by Roger Johns
He had been waiting nearly three days to see if anyone else would show up. His food stock was dwindling and his back was killing him from sitting in the crummy club chair in front of the window. A problem with his cloud storage account kept him from checking the feeds from the birdhouse cameras, so he still didn’t know who had triggered the burn on his house in Bayou Sara. And he had spent so much time staring through the binoculars he felt as if his eyes might never again focus properly. When the lure of sleep grew too strong he used a video camera hooked to his laptop to do the watching for him. Upon resuming his post at the window he would review whatever the laptop had recorded while using the binoculars to keep tabs on current goings-on.
He was on the cusp of believing that his back trail was clear when a man wearing civilian clothes stepped out of a rental car and headed toward the motel office. The man’s gait and his bushy hair reminded Matt of the red-haired man he had seen walking up to the warehouse the day he met Ronnie Overman. He was about to dismiss the recollection as paranoia, but when the man entered the motel office and the light shone back through his copper-colored hair, Matt froze.
His goal in using the two-motel head fake had been to find out if anyone dangerous had managed to get a fix on him. He had always known Overman would eventually take too great an interest in his operations, but the man across the street felt like a different sort of trouble.
The ability to track him to the Heart of the South Motel implied access to government capabilities. Although it seemed unlikely that government auditors drove rental cars at night to out-of-the-way motels just to make sure Uncle Sugar’s scientists weren’t making off with too many federal test tubes. The man might be a cop, although cops tended to travel in pairs.
Maybe he was a private investigator, or someone Overman had hired to eliminate Matt’s position in the supply chain. Maybe Overman was in league with the red-haired man. Stranger things had happened.
The most critical question, now, was how to proceed. He could either try to shake the man off, or string him along and maybe learn more about him, or confront him. But, confrontation seemed fraught with all sorts of dangers—a desperation play.
Hopefully, this would be only a temporary complication. After all, as far as Matt knew, the man had been unable to locate him until he had used the credit cards with his real name. So, at least the man appeared to be no more capable than regular law enforcement.
* * *
Tracking Gable to this dung-heap motel had been a snap. Two credit card charges for someone named Matt Gable, both at businesses on the east side of Baton Rouge, had done the trick. One charge was for a boatload of nonperishable food items, indicating that Matt was either considering a sizable donation to a local food bank or he was planning a lengthy holiday off the grid. The other charge had been for a room at the Heart of the South Motel. Getting access to the credit card records was as simple as greasing the palms of unscrupulous card company employees. One simply had to know the right websites to troll through.
“What can I do for you?” asked the young fellow sitting behind the desk as he looked up from a massive textbook.
The desk sat just behind the registration counter and was mostly hidden under big, unstable-looking piles of what must have been months’ worth of motel paperwork. Why, the man wondered, did so many mom-and-pop enterprises use piling systems instead of filing systems? How did they keep track of their business? He found it unsettling to have to look at other people’s crapped-up spaces.
“I have business with one of your guests, but it seems he’s forgotten our meeting. His name is Matt Gable. He said he would meet me here in the office, right around this time, but it must have slipped his mind. And he’s not answering his cell phone. Maybe he left word with you, as to his whereabouts?”
“Not with me. Maybe he left something while I was off duty,” the clerk said, rummaging through slips of paper piled next to the telephone. “Don’t see anything, sorry.”
What a fool-proof messaging system, the red-haired man thought. Surely nothing of importance could escape the iron grip of a scheme based on scraps of paper strewn about a cluttered desk.
“Perhaps you could point me toward his room and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Can’t do that. Privacy rules and all. But I’d be happy to call his room for you, and let him know he has a visitor. Who shall I say is here?”
“Ronald Overman.”
“No one’s answering,” the clerk said, after several rings. “Shall I leave a message?”
“No, thank you. Maybe you’ve seen him?” The man gave a brief description of Matt he had crafted from an old photograph, hoping it would be enough to trigger something.
