Beneath the Cracks

by LS Sygnet

  "Still waiting for my contact to get back to me. In the meantime, if we catch Denton picking up homeless guys, it'll give me a little leverage with him – I hope."

  "Are you gonna be tagging along on this stakeout?" Grease drizzled from the corner of Tony's mouth into a cavernous fold of jowl. "Or are you otherwise engaged tonight?"

  "Work comes first, Tony."

  "Ah, hell. There ain't no sense in all three of us freezin' our butts off tonight. Why don't you run along and have your evening? We all know we'll never hear the end of it if you contract so much as the sniffles."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive," Crevan agreed.

  "Did you guys show any of the photos of our John Doe victims while you were talking to people in Darkwater proper?"

  Charlie nodded. "We got the same nicknames this time that cropped up last spring when they were found. Either Stinky's mom really hated him, or it was a street name. The other man was called Moses after he lost a couple of toes to frostbite during a rough winter we had a few years back."

  "Stinky and Moses. Not exactly names that will do much good in a search of any law enforcement or public health database are they?" It gave pause though. "Does the roaming clinic van from MSUH go to all the shelters in Darkwater Bay?"

  "I think so," Charlie nodded. "But they're not going to divulge information about patients, Helen. HIPAA and all that."

  "That applies to the living. We can show the pictures of the homeless men to the staff that operate that van. Besides, we're only asking for names. I can't imagine they'd accept Stinky as the name for a chart. I'll make some calls, and if I can't get the name of the person in charge of that particular endeavor, I'll call hospital administration first thing in the morning."

  "So we all got business keepin' us occupied tonight."

  "Gentlemen, you have my cell phone number. Call me immediately if you see Denton. Talking to him trumps everything else right now." I slid out of the booth.

  "Ain't you gonna eat somethin'?"

  I grinned. "I thought you wanted me to keep my other plans for the evening, Briscoe."

  The answer was titillating enough to placate the nosy detective. I slipped away; across the street the duffle bag containing my latest costume waited in the Expedition. Very few women beside Finkelstein and me worked at Downey Division, so the women's locker room was almost always deserted. I wasted no time, shimmying into the tight leather pants and skimpy camisole. The front of it was emblazoned with the logo from a rather infamous bike club in Massachusetts. I picked it up during a case we investigated years ago with the FBI.

  That fed stench Tony mentioned yesterday when I was interviewing people in the vicinity of Sixth Avenue had proved too powerful for the disguise to be of much use then. In fact, it had garnered a few threats from club members who knew I wasn't really one of them. Three thousand miles ought to solve that problem.

  The black leather bike jacket concealed both badge and holster. Hopefully I would have time to blend in and chat without resorting to more official means of eliciting information. A day and a half had passed since I spotted Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill. The desire for a closer look had only grown stronger.

  Briscoe and Conall would have my spine impaled on a pike if they knew what I was doing, but it was more important that I strike without warning, and two men who screamed detective with every breath they took pretty much killed the element of surprise. In defense of my wild plan, Briscoe and Conall would be only a few blocks away if anything happened.

  "Here's hoping I can lie, charm or shoot my way through any problems that might arise."

  I drove out of the lot behind Downey Division. Tony's Crown Vic was long gone. Good enough. Everyone was in position but me. With a few punches into the GPS, I had the quickest path to the bar on Third Avenue and made my way through Downey's late evening traffic. It shrank to a trickle the deeper into the bowels of the bad part of town I drove. Either the residents in the neighborhood relied on public transportation, or they had the good sense not to be out after dark. The only vehicles on the street were those that sent loud rumbles echoing through the empty streets.

  "The bikers are at Nooky's house."

  I parked between Second and Third on a dark little street that had lost its sign. The holster held my Glock, in easy reach of my left hand, and additional clips of ammunition on the right. I patted it and muttered a good luck wish to the invisible stars hiding behind dense fog and thick clouds.

  The pointed heels of my Jimmy Choo boots clicked along the buckled concrete sidewalk. Wearing them had been a strategic choice, one that went beyond accenting the distraction of long legs encased in tight leather. They made lethal weapons should jujitsu come into play.

