Tagged for Murder

by Jack Fredrickson

  ‘Come by. I’ll buy you a fish,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t order until I get there.’

  ‘Fish sounds good,’ he said.

  ‘There’s concern they snag the slowest of them from the Willahock.’

  ‘How slow?’

  ‘Some just floating on their sides.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait for you, but hurry.’

  ‘You’re really hungry?’

  ‘No, I’m anxious and I’ve got something for you. You need to keep your head down, really down, like you’re crawling.’

  ‘You didn’t pop into Rivertown to enjoy our cuisine?’

  ‘Nor to look at the lovelies working the curbs. You’ve angered people, Elstrom.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘No, I mean you’ve really angered people.’

  Kopek sounded scared.

  ‘How angry, exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Hurry over, and I’ll tell you.’

  I headed for the door.

  The lizards that ran Rivertown liked to say that The Hamburger was built to be the first in a string of franchised locations to compete with McDonald’s, but that it had gone bankrupt thirty years earlier because back then, especially, nobody really competed with McDonald’s. That was baloney; there was no intent to franchise anything. The originator of the first The Hamburger, a second cousin to Rivertown’s treasurer, was looking for a place to use the meat he caught falling off trucks. Supposedly, he planned on catching enough to fully stock at least five outlets of The Hamburger, all of which he would own himself. He got to build only one before someone tipped the feds, and the mayor’s second cousin went to prison. The building changed owners and menus every couple of years, but the expensive rooftop sign naming the place The Hamburger hung on because it was too expensive to replace, and every new owner seemed resigned to failure, anyway. Driving over, I accepted that it would be an appropriate place to hear unsettling news.

  Kopek sat by himself in a booth at the back corner. There were no other diners.

  ‘So, no fish?’ he asked when I walked up carrying two Cokes.

  ‘Grilled cheese is coming,’ I said. ‘It’s the most I can do, here, to thank you for the kolachkys.’

  ‘The most?’

  ‘The grilled cheese is safe. As I inferred, the least I could do would be to order the fish. You’d suffer. Where are Cuthbert and Raines?’

  I’d startled him, but only for an instant.

  ‘Who?’ he said, like he didn’t know.

  ‘That other pair of detectives working the Central Works case. We’ve discussed them before.’

  ‘Nosy bastards.’

  ‘They don’t report to you?’

  ‘I don’t know who the hell they report to.’

  ‘Jacks?’

  ‘He reports to me. He’s safe at home,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve angered people?’

  The counter clerk brought us our sandwiches. Kopek took a bite, nodded and said, ‘You’re not helping by talking to the press.’

  ‘Your fellow constables, Cuthbert and Raines, accused me of the same thing, several hours ago.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told them to call the police.’

  ‘Did they threaten you with arrest for withholding information material to a murder investigation?’

  ‘They must have forgotten, but that’s not why you wanted to meet.’

  ‘What started as a simple matter of a fool lawyer getting pitched out of the Central Works has turned into a high-stakes mess.’

  ‘Bottom line?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe drugs, like Keller said in the paper. Four buildings blown up, several deaths, perhaps no end in sight. You know anything about that?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No matter. Everyone who knows anything seems to have been killed.’ He took another bite of his sandwich, then a sip of Coke, and said, ‘Except you, of course.’

  I set down the sandwich I’d just picked up. ‘You think I’m targeted?’

  ‘I think that stupid piece in the paper has made you a walking dead man. You should have kept your damned mouth shut.’

  ‘I wasn’t attributed.’

  ‘You’ve been asking around about the Central Works. We got an anonymous tip.’

  ‘What kind of tip?’

  ‘Someone wants you dead. You need to be careful until we figure out if the threat is real.’

  ‘How close are you to that?’

  ‘Not close.’

  ‘How about identifying the people behind Triple Time?’ I asked. ‘It’s got to be them.’

  ‘No clues on them yet.’ He reached down on the bench beside him and came up with a white cardboard bakery box.

