by Nick James
Copyright Mike Faricy 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior and express permission of the copyright owner.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Corridor Man 4: Dead End is written by Mike Faricy under the pseudonym Nick James.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people for their help & support:
Special thanks to Roxanne, Elizabeth, Robert, Tim, Julie, Mattie and Roy for their hard work, cheerful patience and positive feedback. I would like to thank family and friends for their encouragement and unqualified support. Special thanks to Maggie, Jed, Schatz, Pat, Av, Emily and Pat, for not rolling their eyes, at least when I was there. Most of all, to my wife, Teresa, whose belief, support and inspiration has, from day one, never waned.
“We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us.”
Nick James
Corridor Man 4:
Dead End
Chapter One
The wooden stairs creaked with the first step, then another, slowly, cautiously making his way down the stairs. Based on the sound, whoever was coming down had some weight to them. Bobby automatically pushed himself back against the cinderblock wall wishing he could fade into the concrete and disappear until this horror show was finally over. Another creak and he saw the foot, some sort of black leather boot, scuffed and marred with a worn heel. The other foot slowly lowered to the next step and Bobby was afraid the guy would hear his heart pounding, turn, and shoot him.
“Now where is baby hiding? You under that bed? We’re gonna get some use out of that in just a little bit, ain’t we? Looks like a nice little love nest you got for the two of us. I know you’re just down here waiting for me. That’s nice, baby, real nice.”
“She down there, Axel?” someone called from up above.
“Shut up, man.”
“Oh Christ. Is she down there or not? I think she hauled her ass out the front. Come on, hurry up, cops gotta be on the way.”
“Blood. There’s blood on the damn bed. Bitch is down here somewhere,” the guy on the stairs said then took two or three quick steps with his pistol held out in front of him, scanning the room.
“Said she’s bleeding in a bed down there,” the voice called from up above and Bobby suddenly heard footsteps begin to thunder from the front of the house. The figure on the stairs was almost even with him and Bobby stared through the steps where the riser would normally be. He was fairly large with a shaved head and a large dark tattoo running up the side of his neck. He swung the pistol left and right across the room, then focused his aim on the bed and fired two rounds into the mattress. He stood at the bottom of the stairs. If Bobby didn’t do something and do it now, he was bound to be spotted. He took half a breath, aimed at the back of the knee, and fired.
The guy screamed as a cloud of blood and bits sprayed across the dungeon room carpet. The pistol flew out of his hand as he collapsed off the bottom step and rolled across the floor gripping his leg. “Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh.”
Bobby stepped out from behind the steps just as the voice from above called, “Axel, did you get her?”
Bobby turned, pointed his pistol in the general direction of the doorway, and fired twice. There was a scream from upstairs and a loud thump.
A hand holding a chrome pistol pointed around the open doorway and fired a number of rounds blindly into the basement. At least two of the rounds hit the figure on the floor. The body jerked and then lay still. Bobby quickly used his foot to sweep the pistol lying on the floor toward him. Once he moved it past the corner of the stairs, he scooped it up. The pistol was substantially heavier than his and looked about twice the size.
Voices shouted from upstairs but he couldn’t make out what was being said. He saw at least two pair of legs dash outside past the glass-block basement window. He rested his arm against the corner of the wall, aimed the heavy pistol at the doorway at the top of the stairs, and waited.
More voices shouted, sounding excited, and some footsteps thundered overhead and then apparently out the backdoor. A hand holding a shiny chrome pistol suddenly appeared around the corner of the doorway upstairs and began firing wildly. One or two of the rounds struck the body on the floor. Bobby squeezed the trigger on the pistol, then fired again, and the chrome pistol fell onto the staircase and bounced down two or three steps.
He heard more voices overhead and footsteps heading to the back door. Then suddenly maybe a half dozen shots in rapid succession. He watched the glass block window expecting someone to burst through at any moment, then focused back on the doorway at the top of the stairs. More shouting and yelling sounded from overhead, then another gun shot…this one sounding like it came from the front of the house.
He heard voices at the top of the stairs, soft spoken, almost whispering and he braced himself, aimed the pistol at the door, and waited.
“Camila,” a voice called. “Camila,” the voice called again, followed by something in Spanish.
He figured this was it, took a deep breath, and put a little more pressure on the trigger.
The furnace room door slowly swung open and Valentina crawled out, shouting something Bobby couldn’t understand.
“Get back, get back in there, God damn it,” he yelled and frantically waved his hand at the child.
“No, Mr. Bobby. It’s Ignacio. We’re safe, we’re safe.”
“Ignacio,” Camila cried from behind the furnace then she shouted something else, but it seemed to just fade away.
“Please to put your gun down. He’s afraid you’ll shoot. Mr. Bobby, please,” Valentina said and began to cry. Bobby slowly seemed to grasp what she said, then lowered his weapon. She called something up the stairs and four figures suddenly hurried down the steps with Ignacio in the lead.
