Key Death (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 4)

by Jude Hardin

  I closed the trunk and the hood and the doors, and walked into the house. It was at least twenty degrees cooler in there. I could breathe again. Drake was just hanging up the phone.

  The phone. Damn it. I’d forgotten to plant the prepaid cell phone.

  “It wasn’t my grandson after all,” he said. “It was some guy interested in buying the car.”

  “I didn’t know it was for sale,” I said.

  “It’s not, but with a classic car like that people make offers all the time anyway. I usually just tell them I’m not interested.”

  “Is that what you told them this time?”

  “Actually, no. I’ve been thinking lately about getting a smaller place. I don’t need all this room, and it’s just so much to take care of. And the car, well, like I said, I don’t drive much anymore, because of my eyesight. I really never should have bought it in the first place. So maybe it’s time to let it go. If I can get a good price, of course.”

  “So is the person you talked to going to come and look at it?”

  “Yeah, in about an hour. You’re all done with the alarm?”

  I thought about telling him I had one more thing to check out. I wanted to plant the bug, but I doubted he was going to leave me alone long enough. And I didn’t want to press my luck by sticking around much longer. It would only take one phone call to expose me as a fraud.

  “I’m done,” I said.

  “Good. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  We shook hands again. He was obviously trying to get rid of me. He didn’t want a mechanic hanging around while he was trying to sell the car. It might have given the impression that the vehicle had problems.

  Drake escorted me to the front door, and we said good-bye.

  I drove out to the main drag, parked in front of a paint store with a FOR LEASE sign in the window. Another casualty of the weak economy, I thought. When given a choice, most people would rather eat than change colors. Priorities.

  I climbed out of the Ford Focus and started walking. I could have kicked myself for not planting the audio bug. Now I was going to have to monitor Drake’s place in person.

  I left the .45 I’d bought from Wesley West in the glove compartment. I wanted to carry it, but I didn’t want the trouble it would generate if a cop saw me lurking around Drake Upton’s neighborhood. I’d lost my concealed weapons permit along with my PI license, and I didn’t have any kind of paper on the .45. It was jail time waiting to happen.

  I wanted to see who had called about buying the car. Maybe Jim Ballard had decided to go about it that way, rather than hiring Cale Meade to steal it for him. Or, maybe it was Cale, pretending to be a buyer but really just coming over to check out the security situation.

  Or, maybe the buyer was someone else, someone totally unrelated to the case I was working on.

  Maybe, but I didn’t think so. It would have been too much of a coincidence. The caller had to have been Jim, or someone working for him. I knew for a fact Jim wanted to make the car disappear, and I had a hunch the blood flakes I’d dislodged in the trunk would end up revealing the reason why.

  I casually strolled down the sidewalk, looking for a place to hide and wait. Across the street and a few houses down from Drake’s place there was a house that looked to have been abandoned. Weeds in the yard, overgrown shrubs, foreclosure notice tacked to the front door.

  I sat on the ground behind some bushes. It was perfect. I could clearly see Drake’s driveway, but nobody could see me. It was almost eight-thirty, and the guy interested in the car was supposed to show around nine. If it turned out to be Jim Ballard, or Cale Meade, I planned to make an anonymous call to the police and let them handle it from there. If it turned out to be someone else, I planned to follow him and see where it led. If it didn’t lead anywhere, I planned on spending a couple of days watching Pamela Wade, Phineas Carter’s widow. I still had her Fort Lauderdale address in my computer.

  I wanted to check her out, just to cover all the bases, but the deeper I got into this thing the more I doubted she—or the drug dealers she might have been keeping company with—had anything to do with Phin’s death.

  Phin and Alison had been murdered in the same apartment. There had to be a connection. I hadn’t figured it out yet, but there had to be one.

  I sat there in the weeds and waited and sweated and itched. The mosquitoes were tearing me up. They were huge. Big tropical motherfuckers. I made a mental note to bring a can of OFF! next time. Or a flamethrower. I hoped I wasn’t going to need a transfusion before all was said and done.

  At exactly nine o’clock a car pulled into Drake’s driveway. It wasn’t Jim Ballard, and it wasn’t Cale Meade, and it wasn’t someone totally unrelated to the case I was working on.

  It was Robbie Asbury.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A voice behind me said, “What the hell you doing, mister?”

  I turned and saw the vague outline of a man, standing there in the doorway of the house I thought to have been abandoned. There wasn’t enough light to tell much about him. He was thin and shirtless. White baseball cap. That was about all I could see.

  “Just resting my bones,” I said.

  “This here’s my place, and I don’t allow no trespassing.”

  I figured him to be a squatter. Eventually the law would come and run him off, but in the meantime he could stay out of the rain and have a nice comfortable place to drink or smoke crack or fuck. Whatever he was into. And when someone finally did tell him to move along, he would just take up residence in another place that had been slated for demolition or foreclosure. Free rent for life.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was just leaving.”

