Black Beast: A Hard Boiled Murder Mystery (A Detective Bobby Mac Thriller Book 1)

by R. S. Guthrie

  “I got these for you,” I said, reaching behind the seat and retrieving two cases of Charleston Chew candy bars. Duncan’s favorite.

  “You rock, Detective.”

  “Duncan, you’re sure you left no trace of your activities on the system, right?”

  “Nothing that will lead them anywhere but to a Danish stripper named Helga,” he said.

  “Funny,” I said.

  “I try.”

  “Pretty sure ‘Helga’ is German,” I said. “Enjoy the bounty.”

  “Danke schoen, der Polizist.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I WAS glad Danny’s name was not in the files. I certainly didn’t ever believe he was dirty, and I didn’t want to change my opinion of him now. But the lack of evidence left me where I’d been before risking my career by escorting a hacker into One Police Plaza: with nothing to calm my gut. I still had the feeling that there had to be something worthwhile about my visit to Eb Durning.

  Maybe I was just sore at myself for giving in to his desire to see me. After all—the last thing the bastard did was smile at me, for Christ’s sake. They were killing him and he still got the last laugh.

  Nothing seemed to be coming together for me. In fact, most of the important things in my life were unraveling.

  If Durning was the pebble in my shoe, Greer was the thorn in my heart.

  We’d met over a year after Isabel’s death, at a New Year’s Eve party put together by a mutual friend at the university. Just a grad student then, Greer was gregarious and fun and popular, but I was still wrestling with loss and a world gone terribly wrong.

  We chatted briefly at the bar and then again later in the foyer as we both prepared to make our way back to our respective lives. I was not charming, nor that interested, but her quiet, confident laughter kindled a yearning I hadn’t felt for some time. Small, invisible waves of romance swelled and broke; so sudden and unexpected they made me woozy and uninhibited despite only two small flutes of bubbly.

  As I’ve said, I’m a lightweight.

  We said goodbye and she kissed me warmly on the cheek.

  Driving home through the incandescent shroud of falling snow I felt juvenile and foolish. I wasn’t proficient at reading between the lines; no good at the thrust and parry of single man and independent woman. I’d been out of commission too long. I didn’t believe in love at first sight or that one perfect match.

  Isabel was the princess who rescued the big, graceless clown, filling my life with kisses, laughter, light, and purpose. She’d given me the miraculous gift of a son that she protected to the end with her natural, maternal adoration.

  Yet I found over the next few days that I couldn’t push from my head the idea that there might yet be hope for me. I had constant thoughts of the tall, crimson-haired woman with the smiling emerald eyes.

  The reawakening of passion felt good. It also racked me with guilt—yet I could still not convince my heart to be still. Yes, the heart wants what it wants. Who was I to deny it what had been missing for so long? But neither was I kidding myself. Like Isabel, Greer Foster was the kind of woman who could afford to choose. I certainly didn’t consider myself much of a catch. I was no better than a burden—a broken heart with a second broken heart in tow.

  No one’s first choice. I’d never be that fortunate twice in one lifetime.

  Then, a week later, when even the fantasies were fading in my mind, Greer Foster called. She asked if she could show me the best Italian food in the city. She picked me up in a limousine and took me on a tour of the downtown lights. We ogled at the beauty of our own city as if we were but a couple of tourists, visiting Denver for the very first time.

  We ate a candlelit dinner at Undici Ristorante, enjoying the ambiance and energy of the weekend crowd; sure anything was possible. We laughed and shared our hopes and dreams, and, finally, she leaned across the white tablecloth and kissed me deeply.

  It was at that moment—as I tasted basil and garlic and Hardy's Hunter Ridge Shiraz—that I knew I still had the capacity to love again.

  The Homicide Detectives Unit functions under the auspices of the Crimes Against Persons Bureau in the Criminal Investigations Division. Twelve detectives and two rotating desk sergeants staff the unit. Our headquarters is located on Cherokee Street, a blockish building of six stories. Burke and I shared facing desks on the fifth floor.

