by John Holt
As he drove along he glanced at both sides of the road. He saw no one. He drove on for a few more moments. There, over on the right hand side, he saw it, number 275. He slowly drove past. One hundred yards further on he pulled into a side street, and then reversed back into Cedar Drive. He then started to drive back towards number 275.
Kendall pulled up in front of number 275, and switched off the engine. He sat for a few moments looking at the house. It was a weather-boarded building, with two steps leading up to the front porch. The front garden was covered with grass, with one or two small trees to one side. There was a narrow paved pathway leading to the porch, and the front door. Kendall looked across to the opposite side of the road, to number 278. It was identical. So was the house next to it. In fact all of the houses looked identical for as far as he could see.
He looked back at number 275. He reached inside his pocket and took out the small bunch of keys that Shaw had given him. He selected the key to the main door. He opened the car door, and got out. He locked the car door, and walked towards the house. After a few yards he stopped and looked around behind him. He thought he saw a curtain move across at number 278. He looked at the window for a few moments. There was no further movement. Probably the wind he decided. He turned away, and looked down the road a short distance. The area was still deserted.
A short distance down the road was a dark grey car parked near the corner. An obvious police car trying to look inconspicuous, Kendall thought. He could spot them a mile off. “Hey, I should know. I used to drive one.”
The car appeared to be empty, and Kendall briefly wondered where the occupants were. He glanced around but they were nowhere in sight. If he had looked closer he might just have spotted them at the side of the house opposite. They were watching Kendall very closely. Kendall looked in the opposite direction. There were no other cars around. There were no people around. There were no children playing in the gardens. There wasn’t even the sound of a dog barking, or a baby crying.
It didn’t seem natural. He turned back towards the house, and continued walking up to the front door. Lying on the porch were several broken flowerpots, lying on their sides. The plants that they had originally contained were lying by the side, shriveled and dried up. Scattered next to them were a number of newspapers.
He tried the key in the lock. It would not turn. He took the key out of the lock and looked at it closely. It seemed all right. And it was certainly the key that he had been given. He had tied a label to it, so that there would be no error. He tried it once more, but the key would not turn. He exerted a little more pressure. It turned a fraction, and then jammed completely. He tried to remove the key, but it would not budge. Kendall looked down at the lock. He could see that it had partially been pulled away from the door. One side appeared to be buckled, and had dropped slightly. The lock spindle was no longer in line with the lock. It was obvious that the door had recently been forced open. That was why the key would not turn.
Kendall pushed hard on the door, trying to force the lock back into position, and trying to turn the key at the same time. Suddenly there was a loud click, and the key turned, and then snapped, leaving a jagged section in the lock. The door shuddered and swung open a short distance, and then stopped. Kendall peered around the door. Lying on the ground behind the door, were a number of envelopes. Several had become lodged underneath the door, preventing it from moving. Kendall put his shoulder to the door, and began to push. The door moved gradually, until there was a big enough gap for him to enter the house.
The property had been completely ransacked. Whoever had done it had done a thorough job. It had been meticulously and systematically destroyed. Nothing had been left untouched. Drawers had been wrenched from the cabinets, and were lying on the floor, their contents scattered all around, the bottoms smashed. Cupboard doors had been ripped open. Broken sections of the framing lay hanging from the hinges. The original contents had been pulled out, and thrown down to the floor. Everywhere were fragments of smashed crockery, and shards of glass. Clothing had been torn into shreds, and thrown down. Upholstery had been cut, and the inside padding pulled out, ripped and strewn around the room. Furniture lay smashed, and broken.
It was the same story in every room throughout the property. In the bedroom the mattress had been cut to shreds, pillows torn, and feathers scattered everywhere. The wardrobe had been pulled away from the wall, and allowed to fall to the floor. Doors had smashed as they hit the floor. Carpets had been pulled back exposing the bare floor boarding underneath. Some timber boards had been ripped up, exposing the floor joists.
Kendall knew that the police would have searched the house. They would have carried out a thorough search, a careful, meticulous search. But Kendall knew that this destruction that surrounded him, was not their doing. This was something entirely different. This had been carried out in a hurry. Someone was looking for something that was certain. They were looking for something in particular, something very special. The question is who was it, and what were they looking for? More importantly did they find it?
A further search of the property seemed to be a pointless exercise. It seemed obvious that if there had been anything worth finding it was now long gone. There was a remote possibility that in their hurry they might have overlooked something, possible although hardly likely. Kendall wasn’t optimistic. He walked over to the corner of the room. There was Shaw’s bureau lying on its side, the doors smashed, and the drawers removed and thrown on to the floor. It was completely empty, its contents lying on the floor. He bent down and started to sift through the papers. They were mainly bills, or receipts. There was nothing of any significance.
Scattered on the floor were a number of photographs, torn and trampled into the splinters of broken glass. Kendall bent down and picked one up. It was of Shaw’s mother when she was no more than twenty years old, he guessed. Next to her was a young man. He looked so like Anthony Shaw, it was obviously his father. Kendall sadly let the photograph go, watching it as it dropped to the floor. Lying behind the bureau was Shaw’s computer. The monitor screen had been smashed. The computer casing had been prized open, and the hard drive removed.
