by C. B. Carter
“Wow, small world, huh? Guy almost kills you and you help him out. One of our investigators, our age, just arrested the same guy his father arrested some thirty years ago. Guy was in jail for arson way back then and is now facing the same charges. So, did the OSI contact you?”
“Yes, and they were tough, tried like hell to trip me up, but luckily for Bama, the investigator was female.”
“Yes, really lucky for Bama, I’m sure,” she responded suggesting something more intimate took place. “Do you want to talk about what was said before? I mean, you said those three little words that matter most.”
“You said two of them before I did,” he countered.
“What did I say?”
“Love you.”
“Oh, that. That was nothing, just standard police talk. We end every convo with love ya,” she said, trying to deflect.
“Right, sure you do,” he responded denoting the apparent lie. “Okay, we should talk about it. Give me a call when you’re home, in bed, and in your pajamas.”
Tina called back about forty-five minutes later and was eager to get to the important matter. She quickly cut through the normal chitchat and asked point blank, “Mark, do you love me?”
“I know that I do,” Mark responded with surety.
The rest of the conversation was a euphoric affirmation of future plans, then moved to long held secrets and finally settled on the emotional feelings shared by new lovers. This was Mark’s first experience with these types of feelings and he tried to pin it down and stumbled as most amateurs do. Tina had a couple of experiences with love and told him it was, ‘a feeling one gets when the good life is no longer passing you by, but has stopped to let you on board.’
Mark let her lead the conversation and when it was his turn, he revealed he wanted to get out of the PI business. Suggesting he could get back into computers, even though he knew technology had passed him by, but as he said, “With a little help from Aaron, I’m sure we could make a solid run at it.”
Tina finally asked the toughest question. “Do you love Aaron?”
Mark admitted he did. She was quiet for a long time, and then she finally spoke, “I think he loves you, too.”
“Don’t be too sure. Thirteen-year-olds love girls and food, you’re a close third, and I’m somewhere down the list below the farmhouse grilled cheese.”
“You are not,” she teased. “Well, maybe,” she admitted and they both laughed.
* * * *
Belltown, located on the city's downtown waterfront, was once a low-rent, semi-industrial district. It sits northwest of downtown Seattle and in recent decades the neighborhood has been revitalized and transformed into a district of night spots, small specialty shops, swank restaurants, and residential towers, as well as old warehouses, some converted, most not.
Belltown has a reputation for having more than its share of crime: burglary, theft, assaults, and murders. Many murders were drive-bys that didn’t seem to target anyone in particular and the police linked most of the crime in the area to gang activity.
For Mr. Wright and his team, Belltown was the perfect place for them to add to the Seattle murder rate. Crime was escalating in the area and the police chief and mayor had publicly announced plans for an anti-crime program. The public announcement afforded his team an opportunity many citizens just didn’t consider. They never thought of the downside of such a program. All they heard was the positive ring of anti-crime, but many criminals knew the other side of it.
Mr. Wright knew that once a public statement was made by the politically connected mayor, it had to be supported by results. Big, bold, newsworthy, positive results; as such, crimes were dealt with quickly and usually by overworked detectives, some willing to hastily link victims to circumstance to clear the dockets.
Another dead body in Belltown would be distressing, but not unexpected, and Mr. DuVall’s circumstance would be accepted as just another car theft that ended badly for the owner of the vehicle, or another drug deal gone badly.
The death would certainly hit the papers and many would wonder what a person of DuVall’s social standing was doing in the Belltown area. Gossip would bring up the now overt choices: drugs or prostitution.
Greed is a social disease, it’s not self-preservation or natively biological in nature. Mr. Wright was delighted when his fourth mark, Steven DuVall, agreed to meet him at an abandoned warehouse on Western Avenue for the exchange—digital photographs of bank documents for cash payment. It would be the second such image delivery today.
Steven DuVall’s greed made Mr. Wright’s job easy.
His team arrived about an hour before the meeting and parked the Tahoe a block from the warehouse at a nearby restaurant. One associate went inside to prevent the vehicle from being towed while Mr. Wright and another associate walked to the warehouse, cleared out any bums hanging around, and went over the details of the deed.
Mr. DuVall arrived right on time. His intuition was telling him he was in trouble, to keep driving and go back to his apartment.
The area was too secluded, but he kept thinking of the two hundred fifty grand and drove his Lexus through the dilapidated chain link gate. He stopped at the front of the warehouse, rolled down the car window and flashed his headlights. Then he enacted his plan; one he thought was clever enough to keep him alive. He called his office number from his cell phone, knowing it would go to voicemail after four rings. He tucked the phone on his seat near his right buttock and pulled his shirt over it to hide the glow of the display.
The associate walked up to the driver’s side door. “Where is Mr. Wright?” Steven pressed.
“He’s back there. Pull around and stay in the vehicle, turn on your interior light, and turn your headlights off.” The associate instructed him to pull to the side of the warehouse, away from the street view.
Steven, out of habit, rolled the window back up and announced out loud, “Driving to the north side of the warehouse on Western Avenue, it’s nine P.M. I’m meeting with Mr. Wright and an associate.”