  Two other detectives were at their desks when I entered the squad:

  Manuel Rodriguez and Shelly Trent.

  “Hey, Mac,” Rodriguez said with a wave.

  Manny Rodriguez was a new kid, just made Detective a month prior. He replaced Art Candy, a nice old guy who retired with his twenty and his pension.

  I liked Manny. He was a sharp guy and brought an air of welcome expectancy to the squad room.

  I also knew he didn’t take any crap from his partner, Shelly Trent, who would ride him like a mule if he allowed her.

  Trent nodded at me coolly. I never really understood the competitive thing between female detectives and ex-jocks like myself. But at times, at least with Detective Trent, the tension was palpable.

  “Anything new on the victims?” I said.

  “Pella had several arrests for possession with intent to distribute—got kicked each time by his attorney,” Trent said.

  “Who’s his attorney,” I asked.

  “Roland P. Quinn,” she said.

  “Fancy attorney for a small-time dope dealer,” I said.

  “Yeah. Among other clients, the man is counsel to the elusive Mr. Calypso,” Manny said.

  “That’s Calypso, to you, junior.”

  “Roger that,” he said, cracking a grin. “I called Animal Control. Zero reports of bears anywhere in the city, much less Sloan’s Lake Park.”

  Rodriguez looked to Trent. She said:

  “That zoologist finally got back to me. He looked at our molds. Said it’s not ursus arctos.”

  I eyed her from my desk, giving her the look that told her to quit the Shelly’s-got-a-big-brain routine.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Brown bear.”

  “Or any bear, for that matter,” Rodriguez amended.

  “Any idea from the zookeeper what we might be looking for?” I said.

  “He’s never seen any prints like these. The number of pads, arrangement of toes, combined with claw size and demarcation—said if he’d found these in the wild he would probably be tempted to classify it as a new species. I think he was only half-kidding. His best guess at this point is the footprints are a hoax.”

  “So we’re looking at a perp,” I said, “or more likely a group of perps, considering the amount of damage and the spread of the crime scene—who want us to think an animal of some kind did this?”

  “Looks that way,” said Trent.

  “We have any idea what the sexual orientation of these two young men might have been?” I said.

  “Not that the family mentioned,” Trent said. “What difference does that make?”

  “Two men, meeting in the park,” I said, “Whether they were or weren’t there for a romantic interlude, someone might have mistaken it for that. The bathrooms down there by the lake are a popular spot. Cops are busting people down there all the time.”

  “You’re suggesting a hate crime?” Rodriguez said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “One thing I think is clear: a single assailant could never have pulled this off.”

  Trent said:

  “Those Aryan pricks always travel in a pack.”

  “Let’s take the other angle. If this was a drug hit, talk about likely suspects,” I said.

  “What about biker gangs? We have the Sons, the Mongols, a couple others, right?” said Trent.

  “The level of violence fits,” I said.

  “There’s the attorney coincidence,” Rodriguez said.

  “There is that,” I agreed.

  “Calypso?” Trent said.

  “I’m going to brief the boss,” I said.

  Lieutenant Elias
Shackleford’s office was really just two windowed walls and a door that separated him from the main squad room where the rest of us worked. I knocked sideways on his open door and entered without waiting for an invitation.

  Shackleford was on the phone and held up a finger, pointing at one of the vinyl chairs facing his desk. I sat. His desktop looked tidy and unused. It made me think of a guy I once worked with who claimed the level of clutter on a person’s workspace was directly related to how busy they were.

  Shackleford wasn’t a bad boss. He fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, which made him somewhat enigmatic. He believed in the autonomy of his detectives, which had paid off in the past—we had one of the best clear percentages in the city. Still, our success and his own “hands off” nature didn’t make him any less of a hard case when he wanted to be.

  The man’s physical appearance was imposing, in more than one way: pressed slacks, ironed button-down shirt, long sleeves unrolled, silk tie that matched the ensemble—and today it was brown wingtips and brown socks. He was tall and a regular weightlifter—the kind of man whose pounds were all necessary.