Was that what they had been looking for? “Partially, perhaps,” Kendall mumbled. But there must have been something more, otherwise there would have been no need to ransack the house. They, whoever they were, would have gone straight to the computer, and that would have been that. He took one last look around the room. He had found nothing of any significance. “No more than I expected,” he told himself.
* * *
As he came out of the house he thought that he saw something in the corner of his eye. He looked up, and across the road. He noticed the curtain of the downstairs room flutter. He watched for a few more moments. It moved once again. It wasn’t the wind. There was someone there, someone keeping an eye on what was happening. They were probably doing the same thing the day that Shaw had got shot.
He pulled the door shut behind him. He looked down at the lock. The broken section of the key was still there jammed firm. It was obvious that he could not lock the door. It didn’t matter much anyway did it? There was nothing left worth stealing He turned around and looked back at the house opposite. Slowly he walked to the end of the garden, and stopped at the sidewalk. He looked along the roadway. The police car was still parked at the corner. There was still no sign of the occupants.
He crossed the street and walked towards the front porch of number 278. He mounted the steps, on to the porch, and stood at the front door. He glanced towards the window. He noticed that the top fanlight was slightly open. Once again he noticed the curtain move. He turned to face the door, and tapped hard. A few moments passed. There was no answer. He tapped once again. Still there was no answer. He began to think that perhaps it had been the wind after all, and that there was no one home. He turned away from the house, and started back down the steps. Then he heard a noise behind him. He stopped and turned. There it was again. It was coming from
the house. He walked back to the door, and knocked again, louder this time. “Open up,” he called out. “Police.”
The door started to open slowly, and a face peered out. It was that of a lady, aged about sixty five, Kendall judged. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she said as she opened the door fully. “I can’t get around as quickly as I used to I’m afraid.” She stepped out on to the porch. It was then that Kendall saw her crutches. She noticed his glance. She laughed. “Careless of me,” she said. “I slipped, and fell down those,” as she indicated to the steps.
Kendall looked at the steps, and then looked back at the lady. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I hope you have a speedy recovery.”
She thanked him. “It’s been six weeks so far,” she said. “Doctors say another six, and then they should get the plaster off. I can’t wait. It’s so itchy. Now what can I do for you? I’ve already told the police all that I know.” She stared over the road. “He was such a nice man, quiet, and not a bit of trouble.”
Kendall followed her gaze, over to number 275. She had a clear view straight to the front door. He turned back. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “But if you could just go over it once more. I would appreciate it.”
“Well I’ve already told them,” she said. “I didn’t really see much. I heard a car pull up just outside here.” She pointed to a spot some twenty yards away. “I looked out. I was expecting a delivery you know.” She paused for a few moments. “A new dishwasher, it was due sometime that day. They couldn’t give an exact time. You know how they are?”
Yes Kendall knew how they were. “You were saying,” he prompted gently. “About the car”
“Oh yes, so I was,” she replied. “I looked out and I saw a man walking over to Mr. Shaw’s house. He was carrying something with him. It looked like a small parcel. You know, wrapped in brown paper. The next thing, he actually goes inside and the door closes.” She stopped once again. “And that was all.”
Kendall could not believe it, another dead end. An unfortunate phrase, he thought, in the circumstances. But once again he was hitting a blank wall. “Could you describe the man?” he asked, clutching at straws, any straws.
“I only saw his back I’m afraid,” she replied. “Not much help I’m afraid.”
Right, Kendall thought. Not much help at all. “Oh no,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”
“I can tell you about the car though,” she said quite suddenly.
“The car,” Kendall repeated. “What about the car? Do you know what type it was?”
“Oh yes, I know what type it was,” she replied feeling pleased with herself. “It was a black car...”
A black car! How could he possibly go wrong with such information? There can’t be more than a million black cars driving around can there? “That’s great,” he said. “You have been very helpful. Thank you so much.” He started down the steps, taking great care not to slip. As he reached the bottom he stopped, and turned to face her. “Take care of that leg won’t you.” He turned and walked away.
“I sure will,” she called out. “And you take care as well.”
Without turning, Kendall raised his hand and waved.
* * *
Chapter 18
Mr. Latimer Please
True to form, Kendall thought, as he started down the steps. He was getting nowhere, fast. He had found nothing, apart from two creased photographs. And on the face of it they were of no importance. Where had they been taken anyway? He had no way of knowing. It could be anywhere. He had known that the enquiry was going to be difficult. He hadn’t expected it to be this difficult though.
“All I have to go on is that entry in the diary, Latimer, the Marshall Building, and the date.” That and the four bricks in a cardboard box, he murmured. “Who the hell is Latimer anyway?” he asked nobody in particular.
He stopped at the sidewalk and turned. The lady was still there, on the porch, watching him. He looked back across the road, to number 275, and shook his head. He had found nothing. “Let’s hope that Latimer can help.”
He crossed the road and started to walk along the sidewalk. As he did so he looked back at number 278. The lady had gone. Close by he saw two men standing at the corner. They were still deep in conversation. They looked up as Kendall passed back on the other side of the road.
