Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  “Do you have any avenues to pursue?”

  “Whoever killed Heenan had to interact with him while he lived in Clifton Hills. Our best bet is to focus there. A neighbor identified the missing housekeeper as Jennifer Olson. She’s the person most likely to know something, but she left the area shortly after Heenan disappeared.

  “There are a hundred and fifty thousand Olsons in the US. If she married, who knows what she goes by now. We won’t find her unless we put out a request for public assistance.”

  Parker paused, tapping a disjointed rhythm as she thought. Peter understood. You didn’t publicly identify witnesses unless you had no other choice.

  “See if you can dig up someone who knew Ms. Olson. If you don’t find anyone in the next forty-eight hours, put a call in to Aubrey Morse.”

  Peter sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  First Run

  Wednesday, August 24, 1938

  Mal sat behind the wheel of the Cadillac hearse he used to haul his equipment, watching a pair of guards wheel a cart loaded with sacks of cash onto the loading dock. Stu unlocked the back of the armored truck. When the guards had their heads in the truck, Stu jerked his chin at Mal.

  Time to go.

  Only Pete and Stu knew part of the take now resided in Mal’s disappearing cabinet. It had been easy to pull off: stopping by the money room for a palaver, parking the dolly with the cabinet outside the door, keeping the guards laughing while Stu slid bags in the secret compartment, wheeling the cabinet to the hearse and humping it into the back as if it were nothing more than a cheap stage prop.

  Stage one had been diverting the cash. Now for stage two, getting it away from the club.

  Mal turned the key in the ignition and put the hearse in gear, his senses hyper-alert as he eased down the drive to Route 27 five minutes ahead of the truck’s scheduled departure. The truck would turn north on its regular route. Mal turned south. If he escaped notice for the next twenty minutes, he’d be scot-free.

  The country road grew pitch black as he pulled away, the narrow slice of his headlights blinding him to everything else. If Dalitz was smart, he’d have a second crew of goons waiting on the south road in case Pete re-routed his truck. In the black void surrounding him, they’d be invisible until it was too late.

  Mal felt his heart beating like it hadn’t since his days picking pockets under the nose of the Garda, when a fumbled dip or the unexpected turn of a head would mean a beating.

  The road rose and fell in gentle rolls. Mal searched the side of the road, looking for a telltale glint, a reflection, movement, something to let him know someone was there. He wouldn’t find them on the rises, where they’d be silhouetted against the sky. Instead, he focused on the dells and copses while keeping a steady rate of speed to suggest he wasn’t looking for anything at all.

  Three miles from the club, he’d almost decided they weren’t there when he caught a flicker of movement up on the left, a shaking branch on the edge of a copse. He maintained his speed, splitting his attention between the road and the trees, expecting a car full of goons to come roaring out.

  He counted, topping the next rise at five. His was the only motor he heard. When he reached ten, he exhaled, not realizing until then he’d stopped breathing.

  At the count of twenty, Mal reached McMurtry’s farm and relaxed. McMurtry managed to hang onto his cows during the recession, but he’d never recovered and the place showed it. Mal drove another seven miles with nothing to set off alarm bells, then wheeled the Caddy onto the track to the barn where he built his tricks.

  Unlike most barns in the area, this one had a cellar below a wood floor. He stashed the money bags and parked the hearse on top of the trapdoor.

  Pete had skimmed as much as he dared, wanting to look like a slow night, not wanting the goons to realize he was shorting them. That was twenty grand Dalitz wouldn’t get his paws on.

  Now that their experiment had worked, they’d slowly increase the skim to make it look like business was going down the tubes. And they needed a solid plan for what to do with the money to keep it hidden. The barn was fine for overnight, but it wouldn’t do for long term.

  Day 18

  Tuesday, May 7, 2019

  Susan’s Snippets with Sonya Trent

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  Sonya Trent appeared on Susan’s show with her tall, rail-thin frame arrayed in a riot of paisley scarves left over from the seventies, her fluttering hand flashing enough diamonds to signal passing aircraft. A bush of wild, white hair made Lia think of a gaudy dandelion going to seed.

