Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  Dombrowski pushed open the black doors leading into the building.

  As soon as they stepped into the room, Enrique Savage leaped to the front of the stage, brandishing the microphone stand with both hands. The rocker snapped his gaze at Elliot and Dombrowski. He snaked one hand down the microphone stand.

  Elliot drew his weapon. As he did this, a ridiculous notion went through him that the gun wouldn’t do any good, and that he might’ve had better luck had he loaded it with silver bullets and brought along a rosary to hold in front of him like a shield.

  Dombrowski sighed. “Lower your weapon, Elliot.”

  Elliot held fast, keeping the Glock trained on the suspect. Black leather contrasted against white skin, the pasty skin of an albino. Enrique Savage stood about six foot seven. With all of that going for him, Savage looked as much like the harbinger of death as anyone Elliot had ever seen.

  “Stand down, Elliot. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  The grin that spread across Enrique’s face was even more unnerving than the coldness of his stare. He didn’t loosen his grip on the mike stand.

  “He made a move I didn’t like,” Elliot said. “Might have been going for a weapon. Have him raise both his hands.”

  Elliot knew Dombrowski had questioned Enrique earlier and searched his apartment. He hadn’t found anything, and he didn’t expect to now. Elliot had convinced him to re-question the suspect based on a gut feeling, and Dombrowski, who’d seemed tentatively persuaded at the office, was clearly now having second thoughts. With a disgusted glare, he said, “Sorry about this, Mr. Benson, but would you please raise your hands and show my nervous friend here that you’re not armed?”

  Elliot shifted his weight. Dombrowski had warned him about making such quick assessments, sizing people up, categorizing them before he knew the facts, but it was a habit he couldn’t seem to break. Enrique was no good—maybe not Charlie Manson, but certainly worthy of close observation.

  Dombrowski started to speak again, but fell silent, his mouth gaping.

  Elliot thought he’d kept his eyes on Savage the whole time, perhaps relaxing his gaze a bit to glance briefly at Dombrowski now and then, but the suspect had not only moved his hands but had raised them above his head, where he now held what appeared to be a gleaming sword.

  Then Savage unleashed the weapon, heaving the honed steel like a spear.

  Metal clattered across the floor, not a sword but the microphone stand. Then he was gone. Elliot had never before seen anyone move that fast, especially someone the size of Enrique, but as soon as the microphone spear hit the floor, the rock star was off the stage and out of the building, or at least out of sight.

  Elliot glanced at Dombrowski then followed his lead and ran for the back door. The rear entrance opened onto an outside area that was a combination of grass, dirt, and asphalt, and as Elliot ran across the small lawn, littered with beer cans and spent wine bottles, he caught sight of the suspect. Enrique had scaled a black wrought-iron gate, and was dropping onto a deteriorated asphalt driveway on the other side. A different type of fence, which was lower, ran across the other side of the back building. Elliot considered the route but changed his mind. He holstered his weapon and climbed the gate, and as soon as he dropped to the other side, he again slid his hand around the handle of the Glock and pulled it free.

  He scanned the area but didn’t see the suspect. As soon as Dombrowski caught up, Elliot pointed toward the most likely escape route, and together they made their way north on Boston Avenue, heading beneath the Interstate 244 overpass. Ordinarily there would have been blankets and sleeping bags tucked into the cracks and crevices where the steel girders met the concrete, but the bottom of the highway was a good distance from the street below it, and the concrete that skirted the edges ran perpendicular to the ground instead of sloping, as was the usual design.

  Beads of sweat broke out on Elliot’s forehead, the feeling of being watched pressing in on him.

  “Do you see anything?” Dombrowski asked.

  Elliot started to reply that he had not when a movement caught the corner of his vision. “There,” he said. A man had ducked around a corner of the bridge.

  Elliot and Dombrowsi scrambled after him, catching him on the north side of the overpass. The man, small and bearded, held his hands in front of him, palms open and facing outward, and he shook his head, indicating that he was not the one they were looking for. He slowly moved one finger, trying to alert his captors by pointing to the other side of the bridge without drawing attention to himself.