  I rose to a standing position. I needed to get back to my car. I needed to do it quickly, before Robbie Asbury came and went. I needed to follow him and see what he was up to.

  Robbie wasn’t driving the Ford Ranger I’d seen him in before. He was running from the law, so it made sense that he’d changed vehicles. What didn’t make sense was the one he’d changed to. It was a neon-red Chevy Caprice, all tricked out with a lift kit and Twenty-eight-inch wheels. It was about as inconspicuous as a firecracker. But maybe that was his strategy. Hiding in plain sight. Anonymity via extravagance. No cop in the world would expect a fugitive to be driving such a monstrosity.

  “You hold on there,” the squatter said. “I want to know what you were doing out here. You planning on robbing one of these houses around here or something? You planning on stealing a car?”

  “If I was, you think I would tell you?” I said.

  He put his hands on his hips. “Now what kind of a smart-ass answer is that?”

  He was definitely high on something. He was starting to get loud, and I didn’t need the attention. I was trying to be sneaky, and this idiot was cramping my style in a big way.

  I walked to the stoop where he was standing.

  “Look,” I whispered. “I’m not a burglar or a car thief. I’m a private investigator, and you’re making it hard for me to do my job.”

  “A real private investigator?” he said.

  We were both whispering now.

  “A real private investigator,” I said.

  “No shit? Just like that Magnum guy on TV, huh?”

  “Yeah, just like him. Except I’m better looking.”

  He laughed, lit a cigarette. “Hey, don’t most private investigators have a sidekick? You know, a guy who helps out from time to time? Maybe I could be your sidekick.”

  He reeked of tobacco and alcohol, and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something sweet. Crystal meth maybe. He was fucked-up, but maybe he could be of some use to me.

  “You want to help me?” I said.

  “Sure, man. What do you want me to do?”

  I handed him a Twenty-dollar bill. “See that bright red car over there with the big tires?” I said.

  “Yeah, I see it. You could see that fucker from o
uter space.”

  “I want you to keep an eye on it for a few minutes while I go get my car. If a guy comes out and gets in it and starts to leave, I want you to walk over there and stall him for a while.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. I’ll be around in a black Ford Focus. I’ll park it here in front of your house. Once you see my car, you can let the Caprice go.”

  “Man, this is exciting. Just like the movies or something.”

  “Don’t forget. If a guy comes out and starts to leave, stall him.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Hey, chief, what’s your name anyway?”

  I had no intention of giving this clown any of my personal information.

  “Clete Purcel,” I said, borrowing the name from a James Lee Burke novel I read one time. I was counting on him not getting the reference.

  “I’ll stay right here and watch, Mr. Purcel. You can count on me.”

  “You can call me Clete,” I said. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  “All right, Clete. You take care of yourself, buddy.”

  We were buddies now.

  I turned and started strolling down the sidewalk, toward the main thoroughfare. I half expected the squatter to shout something at me from half a block away, but he didn’t.

  It took me about ten minutes to get to my car, and about two more minutes to drive back to the abandoned house. The Caprice was in the street now, and the squatter was standing at the driver’s side door. He was leaning into the window and saying something. He’d come through for me. He was a good sidekick. That’s what I thought until he turned and pointed back at my car.

  “That’s him,” he said.

  The Caprice started reversing slowly. The squatter just stood there with his arms folded across his chest and watched. He’d double-crossed me. The son of a bitch. My cover was blown, but not really. The bum had told Robbie I was a PI named Clete Purcel. Robbie had only seen me once, and I’d shaved my hair and beard since then. Maybe this was going to work out after all. I’d been wanting to talk with Robbie Asbury, and now I would finally get a chance. Anonymously.

  Robbie kept reversing until the passenger’s side window of his Chevy lined up with the driver’s side window of my Ford. Robbie rolled his window down. I rolled my window down. Robbie aimed a pistol at my face and fired twice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When I saw what was coming, I pulled the lever on my bucket seat and dropped to a fully reclined position. Both bullets whistled over me and crashed through my passenger’s side window. The Caprice screeched away in a cloud of smoke.

  Two shots had been fired, and there were two holes. Fortunately, neither of them was in me. I felt myself to make sure. Sometimes you can be shot and not even know it. You can bleed to death before it even starts hurting. But I was OK. I hadn’t been hit.

  I straightened my seat, put the car in gear, and took off after the Caprice. My palms were sweaty and my mouth was dry and I felt a little shaky all over. I was rattled, and I was pissed. I wanted to stop and beat the shit out of the squatter, but I didn’t have time. I reached over and pulled the .45 I’d bought from Wesley West out of the glove compartment, set it on the passenger’s seat.

  I didn’t want to get into a gunfight with Robbie Asbury. That was the last thing I wanted. A gunfight would be a no-win situation for me. I would either be injured or killed, or I would injure or kill him. If I injured or killed him, I would go to prison. It wouldn’t matter that it was self-defense. I was on probation and had no business carrying a deadly weapon. The DA would throw the book at me.

