Dev Haskell Box Set 8-14 (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator)

by Mike Faricy

  “Can you turn it up a notch? Tough to hear over the music,” Louie said.

  “You really want to listen to this shit? It’s all bad news,” the bartender said then picked up the remote and increased the sound.

  “Breaking developments in the DEA robbery…” The news report went on to give a summation of the robbery, running yesterday’s video of ambulances on the scene and the street blocked off. Then they broke to the tape of a press conference held earlier this afternoon where the police mentioned that a cell phone had been found at the scene of the crime and all leads were being aggressively pursued.

  “Shit, that’s it,” I said.

  “That’s what?” Louie asked.

  “The phone. The one they found at the hijacking of that DEA van. You know what, it’s coming together and all of a sudden it all adds up.”

  “No offense, but what’s coming together? You’re not making a bit of sense.”

  “This whole thing, Louie. The cops or rather the DEA is on to the drugs in the van, five million worth. They stake it out to nail the bad guys. Meanwhile the bad guys, or should I just say, Tubby finds someone to drive the van, knowing he’ll get nailed and the drugs will be taken into custody.”

  “And so far this sounds really stupid, Dev.”

  “The stuff is in police custody until it’s transferred back to the DEA. Tubby finds out the transfer time, and steals the van. He gets the drugs or maybe even gets his drugs back. Daryl Bergstrom is dead, Duncan Nixon’s dead, and Destiny Meyers is dead. No one’s left to tie Tubby to any of this.”

  “The phone thing still isn’t making sense. Why not just go after whoever owns the phone?”

  “Fake name, pay-as-you-go, something like that. Hell, I bought one just this morning.”

  “I’m still not tracking. So, they find the phone and they can’t trace the owner, how does that help?”

  “They trace the calls on the phone. Find out who called it.”

  “But, how do they come up with you? You didn’t… Oh, you stupid, dumb son-of-a-bitch.”

  I shrugged.

  “Whose phone did you call, who owns the thing?” Louie said and shook his head in disgust.

  “Well, it might be a guy named Bulldog. He kinda works for Tubby.”

  “Bulldog. Smooth move. And so they scan the numbers and your name comes up?”

  “Probably. It’s all making sense, now.”

  “Sense? No it’s not, Dev. You called this dog shit guy on your phone?”

  “Bulldog.”

  You called him? What on earth for?”

  “I might have maybe, heard a sort of rough idea when the DEA was making the transfer, sort of, maybe.”

  “What?” Louie screamed over Bob Seger.

  “Keep your voice down, man.”

  “Why in the hell would you do that? Call him. It makes no sense. Tubby and his band of merry men get off scot free, at least three people are dead which just leaves you and well, maybe that bug woman with the little kid.”

  “Crickett?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “I think she’s sleeping with Tubby’s kid, so she’s safe at least for the time being.”

  “Great, then that leaves just you.”

  “Yeah, just me…”

  “Perhaps a warning here, my friend, based on what we think has happened thus far. Get on your new pay-as-you-go phone, and call Detective Manning or your pal Aaron LaZelle, then get your ass into police custody while you still can.”

  “Louie, two people have been killed just in the past week and they were both held by the cops. It’s highly possible Tubby is behind one or both of those murders. I turn myself in and all that’s going to do is let him know my location for the foreseeable future. Hell, he’s probably got some idiot already in jail just waiting for the opportunity to nail me if I show up.”

  “It seems to me you’re running out of options, Dev.”

  “Humph, it seems to me I ran out of options a while ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The door was surrounded by an elegant, and at the same time, rustic front porch with six massive split logs for steps. There wasn’t a doorbell, just a heavy, shiny brass knocker hanging in the center of the large oak panel. When I banged the thing I could barely hear the sound from the far side of the door before the echo bounced off the dark pine and birch forest surrounding the log house.

