by Chris Stout
“Sounds good. Let me know when you want to get together. I’ll try to be there.”
“Great. See you later, then.”
Miranda remained seated at the table a few more minutes. She tapped her nails lightly on the table top. Not good, she thought. Not good at all. And what was Sam’s appointment? She worried briefly it might be with Wainwright, but quickly dismissed the idea. Not if they were all supposed to meet later in the day. She got up from the table abruptly and walked out of the coffee shop. She needed to know where Sam was going, just to be safe. And in the meantime, she had an idea of how to avoid meeting with him and Wainwright. She headed for her car, which held Damon’s cell phone in its glove compartment.
#
Sam met up with Hector Gutierrez at the station. “I found the address for Damon Shearer’s parents,” the uniformed officer announced.
“Yeah, I probably got the same one from campus security. It’s not too far from here, right?”
“Right. I also had time to go check them out.”
Sam perked up. “Really? Were they home? What are they like? Any idea where their son is?” He spat out his questions rapid fire, stopping when he saw the officer holding up a hand. “What?” he said to Gutierrez’s frown.
“The address is bogus. It’s one of those places that gives you a mailbox with a street address. Most of them have suite numbers attached. In fact, his parents are listed as Suite 1082. But not on any of the records he gave out.”
Sam swore. “Dare I venture a guess as to who signed up and paid for the box?”
“You can bet it wasn’t Mr. and Mrs. Shearer. If they even exist. We could be dealing with someone operating under a completely false identity.”
“Shit. I was afraid of that. So I take it Damon paid for his own box?”
“Yup. Paid up for the next six months. Cash.”
“And no one ever asked him any questions?”
“They said he was a nice looking boy, told them he was setting it up for his folks home Internet business. Since he paid cash, no questions.”
“Shit. Wait a second, wouldn’t he have to give them a home address; someplace they could contact him?”
Gutierrez nodded grimly. “Sure did. Want to guess where?”
“Can’t be the school, since he put the fake address on his contact form. Is it some other place here?”
“Yup.” Gutierrez paused for effect. Sam leaned forward expectantly. Gutierrez smiled. “Beaumont’s house.”
Sam snapped back and blinked. “What?”
“Honest, mano. The address he gave is the residence of his boss Henry Beaumont.”
“His victim too, it looks like.” Sam rubbed his temples. “Does the Chief know about this?”
Gutierrez shook his head. “Not yet. Haven’t been able to contact him, but I think he said he was heading out that way today.”
“We gotta get hold of him and let him know. Maybe something will turn up there.”
He grabbed the phone that sat on Miranda’s desk and punched in Chief Wainwright’s cell phone number. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk while the phone rang. “Hey Chief, it’s Sam. I got a line on Damon’s home address. If you’re out at Beaumont’s place, look for anything that might point to Damon having stayed there. Give me a ring as soon as you can. Thanks.” He hung up. “Fucking voice mail,” he said.
“What now?”
“Well, I guess we wait until the chief is back online. Which is okay. I’m supposed to go visit my aunt anyway.”
“She doing any better?”
Sam shrugged. “She’s off and on. Last time she was sharp as a tack; time before that she didn’t even know her own name.”
“Fucking Alzheimer’s.”
“Amen.”
Gutierrez clapped him on the shoulder. “Give her my best. Listen, if you don’t hook up with the Chief, I’ll swing out by Beaumont’s place when I go off duty and see if he’s still out there.”
“Only if you’ve got the time.”
“Not a problem.”
“You done good, buddy. Maybe we ought to switch uniforms.”
Gutierrez laughed and shook his head. “No sir. I can’t stand them Saville Row suits. Besides, they make me look like a pimp. All you white cops are liable to shoot me when you see I got a piece under my jacket.”
Sam chuckled. “Thanks Heck. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, I guess.”
“Hasta luego, bossman.”
#
Out at Henry Beaumont’s house, Chief of Police Harlan Wainwright closed up his cell phone. A half-dozen anxious faces turned his way. “I’ve heard from Damon,” he said, and paused to make sure they were all paying attention. “Sent me a text message. Says he can’t talk now; he’s in hiding. He’s gonna meet me out at the lodge. Says he’ll have answers for me there. Jimmy,” he turned to James Cole, who had been at Henry Beaumont’s store, “I want you to stay here with Bill, keep an eye on things. Jesse, Eldon and Tim can head on home. Shane,” he indicated the large bearded man who had first confronted Sam Connor at Beaumont’s store, “will come with me. You all know your jobs for the big party. If anything goes sour, I expect you to still come through.”
The other men nodded grimly.
“I don’t know about where Damon stands anymore, but I intend to find out. We’re short-handed, and don’t have the material we wanted, but we can still put a hurting on those who want to infect our society with mongrel races. The Reverend is gonna be here, too, and we want to put on a nice production for him. It’s go-time, people. Time to take a stand for everything we believe in.”
The others rumbled with enthusiasm, punctuating their agreements with racial epithets and curses.