  Elliot interpreted the gesture and swung around to spot Enrique traveling north on Boston Avenue. He was moving fast.

  Dombrowski stumbled, caught himself then sprinted after his quarry.

  Enrique kept running.

  Elliot tore across the street in pursuit, barely aware that Dombrowski was behind him. He assessed the suspect’s escape route. At one time, there had been houses in the area, but they had been torn down, leaving the streets and sidewalks to meander aimlessly around empty lots, with stairways and driveways that led to nothing. There was nowhere to hide.

  When the suspect reached Fairview Street, he turned west.

  Elliot followed. From behind him, he heard Dombrowski shout, “Give it up, Enrique. You’re not getting away.”

  Elliot wasn’t so sure. Enrique seemed to possess the speed and agility of an elk. He was at least half a block ahead of them and increasing the distance with each stride. Elliot holstered his weapon and dug in for all he was worth. Seconds later his lungs began to burn, and he could feel his strength fading, but he was gaining on the suspect.

  They ran past Main Street, then Boulder Avenue.

  A couple of heartbeats later, Elliot made his move. He dove for Enrique’s legs, catching one of them.

  Enrique stumbled, but before Elliot could get a grip, the suspect kicked loose and again he was running.

  Elliot scrambled to his feet, but Enrique had regained his distance. He turned north again, heading into the Brady Heights District by way of an alley just this side of Denver Avenue.

  Again, Elliot closed the gap, and he caught sight of the suspect just as he crossed the backyard of a house on Golden Street. After that, Enrique opened the back door and entered the residence. He had proven Elliot wrong. Someone who could run that fast, and sustain the speed for long enough, could find a place to hide.

  Elliot waited for his partner, who had already called for backup. The look on Dombrowski’s face told Elliot they were thinking the same thing; Did Enrique Savage know the people in the house he’d entered or was he looking for a hostage?

  Gesturing his intentions, Dombrowski took the front door, crossing the side yard and disappearing around the front corner of the old clapboard house.

  Elliot waited a few seconds, then made his way across the alley and heaved himself over a chain-link fence that surrounded the backyard. He heard a rustling noise, saw movement, and seconds later he was staring at a hungry-looking pit bull. Elliot took a step back, and the dog did him one better. He edged within inches of Elliot’s position, his eyes seeming to scan him, size him up. Elliot didn’t have time for this. Enrique could come out at any second, and of the two animals, Elliot figured Enrique was the one to fear. He held the Glock in front of him. “I don’t have time for this, pooch. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

  The dog sniffed the air, then turned and walked back to his hiding place in a corner of the yard. As the dog flopped to the ground, and Elliot exhaled, the door smacked open against the clapboards and Enrique busted out, forcing his hostage in front of him—a dark-haired Hispanic woman, her eyes pleading for help. Homemade tattoos stained her arms with crude blue markings. Enrique held a knife to her throat.

  Elliot took aim. “Come on, Enrique, this isn’t going to help your cause. Why don’t you let her go, and we’ll talk about it?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Enrique’s voice resonated through the yard,
deep and full of bass. It reminded Elliot of a demon in a horror flick. “Are you saying you did kill Susan Lancaster?”

  “Shut up. I didn’t say anything like that.”

  “Same thing in my book, buddy.”

  “Yeah, well maybe I’m just scared, couple of cops busting in and chasing me like that.”

  Behind the suspect, Elliot could see Dombrowski in the house, just inside the doorway. He was waiting for a chance to make a move.

  “We didn’t break in, pardner. The door was open. Why did you run?”

  The suspect shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Scared, like I said.”

  From the corner of his eye, Elliot saw the pit bull. “I can understand that, but it’s not too late to work this out. Just let the lady go.”

