First Kill: An Eli Quinn Mystery

by Robert Roy Britt

  “How’s business doing?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been into the office for a couple days. I have other things on my mind. Have you found my husband?”

  “I’m waiting for you or Bo to tell me where to look.”

  “Fuck you, Quinn.”

  “That seems to be the prevailing sentiment,” I said. “Should I come in for a drink?”

  “No, you shouldn’t. If you find Joe, please let me know. Otherwise leave me alone.”

  If I were a cop, Joanne Mack would probably be detained for formal questioning by now. But I wasn’t in the business of arresting people. My job was to find her husband, dead or alive. The odds I’d find him alive weren’t looking so good.

  She closed the door. I said “Thank you,” and left.

  ***

  I called Donovan Fisk from the parking lot outside the Troon clubhouse, introduced myself.

  “How’d you get my number?” He had his angry voice on.

  “I’m a crack detective.”

  “I’m working. I can’t talk.” I could tell he was cupping the phone, not wanting someone else to hear.

  “I’m in the parking lot,” I said. “You can come out here, or I’ll come in there.”

  Less than a minute later the lanky statue with the floppy curls was standing in front of me in a sky blue polo shirt with a Nike logo on the pocket, expensive tan shorts, lecturing me about what I could and couldn’t do.

  “Donovan,” I said. “Keep your pants on.” That made me laugh out loud. “Sorry. Pun not intended. But listen kid…”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Donovan, you’re about two, maybe three words away from getting hit so hard you’ll never forget it. I’d suggest you just shut up and listen, then answer a few questions for me.”

  “I don’t have to do shit.”

  I punched him once just under the ribs, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, not so hard as to cause any permanent damage. He doubled over and made wheezing sounds. I took the opportunity to talk while he couldn’t.

  “I don’t figure you for anything, OK? But you’re hanging around with some folks I don’t think you should be hanging around with, and I’m smelling a murder in this hot muggy air, and that makes you a possible accessory to murder.”

  That wasn’t true, but I hoped it would scare him and get him talking. Soon as he was able.

  “Did you know anybody besides Becca before you went to that party?”

  He shook his head, body still bent in half.

  “Hear them talk about Joe Mack at all?”

  He held a finger up. I waited. And waited.

  He took a breath, then another, levered himself up to standing. He spoke in labored bursts. “You’re not. A cop. Why … should I talk … to you?

  I’d hit him a little harder than intended. “For starters, there’s more where that came from.” I pointed to his gut. “More important, you don’t have a choice. Either you talk to me, or I go to the cops, tell them what I know. They’ll pick you up, fingerprints, news, all that.” Again, probably not true, but I had him blinking rapidly now, some sort of rich-kid fear response.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

  “That’s not an answer to my question.”

  “You’ll keep me out of this?”

  “If you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “OK, yeah, after you left.” Donovan nodded, as though he’d just delivered a tip.

  “You can do better than that,” I said.

  “OK, yeah. Well, Jimmy, the short one with the hot redhead wife, he asks the ballplayer what’s going on with Joe Mack. Ballplayer tells him to fuck off, he don’t know. Jimmy’s pissed now. Told me and Becca to leave.”

  “And you did?”

  “Fast as we could.”

  “After putting your clothes on.”

  “Look man. Yeah, OK, it was kinda weird. But Becca’s into it, so I went along.”

  I didn’t care about his sexual tendencies. But he was talking normally now, not hiding anything. Donovan Fisk had just all but crossed himself off my suspect list.

  Chapter 18

  Park Realtors was at the northeast edge of Pleasant’s gridded business district, on a street that put it at a disadvantage in terms of foot traffic and visibility. The door creaked when it opened, mini-blinds flopped and slapped when it closed.

  A stout woman, maybe early sixties, sat at a desk. Two long dishwater-blond braids draped over a red checkered shirt. I assumed jeans and cowboy boots were under the desk. Behind her were three identical empty desks, an empty office and an empty conference room. She signed papers, turning them over onto a pile. She glanced up over her reading glasses and said good afternoon, returned to signing.

  “Everyone must be out selling houses,” I said.

  “Everyone is just me, Mr. Park and Bo Rollins.”

  “I’m looking for Bo,” I said, trying to sound friendly.

  “So am I.” Head down, signing away. “If you see the playboy, tell him I’ve got two calls for him and some papers to sign.”

  “Doing my best,” I said. “When did you see him last?”

  She stopped signing, peered over the glasses.

  “Who the heck are you?”

  “Eli Quinn, private investigator.”

  “Oh, I know you,” she said. “You’re that one on the news.”

  “That’s what I hear. I haven’t seen me.”

  “You done good,” she said. “Kicked some cowboy ass.”

  I nodded. She was referring to my last case. I hoped people would stop doing that soon. Then again, it got people talking, and I was in the business of getting people to talk.

  “Name’s Daisy,” she said. She reached out and we shook hands.

  “My pleasure, Daisy.”

  “What’s Bo done now? ’Nother bar fight?”

  “Something like that.”

  She waved her pen in the air and looked back at the documents. “He was here yesterday, early afternoon. Pissy mood. Grabbed some files and left. Haven’t seen or heard from him since.” She went back to signing.