“Alright, then. I’m gonna see about getting our big guns back. If anything goes bad, we move to plan B. Fear can be just as powerful as violence. Shane, let’s go.”
The bearded man rose and together he and Wainwright moved out of Beaumont’s house. Jesse McClintock, Eldon Marshal and Tim Butcher followed them out the door. Jimmy Cole and Bill Banks stayed behind, checking to make sure their pistols were ready with rounds in the chambers.
Chapter 11
Miranda was waiting for Sam when he left the police station. She watched as he got in his car and then pulled out of her space when he had gone a block ahead of her. His unmarked was fairly easy to follow, owing to the aerial and lack of any accessories on the vehicle. She briefly wondered why the police bothered at all with unmarked cars. Everybody knew what they were from a mile away. Rather self-defeating, in her opinion.
Sam drove east of town and turned into an elder-care village named Sparta Retirement Community. She didn’t think there was any connection between Damon and anyone living there. Must be another case.
She found that she was deliberately distracting herself. Her greatest fear was that she would have to silence Sam. From a practical standpoint, the death of a police officer would raise a huge stir. And on the personal side, she truly did like him.
She saw him pull into the visitor’s lot. To avoid driving right by him, Miranda pulled her car into the residential section. Even though she wore a shoulder-length blonde wig, she didn’t want to expose herself any more than necessary. When Sam was almost at the entrance to the main building, she turned around and drove back into the visitor’s lot, parking well away from his car.
Miranda decided it would look suspicious if she just sat there, so she followed him in. Not the best place to be following someone, but she didn’t want to lose track of him. As she went through the automatic handicapped door, she hoped that he wouldn’t be very long.
A bored-looking receptionist briefly glanced up at her. Miranda smiled; glad she had changed her appearance. The receptionist didn’t bother returning the gesture and went back to the magazine she was reading. Miranda looked around briefly to orient herself.
Ahead of her was what looked to be a dining area. She glanced inside. The place was about half-full with residents. By most standar
ds it was somewhat early for dinner, but many of the guests here went to bed at sundown, necessitating the early mealtime. Miranda didn’t see Sam inside, so she moved on.
To her left was a continuing care wing. Miranda doubted he would be in there, so she went to her right, down what appeared to be an assisted living wing. She glanced at the doors on either side of the hallway. Halfway down on the left she found a door with a nameplate that read “Frank Connor.” She wondered if he was a relative of Sam’s. Miranda walked the rest of the length of the hall and, not seeing any other Connors on any of the doors, walked back out to the receptionist’s desk.
“Excuse me,” she said. The receptionist looked up without replying. Miranda smiled anyway. “Is there any way you could ring Mister Connor and see if he is available or if he’s busy with someone?”
“Mister Connor?” the receptionist asked quizzically.
“Yes, Frank Connor, room one twenty-one.”
“I’m sorry, miss. Mister Connor died last week. Are you a friend?”
Miranda barely suppressed a gasp. Sam hadn’t mentioned anything about a recent death in the family. “Um, no,” she quickly replied. “I’m, uh, from his Church and had a card to deliver. About offering rides on Sundays. We do that for people who can’t get themselves there.”
The receptionist looked confused again. “Mister Connor didn’t belong to a church. He was pretty adamant about being an atheist.”
Miranda simply stood there with her mouth slightly agape. The receptionist looked at her like she was some strange space creature. Miranda was sure she was busted. A brief image of shooting her way out of the nursing home flashed through her mind. Killing Damon would have been useless, and all her others plans a waste if she was caught now. She decided maybe the best thing would be to shoot the receptionist and get out of there. Maybe tying Sam up with that murder would distract him from the Beaumont case, giving her more time. With her mind racing wildly, Miranda reached inside her overcoat for the silenced Walther PPK.
Then a look of recognition came over the receptionist’s face. “Oh!” she said suddenly. “I bet you have the name wrong. There’s a Mrs. Francine Connor, over in intensive care. She usually lives in an apartment, but her Alzheimer’s has gotten bad, and she had a fall recently. I bet that’s who you were supposed to see.”
A wave of relief flooded over Miranda. She gave out a nervous little laugh. “Yes, that must be it. They just gave me a list with initials and last names.”
“That’ll do it,” the receptionist replied. She looked past Miranda briefly. “Her nephew was in, but it looks like he’s just about to leave. Do you want me to call him over? He’s on his way out the door.”
“No, no, that isn’t necessary,” Miranda said. She put a hand to the side of her face, rubbing it and trying to keep it from Sam’s view.
“Well, if you want to go on back, I think it will be fine. She may not be all there, though, if you know what I mean.”
Miranda smiled and thanked to woman. She didn’t really want to visit Mrs. Connor; she wanted to follow Sam. But she had backed herself into a corner, and was committed now. Hopefully she could keep it short.
“She’s in room I-14. Down the hall and on your right.”
#
When Sam walked into her room, his aunt was sitting up in bed, spooning thin soup into her mouth. She did not notice him in the doorway. God she looks frail, Sam thought. She was also bruised from falling in her apartment a few days before. He knocked on her doorframe.