He started the vehicle and could hear the wheels crack and moan as they strained the pea gravel that surrounded the warehouse. He made a sharp left turn, followed by a quick right, creating a path through the overgrowth of garlic mustard and giant hogweed before stopping along the north side of the neglected warehouse. He waited.
The associate came up and tapped on the window.
Steven rolled down the window and asked, “Where is Mr. Wright?”
“He’s coming. Let me see yo cell fone,” the associated demanded in his best street slang.
“Why?”
“Ya know, in case ya recording.”
Steven reached for the cell phone and secretly pressed end–call before handing it over.
“Get out and put your hands on the hood, no sudden moves.”
Steven thought of throwing the car in reverse and flooring it, but greed clouded his judgment. They need me. They wouldn’t kill me, he kept telling himself. He was wrong, dead wrong.
After the pat down and a quick check of the vehicle, the associate instructed Steven to get back in the car and keep his hands visible at all times. “Leave that light on,” he said as he pointed to the interior light.
Mr. Wright appeared from behind the building, his path lit by a flashlight and Steven was troubled when he didn’t see a briefcase or carrying case for the money.
When Mr. Wright neared the driver’s side of the car, Steven pointedly asked, “Where’s the money?” He was trying his best to act tough, even though he was about to vomit with fear.
“We have it,” replied Mr. Wright. “Do you have the pictures?”
Steven opened the sunglasses compartment, the sim card fell into the palm of his trembling hand, and he handed it to Mr. Wright. Mr. Wright gave it to the associate, who loaded it into a small digital camera.
“We found the other camera in your office earlier this afternoon. Out of curiosity, tell me, why were you taking pictures of the same documen
ts on two different cameras? Who was the second set for?” Mr. Wright probed.
Steven didn’t respond.
Mr. Wright waited until he got the confirmation nod from the associate then said, “Looks like we’re in business. What was the deal again?”
“Two hundred and fifty,” Steven quickly responded, eager to get the money and leave.
“Tell you what. We’re going to give you a bonus, here’s a thousand.” Wright pulled ten one-hundred dollar bills from his coat pocket and tossed them into the car.
Steven was dumbfounded—this wasn’t going as he had pictured it in his mind. “The deal was two hundred and fifty thousand,” he said. His voice quivered with a combination of anger and fear as he shifted his gaze to the bills scattered over the interior of his car.
Steven saw the flash of silver from the metal of the silencer first, it was just enough to catch his attention. He rotated his head back toward Mr. Wright and gawked when he saw the black hole of the gun’s muzzle.
Without thinking, he pressed start, threw the car in reverse and slammed his foot onto the gas pedal. He only made it a few inches before the hushed bullet tore through his left temple and exited the back of his skull just behind his right ear, leaving a hole the size of an apple. The bullet blew out the right back window of the car and bounced off the concrete blocks of the warehouse before landing on the gravel.
The car revved as if it were still trying to escape and crashed hard into a corner of the building before coming to a jolting stop.
Mr. Wright surveyed the car and body. There was blood, brain matter, and small pieces of skull all over the interior of the car and, as planned, all over the money.
Mr. Wright fixated on a clump of brain matter sliding off the headrest and thought, There are his memories, good and bad, his opinions, his likes and dislikes. Anything he stored in those brain cells, now slid down a headrest for all to see. Like many things, when it’s all out in the open, it usually means you’re dead, metaphorically speaking.
He reached in and popped the trunk, did a search and didn’t find anything incriminating. He then carefully searched the interior of the car. When convinced the car was clean, he gave a nod and the associate then instructed the other associates to clean Mr. DuVall’s apartment and office of all mics and cameras.
“He wasn’t very prepared for this, was he?” Mr. Wright alleged.
“No, sir, his apartment and office are being cleaned and I have his cell phone.”
“Keep it. We’ll get rid of it elsewhere.”
The second part of the plan relied on a bum or criminal type to walk by, brave the murder scene, pick up the bait cash, and later be picked up by the police for something minor—becoming suspect number one in the murder of Steven DuVall.
Mr. Wright was even hopeful some crack-head would happen by and actually take the car and dump the body—even better. The murder scene would offer little in the way of clues and the detectives would want to quickly pin it on someone.
Mr. Wright walked around to the passenger side of the car, shined his flashlight on the concrete wall, found the bullet’s imprint and dug through the weeds below. He soon found the remains of the bullet.
He and the associate walked back to the restaurant without speaking a single word.
Mr. Wright tossed the used bullet in the air as if it were some worthless coin he’d found on the sidewalk. He whistled the song “Patience” by Guns ‘N’ Roses and was at peace with the world.
* * * *
The Lounge’s entertainment didn’t pull a big crowd, so Cindy Stanton requested an early out from her shift, gathered her items from her locker, and took a seat at the bar.
She nursed a cranberry and vodka while joining in with the mindless banter between the bartender and a couple of regulars. Her second drink was a gift by a young man sitting at the conversation tables just outside the bar. She raised her glass to him in a gesture of thanks and he motioned for her to join him.
