Regan’s smile hadn’t lost any of its confidence. “I’m sure it won’t be long. In fact, I might even be able to receive an advance payment as soon as tomorrow morning. With luck, we may only have to keep the store closed through the weekend.”
I nodded again as I felt my attention drifting away. I’d really been hoping for some more insight on how much loot a place like Scarlett O’Hara’s could haul in, but it didn’t seem likely that old Duke Regan was about to crack open his ledgers for me. Besides, I still hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so my blood sugar was dropping to dangerous levels. It may have only been my imagination, but I swear I started to feel a little light-headed. “Outstanding. Well sir” I said, flipping my notebook firmly shut before sliding it into my shirt pocket with a show of finality, “thank you so very much for your time. One of our detectives should be in touch with you tomorrow.”
Mr. Regan reached across one of the downed shelves to snatch a souvenir pen up off the floor. It featured an image of the famous Rainbow Row townhouses splashed across its side, and it boasted five different colors of pastel ink to choose from. He fished my business card out of his shirt pocket and held the pen poised above it. “And his name is?”
I shrugged my shoulders, since getting kicked out of Central had been kind of a traumatic experience for me. As a result, I’d done my best to sever all ties with those backstabbers up on the second floor. Those investigative jerks went their own ways and I went mine, and the mutual silent treatment had actually proven to be a pretty effective coping mechanism. I looked over to Squealer. “Do you know who’s been filling in up in property crimes, Jason?”
He smiled at the use of his first name. “I’m not completely sure, but I think it’s still your friend Debbie Carlson.”
I couldn’t hold back a shudder. Fat Debbie Carlson had been my professional arch nemesis ever since we both started working together. Even though I’d never been able to come up with any kind of concrete proof, I’ve always suspected she’d been gunning for my recently-vacated spot as the missing persons detective. That’s not because it was interesting work or anything–let’s face it, tracking down runaway kids and lost Alzheimer’s patients is hardly what anyone would consider a glamour job– but because my old desk was located directly beneath the office’s only air conditioning unit. As an added bonus, I’d long ago inherited one of the most comfortable chairs in the office. That thing was so old it was practically an antique, but its worn-down cushion sat atop a solidly constructed metal frame with reinforced armrests. Even better, the legs were supported by rolling steel casters which handled beautifully on the slick linoleum floor. The industrial-strength springs which supported the seat were reinforced for extra strength, and they would have provided all the extra support that Debbie’s wide bottom demanded. Yeah, as much as it stung to say goodbye to that sweet nine-to-two work schedule with weekends off, the thing I missed the most about being a detective was definitely my trustworthy old chair.
Mr. Regan clicked his index finger to select a shade of light blue ink before scribbling Debbie Carlson’s name on the front of my business card. I clenched my fists in anger at the sight of all those chubby blue letters in such close proximity to my own good name. “And what time of day should I expect Ms. Carlson to get in contact with me?”
He shot me an expectant look, but my mind had already started drifting away from the conversation. The image of Debbie Carlson’s wide posterior was firmly embedded in my mind, and it was nearly impossible to pull my thoughts away from that train wreck of a body. “Knowing that gal? I’d guess sometime after lunch, sir.”
Mr. Regan nodded. He looked like he was about to add something else, but was cut off by a high-pitched electronic melody. It was some kind of classical music, I think, maybe Beethoven or Bach or some other German guy. Regan blushed as he reached inside his blazer and pulled out a Blackberry, looking completely surprised to see his device. “Well what do you know?” he said, directing the question at no one in particular. “I guess my phone must have been there in my pocket the entire time!” He looked down at the number flashing on the display screen. “I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but I simply must take this call from my associate. Thank you so much for your time.”
Regan turned and walked back towards the rear of the store without even bothering to wait for a response. To my credit, I managed to bite my tongue and keep the cursing in check, at least until he’d stepped out of earshot. I mean really, how inconsiderate can a person be? If that jerk had only been able to keep track of his phone, he might not have discovered the burglary until the following morning and then the whole mess would have been some day shift officer’s problem. I swear, some of these rich people just seem to have absolutely no consideration for others.
But as luck would have it, his case was officially my problem, at least for the time being. That meant that sometime over the course of the evening I’d have to buckle down, put pen to paper and spin off at least half a page of writing in order to document this heinous crime. Even though I was fully confident in my own brevity, the thought of having to exert such an effort sucked most of the wind from my sails. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Squealer ducking down to inspect the glass cabinets for fingerprints. He was distracted, and I seized the opportunity to slip out of the store unnoticed. To be fair, I had no real beef with the guy anymore. Ever since we’d worked together a couple times, I’d learned the dude could be an all right guy when he really wanted to be. Yet and still, I did my best to avoid being around him any more than was truly necessary. We actually got along better when we didn’t see too much of each other, kind of like any other successful long-distance relationship.
