The phone rang twice. Only the glowing blue digits from the microwave clock lit the kitchen, 6:27 AM. The fourth ring, I know the son-of-a-bitch works from home, she thought. This early, he must be there.
The line clicked in the middle of the fifth ring; an answering machine engaged. “Mahoney Investigations…” the tinny man’s voice began. “Hello,” said the same voice, only groggy and human, cutting into the recording. “Hello,” he repeated.
“Mahoney,” Star said, “you know I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Ms. Luna,” he asked sheepishly, “is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me, who else?”
“Yes, Ms. Luna, I’m sorry.” His whiskey voice was beginning to clear. “How can I help you?”
“I need you to go out again today; it has to be today.”
“Yes, ma’am, as you wish. Do you want more pictures of the old couple or the biker?”
“It’s a little more complicated this time, Mahoney. I need you to go inside the preacher’s house.” The line was silent. “Mahoney,” she said agitated. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard. That’s breaking and entering. You’ve never asked me to do this before.”
“I don’t give a shit what you call it. I want it done today. I’ve paid you plenty. You’ll do this, or I’ll get someone who will. Besides, all I want is copies of documents. You aren’t going to steal anything. I don’t want you to leave any evidence that you were there. I’m in a hurry, so I’ll even sweeten the fucking pot. I’ll pay you four times the usual.”
“I’ll do as you ask. What am I after?”
“Their house is in California, west on Highway 50, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, they live on the edge of town.”
“Do you think they’ll be away today?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m pretty sure. Most days, they visit at a local nursing home.”
“Good, inside the house you should find one of the bedrooms set up like an office. There will be a desk with at least one locked drawer, probably a file drawer. Inside you’ll find a large yellow envelope. It should be marked personal and confidential, or some such shit. I want a copy of everything it contains. If it’s sealed, steam it open. Leave everything exactly as you find it. Now, get movin’. I’ll call you at four this afternoon to set up a meeting.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.”
“Mahoney,” her tone changed.
“Yes,” he answered. There was trepidation in his voice.
“This will be your last job.”
*****
When the Mississippi River came into view, the October sun was beginning to peek through the treetops on the Illinois side. The paved surface of the expansive New Chain of Rocks Bridge was no different from the highway, which led to it.
Three car lengths behind Doc and halfway across the bridge, Deacon turned his attention downstream. A line of a half dozen barges, piled high with coal and pushed by a single tugboat, crawled slowly upstream. Directly above the mountains of mined black mineral, the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge, rusting in the morning light, traversed the debris littered river.
The guttural sound of the V-Twin engines echoed against the newer bridge in an even cadence. Each rail post, which bordered the roadway, added its own note to the song. Deacon released his grip on the rams-horn handlebars and momentarily closed his eyes. Sweet fall air, foul water, and caustic diesel fumes sent a convoluted potpourri of neural messages. The first rays of the morning sun sliced through the cold air and warmed his face. His mind drifted for a moment more; his eyes popped open. The reality of his situation came crashing back. Mixed signals, he thought, the story of my life. Fucking mixed signals.
On the east side of the bridge, safely in Illinois, Doc led the way to a station for gas and breakfast.
“We’ll find a small out of the way resort or motel, something, somewhere north of here along the river.” Doc said casually between bites. The three symmetrically cut pancakes on his plate were dotted with minute splashes of pure maple syrup.
Across the table, Deacon nervously hacked an identical stack into jagged chunks drowning in a concoction of peanut butter and syrup.
“Deac, how can you eat like that?”
“This may be my last meal.”
“Yeah, right, so how come you always eat that way?”
“I dunno,” he answered with a full mouth. “Maybe I eat like this when I’m nervous.”
“You eat like that when you’re nervous, excited, happy, sad, everything. It’s a wonder you don’t weigh three hundred pounds.”
