Closure: An Eli Quinn Mystery

by Robert Roy Britt

“I’ll send you an invite soon as I wrap this up.”

  Chapter 20

  A few minutes after I hung up with Beach, the black Mustang pulled out of Drinkwater Court and turned left on Roadrunner. There was only one way out of the small subdivision, so I waited and let Bobby G get a good head start. I caught sight of the Mustang’s taillights again just as it turned south on Pima Road. I followed the taillights at a good distance until they turned into a strip mall and parked in front of Cactus Joe’s Bar & Grill.

  The strip mall was the usual, Spanish architecture housing a Cameo Cleaners, a Pizza Hut, a Walgreens and a half-dozen other establishments. Palo verde trees sprang from the parking lot.

  I parked on the opposite side of the lot, nearest the road, and several spots down. I watched Bobby G walk into Cactus Joe’s. It was mostly bar, not so much grill. A place where men walked in, and women walked in, and men and women walked out together. Nobody ever complimented the food, but there were interesting rumors about after-hours parties that involved lots of different substances, dancing on the bar, and not much clothing.

  I dialed Sam.

  “Can you tail someone for me?”

  “Do you mean am I capable or am I willing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to pretend you wouldn’t actually ask the first question, because that would be either sexist or a display of your ignorance about me, or both. So I’ll take the second question. Sure. What else would I want to do on a Sunday night?”

  “I’m at Cactus Joe's off Pima, just north of the 101. You know it?”

  “Can’t say I’ve been there, but I know where it is. The pickup joint, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re there because…”

  “Bobby G just went inside. I need you to sit on him, follow if he goes anywhere. How soon can you be here?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Park next to me, south end of the lot. I’m in Jess’ Cherokee.”

  ***

  Sam pulled into the parking lot thirteen minutes later. I got out and went around to her driver’s side. She rolled the window down.

  “You’re late,” I said.

  “Had to change,” she said.

  She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I smelled a perfume I’d never smelled before, wondered if maybe she was out with someone. None of my business. And Jesus, Quinn, you’re chasing a likely killer. You’re on the clock. Get your head in the game.

  “Hello?” Sam said.

  I realized I was staring at her again. I looked up over the hood of her car toward the bar. “Things came together today,” I said.

  “What happened?”

  “I detected.”

  “Which means?”

  “I made a phone call. Then I sat in my car for seven hours.”

  “Tell me.”

  I watched two older men go into Cactus Joe’s. Nobody came out.

  “You remember the bust of Ben Franklin at the Bernstein’s,” I said. “It’s a fake.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I wouldn’t. It was made on a 3D printer. That’s the file that was on Tinker’s computer. At least that’s my theory, and it’s looking pretty solid right now.”

  “So there was an art theft, just nobody knew it.”

  “Right. They made the fake, came back three days later and swapped it for the real one, killed Bernstein because he’s the only person who would’ve noticed the fake right away.”

  “And Delores was out when that happened,” she said. “You have to wonder if they knew she was out.”

  “You do. And you have to wonder how they got into a gated community, stole an eighty-pound bust, and nobody saw them come or go.”

  “Not so practical to hop a fence with a heavy, three-million dollar, 280-year-old bust,” she said.

  “Easier to just drive out.”

  “And they had a record of everyone who went in and out,” she said. “So it’s likely someone on that list.”

  “I don’t think so. I went back to Bobby G’s house, spent the day watching it just sit there. He comes home around five. Drives that black Mustang over there.” I pointed to the car, sitting near the entrance to Cactus Joe’s. “Couple hours later he heads out. I follow him to a small subdivision just north of here, Desert Rose, about halfway between here and Pleasant.”

  “I know it. Small, no gate, but nice homes. They cleared the lots before the recession, built two or three places, then it sat a few years. They started construction again a couple years ago and just recently finished the last homes.”

  “Turns out Bobby G is visiting Earl Johnson.”

  “The gate guard with the crush on me. Darn, it’s looking like I’m going to have to give up my dream to date that man.”

  “Yeah, you’d have made a nice couple.”

  “So you’re thinking Earl Johnson lets Bobby G know the Bernsteins are away the first night, then lets him slip in and steal the PC. Then gives him a free pass again three nights later.”

