by Bill Noel
Humboldt finally showed life. “I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” he said.
I almost said, “I see,” but instead I said, “I understand. Bear with me. I think the dots will be connected.” I clasped my right hand in a fist and tapped it against the desk. “She gave me some damn cock-and-bull story about her dear husband being murdered. I was wondering what holy crap I had stepped in. I bolted as quickly as my car would carry me.” I shook my head. “No money, no nothing—she screwed me again.” I leaned toward Humboldt and then placed both palms on the glass desktop.
“I fail to see—”
I raised my right hand from the desk and held it in front of me, palm facing Humboldt. “Then her house burns, and the next thing I hear is that she’s moving to Folly Beach. Can you believe that? What was I to do?” I shook my head again. “What was I to do?”
Humboldt’s fingers began to tap impatiently on the desk.
“Neither here nor there,” I said. “Then she keeps telling me this story about someone trying to kill her.” I looked at Humboldt and laughed. “I was ready to add myself to that list.” I rolled my eyes. “She even gave me this.” I reached to my back pocket and pulled out a plain white envelope I’d borrowed from the Hampton Inn’s office. It contained five sheets of blank copy paper from the hotel’s printer and one sheet from a bank statement that Sean had faxed to the hotel. I had printed CHRIS on the envelope.
Humboldt glanced at the envelope as if it were a tarantula, but he remained silent.
“And then do you know what happened, Mr. Humboldt?”
His glance went from the envelope to me. He shook his head.
“You killed her.”
CHAPTER 55
I had never understood why anyone would want a glass-top desk. It would be a pain to keep hand and fingerprint free. Now one huge advantage immediately sprang to mind. Humboldt couldn’t reach under the top and grab a gun without my seeing it. I slowly slipped the envelope back in my rear pocket. Humboldt’s eyes followed the envelope until it was behind me.
He cocked his head. If he were a cartoon character, there would have been a bubble over his head showing intertwined gear wheels spinning. His face hardened, and then he laughed—not quite a knee-slapping laugh, but close. “That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” he said.
I doubted that but didn’t say anything.
He looked toward the coffeepot and then in the direction of my back pocket. “Okay, I’ll play along,” he said. His hands gripped the arms of his ergonomic high-tech chair. “Why are you here?” He laughed. “To arrest me?”
“Hardly.” I leaned back. “You see, Mr. Humboldt, or may I call you Tag?”
“Sure,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I couldn’t care less about Joan and what happened to her damned husband,” I said. “I never even heard of him until he was dead. She threw my life in a tailspin decades ago. She shoved her way back in my life a few weeks ago and almost got me killed.” My eyes met his. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what happened to her.”
His hands continued to grip the chair. “Again, why are you here?”
“Simple,” I said. “You could call it taking advantage of an opportunity. You see, I’m broke. I’m in my sixties, too old to get a job even if I wanted to, which I don’t. And I don’t have a penny.”
He nodded in the direction of the parking lot. “That’s not a bad SUV you’re driving,” he said, spoken like a car salesman.
“Leased,” I said. “Three payments behind.”
“Hmm,” he said with a nod.
“Anyway, you want to know why I’m here. Joan gave me this envelope the day she got to Folly.” I patted my rear pocket. “She told me to open it if something happened to her. I thought she was paranoid—she had a history of that. I’d forgotten about it. Threw it on a pile of magazines at the house.” I hesitated and then smiled at Tag. “If I’d known what it was when she gave it to me, I’d have rented a safety deposit box for it.”
“What’s so important about it?” said Tag. He tried to appear nonchalant, but I saw the tension around his eyes.
