BLACK in the Box

by Russell Blake

  “I work with Black. I’m looking for Mugsy.”

  “Oh. Right. The lost tabby.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Nope. I’d have told Black if I had.”

  “Right.” She eyed the papers Matt was holding along with the tablet as they rustled again, and her shoulders sagged. That was the source of the sound that had drawn her there. So she was back to square one in her search. “Are there any other areas that he might have snuck into, aside from the main store?”

  “Loading area and, of course, the storage section. Where we keep excess inventory that won’t fit on the overhead racks, special orders, returns, that sort of thing.” He looked her up and down. “You want me to show you? It’s normally off-limits, but since the store’s closed…”

  “I’ll get to it in a few minutes. It’s back by the loading docks?”

  “Yes. Off to the left once you go through the double doors from the showroom. Pretty easy to find, and it should be quiet back there now. Everybody’s finishing up and getting ready to punch out.”

  “Okay. Let me finish looking in the store first. I appreciate the help.” She glanced down at his name tag, which struck her as odd to wear given there were no customers, but she shrugged off the sense of dislocation. He seemed rather officious and there was a trace of condescension to his tone, which was the exact type of petty tyrant she’d have expected to brandish any symbol of his authority whenever possible. That explained it, she figured.

  “No problem. Good luck,” Matt said with a smile and then resumed his work.

  Five minutes of fruitless searching later and she’d exhausted all the possible hiding places she thought Mugsy might find appealing. Wherever he was, it wasn’t in the retail section of the store. She’d looked around when she’d climbed the racks to inspect the carpet stacked high on the third level, and she’d have spotted him from there if he’d favored height while hiding.

  “Mugsy? Damn it. Mugsy!”

  Roxie walked to the double steel doors that separated the restricted area from the main store and pushed them open. She waited as her eyes adjusted, the surroundings gloomy with the loading dock bays closed, and looked around. To her left was a caged area with product waiting to be properly received into inventory, as well as any returns. Beyond that were stacks of pallets – what had to be hundreds of them in long rows.

  She walked toward them, past the security office by the employee exit, which was empty, and paused by the first stack. Searching the area had seemed simple in concept, but it was larger than she’d thought, and she hadn’t factored in the pallets and the darkness, nor the cartons of special-ordered appliances stretching like cardboard sarcophagi into the shadows.

  “Mugsy…” she called, and then stopped at a sound from above her.

  The sound of claws on fabric.

  “Mugsy! Come down here this instant. Come on, boy. Mugsy, come!”

  The scratching continued. Mugsy was ignoring her, as he did when something else had captured his interest. She shook her head and eyed the pallets for a decent handhold, and, resigned to climbing the stack, pulled herself up, foot by foot, until her head poked over the top pallet.

  There was Mugsy, looking typically drowsy, tearing at a nylon messenger bag for all he was worth.

  “Mugsy, time to go. Leave that thing.”

  Mugsy glared at her belligerently. There was no way he was going to abandon his treasure. She climbed higher until she could reach him, and then scooped him up, together with the bag. “Man, you’re heavy, boy,” she said and pulled one strap of the bag over her shoulder. She lowered herself carefully until she was back on the ground, and then shrugged off the strap and studied the satchel. “What’s in there, Mugs? Food? Has to be. I know you too well.”

  She unzipped it and wasn’t surprised to see a sandwich inside. Tuna, by the smell. Next to it was a plastic bottle of fruit punch, a few papers, and, in the furthest reaches…a flash drive.

  Roxie froze when a male voice called out from behind her.

  “I see you found your cat. And he’s got my bag.”

  She turned and found herself facing Brent, who was walking toward her, a nervous half-grin on his handsome face.

  “Yours?” she asked.

  “Yeah. He must have snagged it and carried it up there.”