Once outside, I took a glance at my watch and realized it was nearly nine o’clock already. I slapped my forehead in disgust and aimed an angry kick at a stray cat who’d been sniffing around one of the nearby garbage bins. The cat darted out of the line of fire and my unshined boot hit the can square, crumpling in the green plastic and sending a stream of loose trash skidding across the sidewalk. My stomach roared in protest as my mood turned mean, since finding an open kitchen down in the Market was sure to be an impossible task at that late hour. Even though there was no possible way Mr. Regan would be able to see me from inside his store, I still shot him the middle finger for good measure. It looked like I’d be stuck hitting the all-night drive-thru window at Hardee’s once again, seeing as how it was already too late for my usual strategy of loitering behind the local restaurants. Intercepting the nightly leftovers before they hit the garbage dumpsters was usually a solid dinner option, but after all that effort I’d already expended on policework I just didn’t feel up to rubbing shoulders with all the homeless bums for a few scraps. There simply wasn’t enough strength left in my body for me to elbow my way up to the front of the bread line.
With a sigh, I resigned myself to a slow death from starvation as I trudged along the length of South Market Street. I made a beeline for the historic Customs House building, where the Team Seven officers kept a small office tucked away in the basement. Our hideaway actually made for a pleasant little place to duck out of sight, while still being only steps away from the bustling crowds on East Bay Street. There was a particular type of dead silence down there among the steam pipes, and I loved that lingering smell of damp mold which seemed to permeate all the carpets. On those rainy winter nights our office was an absolutely perfect place to sneak away for a long nap. You could hide away in there for hours without having to worry about anyone walking up on you.
In fact, the only drawback to my fortress of solitude was the overly steep set of concrete stairs out in front of the building. There were a solid dozen steps in all, and they made every visit seem as if I was navigating some kind of giant obstacle course. I managed to wheeze my way up them in a single bound this time, stopping only long enough to catch my breath at the halfway point while I glared at a pack of skater kids. The little punks had been grinding on
the railings in clear violation of the city’s prohibition against skateboarding, but at least they’d had the politeness to tuck their boards behind their backs as I approached. As I waddled past them, I returned the courtesy by not trying to remember where I’d left my ticket book.
Once inside the office, I snatched up a blank report form and flopped down behind our one shared desk. The writing surface was covered with a filthy pile of gears and sprockets, which meant that one of our bicycle patrol cops must have ended his shift right in the middle of a complicated repair job. Gingerly, so as not to get any grease or oil on my pristine hands, I opened one of the desk drawers and swept the loose parts inside. With a clean slate before me my mind could finally focus, and it only took me a few minutes to jot down the high points of Mr. Regan’s complaint. Leaning back in my chair, I happened to glance towards my mailbox and see that it was stuffed with wanted fliers and court summonses. It would have taken me at least an hour to sort through them all, so I made a quick judgment call to save that work for a rainy day. Standing up, I shoved my report beneath Lt. Shivers’ locked office door and got the hell out of there before I could be tempted to do anything else productive. By my way of thinking, I’d already done my duty for the month by responding to a radio call.
Once outside, I saw that the activity level in my beat had positively spiked. Thursday night is the unofficial start of the weekend in Charleston, and the bar crowds were looking thick when I made my final stroll back down Market Street. It was after ten o’clock by that point, the hour when all the nightlife really gets started in earnest. Now normally, I try not to patrol very hard after about the halfway point in my shift. After all, covering more ground just increases the likelihood that I might spot a crime in progress. I’ve found that I’m much more effective at deterring crime when I linger in one place, like a vigilant sentry manning a fixed post. Usually that place is directly in front of the Wild Wings bar and grill where my presence helps discourage any potential underage drinking, and it sure doesn’t hurt one bit that the perch also provides me with the best view of all the drunken college girls gliding past.
That night, though, I felt a certain force of gravity pulling me back towards my home base at the parking garage. I was almost certain that Lieutenant Shivers owed me a couple hours of time off for some reason or other, although the specific circumstances escaped me. And even though I technically should have gotten express permission to take the comp time that I’d almost certainly earned, it would have been more than a little inconsiderate to call the boss over such a trivial matter so late at night. With that in mind, I made a command decision to act as my own supervisor and pull myself out of service. It didn’t hurt one bit that going home early would also keep me from having to arrest any drunks once all the bars kicked their customers out on the street at closing time. Yeah, the way I saw it, leaving work early was just my way of helping keep America’s youth from blemishing their bright futures with misdemeanor DUI charges.
My car surprised me by starting on the first try, so I sat there for a moment as the engine warmed up. I fished around and found my wallet, which felt surprisingly thin in my hand, but my stomach sank even further once I opened it and saw just a single picture of George Washington staring back at me with a stern green glare printed across his pasty white face. The strong facial expression had probably been designed to remind people of the value of a dollar, but that night it only served as one more notice that it’d be another whole week until the father of our country would have company. I slammed the steering wheel in frustration while my stomach rumbled with its own form of rage. I could feel my body growing weaker by the second, and I caught myself fantasizing about the box of stale Ritz crackers tucked away in my kitchen cabinet.