  “I'm headed to his place now, and I have a hunch me and your dream date aren’t going to get along very well.”

  Sam’s face scrunched with a puzzled look. “How did they even know about the bust in the first place?”

  “Not sure. But remember Mike Martinson, the other gate guard, said Earl Johnson was chatty with Tinker Bernstein. I figure Tinker may have mentioned the bust, said he had made a 3D scan of it, something like that. It’s a hole I haven’t plugged. But everything else feels pretty tight. If I can find the bust, the details will fill themselves in.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She looked up at me in a way I’d noticed before, her head tilted to one side, her eyes looking up. Oh, man, it was hard to just have a conversation with this woman. Like in some black and white movie, she batted her eyes. Actually she just blinked and I saw what I wanted to see. Is that what I wanted to see? Jesus, I did want to see it. Well, maybe not actual eye-batting, but something that would tell me we might be moving into a new phase of our relationship. My way of thinking about Sam had changed these past four days. My next thought was of Jess, and my mind became a swirl of confusion again.

  “Quinn?”

  I’d done the staring thing again.

  “Sorry, thinking.”

  “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Not at all.” Well, maybe a little. But it felt good, too. Really good. “Anyway, just tail Bobby G. If I’m right about all this, he’s at the center of it. He might have the bust, but I don’t think so. He’s too smart for that. I’ll go visit Earl Johnson, see if I can squeeze some more information out of this case. Maybe he has the bust.”

  “Earl Johnson will be easier to squeeze than Bobby G.”

  “Exactly. Bobby G is slippery. Earl Johnson is closer to stupid. I’ll call you when I figure out the next move. So just keep tabs on Bobby G.” I looked at the bar. A young woman came out with a middle-aged man. Bobby G’s car still sat there. “Mustangs are easy to tail,” I said.

  “Have been since 1965,” she said. “The taillights.”

  “Sixty four and a half,” I said.

  “Ah, right. Well, I was always more of a Camaro girl.”

  I bent down, put my hands on the top of the door. Sniffed a bit. “What’s that smell?” I said.

  “What smell?”

  “Perfume” I said. “I didn’t know you used perfume.”

  She gripped the steering wheel tightly, looked straight ahead. “I’m a girl, Quinn. There are many things you don’t know about me.”

  “So, were you on a date with Earl when I called?”

  She blew a bunch of air out her nose and laughed. “None of your business what I was doing when you called. And speaking of business…”

  I stood up to leave, looked at the door of the bar again. Then I said, “Well, I like it.” I turned to go.

  “Quinn?” I stopped but didn’t turn around. I was afraid I might not walk a
way if I did. “Please be careful,” she said. “I’d like to see you in one piece again.”

  I smiled to myself, nodded, and headed to the Cherokee.

  Chapter 21

  The lights were on downstairs at 3434 Drinkwater Court. I parked out on Roadrunner and walked into the poorly lit cul-de-sac so Earl Johnson wouldn’t get a heads-up he was being visited. I left Solo in the Cherokee. I didn’t think Earl Johnson would present much of a problem, and if Earl spotted someone with a German shepherd coming up the sidewalk, he’d more easily figure out it was me.

  The changing scenes of a TV show flashed lighter and darker in a front window. I rang the doorbell. The volume on the TV went down. A few seconds later Earl opened the door halfway. He was in dark blue sweat pants and a white t-shirt that left a couple inches of his well-fed belly exposed. A stain on the shirt suggested pizza was for dinner. His pink face was redder now, probably a few beers into the night.

  I kicked the door, a swift but not-so-subtle act that smashed Earl Johnson in the face and sent him flying back faster than his chubby Boss Hogg legs could carry him. He fell on his ass. A small revolver skittered out of his hand and across the floor. I moved in quickly and carefully picked the gun up with the tips of my thumb and forefinger and put it on an entry table. I didn’t know much about this part of the job, but I knew enough to be careful about the evidence. The gun had Earl Johnson’s greasy fingerprints on it, and I didn’t want to mess that up.