  A gunfight was the last thing I wanted, but I would do whatever it took to protect myself. Jail is better than dead. Or so they say.

  Robbie weaved his way through the neighborhood, turning left, right, left, right. The Caprice had more horsepower than my little Ford Focus, but it didn’t handle well. Not with those humongous wheels. It didn’t corner well, and it was top-heavy. So I was able to stay right on Robbie’s tail for a while, even though he had the faster car. I dogged him like a shadow until he hung a left and headed down a long straightaway. Toward Sunrise Boulevard, where I’d parked at the out-of-business paint store. The gap between us widened. I floored the gas pedal, but I couldn’t keep up. I was doing ninety, so he must have been doing a hundred or more. He wasn’t even slowing down at the stop signs. Just barreling on through.

  When he got to Sunrise, he took a right. He was going for the interstate. If he made it to I-95, that would be it. He would be able to shake me easily.

  I screeched up to the blinking red light at the intersection, waited for a couple of cars to pass, and then followed. I was probably a quarter mile behind, but I could still see the garish custom taillights on the jacked-up Caprice. I worked my way over to the far left lane, traffic just heavy enough to be annoying.

  Robbie ran the red light at the on-ramp to 95 north. It was a sharp curve on a steep incline, and he took it too fast. The Caprice rolled. I watched it tumble down the embankment, finally landing on its roof and spinning to a stop.

  There were three or four cars in front of me at the turning light to the on-ramp. I pulled to the shoulder, jammed my pistol back into the glove compartment, cut the engine, and took off running toward the upside-down Caprice. I was first at the scene. I got on my hands and knees and peered through the crushed driver’s side window, expecting to see a very banged-up corpse.

  But Robbie was still alive.

  “I can’t feel my fucking legs,” he said.

  “Take it easy. You’re going to be all right.”

  The air bags had deployed, and he’d been wearing his seat belt. No visible signs of injury. No blood, no bones poking through skin.

  “Get me out of here,” he said.

  A guy and his girlfriend came running up from behind.

  “Can we do anything?” the guy said.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said. I turned back to Robbie. “Help is on the way. I don’t want to move you, in case you have a spinal cord injury.”

  “I’m next,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Raspy and weak. I got on my belly and moved in closer.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Jim Ballard is dead. I’m next.”

  His eyes closed and his jaw went slack. I felt his neck for a pulse. He was still alive. I shouted his name, but he wouldn’t wake up.

  I heard sirens in the distance, and a couple of minutes later an ambulance and a fire truck and two police cruisers showed up. One of the cops interviewed me about the accident, and then I walked back to the Ford Focus and hightailed it out of there. They were working on cutting Robbie out of the Caprice when I left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Marshal Mack Chillin is standing on the deck in front of his office when the zombies ride into town. Their horses clomp along the dusty street as though sandbags are tied to their legs. The zombies finally dismount and lead the exhausted animals to a water trough.

  Mack is leaning on a post with his left hand, and his right hand is resting on the butt of his holstered revolver. He shouts across the way:

  “You boys go ahead and water your horses, and then I want you to move along.”

  Rex turns and looks toward the marshal. “We’ve been riding for a long time,” he says. “So we ain’t gonna move along just yet. We’re gonna walk in here to the Short Twig Saloon and have ourselves a beer. That’s what we’re gonna do. If anyone wants to find us, that’s where we’ll be.”

  Mack folds his arms across his chest and stands there rigidly while the zombies saunter single file through the swinging saloon doors.

  Jeb, the messenger who told Mack that the zombies were coming, runs up to where Mack is standing now. He takes his dusty old raggedy hat off.

  “Marshal Chillin, I tried to round up some men like you said. I tried, but soon as I told them about what was going on, they all got real quiet like. They got up from their seats, one by one, and walked away. Didn’t say a word,
none of them. This town ain’t nothing but a bunch of cowards, Marshal.”

  “At least I can count on you, Jeb. Come on in the office, and I’ll deputize you.”

  Jeb hangs his head. “Gosh, Marshal, I got a wife and a kid at home to think about. I’d really like to help you. I really would.”

  “It’s OK, Jeb. I understand. You ride on back to your farm now. Tend to your woman and your young’un. I’ll be all right here.”

  Jeb nods. He puts his hat back on, turns and quietly walks away.

  I parked a few blocks away at a Burger King. I switched on the radio, tuned it to an all-news station. Robbie had been telling the truth. Jim Ballard was dead. Another victim of The Zombie, according to the news story. They’d found him in his boat near the marina. Down in the galley, lying on the deck. Brainless. Apparently The Zombie had cut the lines and set the craft adrift. Two murders in as many days. The son of a bitch was getting bolder and bolder.

  First Alison, and now Jim. Robbie said he was next. Why did he think that? Why would The Zombie systematically eliminate the three of them? Were Jim, Robbie, and Alison somehow connected to the serial killer? It didn’t add up. Nothing was making sense at the moment. And what about Phineas Carter? What part, if any, did his murder play in all this?