Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  “Not at all. My dad used to take me there. It’s been years since I’ve had one. But if you’d rather not.”

  He shrugged. “Sounds good.”

  Elliot turned north on Harvard, and when he reached 3rd Street he headed west. “Where are you from?” he asked.

  She shot a quick glance in his direction then looked away, but before she could answer, Elliot’s phone rang. Flipping it open, he brought it to his ear. “That you, Elliot?” It was Donald Carter from the medical examiner’s office. “Yeah,” Elliot said, mouthing sorry as he looked at Cyndi. He could hear Donald Carter eating. It seemed he was always eating. “What’s up?”

  “Maybe you should take up horse racing,” Carter said.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Looks like you were right. I thought you were wasting your time, chasing after that hooker. I wouldn’t have given a nickel for your chances of tying her to the John Doe.”

  Elliot came to a stop at a traffic light and brought the phone closer to his ear. “What have you got?”

  “Oh, not much, just a little old drug that might give you the connection you’re looking for. Flunitrazepam, a benzodiazepine, works on the nervous system. Like Valium only a lot stronger. Both the john and the hooker had traces of it in their systems.”

  When the light turned green, Elliot drove forward. “Could you put that in layman’s terms?”

  “You probably know it as Rohypnol.”

  Glancing at Cyndi, Elliot said, “A date rape drug?”

  Cyndi shifted in her seat with such force that Elliot realized he’d frightened her. He covered the phone and said, “Sorry. Just a little cop business. It shouldn’t take long.”

  She edged closer to the passenger door.

  Turning his attention back to the phone, Elliot heard Carter say, “Yeah, it’s just too bizarre not to mean something. I mean what would a hooker, or her john for that matter, need with something like that?”

  “Good point. I owe you one.”

  Elliot started to tuck the phone away but when he saw the fear in Cyndi’s eyes, he paused. “This stuff would scare anyone. You shouldn’t have to hear it. I’ll turn the phone off if you want me to.”

  “You don’t have to do that. If you turn it off, I’ll end up sharing your attention with your worry over missed calls.”

  A smile turned the corners of Elliot’s mouth. “Not a chance. And by the way, you look lovely tonight.”

  She smiled and scooted closer, away from the door. “So do you.”

  Elliot’s smile turned into a laugh, but the cause of his joy went deeper than her calling him lovely, too, for at that moment he knew that the rapport he’d experienced on their first meeting had been genuine. Cyndi had already begun to fill the empty spot inside of him, and her eyes and her body language and her words told Elliot that she felt something as well. He’d waited a long time for someone like this to come along, and now that she had, he hoped she was as attracted to him as he was to her.

  As Elliot drove, he saw something that cut through his state of euphoria—a sign that read CYMRY’S. It was the place Zachariah Holsted had told him about, the club Brighid McAlister had frequented. The one-story building, constructed of rock stacked narrow side out, like brick, stood on the outskirts of town. He glanced at Cyndi, and she gave him a radiant smile. He knew the place would still be there tomorrow. But the detective in him argued he needed to check it out tonight. He slowed the car and pulled in.

  Cyndi stared at him, a look of disappointment covering her face. “Why are we stopping here?”

  Elliot opened the car door, but paused before stepping out. “I need to follow up on something. It’ll only take a moment. I promise.”

  Cyndi looked dubious. “What kind of place is this?”

  Elliot thought of Holsted, and his comments about Brighid. “I’m not sure.”

  “And you actually mean to go in there?”

  “I was planning on it.”

  “Are you insane?”

  Elliot gripped the wheel. It was a bad area. She had a right to be upset. But this was important. He might turn up something that’d help the investigation. “Maybe.”

  Cyndi shook her head. “I hope you don’t expect me to go with you.”

  “Why, don’t you like it?” Elliot asked, winking. But he wouldn’t dream of dragging her into such a dive.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Cyndi said, joining in on the humor. “Maybe it’s the car over there with blocks under it instead of wheels, or the collection of broken beer bottles paving the parking lot. Take your pick. Why don’t we just forget about this?”

  To comfort her, he grinned and joked, “I’ve been thrown out of worse places.”

  Cyndi slid across the seat and put her hand on Elliot’s arm, her eyes turning the color of gray smoke. “Seriously, Kenny. I don’t like this. Why don’t we just go?”

  “Just give me one minute,” Elliot said. “It has to do with the case I’m working on, a solid lead. I need to check it out.”

  “Then why don’t you come back in the daytime, and bring some help with you, another officer.”

  Elliot opened the door and stepped out. “I always work alone. It’s better that way. The keys are in the ignition. Lock the doors after I’m out. If anything happens, honk the horn. It’ll be all right.”

  Cyndi shook her head. “If I can’t talk you out of it, then promise you’ll make sure the safety’s off your gun, and keep it handy.”

  Elliot stared at Cyndi for a moment, surprised that she would think of such a thing. He was way ahead of her on that move, but he slid his hand inside his coat anyway, and pulled the Glock free, acting as if he’d just now complied with her wishes. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

  “I’ll honk the horn all right. But if you’re not out here by the end of the second blast, don’t be surprised if you find your car missing when you do get here.” Her tone said she wasn’t kidding anymore.

