Pseudonym

by Neal Penn

  “I think we already had that conversation, Detective. Don’t you have a murder to solve? Isn’t there a sniper on the loose? How come you didn’t catch that case?” Low blow, Roddie. Feels good.

  Yurk turned red and for a moment, Crane thought the man was going to hit him, but the detective regained his composure and sat down. “Okay, Crane, take me over this from the beginning again.”

  Crane smiled. “Sure. I was on the doorstep and you asked me to describe tonight’s events and –”

  “Not that.”

  “I refused because I’d already done that with the patrolman and –”

  “Damn, Crane.”

  “You brought me here so that you could try to get me to change my mind.”

  “Alright, Crane. You can play it this way, but I’m going to hold you all night and get the DA to give me a bullshit charge I can tie you up for a few weeks with. Smoke on that, Smartass.” His face had gone bright red now.

  The door opened, and a man in a tailored charcoal suit stood in the doorway. “Are you Rodney Crane?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re free to go.”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  There was tequila at the safe house, and he was drinking it right from the bottle. Who the fuck was that guy? He lifted the bottle and drained a third of it and then bent over and threw it back up onto the floor. He felt his eyes watering as he continued to heave until the tequila and the chow mein he’d had with Smith was out of his stomach and on the floor. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Then, he ran to the door.

  He crossed into the garage and fumbled with the door to the SUV, got it open, and found the shotguns. He brought one in with a handful of shells and sat back down. Slower this time, he drunk some more of the tequila.

  He and Smith had worked together for years. Jesus, I knew him in Junior High. I’ve had Thanksgiving with him.

  He drank some more. It was staying down now. He picked up his phone and dialed. A sleepy woman’s voice answered.

  “Jesus, Molly.”

  “Are you drunk? It’s after one o’clock.”

  “Jeff’s dead, Molly. Jeff’s dead.”

  “What? What happened? Oh my God.” He could hear Smith’s father asking what was wrong. Molly was already crying.

  “He got hurt, he …” There came no sound whatsoever from the other line, and he realized his phone had just run out of charge. Fuck.

  Who the fuck was the big guy? That was the question. The guy was a mountain, and not in the same way as the fat guy. He was huge and … fuck! What the hell was happening? You don’t send people into situations like that. You just don’t.

  How the hell had Crane got that guy on his side? Crane. He should have shot him, should have had Smith driving and should have shot the son of a bitch.

  It wasn’t too late, though. Crane was in town. A twelve-gauge load right in the face ought to do the trick. Why yes, sir, we scared him off. We scared him the fuck off. He should have killed that bitch with him, too.

  He tried to focus through the tequila haze. He knew they were staying at a hotel in town. Which one was it? He saw the receipt in the girl’s purse. It wasn’t a cheap place, but it wasn’t some four-star place either. Closing his eyes, he tried to force it into view in his mind. No luck.

  He drank some more tequila and thought of his dead partner. Crane would pay. And if he saw that giant again, he’d pay, too.

  He started thumbing shells into the shotgun, put the rest in his pocket, and stood. The room spun a bit, and he sat back down. Couple of hours. He’d give it a couple of hours to sober up and get them then.

  Not the Holiday Inn. Not there, too cheap. Better than that one. The Hyatt? No, not the Hyatt. He’d stayed there once with a girl. He would’ve remembered if it was there. It was somewhere else. It was that place. He knew it. It was coming, slowly. He took another sip of the tequila.

  Marriott.

  Got you, fuckers.

  Coupla hours.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  The same attractive officer who had led him to the interrogation room handed him his phone at the front of the station. The man who told him he was free to go asked if he needed an officer to drive him home. Yurk, meanwhile, fumed in the background.

  “No.” Crane reached into his back pocket, pulled out the SIM card, and put it back in place in the phone. “I’ll call a cab, but thanks.” Yurk stepped forward, angry as hell, and Crane smiled innocently at him. “If you have any questions, Detective, I’m certain your patrolman was very diligent about my answers. He’s sure to be able to help.”

  “Listen, you f-”

  “Shut up, Detective.” The man in the charcoal suit, probably a lieutenant or a captain, pointed into the station and Yurk stormed off, fuming. “I want to thank you for your help and your cooperation, Mr. Crane.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Crane stepped out of station and powered up his phone. Still not two o’clock. He called information, connected to a taxi company, and ordered a ride.

  He figured it was Nero who called in a favor with some locals, but he wasn’t sure. If it was Nero, he’d hear about it soon.

  He dialed Noelle.

  “Roddie? Are you okay?” She’d been crying. He could hear the roughness in her voice. She was still a bit … well Jesus, Roddie. What do you expect?

  “I’m fine, honey. Look, I’m on my way to the hotel. We’ve got to figure out what the hell is going on.” The air was cool, but not too cold. He took a deep breath. “Did they refill the mini-bar?”

  “God, Roddie. We need to work on this, not—”

  “Not for me, Elle. For you. Make yourself a drink and try to calm down a little.” He scanned for the taxi, but nothing yet. “Did you find anything on the laptop?”

  “I haven’t looked yet. None of this makes any sense.”

  He spotted the cab now; it pulled into the end of the street.

