Spare Parts: A Ted Mitchell Detective Novel (Ted Mitchell Detective Novels Book 4)

by Jeffrey Kinghorn

  Seldeen approached Mulcahy. “I knew,” he said again. It was a hollow refrain. He dropped to the floor on his knees, landing hard, as if he’d been pulled down. “I’m not sure what I can handle anymore,” he confessed.

  I did not have time to comfort him. “I’ve got to get Grace out of here,” I said, “while I can.”

  “I loved this man,” said Seldeen. His voice carried the dull, aching tone of a pain that promised never to yield.

  “Adam,” I said, “try to give me some room on Grace’s presence here.”

  His head would not stop shaking. Incredulity. Disbelief. Denial. “He didn’t want to get involved this way,” he said. “We gave him no choice. I didn’t.”

  “I’m not asking you to lie,” I said. “Who else in the department knew she was here?”

  Seldeen tried to get himself coherent. It was painful to watch. “He was going to call on some backup,” he said. “I don’t know who.”

  “Doesn’t look like he did,” I said. “Did he tell anyone why he was taking leave time?”

  Seldeen holstered his own weapon and slowly climbed to a standing position. “Who knows,” he said. “I’ll bet not.”

  “I’m out of here,” I said.

  He finally looked at me. “Where to?” he said.

  I spat, “No one’s going to know that.”

  “What am I going to do?” he said. It was a question that begged for more than instruction.

  “I don’t have time to stay and help,” I said.

  He appeared to come further back to himself, though not all the way. “Go,” he said.

  “Has anybody heard from Adrienne?” I said.

  “Not that I know of,” he said.

  “I’ve got to find her,” I said.

  Seldeen was emotionally wasted. I settled on the weapon he had just re-holstered and considered not leaving him there.

  “Go if you’re going,” he said.

  I had no choice. “You going to be all right?” I said.

  He cut his eyes toward me again and asked, “Do I look all right?”

  I said, “No.”

  “Just get out of here,” he said. “I can’t promise anything. Depends on who answers the call.”

  “I’ve only touched the front latch,” I said. “Should I wipe it clean on the way out?”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, “and leave my print in its place.” He pulled himself away from the Mulcahys’ nested bodies. We walked out together. He opened the door for me and instead of wiping the handle clean, he grasped it and shined it with his own hand before clutching it again in a long-held, solid grip.

  “That’s me in the driveway,” I said.

  He looked with a dead man’s gaze out at my Chrysler and then back at me. “I know,” he said. “Go. I’ll handle it.”

  I had decided on the moment when Grace looked up at me from under the Mulcahys where I would take her. I headed directly into the Bottoms, west of Montrose, at the southern end of downtown, and parked in front of the row house that belonged to Althea Morgan Pierce. Grace remained docile in my arms as I hopped up onto the small wooden porch and knocked on her door.

  I did not appear to draw any attention. Life is lived largely on the street in the Bottoms. Porch-sitters, vacant lot drinkers, street corner young people, all went about their business without stopping to spend any time on me. The door gave way a crack and then swung open wide. Althea indicated that we should come in without hesitation. “I’ve expected this,” she said.” I woke this morning feeling something was not right.”

  “I have nowhere else to turn,” I said.

  “Will she come to me?” Althea asked as she held her hands up and open. Grace pitched herself toward those ample arms without having to be encouraged. “I have people standing by,” she said. “This child will be safe here.”

  “I’ve not heard from Adrienne,” I said.” I’m going to find her.”

  “Do,” said Sister Pierce. “And until further notice, do not come in the front again. Come up through the alley in back.”

  “I am never going to be out of your debt,” I said.

  “Don’t speak foolishness,” she said. “Find the child’s mother. We’ll be fine.”

  Adrienne was not at home. Her car was there, her bicycle. Walks for her were pleasure, not a means of purposeful transport. I had used my key to get in. Her keys were on the kitchen counter. There was not a trace of anything else odd in the house. Banality everywhere.

  My mind automatically went to the ghoulish satisfaction Reznikov had taken in rendering Mrs. Davenport’s end. I dared not go there regarding Adrienne. I tightened every muscle in my body against the tide of fear that wanted to roll up through me and out into a scream. I managed to contain it. But only just.

  Nineteen

  Reed Thomas called. “I can’t reach Adrienne,” he said.

  “There’s a reason for that,” I said.

  He waited. I hesitated.

  “What’s happened?” he said.

  I said, “Adrienne is missing.” Not just silence, dead silence. “And there’s reason to believe Constance is dead.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “What the hell is going on down there?”

  I said, “Allison got herself connected to a trafficking outfit with international legs and a take-no-prisoner policy of operation.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

  “They’re brutal,” I said.

  He said, “Where’s Grace?”

  “Protective custody,” I said.

  “With whom?” he said. “Police? Federal authorities?”

  I was behind my desk at my office, having spent the previous four days scouring every corner of the city for Reznikov, the E150 van, anything. I worked hard to keep hallucinations to a minimum and was in no mood for Reed Thomas. “Not on this line,” I said.