  “He say anything?”

  “Not even hello. He can be a surly one.”

  “Know what the files were?”

  “No sir.”

  “I hear he owns a dive bar somewhere. You know anything about that?”

  “Buffalo Hide,” she said. “It’s in Cave Creek.”

  “Bo run the bar?”

  “He rents it out.” She signed the last page. Turned it over and put the pen down, picked up the stack and shuffled it into order. She turned her attention to me. “Bar business belongs to Clive Walker. He rents the building from Bo. Walker’s behind on rent. I probably shouldn’t have said that.” She smacked the stack of paper against the desk one last time to flush the pages.

  “But you did.”

  “Slip of the tongue,” she said. “Bo gets under my skin a little.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  I turned slightly and bent down, showed her the giant lump at the base of my skull. “Bo gets under my skin a little, too.”

  “Bo done that?” Her eyes were wide.

  I nodded.

  She looked around, as if there might be someone else in the office. “I don’t want to get fired.”

  “If things go my way, there’ll be an opening at Park Realty soon. And it won’t be yours.”

  She sighed deeply, then spoke quickly.

  “I handle paperwork around here. Bo has me deposit checks for him. You know, when he gets a commission. Which isn’t often. And when Walker pays him. Which also isn’t often. I think he just likes having people do things for him. It’s not part of my job, but there’s not a lot going on.” She spread her hands to emphasize the empty office.

  “How behind?”

  “Usually a month or so. But I haven’t cashed a check in three months. Maybe Bo’s cashing them. But I’d bet my boots
Clive Walker’s on the verge of bankruptcy. You been to the Buffalo Hide?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure,” I said.

  “It’s a dump,” she said. “I mean, Cave Creek has some dives, but a dive can have personality. The Buffalo Hide’s got nothing going for it. Food’s mediocre. Burgers, even. Lousy beer selection. You got to have craft beers today. Surprised it’s made it this long.”

  “And there you go, Daisy, telling me more stuff you probably shouldn’t.”

  “Honestly, I thought you might be here looking into that. Something screwy going on between those two.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Walker’s been in three times the past week. More than I saw him the past year. They were in the conference room the other day, shouting about something.”

  “You hear what they said?”

  “Nope. Something to do with money, though. I heard that much. And if I know Bo, probably something stupid.”

  “People can be stupid with money,” I said.

  “Especially Bo.”

  ***

  Follow the money. I’d learned it as an investigative reporter, and it was the right path more often than not. In this case, it was the only path I had in front of me, so I took it. First I swung home to get Solo. Jack Beachum called as I pulled into the garage.

  “Got phone records for Bo Rollins,” Beach said. “He was in Cave Creek last night.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Buffalo Hide?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Some bar he owns.”

  “I dunno,” Beach said. “I’m just looking at a circle on a map. Doesn’t tell us exactly where he was, but narrows it down.”

  “Just the one call?”

  “Yep,” Beach said. “Nothing since.”

  “Even Bo’s probably smart enough to turn his phone off, get a throwaway.”

  “Maybe,” Beach said.

  “Email me the map?”

  “It’s in your inbox, as the kids would say.”

  “OK good. I’m on my way there.”

  “Need backup?”

  “Solo’s with.”

  “Helluva dog,” Beach said. “Not the same as a gun.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “We saved your ass last time. Me, my gun and Solo.”

  “I can’t ask you to come with me, Beach. You’re suspended.”

  “I’m on leave. Besides. You could ask.”

  “Come with me?”

  “Can’t,” he said. “But you could swing by, borrow a gun from me.”

  “Do we have to do this every time?”

  “Sure as shootin’.”

  “Figured. I’ll say it one more time. Not gonna carry one. And by the way, thanks for the tip. I owe you one.”

  My friend just laughed.

  Chapter 19

  A small flock of Harleys huddled outside the Buffalo Hide. Two cars around by a side entrance, probably staff. A dust devil swept the dirt lot, swirling candy wrappers and plastic shopping bags. The bar was straight out of the Old West, with wide vertical board-and-batten siding, a wooden walk with rough-hewn posts and railing around three sides.

  Thunderheads towered to the north, one forming an impressive anvil on top. Somewhere, soon, it’d dump a month’s worth of moisture in less than an hour, while five miles away not a drop would fall. Monsoon storms were the most capricious nature had to offer.

  I pulled into the parking lot and picked from many open spots. I hopped out and headed for the door, Solo at my heel.

  It was dark inside, the way a small tavern should be. The walls were plastered with old metal signs, a cow skull with horns, and framed photos in black and white and faded color. The Harley riders, sitting in a booth in the corner, weren’t Hells Angels. These suburban bikers had perfect, shiny leathers, Oakley sunglasses and pressed jeans. I was glad. I could mostly factor them out from whatever might happen.

  Solo’s nose went straight to the ground when we walked in. Working.

  The bartender, skinny in a white tee with black hair cut short except for the front hanging over his eyes, was wiping the bar, perhaps a habit rather than necessity. All seven stools were empty.