  The dog didn’t bark and didn’t growl. The only sound was that of his paws pounding the earth, a sound that Enrique didn’t seem to hear. Suddenly the dog was on him, clamping his jaws around Enrique’s leg. The rocker let out a demented yell.

  The hostage took the opportunity offered by her captor’s lack of concentration and tore free. She bolted back into the house.

  Elliot saw what was going to happen, and he closed the distance between himself and the suspect in an instant. Enrique had already stabbed the dog twice and was going for a third when Elliot intercepted his arm and put the barrel of the Glock to his head. “Drop it while you still can.”

  The suspect relaxed and the knife slid from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Dombrowski was there. He pulled the suspect’s hands behind his back and cuffed him. The dog lay on the ground, whining.

  Elliot heard the sound of a car and turned to see the backup Dombrowski had called coming to a stop in the alley behind him. He and Dombrowski walked the suspect through a gate where the fence met the back of the house, then through the yard and into the alley. Dombrowski jerked open the door of the patrol car and shoved the suspect into the backseat.

  Chapter Three

  Joey Anderson lived with his mother in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. His father wasn’t there but he had one. His mother said so. He thought, maybe he lived somewhere else, another state maybe.

  Joey heard the front door opening, which meant his mother was through trimming the rose bushes in the front yard. He turned down the sound on the television then jumped down from the bed. Law and Order was on, his favorite program. His mom let him watch it, but he didn’t think she liked it. She always shook her head when she came into his room and saw him watching it, as she did now.

  “How’s my big guy?”

  “Hi, Mom. I’m okay.”

  She smiled. “Let me get cleaned up, then we’ll fix something to eat. Maybe later we can go see a movie or something.”

  “Okay,” Joey said. He liked his mom. She was nice but sometimes she forgot he wasn’t a little kid anymore.

  Joey waited until his mom closed the bathroom door. When he heard the water running, he left his bedroom and walked to the front door. His mom liked to soak in the tub after working in the yard. She would be there for a while. He hesitated, then unlocked the front door and stepped outside. His mom didn’t want him to go outside by himself anymore. Sometimes he did, though. Someone had moved into Don and Judy Carter’s old house. His friend Sandi had told him. Sandi watched him on Tuesdays so his mom could go to Doctor Colby’s office. He wasn’t sure why she went. Sandi said she didn’t know either.

  Joey turned right on the sidewalk outside his house. He walked beside the fence that used to look bad. It didn’t look bad now. Someone had fixed it. He suspected the new neighbor had done this. When he reached the end of the fence, he would turn right again. He remembered things like that so he wouldn’t get lost. Sometimes his mother would get lost while driving the car, and he would help her get back home.

  Joey paused for a moment when he saw Linda Wallace, one of the next-door neighbors. She was outside, sitting in her blue porch swing with her head down, reading a book. She was always reading books, and Joey didn’t think she saw him as he walked past.

  When he reached the end of the fence, near the street with all the cars on it, he turned right again, but he’d taken only a few steps when Billy Williams came, riding up on his bicycle. Billy lived around the corner, but back the other way. When he saw Joey, he stopped, but he didn’t get off. Sometimes Billy was mean, but not always. He never hit Joey or anything, but sometimes he said bad things. Joey thought the other kids made him do it. He was by himself today.

  “What are you doing out here, Joey?”

  “Going for a walk.”

  Billy looked up and down the street. “Does your mom know you’re out here?”

  Joey glanced back to see if Linda Wallace was still there. He could call to her for help, if he had to. But Linda wasn’t there anymore. “My mom don’t care. She said I could walk.”

  Billy looked suspicious. “I haven’t seen you out by yourself in a while. You sure it’s all right?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Billy waited a little while, then started riding again. “See you around,” he said. “And stay out of the street, buddy.”

  Joey continued to walk. He was almost there. He could see the man in the driveway. The garage was open, and the man was carrying something heavy into it. Sandi said he might be a policeman. Joey didn’t think he looked like one, though. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, and he didn’t have a black shiny belt or a gun. The cops on television were tough. They had guns.