  ‘Goodies, after you tell me I’m marked?’ At that moment, I couldn’t have swallowed water.

  He slid it the short distance across the table. ‘Open it.’

  I did. Inside was a .38 revolver.

  ‘I don’t know whether you have a weapon,’ he said, ‘but I want you to carry this. It’s untraceable and already loaded. Just point, shoot, and throw the thing in the river so no one can accuse you of murder.’

  ‘You really think this is necessary?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s necessary. Do you have any idea who’s behind Triple Time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That Krumfeld woman? She knew something,’ he said. ‘We still can’t find her real identity.’

  ‘She seemed to know nothing. Maybe she was just a hell of an actress.’

  ‘And you, Elstrom?’ he said, leaning across the fake woodgrain table top. ‘Are you a good actor?’

  The man’s bulk was intimidating, his glare hot.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean somebody’s set to kill you, and no gun I give you will protect you forever. What do they think you know? How can we use it to keep you safe?’

  ‘Cuthbert and Raines implied the same thing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s obvious.’

  ‘What’s obvious is that something’s wrong at the cops,’ I said. ‘You and Jacks are being shadowed by another pair of detectives. They say they’re working different angles, but I don’t believe them. I don’t know that I even believe you.’

  He leaned back. ‘Maybe I wouldn’t either. This case is such a mess. As far as those other two nosy bastards, they’re not from homicide.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Not sure.’ He took the last bite of his sandwich. ‘Put the gun in your coat, Elstrom, and don’t go anywhere without it. And don’t hesitate to fire.’

  I put the revolver in the pocket of my peacoat. We stood up, and he took the box to the trash receptacle.

  ‘So long,’ he said, outside, reaching for his phone.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The bullet sparked off the limestone to the right of my head just as I raised my key to the door. Ducking, dropping the keys, I ran low around the turret’s east side and down toward the river, more shots ricocheting off the limestone behind me. There’d been no car on the streets off Thompson Avenue when I drove up. The shooter was on foot, firing first from the bramble on the spit of land across the street, now charging after me around the turret.

  He’d expect me to run west along the crumbling riverwalk, to the long lawn to city hall and the police station in back. It was too long, that broad lawn, and too brightly lit by moonlight reflecting off the Willahock. I’d be an easy target.

  It took more guts than I wanted to gamble, but there was no choice. I turned and ran back up the rise to the other side of the turret, begging the night to make him think I’d kept running toward city hall. Past the turret, my footsteps pounded loud on the street as I crossed to the spit of land.

  And then I froze, unsure where to go.

  Thompson Avenue lay across the tangle, a tempting sanctuary of drunks thronging the sidewalks and slow-john cars clogging the streets. I could get safely lost among them, but first I’d have to high-step through fallen bra
nches and limbs, backlit the whole way by the neon along Thompson. As soon as the shooter realized I’d not run toward the police station, he’d double back and see me contorting through the bramble like a jerk-stringed puppet. He’d have clear shots, masked by all the noise along Thompson.

  A car turned onto my street. It came slowly, running without lights. Good people didn’t run dark in the night. Killers came like that.

  There was an old oak tree fifteen feet ahead. I half-jumped, half-stumbled into the bramble toward it, diving at its base. Rolling onto my belly, I crawled around behind it and pressed flat onto the blanket of branches and twigs and thorns. I lifted my head just enough to see.

  The dark car coasted to a stop in front of the turret. Its engine went silent. A car door opened. The shadow-shape of a man got out. His hard-soled shoes moved quickly across the street toward the thicket, and then stopped.

  I dropped my head, pressing hard against the ground. He’d seen me, this second man, as I ran across the street. He’d seen me hesitate, and then jump into the bramble. A quick glance across the spit of land had already shown that I wasn’t working my way toward Thompson Avenue. He knew I was hiding somewhere close to the road.

  He murmured, just feet away, barely audible above the ruckus that was Rivertown at night. He was talking into his phone, summoning the shooter who’d likely kept on running toward city hall.