“When I was growing up, I was in trouble a lot. If the Reverend summoned me during dinner, I didn’t get to finish my food. I ate fast so I wouldn’t lose out.”
The young, knobby-kneed waitress picked up the dirty plates. Doc fanned the pages of the police report across the table. Brandishing a blue highlighter, he began scanning and marking the sheets. “Let’s see what we have.” He highlighted all pertinent information, and added commentary as he went.
Deacon transcribed what they agreed were relevant facts in his pocket notebook.
“Garvin Brown was a thirty-seven year old African-American from East LA,” Doc cleared his throat. “Why would a mother name her son Garvin? Can you imagine what a ribbing he must have taken in school?”
Deacon looked up, incredulous, “This from a guy who calls himself, Doc.”
“All right, wise guy.” Doc brushed off the jab. “It says here that Brown’s ‘Cadi’ was found parked and locked in front of the bar where he was killed. The only clear fingerprints were his. In the opinion of the reporting detective, the victim was alone.”
“It doesn’t add up. What business did he have in St. Louis, and why was he killed? Doc, do you think we’re goin’ at this from the wrong angle? We keep tryin’ to establish my connection to the murders. Maybe we should be thinkin’ about what they have to do with each other.”
“Hmm, now you’re thinkin’. We need to get some background on both victims and look for a common thread. Plus, we need to find the Reverend and Mrs. Jones. This will take a few days. Don’t you think?”
“I guess. One problem, if the cops have put out an APB, there’s no way I can ride any bike with D plates registered to us. I’m not even safe in Illinois.”
“There would be if the license plate wasn’t registered to us. With a helmet and sunglasses, all bikers look alike.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Doc dug into his travel pack and pulled out a current Illinois license plate.
Deacon turned it over in his hands. “Where’d you get this?” The ubiquitous numbers were computer selected, and the plate was unblemished.
“You know the wrecked Road King parked in the southeast corner of the shop? It’ll take weeks to get the parts. So, I lifted the plate. The irony is that the owner is a Chicago Judge. He won’t even come down until his bike’s fixed. Obey all the traffic laws, don’t do anything unusual, and you can go anywhere you want, no problem”
Deacon traced the edge of the license plate. “Perfect, this is unfucking believable.”
Doc continued with the report. “This says that Brown has a record all right, but not for dealin’. He was arrested three times for pandering and once on suspicion of murder.”
“Do you think Cynthia Thomas was a prostitute?” Deacon asked surprised at the possibility.
“I don’t know, but if she was, that could be a connection.” Doc nodded in agreement. “It’s an angle we can check by talking to her neighbors. I’ll do that, and maybe get a look inside her apartment.”
“What else do we know about the pimp? What happened with the murder charge?”
“I’ll be. Deacon, you’re not going to believe this. They picked him up for the murder of his brother, another pimp. Says here that cause of death was a subdural hematoma, and the police thought it was a territory war. You’d have to be pretty damn cold blooded to smash in your brother’s head over a few
city blocks.”
“What happened? How come they let him go?”
“They closed the case for lack of evidence. When he was in custody, Brown told the police that the real killer was a Mexican hooker. He vowed to find her and bring the police her head on a platter.” Doc tapped the page, “That’s an exact quote from his signed statement.”
“Doc, remember what the bartender told me the night of Brown’s murder? There was a woman with a heavy accent asking about me. Could this be the connection?”
“I don’t know how. A woman with an accent might have had some connection to Brown, but that all happened way back in April, almost seven months ago. How could Brown be connected to the Thomas murder and more importantly, with you?”
“Who knows? At least we have a few clues. Can you go back to the bar and ask the bartender if he can remember anything else?”
“No problem. I’ll go tonight.”
“Doc,” Deacon’s features softened, his eyes filled with tears, and he lowered his voice. “I can’t tell you how much what you’re doing means to me. I—I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Forget it, Deac. You’d do the same for me.” Doc’s voice quivered like a wavering violin note. “Let’s get movin’. We have a lot to do.”
