by Martha Carr
“He was like a son to me,” bellowed Clemente. His voice echoed off of the walls. The Watchers didn’t even flinch. They must be used to his, thought the President Well, so am I. She leaned in closer, taking smaller breaths.
“In the end he was a traitor. A very clever traitor. Only man who was ever able to fool me like that. It’s why I’m glad I don’t have a son of my own. In the end, it’s too much of a risk. Find this man,” he hissed, “and I will know what to do from there. Take note of who he meets with and gather information on them as well. This is your first priority.”
“Can you tell me what’s so important about this man?” asked the President, trying to sound confident.
“That’s what I would like to know,” said Clemente. “He’s pulled off some kind of magic trick and stolen my inner thoughts,” he said, jabbing his temple. “Let me put it to you so you can understand the importance. If he lives, we may all end up dead, or for you, worse. Disgraced. A lifetime of work could be upended by this invisible man. Find him,” he said, slapping her knee. “Find him soon, or I’ll get someone who will.”
Chapter 11
“Paulie, nice to see you. Still working for Mac?” asked Detective Biggs. He was leaning against the brick wall, patiently waiting for Paulie to come out of the Third Street Diner on Main Street.
Paulie glanced over and Biggs could see one side of his mouth draw up in annoyance before he tried smiling broadly.
“Where’s your sidekick? You don’t ride alone,” said Paulie, trying to walk on by him, a toothpick dangling out of his mouth. Detective Biggs loomed over him as he stuck out a beefy hand, planting it in the middle of Paulie’s chest.
“Far enough,” said the Detective. “We need to chat.”
“What could you possibly want to talk to me about this time? Your nemesis, good ol’ Rodney is now dead and his entire life is in FBI hands. I have no more interest to you that I can see,” he said.
The detective kept his hand on Paulie’s chest taking a step closer to his face. “You know, I’m an old detective. I’ve been working the same case for so many years, it’s like going through withdrawal. I’m going to need some answers in order to let it all go.”
Paulie’s face grew sullen. “What you are is dumb as a brick.” He leaned in to whisper loudly, “You can’t possibly be still grinding against the likes of Rodney Parrish. There’s no more show,” he said, flapping his arms at his side.
“I think there’s an encore of sorts and I think you can help me understand the lay of the land a little better. Tell me about Management.”
Rodney’s eyes grew wide for a moment as he slowly drew his head back and grabbed the Detective around the wrist, throwing his hand off of his chest.
“You are even dumber than I could have imagined,” he said in a low voice. “You are tempting others who operate behind the scenes to see us both as a scratchy throat that could turn into a persistent cough. Those people not only do not play, they take care of problems quickly and from a permanent perspective.”
Detective Biggs felt a chill go through him and he thought of Maynard for just a moment. He pushed away the thought.
“Who are those people?” he asked, determined to get a clear answer. “You think it’s any safer to walk around pretending not to notice anything. What are you hoping? That they pick off somebody else and you just outlast everyone?”
He wondered if his partner, Detective Buster was faring any better getting answers. They rarely split up to interrogate someone, especially when trying to corner someone’s attention like Paulie, but times were changing. Something was unrolling and it was happening faster than he could get a handle on but he knew he had better keep trying. Not knowing was always worse, especially if Rodney Parrish was ever involved.
“I can see you’re scared,” said Detective Biggs, trying to sound sympathetic. He wasn’t sure he meant it.
“Nah, I’m not scared,” said Paulie, taking glances around to see who might be watching them. There was a steady stream of traffic on the sidewalk as people rushed to get back to work from lunch or grab a bit to eat. “I have a much better understanding of what it’s like to always be the mouse and not the cat. You are determined to find out what that’s like. So be it. Have it your way.”
Paulie pushed his hands into his pockets and brushed past the detective without looking at him, walking quickly toward the narrow concrete sidewalk that ran between the buildings. The detective knew Paulie wasn’t the sort to do a fast walk as some sort of getaway and waited a moment before following in the same direction, coming out the back into a familiar gravel alleyway.
The alleyways in downtown Richmond were a favorite place to do business that was off the books, particularly late at night. Detective Biggs and his partner, Buster would occasionally take a walk through the small clusters of people that would gather back there to get a look at what was on any particular agenda.
They knew better than to try and break up anything that belonged to Mac’s numbers empire along with his other assorted businesses and would occasionally roust a newcomer and try to at least make them nervous about making Richmond their permanent residence. Only once did a newcomer mistake him for a rival trying to muscle in and swung at him, landing a blow and breaking Buster’s nose.
Detective Biggs had to convince him to get it set, pointing out he was having a hard enough time getting anyone to give him a right swipe on Tinder. No need to make it any harder.
It wasn’t long before the two detectives were out again, taking the occasional walk down a particular alley that an informant would mention had something more interesting going on. The holiday season wasn’t slowing anything down, either. Some people were in the alley desperate to make a little more cash before the season gut underway. Others were there to see if a little added desperation would help them get a better deal.