  Charlie Bergstrom’s place was nothing if not serene. It was also very private, difficult to find, and more than a little intimidating. I waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time before a voice called from behind me.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned, and recognized Charlie maybe twenty yards away. He was gazing at me from beneath his Vietnam Veteran cap, comfortably resting some sort of rifle with a heavy duty scope on his right hip. His features didn’t soften once he recognized me, but he grunted an, “Oh you,” then casually approached.

  “Denny Hendle, right?”

  “Sort of, sir. It’s Dev Haskell, actually.”

  He shrugged, suggesting it really didn’t make a difference, glanced around like he might be checking for accomplices, then said, “Please, don’t call me, sir. Charlie will do just fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you doing all the way up here?”

  “I wondered if we might talk.”

  “I guessing you’ve driven all the way up from the cities, and I’m sorry you had to make the trip just to hear me say I don’t think there’s really anything I’m interested in talking about.”

  “Could I just take five minutes of your time?”

  He gave me a look that suggested I was pushing it, but said, “I’m about ready for a cup of coffee, join me, and I’ll give you five minutes. But that’s about all.”

  We were seated on a back deck that ran the entire length of the log home. From this side, the structure seemed a lot larger than I’d originally thought, I guessed close to a hundred-feet long. The deck sported an intricate railing with a grand staircase on either end leading down to the ground level. The entire affair was meticulously stained a honey sort of color. It held a large grill, a couple of tables, lots of chairs, and a bar. I noticed speakers with what looked like cameras mounted along the back of the log home. The deck overlooked a dark forest that gave the impression of going on for miles and miles. I could hear water running in a stream somewhere off in the distance, but couldn’t see the stream for the pine and birch forest.

  “Really nice out here,” I said, and meant it.

  “Thank you, my refuge from all the bullshit going on out there,” he said, and gave a half nod of his head to indicate the rest of the planet. After a moment, he set his coffee mug on top of the railing, and looked at me. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “I’m not sure where, exactly to begin, other than to tell you again, I’m truly sorry about what happened to your son. I suppose you heard about Duncan Nixon being killed in jail.”

  “Last I heard there was talk of possibly labeling that a suicide.”

  “There might be talk, but I don’t think it’ll happen. His roommate, girlfriend, whatever she was, a woman named Destiny Meyers was found dead the other day. Apparent drug overdose rigged to look like an accident, but it appears pretty suspicious. I’m guessing they’ll eventually rule both deaths as homicides.”

  Charlie took a long sip from his coffee mug and stared blank faced, looking unfazed by my information. “Shit happens.”

  “The other thing I thought you should know is that the wounding of the two DEA agents and the hijacking of that van a couple of days ago in St. Paul, may be related to Daryl’s death.”

  “Oh, really?” Charlie said. Strange, just two words, but when he spoke it sounded almost fake or maybe put on, like he had rehearsed a line in a play then delivered it poorly. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he didn’t seem the least bit surprised. I plowed ahead.

  “Yeah, I think the contraband being transp
orted by the DEA was the same stuff that was in that van Daryl was driving. My thought is that some group actually planned to have the stuff confiscated by the police. That would essentially keep it safe for a couple of days. Under police care it would have been virtually untouchable, well until it was transferred to the DEA. Then they got hit in broad daylight, and now someone has possession of all that cocaine.”

  “Any idea who that could be?”

  “You mean like a mastermind? No. To tell you the truth all sorts of names are bouncing around out there, some legit, some not a snowball’s chance in hell. But I don’t know anything definitive. I’m not sure the cops know either.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Why? That’s a good question. I’m not really sure to tell you the truth, other than to just let you know. I’d say from the look of things, your son was most likely set up, probably didn’t have a clue what he was getting into. I guess I wanted you to know that much, know he maybe just made a bad choice, but he wasn’t a bad guy. And, unfortunately I can’t prove it, but I think part of the set up may have been to make sure he never told anyone. I don’t know if it was part of the plan or just bad luck, but his court appointed attorney wasn’t the brightest, and she should have insisted on protective custody the moment she began representing him.”

