THE ELSON LEGACY (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Pull in the back,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

  She looked at Kalugin.

  “Who is he?”

  “My spiritual adviser.”

  “With a gun under his left arm?”

  Not much got by the Chief.

  “A plowshare won’t fit into the holster,” Kalugin deadpanned.

  I laughed, and after a second so did Deerly-Johnson. It was a great line.

  “Park next to my patrol car,” she said. “I’ve kept a couple of spots open.”

  I did and we all got out.

  “I thought you might come,” she said. “I meant to call you. We haven’t told the family that you were the target. They live outside of town. I’m pretty sure they don’t know why you are in town. If that got out, there might be hell to pay. I don’t need half the town breathing down my neck while we look for the shooter. I’ll have to tell them eventually, of course. But they have enough on their mind as it is.”

  I nodded and pointed to a small brick building at the back of the parking lot.

  “What’s that?”

  “Blaloch keeps a separate space for his coroner’s duties.”

  There was a red pickup truck parked next to the building. A Dodge Ram Laramie.

  “Whose truck is that?”

  “It belongs to the Bodine twins. Rufus and Abner. Locals who work for Blaloch.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Rhode. But there are a lot of red pickups in the county like the one that followed you the first day.”

  I looked at Kalugin, who nodded imperceptibly.

  “Well,” I said. “I think I’ll go and pay my respects.”

  The Chief and I started walking away. Kalugin stayed put.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Deerly-Johnson asked.

  “I don’t like funeral homes,” Maks said.

  As we walked up the driveway, the Chief said, “Why do I get the feeling that your friend is going to create a lot more paperwork for me?”

  “Maybe a lot less,” I said.

  ***

  The murder of someone so young had shocked the community, which turned out in force to support the Browne family. The line of mourners snaked out the front door of the funeral home. Clumps of teen-agers stood on the lawn, consoling one another. A few girls were openly crying. Beefy boys wearing letter jackets stood about awkwardly.

  “Lucas was very popular,” Deerly-Johnson said. “Played football. Those boys were his teammates.”

  The sight of all those kids made me feel worse than ever.

  Two men, dressed in identical black and ill-fitting suits, stood on either side of the double doors leading into the home, trying to keep the entering and exiting lines of people in some semblance of order. Except for the fact that one had an unkempt and uneven handlebar mustache, their features were exactly the same. I nudged the Chief.

  “The Bodine twins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one has the mustache?”

  “Abner.”

  “They look like they fell out of the same ugly tree.”

  Both men were tall and angular, with slicked-back, greasy black hair, sallow complexions, beaked noses and prominent jaws.

  “Hello, boys,” Deerly-Johnson said as we cut to the front of the line. “Looks like you got your hands full tonight.”

  “Nothin’ we can’t handle,” Rufus Bodine sneered. “Right, Abner?’

  “Yeah.”

  I was standing behind the Chief, one step down, and they couldn’t see me clearly in the crush of visitors. But I could see enough of them when they opened their mouths to know that dental hygiene wasn’t one of their priorities. Both their expressions froze when they finally did get a good look at me. I smiled angelically at them.

  “You must give me the name of your tailor,” I said as we passed them. Once inside, I turned to Deerly-Johnson. “Charming pair.”

  “Not my favorite people,” she said. “They hate women, blacks and cops.”

  “They got the hat trick with you. You ever have to run them in? Guys like that must have a record.”

  “Minor crap. Bar fights. Some women complained about the way they were treated, but no charges filed.”

  “A woman would actually go out with one of them? Who? Helen Keller?”

  “Hookers.”

  “In Atlas?”

  “There is a 20 and 50 truck stop on the Interstate.”

  “A 20 and 50?”

  “Blow job for 20 bucks; a hump for 50. And they take credit cards.”

  She left me at the entrance to the crowded parlor where Lucas was laid out.

  “The family doesn’t need to be reminded that their police force isn’t making much progress in finding out who killed their son.”

