Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  After Sidarski received the call late last night reporting a man lurking about the Bergenstein residence, he immediately got his go-to judge on the phone. Even if the forty-eight-hour waiting period hadn’t expired, he had enough to obtain a warrant to search Bergenstein’s premises. Citing the commissioner’s personal interest in the case to the pissed-off judge helped expedite matters. He waited out a sleepless night until morning. No matter. Sidarski knew what he would find.

  “Detective?” A uniform approached Sidarski. “This might be nothing, but the back door was unlocked.”

  Actually, Sidarski thought it might be something. Bergenstein didn’t seem the type to leave his house unlocked, not with all the expensive “toys” filling the house.

  Following the policeman outside, Sidarski asked, “Any sign of forced entry? Burglary?”

  “No, sir. Just the unlocked door.”

  Bending down to inspect the knob, Sidarski saw nothing. He placed his glasses on the tip of his nose—the glasses he usually kept out of sight from his fellow detectives—and noticed the minuscule scratches surrounding the keyhole. An expert job at picking, too.

  With more than a little excitement (of which he probably should have been ashamed), he straightened and smiled. He anticipated sweating his favorite two suspects again. And since it was just a matter of time before Gribble lawyered up, another surprise visit sounded like a wonderful idea.

  Besides, he had to tell Rachel Sturm what happened to her late, apparently not-so-great, boyfriend. This excited him much less.

  * * *

  Blood rushed and roared into Sidarski’s head when he heard the news. A physical attribute he’d have to keep an eye on. Larger concerns superseded any possible doctor visits, though. “You say Mr. Gribble didn’t show up today?”

  “He didn’t even bother calling in.” The Sturm woman shook her head brusquely as if angry at Sidarski’s intrusion. Or, more than likely, furious at Gribble. “Is there any news about Travis?”

  Rachel Sturm was harder to read than divorce papers. Yesterday, hysterics were the

  order of the day. Today she projected nothing except for a lack of sensation. “Ms. Sturm, perhaps we should go somewhere private to talk?”

  Fingertips flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God…is he dead?” So much for no sensation.

  On their way to the lunchroom, the Sturm woman conducted a one-way conversation. She prodded Sidarski for information. He countered with weighty sighs and grunts.

  Give her time to expect the worst. Sidarski’s best way to handle these situations. Not a perfect method by any means, but it helped to diffuse the drama. Besides, she’d already guessed the truth, definitely not stupid.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Sturm.” Sidarski pulled the chair out for her. “I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding Mr. Bergenstein.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “We found Mr. Bergenstein at his home this morning. I’m afraid he’s dead.” Over the years Sidarski had tried many different euphemisms for “dead.” Which made matters worse. Sometimes grieving loved ones would misguidedly interpret euphemisms such as “he’s left us” quite literally, expecting the deceased to come back through the door any moment. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Oh my God. Travis—”

  “We believe he was murdered. Take your time.”

  “Who did it? Did you catch the bastard?”

  Her resilience surprised him, vengeance already supplanting tears. “No, but I have some ideas I—”

  “Do you think Owen had anything to do with this?”

  “Do you think Mr. Gribble had anything to do with Mr. Bergenstein’s murder?”

  “I honestly don’t know what to think anymore. When was Travis…killed?”

  “Our best estimate is two nights ago, between approximately seven-thirty p.m. to ten p.m.”

  Rachel hung her head, her hair draping the tabletop. When she looked up, the briefest of smiles touched her lips. Not the reaction Sidarski expected. “Owen didn’t do it. He was with me from around seven until the next morning.”

  “So you’d told me before. Are you absolutely certain of the time frame?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Gribble is now, Ms. Sturm?”

  “I have no idea,” she said softly.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He came over last night…around nine o’clock.”

  “You sound uncertain.”

  “No. I’m sure of it. It’s just…I was tired, exhausted. It was a hard day. It seems like a dream now. He was acting strange—”

  “‘Strange?’ In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Just acting weird, saying weird things. He said there was this kid who was harassing him—making phone calls to the police about him regarding missing people.” Rachel grabbed Sidarski’s hand, her eyes expectant. “You tell me, Detective. Is it true?”