  “What the hell,” Earl said, scrambling like a walrus to get off the floor. His eyes were watered—apparently I’d broken another nose—and his vision would be blurred. “Who the fuck…”

  “Hi Earl. Eli Quinn. We met at your gate the other day. My dog didn’t like you. I didn’t like you. Sam Marcos doesn’t like you. And now I find out you’re not just a disgusting pig of a man, but also a thief.”

  “The fuck you talking about, asshole.” He cupped his nose with his hands. I knew several ways to disable a man. Among the simplest was to break his nose. It was a big target, breaking it didn’t cause any life-threatening damage, and it was nearly impossible to continue fighting with a broken nose and blurry eyes. Unless you’re Yuri Boiko. Earl Johnson was no Yuri Boiko. Earl had lost the whole fight in Round 1, even if he hadn’t admitted defeat yet.

  “What’d you pay for this place, Earl? Half a million? Briggs Security paying you pretty well I guess. Either that, or this thieving thing is a habit. I know what happened in Mesa. But now you’ve gone and killed somebody. Bye-bye fancy home. Hello Big House.”

  Earl was on one knee now. He glanced at the revolver. He looked down at the floor. Plotting. I was the third point of an isosceles triangle in the favorable geometry of the situation, equidistant between Earl and the gun.

  Without looking up, Earl said, “Listen, Buster, you better get the fuck out of here right now, or else you’re a dead man.”

  “Buster? Nobody’s called me Buster since I was a kid. But thanks for the segue. I’ve been meaning to ask you, Earl. Where’s the Franklin bust?”

  Earl Johnson made a pathetically slow dash for the revolver. That was the move I was looking for. No doubt left that Earl Johnson was in on the crime. He didn’t even try to deny it.

  Interesting how much can flash through your mind when you know violence is coming. Here’s what occurred to me in that instant: Over the past four days, I had grown fond of Delores Bernstein and, by extension, Tinker Bernstein. Tinker’s death was senseless. Two lives ruined. There was no telling what would happen to Earl Johnson in the courts. And while I didn’t want to become a vigilante, I could not shake the anger of Jess’ killer getting off for anything less than a death sentence. You might think you’re against the death sentence until someone kills someone you love. Deep inside I’m still against it, but in that case, part of me wanted it. But that was in the past now. I had Earl Johnson to deal with. I could simply shove him to the ground again, grab the gun, and call 9-1-1. I didn’t. Earl had barely gotten to his feet and lunged halfway toward the gun when I grabbed his left wrist with my left hand, used my right forearm to break his left elbow as his momentum was redirected to the floor. His broken nose slammed into the floor and left a bloody mess on the tile. He screamed like a six-year-old girl. The scream was probably for the elbow, which would hurt way more than the nose.

  My breathing was elevated more than it should have been. I was crouched in the ready position, both fists balled at my belt, left foot slightly forward. I blinked. Earl Johnson rolled over onto his back, put his right hand up to signal no more. His left arm lay on the floor at an impossible angle. I wasn’t squeamish, but the sight of the helpless man recalibrated my brain. I took a deep breath and stood up straight, extended my fingers to stretch my hands, made the muscles in my neck and shoulders relax. The tension eased downward from there.

  I grabbed Earl Johnson by the collar with one hand, put my other arm under his right armpit and lifted him to his feet. He groaned in pain.

  “Let’s have a look around, Earl.” I pushed him into the hallway.

  “Listen. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Earl. Stop fucking with me. You killed Tinker Bernstein, stole his bust of Ben Franklin, replaced it with a 3D-printed fake.” I was pretty sure Earl Johnson hadn’t actually done any of those things himself. He probably made the replica, fudged Delores Bernstein’s time of entry through the gate the night her husband was killed. Then tipped the thief and killer—probably Bobby G and Boiko—when to get in. Then tipped them just as Delores came back, when to shoot the clock, which Bobby G would have set ahead first. The details didn’t matter right now. The accusations would give Earl something to truthfully deny, thereby further admitting his involvement in the whole thing. I enjoyed mind games, and I’d be really disappointed to lose one with Earl Johnson. I pushed him from door to door down the hallway, kicking each door in. I didn’t need to kick the doors in, but they were cheap, hollow doors, easy to kick in, and they made a lot of noise when I did so. The effect seemed scary. So I kept doing it.

