Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  Ron Shade

  Alex St. James didn’t get into the Beater right away. Her passive expression turned to one of delight. “What a perfect car for a private detective,” she said. “I meant to tell you that the other day, but I got so worked up in my conversation with Bass, that I forgot. This is a great car.”

  I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, and I wondered if she was being sarcastic. She took a few minutes to walk around the car before climbing into the passenger’s side, where I held the door open.

  “This is a cool car,” she said. “My parents had one like it when I was a kid. What year is it?”

  I told her. As I slid behind the wheel, I gently patted the angular dash. “They don’t make ’em like this baby anymore.”

  “No, they don’t,” she said, as she fastened her seatbelt. “They say the type of car a person drives is an extension of his personality, don’t they?”

  “Well, remember, I sold my Firebird to your boss.”

  “Believe me, I remember. Firebirds and Corvettes are—” Rolling her eyes, she stopped herself. “Never mind.” She glanced around the car’s interior. “I like this one better.”

  As we were driving, she was on her cell phone trying to get a cameraman to meet us at Dr. Colon’s office. After several unsuccessful attempts to get hold of whom she was looking for, she finally let out a sigh of exasperation and began searching in her purse.

  “Problems?” I asked.

  “I can’t get hold of any of our on-call camera people.” Her tone was tinged with exasperation. “That’s the problem with not being network. If you don’t book somebody in advance, you can never get hold of them when you need them.”

  “I could pull into a Best Buy or Circuit City and you could buy a camcorder.”

  “Wouldn’t work. Which one of us is going to be the cameraman? Besides, I need some professional-looking video if I’m going to use it.”

  “Makes sense.”

  She held the phone to her ear and after a moment said, “Bass?”

  Although I could only hear her side of the conversation, it was obvious that her boss didn’t like being disturbed at this time of the evening. Alex pleaded her case with an urgent eloquence and hung up with a satisfied smile. “Hal is going to meet us over there in half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” I looked at my watch. “It’s already almost six. We’ll be lucky to find the good doctor in at this hour.”

  “Then we’ll call his emergency service number,” she said. “I’m sure he has one, being a dentist.”

  “But he’s a crooked dentist.”

  “Which we still have to prove.”

  “Listen, if it’s one thing I know, it’s people. Like I told you, they’re panicky. Getting sloppy. Running scared.”

  “And Colon’s the weakest link,” she said, lowering her voice and doing a fair imitation of me. Then, returning to her normal tone, “Do you think you’ll be able to get him to cooperate?”

  “Piece of cake. He’s in too deep. The advantage we have is I can threaten to drag him to the cops if he doesn’t. We’re going to give him his only out, unless he wants to go down for murder and face the needle.”

  She compressed her lips. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Trust me,” I said.

  Her cell phone rang, interrupting our conversation. It was Hal, the cameraman. She gave him our location, and probable ETA. When she hung up I glanced over her way.

  “He’s on his way,” she said. “Should be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “We’ll be there in five. But that’ll give me a chance to go in and soften the good doctor up.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘us’?”

  “But of course.”

  As we approached, the lights were all on in Colon’s office, which, given the still available light on this fine late spring evening, was hardly noticeable. Instead of pulling into the strip mall, I continued on down the block. Alex looked out the window and then to me. “I think you just went past it.”

  “I know. But the last time I was here, I noticed the good doctor parks his shiny, silver BMW in the back. I figure if it’s there, he’s there.”

  “He drives a Beemer?”

  “Obviously the fruits of his ill-gotten gain,” I said, making a hard right and then another one as I came to the alley. It had the same potholes that I’d bottomed out on the first time, so I took it real slow, sparing the Beater’s undercarriage as much as I could. As I drew closer, my heart sank. No BMW.

  “Maybe he went out to get something,” Alex offered. “He left the place lit up.”

  “Maybe,” I said, hawking the back door as we rolled past. “Maybe not.”

  A sliver of light ran down the side of the rear door. It was ajar. I pulled down to the corner and into a spot by the currency exchange. Alex glanced at me as I shifted the Beater into park and shut it off. I leaned over and opened the glove box. A half dozen receipts, the owner’s manual, a collection of candy from the various charitable organizations, some latex gloves, and a tire gauge came tumbling out.

  “Oh, my God,” Alex said, laughing. “It looks just like mine.”

  I ignored her and fished around in the remaining items inside the glove box, searching for what I wanted.

  “Do you need some help?” she asked.

  “Un un,” I said as my probing fingers found my Mini-Maglite flashlight. I held it up for her to see.

  “We going to wait here?” she asked.

  “Un un,” I said, opening the door and sliding out. I felt for my Beretta. “You’re going to wait while I prowl the place.”

  “Prowl the place?” Her tone reflected a humorous skepticism. “Who writes your dialogue?”

  I reiterated that she was to remain in the car. I’d purposely left the keys in the ignition. “And lock the doors. I don’t like the looks of this.”

  “The looks of what?”

  “An open back door,” I said. “But if we’re lucky, we might get a chance to poke around in Colon’s files before we catch up with him. Now, stay here.”