  Uncle Nooky's place was a rundown dive with a door half rotted off the hinges. A closer view of the bikes parked along Third Avenue revealed various versions of machines that had definitely seen better days. The bikers I encountered in Massachusetts revered theirs, keeping the chrome polished to a blinding shine, the paint without so much as a nick or scratch. They'd have killed the mechanic before letting oil drizzle from the engine to pool on the pavement. The upholstery on several of these seats was gouged or taped with silver duct brand. It lulled me into a sense of premature judgment, that the men and women I might encounter inside the bar were far from an organized gang of motorcycle enthusiasts.

  I flung the door open, intentionally letting it smack hard against the crumbling brick wall outside the door. The revelry ceased when my boot hit the unvarnished hardwood floor. All eyes turned to the stranger. So much for blending in.

  "I'm looking for the owner of this fine establishment," I announced. Since stealth wasn't an option in this getup, bold was all that was left.

  The barrel chest reminded me of something I'd expect to see above 13,000 feet on Isla del Sol. His long salt and pepper hair hung like oily spaghetti strands past his shoulders. A long beard was stained from chewing tobacco. He spat on the floor, expertly aiming the stream of brown liquid in front of the tip of my boot. Beefy arms perched on hips too narrow for the torso they carried. "What'd he do, win a date with the latest centerfold in Easy Rider?" His eyes roved a slow perusal that made my skin crawl.

  It was his mistake to step forward with a grab toward my chest. What's that old saying? The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Burly greeter got his thumb pulled back to his wrist with a loud crack that surprised him enough that I could pull him forward and kick his legs out from under him. He hit the floor with a thud and a whoosh of breath from his lungs. My boot heel pressed against his windpipe almost as fast as the hidden badge was exposed and a chambered round pointed at his forehead.

  "I asked nicely. Don't make me say it again."

  One thick finger pointed at his chest. "Me," he rasped. "I'm Uncle Nooky."

  Off to a fantastic start, I snapped the safety on the gun and stuffed it back into the holster. "You could've just said so," I reached down with one hand and a grin. "Helen Eriksson, Darkwater Bay PD."

  Warily, he accepted the hand up and gave a quick nod to his patrons. At ease. "What brings the PD into my bar?" Nooky tried to rub his low back unnoticed. How it could hurt more than the dislocated thumb was the real mystery. "Have I forgotten to make my annual donation to the policeman's ball?"

  "I'd like to ask you and your patrons a few questions," I said.

  "We don't take to cops bustin' down our doors for no good reason, officer."

  "Detective, and I'd think you'd be concerned about the men turning up dead in the neighborhood. If we can't identify them more and more cops are gonna be crawling all over this neighborhood until we start getting straight answers. Can't imagine you'd like that."

  His grin took a turn for salacious. "Depends on who's doin' the crawlin' sweetheart. I'm pretty sure I can speak for every red blooded American male that gets a gander of you. Watchin' you crawl would be…hot."

  "Those are some interesting looking bikes parked out front. It would be a shame i
f I lost my balance in these boots on my way out and say, tripped. They'd go down like dominoes, Mr.…"

  He chuckled with the leer still intact in his eyes. "Just Nooky, Uncle if you like. I don't know if I could stand hearing you call me Uncle Nooky though. Conjures up all sorts of wicked thoughts." His shudder was perverse and sent a wave of disgust rippling through me.

  "What's your real name?" I lost all semblance of patience. "If you don't tell me here, we could always go down to the division and get your prints. I'd lay odds that they're in the system under your real name somewhere. You did after all, attempt to assault a police detective."

  "Nick," he muttered. "Nick Jackson."

  "Now, Mr. Jackson –"

  "Could you ease up on the mister thing? At least come over to the bar and pretend to be sociable. I got my reputation to consider," Jackson said.

  "Fine." I followed him to the bar and sat on an empty stool. "I don't suppose you've got any Napa merlot back there."

  "I got whiskey and beer."

  "Heineken."

  "One Bud, comin' right up."

  "Do you ever have any patrons from the Sixth Avenue Shelter over here, Nooky?" I sipped the beer from a smudged mug.