  “You have status for me, Mac?” he asked, hanging up the phone.

  “We’ve got a positive I.D. on the decedents: David Pella, thirty-three; Marty Dolan, twenty-seven. Neither wallet was taken, so we don’t think it was a robbery. Also, too messy. We believe the assailants tried to fake animal prints. This is based on a zookeeper…”

  “Zoologist,” the lieutenant corrected.

  “Right, a zoologist, being of the opinion that these footprints don’t match any local predator he’s ever seen.”

  “Go on,” he said. His lips never broke formation.

  “We talked to Pella’s mother and a brother. Haven’t found any next of kin for Dolan—seems he was a bit of an unknown, maybe a drifter. Pella dodged a couple beefs for dealing. Then there’s also the hate crime aspect.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m more inclined to investigate the drug angle. But we won’t leave any stones unturned.”

  “Cause of deaths?”

  “Coroner reports Pella died of a massive wound to the throat. Bled out in a matter of seconds. The rest of the mutilation—disembowelment, decapitation, etcetera—was inflicted post mortem.”

  “Dolan?”

  “He, uh…well, the medical examiner is ruling death as: blunt force trauma to the torso.”

  Shackleford looked perplexed.

  “Torn in half.”

  “Again?”

  “The M.E. believes Dolan was one hundred percent alive and kicking before his top half was severed from the bottom.”

  “Holy shit,” Shackleford said.

  “Yeah, this is one for the papers. I can’t wait to see what the press dreams up once the details on this get leaked.”

  “Let’s try and keep that from happening,” Shackelford said. “The details getting out. At least for a time.”

  “Understood,” I said. “Other than the ferocity of the crime, there’s not a lot more to go on at this point.”

  “Sounds like we have bupkis.”

  “It’s early, I said.

  “All right. Anything else?” Shackleford said. He was clearly not happy. Bosses hated unsolved cases, but more than that, they despised high profile cases with no substantial leads to report.

  Shackleford began straightening his desk. The exit cue.

  “A possibly related matter,” I said. I had so far intentionally left out the one interesting detail.

  “Go,” he said, wiping the clean desktop with a handkerchief.

  “I went to see Durning before they juiced him. He had some information regarding the death of Danny Wells.”

  This got his attention. “What kind of information?”

  “Seems his partner, Arliss Jackson, was acting cagey before the stickup. Made some mistakes he never made before.”

  “The guy who shot Wells.”

  “Right. Jackson got a visit from a hired goon, then left with him. When he came back to Durning is when he wanted to set up the job. Durning said Jackson let the old woman in the shop see him, and that’s why they had to kill her.”

  Shackleford looked thoughtful, rubbing manicured fingers under his square chin. “Wasn’t this all brought up at trial?”

  “All but the part about Jackson letting her I.D. him. Durning claims Jackson would never do that. He was too careful.”

  The more I told the story the thinner it sounded.

  “Do we know who the goon was that visited Arliss Jackson?”

  “Durning says it was a guy everyone calls Brain. Works for Calypso.”

  The boss prickled at the mention of the fat Jamaican.

  “Calypso? Did you check it out?”

  The story was getting more interesting, and Shackleford decided his desk was neat enough. He gave me his full attention.

  “I made a couple of calls. Brain definitely works for Calypso. Run of the mill knuckle-breaker. Errand boy, bagman—the usual. Durning thought maybe Jackson wanted to still be there when the cops arrived. Maybe he knew it was our beat, that we would respond.”

  “So let me make sure I follow. It’s your theory Calypso had your partner killed?”

  “It was Durning’s theory,” I said.

  “I’d love to deliver up Calypso. Vice has been nursing on that tit for years. What does Burke think?”

  “He’s reserving judgment, I think.”

  The boss wanted to believe—would have loved a reason to go after the big dog with two guns pulled. But Calypso had large money. And, of course, a powerhouse attorney.

  “I wanted to run it by you first,” I told him. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pella’s attorney—the one that got him off? Roland Quinn.”