  I raised my head once more. The shadow-shape stood ten, fifteen feet directly in front of me, at the edge of the tangle. He was waiting. A minute passed, and then footfalls came running up the street. The shooter was back from the river walk. He stopped diagonally across the spit of land, a hundred feet farther down the street from the shadow-shape man.

  I dropped back down and shifted to pull the revolver Kopek gave me out of my peacoat. Bless that pastry-loving cop for my one chance. Neither of us could have guessed how soon I’d need that gun.

  Twigs cracked from the right, in front of me, and then from the left, farther away. They were working parallel, the shadow-shape and the shooter, stepping carefully into the bramble. They’d known I didn’t make my way across the spit of land. The shadow-shape on the right sounded as if he was only a few feet away.

  But I had a gun. I had surprise.

  I rolled onto my left side, clutching the revolver with my right hand. A short, thick tree limb jabbed my ribs. I pushed my back against it and nudged it out of the way. Point and shoot, Kopek said. It’s loaded; just point and shoot.

  The tangle snapped loud, just ahead, branches and twigs breaking under the shadow-shape’s weight, getting closer.

  I did not know guns. I needed proximity. The nearest one, the shadow-shape, had to be close, so close I could not miss. Rise up, point, squeeze the trigger once, and again, and drop down fast. Be invisible to the shooter, off to the left, who’d have to hold his fire for fear of hitting the shadow-shape.

  Footfalls came down loud, only inches in front of my head. He was at my tree.

  I pushed up onto my knees. He loomed huge above me.

  Point and shoot; just point and shoot.

  I pulled the trigger and pulled it again. The muzzle flashed bright in the night.

  He did not fall; he did not fire back. He laughed. He took another step.

  I dropped the revolver, then fumbled at the ground for something – anything – to swing. I found the short limb I’d nudged away. It was thicker than a baseball bat; I could not tell its length. Clutching it with both hands brought it free. I scrambled up to my feet.

  The shadow-shaped man laughed.

  I swung the short limb like I was swinging for bleachers and connected, hitting his head or his neck or his arm.

  His gun fired, but it was up into the air.

  I swung at the flash, and somewhere beyond the ringing in my ears, he gurgled in surprise. I’d caught his mouth or his throat. He crashed down, and his head hit my foot. I swung at it, crazed now, but hit only leaves. I raised the short limb and swung down again. I hit something a little higher than the ground. He exhaled hard. I’d gotten flesh, good, soft flesh, and maybe a good, hard bone. He lay silent.

  Thrashing came from the darkness to the left; the shooter had seen the flashes and was hurrying to my side of the bramble. But he couldn’t yet know who’d gone down.

  Tires squealed as a car raced off Thompson Avenue, high-beam headlamps sweeping down the short street, and turned onto my own, lighting the ground and the sky all around. And lighting me.

  The shooter off to the left raised his arm. I dropped to the ground as the shot rang out.

  The new car screeched to a stop. Engine still running, high beams still on, car doors opened – one, two. Guns fired from the street. The shooter fired back. A man shouted by the car. Another man there yelled back.

  I raised my head. The shooter had turned to scramble back to the street, likely to run for the river. I could only see his back. He was slender, medium-sized.

  The bramble tripped him. He went down. There could be no running in the tangle of that park.

  The men from the new car walked slowly down the street toward him, firing at where he’d gone down. I pressed my face to the ground. Thorns dug into my cheek. I pressed down harder, desperate for the gun I’d dropped. I did not know who would live or who would die.

  Wild thrashing sounded from the left, the shooter desperate to escape the bramble that clutched him. More gunshots were fired at him from the street.

  A huge wall of light rumbled off Thompson Avenue, up the short street and onto mine, lighting the whole of the spit of land brighter than ten midday suns. Pressed to the ground, I did not need to see. I knew that sound; I knew those lights. They’d found me once before and chased me across the flattened ground of the Central Works.