  “I’m falling apart back here,” he said. “I can’t tell you what’s going through my mind.”

  “Might have you beat there,” I said.

  He said, “The Police won’t communicate.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said, “and I’m not waiting on them. I’m trying to stay out of their way. And I sure don’t want them in mine.”

  “I’m coming down,” he said.

  Exactly what I did not want. “Not necessary,” I said.

  “I’ll take the first flight,” he continued.

  “And do what?” I said.

  “Bring Grace back here with me,” he said.

  “We need to terminate this conversation,” I said. “Do not come down here. I’ll contact you.” I returned the receiver to its stand-up docking cradle without slamming it. That Reed Thomas was going to show up and complicate things further was now more likely than not. His intentions communicated over my office land line alarmed me. No, they frightened me. Panic was a misstep away. My guts churned and felt like molten liquid. I had not eaten. Coffee was no longer effective. I had the shakes. I quieted myself with a long slow breath and tried to put myself in Reed Thomas’s place, but had little luck with that. Truth was, I didn’t give a damn about him and I had no time to allow his panic to sympathetically trigger mine.

  The previous four days had been all about Adrienne. Whenever the mental clutter in this case escalated to riot, I brought myself back by means of a reaffirmed commitment to finding her, no matter what. The problem was, I had not found her. And the more time that passed promised less and less success.

  I dared not go back to Althea’s in the Bottoms to check on Grace. She had devised and implemented a relay of message-senders that removed direct contact from her a good five layers deep. I received short voice messages on my cell phone from unknown callers like; it’s cool…no problem…kicking it…sweet…God’s on it, etc. They kept me going. I had to fight with myself not to go over and see for myself.

  A double funeral for the Mulcahys was set for mid-morning another forty-eight hours in the future and indications were it was going to be a media-driven
gathering of law enforcement professionals from all over the state. Roads were to be blocked off, traffic diverted, miles and miles of headlights in a single file crawl through town made even more dramatic by coordinated formations of helmeted motorcycle cops in tall boots and jodhpurs.

  I had become familiar, if not intimate, with every cemetery in town.

  Seldeen had all but gone rogue. The overwhelming abandonment of him by his family via the over-night emptying out of his home, followed by the execution-styled murder of his partner and friend had him unglued. He had been ordered to take leave, which was the last thing the man needed―unstructured, meaningless time.

  Where I had cared little for the regimented protocols that inhibited law enforcements’ hands, he was now motivated to side-step those same regulations in fierce, rage-filled resolve to avenge the death of a difficult man he had grown to love more than a brother. I had convinced him to bring what he needed and to hunker down at my place. Anemic as the actuality of it was, it was meant as an opportunity for me to keep a protective eye on him. Had I truly thought he might sit quietly on the sofa and wait? Idiocy. He rarely sat still. For him the convenience of my loft allowed him ready access to the city at all hours.

  Reznikov had done well to crawl into whatever rat-hole he was now hiding in. That he had compromised himself and his operation by divulging so much about it to me, and then having ordered the assault on a prominent member of the Houston Police Department insured an unprecedented dragnet. And the net for him had been cast wide. Nothing motivates the police like the homicide of one of their own. It was only a matter of time, in addition to its being about who would find him and bring him in; or, even more secretly hoped for, that he might choose instead a fight to the finish. It was likely accruing into who would be fortunate enough to unleash bloody death upon the Russian phantom.

  The media were in overdrive; perhaps even more correctly, they had gone to afterburners.

  Like Seldeen, I found it excruciating to sit and ponder even the remotest possibility that Reznikov, the reptile, might escape a balancing of the books. Barring a hand-to-hand resolution, a barrage of hollow-tips would suffice.

  I had managed a catnap in my desk chair for a few scant moments before Reed Thomas had disturbed the attempt. Nothing for it but to get back out on the trail for Reznikov. Action, even in the form of scattershot, was better than no action at all. I had parked the Chrysler back in the garage at the Hogg. I was going to have to walk the two blocks west to pick it up. It would give me a chance to check up on Seldeen, assuming he might be there. I had given him a key and suspected he was likely out and about hunting on his own.

  I used the stairwell and the side door on Preston to exit the Kiam building and almost missed the gathering on the corner around the granite bench adjoined to the spindled monolith that was part of the upgrade when the light rail system had been constructed down the center of Main Street. Something had drawn the attention of passersby who had crowded around someone seated on the bench. I was going to forgo it and continued on in the direction of the Hogg, but something stopped me a few strides toward that end of the block. I pivoted and started slowly back toward the corner beckoned by a curious pull that came from beneath my solar plexus. I ended up running to cover the last few yards. I pushed my way into the small crowd to discover a dazed and confused Adrienne, drained of color and rocking gently back and forth. She had her left hand clamped over a growing blood stain on her right hip. Her right elbow was pressed against that in a gesture of native protection. A low moan escaped her as she rocked. She appeared to be in a fog. “Step back, please,” I said. “I know this woman.”