  She kept protesting until I assured her I’d come back for her once I was certain the building was clear. “Besides, what I’m about to do is totally illegal. It’s called criminal trespass. You wouldn’t want to be involved in breaking the law, would you?”

  “Only if it’s for a good cause,” she said with a smile.

  I smiled back and walked nonchalantly toward the rear entrance of Colon’s office. As I drew closer, the slice of lighted space became more apparent. Why would he leave the place unsecured? Maybe he’d left in a hell of a hurry. Or maybe he hadn’t. I paused to put on my thin, leather driving gloves, so I wouldn’t have to worry about minimizing my skin contact with any smooth surfaces. I used the flashlight to push the door open all the way and stood off to the side, peering in by just exposing the very edge of my face. If anybody appeared, I could pull back and be out of any line of fire. Staying behind cover whenever possible. An old Ranger habit.

  A long hallway extended before me, solid metal doors indicating three rooms along the way. At the end of the hallway, I could see the reception area, which looked deserted.

  I waited and listened and thought I heard a voice. Seconds later, it became apparent what it really was.

  A radio was playing somewhere inside. Elevator-type music. The voice was a disc jockey introducing the next bit of light jazz.

  No movements.

  I hesitated before taking that step inside, and removed the Beretta from its holster, holding it down by my leg. Better to be safe than sorry. I snapped the safety off and headed down the hallway. I checked the knob of the first door. It turned easily and the door opened. I let it go all the way to the wall, figuring there was no way anyone could be behind it unless they were Flat Stanley’s first cousin. The room was dark, except for the light spilling in from the hallway. A room without windows. I swept the flashlight beam around and saw nothing but a lot of cardboard boxes with medical company logos on t
heir sides. I moved to the adjacent door and tried it. It turned out to be a very large storage closet.

  Third one’s gotta be the charm, I thought.

  As I moved down the hallway, the sound of the music grew a fraction louder. For some reason I recognized the song. A jazzed up version of “The Best is Yet to Come.” The third door was unlocked as well, opening into another windowless room. This one wasn’t filled with boxes. Two bodies lay on the floor, their hands tied neatly behind them, dark circles of blood ringing each of their faces, the expressions frozen in that last look of horror.

  Dr. Colon and his pretty, young secretary.

  Alex St. James

  From my perch in his passenger seat, I watched Shade move like a big cat—smooth, alert, confident—as he pulled on a pair of gloves and made his way into the office through the open back door.

  It drove me nuts to sit here and wait.

  I hated waiting.

  To keep myself occupied I reviewed our recent discussions, and I thought about my conversation with Dr. Keith Colon. He struck me as kind of a wimpy guy. Shade insisted that Colon was the weak link in this organization and that we should press him for answers because he was the most likely to give up the goods. He was right.

  I had to admit, I’d been skeptical at first, but Shade’s reasoning—his convincing argument that Howard Rybak had taken Bob Bayless’s place in the burning car made sense. More than that, it struck that indescribable chord of truth. I knew it to be true, I knew it down deep. And now I was fully committed to seeing this story to its end.

  Once Shade had made it through the doorway, and his shadow disappeared into the brightly lit office, I hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  I tapped my fingers on the door’s edge. I tried to make myself think about other things, even as I stared. Maybe I’d have to start the car and unlock the door if he came running. Maybe he’d appear and gesture me in.

  Maybe I’d be stuck sitting here and waiting. Like a girl.

  Let the big, brave private detective have all the fun. Make the girl sit out in the car and wait.

  I hated waiting.

  But what could I do? Shade warned me that what he was doing was illegal. He’d even pulled on a pair of driving gloves to keep from leaving his prints. That much I knew. And I knew that if I followed him I’d inadvertently touch something, probably without realizing it.

  And then I remembered the treasure trove of Shade’s glove compartment. Among the piles of junk that had spilled out were latex gloves.

  I opened the compartment. Three gloves total—I wondered about that—but not long enough to slow me down.

  Grabbing the keys from the ignition, and being careful to leave the doors unlocked in the event that we’d have to get in quickly, I tugged the gloves on, and made my way to Dr. Colon’s back door.

  I couldn’t believe how my heart pounded. I felt a rush, like a kid doing something forbidden, and for a moment I faltered. Shade probably wouldn’t be happy to see me—but why should he get all the fun of interrogating Colon? I wanted to be there. I deserved to be in on it.

  I felt a rush of excitement, fear, and impulsive determination.

  My gym shoes were nearly silent on the floor tile. I could see all the way to the front of the office, and it looked like all the doors were open along the way. A radio played, but otherwise the place was silent as a tomb.

  Where was Shade?

  I took a quick look into the first room. Dark, empty. Nothing. It was too quiet. Shade should be talking to someone.

  Unless he was going through the files, as he threatened he might do. The thought of such an illegal search gave me the jitters, but I wanted to see those files, too.

  I passed the second open room, a storage area, and was about to enter the third room, when from within, Shade shouted. “Don’t move.”

  I peered around the doorway, to see who he was talking to.