I reached for the envelope, stopped short, and pulled my hand back. “I’m not certain what it all means—a computer printout, copies of checks, and handwritten notes.” I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and opened its flap. I pulled out the fax, and then just as quickly slid it back in the envelope. Humboldt examined the envelope. “But it looks like evidence that you’d been falsifying mileage and history on cars going all the way back to when you bought a Kia and a Nissan dealership. This place too.” I waved my hand toward the showroom. “Something about laundering cash as well. According to the printout, it’s a multimillion-dollar scam. The notes—I guess Joan’s husband wrote them—say that a bunch of federal and state laws have been broken. It also says her husband found out about the scam. He offered to let you buy him out for hundreds of thousands of dollars more than what his share was worth.” Thank you, Sean Aker, for calling with that information and the fax. “Again, I don’t know what it all means, but I suspect you do.” I stared at him. “So would the cops.”
“This is preposterous,” he said. He didn’t sound nearly as exasperated as I’m sure he intended to. “That’s quite a fantasy. I still don’t know what you want.”
He may be a good poker player, but a slight twitch in his left hand told what I needed to know.
Now for the moment of truth—sort of. I took a deep breath and patted my rear pocket. “I’ll make it simple. I’m not greedy. This envelope holds the only copy of the documents. I’m staying in Gatlinburg. Tomorrow morning at eleven, I’ll be in my SUV in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn. At ten after eleven, I will be on my way home. Follow so far?”
He nodded.
“If you’re there at eleven with seventy-five thousand dollars cash, I’ll hand you the envelope and happily be on my way and out of your life. You’ll never hear from me again. Never.” I snapped my fingers. “Oh yeah, if you’re not there with the money, I’ll drive to the Gatlinburg Police Department on my way out of town and hand them the envelope. It’s as simple as that.”
“If I were stupid enough to play along with this imaginary scenario, how would I know that’s the only copy? How would I know you wouldn’t be back?”
Charles and I had debated for more than an hour about how much to ask for. I wanted it large enough that Humboldt would think I could be satisfied. It also needed to be small enough that he could get it from a bank without too much trouble. Charles said it had to be enough to seem like a real threat. Seventy-five thousand sounded like a nice compromise.
I grinned. “You wouldn’t,” I said. “But do you really have a choice?” I abruptly stood and walked toward the door. “Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, seventy-five thousand cash. Have a good day.”
I practically jogged out of the building, my heart beating faster than my step.
CHAPTER 56
Charles flung open his door on the first knock and peppered me with questions before I could unzip my coat. I took the “incriminating” envelope out of my pocket and threw it on the bedside table. I said that I’d answer his questions but wanted to wait until Kevin joined us.
It was Kevin’s day off, and he joined us at the hotel. Charles had managed to get three bags of chips and three soft drinks from the vending machines. I gave them as close to a verbatim description of my meeting with Tag Humboldt as I could. Charles, being Charles, wondered if Bradford had asked about him. He was visibly disappointed when I said that he hadn’t asked and hadn’t appeared to have remembered our earlier visit.
Kevin was more interested in Tag’s reaction and whether I thought he had fallen for it. I wasn’t sure, saying that time would tell, but I let him know that I’d be surprised if he didn’t show.
Kevin hid a microphone and transmitter in the sun visor of my SUV. He told me that it was
sound activated, and that I wouldn’t have to do anything but talk to start it. He also gave me a body mike and transmitter as well as instructions on how to attach it after my shower in the morning. He said duct tape wasn’t very high-tech but was effective in holding the miniature mike and transmitter. I said, “Ouch.” He smiled. Charles took the recording equipment and said he would have fun sticking it on me, and more fun ripping it off. “Ouch,” I repeated.
Kevin said that he would be across the street from the hotel by ten thirty, adding that one of his cop buddies would be with him. We all agreed that it was a good plan, and Charles said that he knew it would work.
I wished I was that confident.
Sunset wasn’t officially until a little after five thirty, but the mountains that loomed over Gatlinburg combined with the heavy snow clouds that kissed the mountaintops, casting darkness on the resort community before five. By eight o’clock, I felt like a six-year-old on Christmas Eve—it would never end; the next day would never arrive.