  “It’s only been two days.”

  “A lot of people think it’s tied to Elson’s murder. Back in April. No progress. There wasn’t a murder in this town in 10 years. Now two in a few months.”

  ***

  Meeting the Browne family was as excruciating as I’d feared. In addition to his parents, Lucas has three younger sisters. The girls’ faces were masked in grief. The five of them stood in line next to the casket, stoically accepting the condolences of their neighbors and friends. The casket which was closed. A shotgun blast in the face will do that. But there was a large board with dozens of pictures of the dead boy set up on a stand behind them. Lucas as a baby. Lucas as a toddler. Lucas in Pop Warner and Little League. At a dance. Working on a farm. At a beach with his siblings horsing around. In his high school football uniform. I looked at the board as I approached the family.

  I took a deep breath and said all the appropriate things to the devastated family. About how nice a boy Lucas was. How hard-working he was. The father looked particularly bereft. I assumed Lucas was working at the Elson place to bring in some extra money. The man probably blamed himself for his son’s death. The mother took my hand.

  “Lucas was in your car,” she said gently, almost as if she was consoling me. “It could have just as easily been you. I don’t know what’s going on in this town anymore. First Judge Elson. And now my boy. Some sick person is loose out there. I know the Good Lord asks us to forgive, but I’m finding it very hard. But everyone has been so kind. Especially Mr. Blaloch.”

  I gritted my teeth and mumbled something. As I walked away, I passed a row of seats in which an older couple sat consoling a pretty teen-age girl. All were dressed in black. Probably Lucas’s grandparents and his girlfriend. There was a side door and I used it. When I got to my car, Kalugin was leaning against it. He must have seen something in my face.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We will even the score.”

  “Did you get into the pickup?”

  “Of course. There is a shotgun behind the cab. Recently fired. Loaded with same double-0 buckshot that you told me killed the boy.”

  “Doesn’t prove anything. It’s hunting season and every 12-gauge within 50 miles has the same load.”

  “We have to talk to them.”

  He meant the Bodine twins. And I also knew what “talk” meant.

  “I just met them. It won’t be a day at the beach.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Maks wasn’t current on a lot of American idiom. I probably should have said tundra.

  “I mean they look like two oak trees, with brains to match. And we have to get them alone.”

  “We will. But when we do I want to use my van. Drive back to the farm.”

  We got into my car.

  “It’s not really a farm.”

  “I stepped in cowshit. It’s a farm. Let’s go.”

  “What happens if they are not here when we get back”

  “Doesn’t matter. I placed a GPS tracking device under the passenger seat.”

  “Which you just happened to have with you.”

  “It is smaller than a pack of cigarettes. I always carry one. We can follow the signal on my iP
hone.”

  “I didn’t realize the Russian mob was so hi-tech.”

  “Not all bratva. The Rahm family. How do you think we so easily squashed the Carluccis? Those dagos were so afraid of the F.B.I. they used two cans tied together to communicate.” Kalugin smiled. “And how do you think we always knew where they and you were when we were looking for Capriati? You think I just happened to be in the neighborhood to save your sorry ass when Carlucci tried to kill you.”

  “Maks, you son-of-a-bitch. You bugged my car.”

  Kalugin was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “Don’t worry. We don’t anymore. Arman says you are family, now.”

  That was just wonderful.

  CHAPTER 17 - THE BARN

  We drove back to the Elson place and then changed into clothes more suitable to our mission. Basic black.

  “You drive,” Kalugin ordered, pulling out his smart phone.

  When we got in the van, I looked in back and saw several duffel bags and other equipment.

  “You brought all that stuff on the plane, Maks?”

  “Some. The rest I purchased at the Walmart.”

  I headed down Chandler Lane as he looked at the GPS display.

  “Take a right on Chandler. They are not at the funeral home anymore.”

