1929 Book 4 - Drifter

by ML Gardner

  “Come in, kid. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, Sloan. I just need a minute. The new guys are going around talking to everyone.”

  “And?”

  “I figured you’d want to know.”

  “I work missings. I doubt they want to talk to me.”

  “Actually, they might. I overheard one of them talking about a theory.”

  I sat with an expectant, impatient glare. I had no reason to be impatient. I had no new leads to work. It was just a bad habit.

  “Well…” He adjusted in his seat, leaning closer to my desk.

  Oh, this should be good.

  “I heard one of ‘em say that they think someone is walking around using a false identity. That they go around using different aliases, you know, pretending to be someone else—”

  “I know what an alias is, Fred,” I interrupted.

  “Right. I know, sorry.”

  “And, most of my cases are women, girls or people that get transferred to your department.” Still, Daniel Bellamy popped into my mind. Why? I have no idea.

  “Well, I heard one of them say that they might want to look at your files. They think that the person doing this might have faked his own disappearance. Or death.”

  “How could he fake a death? Kind of takes a body for a file to end up in homicide.”

  “Right. And they’ve been pouring over our files all day. There were two that might have fit the bill, one guy got beat so bad it was hard to identify him. The other was a house fire.”

  “Anything promising?”

  “No, they ruled them out pretty quick.”

  I didn’t bother to ask how. I didn’t care. What I did care about was the fact that my office would soon be overrun with hotshots, digging through my files, looking for something that was probably right under my nose. And if they found something, wouldn’t I be the laughing stock.

  “I just wanted to let you know, Sloan. Just as a courtesy.”

  “Thanks, kid. I appreciate it.”

  “Say, I was wondering. You think I could tag along the next time you go out? I’d love to see how you work.”

  “Aren’t you happy in homicide?”

  He clasped his hands and looked uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t know if I’m cut out for it. Seeing Helga…shit, I had nightmares the last two nights.”

  I grinned. “Nightmares are just part of the job, kid.”

  Sad, but true.

  “Well, it’s crossed my mind to request a transfer. You don’t need an assistant, do you? A partner, maybe? A Protégé?”

  My blood ran cold and I sat a little straighter. Did he know about the list? That unless the team was successful, I had a date with destiny in the near future?

  “No, Fred, sorry. I prefer to work alone.” I wasn’t in a teaching mood.

  “Okay,” he said, deflating with disappointment. “Never hurts to ask.”

  “Tell me something, Fred,” I asked as he reached for the door. “Did Cap say anything else about this case? Anything at all?”

  Are you on the list? Is what I really wanted to ask.

  “No. He’s been wrapped up with this team. He’s hoping they can find this guy before next week.”

  Fred left and I felt bad for him. I liked the kid. He was actually someone I thought I could work with; someone that wouldn’t bug the shit out of me. Not all the time, anyway. He was polite and damn eager to learn. Back in my glory days, I’d always dreamed of training the next great missings sleuth. Someone to carry on my work.

  But not under these circumstances and not after the ideas I’d just had. Ideas that had been floating around in relative obscurity now swirled together, possibilities morphing into probabilities as Fred talked.

  I reached into my drawer and fished around for Daniel Bellamy’s file. There was a reason why this little bastard had been bothering me for months. A reason I didn’t see him in my dreams, dead, like the rest of them. I slipped the edge of the file under the waistband of my pants beneath my dress shirt. I’d have to wear my jacket to hide the hard edges of the file, but that was fine. I felt the budge of the wallet in my front pocket and adjusted it as someone knocked on my door.

  I grabbed my jacket, inviting them in as I slipped it on. Captain started apologizing like I’d be bent for the sudden visit. Four men looking self important filed in after him. I relinquished my office with a smile. I had a lot of work to do and I couldn’t do it here.

  I went back to my favorite dive café and found a small table in the back corner. Taking a glance to check for lurkers, I tore my jacket off, untucked my shirt and pulled out the file. The heat of the day made it stick to my back.

  I put it on the table and waited to open it, seeing the waitress heading over out of the corner of my eye.

  “Hey, Sloan. How’s your day going?”

  “Fair. Let me get a turkey on rye and milk.”

  “Sure thing. Any luck yet?”

  I was hesitant to say anything. I could tell in my gut when I was on to something and my gut told me this was big. But I didn’t want to jinx myself.

  “Just another day, doll,” I said.

  “One of these days, Sloan, I’m gonna see your name on the front page of the Boston Herald.” She smiled, winked and walked away. I felt a cold ball of dread well up in my stomach. I tried to imagine a heroic picture of me wrangling the cop killer into the precinct, rather than the alternative. An obituary.

  I opened the file and fished out my notebook. Making a list of what I knew and what I needed to know, I was tempted to get discouraged. The bullet marks listing what I needed to know were so much longer.

  Daniel Bellamy. Missing for over six months. File hadn’t been updated in five. And that entry I had made just to make a note that I had visited his girlfriend, Arlene Franklin, who reported she still hadn’t seen or heard from Daniel. Well, a lot could happen in five months and sitting at the bottom of my priority list, I hadn’t exactly been out looking for him.