  The people curious about the bloodied woman backed off and gave me room. I tried to pull her hand away from the bloody wound at her side, to which attempt she reflexively resisted. I did not have to physically insist. I knew what had happened to her. An Emergency Medical Truck arrived minutes after I had placed an emergency call for it on my cell phone. I sat next to Adrienne with my arm around her shoulder. She was perspiring and felt clammy. “Did anybody see how she got here?” I said. There were a few shaking heads but no one offered any information. I asked, “Who was the first to see her?

  The people, mostly older pedestrians, looked quizzically at each other but could not decide who had been the first. A young black fellow carrying a skateboard under his right arm stepped forward and said, “I was waiting on the light and heard, like, this groaning behind me.”

  “Anyone else?” I said.

  Someone said, “Has she been shot?

  “Or stabbed?” asked another.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I was sure she had gone into shock. I held her close to me for warmth, mindful of the bleeding wound at her side.

  A woman offered a sweater off her own back. “Here,” she said, “use this.”

  I draped the sweater over Adrienne’s shoulders and continued to steady her for fear she might tumble off the bench. Had I come out of the building a few minutes sooner, I might have seen her placed on the bench and whoever it was that had left here there leaving the scene. I pictured the not-quite-stopped off-loadings I had witnessed before with Reznikov’s moving headquarters, the van. Had I missed him on my doorstep by mere moments after having searched for him in vain for so many days?

  The EMT came south on Main and turned right onto Preston. The young fellow with the skateboard had stepped into the street to wave it down. The attendants carried medical bags. Latex gloves were plunged into.

  “I’m sure she’s had a kidney removed,” I said, “and then was dumped here.”

  The crowd recoiled with verbal interjections but not complete words.

  “Let’s see,” said a male attendant. He tried to pry her hand away from the blood but Adrienne protected her wound. “Let me help you,” he said. “I need to see what the problem is.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  She allowed them to examine her. Vitals were taken during this exchange. The first attendant had seen enough to call for a stretcher and blankets. A call was made to a dispatch center or to an emergency room contact, and only scant moments elapsed before such a connection was made.

  “Her name is Adrienne Davenport,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Can’t do that,” said the attendant. “We’re taking her to Ben Taub. You know where it is?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He said, “Can you get yourself there?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  I gave them what information they asked for about Adrienne and about me. I watched as she was loaded quickly into the truck, and as the EMT pulled away from the curb with flashing lights and the bug-out sound of its siren as it made a U-turn the wrong way on Preston and immediately headed south again on Main. I sprinted the two blocks to the Hogg and picked up my Chrysler without going inside to see if Seldeen might be there.

  Adrienne was not missing a kidney. Her incision looked like a harvesting, but it turned out to be a ruse, and another sick surprise-message sent by…whomever. She had been quickly and superficially sutured without first, evidently, having been sutured on the inside, the required kind of closure. She was already fighting infection which had spiked her temperature and had helped to put her into shock.

  I stayed at the hospital until she was out of danger and was resting somewhat comfortably. She was in and out of consciousness with heavy medication. I managed some sleep in the waiting area at the end of the hall. My head had fallen forward three quarters off to the side so that upon waking, it felt as if I had a broken neck. My shoulders drew up around my ears to compensate. In front of me stood Seldeen, and beside him Reed Thomas.

  What I thought had been a little shut-eye had been almost an entire night’s sleep. That I had been left there to sleep the way I had said a great deal about the concern, attentiveness, and vigilance regarding security on the part of the hospital.

  Seldeen said, “This guy said he’s
her husband.”

  “I went to your apartment,” said Thomas.

  “You were told to stay where you were,” I said.

  Reed Thomas said, “Where’s Grace?”

  “Adrienne’s going to be fine,” I said.

  “Where’s Grace?” he repeated. I worked my neck and shoulders carefully. The pain was excruciating. “I am blood relation,” added Thomas.

  Had they been listening for it, they could have heard my neck crack like a set of clasped and reflexed knuckles. “You’ve also got a losing track record,” I said, “with young girls you have taken from Adrienne.”

  Reed Thomas sucker punched me dead into my left cheek as I had, with some difficulty, turned to my right to try and free up my neck. The force behind his fist completed that endeavor right quick. After my surprise, I was not ungrateful. Seldeen grabbed him by an arm and his shirt-front and slammed him up against the wall. A voice from down the corridor bellowed toward us. “Hey! What’s the problem down there?”

  I held up my hand and smiled. “Slight misunderstanding,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  The man who had thought to inquire was a thick-set medical person in green scrubs, standing at a computer screen on an extension pedestal at a busy nursing station. I assumed he was a physician from the aura of authority that surrounded him. He took his time but eventually returned his attention to the computer screen.

  “That was uncalled for,” said Reed Thomas. He was still flat up against the wall where Seldeen had put him.

  I said, “But not inaccurate.”

  “I am going to get that child,” he said.

  “That remains to be seen,” I said.

  He said, “Why don’t we see what Adrienne has to say about it?”

  “Adrienne,” I said, “does not yet know where Grace is.”

  “You’ve kidnapped her,” he said.