  “Yes, I have reason to believe it’s true.”

  “So, Owen didn’t have anything to do with this. He was telling the truth.”

  Her fingernails dug in. Sidarski stared at her hand until she released her grasp. “Anonymous phone calls were made regarding Mr. Gribble. That much is true. It’s just things don’t add up. I don’t believe Mr. Gribble did kill Mr. Bergenstein, but he knows more than he’s been saying. What else did he tell you last night?”

  “It just seemed like…gibberish, really. He said this kid—Cody, I think that’s his name—is dangerous. Told me I need to be careful.”

  “He said his name was ‘Cody’? Sure about that?”

  “Yes…well, I think so. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Hm.”

  “Oh! And a deliveryman came by around eight-thirty or so. I described him to Owen. He thought it was Cody.”

  Sidarski flipped open his notebook. “Tell me about this…”

  * * *

  Back in his car, Sidarski leaned his head out the door, purely a precautionary measure in case his stomach didn’t settle. Nothing to give up, though. On the bright side, he’d lost six pounds over the past several days.

  He knew he didn’t have enough evidence to issue warrants for Gribble and Grainger. Assuming he could even find Gribble.

  Goddamn it.

  When the phone rang, he considered not answering it. The way his day was going, he fully expected more bad news.

  Sometimes he despised being right. His ability to intuit a tale’s conclusion before the entire saga unfurled helped to solve cases, but it rarely made for happy endings.

  Now Grainger hadn’t reported into work. Both suspects took a runner. Sidarski slumped down in his car seat, already forecasting an unhappy ending.

  Time to talk to the Feds.

  Goddamn it.

  * * *

  “Leon…Wake up!”

  Dreaming. Leon hovered at the edge of a sleepy abyss, filtering idealism out of harsh reality. The way things used to be. A sharp jab to the shoulder brought him back to the all-too-real and depressing motel room.

  “Leon! Wake the hell up.” Cody’s voice, his words slurred.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s eight o’clock, yo. You overslept.”

  “Damn it, why didn’t you get me up?” Unbelievably, Leon had fallen asleep again. He still had the laptop cradled on his lap. Shifting the computer aside, he dove for his shoes. Cody sat on his bed, lethargic. “Cody, we have to go. Get ready!” A sloshing sound then a clump as Cody released a bottle from his lips. “Tell me you’re not drunk.”

  Cody fell sideways onto the bed, mumbling into a pillow. “Whatever. Colorado sucks. Kansas sucks. No fun.”

  “You’ve got to pull it together. Go get in the shower, make some coffee, do something. We’re leaving in ten minutes. We should’ve been out of here hours ago.” Leon flipped on the bedside lamp, blinking his eyes into alertness.

  “I got back in four hours like you said. You were passed out. I must’ve…fallen asleep, too.” The bottle tipped up into the
air, clear liquid draining into Cody’s mouth.

  “Throw the damn bottle away. We have—”

  “Not my fault you over-slept. I’m not…your mother.” Cody held the bottle over the side of the bed and dropped it onto the carpet. “I gotta’ talk to you.”

  Perspiration soaked through Leon’s clothes, but his blood turned to ice. “Cody, what did you do?”

  “Hey, I didn’t do jack! I just wanted to talk to you. Forget it, yo! Let’s just go.”

  Leon switched tactics. After all, he was the parent in the relationship. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Did you get in trouble?”

  “No.” Cody stood, fumbling with his hoodie. His thrashing arms failed to achieve balance. With a giggle, he flopped back onto the bed.

  “Fine. We can talk in the car. We have to go. Can you start the Impala again? You’re not too drunk?”

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry ‘bout me.”

  “We’ll see. We need to make a stop first, and I’m driving.”

  “What the hell? You’re not—”

  “I am not going to die in a drunken car crash.” As an afterthought, Leon added, “We probably will die soon, but I’m not going out that way.”

  A morbid thought, to be sure, but Cody needed to start taking their situation seriously. Or maybe Leon said it for his own benefit, preparing for the inevitable end.