Valentina said something to Ignacio and he hurried to the furnace room, then emerged carrying Camila and set her on the bed. Camila had hold of the belt Bobby had wrapped around her leg, and as Ignacio set her on the bed, she looked over at Bobby and kept repeating, “Gracias, gracias, gracias.”
A voice called down into the basement from upstairs. Ignacio said something and the other three suddenly hurried up the stairs. One of the men picked up little Valentina and carried her upstairs. The last of the three stopped, kicked the body on the floor, then spit on it, and hurried up after them.
Ignacio seemed to pick up Camila effortlessly, then indicated the stairs with a nod of his chin and said, “Go please. Hurry.”
Camila whispered something to Ignacio. He got a shocked look on his face for a moment, then set her on the bed again and hurried into the furnace room. He came back with something that resembled a large brick covered in duct tape, and handed it to Bobby.
At least a kilo, Bobby thought, and said, “You gotta be kidding me? I don’t want to be anywhere near this shit.”
Ignacio glared at him.
“Okay, okay, but I don’t like it. Not one damn bit,” Bobby said then hurried up the stairs. He stepped over two bodies on the kitchen floor next to the basement door and headed out the back. One of the three men who’d just left the basement was running back into the house with a red plastic gas container, the kind you’d use to fill your lawn mower, unscrewing the cap as he ran.
“Go now,” he said then followed up with something in Spanish, but Bobby was already running toward his car, just wanting to get the hell out of there. Two men in the garage were in the process of loading Crew Cut’s large body into the back of an SUV. They groaned, holding him by the legs and ankles as they took small, quick steps toward the open rear hatch of the vehicle.
Bobby gave a quick glance before he pulled away from the garage just as Ignacio was carrying Camila out the back door. She had one a
rm wrapped around his neck while the other held on tightly to Bobby’s belt wrapped around her thigh. She looked very pale.
He accelerated down the alley, took a right at the corner, and sped up in an effort to leave the area as fast as possible. He hadn’t gone three blocks before a squad car with lights flashing rounded the corner and headed toward him. He pulled over and it rushed past, then turned down the street where he’d been not thirty seconds before. He looked at the duct-taped kilo sitting on the passenger seat and wondered what he’d gotten into.
Chapter Two
The news that night led with the story of a house fire. Arson. No mention of bodies found, although with the type of inferno that had likely been set there was a good chance the crews fighting the fire hadn’t had the opportunity to really begin investigating the site.
Bobby was in his condo, glued to the news on his flat screen, feeling anything but safe and sound. He had the doors locked, chained, and a chair wedged up against the door for good measure. He was on his third bourbon and he still couldn’t stop shaking. The chrome pistol he’d scooped up from the basement floor was sitting next to him on the couch within easy reach, and he reflexively touched his suit coat pocket every thirty seconds or so to make sure his pistol was still there.
He’d hidden the kilo in the kitchen cupboard, in the Quaker Oats container, then told himself for the millionth time that he was done, finished, absolutely washing his hands of Camila and her ilk. He’d evict them is what he’d do. Barring that, they could have the damn place if it came to it, but he wanted nothing more to do with them, any of them, ever again. Then he followed up with another healthy swallow of bourbon. In the next breath, he reminded himself it really wasn’t an issue anymore because based on the sketchy news reports and the activity he’d seen first-hand, someone had already burned the damn place to the ground.
That last thought led him to consider a potential insurance payment that just might come his way and he sort of squiggled down a little further into the corner of the couch and took some comfort from the fact. He staggered off to bed sometime after midnight, not exactly more calm, but out of bourbon. He placed both pistols on the night stand next to his bed, wedged a chair up against the bedroom door, then fell asleep lying crosswise on the bed, still dressed.
The following morning, he was in the office just a little after seven, short on sleep, nursing a hangover, and attempting to make his day appear as normal as possible. He left a voice mail for Bennett Hinz who wouldn’t be in for another three hours, letting him know Bobby was ready to address Noah Denton’s office. Then he went onto his computer, printed off copies of Camila’s bogus rent payment receipts, and forged a rental contract for a period of one year and printed that off. He penned in a couple of squiggles for her signature and placed everything in a file.
Next, he drafted a notice of eviction, giving her thirty days to get out and offering not to charge her rent if she left within that time frame. He predated the letter two weeks earlier and wrote a notation on the copy that it had been mailed that same day. He typed a second letter, a follow-up, dated it just one week later stating that he had not received a response to his eviction notice and would she please contact him at her earliest convenience. He filed all the paperwork in a desk drawer, then phoned Morris Montcreff.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Montcreff answered, sounding as though Bobby’s phone call would be anything but pleasurable.
“Did you see the news last night?”
“You must be referring to the Twins. Without a decent pitching staff, I’m afraid we can expect more of the same for the rest of the season,” he said, then crunched something into the phone that Bobby figured was probably a piece of crispy bacon.
“Actually, sir, I was referring to the fire. Suspected arson after some sort of gun play. That was my place, you had me rent it to Ms. Morales. I owned it.”