  “That would be Miss Cochrane.”

  “It would.”

  “Doesn’t really help at this juncture, now does it?”

  “No sir, I guess it doesn’t.”

  He turned his head and seemed to study me for a long moment, then his eyes softened. “Where’d you serve, son?”

  “Iraq, Afghanistan.”

  He nodded then stared back into the dark forest.

  “What’d you do in Vietnam?” I asked.

  “Nothing of interest. Look, safe trip back to the cities, come on, I’ll walk you out to your car,” he said then picked up both the coffee mugs, and headed across the deck.

  He walked me to my car, but it was almost as if he was escorting me off the premises. I slid in behind the wheel and was about to say ‘thanks for the coffee’.

  “You watch your six, son,” he said then turned and headed back toward those massive log steps.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I was parked across the street and a few doors up from Crickett’s house. I’d been sitting in the dark for a couple of hours, thankfully none of the neighbors had walked past and I hadn’t seen any window curtains twitching. I was planning to confront Tubby’s kid, Ben, if and when the idiot ever pulled up. It wasn’t much of a plan, and I didn’t have any idea about what I’d do beyond that. Not for the first time I asked myself, ‘What in the hell are you thinking?’

  A little before midnight, two sets of headlights turned the corner and drifted down the street. I slid lower in my seat and stared through the space between the steering wheel and the dashboard of the Aztek. The first car pulled to the curb in front of Crickett’s, and parked, while the second pair of headlights seemed to tread water, waiting just a little behind. The lights on the second car bounced off the sleek, polished black body and illuminated a Mercedes hood ornament. I planned to check, but I was willing to bet there was a set of designer license plates that would read ‘BeniBoy’.

  Eventually, the driver’s door opened on the parked car and a large silhouette seemed to pour out of the front seat. The outline looked to be about as large as Tubby, and my first thought was that his idiot kid would be dead from a heart attack within the year. Then I realized the fat figure was in fact, Tubby.

  He flicked a half-wave to the car waiting behind, then waddled up the walk toward the front door. The door opened as he jiggled up the steps, and Crickett stood there for just a brief moment before she followed Tubby into the house and closed the door behind her. The waiting car moved slowly down the street past me, then turned the corner and disappeared.

  Crickett? I wondered what kind of woman would want Tubby tapping her on the shoulder at three in the morning asking if she was awake. I waited a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear then walked over to the Mercedes. Even in the dark as I approached I could see the ‘BeniBoy’ plates.

  Light drifted out from two kitchen windows along the side of the house, and I wandered across the lawn and down a dark, narrow concrete sidewalk toward the rear to get a look. The windows were high and I had to stand on top of the water meter to gaze inside.

  Tubby was seated at the kitchen table with his enormous rear hanging over the sides of a wooden chair. The chair looked ready to collapse under his weight. A strong looking drink sat next to the open pizza box in front of him. At the moment he seemed to be focused on cramming a gigantic slice of pizza, about an inch thick into his mouth, in the process ignoring Crickett perched precariously on the very edge of his lap. For her part Crickett nibbled his massive ear, careful not to interrupt the flow of pizza or alcohol.

  The windows were closed and I couldn’t hear what, if anything was being said. They kept up the routine as Tubby worked his solo way through the large, double everything pizza, Crickett seemed content to continue nibbling Tubby’s ear.

  The kick to the back of my knees was hard enough to send me skyward and parallel with the ground. I bounced once off the concrete sidewalk just as a boot slammed into my solar plexus and knocked the wind out of me. The back of a heavy heel caught me on the forehead. Just before I blacked out I had a couple of thoughts; ‘These guys were really good,’ and ‘They seemed to be enjoying themselves’.