  “Quinn. Isn’t he…”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. I’ll call Thompson in Vice and make sure we aren’t stepping on toes. We play this one by the book. I don’t want attorney at law Roland Quinn crawling up the department’s collective ass, you got that, Mac?”

  “Understood,” I said and got up to leave.

  “How’s the new leg working out?” he asked, pointing downward. Discussion of my prosthesis seemed to make him uncomfortable. His phone started to ring. Before I could answer, he was waving and talking into the receiver.

  Burke and I didn’t talk much at lunch. We were seated at Sam Taylor’s, a small, family owned barbeque place in Denver at Cherry and Leetsdale. Burke ordered the rib tip dinner and I got the chicken/rib combo. When you dined at Sam’s, you saved the conversation for before and after.

  I told Burke about the Roland P. Quinn development. Also my briefing with the boss. When I informed him we could lay off the Danny Wells angle, Burke only nodded.

  He had no desire to know the particulars.

  He was, however, still very intrigued at the idea of involving Calypso—which was a hand we could still draw to. Everyone wanted a piece of the man. He was the closest thing in Denver to honest-to-Pete organized crime.

  After lunch, we decided to pay a repeat visit to Pella’s brother in Centennial. The initial interview with John Pella was not very productive. The Pella brothers had not been close since David took his turn for the worse.

  The death of a family member can cause us to canonize the deceased; we don’t want to remember the things that paint a poor picture for the permanent memories. Now was the time to approach John Pella, before he tucked those negative emotions away in the lock box, along with any usable leads for our investigation.

  We found Pella at his residence, washing the family vehicles with his eight-year-old daughter. He didn’t look happy to see Burke again and even less amiable regarding a second detective in tow.

  “Mr. Pella, wondering if we could have a few more moments of your time,” Burke said. “This is my partner, Detective Macaulay.”

  I nodded. We stopped at the end of the driveway, avoiding the
stream of sudsy water draining to the street. Pella lived in a nice, upper-middleclass neighborhood in the heart of the southeastern Metro suburban sprawl.

  “Karen, can you go in and see if mommy needs any help in the kitchen?” Pella said to his daughter. She looked us over briefly, smiled precociously, and walked with obvious purpose into the garage and then into the house. She was a cute kid, with her father’s lean build.

  Pella returned to a circular scrub of his green Ford Excursion. “I’m not sure what else I can do for you, Detectives.”

  Burke moved closer and picked up the mitt Karen Pella left behind, dunked it in a bucket of wash, and scrubbed as he spoke.

  “Somebody was unhappy with your brother, Mr. Pella. We’d really like you to give thought to some of his more permanent acquaintances.”

  Pella stopped his work. “I’ve told you what I know. I didn’t approve much of David’s choices. I damn sure didn’t want him around here. Around Karen. I mentioned that bar he hung out at, downtown.”

  “Sweet Potatoes,” Burke said.

  “Yeah, whatever. He lived his own life, Detective. We didn’t socialize. I certainly didn’t meet any of his low-life entourage.”

  Burke nodded.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. Pella?” I interjected from the curb.

  “I told your partner, I hadn’t seen David in a few weeks. We had lunch with our mother at her house.”

  “On Havana,” I said.

  “Yes, on Havana,” he confirmed. Burke continued to wash.

  “How would you characterize your last conversation with your brother, Mr. Pella?” I said.

  Pella’s face flushed and he squinted at me, as if I was beyond his field of vision. “What the hell does that mean?”

  I smiled and waved off his concern. “Just a routine question. Did the two of you part on good terms? Would you characterize the lunch as enjoyable?”

  “It was fine,” he spat. “We ate, we left. Nothing special. It made my mother happy to see us all together. I came for her, not David.”

  Burke looked back at me, his face expressionless. I was fishing, nothing more, but Pella was wrong. He was hiding something. Maybe he was uncomfortable coming clean about his true feelings regarding his brother’s lifestyle and how he chose to deal with that.