“I don’t think so,” the clerk said, trying to appear as if he were giving the description thoughtful consideration while sneaking the occasional peek at his textbook.
“Perhaps the person who registered him would be able to help. Would there be any way to speak to that person?”
“Well, that would be either me or Mr. Pinion, the owner,” the clerk said, consulting the computer. “I don’t personally remember the gentleman myself, but that dudn’t necessarily mean anything. We got a pretty steady stream a people through here, and after a while, they all start to look alike, if you know what I mean.”
No, the red-haired man thought. He had no idea what the jabbering clerk meant. The notion of being so unobservant was repellant—little different from being dead.
“Well, looky here,” the clerk chirped, putting on an idiotic aw-shucks drawl. “It was me what signed ’im in,” he said, continuing his hayseed charade.
“Would you happen to remember anything that might be helpful? Our business is somewhat time-sensitive, so I would hate to miss this opportunity because of a mix-up in communications.”
“Seein’ this sign-in screen kinda jogged my memory. I do recall the guy, but he dudn’t look exactly like what you said. One thing I do remember is that right after he checked in here, he walked directly across the street to the motel you can see if you turn around and look.”
“Could you pin down the time frame a bit for me?” the red-haired man asked, turning to look at the motel across the highway, thereby shielding the rise in his emotions from the clerk.
“Mmmm. I don’t feel right giving out that level of detail without a guest’s permission. You know what I’m sayin’? But it probably wouldn’t mean much, anyway. They got a restaurant over there. We don’t have one here. So, your guy probably tootled on over for a bite to eat.”
The red-haired man continued to look toward the motel, trying to block out the clerk’s mind-numbing drone.
“Mr. Pinion shut down the restaurant here a couple a years back.”
The motel across the street was a two-story structure. All the rooms appeared to face the street.
“It’s just dead space, now. Old man Pinion claims motel restaurants are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Perhaps old man Pinion would consider sealing his blabbering clerk in one of the abandoned restaurant’s unused refrigerators.
“In any event, like I say, it probably dudn’t mean much since I kinda doubt he’s been over there chowing down for three solid days.”
“Good Lord, I should hope not,” the red-haired man said, perking up at the mention of three days. “Have you seen him since?”
“Naw. But I’m only on the desk about half the time.”
“Well, you’ve been helpful,” the man said, continuing to scan the doors and windows of the motel across the street.
“Seems to me that Mr. Pinion could find something profitable to do with that old restaurant, y’know. I mean, he’s still paying the note on this place, so as long as he’s gotta pay for it, you’d think he’d try and get something out of it, wouldn’t ya. If it was me…”
How very clever. The red-haired man marveled as the ingenuity of Matt’s two-motel ruse tumbled into place. He had almost mistaken the bait for the fish, but not quite.
* * *
Matt flinched as the red-haired man’s magnified stare bored straight into his binoculars. He knew the man couldn’t see him, but the thin, knowing smile on the man’s face told Matt that the man was on to his ploy. Matt watched as the man’s gaze scanned slowly from room to room. When he felt sure the man’s attention was far enough away, Matt lowered his binoculars, eased out of his chair, and backed away from the window. Like most motel rooms, Matt’s room had only one door—a front door. He moved quickly through the darkened room, into the bathroom, and closed the door before turning on the light. The window was small, but maybe he could snake through.
* * *
A tiny movement in the curtains of a room on the second floor caught the red-haired man’s attention. The curtains were parted only a few inches, the room was dark, and the light on the walkway in front of the room was low—but the curtain had moved. Of that he was certain. Had someone been at the darkened window, trying to look out without being seen? Someone who might have been watching the Heart of the South Motel? Someone who might have improvidently brushed against the edge of the curtain as he pulled back from the window?