The information always came at a cost and usually to look the other way if they were ever caught too close to something more serious. Buster defined costly as anything that ended in burglary or even bodily injury of some kind, including his fragile nose.
In the past, Detective Biggs always made a point to keep part of his attention tuned to anything that sounded like it might involve Rodney Parrish.
The way he died had caused everyone to fall silent, never mentioning his name, as if putting those four syllables together could invoke some kind of special curse.
Detective Biggs was determined to find out why. He stepped into the back alley just as a figure in a hoodie with a red Santa hat walked by, glancing up with a scowl and kept walking till he could turn down another one of the narrow sidewalks. Biggs spun around quickly, looking for anyone that was waiting for the skinny Santa but the alley was unusually empty.
“Must be lunchtime for everyone,” he said, glancing down the narrow sides of buildings till he saw Paulie waiting for him in between two old apartment buildings.
“Good choice,” said Detective Biggs. “This time of day, chances are, no one’s home.”
“No guarantee,” said Paulie, “So, let’s making this quick. Look, you’re asking about something far bigger than you realize. Far bigger than I even realize.”
“What do you mean? They operate outside of Richmond and all the way to D.C.?”
Paulie shivered in the cold as the wind whipped down the narrow passageway, catching the detective in the face, making his eyes water. “You are a ridiculous dead man,” said Paulie. “Try bigger than maybe this country or this continent. I’ve never been able to really figure it out. Mac talks too much when he’s had a good day and a few drinks. Once in a while he talks about these meetings they have in different neighborhoods around town.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very big organization, Paulie.”
“How does any oversized organization meet?” said Paulie, sounding worn out and annoyed, all at once. “Does every police department get together in stadiums? Not very practical, is it? Everything in this world is broken down into bite sizes,�
�� he said, holding up his leathery hands just inches apart. “But Richmond is a hub, don’t ask me why. Something about being just close enough to the edge of the universe.”
“You are making very little sense,” said the detective, wondering if he had hit another frustrating dead end.
“Washington, D.C., the heartbeat of the universe just down the highway a piece but far enough not to attract too much attention. A lot goes on in our sleepy little town if you just know where to look.”
“Every business has a purpose. What’s this one,” said Detective Biggs, squinting in the winter sunlight.
“Pure, maple-syrup-tapped-out-of-the-tree-power. The sweetest stuff,” he said, licking his lips. “That’s it, really. No other way to say it. A way to connect everything and everybody together so that there’s a way to control outcome. Fate! You get it? They figured out a way to make it more like fate is at work.”
The detective shook his head. “No, how do you convince so many people to go along with something like that and how do you keep it from so many others?”
“A little at a time, I suppose. I can’t really say. I suppose a little violence when needed probably helps. Look, I’ve never been invited into the club,” said Paulie, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. “I don’t fit their profile. You had to be invited in, usually when you were still a kid. Rodney didn’t really fit it, either. I suppose he came too late to the party. He was more of a contractor.” Paulie held up his hands as he backed away, heading out of the narrow opening. “It doesn’t really matter to me if you believe me or not. I don’t know why you’re a detective who never even heard boo about it. I’ve been hearing stories since I was a kid. Maybe it was Mac, I don’t know.”
“Wait, wait,” said the detective, picking up speed to keep up with Paulie. “Where are these meetings?” he asked, tilting up his chin. His face felt frozen from the cold.
“Funeral home in the suburbs. That nice one off of Parham Road,” he said, poking at the air in front of him.
“Baldwin’s,” said the detective.
“Yeah, that sounds right.” Paulie was almost at the edge of the alley.
“You’re telling me there’s some enormous conspiracy and they meet at Baldwin’s and it stretches out as far as the eye can see. You’re either much more talented that I ever realized…”
“Or I’m telling you a truth that’s a little hard to imagine if you’re someone like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Detective Biggs.
“Used to thinking you’re the ruler of your own universe. That choice is the natural way of doin’ things.” He gave a shrug, turned on his heel and was gone. The detective got to the alley just in time to see him loping easily across the alley, turning down the long sidewalk by the diner. He didn’t try to follow him.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Buster.
“They’re gone. No sign of them. Wallis Jones has left the area.”
“What, they moved?”
“No, and maybe yes,” said Buster.
“I’m going to need a little more to go on,” said Detective Biggs, trying not to let the slow build of anger he was feeling edge into his voice.
“There’s a lot of evidence that something very bad happened here. Bullet holes across the front of the house, a trampled front yard and some blood trails, but no bodies, no weapons, no shell casings. It’s like half a mystery.”
His normally mild Southern drawl was noticeably thicker. That only happened when he was good and mad, good and drunk or over-the-top worried about something he couldn’t quite explain.
“What makes you think Wallis Jones and her family are gone and not just out?”
“You should get over here and see this for yourself. Not sure if I should call this in or not. Strangest thing.”
“Don’t call it in,” said the detective, “wait for me to get there.”
“You learn something from Paulie?”