My cell phone rang at that very moment, and I jumped so far out of my seat that my head smacked into the sagging ceiling with a sudden burst of reality. I had to hold my breath and count to five in order to keep from screaming in pain, although I exhaled with relief after spotting the caller ID. It wasn’t anyone trying to catch me sneaking out of work early, just Katie Maslow from the coroner’s office. To be perfectly honest, though, a call from her was only slightly better than one from my boss. In the interest of full disclosure, Katie and I had been seeing each other exclusively for the past few months, and things had actually turned pretty serious. The woman had nearly elevated herself to full girlfriend status by that point, but in all honesty that was mostly because the both of us worked some pretty odd hours. In my opinion, the secret to a successful relationship is to simply avoid seeing the person you’re dating. Around CPD, at least shift work has saved many more loveless relationships than marriage counseling ever could.
Still, a call from Katie was a good reminder for me to get on the move before anyone in my chain of command could spot me. With the phone squeezed tightly between my shoulder and my ear, I popped the car into gear and backed out of my spot. “Hey babe” I chirped, doing my damndest to sound as if I was happy to hear from her. “Working late?”
She laughed. It came out sounding more like a throaty growl, though, almost as if some mama bear had just spotted a stranger messing with her cubs. “Working hard, Mike. Just trying to keep up with you.”
My mind was filled with a widescreen image of Katie’s round face, and as always my attention was captured by the huge roll of flab hanging down from her double chin. That one loose slice of flesh had this peculiar way of wiggling from side to side whenever she smiled. I shuddered involuntarily, either from the disgusting mental picture or because my blood sugar levels were still plummeting, but seeing as how the conversation was helping keep my mind off imminent death from starvation, I did my best to play along. “Yeah right, Katie! You know better than that, hon.” The Toyota’s suspension creaked in protest as I steered my little car down the maze of exit ramps and out towards the street. “But what’s up?”
“Well…” she said, trying her best to sound as if she hadn’t rehearsed her lines at least a dozen times before dialing my number, “I’m just finishing up with a late autopsy here…”
I just had to butt in. “Anything good? Gunshot victim, suicide jumper maybe?”
She laughed again. “No such luck, just an elderly guy whose time had come. Natural causes, nothing exciting.”
I let out a loud groan as my attention shifted back to driving my finicky car. Dodging all the potholes on Cumberland Street without stalling out was a little like playing a real-life game of pinball.
The girl didn’t seem to catch my lack of enthusiasm, and just kept right on yammering. “Disappointing, I know. But as I was saying, things were so crazy around here tonight that I had to work straight through dinner.”
The very mention of food set my stomach to complaining loudly. Even though my own miseries normally took rightful precedence over anyone else’s, I had to wince out of sympathy. Katie was a full-figured gal and for her, skipping a meal was a genuine hardship. “I feel your pain. If it’s any consolation, it’s been no picnic downtown either. Practically non-stop action all night long.” A matching pair of intoxicated frat boys in pastel-colored golf shirts stumbled into the road ahead of me, and I had to ease up off the gas in order to let them pass safely. I swear, all those underage drunk kids were really becoming a public safety concern.
I could almost picture Katie’s wide smile as she worked up her nerves on the other end of the line. “So, uh…if you haven’t had the chance to eat yet either, why don’t I pick up some takeout and swing by your place? There’s that Chinese buffet you love, The Great Wall? I think they should still be open, right?”
I tried to think of a reason to blow her off, but it was no use. Shortly after we’d started dating, Katie had discovered that Chinese buffets were my one true weakness. Ever since then, that girl never missed an opportunity to weaken my defenses with that delicious, MSG-flavored kryptonite. But as much as I hated the thought of seeing my steady girl twice in the same week, I
was pretty far down the road to starvation and my will to survive won out over common sense. With a single strong gulp, I swallowed my pride and managed to keep it down. “Sounds good, babe” I said. “I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes.”
FRIDAY
The sun was rising slowly over the Battery, its warm rays reflecting down the length of East Bay Street. The narrow, scenic road ran a straight northerly route from the multi-million dollar mansions along the Ashley River up into the neglected housing projects of the East Side. The bright sunlight cast dark, bumpy shadows down into the refined sidewalks of intersecting Broad Street, where the cobblestoned walkways were still slick with dew. In the quiet hours of the morning, the loudest sound came from the soft echoes of Duke Regan’s well-polished shoes as they tapped along the sidewalk. His fitted brown lace-ups slid nimbly across the uneven surface, neatly avoiding the narrow cracks which had claimed a number of high-heeled shoes the night before. It was a walk that Duke had made many times, and today he moved with a purpose.
A soft electronic chime announced his entry through the front door of the National Bank of South Carolina. It was just now eight-thirty and as usual, he was the first customer inside. Before he could take more than five steps into the lobby, a bank manager hustled out from a side office to intercept him. “Duke!” he called out, reaching for his friend’s hand as he flashed an inviting smile. “Good to see you again, old boy!”
Regan returned the smile as he grabbed the man’s hand and gave it a hearty double pump. “Brooks, you son of a gun. How’ve you been?”
On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) Page 5