  She looked down at it. “It says Alec on it.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and he took another step toward her. “Give it to me,” he snarled, and then his mouth formed an O when Roxie’s boot toe sank squarely into his crotch. His face went white and he groaned as he bent over, and Roxie bolted away from him, Mugsy in her arms, the bag bouncing against her ribs.

  She darted around a stack of pallets and slowed as her mind raced. Brent having Alec’s messenger bag could have meant one of two things: either he’d broken into Alec’s car and taken it because he knew something about what was in Alec’s files, or he’d planted the axe in Alec’s back, and his and Nancy’s alibis were bogus. If the second, she must have also been in on it – whatever it was. Why else give Brent an alibi?

  She ducked behind a refrigerator carton and pulled her phone from her pocket. Using her thumb, she tapped out a quick message to Black. Roxie hit send just as the overhead lights blinked off, plunging the area into inky blackness.

  Her impulse to send a message had saved her from being caught in the open, blind, where she’d make noise trying to find someplace to hide or an alternative way out of the place. Now she was immobilized, and assuming Brent knew the layout well, that gave him a significant advantage.

  Roxie didn’t have to speculate long. A flashlight beam flickered to life on the other side of the pallets, and Brent’s voice called out softly as his footsteps made their way along the aisle.

  “You’ll pay for that, you little whore. There’s only one way out, and you have to get by me. Dumb move, bitch. Really dumb move.”

  Roxie’s breath caught in her throat at the menace in Brent’s voice. He sounded dangerous, and obviously pissed.

  She shrank back as far as she could, and slid behind the carton, the space only a little over a foot deep. All she needed to do was buy time. With the cops in the store, that was the only strategy.

  The snick of metal on metal came to her and her heart rate began jackhammering – there was no sound quite like that of a bullet being chambered in a semiautomatic pistol, which she knew well from Black screwing around with his gun.

  Her assessment of Brent changed to favoring him as the killer rather than a simple thief. Thieves didn’t make a habit of pursuing people with guns.

  Murderers did.

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket, but she didn’t dare try to get to it – between Mugsy’s weight and the claustrophobic conditions, it was all she could manage to keep from screaming, and she was seriously in danger of dropping it if she tried.

  All she could do was hope that Black wasn’t ignoring his calls, and wait for Brent to find her.

  That he would eventually was a foregone conclusion.

  It would just come down to who was faster – Brent or Black.

  Chapter 51

  Black watched McCarthy and his sidekick ferret around in the equipment room while Larry hovered nearby, his nervousness palpable. Part of Black felt bad for the man – as he’d intuited, the news that credit card users at one of his stores had been systematically skimmed and then sold to scamsters would deliver a body slam to his sales. Such were the risks of retail, Black reasoned, and his pity was tempered by the picture he’d developed of Larry’s operating philosophy, which was corner-cutting and playing fast and loose, including seducing his comely young employees.

  After tiring of the spectacle, he moved away from the area and watched Kyle, Tabitha, and Lee removing their green aprons and walking toward the employee lockers. He checked the time – they still had an hour to go in their shift, but were probably going on break, or to complete paperwork now that their stocking was done. He tried to imagin
e what it must be like to work all night on a regular basis, the toll on relationships and on any sense of normalcy, but couldn’t. He’d already seen the destructive influence it had on his own – to live like that full time was beyond his comprehension.

  Black felt in his jacket for his phone when it vibrated and beeped at him. He removed it, and then motion from the administrative office entrance caught his eye. McCarthy and Trout entered, likely to inspect the crime scene again in light of the new revelations. Black’s gaze dropped to his phone and he thumbed through to the messages.

  He read Roxie’s text in shock and then took off at a run toward the rear of the store. He didn’t slow to process the implications – all he needed to know was that Roxie was in danger, entirely because of him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Roxie peeked from behind the carton as the flashlight beam moved past her. She saw the outline of a gun and then Brent was beyond the refrigerators, shining the lamp under and through the pallets. If he turned into the next aisle, she could try to make a run for it – but the thought was quickly followed by the realization that in the dark she’d trip over her own feet and create an easy target.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Brent sang out, and she shivered involuntarily at his tone, which was full-bone creepy maniacal serial killer. She slowly moved her free hand toward her phone in the back pocket of her pants. She could use the lamp function of its camera flash to light her way.