Charles wanted to talk and I wanted to soak my aching body in a hot shower. Charles wanted to get more chips; I wanted to throw up the ones I had eaten. Charles wanted to castrate the slimy bastard who’d killed his new friend Joan, and I wanted to hand the killer over to the police and go home to the familiar confines of my quaint cottage on Folly Beach, South Carolina.
By nine o’clock, I had said all I could and told him that I was turning in. He said that was good, as he had a new mystery by Tennessee novelist Keith Donnelly. Just what Charles needed, another mystery. I took the kind route and said, “Happy reading,” closing his door.
I tried to watch television. I wasn’t in the market for a seven-piece knife set or a “perfect lab-created” diamond necklace with matching earrings or reruns of Law and Order, so I hit the remote’s OFF button.
Then my mind woke up. Had I convinced Humboldt? Did he buy my “couldn’t care less about Joan” performance? Could I have been wrong about him? What were the odds that he wasn’t the killer? Would he show? Would I live to tell the story to the police?
I was too antsy to sleep, yet I didn’t want to start another conversation with Charles. A walk might help. The temperature had dropped drastically, and light snow had begun to fall again. I would much rather have been walking on the beach, but the nearly deserted streets of Gatlinburg were a pleasant second choice. The soothing smell of wood-burning fireplaces surrounded me as I walked the deserted sidewalks past closed shops and then back to the warm confines of my room.
CHAPTER 57
I had just thrown my coat on the chair when I heard a knock. I knew I shouldn’t have slipped out without taking Charles with me. I was caught.
“Yes, Charles,” I said as I opened the door. “I know—”
“Hello, Mr. Landrum,” said Tag Humboldt. “I couldn’t wait.” He was my size, but in my mind, he filled the doorframe. I could barely see his face as he stared out of a coal-black flannel hoodie. He wore black jeans and black boots. His hands were covered with black leather gloves. The only thing not black was a silver-plated nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol in his right hand. It was aimed at my stomach. “May I come in?”
I stepped back, considered my other options, which numbered zero, and shrugged. He pushed me back with the muzzle, pushed the door closed with his foot, and then used his free hand to hook the security chain.
“How did—”
He rammed his elbow in my stomach. I gasped, and he shoved me in the chair on top of my jacket. “Where’s the envelope?” he said. “Where?”
I couldn’t catch my breath, much less speak. I shook my head.
“You didn’t think you could get away with it?” he said. He looked at my suitcase on the table by the television.
“How’d you find me?” I squeaked.
“Dumb ass,” he said. “You told me where you were. Didn’t know what room.” He pointed the gun toward the parking lot. “I’ve been waiting out there an hour. I saw you come out and walk up the street. Don’t you know it’s dangerous going out alone at night?” He chuckled at his joke. “Waited for you to get back and here I am.”
“Why—”
“Shut up!” He aimed the revolver to my head. “Where’s the damn envelope?”
I shrugged.
He walked to the suitcase and flipped open the unzipped top, looked in, and didn’t see what he was looking for. He grabbed the handle and shoved the case against the wall. It barely missed the television, and everything in it flew out on the table and the floor.
He checked my socks, underwear, jeans, and a few other odds and ends that I didn’t even know were in the suitcase. My stuff was everywhere. There was still no envelope. He was pissed.
The gun was still pointed at my head. He took two steps, took hold of the edge of the mattress, lifted it, and pushed it until it slid off the bed frame. He may have looked average, but his strength was anything but. Nothing was under the mattress, and he got madder. He pulled one of the pillows off the bed and hurled it at the wall. It hit the flat-screen television, and the screen bounced off the wall and then crashed to the floor.
“Stand,” he said, moving around the mattress to the chair.
He had me turn around and saw that I didn’t have the envelope on me. All I could do was stall and pray for a miracle.
He slammed the gun down on my wrapped wrist. It felt as if a train were running up my arm. I screamed.
“Shut up!” he repeated. He glanced around the room until he saw my car keys on the bedside table. “Out.” He grabbed my shirt collar and shoved me toward the door.