“Lucky you, you’ll get a nice check from the insurance company and not have to deal with your tenants any longer.”
“Have you heard from her, Ms. Morales?”
Montcreff gave a hearty laugh, then crunched more bacon across the phone line. “Oh, that’s rich. I can assure you, I would be the last person that woman would want to contact.”
Bobby recalled Camila’s warning about Montcreff, how she told him that Drake, the FBI agent, was actually working for Montcreff. “I’m expecting a visit from the police, maybe even as soon as today.”
“Not much you can tell them, is there? You thought you had a good tenant, turned out you didn’t. What can you do?”
“What if they ask me questions?”
“All you know is that the rent was on time and in short order she made it the nicest house on an otherwise lousy block. Maybe if they spent a little more time getting the shit off the streets, incidents like this wouldn’t be happening.”
“I was thinking of taking a slightly different angle.”
“Do whatever in the hell you want. Play your cards right, and you got nothing to worry about. Oh, and Custer,” Montcreff added.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not if, but when you hear from her, I want to know. Immediately.”
‘Shit’, he thought, then said, “I call you right away, sir.
“That would be wise,” Montcreff said, and hung up.
Chapter Three
At exactly 9:15 Bobby’s phone rang. He played his next couple of moves in the solitaire game on his computer before he answered.
“Yes, Mr. Custer. I have a Detective Carrick here to see you, sir.”
“Great, I was hoping he’d stop by. Please send him back,” Bobby lied.
He stepped out of his office and watched as Carrick made his way past the various cubicles that housed the paralegal staff. He nodded in Bobby’s direction but didn’t smile, appraising Bobby as he approached.
“Detective, a pleasure as always. What do you say to a cup of coffee? Black?”
“I’d say it wouldn’t be good for my ulcer, so no thanks. Appreciate you seeing me,” he said, sounding like he couldn’t care less. Carrick shut the door behind him once Bobby stepped in and headed for his desk chair.
“So what can you tell me?” Carrick asked before he even sat down.
“I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to,” Bobby said, wondering ‘was it the fire? The murders? The kilo of cocaine?’
Carrick ran his hand back and forth over his eyes, then down his face. His comb-over was partially in place, although a couple of strands were hanging down, dangling just above his shoulder. His suit, a dark brown shiny sort of thing that appeared to be close to twenty years old, wasn’t wrinkled for a change, but then again it looked like it might be polyester. The elbows seemed to be a bit worn, like Carrick.
“Okay, Mr. Custer, I should remind you, it’s been a really long night. I would really prefer to talk with you here, nicely, without a lot of pressure and recording devices and a Miranda warning and such. Now, if you would prefer a more structured meeting, say in one of our interview rooms. I can accommodate you, your choice.”
“You must be referring to my property at…”
“I’m referring to the most recently redone house on the block that, after last night, no longer exists. I’d like to find your tenants and discuss some things with them.”
“I’d help if I could, honest, I would. As a matter of fact, I sent them an eviction notice a couple of weeks ago. I never got a response, which struck me as more than a little strange so I sent them another letter last week. The next thing I know, I’m about ready to enjoy my first cup of coffee this morning and there, on the news, is a pile of burnt rubble that used to be the house I was renting to them.”
“I suppose you just happen to have a copy of your eviction notice and the follow up letter you sent readily available,” Carrick said and smiled a smile that was anything but warm.
“The world of high tech, detective. I can print them off for you in just a moment.” Bobby said and turned on his computer. It m
ade its musical startup sound, a moment later the screen came to life and he opened the file he’d made just ninety minutes earlier and printed off the documents.
“There we go,” he said turning round and pulling the documents from the top of his printer. He tapped them on the sides then bounced the edge of the documents off the top of his desk, making them all very nice and neat before he handed them across to Carrick. “I didn’t realize they had you working arson investigations, too.”
“Who told you that?”
“The news report said arson was suspected.”
“Not my concern, we’re actually looking at three homicides, one of them appears to have been decapitated. Which of course makes you a person of interest, Mr. Custer.” Carrick smiled, a genuine smile, clearly enjoying the moment.
“My tenant, Ms. Morales, someone…you’re kidding, decapitated. Why? Who?”
“There’s been no identification yet. That’s probably going to take some time, but any thoughts you might have could quite possibly help.”
“My thoughts are this. I don’t know what she did for money, but you saw the improvements she made to that property. Don’t get me wrong, nice work and all of that, but there’s a slight difference between painting over some spray painted graffiti on the front porch and putting up a cedar fence and a three-story garage.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Well, in our discussion she was adamant that I would in no way, shape or form, be charged. Her rent arrived on time, paid in full. To be honest,” Bobby said trying to look more than a little embarrassed. “I sort of thought I was renting to someone on a trust fund or something with no real concept of money. Figured she was one of those happy-thoughts sort of people who was going to save the world and, well, she probably added an easy fifty thousand to the value of the property. Unfortunately, at the end of the day it’s still in Frogtown and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that fact.”