  Shade’s gun pointed straight at my face.

  “Damn it,” he said, lowering the weapon the moment he saw me. “Do you want to get killed?”

  “No,” I said, my voice shaky and angry at the same time.

  “Then why the hell didn’t you stay in the car like I told you?”

  “Because you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  “I do if it’s for your own good.”

  “You don’t get to decide what’s for my own—” I suddenly spotted two bodies on the floor behind him. “Oh my God.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

  I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the scene. “They were shot in the head.”

  “Yeah,” he said, grabbing my elbow.

  “Oh my God,” I said again, resisting him. A sudden memory bubbled up, and I could see how these two died. I’d watched someone get shot in the head before. Up close and personal. “Who did this?”

  “If we get out of here, we can call the cops and maybe they’ll find out,” he said, his voice losing all friendliness. “You’re contaminating the scene just by being here.”

  His tone got to me. I held up my hands. “I put gloves on, okay?”

  My voice shook. Dr. Colon and his receptionist lying dead on the floor, pools of blood surrounding their broken skulls, reminded me so much . . .

  “Yeah, well, what about your shoes?”

  I glanced down. I hadn’t thought about that. “Yours, too.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot easier to explain one of us being in here, than two.” He shook his head in apparent disgust and politely pushed me down the corridor to the back door.

  This time I allowed it.

  Outside, I closed my eyes for a moment, centering myself. I could imagine the gunman, easily. I could imagine his dispassionate actions. Who did he kill first? I hoped it was the receptionist. Then she wouldn’t have had time to be terrified.

  “You okay?” Shade asked.

  I nodded.

  “Never seen anything like that before, huh?”

  “Actually,” I felt bile rise up the back of my throat. “I have.”

  He didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. This was not the time for a Kumbaya meeting. Shade turned away. In a moment he was on the phone with the police, holding a finger against his opposite ear when a loud car on the next street boosted its bass.

  I pulled out my cell phone to call George.

  Still shaky, I said, “Hi,” when he answered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I opened my mouth to speak but for a long moment nothing came out.

  “Alex?”

  “It’s another . . .” I bit my lip, and leaned my butt against Shade’s fender. I was vaguely aware that he’d completed his call and had come over to me. There was concern in his eyes. “It’s another murder,” I said finally. “A double shooting this time.”

  Shade lifted his eyebrows.

  “Where are you?” George asked.

  I told him.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  When I disconnected, Shade asked, “Who’d you call?”

  “My police detective friend, George.”

  He looked at me for a moment. “Another murder?”

  “Long story.”

  Shade was taken aback, but we didn’t have time to discuss it. Nor did I care to. The first wave of police officers arrived, followed by evidence technicians, and detectives. A couple of them joked about waiting for the medical examiner.

  We both agreed to tell the truth. We were there to question Dr. Colon, we found the back door open, and we investigated. Two detectives sidled up to Shade and didn’t look like they were glad to see him.

  One of them said, “You again? How come whenever there’s a dead body we find you nearby?” He looked over at me. “And always with some girl.”

  I frowned at that. The other one looked ready to take me, too, but George Lulinski was suddenly there. “I got her, guys,” he said, leading me away.

  “Detectives Reed and Randecki,” I heard Shade sa
ying. “Nice to see you two again.”

  They both frowned and took Shade with them.

  As soon as we were out of earshot, George said, “I could ask you the same question. How come whenever there’s a dead body, you’re involved?” He slung a glance back at the departing threesome. “And who’s the guy?”

  Ron Shade

  It was close to two in the morning when they let Alex and me go. Not that we technically couldn’t have walked out at any time, since we weren’t under arrest. But I’ve usually found that whenever I try to flex my constitutional muscles with the cops, they end up making things more difficult in the long run. Especially when Reed and Randecki were involved. It was also one of the reasons I didn’t bother to call George right away. Didn’t want it to look like I ran to him, my surrogate big brother, whenever I ran afoul of the law. Besides, the last time there’d been a bit of a row, with George threatening to punch Randecki’s lights out because he suspected me in a murder. A murder that had been a lot like this one.

  Luckily, neither of them was the primary, so they had a vested disinterest. Plus, Alex’s friend, George Lulinski, seemed more than up to the job of keeping our powder dry. He seemed like a helluva nice guy, too. I felt I could talk to him. And besides, neither Alex or I had anything to hide. We were the complainants. Discoverers of a violent crime, just doing our civic duty and reporting it to the lawful authorities.

  But try convincing yourself of that one after you’ve spent a solid four hours sitting on a hard chair in an interview room up at Belmont and Western, waiting for someone to come take your statement. I understood the motivating procedure for keeping us separated. It was standard procedure for crime witnesses, but I really needed to talk to Alex. Luckily, Lulinski walked in and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head. He shrugged, shook one loose, and stuck it between his lips. So much for our public servants adhering to the restrictions of the clean air act.

  “I know I’m sort of in your house,” I said, as politely as I could, “but I really hate the smell of cigarette smoke.”

  “Me, too,” he said, taking out his lighter.