“So, you know, he could rent the damn thing out as a store or something,” the clerk maundered on. “Any contribution to fixed costs drops straight to the bottom line. My accounting professor says that’s just elementary business, and…”
The red-haired man exited the office, careful not to take his eyes off the window where he had seen the ripple in the curtains. The honk and hustle of the street drowned out the endless spew from the motormouth clerk. He picked up the pace, counting windows from his target to the stairs that rose from a breezeway up to the second floor. Seven windows to the right.
He dodged through the first two lanes of traffic to a grassy median, then paused to gauge the oncoming cars. He darted across, not even bothering to flip off the horn-blasting motorists. So far, the movement at the window had not repeated. Maybe it wasn’t even the right room. Maybe Matt wasn’t there after all. No, he was there. It made no sense for him to risk using his real name to rent a room, and then just disappear without waiting to see if it drew any attention. And because the ploy would depend on keeping a close watch on the room at the Heart of the South, the red-haired man assumed he had been seen scanning the rooms from the office window. Matt couldn’t possibly know who was in pursuit, but the tricky chemist would now know someone was hard on his heels and he was probably in the midst of a hasty departure.
While the red-haired man felt certain the front door would be the only door to the room, he also knew there might be a balcony or a window at the back, through which his quarry might try to escape. The trio of teenaged skate punks cruising the lot could help him manage that little problem.
“Gentlemen,” he said expansively, trying to get their attention over the grind of their wheels.
All three stopped in unison, turning to look at the red-haired man. As suddenly as they stopped, they all turned away and began pushing off again.
“Gentlemen,” he began again. “There’s money to be made for a few minutes of easy effort.”
Again they stopped. This time they picked up their boards and swaggered over. Their baggy outfits looked like they were on a lengthy sabbatical from the world of soap and water. The added stink of stale weed smoke made them almost unbearable.
“We look like we need money or something?” one of them taunted, as they assumed a casually custodial formation around the man. The one doing the talking sported an ugly grin and a tattered porkpie hat. “We might be millionaires for all you know. Jackie … ain’t you a millionaire, bro?”
“Fuck yeah,” Jackie snorted. “Just like you.”
“In that case, I withdraw my offer.”
“In that case,” Porkpie said, mimicking the man’s tone of voice, “why don’t we just withdraw some money from your wallet?”
As they moved in, the man spun smoothly on the balls of his feet and slammed a straight right squarely into Porkpie’s relentless grin. The blow sent the punk skidding backward on his heels before landing him hard on his tailbone. The man grabbed Jackie by the waistband and drove a knee into his groin. As Jackie’s eyes rolled back and his jaw sagged, the man slammed the butt of his hand upward into Jackie’s chin, clacking the boy’s teeth together.
“Here, catch.” He shoved the groaning lad toward the retreating third boy, then darted toward the stairway.
* * *
The bathroom window was a mistake. Matt got his head and one shoulder through, but the window was too small and too high. He was off the floor with no place to put his feet. No way to push the rest of himself out. Fighting free of the window, he hurried back into his room.
He tossed his duffel on the floor near the door and then he pulled the mattress from the bed, leaving it covered in its dark spread. He balanced it on its long edge perpendicular to the front wall, about a foot from the door frame. Reaching from behind the mattress, he opened his door a few inches, then pulled his hand back. He heard footsteps approaching on the walkway outside. The footsteps slowed, then stopped outside his door.
* * *
Seeing the open door, the red-haired man paused to assess the situation. His encounter with the skate punks took less than thirty seconds and he hadn’t taken his eyes off the door for more than a few seconds at a time—surely not long enough for Gable to slip away. Sensing a trap he reached into his jacket and drew his gun. Squatting with his back to the wall, just outside the edge of the door frame, he reached over and gently pushed on the door with the muzzle of the gun. Quietly, the door swung inward several inches. The interior of the room was cloaked in matte-finish darkness. The meager light filtering up from the street was unhelpful.