  Elliot winked at her then turned away. Once he was at the entrance, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The door closed behind Elliot, and when his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he got a bit of a shock. He’d expected dirty floors and run-down furniture. In contrast to its location and ramshackle building, the bar’s interior was clean, the booths that lined the walls and a couple of tables with chairs in the center of the room of high quality.

  Elliot made his way to the bar, a polished mahogany antique that ran along the back wall, noticing, in addition to the wide assortment of European and domestic beers, a food menu, limited to Irish stew and corned beef with cabbage. He waited for the heavyset bartender, who had his back to him, to finish whatever task he was involved in and turn around. A few moments later, when Elliot decided the man wasn’t going to acknowledge his presence, he said, “Excuse me.”

  The man didn’t answer.

  Elliot slapped the counter, a little harder than he should have. “I don’t appreciate being ignored, sir.”

  After a second or two, the bartender turned around, a rag in his hand.

  Elliot showed his badge. “Detective Elliot. I need to ask you some questions.”

  The bartender’s gaze darted to a strange painting on the floor. He glared at Elliot. “Charles Miller. They call me Snub. What kind of questions?”

  “What do you know about Brighid McAlister?”

  “She’s dead. Saw it in the paper.” He shook his head. “I knew this was going to be trouble, figured you guys’d be coming around before long.”

  “Looks like I’m in the right place, then. What can you tell me about Brighid?”

  “There ain’t much I can tell you, except she hung around here now and then.”

  “Looking for business?”

  He gave a noncommittal grunt and wiped at the spotless bar.

  Elliot pulled out his notepad and flipped it open. “Was she here the evening of January third?”

  “She could have been. She’d show up two or three times
a week for a while, then sometimes she wouldn’t, kind of sporadic.”

  Elliot pulled out the photograph of the John Doe’s face and placed it on the bar. “How about this guy?”

  The bartender leaned over and examined the photo. “Can’t say for sure. This is a busy place.” He grabbed a couple of empty mugs from the counter, dunked them first in one sink and then another and placed them upside down on a rack. He nodded toward the photo. “Dude looks funny. What’s wrong with him?”

  Elliot studied the bartender for a moment. He seemed a bit nervous, but not overly so. “He’s dead. He was dressed in business clothes when we found him. My guess is he would’ve been wearing the same thing when he came in, would’ve looked out of place.”

  The bartender took another look. “Now that you mention it, there was someone like that.” Picking up the photo, he nodded. “Yeah, I think this is the guy.” Glancing at Elliot, he shrugged. “The thing about the clothes, it jogged my memory. Yeah, he was here all right. Said he was looking for someone.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Just said he was supposed to meet someone here.”

  “Could it have been Brighid McAlister?”

  “No, but now that I think about it she and the dude there hit it off. They had a few drinks. They left together.”

  Elliot picked up the photo and put it away. Snub’s selective memory concerned him. “Did the person he was looking for ever show up?”

  “Not that I know of.” Pausing, he tapped his fingers against the countertop. “It’s coming back to me now. Seems like the dude said he was some kind of journalist, a newspaper reporter or something.”

  Elliot made a note of that. “What time did he and Brighid leave the bar?”

  “It was early. Things hadn’t picked up yet. Around seven. Do you think Brighid had something to do with it?”

  “Something to do with what?”

  “You said the dude was dead.”

  “It’s possible,” Elliot said.

  The bartender wiped the counter again. “It’s hard to believe. I mean, Brighid was a pretty straight-up gal for a hooker. I guess it just goes to show you. You never know about people.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “Which reminds me, were you here all night that evening?”

  “That’s right. Closed the place up.”

  “You never left?”

  “Nope.”

  Elliot put his notepad away, and he was about to ask another question when a brutal noise blasted through the bar.

  The car horn.

  Cyndi.

  Elliot pulled the Glock from its holster and sprinted for the door. When he reached it, he yanked it open and flattened himself against it, weapon raised. The parking lot, except for his car, was empty.

  He searched the lot as he made his way to the car. If the attacker was fleeing, it was impossible to hear over the strident blaring of the horn. As he drew near the car, he saw Cyndi slumped over the steering wheel, and his heart fell about three inches in his chest.

  She was alone in the front seat. Elliot pressed his face against the glass of the rear door. Nothing. He holstered the weapon then tapped on the glass. As Cyndi raised her head, relief flooded Elliot, but it was quickly negated by the fear in her eyes. Regret tore through him. What had he been thinking, leaving her alone in a place like this? Dazed and confused, Cyndi sat motionless for a moment. Again, Elliot tapped on the glass. This time she unlocked the door and slid over to the passenger side.

  Elliot climbed in beside her. “What happened?” She fell into his arms, and as he drew her trembling body close, he felt lousy, personally responsible for her pain. “Sorry. I should’ve known better, leaving you alone like that.”

  Finally, she raised her head and reached up to his face. “I’m okay.”

  Slick moisture touched his cheek. “No you’re not,” Elliot said, taking her right hand into his. One fingernail had been ripped off, and a droplet of blood welled bright red.