  The Bodine twins had left Atlas. Kalugin directed me to the interstate. We drove past a truck stop.

  “Thank God,” I said.

  “What?”

  I told him about the hookers.

  “Fucking izvrashchentsy!”

  We found their pickup in the parking lot of “Barbecue Billy’s”, a honky-tonk roadside bar just off the interstate. I parked next to the their Dodge Ram Laramie.

  “Now, we wait,” Kalugin said.

  I could hear music and smell the barbecue. For all I knew, the twins might be in the bar for hours.

  “I have a better idea.”

  I told him.

  “Not bad, Rhode. Remind me again, which one of these bozos has the mustache?”

  “The one called Abner.”

  He got out. I looked up the number of the bar on my iPhone and dialed it. Somebody answered. I could hear country music in the background.

  “Yeah.”

  “The Bodine twins in there?”

  “I’m lookin’ at their ugly faces, or rather, face.”

  There was some raucous laughter at his remark, followed by, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on” and “Give us another beer, dickhead.”

  “Tell them Mr. Blaloch wants to see them right away,” I said. “Urgent. Got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rufus and Abner Bodine came out of the tavern together. Rufus belched and Abner farted, or maybe it was the other way around. It was pretty dark. But the fact that I heard the explosions from 50 feet away was impressive, no matter how you look at it. These weren’t the kind of guys you’d want to marry your sister, or anyone’s sister. Or Labrador Retriever for that matter. They stopped short when they reached their truck and saw me leaning against it.

  “Get the fuck off our truck,” Rufus said. He still couldn’t see who I was. “Or I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Why don’t you try shooting me with a shotgun again.”

  Now they knew who I was.

  “Now, lookee here, Rufus,” Abner said, “if it ain’t the scumbag private dick from New Yawk.”

  They moved closer to me. I could smell the cigarettes, beer and cheap booze on their breaths.

  “I thought I’d give you two Neanderthals another chance to kill me. But I have to warn you, I might be a tougher nut to crack than a 17-year-old kid.”

  They looked at each other, brows furrowed in concentration.

  “We don’t know what the fuck you all is talkin’ about,” Rufus finally said.

  “Sure, you all do. I found your shotgun under the seat in your truck. Been fired recently.”

  Abner snorted.

  “Shit, man, every gun in the county has been fired recently. It’s huntin’ season. This ain’t pansy-ass New Yawk. You’re in Virginia now, bud.”

  “Well, when I give the gun to the cops and they match the pellets in your shells from the pellets in the kid you killed, you are going down. Don’t you jerks watch C.S.I.? Every shotgun leaves a distinguishing mark on the pellets it fires.”

  Of course, that wasn’t true. I was counting on the two idiots falling for the pseudo-science. They didn’t disappoint me. They looked at each other again, thinking it over. I suspected that it took both their brains working overtime in unison to make a decision.

  “Well, then, I guess we gotta make sure you don’t go to the cops,” Abner said.

  He threw a punch. I easily blocked it with my left arm, bent the fingers on my right hand and hit him in the throat, commando-style. Some things the military teaches you come in handy. He gurgled some and staggered backwards but didn’t fall. Abner was a tough old bird. His brother got behind me and pinned my arms.

  “When you want to sucker punch somebody, Abner, you shouldn’t wind up,” I said. “I saw that coming so long I could’ve ordered a pizza.”

  Abner coughed a couple of times and then came at me, a mad gleam in his eyes.

  “Hold the son-of-a-bitch, Rufus.” He came toward me. “I’m gonna fuck you up before we kill you.”

  I heard a muffled thud and a grunt behind me and the arms holding me relaxed. Rufus slid down my back and fell unconscious to the ground. Abner stopped and was now staring at Maks Kalugin, who was holding a huge revolver with silencer. I knew Maks had been close, but I’d never heard him. He walked up to Abner and hit him on the side of the head with the gun. Another thud. He dropped like a stone. We dragged both unconscious men between their truck and Kalugin’s van. I looked back at the tavern. We had not been seen. It was probably the kind of joint where fights in the parking lot were commonplace anyway. No one would leave a barstool to investigate.

