Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  “Nod,” Lisa cried. She reached from beneath the dash, fumbled on the passenger's side and, finally, opened the glove box. She contorted herself further, grabbed something from the compartment, and stretched it my direction. “You can't go into another gunfight unarmed.”

  Sure enough she'd brought my gun.

  “I don't want that.”

  “Take it!”

  I stared hatefully at it, ready to argue, when a question exploded in my head. “Where did you get it?”

  “Where do you think? From your office safe.”

  I shook that away. “How did you get it? How did you open my safe?”

  “Blake!” Whether owing to my ingratitude or her cramped position under the dash, Lisa was frustrated. “The first four months you owned the safe, until you finally memorized it, you had the combination written on an envelope in your top desk drawer.”

  “You've known the combination all along?”

  “Of course. I'm not a dolt.”

  “But… the brownie…”

  “What brownie?”

  “The brownie in my safe. Why haven't you eaten it?”

  “If I'd eaten it, you would have known I had the combination to your safe. Now take the gun!”

  My hatred of and refusal to carry a weapon was no secret, especially to Lisa. But we both knew we were dealing with a couple of crazed killers and, she knew me well enough to know, my love of life was stronger. If you'd like to debate the ethics involved, we can, that's why they invented bars. But for the moment, I took the gun. “Stay here.”

  Lisa took her small victory. “All right. We'll stay here.”

  I went commando, from one tree to another, in the direction of the killers. I looked and saw nothing but the quiet pavilion, the darkness, and the van. If the shooter was there, I couldn't see them. I took a chance and ran for the van. I made it safely to the rear, edged around, saw the far side doors standing open and eased up on them. Gun foremost, I rotated at the edge of the opening, scanning the interior. The van was empty.

  Nobody appeared to be hanging about in the dark. The corners of the pole barn and the doorway of the wide-open sliding door, as far as I could see, were empty. It was a guess but, I thought, a sound one; the shooter, the second shadow, had followed Rudy inside. I wasn't certain if they'd retreated there to hide or stopped in for something specific. Were they collecting a hidden something or lying in wait?

  I moved up the passenger's side of the van, took a deep breath, and readied to run for the corner of the big open door. A flash of movement stopped me. A projectile missed me by inches. This time it wasn't gunfire. It was a hurled object that hit the van's front grill in a blur with a familiar thwack. I dove near the tire for cover and heard somebody taking a whiz nearby. I looked up for the source and discovered it was the hurled object. A knife had been thrown with expert force and, thankfully, the tiniest error in precision. It protruded from the grill with its blade buried in the radiator. The radiator was relieving itself.

  I looked from the murderous blade, to the gun in my hand, to the open door of the gloomy pavilion. I shook my head wondering exactly what kind of weapon a worn-out detective ought to bring to a knife and gun fight? No answer presented itself. I considered my options, decided I didn't have any, and ran for the barn in pursuit of Rudy and his shadow.

  The Callicoat wagon pavilion lost its charm by night. Throughout the building's wide span only two overhead lights were lit, one in the corner to my left as I entered, and one catty corner the full length of the barn away. That left a lot of dark and, thanks to the oddly shaped wagons, a lot of shadow between for atmosphere. Creepiness had taken over as the bright reds, yellows, and greens of day melted into battling shades of gray and the painted smiles of clowns became knowing leers.

  Damn it! Wagons, wagons everywhere (I couldn't see twenty feet in any direction). Among all those wagons were two stone-cold killers. But where? I needed to know. I needed to see them, if only for a moment. I needed a vantage point. A moment of thought and I realized that problem answered itself. Thank God, there were wagons, wagons everywhere.

  I picked one, the tallest within view and likely the tallest in the building, an ornate monster of a circus wagon, a red and gold rectangle box with a huge blue half-globe of the earth (the continents painted in brilliant gold) decorating either side. On the right side of the wagon, the Eastern Hemisphere protruded; on the left, the Western. Along both sides of the top, and across the back, stood more than a dozen standard poles, each baring the flags of nations from around the world.