I reached back for my jacket, and he hit my arm again. “You won’t need it.”
I unlatched the chain and stepped out in the frigid night. Other than a couple of lights under the overhang a couple of rooms away, the area was dark, and not another soul was around. We weren’t near the office—no help there.
Humboldt held the gun by his side and with his free hand shoved me into the parking lot.
Then I heard a high-pitched bloodcurdling “Ahhh!”
“What the …?” muttered Humboldt.
I looked over my shoulder and saw Charles. He’d pounced on Humboldt’s back and was trying to twist the hand holding the gun away from me.
Humboldt was still standing, and Charles imitated a backpack and wouldn’t let go. Humboldt pivoted and tried to dislodge my friend, but Charles’s left arm was wrapped around the gunman’s neck. He had Humboldt in a death grip.
Humboldt managed to twist around until the gun was pointed at Charles’s head.
I turned to the right, grabbed Humboldt’s gun hand, and pulled it away from Charles’s face.
The gun fired.
Large flakes of snow flew around my face, and I felt a sensation like a hot iron above the elbow on my right arm.
I let go of Humboldt’s arm. He lost his balance. Charles was on his back, and both of them hit the sidewalk with a dull thud.
Humboldt’s head bounced off the pavement. The gun flew out of his hand, slid a couple of feet, and fell off the sidewalk to the parking lot. The killer was momentarily stunned. I took advantage and twisted his right hand behind his back. I thought of what he had done to Joan and twisted harder. Charles rammed his knee in the prone killer’s back and grabbed both hands.
I stood back, caught my breath, thought of Joan and the smile on her face as we started across the bridge, and kicked Humboldt in the ribs. He let out a roar, and I kicked him again.
Lights came on in two of the upstairs rooms, and a man ran out of the hotel’s office and yelled, “What’s going on?”
I shouted, “Call the cops!”
Humboldt tried to push himself up with his knees, but with both hands twisted behind his back, he slipped back to the pavement and hit his head again. Blood gushed from his forehead. Charles pushed harder on his back and had a viselike grip on
his left hand.
The light snow began to accumulate on the sidewalk. It was a surreal scene.
It must have been a slow night for crime in Gatlinburg. Two city cruisers slid in the lot within minutes of my yelling. The officers saw two men holding a helpless man on the sidewalk. They politely but firmly “asked” Charles and me to slowly get up and step away from the gentleman on the walk.
I said, “This man killed two people.” I gestured to Humboldt. I knew they wouldn’t believe me, but I didn’t want them to treat him lightly.
A third cruiser arrived. Two of the officers conferred and then asked Charles and me to follow them to the hotel office. One of them picked up the semiautomatic by the barrel and asked whom it belonged to. Charles quickly pointed to Humboldt. The officer nodded. The third officer had a firm grip on Humboldt, and he escorted him to the rear seat of the patrol car. The cop offered Humboldt a white shop towel to press against his bleeding forehead. The officer then slipped in the front.
My adrenaline had slowed some, and the pain shot through my arm when Charles and I stepped into the office. We moved close to the small fireplace in the corner. Charles pointed to my arm and asked if I was okay. It was a fair question since blood was running down my shirt and dripping on the floor. The cop helped me sit and asked the desk clerk to call an ambulance. The pain was back, and I felt light-headed.
Thinking I might faint, I quickly asked the officer to call Officer Norton, saying he could verify our story. That was all I remembered—until I looked up and an ER doc said that I was in the LaConte Medical Center in nearby Sevierville. He said the bullet had missed bone, and that I’d be okay with some rest, strong pain meds, and some TLC.
I really, really hated hospitals!
CHAPTER 58
Charles was in the waiting room when I walked out of the treatment area. He looked at my bandaged right arm resting in a sling, instantly decided that I was going to live, and lit into me about spending the last three hours sleeping while he was helping the police solve the “crime of the century.”