The associate took out his cell phone, reversed the battery, and placed it back in the case as he waited.
Cindy had no real connections to anyone in the area except for the bar staff, the clerk at the local bookstore, and the workers at the Seattle Art Museum. She was twenty-nine years old and in most ways felt she wasn’t making any headway in her life. She was lonely. The vodka kicked in and helped her overcome her trepidation and she took him up on his offer.
“I didn’t think you’d come over, but am glad you did. My name is Max,” the associate said as she slid into the chair opposite him.
“Thanks for the drink. I’m Cindy.”
“Nice to meet you, Cindy. You know, as I watched you come over, I was trying to come up with some clever pickup line, but then I thought, how come there isn’t a drink named ‘Pickup line,’ wouldn’t that be clever?”
“That’s actually not a bad idea. What would be in it?” she asked intrigued. Max wasn’t at all what she expected.
“I don’t know. I only got as far as the name, what do you think?” he questioned, attempting to get her talking.
“Well, pickup lines are cheesy, but I can’t think of anything cheesy related to a cocktail. Let’s see ... they are also immature, but sometimes they are funny, so it would have to be something that’s cheesy, immature, and somewhat funny.”
“Cheese is yellow or orange, so it could have lemoncello in it, and gin is usually made with immature berries.” Cindy laughed quietly when he said immature berries. It went over his head at first, then he caught on to the sexual innuendo.
“So Lemoncello and gin is not a bad start, what’s funny?” Cindy asked, now entertained by the idea.
Max inched his chair closer, “I can’t think of anything that would go into a cocktail that would be considered funny. Maybe some type of fruit?” He reached for his cell phone and noticed a frown from Cindy.
“Darn, my battery just died,” he said.
“Do you need to make a call?”
“No, not really, I’ll call my boss later and let him know I’m off the grid,” he said. He knew there was a good chance she would want to visit the ladies’ room after she finished her drink and she only had a sip or two left.
“If I’m being too personal, please let me know. Let’s save the funny portion of the cocktail for later. What do you like to do? I mean, what gets you out of bed each morning?”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course, you don’t think I’d have bought you a drink and divulged my million dollar cocktail recipe if I wasn’t a little interested in you, do you?”
“I suppose not. Would you excuse me, I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
“Sure, hate to ask, but can I borrow your cell phone? I can call the boss while I miss you and we won’t have to worry about being interrupted when you return.”
She hesitated before answering, “Okay, but don’t be a jerk and run off with it.”
“Would never be a jerk. Here take mine as collateral.”
“Okay,” she agreed and they exchanged cell phones.
When she was out of sight, he checked her call log. She had not received or made any calls today and from what he could tell, she rarely received calls. She was a loner of some type or just lonely, he wasn’t sure. She wasn’t bad looking and had a nice laid-back personality and he admitted to himself that this was probably the best blind encounter he’d had in quite some time. He scrolled the log to Sunday and there either wasn’t any activity or it had been erased.
He called Mr. Wright. “Checked her cell phone and nothing here, there doesn’t appear to be anything unusual.”
“Very well, maybe Ms. Davies was just there to pick up a schedule. But the mark is under control, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Do you mind if I chat with her some more? She’s kind of pleasant to talk to.”
“Not at all. In fact, I insist. Try to get as close as you can. The closer you are to her, the closer we are to Ms. Davies.”
“Yes, sir,” Max said, delighted.<
br />
Cindy returned and they exchanged cell phones. “Did you get in touch with your boss?”
“Yes, thank you. I think I have the funny part of our ‘pickup line’ drink.”
“Really, what is it?”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be in the drink right? What if the funny part was that the cocktail was delivered to the lady on a coaster that was, get this, scribbled with classic pickup lines?”
“You know, that is not a bad idea at all. Even better, what if it had a place where the man could write his own little note or pickup line before the drink was delivered?”
“Now, that’s interesting. I think we may have something here.”
“Me, too.”
They talked for hours and lost track of the world around them. Much of the subject was on Cindy and her passion for art. She loved the exhibition schedule at the Seattle Art Museum, spoke in great detail about a recent showing of Lorenzo Ghiberti’s “The Gates of Paradise” and his works in bronze, stating that Americans just didn’t enjoy art like they should, ‘...we’re like moths drawn toward sensationalism instead of light and we let some of our greatest modern artists waste away.’
The associate admitted that he hadn’t been to a museum in years, found her passion appealing, and wanted to tag along with her on her next visit to SAM. They were in the middle of making plans, when Bridget stopped by with James. She kissed Cindy on the cheek. “Heading home, baby, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Is it that late already?” Cindy responded shocked.
“It is and it was a slow night for some of us,” Bridget said nodding her head toward the associate.
“Oh, this is Max, Max this is Bridget.”
“Hi Max. Well, you two be good, oh what the hell, be a little bad, right? I know we will be. See ya tomorrow.”
“Well, it looks like you’re about to close,” Max said as he grabbed his coat.