  I ran for the front of the World Wagon and leaped to the team harness. I climbed it like a flight of stairs, driver's foot board, seat, back rest, wagon top, and dove for the roof. On my belly, I low-crawled to the edges, slowly, one at a time to listen. I reached the fourth side and, against my better judgment, lifted my head between the standards for Old Glory and the national flag of Spain to steal a peek below and see what I could see. I saw the tops of the other wagons, the lady Danita's vacant coffee patio at center, and all-around stark shadows with fingers of light stealing through. I didn't see the villains I'd chased into the building. Where were they?

  As if in answer, I heard movement below and to my right. A caravan wagon with a little cupola on its roof shuddered and its rear door came open. A shadow, that must have been Rudy Ace, slipped out. What had he been doing in the wagon? Hiding? Lying in wait? Or had I been right? Had he and his partner returned to the pavilion for something specific? Something hidden away? He started to move and I foolishly lifted my head higher to follow.

  A shot rang out.

  I lost track of Rudy's shadowy figure. I was busy ducking. The round missed me clean but struck the light hanging behind me, plunging the front half of the barn, the top of my World Wagon, and me into darkness. I peeked again and, in the dim spill from the remaining light, saw what looked to be the shooter's shadow beyond the calliope.

  I now had an idea where the killers were. All it had cost me was the revelation of my own precise location. I had to move. But to where? Where had Rudy disappeared to? Wondering took time and I decided not to bother. I leaped up and, without looking, hopped feet first over the side onto the wagon's Eastern Hemisphere. I stepped on Russia to stop my fall, dropped to my seat west of Mongolia, slid down India from New Delhi to Sri Lanka, and became the first human to fly over the Indian Ocean without a plane. Amazingly, I landed safely on my feet, smiling at Australia. Then again, safely may be too strong a word. Without warning, a thrown knife sank itself into Madagascar right behind my head.

  I'd found Rudy!

  I took off running, leaped to the back of the first coach across the way, the caravan wagon he'd just vacated, and grabbed the handle on its rear door. I opened the door and ducked behind as another knife came flying. Thwack. The door, a perfect shield, caught the knife. But I was far from safe. Rudy meant business. I ducked inside and pulled the door closed behind me.

  I had little, if any, time and knew it. But I was there, where he'd been, and owed it to the case to nose all I could. The caravan looked to be the pavilion's improvised storage area. Circus junk of all sorts, banners, costumes, wagon parts, passed over extras, or items yet to make display. It looked… gone through.

  I paused for an item that looked familiar; a circus poster. I unrolled it, turned it to catch the scant light slipping in through the tiny caravan window, and got an eyeful. I'd seen one before, exactly like it, at the circus museum. I thought of my coffee clutch with Mrs. Callicoat and recalled the space on one of the pavilion walls, a gap in the display that threw off the esthetics and made the place look one poster short. I was certain I held the missing one-sheet – and couldn't help but wonder why.

  I looked closer, made out the bold legend on the bottom, and understood. Then I examined the whole, remembered it under lights in the museum, and understood even more. I saved it to the side.

  Discarded in a corner, I found a gray metal box with a sprung lid. It was empty. If the bo
x had held Rudy's stash, it had been reclaimed. That theory would be easy enough to prove. All I had to do was survive the night, gift wrap the chauffeur for Wenders, and search his pockets. A healthy wad of cash would be a feather in my cap.

  But I was out of time to search. The door (and its meager lock) shook, causing the caravan to shake, and informing me someone wanted in. Or wanted me out. I decided to oblige. But, as was my habit, I did it my way. I leaped, grabbed a ceiling beam, pulled my ever-widening hind end up, and ventilated the wagon roof with a couple of hysterical kicks beneath the stylish cupola. It gave way. I climbed onto the roof and dove off the wagon. I darted for cover into the blackest shadows in sight.

  Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy. In the dark, I tripped over Rudy's haphazardly coiled garden hose. I kicked, trying to escape its snake-like grasp, and stumbled ass over tea kettle into the nearest wall. I fell atop, rolled over, and dropped off the far side of a partially depleted pallet of fifty pound bags. Of what, I didn't know. They looked like construction materials, powdered concrete mix, if I had to guess. I wasn't a general contractor. All I knew was, as they looked as if they might slow down a bullet or stop a knife in flight, I drew my gun again and paused there for a breath.

