The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1)

by Dustin Stevens

A long moment passed as Morris stared across at him before the left corner of his mouth turned upward in a weary smile.

  “I honestly wish it were that easy, but the truth is, I could have saved you the trip this morning. If it isn’t in the general database, we don’t have it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The old man had said late afternoon, but the Boat Man didn’t have that kind of time to wait. Already, he had put his plans on hold for a day, a pause that could potentially undo everything he had worked so hard for.

  In the months that led up to the action, there was no predetermined time frame. It could have started in April or August, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. The only thing of paramount importance was that once the initial strike was made, once the dominos started to fall, they must do so with speed and precision.

  The damage to his blade was a fluke accident that was unforeseeable. It had cost him a precious day, one that could have sent his targets into hiding, disappearing into obscurity or raising their security to a level that would have ensured the Boat Man’s mission became a kamikaze run.

  His observations the night before had showed they either hadn’t yet put together the connection or had failed to give their enemy his proper due.

  Either way, he couldn’t risk waiting any longer and letting them come to their senses.

  The bell above the door to the Japanese man’s shop rang as the Boat Man stepped inside, the scent of incense engulfing him. It was so strong it brought tears to his eyes as he turned away, moving down the first aisle, feigning interest at the items on the shelves as the man rang up an elderly couple at the front counter.

  The Boat Man could hear them talking as he pretended to browse packets of dried spices, knowing each one by name, all reminders of a life he once knew.

  Would never know again.

  Tucked away in the back of the store, he waited until he heard the bell a second time before moving up the aisle, the old man standing at the front counter, both hands pressed to the glass, waiting for him.

  He wore a dour expression as he watched the Boat Man approach, shaking his head.

  “Nintai ha iwa o mo toosu,” he said in his native tongue, his voice conveying his age, the grave nature of the words he was reciting.

  The Boat Man felt his eyebrows come together as he reached the front counter. “Meaning?”

  “Patience will pierce even a rock,” he replied. “Japanese proverb.”

  It was plain what the old man was trying to say, but the Boat Man had no interest in hearing it. He had a job to complete, a promise to fulfill. Either the old man could help with that, or he could get out of the way and let the Boat Man find somebody who could.

  “Ain’t nobody got time for that,” the Boat Man replied. “Sweet Brown.”

  The two stood off from each other, neither blinking, the sweet smoke of burning incense rising between them.

  “Is it done?” the Boat Man asked, trying to mask the anxiety, the anticipation in his tone.

  Still the old man remained frozen before stepping back and bending at the waist. The Boat Man fought the urge to lean in for a better look, waiting until the old man emerged, the ken sword stretched across the same green cloth.

  The air caught in the Boat Man’s chest as he looked down at it, the notch now indecipherable in the polished steel. He felt his heart beat increase, wanting so desperately to run his fingertips along the gleaming blade, to feel and know it was whole once more.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, his attention aimed downward. “You do good work, sir.”

  Remaining a step back from the case, the old man bowed a few inches at the waist, nodding his head in acceptance of the praise.

  “You are welcome.”

  Wrapping his fingers around the handle of the weapon, the Boat Man hefted it upward. He extended it to arm’s length and looked down the length of it, the design as straight and true as the moment he had first seen it.

  Every fiber in his body wanted to twist the blade through the air, turning it in a slicing pattern, already envisioning his targets, his plans for the evening now complete.

  Digging into the pocket of his pants, he extracted a large roll of cash and placed it on the table, the implication obvious that it was all in appreciation for work well done.

  “I do not know what purpose the sword truly serves,” the old man said, “but it was an honor to work on it. I only hope I did it justice.”

  A cruel smile stretched across the Boat Man’s face as he slid the sword back into its scabbard, slinging it across his back.

  The meting of justice had only just begun.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Something didn’t sit right with Reed. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, more a conglomeration of a lot of different comments and misshapen facts that were in a jumble in his mind. At this point, given the kind of information he’d gleaned in the last day, things should be coming together. The finish line itself might not be in sight, but he should at least be seeing the connective threads that tied things to one another.

  Thus far, that wasn’t happening.

  Instead, the pile of mismatched facts was getting bigger.

  Added to the mix just that morning, was the discussion with Morris. There was apparently no mention of whatever group the tattoo on the victims belonged to anywhere in the Gang Task Force system, yet somehow they had done something bad enough to earn the spite of someone in the community.

  A full day of digging through the precinct records had also turned up blank on the insignia. It was as if it didn’t exist, or somehow had never once surfaced on the radar of law enforcement in the area.

  In a space as small as The Bottoms, that seemed almost impossible.

  Late in the afternoon Reed shut down his computer, leading Billie out to the parking lot, ignoring the sideways glances from coworkers as he went. Once loaded into his sedan, he drove 11 blocks and parked along the street, leaving his partner behind and walking the last two on foot.

  At 4:30 he stepped onto a sagging front porch and knocked on a door, the screened top of it shaking with the impact. He took a step back and waited, hearing the sound of a television inside, the approach of footsteps.