  His left eyebrow arched. "Are you serious?"

  "Why wouldn't I be? A lot of them drink. You serve alcohol. Seems like a match made in heaven to me."

  "Except I expect my patrons, as you call them, to pony up at the end of the night. Them bums do good to scrape up enough panhandlin' to buy the cheap shit at the corner liquor store."

  "So none of them have even tried to drink here?"

  Nooky shrugged. "I ain't sayin' they never tried, but like I said –"

  "You expect the tab to be paid."

  "Right."

  "But you've seen them around, right?"

  "Honey, those guys are invisible to the whole world outside these neighborhoods. Why the hell would we notice more 'n where to step over the drunks in the gutter?"

  Interest in my presence attracted a few brave souls to the adjacent stools. I was keenly aware of the wall of muscled and tattooed flesh growing around me.

  "So none of them stuck out in the crowd?"

  "One did," the man to my left spoke. "Called himself Preacher, and he was the only one you ever let inside this bar, Nooky. The guy raked in more money than fifty of those bums with all that preachin' he did."

  Nooky glared at the new participant to the conversation while my skin tingled from the roots of my hair downward.

  "Preacher paid his bill," Nooky nodded curtly, "Not that I need you speakin' for me, Batshit."

  The man beside me flashed a grin and thrust out a tattooed hand that read aces across the base of his fingers. My eyes were drawn to the left hand where &88s spanned the other digits. I tilted the glass to my lips and ignored the introduction. "Nice ink."

  "Prophetic," Nooky growled.

  "I'm Batshit Crazy," he said.

  "My sympathies."

  Nooky let out a belly laugh. "That's his name, detective. Batshit Crazy."

  "So shall I call you Mr. Batshit, or Mr. Crazy?"

  Nooky continued to chuckle while Batshit Crazy explained his biker name. "It ain't a real name, you see. It's just what the fellas call me. If you want my real name –"

  "Batshit, can't you see the detective and I are havin' a conversation?" Uncle Nooky interrupted. "Go buzz off."

  "It's all right, Nooky." I smiled at my talkative friend. "I don't mind having a word with Batshit Crazy for a minute. You met Preacher here?"

  "Sure," Batshit added an enthusiastic nod. "He might've been crazier than me, but he wasn't a bad guy. He liked the rotgut Nooky serves better than the cheap shit from the corner store if you know what I mean."

  I didn't, but nodded solemnly.

  "I ain't seen him in a couple a weeks though. Heard he took up with that dairy farm crew. Probably still out there shovelin' manure. Lotta guys go for that when it starts gettin' cold. They get three squares, a roof over their heads and a guaranteed job outta the weather."

  "Never thought about it that way." I winked at Nooky, pretending an inside joke that belied my interest in what Batshit Crazy had to say. "I don't suppose you've ever worked at the farm, have you Batshit?"

  "Me?" he chuckled. "Hell no. Though it ain't for lack of that recruiter guy tryin'. He came in here a couple a times 'fore Nooky tossed him out and told him never to come back. Ain't that right, Nooky?"

  I glanced at Jackson. The muscle in his jaw clenched and relaxed rhythmically. "Yeah, I guess that's right." Lips barely moved in accompaniment to the snarled reply.

  "What was that dude's name?" Batshit twisted the long growth of hair at the tip of his chin. "Dupree? No, that ain't right. That's the name of the farm. Somethin' like that. What the hell was that guy's name, Uncle Nooky? Denton! That's what it was, Tommy Denton."

  The shiny bald patron on the other side of me grunted. The man ain't got brains enough to know when he ain't wanted someplace. That's why he showed up here in the first place." He punctuated the statement with a hard direct stare. "We don't take to strangers so much around here, do we Nooky? We really don't take to people who haven't got the sense to know when to shut the fuck up."

  Threat understood.

  "As fascinating as this has been, I'm not interested in Preacher. I'm more concerned about getting the names of the men who died in Downey."

  "Well," Nooky started polishing the top of his bar with a filthy dishcloth, "like I said, detective. Their kind weren't welcome here, so we can't help you with their names. Still, in the interests of bein' sociable, feel free to come back any time and shoot the shit with us. Just don't come with the badge and gun. I ain't gonna stand for cops comin' in my bar and trickin' people too dumb for their own good into flappin' their jaws."