  The killer, I'm pleased to report, did not immediately follow with his knife act. Apparently, he didn't like the dark any more than I did. Or maybe he was giving me credit that, given the chance, I might defend myself. I sagged against the bags of – whatever – on the pallet and caught that breath. I took all the advantages of the time out. I listened, hoping to hear my opponents. I wondered, how in blazes I was going to get out of there alive? But the question was mute.

  There came the sound of movement behind me and a murderous voice growled, “Got you!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I spun in place giving the voice the business end of the barrel. I expected nothing but a knife from the shadows. That's all I'd gotten since slipping into the pavilion, lethal tag, creeping shadows and hurled projectiles. But this one, massive shadow and bass voice combined, was sinister in an all-too familiar way. There behind me stood Lieutenant Frank Wenders fat as life. What can I say? He'd sounded murderous to me. But then he usually did when we talked. I exhaled so loudly I sounded like a survival raft foundering, then whispered in anger, “You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Yeah. Boo,” he said. He stared. “Is that a gun you're holdin', Blake? I don't believe it. Why?”

  “You'll find out if you don't get down.”

  A normal human being would have hit the deck, but not Wenders. He looked side to side like he was making to cross the street. Then it dawned on him what I'd said. Then it dawned on him I was hiding behind a stack of cement bags. Then – and only then – danger finally registered in his pea-sized brain and he dropped to his knees beside me.

  As if I wasn't already a big enough target. At least, in theory, he was on my side. “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “I picked Dave Mason up from the hospital; was takin' him home when I heard your parade on the squawk box. A high-speed chase with a circus van? That was a clue even without your butt-ugly Jag involved. Of course, now you've moved up to an air-conditioned Pinto you're travelin' in style. Who the hell you chasing? And why? What are you doin' here where rich people live? With a gun in your hand? And why in hell didn't you tell me you had somethin' cooking?”

  “There was no time. It boiled over.” I couldn't help it. Looking at the lieutenant crouched there like a frog on a lily pad, I had to ask. “How did you get here? Did you climb the fence?”

  “Fat chance. I used the intercom out front. Told the house to open the gate.”

  “So where are your men?”

  “They're not my men. Mason's in my car. The others are patrol officers saw you speedin' through their suburb. Two of their units are down at the gate. A third followed me back here so's we could figure out what you were up to. They're outside till I need 'em.”

  “You're going to need them.”

  “Why, smart guy?” Wenders demanded. “What new circus have you started?”

  “Your killers are here, in the pavilion. Two of them.”

  That one dawned quicker. Wenders drew his gun too. “The Major?”

  I shook my head. “Never again in this life.”

  “Huh?”

  “No. We pulled a boner there. The Major was not our killer. He's hanging by his neck in the Big Top at Navy Pier, victim number four.”

  “Dead?” Wenders asked.

  I did a take, amazed by the caliber of the question, then gave him the answer he deserved. “He thinks he is. The way he looks I have no reason to doubt him.” The lieutenant looked at me like I was nuts. “The suspects stole his van. We followed them here.”

  “Where's here?” He nodded at the nearest wagon. “Who owns this menagerie?”

  I stared, stupefied. “You haven't been here either? You're some investigator. Danita Callicoat, owner of the circus on Navy Pier. This is the back forty to her estate.”

  “Mrs. Callicoat? Are you sayin' she–”

  “Nix that,” I said, shaking my head. “She didn't kill her performers. The ones we're after, I'm guessing, hid something here in her barn. A nest egg probably. The killing's gotten out of hand and, it seems, they're ready to get out of Dodge. They thought they lost us at the Pier. They came here for their stash without expecting to be followed. They're cornered now and are acting like it.”

  “We're sitting ducks here,” the lieutenant said, scanning the wagons, the shadows, and the darkness. He pointed with his pistol. “You circle that way, Blake. I'll go the other. Pin 'em down between us.”

  It was my turn to look at him like he was nuts. “You're a little confused. I'm the taxpayer here. Get Mason!”