“God if I know. I hope not.”
“Now you’re talking in circles,” said Buster.
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Where are you parked?”
“I’m out front, parked in plain view. After what I found, I wanted it clear that I was a cop and I was going to be walking around the house. See you in a few.”
If Buster was that worried it had to be bad, thought Detective Biggs. Buster was usually the type to want to go in quietly and get a better understanding before people realized he was there and started practicing their story.
The traffic was light down West Broad Street and it wasn’t long before he was parked in front of the large Colonial house. The only other car on the street was Buster’s and the street was empty. No one was out walking their dog or strolling down the street admiring the different Christmas decorations. It was all a little unusual for the neighborhood, even on a cold day there was usually some movement through the streets.
Biggs got out of the car and stood still for a moment, listening to the wind as it whipped around a nearby stand of fir trees. He could hear someone’s chimes jangling in the breeze.
He thought for a moment about the times he went hunting with his father when he was a boy in the woods up near Charlottesville in Crozet up in the Blue Ridge mountains.
I should take Maynard hunting one of these days, he thought, already knowing it would never happen. Maynard hated guns, even if he had managed to buy that machete last year, supposedly as protection for the house. Teenagers.
The cold managed to run down his neck and he gave a violent shake as he started to look around and noticed there were too many things out of place.
The last time the detective had been at the house he had been standing near a neat row of English boxwoods. They were commonplace in Richmond but only for the wealthy and they were usually carefully tended to so that the bottom branches never showed and the sides and tops stayed perfectly even.
This time the bushes were damaged on one side with small, broken branches sticking out. Biggs was sure if he tried to lie down in the indentation along the top it would fit him perfectly as if a large man had fallen backwards into them.
He still didn’t see Buster and was beginning to wonder if something had happened in the short amount of time it took him to get here when he noticed the small spray of blood on the edge of the driveway.
He knelt down and gently dabbed at it with a fingernail bitten down to the quick. The blood had congealed and was firm but not completely dry. Whatever had happened, it had been less than twenty-four hours, he thought, with a scowl.
There was a distinct pattern to the destruction that led down the front of the house and then split in two to the sides of the dwelling.
“More than one,” he said in a low voice. “Now, why would a squad be tactically approaching this house?” He thought about the story Paulie had been trying to lay out for him and his strange warning. There goes a dead man.
Just as he was about to call Buster and see if he was still upright he heard someone or something moving around in back of the house. It sounded like they were dragging something heavy.
He drew his gun and crept around the side of the house, his heart beating a little harder as he scanned from side to side. It wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to him that whoever attacked this house could still be here.
As he turned by the downspout on the corner of the house he saw a bullet hole in the large oak to the right and as he turned and looked up at the house he saw a small arc of bullets near the top window. Someone from the house had returned fire.
He rounded the corner as the sound became louder. Someone was definitely dragging something heavy and he prepared himself to see Harried Jones or her daughter, Wallis, wounded or worse. There was always a split second necessary for him to make it okay that someone he knew, or had at least met was no longer among the living.
He needed to do that so he could do his job without hesitating even for that moment. He was breathing hard. He had liked Harriet Jones
and after saving her life once, he felt a little responsible for her.
He didn’t like it when someone screwed with his track record.
“Drop it!” he shouted in a loud growl, holding his gun straight out in front of him.
“Goddammit,” yelled Buster, as he dropped the heavy, wooden door he had been dragging. “I think I fucking peed on myself. What’s got you so jittery?”
Detective Biggs let out the breath he was holding and lowered his gun but only part of the way. He looked around, wondering if maybe it was smart to assume there could still be people in the area responsible for all of this mess.
“Put your damn gun away. I already checked. No one is here, with the exception of a dead man in the second floor hallway. No, it’s not Norman Weiskopf, either,” said Buster. “Looks like a professional, like some kind of hired former military. I’m assuming the Federal government didn’t have a reason to do a full-on assault on this house.” He sounded annoyed and like he was getting one of his infamous headaches. That would put him in a sour mood that would last for days.
“I saw the blood trail out front and the bullet holes on the front of the house,” said Detective Biggs.
“That’s just the start of it all. There’s bullet holes everywhere and a lot of blood splatter on the outside of the house. Only one body though. But here’s the really strange part, if you ask me.”
“Stranger than all of this?”
“Well, what do you think about a secret hidey-hole in the West End of Richmond, Virginia in an upscale house owned by two lawyers? It looks like this might be the way the family escaped out the back. I can’t find any sign that they were injured so I’m thinking they’re all still alive and well. But someone,” he said, his voice rising to a shout, “was here and less than twelve hours ago.”
“You see any neighbors?” asked Detective Biggs.
“I knocked on a few doors to make sure the apparent warfare didn’t extend beyond this house but no one answered. Tried looking in some windows but, and this seems odd given the state of this one house, nothing else seemed out of place.” Buster stood up and faced Biggs, his hands on his hips. Biggs knew his bad back was probably bothering him by now, making his mood and his headache even worse.