  Joey left the sidewalk and walked onto the driveway where the man was. “Hi. I’m Joey.”

  Chapter Four

  Elliot heard a somewhat unusual voice coming from behind him. He’d just gotten home a few minutes earlier after helping Dombrowski with the paperwork concerning the arrest of Enrique Savage. It’d been a long day and he was ready to go inside and unwind. He turned around and saw a man dressed in khaki shorts and a striped shirt, clothes designed for someone much younger. The shy grin on his face contrasted with his five o’clock shadow. “Hello, Joey.”

  Elliot scanned the driveway and the immediate area. “Do you live around here?”

  “I live up that way,” Joey said, “on that street.” He pointed first north then east. “What’s your name?”

  Elliot extended his hand. “My name’s . . .” He paused. He’d started to say Elliot but changed his mind. “Kenny.”

  Joey shook Elliot’s hand. His grip was loose, tentative. “You a policeman?”

  “A police detective,” Elliot said, surprised his new friend would know that.

  Joey scratched his head. “Is that like almost a real policeman?”

  “Some people seem to think so,” Elliot said, holding back a laugh. Again he glanced around the area but saw no one else around. “Do you know your way home from here, Joey?”

  “Don and Judy used to live here.”

  “Yes,” Elliot said. It was the couple he’d bought the house from. “Were you looking for them?”

  Joey shook his head. “Mr. Carter used to fix my bicycle.”

  “Where is your bicycle now, Joey?”

  “In the shed. My mom locked it up.”

  “I see. Does your mom know you’re here?”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Kenny. You have a dog?”

  “No, just a dog door that belonged to the dogs that used to live here. How about you, do you have one?”

  “I used to. He’s gone now. Do you have a gun?”

  Joey had just spoken when a lady turned from the sidewalk and marched up the drive, stopping outside the garage, a look on her face that was somewhere between worry and anger. “Joey Anderson, what are you doing out here?”

  Joey’s eyes saddened but they also reflected a hint of defiance. “I went for a walk.”

  “Didn’t we just talk about this?”

  “Yes.”

  She stood silent for a moment, her hands on her hips, clearly at a loss for words. Finally she settled for “Joey.”

  She said this while shaking her
head, a reflection of her frustration. Elliot took the opportunity to introduce himself. “Hi. Name’s Kenny Elliot. I guess I’m your new neighbor.”

  She gave Elliot a strange look, as if she and Joey had been alone, and Elliot had just dropped out of the sky and now stood before her for the first time. Soon a teenage girl joined them on the driveway. She took the lady’s hand in hers and looked into her face with understanding eyes.

  “Sandi,” the lady said, “you’re such a doll. Could you please take Joey home? I’ll be right there.”

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  The girl, Sandi, walked over and took Joey’s hand. “Come on. I’ve got something cool to show you.”

  Joey and Sandi started down the drive, and before they turned the corner, Joey looked back. “See you later, Mr. Kenny.”

  The lady waited until her son and the girl had walked away, then she turned to Elliot. “I’m sorry if he bothered you, Mr. Elliot.”

  Elliot shook his head. “No bother, Ms. . . .”

  “Kelly,” she said, “Kelly Anderson.”

  Kelly Anderson wasn’t unattractive, but her face reflected the emotional weariness of a life that hadn’t been easy, and she showed this not with remorse, but with an attitude that said: I’m not afraid of you because you can’t throw anything at me that hasn’t already been thrown. She was suspicious of Elliot, but he wasn’t offended by it. He suspected she was just weary of a world where mistrust was bred by the very nature of her relationship with it. She was a mother, and she was concerned for her child—in Kelly Anderson’s case, a thirty-something-year-old child.

  “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” Elliot asked.

  Kelly glanced at the sidewalk, then up the street, then back at Elliot. “I don’t like Joey being out by himself,” she said. “If you see him again . . . I’m in the phonebook. If you see him again, give me a call, okay?”