  “He can't do anything yet. Stitches.”

  I nodded. “I left my girl in the car too.”

  “Have a heart, Blake,” Wenders said with a scowl. “The guy just got out of the hospital.” He pointed. “You got a gun in your hand.”

  I did at that.

  “'Course, if you want, we can both just forget it. These murders can still wear your by-line as far as I'm concerned. It's up to you.”

  “And I'm supposed to have a heart? All right.” I nodded my acquiescence. “See you in the funny papers.” I jumped up and ran to crouch behind the nearest wagon to the right. I turned back to see Wenders lumber left. Both of us edged forward into the dark end of the wagon pavilion.

  Trouble was there were a couple of nasty killers somewhere ahead of us. Rudy, the chauffeur, who I'd discovered was a darned impressive knife thrower. And the shooter, whose identity I was now certain of, who I'd come to learn wasn't any good with a gun. My assessment of the situation did not bolster my confidence. Rudy's hidden skill was deadly. Had it not been for haste and anger marring his aim, I might already be cooling to room temperature. I had high hopes he stayed mad and in a rush for the next few minutes. The lack of skill on the part of the other was wildly dangerous. Even a blind hog found an acorn now and again. If the cat and mouse game kept up someone would likely wind up dead.

  I thought it came to that when, a moment later, I heard Wenders cry out in pain.

  I took off in his direction, hit the floor, rolled underneath a wagon blocking my way, and came up on the other side to see the fat police lieutenant in an uncomfortable and unenviable position. He was on his feet on the Western Hemisphere side of the World Wagon, bowed oddly backwards, with his ugly gut defying gravity, ogling the ceiling. Then I saw the hilt of a knife and read the situation.

  Wenders was not star gazing, or looking for holes in the roof, or praying to God. He'd rounded the wrong corner, stepped out in front of Rudy, and had been forced to all but do a back flip to avoid the blade of a flying knife. He'd barely saved himself. The knife had nicked his Adam's Apple (and at least two of his chins), gone through his coat collar, and had pinned the homicide detective to the Atlantic Ocean directly over the spot where the Titanic went down.
A stream of blood, fortunately for him a tiny stream, was messing up his poorly chosen neck tie.

  I spun left, raised my gun, and screamed, “Don't!”

  Rudy Ace had a second knife aloft, ready to throw and finish Wenders off. His tunnel vision in the lieutenant's direction had given me the second I needed. Now I had the drop on the chauffeur. Someone should have told him because he proved he could talk by shouting, “Back off!”

  “Good advice,” I replied. “If I were you I'd take it.”

  Rudy remained ready to throw. I stood ready to shoot him if he tried. We had ourselves a standoff.

  But a woman's scream interrupted the mirth and commanded everybody's attention. There came a vicious sounding slap and an unmistakable cry – from Lisa (I would have recognized her voice anywhere). Before I could take a step, there followed a second slap, meatier and meaner, and a cry of pain and fear from someone else. A solid black object (that took an instant to identify as a handgun) flew out from behind a wagon, landed with a metallic clatter, and skittered across the floor.

  Then Lisa hollered, “Knock it off, sister!”

  An instant later, Alida Harrison appeared, stumbling gracelessly from behind the same wagon. Then I saw why. Lisa was on her heels driving the acrobat out into our group. She had Alida in an arm bar, like one of my mother's television wrestlers, and both girls looked like they'd gone several falls. Despite a scratched and reddening face my secretary had clearly come out on top. “Here, Blake,” Lisa said with attitude. “Here's your second shadow.”

  Lisa tugged Alida to a stop, causing the pixie to cry out, and examined our standoff. Wenders, bent partially backwards (his gut offering a sight that could never be unseen), remained pinned by Rudy's knife. The chauffeur stood a few yards away with another knife at the ready. I completed the triangle with my weapon targeting Rudy's chest. I would have dished out a suggestion but Lisa didn't need one. She cranked Alida's arm like a viking wrenching a drumstick off a turkey. Alida screamed and rose to her tippy-toes. Rudy cringed and took a half-step her way.