  “Sonya, what were your thoughts when you read about the discovery of Andrew Heenan’s bones last week?”

  Sonya blinked through oversized glasses that gave her a bug-eyed appearance and sighed, head tilted at a dramatic angle, the diamond-encrusted, butterfly hand landing on her chest.

  Kita, a streamer of drool dangling dangerously, hung her head over the tiny screen on the picnic table. Bailey nudged Lia’s phone out of reach.

  On-screen, Sonya said, “My dear, it was only to be expected.”

  A nonplussed Susan asked, “You expected him to be buried in a shallow grave under a cottonwood tree?”

  “Andrew Heenan trafficked with evil.”

  “You mean the Cleveland Syndicate?”

  The dandelion head shook slowly from side to side. “No dear. Andrew was more than a stage magician. I’m talking about—” Sonya delivered her next words with an ominous vibrato. “—Daaaarrrk magic.”

  ___________

  Bailey cackled. Steve guffawed. Jim shook his head and smiled. Terry sat, uncharacteristically silent. Startled by the noise, Gypsy jumped out of the Moby wrap and onto the picnic table. All hands dove to corral her before she leapt to the potentially parvo-infected ground. Lia hit the pause button on her phone and searched the faces around her.

  “What?”

  Bailey stopped laughing long enough to wipe tears from her eyes. “She hasn’t seen it yet. Steve, you tell her.”

  Steve lifted his head from nuzzling Gypsy. “When was the last time you visited the Westwood library?”

  “Not since Desiree. What does that have to do—?” She took a long look at Susan’s guest. “Oh my God, that’s the children’s librarian.”

  Bailey filled in the blanks “—Doing her very best Professor Trelawney.”

  “It’s her go-to costume for Halloween,” Steve said. “The kids go crazy when she does the ‘You are in grave danger’ bit.”

  “Sybill Trelawney, Sonya Trent,” Bailey giggled. “I love it.”

  “Not funny,” Terry grumbled. “She should know better than to mock Susan publicly, and I’ll say so next time I see her.

  Home from the park, Gypsy wiggled to get out of the Moby wrap as Lia inserted her key into the front door.

  “Ouch, girlfriend, chill for a minute.”

  Chewy whined.

  “Breakfast is coming, little man.”

  The dogs bolted through the opened door to the sound of her alarm panel beeping. Like they’re in Mission Impossible or something. She keyed in the alarm code and headed to the kitchen, dropping her phone and keys on the table. Gypsy ran to the door leading to the rear stairs, barking viciously. Chewy stared at it and whined.

  “What is your problem?”

  Above, a door closed.

  If Susan thought she could waltz into Peter’s apartment any time she wanted, she had another thing coming. Lia shoved a palm at the dogs, commanding, “Wait!” She slammed the door behind her and raced up the stairs, two at a time.

  The door at the top banged into the attic door as she burst through. Something heavy and soft fell over her as muscular arms banded around her. She screamed and kicked. Connected with a shin. Dug fingers into a pressure point on a thigh.

  He grunted.

  Something smashed the top of her head. A hard shove. Pain, shooting through her hip and skull as she landed on the attic steps.<
br />
  The skeleton key that stayed in the lock snicked.

  “Hurt my dogs and I’ll kill you!” she screamed as she wrestled out of the enveloping shroud. She pounded the door, helpless as feet raced down the stairs, her dogs barking, the sound growing fainter as they chased him outside.

  Please, God, don’t let them run into the street. Fear for her dogs drove out all other thoughts until the sound of paws thundering up the steps brought relief. Both dogs whined as Gypsy’s puppy claws scrabbled against the attic door.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. Lia sat on the steps and took a deep breath, reminding herself that her burglar left after he locked her in, when he could have taken his sweet time ransacking the house. And he was gone.

  “Sorry, kids. Unless you can pick locks, you can forget breakfast.”

  Gypsy howled.