  “It wasn’t Winslow who killed Twill—Norwood. I don’t think so, anyway. That means that someone else is after him. His sisters weren’t the only ones who saw the photo.”

  Unless I’m wrong. Maybe Hansel and Gretel were working for Twill. No, didn’t make sense that way. Twill wouldn’t have known about Crane.

  The cab pulled in front of him. “Look, honey. Make your drink. Drink it. Then do your best with the laptop. The answer’s there.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t hang up, and he kept his ear to the phone as he got into the cab. Finally, she said, “Okay. I’ll get on it.”

  He ended the call and told the cabbie where to take him, although he had no idea how far from the police station the hotel was. “Hey, is there anywhere still open for booze?”

  The driver looked at his watch. “About twenty minutes left. I know a liquor store.”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  He stepped into the Viking Pub. There were two men with beers in a booth by the jukebox and the bartender. That was it. The bartender was already shutting down, draining the ice bins.

  Sage walked up to the bar, and the man looked up. “We already had last call, man. I can still get you a bottle or something, but I already cleaned up the taps.”

  “I don’t want anything to drink.” Sage could feel the rage. The red was worse in here, with the neon trim and colored dance lights playing havoc on his spectrum. The bartender just stared at him.

  “I’ve seen you here a couple of times, right? You’re Mr. Norwood’s friend.” Tommy. Sage felt a wave of sadness and guilty at that, and then it quickly righted itself into anger.

  “There was a girl who talked to him tonight. Who was she?”

  “A girl? What are—” His words choked away as Sage grabbed his throat and pulled him so that he was bent over the bar.

  “Did a girl come on to him tonight?”

  The man tried to answer, but he couldn’t get enough breath to form the words. Sage relaxed his hand a little. “Yes … blonde … girl.”

  “Who was she?�
� The bartender was holding onto Sage’s wrist now, trying to ease his breathing. Sage squeezed a little harder. “Who was she?”

  “Never … never saw …never saw before.” Red rose higher and higher in the bartender’s cheeks. Sage relaxed his grip a little. “I don’t know –” the man took several heaving breaths – “don’t know any more.” He was sputtering a little, and Sage felt the saliva hitting his wrists. “Wait! Wait! She paid with a credit card. Mr. Norwood –” He went into a coughing fit, and Sage slapped him with his free hand. The man looked shocked, but he stopped coughing. His eyes opened wide and Sage saw a reflection in them.

  A quick pivot and he was facing the two men from the booth. One of his knives was already in motion and it caught the first through the throat.

  The second man dropped the baseball bat he carried and ran for the door. Sage let him leave.

  “Mr. Norwood what?”

  The bartender’s eyes were filling with tears. “Mr. Norwood wanted me to put her drink on his tab. She had already paid, so I saved the receipt so I’d remember to reverse the charge.” The tears spilled down his cheeks now, dripped onto Sage’s hand.

  “Where is the receipt?”

  The man took one of his hands off Sage’s wrist and pointed to the register. Sage saw the little slip of paper resting under a key on top of the drawer. “Do those things record the customer’s name?”

  The man tried to nod, and Sage squeezed. “It’s No … Noreen or something. It …”

  Sage kept squeezing. The bartender’s eyes grew wider. He turned red, then purple. His mouth opened and his tongue protruded, blowing a thick rasping sound, spraying spit. Sage kept squeezing until he felt the man’s trachea give, and then his larynx. Then, he let go and the man hit the bar with a thud and slumped to the floor.

  Sage walked around to the back of the bar and picked up the slip.

  The bartender was wrong. It wasn’t Noreen. The name at the bottom was Noelle Phillips.

  Chapter Eighty

  “He’s out. Should I have him followed?”

  Aiken sounded tired. Hell, they were all tired.

  “No. We know where he is, right?”

  “He’s in a cab right now. Well, he’s at a convenience store right now, and the cab is waiting for him.” He reached for the bourbon and determined he was already too tired, so he left it on the end table.

  “I mean we know where he’s staying, right?”

  “Yeah. He’s with some girl at the Marriot.” He felt old. He was drained and his back hurt. His knee was throbbing dully, but most of all he just felt tired. He wished he’d not turned Gladys away. Of course, he’d still be in the middle of this. Hell, they probably wouldn’t have even been undressed before he’d been hit with the first call.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “She was on the plane, too. They didn’t sit together, but our guys saw them acting friendly at the airport.” Aiken yawned. He felt like yawning himself.

  “Alright. Get a guy at the Marriot and only worry if they check out. Is everything set for tomorrow?”

  “You mean the out of town thing or the stuff from the author’s place?” God. He’d forgotten about the sniper. He needed to be done with all of this. He reached for his bourbon and took a sip. “Sir?”

  “Sorry, Aiken. I mean both. Are both ready to go?”

  “Yes. The stuff from the apartment is already on its way; a computer and a few files. The other thing goes off sometime before eight.”

  He looked at the clock. Just about two a.m.

  “Then get some sleep. Wait. Did our guy get to the safe house?”

  “Yeah. He’s there.”

