot meal or ten. "Uh…all right. How can I help you?"
I pulled the photograph out of my pocket. "I'm looking for my brother. Some people call him Preacher, others Jesus-man, or J-man. Can you tell me if he's been staying here?"
Recognition flickered in the man's eyes. He pushed the photo through the grime on the desk. "Sorry. I've never seen him before in my life."
"Would it be all right if I ask some of the others here if they've seen him? I talked to some people over on Third who were sure that Preacher was staying here. It's important that I find him, sir. He's not…not well, and I'm afraid he's stopped taking his medication again."
"Medication, huh?"
I nodded. A sense of unease grew, realizing that the man was lying about recognizing Cox. Why would he do that? Unless he knew that Cox wasn't really a preacher, and certainly wasn't homeless.
I took a risk. "Sometimes, the voices tell him to preach the gospel. Other times, they convince him that he's…well…"
"What?" His eyes widened and he leaned forward.
"A few years ago, Josh was arrested in Montgomery for…for impersonating a police officer. That was when we first realized there was a problem. Mister, my brother is schizophrenic, and if he stops taking his medication and the voices come back –"
"Is he dangerous?"
"He's never hurt anyone, not anybody but himself that is. There are some rough people in some of these neighborhoods around here. If he's just preaching, that's one thing, but if he started drinking again and stopped taking his Haldol –"
"That's a pretty heavy duty drug," the man frowned. "Has he been on it for a long time?"
"Almost ten years. When he stopped calling me a couple of weeks ago, I got scared. I've been practically living on the streets myself trying to find him and get him back home to Montgomery where his doctor can help him again. All I'm asking is to talk to the other men, see if anybody has seen him or talked to him, or maybe knows what kind of voices he was hearing this time."
Eyes darted around the lobby, paying closer attention to the shadow shrouded corners than anywhere else. He crooked one finger at me and leaned close. "He hasn't been here for at least two weeks. Last I saw him, he was preaching down by Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill. I can promise you, he's not taking any medicine. A van comes down from Metro State once a month. Preacher never saw the doctors."
"And you haven't seen him in two weeks?"
"I…I'd be in a lot of trouble if anybody found out I told you this, but I heard somethin' last week. Some of the guys got back from working at the farm –"
"Wait, what farm?"
"Dupree Farm. They got this guy who comes around every so often and hires guys to come work out at the farm. I think his name is Denton, Tom Denton. Anyway, some of 'em was talking about the guys at Nooky's givin' Preacher a hard time because he was a cop."
"How would they know that if they were working at a farm?"
The man shrugged. "I figured maybe Preacher had gone with 'em for one of the weekend jobs. Like I said, he hasn't been around here for a couple of weeks. But you better be careful, miss. If the guys down at Nooky's got it in for your brother, there's no telling what they did to him."
"Is it possible that he's still working at this farm?"
"Dupree's place?" he shrugged. "Who knows? You'd have to ask that Denton guy. Like I said, he's the one that does all the recruiting. He posted a notice that he'll be back here on Friday night if any of the guys wanna make a few bucks."
"Thank you so much for your help, Mr.…"
His mouth set in a grim line. "I don't see how that matters. It's not like you told me your name."
"Nancy," I said. "Nancy Maxwell."
"I'm Jason Blake."
By the time I made my way down the block, around the corner and to the van, I felt like shards of ice were pumping through my veins. Briscoe slid open the door and hauled me inside. He thrust a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee into my hand and patted my shoulder.
"Great job, Eriksson. Puppy's checkin' out this Jason Blake character to see if he's got any kind of criminal record."
"It was probably an alias," I sipped the scalding liquid and burned my tongue. It actually felt good, considering the bone deep chills wracking my body. "I'd suggest looking through the records with photographs. I can identify him, and I definitely got the impression that he was lying. At least at first."
"
Yeah, hadn't seen Cox my ass. That was some pretty quick thinkin', Helen, makin' out like Cox was schizophrenic with delusions about bein' a cop."
"It only worked because whoever Mr. Blake is, he wasn't aware that Jake really was an undercover cop. I'm pretty sure he knows that Preacher is dead though. He warned me to stay away from Uncle Nooky's patrons."
"So did we. Nice to know a complete stranger who started out lyin' to you carries more weight than your friends."
I grinned at Briscoe. "My friends seem to operate under the faulty assumption that I need to be protected from the big bad men of the world."
Crevan turned away from the console of dated electronic equipment. "Your friends also remember that Jerry Lowe drugged you and could've taken your head for his impressive trophy collection four months ago too, Helen. Let's not gloss over why we worry about you running off and doing things without proper backup."
"Yeah, whatever," my speech slipped into the brogue that only comes from the greater New York City area. "In any case, I think we've exhausted what Nancy is gonna learn from the locals. Can we head back to the office so I can change into something warmer? I'd like to head out to Dupree Farm and see if we can find this Tom Denton. I don't plan on waving Jacob Cox's photo around out there, but I'd love it if we could finally get a lead on the identities of our John Doe victims."
"That's seventy-five miles one way, Helen. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to get a fresh start in the morning?"
"Why? What time is it anyway?"
"Between the time you spent yukkin' it up with the old timers between Third and the shelter, to the titillating chat with the Fat Man and your interview with shelter boy, it's almost three, Helen. By the time we'd get out to Dupree's place, it'll be five or later, and I can't imagine his employees live at the place."
"I was out there for almost five hours?" No wonder I was so cold.
"Time flies when you're havin' fun, I reckon," Briscoe chuckled. "Damn me, but if you ain't got a knack for suckin' information out of unwilling witnesses, I don't know who does."
"Basic psychology," I mumbled from behind the coffee cup.