“I know you’re in there, Gable, and I’m in no mood to fool around. You don’t want to end up like your good buddy Ronald Overman. Let’s do this the easy way, shall we?” Peeking around the bottom of the door frame he saw a thin stripe of light under the bathroom door. He slipped across the threshold. In the added light, as the door opened wider, he saw the mattress to his right. He hesitated.
Matt shoved the mattress, trapping the man against the wall and leaving his path momentarily clear. He snatched up his duffel and darted from the room. The duffel caught on the doorframe and yanked him to a stop. His feet slid from under him and his head banged onto the concrete walkway, bringing forth a sickening groan. He scrambled to his feet and lurched toward the stairs.
As he turned into the stairwell, footsteps accelerated behind him. He jumped the last few steps to the landing. His rubbery knees crumpled and he tumbled sideways into the wall. His pursuer, gun in hand, appeared on the top step. Panic took over and Matt pinballed mindlessly off the wall and careened down the last few steps. The red-haired man strode onto the landing behind him.
“Stop. I’m sick of fucking with you, boy.”
Matt froze.
“Turn around,” the man said calmly. “Gently … put the bag on the ground.” He slowly descended, his gun in a two-fisted grip pointing squarely at Matt’s midsection. “Do it.”
Slowly, Matt turned and gingerly lowered the bag to the pavement and began to back away.
“I didn’t say back up. Stand still.” The man continued his cautious descent. He had to take control of Matt and the duffel before others noticed the situation. At the bottom of the stairs, just before he left the cover of the stairwell, he thrust the gun into the pocket of his jacket, but kept it pointed in Matt’s direction. He stepped quickly onto the sidewalk.
Then a skateboard slammed wheels-first into his face, sending him reeling back onto the stairs. He flailed with both hands, trying to break his fall.
“Catch this, motherfucker.” The kid raised his board and slammed it down on top of the man’s head, then he raced away, quickly merging with the shadows.
The moment the skate punk struck his first blow, Matt had grabbed the duffel and dashed toward the street. As he worked his way into proper running posture, h
is panic began to subside.
His car was parked near a building several doors down from the motel. In less than a minute he was there. He yanked open the driver’s door, slung his bag onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. He fired the engine and sped smoothly into traffic.
ELEVEN
THURSDAY MORNING
Wallace pulled to the curb in front of Colley’s house, then waited—sorting through her feelings and putting on her game face.
Colley Greenberg had been Wallace’s partner since she had joined the ranks of the Homicide Division two years before. As a rule, partner assignments were made by department brass. They paired newbies with experienced hands they considered compatible. But because Colley had mastered the department’s inconvenient knowledge—the inventory of hush-hush favors and closeted skeletons that gave those lower down the ladder the occasional bit of influence over those clinging to the upper rungs—when his long-time partner took early retirement, Colley had been given free rein to select his new partner.
On top of that, because chronic illness made his continued presence on the force an iffy proposition, he had been ready to hand off his accumulated wisdom and experience. But he hadn’t just wanted a new partner, he wanted a protégé—someone with a keen mind and the heart of a lion. He wanted Wallace.
Wallace, on the other hand, had been praying for someone else—almost anyone else, in fact. Colley was so skilled at getting crosswise with his superiors that many times his career had hung by a thread. Wallace believed she had prospects, so she didn’t want to be hitched to a train that so frequently thumbed its nose at the tracks. But praying, like golf, could produce the right result even when you did it wrong. So it hadn’t taken her long to discover that her prayers had been answered. Colley was someone else. His reputation turned out to be a poor proxy for the man himself.
As Colley had told her, a few months after they started working together, it was as if the moment had been fashioned with exactly her in mind. As if just when the season had come for him to pass things along, she had materialized in the lane ahead, her hand stretched back, ready to take the baton. And Wallace could tell from the sum of their daily interactions that Colley felt as if he were racing toward her, eager to show her all the magic in his bag of tricks. But his darkening prognosis a year into their partnership made her feel as if, suddenly, she were running toward him. It had made her think of a childhood vacation her family had taken out West.