Francine Connor looked up from her soup. A handsome young stranger stood in her door. “May I help you?” she greeted him. Her voice was surprisingly strong.
“Hi, Aunt Fran. It’s me, Sam.”
“Oh!” she smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Sam’s heart sank. This had happened before, but it still hurt whenever she didn’t recognize him. He walked into the room, not sure what to say. “I just thought I’d stop by and see how you were.”
“That’s very nice, dear.” She set her soup spoon on the tray in front of her. She smiled. “I have a nephew who comes to see me every once in a while. He’s a very important man. A detective. Do you know him?”
Sam decided to play along. Maybe it would help her fading memory. “I don’t know. What’s his name?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. She put her fingers to her chin. “You know, I can’t remember. Isn’t that funny? You’d think I’d be able to remember my own nephew’s name.”
“It wouldn’t be Sam, would it?”
“Yes! Yes it is. Oh, he’s such a handsome boy. So you know him then?”
Sam smiled. “Yes, I think we’ve met a few times.”
“Oh good. He hasn’t arrested you has he?”
Sam laughed. “No, ma’am. I’ve never been caught.”
The older woman laughed as well. Sam was pleased to see that she picked up on the joke. “Well,” she said, “you best keep it that way, young man. But if you see my Sam, you tell him to stop by and see his aunt. Will you do that? It’s been so long since he was here last.”
Actually, it’s been less than a week. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”
“That’s very nice of you, dear.”
He walked over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You be good, Aunt Fran.”
“Thank you dear. Come back and see me any time.” She smiled as he left the room.
Sam’s chest felt heavy as he left the building. He hated seeing his aunt this way. Since his parents had passed away she was the only family he had left. “I need a beer,” muttered. He decided to stop at the neighborhood bar on his way home. He never noticed the blonde woman standing at the receptionist’s desk, rubbing her face as he walked by.
#
This should be interesting, Miranda thought. She walked down the hall to room I-14 and briefly considered wandering aimlessly before leaving, but she decided to look in and see Francine Connor. She had never met any of Sam’s family, or even heard much about them for that matter. Perhaps this would shed some light on him. She knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Hello?” she asked.
“Well hello dear!” the woman in the bed greeted her brightly. “How nice to see you. It’s been ages since I’ve had any visitors.”
Miranda wondered if she had the right room. “Are you Mrs. Connor?” she asked.
The woman thought hard for a few minutes. “Well, you know, dear, I suppose I am.” Miranda glanced at the nameplate on the door, double-checking that it did in fact read Francine Connor. “And what is your name?”
“Um, Becky.”
“You don’t sound sure. That’s all right, though, neither am I, usually. Do come in and sit down, Becky.” Miranda walked in and took a seat beside the older woman’s bed. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Well, I suppose I’d like to ask you some questions about your nephew.”
“My nephew? Which one?”
“Sam. The detective.”
“Sam the detective. Hmm. I’m sorry, dear, I’m not as sharp as I used to be. Let’s see, I suppose he’s a nice boy. A little rambunctious though. Always getting into trouble. I don’t know, he must drive his poor mother up the wall.” She smiled. “He always wants to play with the bigger boys. I don’t know how many times I've heard about him coming home with a black eye, split lip, bloody nose… his father always used to tell me ‘you should have seen the other guy,’ but those boys were always so much bigger…” Her voice faded away as she struggled to recapture the rest of the memory. Failing, she fell silent.
“Mrs. Connor?” Miranda prodded. “Are you all right?”
The woman smiled. “You can call me Aunt Fran, if you like. That’s what everyone else calls me. Always have. You’re a very lovely young woman. What is your name?”
Miranda tried to remember what name she had used. “Becky,” she mumbled.
“Hello, Becky. I’m Aunt Fran. I have a nephew, you kn
ow. Sam. What a sweet boy.”
“Yes, you were telling me about him. I think you said he was somewhat rambunctious.”
“Yes, but a sweet boy. I never had any children, you know, so I would watch him when his parents were away. Never any trouble at all.”
Miranda wondered briefly if they were talking about a different Sam than before. She looked at her watch discreetly while the woman stared at the ceiling with a dreamy smile on her face.
“Well, thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Connor.” Francine Connor continued to stare. “I’m going to go now.”
“That’s fine, dear. Tell Sam not to play so rough, even if the other boys are bigger than he is.”
“I will. Good bye.”
Miranda hurried out of the home, remembering to smile at the receptionist, who was engrossed in her magazine again. She shuddered as she walked to her car. Nursing homes always gave her the creeps. She couldn’t imagine a fate worse than that. She wondered how often Sam visited his aunt. She imagined it was fairly frequently, but with Aunt Fran’s failing memory it probably didn’t make any difference to her. Miranda heaved a heavy sigh as she slid into the seat of her car. Well, there was too much to do now to worry about the fate of the country’s elderly population. She had to get home and get ready for an important meeting. She pulled out of the retirement village lot, squealing her tires, anxious to shake off the depression of the nursing ward. She had her brother to think of. After all, he would never face the problem of being stuck in a nursing home.