  * * *

  While running for his life, a shopping spree hardly seemed high on Leon’s to-do list. Call it a necessary evil. Cody smelled bad; his stale, blood-spattered clothing reeked in the close confines of the car. Leon could use a change himself. After ditching their cell phones, they also needed some form of communication, at least between themselves.

  Leon hurried through the Colorado MightyMart’s phone aisle. Finding a couple “burners,” he plunked them down on the counter. The booth clerk, appearing dubious, asked why he needed two. Leon spun a brief lie about how his camping group lost their phones. The cashier stared at Leon’s bloodstained shirt and jacket and said, “Rough camping trip.”

  Ten minutes before, Leon had tasked Cody with finding a set of clothing. Another foolish decision. He found Cody chatting up a pretty girl at the cosmetics counter. Jeans and another hoodie sat on the glass display at Cody’s elbow.

  “Come on, Cody,” said Leon, “we need to go.”

  “Is this your dad?” asked the girl.

  “Check it, yo. Always busting my balls.” The girl tittered while Leon grasped Cody’s elbow, pinching him a little too hard. Cody didn’t seem to notice. “So, what’re you doin’ after work?”

  As Leon dragged Cody away, he said, “I’m sorry, miss, we’re late for an appointment.”

  The girl called after them, “Cody, your dad’s pretty cute, too. I’ve got a friend just right for him.”

  Leon leaned into Cody and whispered, “You gave her your real name? And you said I was your father?” Leon couldn’t decide which act of idiocy offended him more.

  “Chill out, yo. Didn’t give her my last name. Don’t be so uptight…‘Dad.’”

  Leon snatched the clothing out of his hands. “Just go to the car and wait. I need to get some clothes. Sit tight and don’t go anywhere.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Leon watched as Cody stumbled toward the exit.

  * * *

  Bracing his back against the brick wall, Cody fired up a cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, a deadly yet comforting friend. He held it a beat, blew it out. It’d been a long time since his last smoke, not since the bar earlier today. And the old man wouldn’t let him smoke in the car. Closing one eye, he peered inside the cigarette box and cursed. Empty. He crumpled the package and tossed it onto the sidewalk. He should’ve bought more inside but wasn’t sure if MightyMart even sold them. Hell, they didn’t even sell rap CD’s.

  Things had changed so fast Cody could barely keep up. Yesterday he tried to take Garber down. Now he was on the run with him. Either way he looked at it, it sure as hell beat working in that goddamned paint factory. Yeah, Garber was kinda’ soft, but he didn’t seem so bad, not really. He had Cody’s back at the storage unit when they took out the two LMI goons. Went a long way in Cody’s book. Of course he’d never tell the old man this; weepy moments were for the weak.

  Cody exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night. Suddenly he felt the presence of someone standing next to him. Seriously pressing his personal space. Ready to tell him to step off, Cody looked over.

  With a wink and a duck-lipped grin, the blond man said, “Smoking’s gonna kill you, you know.”

  Cody flicked the cigarette into his chest and turned to run. The yuppie killer blocked his path. Behind Cody, the blond pushed in, his breath hot on Cody’s neck.

  “Who are you guys?” said Cody.

  The yuppie chuckled while running fingers through his coiffed hair. “Now, Cody, who are any of us, really?” His brow folded as if pondering the question. “But if I have to put a label on myself…I’m a little bit country—”

  “And I’m a little bit rock ‘n roll,” responded Duck Lips. “Good one, Marie.”

  “Thanks, Donnie.” “Marie” poked something hard into Cody’s side. A trench coat over Marie’s arm hid the gun. “You need to come with us now, Cody.”

  “Get the hell off me.” Cody shoved. Marie stumbled back a step but kept the gun glued to Cody’s ribs. “Donnie” grasped Cody’s wrists and yanked them up behind him. Desperate, Cody looked around for help, saw no one. He took in a deep breath to let out a scream. Donnie clamped a huge palm over Cody’s mouth. Cody bit down, tasted salt, smelled cologne. And no blood. Shit, even the dude’s skin works out.

  The two men corralled Cody off the sidewalk and into the parking lot, keeping watch for unwanted observers.