  “Hold this,” Maks said.

  He handed me his weapon and started loading the two unconscious thugs in the back of his minivan. I recalled his comment about how handy minivans were in his line of work. I heard the click of handcuffs. I wondered what other equipment arrived with Maks on the private jet.

  We got in the van. I was still holding the revolver, which looked like something from the Crimean War. With its attached suppressor, a rough piece of metal about the size of a small pipe bomb, the gun was so heavy Maks could probably kill somebody by just throwing it.

  “Where did you get this cannon? The armorer on the Battleship Potemkin?”

  “It is a 1895 Nagant. Seven-shot, designed by Léon Nagant, a Belgian, for the Czars.” Kalugin was an expert on all sorts of weapons, which were among the few things he enjoyed talking about. He pulled out of the parking lot. “It has gas-seal action. The cylinders moves forward when the gun is cocked. That increases the muzzle velocity and permits the use of a silencer. Not many revolvers can take a silencer. Many silenced Nagants were used by the Viet Cong for assassinations during the war that Americans lost in Vietnam. But the one you are holding was a gift from Marat. It was his father’s, an officer in the Czarist army in the First World War.”

  The Rahm family name was originally Rhaminov, but that was too close to Romanov, the name of the murdered Czar’s family. By changing their name, the Rhams managed to survive Stalin’s purges in the 1930’s and their contributions, in both money and blood, in the fight against the Nazis during World War II solidified their position. Marat Rahm even rose to a high position in the post-war KGB before deciding that the breakup of the Soviet Union provided a lucrative opportunity to become a capitalist, albeit a criminal one, both in Russian and then the United States.

  “I made the silencer myself,” Maks said.

  “Of course you did.” We were now driving on a road, at the speed limit. I could hear groaning from the back of the van. We certainly didn’t want to be stopped for a traffic violation. “Where should we take them?”

  I hadn’t
thought that one through.

  “I know a place,” Maks answered.

  I looked at him.

  “For Christ sake, Maks, you just got to town. How the hell could you know a place?”

  Maks didn’t answer, but soon turned down a small side road.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Please be quiet. I have to concentrate.”

  A few minutes later we pulled into a weed-strewn drive that led to a large dark structure in the middle of a field. There were no other buildings.

  “Abandoned barn,” Maks said. “I found it on the ride from the airport. No one will bother us here.”

  “How did you know we would need something like this?”

  We got out of the van.

  “How did I know we wouldn’t? It is always better to be prepared, no? Now, stop asking stupid questions. There are two lanterns in the back of the van. Get them and put them in the barn. We will need some light. Then come help me with these two fools.”

  We manhandled both men into the barn and dumped them together on the dirt floor. Maks turned on the two lanterns. They provided an eerie, flickering light. I could see some stars through holes in the roof and could hear scurrying sounds from high above in the rafters. Rats, maybe, probably raccoons and birds. There were cobwebs everywhere. Maks went back outside and came back with a small duffel that clanked when he dropped it on the floor. Abner Bodine was starting to come around. I grabbed him by his collar and put my gun against his forehead.

  “Who gave the order to kill me?”

  His piggish eyes focused and then crossed, almost comically, as they concentrated on the gun. Then he spit at me, his spittle hitting my chest.

  “Fuck you.”

  I whipped the barrel of the gun across his head, drawing blood. Then I put the gun in his mouth and cocked the trigger.

  “Tell me, you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll blow your head off just like you did to that kid!”

  I could hear my blood rushing in my ears.

  “Alton.”

  I turned to face Maks. It was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name.

  “You don’t want to do it,” he said, quietly.

  “I don’t?”

  “No. Alice wouldn’t like you to. This is my kind of work, and I am very good at it. Wait outside.”