  “I didn’t kill Bernstein,” he said. “I didn’t steal nothing.”

  “Yuri Boiko do the killing?”

  Earl didn’t reply. I read his speechlessness as a yes.

  “Bobby G do the stealing?”

  Again, no reply.

  “Where’s the bust, Earl? I know you know where it is. Too risky to store it at Bobby G’s, since he’s a known art thief. Boiko’s too stupid to leave it with him. You’re not as stupid as Boiko, but you’re stupider than Bobby G, so I’ll bet three million dollars the bust is here.”

  Earl didn’t say anything. I opened the garage door. Garage doors are solid, to help prevent the spread of fire from the garage to the house. Trying to kick one in would just be dumb. Pushed Earl through it. In the middle of the room was a commercial-grade 3D printer.

  “Bingo,” I said. “Tell me where the bust is, Earl, or I’m going to break your other elbow and you won’t be able to wipe your own ass while you’re in jail. I’m sure there’s some dudes there love to do it for you.”

  Earl Johnson hung his head. He had the look of someone who’d been defeated many times in life. Without him noticing, I flicked on the recorder of my iPhone. I stayed behind Earl, holding him by the collar. “Where’s the Franklin bust, Earl?”

  “Master bedroom,” Earl said, his voice low and dejected, his speech laced with pain. “In the closet behind the shoe rack.” I turned the recorder off so it wouldn’t record Earl’s moaning. The pain had likely gone from sharp to dull and searing, the sort of pain that causes a man to black out.

  I pushed him back through the hall, into the living room and over to the entryway. Turned the recorder back on.

  “You kill Tinker Bernstein?”

  “I need some aspirin. A doctor. Fucking hurts, man.”

  Recorder off. I’d erase that one. “I agree,” I said. “You need something to kill the pain, and you need a doctor. I’ll call somebody soon as you answer me.
Or we can sit here and talk all night.” Recorder back on. “You kill Tinker Bernstein?”

  Earl closed his eyes. The pain was beyond bearable. The man was getting woozy. “Boiko done that,” he said.

  “And you stole Bernstein’s PC, printed the fake, swapped it for the real one while Boiko shot Bernstein.”

  “I didn’t steal nothing,” he said.

  “Who did the theft?”

  “Was Bobby G.”

  Recorder off. Then Earl Johnson’s eyes rolled back in his head. I caught him as he fainted and laid him gently on tile, same spot he’d gone down before.

  Chapter 22

  “He’s been out cold since I called you. But he’s breathing fine.”

  “What happened to his nose?” Beach asked.

  “There was some disagreement whether I’d been invited into his home or not,” I explained. “The door sort of settled things for us.”

  “What happened to his elbow?”

  “Somehow his gun ended up on the table over there.” I pointed at the revolver near the front door. “After his run-in with the door, he went for the gun. I didn’t think it would be good for him to have the gun, so I kind of got in the way, and I guess he fell. Things happened fast. I feel terrible. It was all a big misunderstanding.”

  Beach chuckled. He fingered the gun, put it in a plastic bag, and zipped it shut.

  “I thought you posse guys don’t do crime scene work.”

  “Can’t have a suspect waking up and shooting us. I think the boss man will understand.”

  Beach pulled out plastic handcuffs and zipped Earl Johnson’s ankles together. I led my friend into the master bedroom, pulled the shoe rack out and we found the Franklin bust, which neither of us touched. Evidence.

  “Three million bucks,” Beach said.

  “Good a reason to kill an innocent man as any,” I said. We went down the hall and into the garage. I pointed at the machine. “He made the fake there, I’ll bet. You’ll probably find some raw material— the ink, as it were—to match the replica. The ink is not marble, by the way. Weighs about half as much, whatever it is. I don’t see Tinker Bernstein’s PC, but I bet you’ll find the 3D file of the Franklin bust on that laptop.” I pointed. “That’ll be what you posse members call evidence. PC is probably in a dumpster somewhere.” We walked back through the hall, across the living room to the entryway.