  “Where’s your friend, Cody?” While straightening his sweater vest, Marie prodded the gun into Cody again, the master of multi-tasking.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Donnie wrenched Cody’s wrists up higher. Cody’s shoulder bones throbbed, twisted into a contortionist’s nightmare.

  “You need to behave.”

  “Fuck you, Duck Lips.”

  Donnie stuck his bill out, pouting. “Cody, you’re going to hurt my feelings. I’m aware I have a voluptuous mouth…” He smacked his lips into Cody’s ear. Peppermint tinged breath filled Cody’s nose. “But there’s no need for name calling.”

  “Correct, Donnie, no need whatsoever.” Marie opened the back door of a black sedan. “Youth today.” He broke into a jovial laugh, the gun bouncing over his slight paunch. “Get in the car.” He pushed Cody inside. Cody wheeled back with a fist. Marie caught it, squeezed with a vice-like grip. The gun clicked at Cody’s temple. “Manners, Cody, manners.”

  “Screw you.”

  Donnie lowered his head to look into the car. “He’s a live one, isn’t he, Marie?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And so very pretty as well.” Donnie ran his tongue over his expansive lips.

  “Now, Donnie, you and your incorrigible flirting.”

  Spreading his hands into the air in a humble fashion, Donnie said, “What can I say? Old habits and all. Anyhoo, I’d better go find the other one.” He stood tall, his muscle shirt taut across his chest. Then he poked his head into the doorway again. “Now, don’t go anywhere. Ta ta, for now.”

  Cody silently cursed Garber for taking the gun away.

  * * *

  Leon grew more impatient, shifting the bundle of clothing underneath his arm. The cashier—obviously in training—questioned the employee standing next to her before making any moves.

  When Leon glanced out the door, the clothing fell from his hands to the floor. At first he thought the two men escorting Cody away were policemen. Only took a second to recognize the muscular assassin from their previous encounter.

  His heart pounded. Cold sweat chilled him. He raced for the exit, the cashier calling after him.

  LMI couldn’t possibly know what ca
r Cody had hot-wired. And their phones had long been abandoned. So how had LMI found them? The thought of LMI’s reach extending this far kicked Leon’s anxiety to a new level.

  He needed to act fast.

  Lurking between the twin exit doors, Leon watched. The men pushed Cody into a dark sedan. Leon plucked a filled hypodermic from his syringe case. Even though he dreaded using a gun, he wished he had it, but he’d left it stashed underneath the car seat, seemingly miles away.

  Leon breathed in deeply before fleeing the store. He kept his gaze down, childishly thinking if he didn’t see the killers, they wouldn’t see him. Once he crossed the drive-through lane, he dropped between the parked cars. His knees ached as he duck-walked toward the Impala. Braving a glimpse at the sedan, he spotted two dark silhouettes in the back seat—Cody’s unmistakable hoodie top and the smaller of the two assassins. The larger man was unaccounted for.

  The car door groaned open with a rusty squawk, slicing through the otherwise silent parking lot. Kneeling, Leon groped underneath the seat for the gun.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Leon whirled. A fist met his face. He fell back onto the car seat. Lightning streaks jagged at his vision. The numbness in his face gave way to ice cold pain. Kicking his feet out, he hit nothing.

  The blond bent over him, one big hand restraining Leon’s ankles. “Leon, it’s been fun and all, but you know what they say? All good things must come to an end.” The assassin leaned back, fist curled above him. Leon felt the syringe, miraculously still in his grip. He darted up and lunged. The needle vanished into the man’s neck.

  The blond slapped his wound. Looking almost amused, his eyes twinkled. “Honestly, Leon. Not the drugs again. This is…growing so…tiresome…” He crumpled to the pavement, hissing like a leaking balloon.

  Usually Leon’s sedative lasted for fifteen minutes or so, but—as Smeltzer had proven—the larger the project, the sooner they were up. Not much time.

  With gun and suitcase in hand, Leon hurried toward the sedan. His heart galloped to keep up.

  He raised the gun, aiming it toward the sedan’s back window. As he neared the car, Leon made out the other man holding a gun to Cody’s head.