  And catch a bullet in the back as soon as Brent sees it.

  Mugsy shifted, uncomfortable at being manhandled by her, and she tightened her grip on him, willing him still. Like most of her telepathic efforts with him, that failed, and he began wriggling like she was trying to strangle him.

  His claws scratched at the carton, and the resulting scrape sounded to Roxie like nails on a blackboard. Brent stopped and the beam swept the appliances, and then she heard his footsteps approach, along with his heavy breathing, which sounded like a bellows in the high-ceilinged space.

  ~ ~ ~

  Black shouldered the door to the loading area open and stopped when confronted by complete darkness. He felt along the wall but was unable to locate any switch. He waited for his eyes to adjust, and then saw the dim glow of a flashlight through the pallets in the next aisle over.

  His phone vibrated again and beeped, the sound thankfully muffled by his jacket. He felt for the cell and checked the screen – another message from Roxie, sent just a few seconds ago. Only four words: “He’s got a gun.”

  Black dropped the phone back into his pocket and drew his Glock from his belt holster, a round already chambered, and squinted into the gloom. The flashlight had to be Brent. Black’s best bet was to sneak around until he had a clean line of sight on him, and if Brent didn’t drop his weapon, take him down.

  Which was easier said than done. Black could barely see his hand in front of him. But the thought of Roxie hiding, with an armed Brent closing in on her, drove him forward.

  He took cautious steps, using the stacked pallets as a guide, and when he arrived at the turn, he waited a moment to get his bearings. Black peered around the corner and saw Brent turned toward stacks of boxed appliances, his weapon clearly outlined in the flashlight’s glow.

  It was maybe thirty yards. For a sure shot, ten would be better.

  Black weighed the value of trying to close the distance against the obvious risk that being out in the open posed, and when he heard Brent call out to Roxie, opted for moving nearer for a sure shot.

  “Bitch, I know you’re back there,” Brent snarled. “You either come out or I start shooting through the boxes. A refrigerator won’t stop a bullet, so staying back there won’t do you any good.”

  Black crept forward, hoping that Brent was so intent on Roxie he’d miss the movement in the dark. He was only partially successful – when he’d made it five yards, something drew Brent’s attention to Black and he spun, weapon at the ready, and fired twice.

  Black squeezed the trigger six times in quick succession as he stood sideways to present a smaller target. Both of Brent’s shots whined off the wall behind him, but two of Black’s slammed Brent backward. His gun clattered on the cement floor as he crumpled to the ground, and Black rushed toward him, Glock held in a two-handed combat grip.

  Brent was gasping for breath, both shots having hit him squarely in the chest. Black kicked his gun away and yelled for Roxie. “You can come out. Show’s over. He’s down for the count.”

  Black’s ears rang from the detonations in the enclosed space, and he sensed rather than heard Roxie emerge from the appliance stack, Mugsy in her arms, a messenger bag slung from her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” Black asked, his gun still steady on Brent.

  “Yeah. Took you long enough.”

  “I stopped for a smoke. Figured you could handle this on your own.”

  She stared down at Brent, whose breathing was labored and wet as his lungs filled with blood. “He doesn’t sound like he’s going to make it.”

  Black nodded. “Probably not. Stupid bastard. He fired first.”

  “I think he killed Alec. This is Alec’s bag. He had it, and told me it was his.”

  “Anything interesting in it?”

  They were interrupted by the doors opening and McCarthy’s voice calling out, “Everybody freeze. Police. Move and you’re dead.”