  I pawed again at the ground, now harshest white and deepest black in the glare of the new lights. But there was no gun. There were only twigs and sticks and branches and, somewhere, the limb I’d swung to drop the shadow-shaped man who’d come for me.

  The monstrous off-roader rumbled to a stop. The big engine went dead but the bright wall of lights stayed on.

  Somewhere to the left, the shooter thrashed on in the night, a boar trapped in bramble, frantic to escape the lights and the men with the guns.

  Two more shots came from the street. The thrashing stopped.

  Footfalls entered the thicket, only one pair, only one man, dozens of yards away. A shot sounded, followed by another. But softer this time, and more muffled, like bullets fired right against flesh. The man who’d shot at me in my doorway was dead.

  ‘Down, one,’ a man said, off to the left.

  Other footfalls came up toward me, slowly, carefully. Again, only one pair. I dared not look. I pressed my face hard into the bramble.

  One step, two steps, three steps, footfalls slow and searching. They stopped, just feet from my head. Two more shots came, muffled by flesh like the ones a minute before, only closer. Kill shots for sure, if the man I’d clubbed wasn’t already dead.

  ‘Down, two,’ the voice close to me called into the night. I couldn’t recognize it above the fresh gun shots ringing in my ear. I focused on breathing slowly, quietly. They must not know a witness was there.

  The second man came down the street from where he’d dropped the shooter. His footfalls entered the bramble, high-stepping toward the man close to me. They got close and stopped. A soft brushing began, accompanied by grunting and hard thuds but no words. The two men were dragging the shadow-shaped man away.

  Five minutes later, a door on the street opened and then slammed. There were three vehicles stopped there. Two with smaller engines – the shadow-shape’s sedan that had coasted up, running dark, and the high-beamed second car that had come just moments later, bringing the pair who’d stopped the men hunting me – and the off-roader that had lit everything in the night.

  Footsteps moved down the street. A moment later, dragging sounds began, farther away and to my left. The shooter who’d chased me down to the
river was being removed now. Insanely, I thought of Herbie – poor, stupid, greedy, dead Herbie. He might have been dragged like that, up to the Vanderbilt Supply, just before the building was torched.

  The brightest lights on the off-roader went dark, leaving only its headlamps still on. Car doors opened and slammed. I did not dare to raise my head.

  ‘Go,’ a man on the street said. An engine started and new headlamps switched on. It was the car that had come up dark, the shadow-shape man’s car, now driven by someone else. It swung around and headed for Thompson Avenue.

  ‘Elstrom?’ a man’s voice called low, from my street, unrecognizable in the din coming from Thompson Avenue.

  I stayed silent, pressed flat to the ground.

  ‘Out of here,’ the same voice said, and footsteps sounded fainter from the street. More car doors slammed.

  I eased up to see. The engine of the second sedan, which had been left running by the men who’d jumped out to stop my would-be killers, was shifted into gear. It turned around, lowered its high-beams to normal and headed back to the short street that led to Thompson Avenue. The over-lit off-roader, still shining only its headlamps, rumbled its engine into life, turned around and followed. The spit of land faded into shadows as they pulled away.

  The second sedan and the off-roader turned east onto Thompson Avenue, heading toward the city, and disappeared. The car leading the off-roader was a black Impala.

  Behind me, the crazed carnival along Thompson Avenue sounded on – ladies laughing with shrill, practiced delight, drunks yelling at whatever they imagined to be in their mists, john cars idling slowly along the curb. Nobody had died along Thompson Avenue, not even me.

  Still, I stayed down on my belly, counting to a hundred in time with the base beats pulsing from the jukeboxes across the spit of land, and then I counted to a hundred more. Finally, I stood and picked my way through the low tangle to the turret.

  My keys lay on the stone threshold, where I’d dropped them in my panic. It took three tries for my shaking hands to pick them up. I unlocked the timbered door, stepped inside and closed it tight behind me, then moved quickly to insert the wood bar into the steel brackets so no one with guns could break the door down.