Kendall got into his car. He put the key into the ignition, and started the engine. He looked across to his right, ready to pull out. The two men were no longer in sight. Kendall turned and looked down the street. There was no sign of them. The police car was still where it had been two hours previously. He put the car into first gear, and pulled away, heading downtown, towards the Marshall Building.
* * *
Thirty minutes later Kendall arrived outside the Marshall Building. It was a luxury residential block. As Kendall crossed the lobby floor he could see the receptionist seated behind a marble clad counter. To the right he could just see a faint blue glow. As he drew nearer he could see that the light came from a television screen. The receptionist looked up at the sound of his approach, but made no attempt to turn off the television, or to lower the sound. Kendall looked towards the screen momentarily. It was a news program. Fox News. The phrase “fair and balanced” immediately came into his mind.
“Good afternoon sir,” the Receptionist said, barely looking up from the screen. “Can I help you?”
It would be a first if he did. Kendall quickly flipped open his police identity and badge. Strictly he should have returned them to the department when he had retired from the force. He had reported them lost some months previously, and a duplicate set had been issued. Strictly he hadn’t actually lied. At that time he really had thought that they were missing. He had looked everywhere without success. A few weeks after receiving the replacement badge, he had discovered the original lodged at the back seat of his car. When he left the force he handed in one set, and kept the other. He had to admit that the duplicate set had been extremely useful in his new role.
The receptionist merely glanced at the badge. “So, what can I do for you?” he asked disinterestedly. His gaze immediately returned to the television screen.
Kendall closed the badge, and returned it to his inside pocket. “Could I see Mr. Latimer, please?” he said. “He lives here I believe.”
The receptionist suddenly sat up straight. “Mr. Latimer, did you say?”
“That’s right,” replied Kendall. “I don’t know his first name.”
“You are a little mixed up, sir. There is no Mr. Latimer,” the receptionist replied. “Not living here at least.”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Kendall complained.
The receptionist looked down at the television, and reluctantly turned the sound down a fraction. He looked directly at Kendall, and slowly repeated his answer pronouncing every word deliberately. “I said that there is no Mr. Latimer living here.”
“Oh but I understood that …,” Kendall started to respond, but was cut off by the Receptionist.
“There is no Mr. Latimer,” the Receptionist repeated. “One of the suites is permanently rented to Latimer Holdings Incorporated.” He paused. “It must be them that you mean.”
Kendall wasn’t at all sure what he meant. “Yes, maybe you’re right,” he replied, unconvinced. “Perhaps you can tell me which suite it is, and how I can get in touch with them.”
“The suite is only used occasionally,” the receptionist explained. “It hasn’t been used for three, four weeks. Just a moment I’ll check.” He pressed a few keys on the computer keyboard. The display on the monitor quickly changed. “Yes there we are,” he said as he pointed to the screen. “It’s actually six weeks to the day.”
Kendall leaned over the counter to see the screen. He had no idea of what he was looking at. “Yes, sure, I see,” he said.
Kendall wasn’t getting very far. This case just wasn’t going anywhere. “This Latimer Holdings, outfit,” Kendall said. “Can you give me their addr
ess?” he asked.
“I’m sorry I can’t do that, sir,” replied the receptionist.
“Can’t do that, or won’t do that,” Kendall commented impatiently.
The receptionist smiled once again. “I can’t give you that information, sir,” he replied. “We don’t have an address. All we have is a Box number, and that’s it.” Then as an afterthought, he continued. “We have an answering service number. But I’m not allowed to give that information out.”
Kendall could not believe such apparent inefficiency. No address and no telephone number. It didn’t make sense. Nonetheless it was true.
“You see,” the receptionist began to explain. “We never need to contact them. Every month, regular as clockwork a check arrives. It covers the rent, the maintenance charge, and there’s always a little extra for myself.” He glanced down at the television screen for a moment. He then looked back up at Kendall.
The receptionist was about to speak when he suddenly looked back at the television screen. “Hey”, he exclaimed. “That guy, he was here, six weeks ago, like I said, with the rest of them. They were in the Latimer suite.”
Kendall leaned across the counter for a better view. On the screen there was a picture of Governor Frank Reynolds. Across the bottom of the screen the ticker tape announced in large black letters “Governor Reynolds Murdered.” The voice over was filling in whatever detail was available. Apparently his body had been discovered earlier that morning. He had been found lying in his garage. He had been shot twice. One shot to the upper chest, the other hitting him in the shoulder. “Police believe that the weapon used was a 9 mm pistol,” said the reporter.
Kendall suddenly froze. Anthony Shaw had also been killed by a 9 mm bullet. Kendall was well aware that there must have been hundreds, if not, thousands of such weapons that met that description. Was it coincidence, or something more? Suddenly, two apparently un-connected murders, that occurred sixty miles apart, were possibly now strangely linked. Both victims had been killed by the same type of bullet. Both were connected in some way to the Marshall building, and both were connected to the name Latimer. It still made no sense, but Kendall’s mind was working overtime.