  She picked up the thing that had blinded her, a fleece throw Peter used to protect his couch from Viola’s hair and other indignities. She sniffed. Fake flowers, not dog. He’d washed it, and it had been conveniently lying in his laundry basket when she charged up the stairs.

  None of which explained who had been in Peter’s apartment or what they wanted. Not Susan, unless Susan had morphed into the Hulk since her last video.

  Lia eyed the lock. Old locks with skeleton keys were easy to pick. If she’d had any foresight, she would have gone on YouTube when she bought the house and learned how. Keeping the key in the lock had obviously been a stupid idea, but the door was weighted wrong and swung open. And who expected to be attacked in their own home?

  She sighed and climbed the stairs. Alma would be working in her garden at some point. If Lia could find a window that wasn’t painted shut, she could holler for help and Alma would rescue her.

  Peter found Lia sitting on Alma’s many-times reupholstered sofa. An aromatic cup of herbal tea—chamomile?—sat untouched as she held a towel-wrapped bag of frozen peas above her ear with one hand and corralled Gypsy and Chewy on her lap with the other. Viola sulked in her preferred corner.

  She looked down, hair falling over her face. Peter was reminded of the day they met, the way he couldn’t see her eyes. She’d been traumatized then, too.

  Months earlier it would have been Honey’s head on Lia’s lap, Lia’s fingers combing the silky fur for comfort. He didn’t imagine the pair of wiggle balls she now owned provided the same degree of emotional support. Chewy sniffed her face as if he could smell her distress and it worried him. He probably could, and it probably did.

  He pulled Lia’s hand with the bundled peas away from her head, set the peas on the coffee table, and probed gently at the lump on her skull.

  “Ow.”

  He handed her the peas. “You’ll live.”

  “On the bright side, Gypsy learned how to climb stairs.”

  He pulled a chair over and sat, facing her. “Dammit, Lia, what did you get that fancy alarm system for if you don’t use it?”

  “I don’t know Peter, I—” Her head jerked up, green eyes damp and confused. “I turned the alarm off when I got home. I’d swear to it.”

  The red mark on Lia’s cheek—put there when she landed on the steps, Alma had said—made him crazy. One more time he hadn’t been there when she needed him. He wanted to gather her in his arms and rock her until she cried it all out, but he had to focus and be a cop.

  “I know I did. We can call the alarm company. They keep a record.”

  “We’ll do that. Whoever our visitor was, he’s a fast thinker and he’s cool headed. Whatever he wanted, he didn’t want us to know he’d been there. He didn’t leave a mess, and when you showed up, he kept you from seeing him and got out of there. You’re bruised, but you aren’t dead. I’m betting he didn’t have a gun.”

  Lia removed the peas and took a sip of tea. “I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

  “Any thoughts about what he wanted?”

  “Not a clue. All my electronics are still there. It doesn’t look like he rifled through any of the places you told me people look for cash and valuables. He was in your apartment. Is there a chance Susan is behind this?”

  “Popping in to surprise me is one thing. Sending some creep to burgle the place isn’t in her playbook.”

  Lia’s championship-quality fish eye was interrupted when Alma led Cal Hinkle into the room.

  “I checked all the doors. No signs of forced entry. All the windows are nice and tight.”

  Lia rubbed noses with Chewy, ignoring Peter. “It’s been warm out. Maybe I left one of the studio windows open and he locked it after he came in.”

  “Unlikely he’d bother,” Peter said. “Check the outside again. He got in somehow.”

  Five minutes later, Peter and Lia stood behind Cal as he pointed to broken branches on one of the overgrown lilac bushes concealing the foundation of the house. Peter knelt in the grass. He prayed for a footprint, but it hadn’t rained for more than a week and the ground was hard.

  Gypsy nosed in beside him, sniffing, then disappearing into the bush. Peter pushed through to find Gypsy up on her hind legs, tail wagging furiously, her front paws against an iron hatch embedded in the wall. The hatch read:

  MAJESTIC

  COAL CHUTE

  NO 101.