  “Okay. Make one more call then.” He thought the bourbon might be affecting his speech so he said carefully, “Send a couple guys over to babysit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get some sleep.”

  He ended the call and finished off the bourbon. He thought for a moment. They might have lost their chance with Sage. Plus, with the author dead, he had no reason to stay in Minneapolis. He wondered if Crane could flush him out.

  He lay down on the bed and thought about the night, but his concentration was fading. He tried to focus on Sage and on Crane and Aiken, but his thoughts came back to Gladys. She’d been charming at dinner. She’d been charming the entire evening.

  He closed his eyes. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed two o’clock.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  As the cab pulled into the Marriott lot, Crane sipped on his vodka. He paid the driver and stepped out.

  The vodka was nice, like a cold drink of water after a marathon. He slipped the half-pint bottle into his pocket and walked through the lobby to the elevator. He pulled the vodka out of his pocket and took a long drink as the doors closed and it started up.

  Something about the case nagged him, a question for both of Standifer’s guards that would give the same answer. What is this fucking thing? It wasn’t coming to him. He shook his head.

  Why was anyone else after Winslow? Why would he disappear for forty years and then show up with the books? Did he even write the damn books with Twill? Who the hell kills over books, anyway? Jesus, why would a guy like Winslow—or any guy, for that matter—stay disappeared when he was worth billions?

  One door leads to death, one leads to freedom. What do you ask the guards? Which one do you choose?

  He didn’t have a key to the room, so he rapped on the door and called through that it was him. Noelle opened the door, and she looked like Hell. Her eyes were red and puffy, and there was a worried look upon her face. Crane reached out and pulled her to him. “It’ll be okay, honey.”

  She pushed away and he walked through the door. The laptop was open on the bed, and she sat down in front of it, moving her fingers over the keys and the touchpad mouse.

  “There’s nothing here, Roddie.” She sighed and shook her head. “There are all of the books he’s published and the one he’s in the middle of right now. You were right, by the way.”

  “About what?”

  “He is a terrible author. He’s got a collaborator, though. The collaborator sends him the ideas and then sends corrections for the draft. But this guy, he doesn’t email. Norwood uses … used … a service that converts his emails to text messages.” She looked up at him.

  “Like Blackberry or something?” He walked over, sat down by her, and put his arm around her.

  “Simpler, they just get changed into regular text messages. No special phone needed.” She reached up and pulled his arm tighter around her, leant against him. “Norwood wrote all the typical crap. It’s the collaborator that knew all the details to add, that made plot adjustments and changes. No way these books would have been good without him.”

  He rubbed her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “There’s something about this case, Elle. Something doesn’t fit. I …” He trailed off and kissed her cheek again.

  “Nothing about this makes sense, Roddie.” She turned her head to face him. He kissed her lips.

  “What I mean is this. Why are goons trying to scare me away from Winslow? Why are the same goons hassling Norwood? Or were they? And this, too—if the Goons work for Winslow, why does he kill one of them—I could be wrong about that, but it just seems to be the way it went down.” He used his free hand to dig out the vodka and took a sip. He offered the bottle to Noelle, and she surprised him by drinking from it.

  “None of it makes sense.”

  Crane looked at the laptop. “Could we do that?”

  “Could we do what?”

  “What Twill—Norwood—did.” He pulled his arm from around her and stood up. “Could we use his email to get in touch with his collaborator?”

  She nodded. “Sure. There’s internet here.”

  “Show me how.” He sat down again. “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “John Sage.”

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  It was about three a.m. when he heard them at the door. He’d forgott
en about the babysitters. Standard procedure when things went to hell.

  He pumped a round into the chamber. The Marriott. He didn’t know the girl’s name, but he was pretty sure the receipt put the room in Crane’s name. He stood.

  The door opened, and two men came in. The one in front was smiling, and the one in back was laughing at something or other. That one, he recognized. He and the guy had done a job in Quebec together when Smith was in the hospital for a hernia.

  The guy saw him and raised his arm in greeting. “Hey, man, serious shit tonight, huh?”

  The gun exploded, and the front man’s face all but disappeared. The guy in back got stung by the pellets, but nothing serious. Didn’t matter; he pumped in another round, shot again, and down the man went. Yeah, serious shit.

  He sat back down on the couch. The safe house wasn’t really a house but just an apartment built into a warehouse with a garage for cars. It was in the middle of the industrial district. He could shoot the gun another ten thousand times and nobody would hear it – at least not unless he did it in the morning.

  He picked up his phone and dialed information for the Marriott. It took a few minutes of silence before he remembered that he didn’t have a charge. He threw it across the room and it shattered against the wall. He stood and stretched and walked over to the bodies in the doorway. His hands got covered with blood and other shit, but he found one of their phones, sat down next to the bodies and dialed information.

  When he was connected to the front desk at the hotel, he told them a friend of his was in town and he wanted to send up a bottle of champagne. “In fact, can you deliver a champagne breakfast for me?” They assured him that they could, and he rummaged through the front guy’s pockets for a wallet. He gave the lady on the other line a credit card number.

  “The guest’s name is Rodney Crane.” He heard the click of a keyboard. It was silent for a moment before she spoke.

  “Would that include his guest as well?”