They secured their helmets to their travel packs. The throaty Evolution engines cranked once, and called out through straight pipes in Harley voices. Sunshine filled a crystal-clear blue sky, and reflected dully off the muddy Mississippi. They wound their way, side by side within the confines of a single lane, north on Illinois Highway 96, the Great River Road.
In less than an hour, Doc signaled a right turn. A small sign at the intersection announced: Riverview Inn, underscored by an arrow. He slowed and turned into a small paved road, which lead through the trees. The narrow artery snaked into the woods, turned to pea gravel, and became a switchback, which twisted through dense foliage. The engines chugged up the steep incline in first gear. In a clearing, atop the bluff, they found a panoramic view, which included miles of river and thousands of acres of farmland.
Six small red clapboard cabins formed a semicircle on the edge of the wooded precipice. In their center, was a small matching structure, the office and manager’s residence. Each cabin, meticulously accented by a colorful array of late season flowers, was identical to the next. A thirty-year-old Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon sat in front of the office. A Corvette Roadster, its top down, sat in front of the first cabin on the right, number six.
*****
Doc pressed his face against the rusty screen. Inside, in the shadows, a slight feminine figure bent over what appeared to be an antique brass cash register. A yellowed OPEN sign hung crookedly in the corner of a dusty window, smeared with a labyrinth of tiny fingerprints.
He swallowed, rolled his head clockwise once around, and opened the door. Two long steps brought him to the front of the register. The door squeaked, and bounced twice against the frame.
The young woman looked up from her work and smiled. Short dirty blonde hair framed a round, innocent face. “May I help you?” she asked. A small boy crawled noisily around the end of the scarred counter pushing a battered fire truck.
While Doc was peering through the screen, Deacon leaned back and threw his long legs across the handlebars. With his head cradled in the T-pack, he closed his eyes against shafts of sunlight that broke through uneven openings in the thinning oak leaves.
“Hi, my friend and I…” Doc motioned toward the motorcycles. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The thought distracted Doc for a moment. How can he be so relaxed while I’m terrified? He sighed audibly and then continued. “…we’re out for a couple of weeks of peace and quiet.” He towered over the miniscule woman. “We saw your sign. Do you have a vacancy?”
“Sure do. My husband and I bought this place last year. It’s our dream, but no one knows we’re here. You can have your pick. All the cabins have kitchenettes and two beds. How long would you like to stay?”
“I don’t know. We’re just livin’ day-to-day. How ’bout I pay you for a week in advance, and we’ll go from there?”
“That’s fine. Cabins one through five are vacant. Do you have a preference? There’s a honeymoon couple in six. I haven’t seen them in three days. I keep thinking it’s going to rain, and he’ll have to put his top up. My husband works at the St. Louis airport. I run the resort with little Billy’s help. Oh, listen to me carry on. You’d think I don’t ever get to talk to anyone.” The woman stopped, and then laughed at herself.
“Cabin one will be perfect. That’ll give your newlyweds some space. Are there phones in the rooms?”
“No, sorry,” she laughed again nervously. “There’s a payphone on the back of this building. If you need an emergency number, you can use the office number. I’ll come get you if someone calls.”
“You’re very kind, thanks, how much for the cabin?”
“Fifty a day or three-hundred for a week, how often would you like clean sheets?”
Doc looked at little Billy. He cooed as he made another circle. A wave of compassion swept over him, for the woman, for Deacon, and for Katherine. He wanted to protect everyone, to keep them all safe. Compassion gave way to dread. He felt inadequate; the unknown was untenable.
He refocused on the woman’s childlike face. I wonder why she came here, her husband’s idea. Could she possibly have wanted to be alone with a baby on top of a bluff; her only company strangers who never leave their room, and never tell the truth about their lives? Would she have come here if she had known? “If you clean once every three days, that’ll be plenty. We’ll be out sightseeing most days. I have friends in St. Louis. I may not even sleep here that much.” He laid three, one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter and signed Al Stephens at the bottom of the registration card.