  The pressure from the bench vise being tightened on my hand sort of brought me back to the surface. I was partially kneeling on a basement floor against a workbench with my left arm pulled over my head. My hand had been shoved into some sort of vise that at the moment was being tightened just below my knuckles. I prayed that if I just remained still whoever was standing over me would go away. It wasn’t working.

  “You’d think with a workbench, she’d at least have a skill saw down here,” a raspy voice said.

  “She don’t strike me as the tool type.”

  “You get in touch with Bulldog?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “Tubby, still here?”

  “He got his fat ass out of here as soon as he finished that pizza. I was hoping for an early night, but now we’ll probably have to deal with this piece of shit.” With that last comment, one of them used their knee to bounce my head off the side of the workbench. I sort of half hung there kneeling on the floor, frantically praying they’d go away when I heard what sounded like a distant door bell.

  “That’s gotta be Bulldog, go let him in,” the raspy voice said. A moment later I was aware of footsteps climbing up the wooden stairs.

  I could open one eye and saw a foot-long length of galvanized pipe on the bottom shelf of the workbench. I heard the click of a cigarette lighter, and then the sound of an inhale, as the thug standing over me fired up a cigarette. I reached for the pipe and swung it as hard as I could into the knee next to my head. I felt the flesh tear across the back of my hand clamped in the vise. I swung again as the figure standing over me collapsed to the floor. I think I caught him across the side of his skull, but didn’t have the luxury to wait and see. I hit him across the top of his head just to be sure, and he didn’t react. I struggled to my feet, loosened the vise on my hand and stepped over the body on the concrete floor.

  He was face down and very still. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing, and at this moment really didn’t give a damn. I did see a pistol tucked into the small of his back, actually secured in a belt holster. I tried to pull the holster out, but my left hand was virtually useless after being clamped in the vise, so I unsnapped the safety strap and pulled the weapon loose. It was a small handgun, black with plastic grips. Not heavy duty, maybe a P22, but it was better than nothing. Just as I made my way toward the stairs I heard voices and footsteps overhead. The door to the basement opened a moment later and I ducked beneath the wooden stairs.

  There wer
e two pairs of feet clomping down the staircase. One of the voices half giggled and said, “Haskell an old friend stopped by to see…what the fuck? Ricky? Ricky?”

  They were halfway across the basement when I fired. I recognized the boot heel on the first figure and caught him in the back of the knee. “Don’t,” I shouted at Bulldog, as he reached for the weapon in his waistband. I leveled the pistol and aimed at the back of his head.

  He spread his hands out to the side. For a moment his right hand carefully held a pistol between his thumb and index finger before he dropped it to the floor. The creep I shot was rolling from side to side at Bulldog’s feet attempting to muffle his screams and grunting. His eyes looked wild and he seemed to be foaming at the mouth.

  “I ain’t got a gun now, I’m unarmed,” Bulldog said.

  “Get your ass down on the floor. Stretch out and keep your hands where I can see them. You try anything I will blow what little brains you got all over the wall. Honest to God, I swear I will.”

  He slowly knelt down on the basement floor, exhaling in protest, like it was one more stupid thing he had to do. As he stretched out, I stepped over and used my foot to slide his pistol further away until I felt comfortable picking it up. My left hand was beginning to function, but I still bobbled the weapon, and had to press it against my hip to hang onto the thing.

  “You got any idea the kind of trouble you’re in, Haskell. No one does this to Tubby,” Bulldog said. “Just where in the hell do you think you’re going to…”

  “Shut up, Dog Shit,” I said, and pushed his face into the gray concrete floor with my foot then I quickly stepped back and kicked him in the ribs. The kick seemed to have little effect other then he growled on impact. I could see his temple flutter as he ground his jaw back and forth. His lower lip curled evilly, and I was sure even now he was making plans for me. His partner had settled down somewhat, and wasn’t rolling back and forth although he still held his knee and grunted with each and every exhale.

  “I don’t want anything from you or Tubby except to be left alone.”