  He fit the bill of a small time criminal, the type to come back to his old stomping grounds every now and then.

  The kind to tempt fate. His rap sheet was as long as the Nile River. Forgery, petty theft, breaking and entering, busted for fixing card games in a speakeasy—double whammy—caught transporting gin a couple times. Plus a dozen other misdemeanors.

  He reminded me of someone who wanted to be a real bad boy but lacked the guts to really do something daring. Until now. My rational mind didn’t understand how someone could go from small crime to the big time…and then it jumped off the page at me.

  Ashley Raymond, the third cop picked off, had busted him for breaking and entering over a year ago.

  The first cop to be killed, Kevin Smith, busted him for running rum.

  And last but not least, Connor Dixon, busted him two years back for forging payroll checks. I narrowed my eyes. It made sense, didn’t it? Who knows why a good person goes bad. What pushes them over the edge and then pushes them to do more and more daring things.

  It made sense that after frustrating failure after failure, he’d not only do something to prove to himself he was bad, but take down every cop that busted him in vengeance. Not every cop that had busted him had been killed, but then again, I didn’t know who all was on the list. I needed to see it. I also needed to pay a visit to Arlene Franklin.

  I slammed the file shut as the waitress slipped the plate onto the table.

  “Why don’t you get dressed, we’ll find something to drink and I’ll finish, okay? That water has to be getting cold.” Sloan said.

  “I’ll meet you back in the room.”

  Sloan nodded, tossed the towel on the stool and left. The water drained as he toweled off and when it was empty the faucet held a steady drip. He opened his bag, took a dose of tonic and then turned the knob as hard as he could. Water gathered and slipped out in small drops, echoing against the bottom of the tub. He watched as each one fell and thought about Deek.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Turned
Out

  The sound of water woke him. Scared they were sinking, he sat up quickly. He no longer sat on the rough wooden floor of the ship, but on cold stone in some dank dimly lit place. Water seeped through the cobble of the wall beside him, gathering with an echoing plink, plink, plink in a puddle. Looking to each side, he saw light and then heard the noises above him. He pictured the structure in his mind, but it took a moment to bring it to his lips.

  “Bridge,” he whispered. “How the hell did I end up under a bridge?”

  “You were dumped.”

  John startled, not realizing he had company.

  A tall man stood in the shadows. “Buncha little men carried you here not an hour ago. We were just ‘bout to check and see if you were alive.”

  Not bothering to ask who else was included in ‘we’, John scrambled to his feet. “Which way did they go?”

  “Atta ways.” He pointed out to the left.

  John walked to the edge of the light and looked in both directions.

  “Long gone by now,” the man said.

  “Where am I?”

  “Near the King George dock.”

  “Where the hell is that?” John turned, trying to better make out the man’s features.

  “London.”

  “Where?”

  He laughed hard and nudged a woman behind him. “Geddy, wake up. You gotta hear this.”

  The woman snorted and rolled to sitting, her face coming partially into view.

  “What’s awl this?” She pushed long, stringy brown hair from her face and like her male companion, wore many layers of clothing.

  She put her hand up to block the glare. “Who is he?” she asked.

  “American, by the sound of ‘im. Little men dropped ‘im off ‘bout hour ago while you were sleepin’.”

  “Has he got a name, Deek?”

  “Don’t know. It’s not like he’s a lost puppy and I’ve had to name ‘im.” Deek looked back at John. “What’s your name?”

  John was conscious of several things at once, more awake and aware than he remembered being…ever. He didn’t answer Deek but returned to the spot where he woke up and tried to gather his thoughts. His precious few memories. He sat down, folded his legs and leaned over them, stretching the skin on his back, making it sting.

  His recollections were hazy and came in random snippets. A white room, an older woman, riding in a truck that made him sick to his stomach, the rough material of sacks on the ship, fighting for consciousness as narrow eyes and thin fingers poured warm tea down his throat—that picture came several times— and then, nothing.

  He looked up at his surroundings; a bowl shaped dirt patch spanning a set of cobble stone bridge footings. This was the last picture in his limited memory. He wrinkled his nose against the smell of urine and mildew and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

  “Hey, what’s your name? If you’re gonna call this old bridge home wif us, we best introduce ourselves. I’m Deacon. Everyone calls me Deek. This ‘ere’s my woman, Geddy.”

  John looked up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know my name.”

  Deek’s head jerked in surprise. “What you mean by ‘at? How do you not know your name?”

  “I woke up in a house…then a boat, and then here. I don’t know what happened before that.”

  Geddy pushed past Deek to get closer. She couldn’t have been in her thirties yet, but moved with the stiffness of reluctant joints. “Looks like he’s a handsome one, or used to be ‘fore someone roughed ‘im up,” she said with a cackle.

  “What happened to your face?” Deek asked. “Was it the Chinese that brought you here?”

  John touched his face. “No, they tried to help.” He thought hard, fighting to find memories. They had been cautious, but concerned. He remembered them tending to his wounds and giving him food and water before making him drink the tea. He couldn’t understand why they would try so hard to help him, just to dump him under a bridge, leaving him for dead.