The cabin was small, decorated in an antique fishing motif, and meticulously clean. Deacon tossed his bag on the bed next to the window, then went outside, and helped Doc back the bikes up to the building. With a screwdriver and pliers from his saddlebags, he switched the Missouri Dealer plate for the purloined Illinois tag.
“Deacon, it’s gettin’ late. I need to get back. I’ll go straight to The Landing and talk to the bartender tonight. Hopefully, I can find out something more about our dead pimp and the mysterious woman.”
“Okay, I guess. Doc, when am I going to see or hear from you?”
“Relax, Deac, this won’t be so bad. I’ll call you in the morning. I don’t want to call from home or the shop. Tell you what, I’ll take the number of the payphone,” he pointed across the parking lot. “Let’s agree on a time. I’ll call you from a payphone in town. If you have to call me, do it from a phone away from here, give me a number, and hang up.
“Don’t use any credit cards or your name for anything. You have plenty of cash?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a little more than five-hundred.”
“That should be plenty. If you run low, I’ll bring you more. I know this all sounds very cloak and dagger. We don’t know who’s doin’ what, and I’d rather err on the side of safety.”
“You’re right, like always, can we talk at eight in the morning? After that, I’ll ride into Missouri and look for my parents. I’ll start at the central office of the Methodist Church, which probably doesn’t open before nine. Even if he’s retired, or something has happened to them, the church people should know.
“Doc, one more thing, I’ve been thinkin’. I’d like Star to know where I am and that I’m okay. I’m sure she’s worried.”
“Deacon, I don’t think we should tell anyone where you are, or what we’re doin’. The fewer people that know the better off we’ll be. This way no one has to lie to the cops but me. Kat and I can let Star know you’re safe. That’ll have to be enough.”
“Okay,” Deacon reluctantly agreed.
“Good, it’s settled, until eight. You take care of you.” The Harley sparked to life.
With one
fluid movement, Deacon leaned over and put a trembling arm on Doc’s shoulders.
Doc snapped the transmission into first gear, idled past the lonesome Corvette, and started down the hill. A moment before he disappeared behind the crest, without looking back, he raised his left hand and made a fist.
*****
Deacon struggled, holding back his tears. He saw Doc raise his arm; he saw the clenched fist. He understood: Power, united we are strong; together we will prevail.
FIFTEEN
Deacon leaned against the red clapboard. The morning sun was beginning to devour the thin frost. He shivered, and checked his watch for the fifth time. The minute hand showed one past eight.
The payphone’s rusty ring shattered the silence.
Deacon gingerly answered, “Hello.”
“That you?” Doc asked.
“Course it’s me. Who’d you expect, Jimmy Hoffa?”
“Very funny, just bein’ cautious, no names, okay?”
“Okay. Have you talked to my lady. She all right?”
“She’s fine. She called my wife and was told you’re safe.
“Excellent, thanks. What about the cops, they lookin’ for me?”
“’Fraid so. They’ve been to my house, your house, and our business. They have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Jesus.” Deacon supported himself against the building.
Doc waited while the news soaked in. “You, okay?” his tense voice exuded fear.
Another minute passed in silence. “I’m here,” Deacon’s voice cracked.
“Hang in there. We talked about this. We knew it might happen.”
“That was talk; this is real. Something is actually happening to me, something that maybe can’t be fixed.”
“We’ll get it straightened out. This isn’t the end of the world. We’ll prove to them and to you, that you didn’t do anything.”
“What are the charges?” Deacon asked.
“Rape and murder. Apparently, they haven’t been able to tie you to the pimp. If I’m correctly reading between the lines, they’re definitely trying to implicate you for both. We have to get on the stick. The longer you stay in hiding, the more convinced they’ll be you’re guilty.”
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