  Black turned toward his voice. “It’s me, McCarthy. One of the workers drew on me, fired a couple of shots. I returned fire. He’s bleeding out on the floor in here. Can you get the lights?”

  “Just stay where you are, Black. Put your weapon on the ground where I can see it, okay? I’m going to find some lights. Trout and I will be there in a second.”

  Black did as instructed and then straightened as McCarthy fumbled around for a switch. Larry’s voice boomed out from the doors. “What the hell happened?”

  “Larry, turn on the lights,” Black called.

  Ten seconds later the fluorescent lamps above flickered to life, and McCarthy and his partner rounded the corner with guns drawn. Black eyed them with a neutral expression. “I told you, there’s no threat.”

  McCarthy slid his weapon back into his holster. “He could have forced you to say that. I’m too old to take chances.”

  Black nodded. “Probably wise. Better call an ambulance. He’s not long for this world.”

  McCarthy eyed Brent, his shirt slick with wet blood burbling from his chest wounds. “Why would he risk shooting in a building full of cops?”

  “He obviously believed that he was cornered when Roxie found Alec’s messenger bag. My hunch is he broke into Alec’s car right before his shift, grabbed the bag, and then stashed it here to get later. He couldn’t get to it last night because there were police everywhere,” Black said. “His prints will be all over it, along with Roxie’s.”

  “What’s in the bag that was worth it?”

  “A sandwich, a few odds and ends,” Roxie said before Black could answer.

  McCarthy pulled on a pair of latex gloves and held out his hand. “Let’s have it.”

  Roxie shrugged and handed it over. Trout was on his phone with dispatch, arranging for an ambulance. Roxie stared at the wounded man and then at McCarthy. “Can I give my statement so I can get out of here? I’m so tired I’m ready to drop.”

  “Sure. Wait until Mike gets off the phone, and he’ll take your info. Then you’re free to go, as long as we can get in touch with you later.”

  Roxie and Black exchanged a glance. “Roxie, you still need to finish up that stuff in the office. And put Mugsy back in the cat carrier.”

  For once she didn’t give him grief. “Okay, boss.”

  “I’ll meet you there once I’m done. Can you take Mugsy?”

  “Sure. You’ve already proven you can’t be trusted.”

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “I’m only giving you that much because you saved my life.”

  Chapter 52

  Blac
k finished with McCarthy an hour later as the shift was ending. An ambulance had arrived, and the paramedics had done their best to patch Brent up, but it looked about as bad as it could get, and one of them told McCarthy he’d be surprised if he made it as far as the freeway – his vitals were almost nonexistent, and he’d lost a small lake of blood.

  McCarthy questioned Black while his partner collected evidence. When the older detective was through, he flipped off his voice recorder, slipped his notebook back into his jacket pocket, and went off the record with Black.

  “Sucks to have to shoot someone, doesn’t it?” McCarthy asked.

  “Yeah. No matter how many times, it never gets easier.”

  McCarthy’s eyes widened. “How many does this make?”

  Black looked away. “Too many.”

  “So much for any plans I had moonlighting as a private dick.” McCarthy paused. “Why do you think he killed Alec?”

  “Any of the usual reasons. Greed. Envy. Fear. Love.”

  “You think he was in the drug game?”

  “Or the credit card skimming operation. Or the theft ring. Take your pick. Hell, maybe all of them. When Stan checks his shoe size, you’ll find that it matches the one at Mary’s house. That would be my guess. I’d also look at the log to see if he punched out for lunch around the time she was killed.”

  “He was pretty young to be that ruthless.” McCarthy sighed. “I’m too old for this shit.”

  “I know the feeling.” Black rubbed his eyes. “Be interesting if his prints were on the computer we found. He’s the maintenance guy, so he’d be a cinch to know how to wire things, and nobody would question him working around the store. That was one of the things I was thinking about just before this happened – how could someone have strung wire and placed cameras without being noticed? The answer is, it was his job. Either that or Henry, the security guy.”