  “Who blacked your eyes, then?”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes got some lingerin’ bruises. Like they were blacked a week ago.”

  John vaguely remembered the first cup of tea the Chinese sailor had given him. He remembered drinking, feeling warm and relaxed and then for a split second he saw the wooden floor of the ship flying towards him. He felt his nose. It was slightly crooked. The second he realized that, it began to ache, along with his lungs, back and joints. The headache started in his temples and he groped in his pocket for the bottle.

  Deek’s eyebrows went up and he took an interested step forward.

  “What’s your dose?”

  John swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What’s in the bottle?” He looked hungry and shifted where he stood.

  “Medicine? I don’t know. I just know it helps.”

  “You’re wrong. It don’t help. It lands folks here,” Geddy said. She turned with a huff and went back to the shadows.

  “You don’t happen to have more, do you?”

  There was a small amount of liquid left in the bottle. John kept his hand wrapped around it as he shoved it back in his pocket. “All out. Sorry.”

  Deek stared at him with a distrustful frown. “Right. All out.” He lumbered back to the narrow crevice where the ground met the stone footings. Geddy sat there, hugging her knees. “Don’t suppose you know how to get hold of more, do you?”

  “I just got here, remember?”

  “Well, I do. Know where to get more, that is.”

  “Where?”

  “A gal comes by here every so often. I can point her out, for a price.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Money. A drink or a dose. Any’ll do.”

  “I don’t have any of those things.”

  “You talk like a rich man.” Deek cocked his head, studying. “Why’d that be, I wonder.”

  “I said I didn’t have anything.”

  “I know you don’t have anything by the way of property. It’s how you sound. Important like.”

  “Wait.” Geddy pulled at Deek’s sleeve. She whispered feverishly in his ear for a long time. John bent his head, letting the medicine take the edge off his pains. It wasn’t enough to make him sleep, only keep him from crying.

  He heard a rustling of clothing and Geddy whispered, “This one could work, ya think?”

  Deek sat up slowly, the thought apparent on his face. “It may.” He stared and it made John uncomfortable. Deek nodded to himself while thinking. “Damn good idea, Geddy. It just might work.”

  “What might work?” John said. His legs twitched with the urge to run.

  “What if we introduce you to the gal we know. She’s got a thing for Americans, you see. And what if you get to be friends wi’ ‘er and get some information for us?”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Oh, where stuff is stored in the warehouse mainly.”

  “What stuff? What warehouse?”

  “This gal works for a guy who has a lot of—” He paused and smiled. “Medicine…stored in a warehouse. Me an’ Geddy here would just like to know where it’s kept, is all.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, that’d be our business, now wouldn’t it? But we’ll make the introduction if you’ll agree to get the information back to us.”

  “Wait, Deek,” Geddy said, jumping to her feet and grabbing his arm. She leaned close, keeping her eyes on John. “What if he just takes off and don’t come back to tell us? Like the last one did? How do we know he’ll come back?”

  “Well, we’d spread the word that he’s a rat. That word would get back to the boss. They’d kill ‘im, surely.”

  John froze. Before he could opt out, Deek was next to him, bearing his crooked and stained teeth in a grin.

  “So this is how it’s gonna work.” Deek stopped, cocking an eyebrow. “What are we suppose to call you anyway?”

  “I think t
he old woman called me John Doe.”

  Deek laughed. “Here’s how this is gonna work, John.” He slung an arm around his neck, pulling him close and they began to walk.

  ***

  That night, lying on the ground with no protection from the damp cold, he drank the last of the bottle and prayed for sleep.

  He dreamed in vivid short bursts that made him jolt awake with a gasp. Partial garbled sentences, glimpses of places he didn’t recognize, flashes of light.

  One dream in particular played on a continuous loop almost every time he closed his eyes. He was underwater, looking around frantically.

  Breaking through the waves was a hand, reaching down into the water. The rippling made it impossible to distinguish who it was. Someone yelled, but with the rushing noise of the current he couldn’t make out the words.

  He struggled to reach the hand but felt weighted down. It was only when he gave in and died that he felt himself glide toward the surface. He woke with a yelp.

  “You okay?” Sloan asked.

  Aryl jumped and then composed himself. “Fine. Why?”

  “I waited in the room for a half hour. I got worried when you didn’t come back.”

  “Sorry, I…” He started to gather up his things. “I must have been daydreaming. What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Sloan said with a laugh.

  “Why is that so funny?”

  “Never in my life have I lived so carelessly. With no regard for schedule or mealtimes, hell, we’re not even buying our food and wine! I don’t have to be anywhere at any specific time. I eat when I want, sleep when I want. It’s liberating, actually.”

  “I never looked at it that way,” Aryl said as he scooped up his dirty laundry and walked past Sloan.

  ***

  After depositing the clothes in their room Sloan suggested they go up to the deck again, which they did after stopping off at first class and acquiring two nearly full bottles of wine without trouble; no one was awake to stop them.

  ***