  Above the bar was a photo of an old silver Camaro. I recognized it instantly.

  The bartender looked up nervously through his hair with large eyes that darted around the room before zeroing in on Solo. “No dogs,” he said.

  “This one’s OK,” I said. I waved a Jedi hand at the bartender but it didn’t seem to work.

  “No dogs means that one, too,” he said, pointing at Solo.

  A couple of the Harley riders looked over, then they went back to their conversation. I changed the subject. “You Clive Walker?”

  “Nope. Just the bartender. Clive’s not here.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “Nope. What about the dog?”

  “What about him?”

  He looked up, sighed with exasperation. “Like I said. No dogs.”

  Solo licked my hand. He rarely interrupted me. “What?” He sniffed the floor some more, did a circle, followed a trail over to the bar stool on the far right. He barked once, then sat and growled so quietly I might’ve been the only one who heard it. The Harley riders went quiet.

  I pointed at the bar stool. “Bo Rollins been here?”

  “How the hell you know that?” The bartender stopped wiping.

  “Meet Solo, world’s greatest K-9 private eye.”

  “And you are?”

  “Eli Quinn, humble human private eye.”

  The bartender’s eyes wandered around, then he resumed wiping the bar. “Whaddya want?”

  “Looking for Bo and Clive.”

  “Don’t know nothing,” he said, eyes following the rag.

  “Whose Camaro?”

  He blinked, just once.

  “Been following me?”

  His lip twitched, and he wiped the bar some more.

  “Where is it, around back?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know nothing.”

  I moved in, sat on a stool, leaned on my elbows. Our noses were a foot part. I spoke quietly and slowly. “Maybe you know a little. Maybe you know a lot. But I know you know something. And so far I don’t like your attitude, and neither does Solo. Let’s change that, so nothing bad happens.”

  “Look, asshole,” he pointed a finger at me.

  I grabbed his thin wrist. Solo barked once, shattering what had become a silent room. The bartender tried to pull back, and neither of us moved an inch. He tried again to slip the grip, and I held firm. The bikers stayed put.

  “I figure Bo had you follow me. Or maybe Clive. I’m not after you. But I will be, you don’t tell me what you know.”

  The bartender nodded, put his free hand up. I let go and he raised that hand, too.

  “Put your hands down,” I said. “This isn’t a stickup. Just need to ask some questions.”

  “OK, man, whatever.”

  He wiped some more and reached down behind the bar with his right hand. I knew what was coming so I leaned forward. As the gun came up, before it was even pointed at me, I reached in with both hands, grabbing his forearm with my left and his wrist with my right. I moved left and pulled him to the right and forward, slamming his ribs into the bar. I heard the air whoosh out of him and he gasped. His grip relaxed and the gun fell to the floor next to me. I kicked it over toward the bikers. Solo had moved around to block the bartender’s only escape path. He sat quietly awaiting further developments.

  I’d done the move a thousand times in Master Choi’s dojo. Never with a real gun or a real adversary. My nerves were steady but adrenaline surged. I took a deep breath, then gave the bartender a tip while he caught his breath. “Next time have your finger on the trigger when you bring the gun out, and move back a little. You were too close to me. Made it easy.”

  He gave a feeble nod, clutched his ribs.

  “When was Bo Rollins here?”

  “Last night, maybe nine o’cl
ock. Had one drink and left.”

  “He talk to Clive?”

  “Yeah. They went in back.” He nodded his head to the side, toward the hallway leading to the restrooms with a door in back marked office. “I didn’t listen.”

  “They argue?”

  The bartender looked down. I waited.

  “I’ll get in trouble.”

  “You’ll get in more trouble if you don’t help me.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, they argued.”

  “But you couldn’t hear them.”

  He shook his head.

  “When’s the last time you saw Clive?”

  “They left together last night. I opened by myself today. Just me and the cook.” He thumbed toward the kitchen behind him. “Seriously man. Clive made me follow you, wanted to know where you went and what you did. I do what he says. But that’s it. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I put my business card on the bar along with two twenties. Madison Mack would reimburse me, so I was liberal with the bills. “Either of them comes back here, you call me. I’ll find out either way, but I want to find out from you. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t believe him, but also didn’t think the bartender knew much, and I’d done enough threatening. I turned to leave and spotted a photo on the wall, hanging over a booth. Walked over for a closer look. Good-sized man with long hair standing next to an older, dark red Ford Econoline van. I pointed at it. “Clive?”

  “Yeah.”

  I went back and put another twenty on the bar. “Call me,” I said. “I have a bunch more of these.”

  Chapter 20

  When she called this time, the tall man resisted. He’d done what he agreed to do, thought their deal was done. And this job was riskier, an abduction in broad daylight. They argued. She was persuasive. She offered him more money. And she reminded him he had little choice, given his situation, the leverage they had on him. This target was starting to figure things out, asking questions. Besides, she said, you enjoy doing this, don’t you? He didn’t argue.

  Knocking the man out was easy, a swift blow to the back of the head with the short pipe as he came out of his office. He picked the man up easily, plopped him in the van and slid the door closed. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. No one had seen. No blood, no evidence.