  Panic once again contorted her face, and she jerked her hand away. “Oh, no.”

  Elliot gently pulled her hand back and examined it. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll bandage it for you, and you can tell me what happened.”

  He leaned over and opened the glove compartment, where he kept a package of adhesive bandages. Removing the paper from one, he wrapped it around the injured finger. “There,” he said, “that should do it.” She didn’t pull her hand away.

  “I don’t know where he came from,” she said. “I looked out the window and there he was, just staring at me, and grinning, as if he’d been there all along. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even scream.”

  “You were frightened. It happens.”

  She nodded. “He yanked on the doors like some lunatic, but I’d locked them like you said. When that didn’t work, he started banging on the windows. I’ve never been so scared.”

  Again Elliot told her he was sorry, though he suspected the words fell far short of what he wanted from them. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I guess I’ve forgotten how to worry about anyone other than myself.”

  A sad look crossed Cyndi’s face, as if Elliot’s last words had touched her in a way the ones before them had not. She leaned close and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t say that, Kenny. It’s just not true.”

  Elliot wasn’t sure how she would know, but the sincere nature of her words was enough. “What happened after that?”

  Cyndi hesitated. “You’re not going to like this part. I thought it was over, but he picked up something from the ground, a piece of beer bottle I think.” She started to cry again. “He scratched the hood of the car. The sound of it made my skin crawl. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it. Anyway, that’s when I got the nerve to honk the horn. He ran off after that, and I guess it finally hit me, and I panicked.” She gestured to the hood with her bandaged finger.

  Elliot looked through the windshield and saw the damage. He scrambled out of the car, and when he saw what had been scratched into the paint, an assortment of emotions ran through him, most of it anger. “Lock the doors again. I won’t be long.” He stormed back into the bar.

  The bartender took one look at him and headed for a back exit. Elliot caught him just before he reached it. Snub acted surprised. “I told you everything I know. What gives?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought of something else I wanted to ask you about.” Elliot guided the big man outside, stopping in front of the car.

  His eyes widened when he saw the symbol. “What’s that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with this.”

  Elliot grabbed him by the collar and shoved him toward the hood of the car. Snub caught himself with both hands, his nose about an inch above the symbol scratched into the paint. “Take a closer look,” Elliot said. “It bears an uncanny resemblance to the artwork slopped across the floor of your bar.”

  “There’s such a thing as police brutality, you know.”

  Elliot tightened his grip. “Is that right? Well someone crossed the line, sport. This is personal now, and I don’t care much about anything except for finding out who messed with my car and scared my date. Tell me and I’ll go easy. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long night.”

  “I don’t know. I swear.”

  Elliot slammed the guy onto the hood of the car. “I don’t believe you.”

  A hand gripped his arm from behind. Considering his awkward position and the proximity of his attacker, the only thing he could do was let go of the bartender and spin around and face whoever was behind him, but before he could, a soft voice stopped him.

  “No, Kenny. This isn’t the way.”

  It was Cyndi.

  Snub scrambled to his feet. “Honest man. I don’t know anything about this. But I’ll put the word out. I don’t like this any more than you do. It’s bad for business.”

  “That’s funny,” Elliot said. “I thought it was your business.”

/>   The bartender straightened his clothes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who decorates with pagan symbols.”

  Snub looked shocked for a moment, then he said, “If you understood anything about paganism, you’d know about karma. You know, what goes around comes around.” He gestured toward the car. “We don’t do this kind of stuff. Besides, the symbol in the bar is a pentacle.” He shook his head. “This is some kind of Satanic thing, not pagan at all.”

  “Maybe not,” Elliot said. “But some people preach one thing and do another.” He leaned over and ran his hand across the hood of the car, feeling the roughness of the paint where it had been disturbed. “And those that do so lean that way not because of a lack of knowledge, but an accumulation of it.” He traced the inverted star with his finger. “You might say their perceptions of the world are out of kilter, upside down if you will.”

  The bartender’s face went blank, and he was silent for a moment. “I don’t know who messed up your car, Detective. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Elliot took a step toward him, but again Cyndi stopped him. “Come on, Kenny. Let’s just go.”

  Elliot handed the bartender one of his business cards. “Let me know if you hear anything, about this or the dead guy in the picture.”

  Cyndi was already in the car. Elliot sank in beside her.

  After leaving Cymry’s, Elliot offered to take Cyndi home, apologizing and offering to make it up to her, but she said it was okay and reminded him that he still owed her dinner. Perhaps the gesture was as inconsequential as Cyndi trying to salvage the evening, but Elliot hoped it was of more significance than that.

  Inside the Knotty Pine, Cyndi walked across the room and chose a table along the wall. Elliot sat across from her. He watched as she ran her fingers through her hair, an act that would have pushed it back had it been long and straight, but in its short and curly state the action just fluffed it. In the smoky atmosphere of the dimly lit barbeque joint, she looked as if she’d just stepped off a movie set, the leading lady in an old Alfred Hitchcock film.

  “What are we doing?” Cyndi asked after they’d ordered. “We both know it’s a bad idea, being together like this.”