  “I’ll be damned.” He counted the bricks around the hatch, making rough calculations to confirm what his eyes told him. The opening was eighteen by twenty-four inches, easily accommodating an adult male. Peeling paint scabbed the rusty metal. Fat chance lifting prints.

  Hinges screeched as he pulled the hatch up. Dim light bled through the bushes, revealing nothing in the room below. He backed out on his hands and knees, then held branches aside so Lia and Cal could see.

  “Excellent work, Cal.”

  “Thank you, sir. What now?”

  Peter looked around. He didn’t know as much as he would like about his neighbors, but Alma knew everyone.

  “Check in with Alma. Find out who’s likely to be home and knock on doors. Keep your eyes peeled for security cameras. If we’re lucky, someone has our visitor in the cloud.”

  Lia stood by silently until Cal reached the sidewalk. “All those months you slept in the basement waiting for copper thieves and you never noticed the coal chute?”

  Peter rubbed the back of his neck while he mentally slapped himself across the face several times. “It was dark down there.”

  “That’s your excuse?”

  Lia must be over her fright if she was giving him a hard time.

  “We’ve got to make the house more secure. We need cameras, but first I’m bolting the chute shut.”

  “That’s original. You’re not drilling holes in it.”

  “It’s insecure. You’re not safe.”

  “We can screw plywood over the opening from the inside, anchor it to the brick.”

  “I can secure it with a bolt from the outside right now. I won’t be able to pick up plywood for a couple days.”

  “I’ve got a length of one by six I can bolt across the opening and no one will be able to fit through.”

  “One good kick will fix that.”

  Temper flashed, turning her eyes hard as jade. “You’d prefer steel sheet?”

  “You sure you don’t mind me drilling into your original brick?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Bailey and I will install it.”

  Peter huffed, annoyed, and annoyed with himself for being annoyed. The last thing either of them needed right now was a battle of the sexes. Dial it back, Dourson.

  Lia continued, “We’re perfectly capable. But if you insist, you can play carpenter. Bailey and I will go looking for the bad guy. I’m sure Terry would love to help.”

  Peter wrapped his arms around her, softened his voice. “Point taken. You and Bailey make our castle safe. Before you call her, I want to look at the basement.”

  Lia stood at Peter’s back as he unlocked the padlock on the crypt-like bulkhead doors. Cool air drifted out as he lifted one panel.

  “What are yo
u going to do?” Lia asked.

  “Your intruder was smart enough to get away without letting you see him. He was probably smart enough to wear gloves. But there’s one kind of evidence he couldn’t get around.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Unless he can levitate, he left footprints.”

  “We’re going through here because he didn’t come this way?”

  “What was your first clue, Tonto?”

  “Duh. Padlock.”

  “Correct. But you haven’t earned the chops to snark at a crime scene.”

  “My crime scene,” Lia said. “I’ll snark if I want.”

  “I’ll give you a pass since you’re traumatized.”

  He stopped at the bottom of the short flight of steps to unlock the door, then stooped, surveying the floor.

  “I don’t see anything,” Lia said. “Don’t you need an alternate light source for something like this?”

  Peter pulled a mag light from his pocket. “Watch this.” He switched on the light, holding it a few inches above the concrete at an oblique angle. A layer of dust Lia would have sworn wasn’t there appeared, marred by scuffs and footprints. A clear path led from the interior basement steps to her washing machine.

  “There are hundreds of them. How will you know which are his?”

  Peter aimed the light to the right, where one set of footprints emerged from the room containing the coal chute, crossing the floor to merge with the morass of prints leading to the steps.

  “That’s him. Hard to tell from here, but I’ll bet our man wears a size eleven.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We back out and lock the door. You go nowhere near the basement or the attic. Unfortunately, our break-in isn’t important enough to rate a visit from the crime scene techs.”

  “Not important? But—”

  “Budgets and manpower. It’s not personal. I’ll photograph these puppies and peel them off the floor with gel lifters, if I can beg some off Junior. Be a good girl and I’ll let you help.”