  A moment later the door swung open, the top half of Gale Pearlman visible on the other side. If she was surprised in the slightest to see him, she didn’t show it, wiping her face with a cloth napkin as she appraised him.

  “Mrs. Pearlman, I’m sorry to show up like this,” Reed said, “but I had a couple additional questions and I thought you might be the best person to answer them for me.”

  She looked through the screen in either direction before stepping back, offering a slight nod. “Thank you for not parking in front of the house. Should keep the lookey-loos from getting too fired up.”

  Reed took the statement as an invitation, stepping inside, and pausing on a small linoleum foyer. He glanced down at the three pairs of shoes by the door and pushed his from his feet, stepping on their heels without bothering with the laces.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I was just having dinner and watching my stories,” Pearlman said, moving straight back for the couch. In front of it stood a folding TV tray table, a plate of pork chops and gravy half-eaten on it.

  The smell filled the air, Reed’s stomach clenching but remaining silent as he sat across from her.

  “Please, continue,” Reed said, watching as Pearlman took up her utensils, intent on eating with or without his permission.

  “You know, I figured you’d be back,” Pearlman said, starting again on the meat.

  “Why’s that?” Reed asked, masking his surprise at the statement.

  “Because the last time we spoke, it was plain as day that you were just getting started,” Pearlman said, cutting a chunk of meat free from the bone and stabbing it with her fork. “Hard for a man to know what to ask when he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.”

  She forked the oversized bite into her mouth, Reed looking away as he consider
ed the statement.

  Very little actual time had passed since their last meeting, though she was right in assessing that his position was radically different. No longer was he solely focused on whoever might have committed a heinous act or two, now pulling on the commonality among them, determined to see what had driven someone to kill.

  Only then would he be able to figure out who he was searching for.

  “That’s quite astute,” Reed said, nodding, forcing a small smile. “And quite accurate, I have no problem admitting.”

  Continuing to chew, Pearlman nodded in approval at his humility.

  “Today I have only a single question for you,” Reed said, reaching into his pocket and extracting the same photo, still folded into quadrants. “If the answer is no, I will be on my way with my sincerest apologies for interrupting your dinner.”

  Across from him, Pearlman seemed to sense what he was trying to say, placing her utensils down and pushing the plate a few inches away.

  “And if I say yes?”

  “Then I will probably have a few more questions to ask,” Reed said, still holding on to the photograph.

  Raising a hand to him, Pearlman flicked her fingers back to herself, motioning for him to pass it over.

  “Are you sure?” Reed asked. “You might not have much of an appetite afterward.”

  The right side of Pearlman’s face curled up as if she was offended, her head rocking back a few inches. “Boy, one thing you ain’t ever got to worry about with this old woman is her appetite.”

  There was no doubt in Reed’s mind about the truth of that statement, smiling, he leaned over and gave her the photo.

  One corner at a time Pearlman unfolded the image before setting it flat on the TV stand beside her dinner, brushing it smooth with both hands. She stared at it, her face frozen.

  More than once Reed wanted to ask if she recognized it, prompt her to search back in her mind, but he remained silent.

  Seconds seemed to crawl by. He turned his gaze to the side so he wasn’t staring straight at her, a muted episode of the newest cop procedural playing on the screen.

  The irony was not lost on him.

  “Yes, I remember this,” Pearlman said, snapping Reed’s attention back to her, palpitations racing through his chest.

  She reached out and traced each of the letters with her fingers, her movements slow and deliberate. “They called themselves the KOTB. Kings of The Bottoms.”

  The simplicity of it was almost too much to bear, Reed biting his tongue to keep from cursing his own fallibility.

  “They were here for maybe two, three years,” Pearlman said, her voice far away, her mind in another place. “Dropped out of sight for good a little over two years ago.”

  His breathing picked up as Reed stared at her, resisting the urge to start jotting notes down, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts.

  “Two years ago? You’re sure?” Reed asked.

  “Yes,” Pearlman said, her eyes growing glassy as she rocked her head up and down. “I know because that’s when my Henry passed away. I remember at the time, being worried they might start messing with me, but they never did. Then they were gone.”

  Warmth crept up Reed’s back as he added the information to what he already knew. Not only did he now have a name, but he had a specific timeframe to work from.

  “Why were you concerned? Had they ever bothered you before?”

  “No,” Pearlman said, “but like I said, Henry was still here. He’d been in the Navy before we got married, knew how to shoot a gun.”

  She left the end of her statement dangling, allowing Reed to ascertain that it was common knowledge he wasn’t afraid to fire it either.

  “So, two years or so?” Reed asked.

  “Yeah,” Pearlman said. “They just kind of showed up one day, all with these tattoos you’ve got here. Started messing with folks, stealing things, being a general nuisance to everybody.”

  The last sentence brought disdain to her face, the sheen of moisture on her eyes at the mention of her late husband now gone.

  “Were the police ever notified?” Reed asked, again wondering why his search had revealed nothing.