  "Even you must realize that at some point, we'd have to come in here and ask you fine gentlemen for your cooperation," I said through a false smile. "After all, this is your neighborhood too, and the sooner we get some answers, the sooner we're likely to…go away."

  "He just told you, you got all the answers you're gonna get, lady. Why don't you just push off now, and leave us to our business?"

  I turned to the surly man on my right. A small tattoo marked the soft tissue under his left ear. The black ink had faded to something grayer, a crude circle with a large A slashed over the center. Nice. The universal symbol for anarchy. It reminded me a bit in quality of Charles Manson's infamous swastika on the forehead. "And what business might that be, sir?"

  His index finger bravely stabbed my chest. "That would be none of yours."

  "You gentlemen have a lovely evening." I peeled off a ten dollar bill from a wad in my pocket and dropped it on the counter. "Thanks for the Heineken, Uncle Nooky. See you around."

  On my way down the block, I couldn't resist the temptation to give the last bike in the row a little nudge from my boot. The symphony of metal meeting the road sang through the dense fog.

  Chapter 21

  I scrubbed the stench of stale smoke and biker body odor off me for a good half hour back at Downey Division. Chuckling the whole time. I couldn't help it. I would've paid to see the looks on their faces after I followed through with my threat to their beloved Uncle Nooky. Who the hell did they think they were, threatening a cop like that? For all they knew, I could've had a swat team outside the building waiting for my signal to storm the place.

  All's well that ends well. Batshit Crazy had proven most helpful. Tom Denton was indeed the man recruiting homeless men to work at Dupree Farm in Downey too, not that I doubted it for a second. The reluctance of Uncle Nooky and his customers to cooperate at all came as no surprise. Law enforcement had a storied history with that particular cultural subset. I still wasn't sure that they knew anything more than what they'd told me, though. Probably the same conclusion that Jake Cox had drawn, which was why he refocused on Dupree Farm.

  With my fed aura freshly restored, I slipped back into another all-business bla
ck suit and stowed my disguise in the duffle bag. The temptation to burn the evidence was strong. Instead, I slung the bag over one shoulder and decided to make my phone calls from the desk upstairs in the squad room.

  To my horror, I slammed into the brick wall of Tony Briscoe's chest the second I stepped out of the locker room. "Tony! My God, you scared the life –"

  "What the hell were you thinking?" His oft lazy drawl evaporated in the heat of true rage shooting from his eyes. "Did you honestly believe we wouldn't find out where you went tonight? Jesus, Eriksson! You could've been killed!"

  His fingers bit into my upper arms, and he shook me so hard my teeth rattled.

  "I'll say this one time, Briscoe. Consider it your warning. Get your hands off me right now."

  "Or what? You'll pull the same stunt with me you did on Uncle Nooky? Oh yeah, Helen. The cops are good enough for that bunch when somebody vandalizes their motorcycles. I doubt you were down the street yet when we got the call that some tall-assed crazy detective came in, assaulted poor li'l defenseless Uncle Nooky and then trashed their hogs on her way out of the place."

  "I got what I needed to know!"

  "At what price? Do you have the first goddamn clue in hell what Johnny's gonna say about this?" He smacked one hand to his forehead and turned away for only a moment. "You sat there and flat out lied about what you were doin' tonight."

  "Would you have let me go talk to Uncle Nooky otherwise?"

  "Not on your life."

  "Well, there you have it. You cannot coddle me and hold me back, Briscoe. I won't stand for it. And every time you try, I'll find a way to outsmart you. It's what I do."

  "Outsmart the people who have your back? Oh, well pardon me, Helen, but for such a smart person, you sure are dumb. Do you have the first clue in hell how many of those guys are packin' weapons? Guns, knives, hell, we'd probably find a grenade or two if we got real ambitious about searchin' 'em."

  Outrage receded into general fear and genuine concern. I patted his chest with one hand. "But nothing happened to me, Tony. See? I'm fine. All in one piece, not a scratch on me."