  “Never by us,” Pearlman said, shaking her head. “But I imagine by somebody at some point.”

  Scads of questions came to Reed’s mind as he tried to get a handle on what Pearlman had just said. Most of them were things he knew she wouldn’t know, but he needed to find answers, fast.

  His pulse pounded through his temples as he ran his hands down the front of his jeans, fighting not to jump up and run straight back to his car and get to digging on a new line of inquiry.

  “Just one more question, if you wouldn’t mind,” Reed said. “How many people would you say were involved with this gang?”

  Pearlman gave a snort of contempt. “Gang? Oh no, this was barely enough kids to be called a group. Maybe a half dozen or so, tops.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Kings of The Bottoms.”

  “Kings of The Bottoms,” Grimes repeated, looking down at the picture in his hands, the creases in it growing wider with excessive use. “Not a real original bunch, are they?”

  “Were,” Reed corrected. “Past tense.”

  Grimes looked up from the photo and tossed it onto his desk. “As in, they no longer exist?”

  There was no attempt to hide the smirk on Reed’s face as he rocked his head back, letting the full effect of it hit Grimes. “If our database is any indicator, they never existed at all.”

  The eyebrows on Grimes’s forehead rose a bit higher as he opened his mouth to speak, paused, then started again. “Really? There’s nothing in there anywhere?”

  “Not about that emblem or any complaints, arrests, warrants, anything ever associated with them. Like I said, it’s as if they never existed.”

  “Yet you’re sure they did?” Grimes pressed.

  “Yes,” Reed said, pointing at the photo. “That tattoo proves they existed, the statement of Gale Pearlman confirms it.”

  A moment passed as Grimes lowered his shoulders deeper into his chair, his chin receding back into his chest.

  “I feel like you’re taking this somewhere, Detective, I’m just not sure where.”

  The question was one Reed had expected when he first requested the meeting with Grimes, knowing full-well the conclusion he was fast reaching would not sit well with the captain.

  “Figuring out what these guys did will enable me to figure out who’s going after them now.”

  The frown remained on Grimes’s face as he kept his fingers laced, the pads of his thumbs tapping together above his belt. “But you can’t do that now, because...?”

  “Because somebody is hiding something,” Reed said, pushing the words out in one quick breath. “Something happened that made these guys suddenly disband two years ago. And it was something bad enough that now someone has taken it upon himself to make it disappear.”

  Without even realizing it, Reed had slid to the front edge of his chair, the same one that Brandt had been perched on that morning. His heart rate and breathing patterns were both high, his brow wet with perspiration.

  “So you’re saying we’ve got a mole?” Grimes asked, his face, his voice, relaying the displeasure he felt at the mere insinuation.

  “That, I don’t know,” Reed said, moving back an inch. “What I do know is somebody worked damn hard to scrub these guys from the system.”

  He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, thinking of a new way to approach things.

  “Think about it, Captain. Have we ever had a gang before, no matter how small, no matter how short lived, that didn’t pop up on somebody’s radar? That didn’t piss off the wrong neighbor, or try to rob the wrong old lady, or something that got them at least a warning?”

  On the other side of the desk the look of discomfort softened a bit, Reed knowing he had struck pay dirt.

  “What are you asking me to do?” Grimes asked. “If something is in th
ere and isn’t coming up because it was expunged, you know there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  The response, too, was something Reed had come in anticipating. There were only two logical explanations he could imagine for the Kings having been nowhere in the system.

  One was a dirty uniform, which would take an unheard of level of deceit from both him and his partner to pull off.

  Possible, but not likely.

  The other was that for some reason, the charges had been redacted, expunged from the permanent record by a judge and therefore untouchable by someone like him.

  “I know,” Reed said, settling his gaze on Grimes, hoping the look alone was enough to relay what he was trying to say.

  Silence passed between them as Grimes matched the stare, realization settling over his features.

  “So you came here to tell me, not ask me,” he finally said.

  “No,” Reed replied, pushing himself to a standing position. “I came here so if Brandt and her watchdog show up here again in the morning, you’ll have enough to keep them off my ass.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  There were two rules that were non-negotiable at the place Reed was headed. The first was to never, ever, arrive empty handed. If services were to be performed, payment must be made.

  The second was if a job well-done was sought, never let that payment be in cash.

  The full liter of Jack Daniels was stowed away in a gym bag as Reed walked up to the front door. He could feel the liquid inside sloshing back and forth with each step, using his left hand to hold it steady against his hip.

  The place was somewhere he hadn’t been in many months, not since before everything changed. In the time since, he hadn’t been avoiding the place, no reason to, but as he grew closer, he could sense he hadn’t made an effort to seek it out either.

  Like most of the other things from his life just six months before, it had been purged, one less reminder of the way things were and could never be again.

  The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house as Reed pressed it and stepped back, waiting as feet shuffling over tile grew louder within. A moment later the corner of the curtains over the glass top of the door peeled back, the porch light coming on simultaneously.