* * *
“So, that’s your story, Toby?” Sidarski glared at Grainger who seemed all too smug for someone in his precarious position. “You were shopping. And this ‘Santa Claus’ pulled a gun on you?”
“Sure is.” Grainger’s handcuffs rattled as he kicked back. “And it’s no damn story. It’s the truth, yo.”
“And do you know this ‘Santa Claus?’”
“Yeah. He brings presents to all good boys and girls. You guys tryin’ to bust Santa or somethin’? What’d he do? Smuggle drugs across the border on his sleigh?”
“We have a witness who says you gave Santa a hug,” Sidarski said.
“Well, he did try to give me a gun. I guess the gun was my present. But I don’t remember no hugs.”
“Why did he hand you an empty gun, Toby?”
“Wait…the gun was…empty?” Grainger seemed puzzled, his first reaction other than being glib since this long, pointless interrogation began. “Too much…just too damn much.” He jerked his feet back and forth like a child on a swing. “Too goddamn much!”
“Toby, if you’re innocent, why’d you run from the security officers?”
“Already tol’ you, I was scared. All those dudes pointing guns at me. What else could I do? I mean, I remember hearing about that Robbie King and—”
“Rodney,” Sidarski corrected him.
“Whatever.”
Sidarski drew a hand over his face, contemplated wiping the smirk off the kid’s face. He’d been at this for hours without getting anywhere. “Okay, several days ago surveillance cameras caught you entering MCI airport with Owen Gribble. You said several times you’ve never even met the man. Next thing we know you’re planning a nice vacation with him.”
“Who? Owen…Gurgle? No, man. I tole you. Never met the man. Don’t even know what the dude looks like. What’d he do anyway?”
“Why don’t you save us some time and tell me what Gribble did? You were caught on camera entering the airport with him. You both had flights—booked on the same plane—out to Los Angeles several days ago.”
“Coincidence, I guess.”
“You know how much I hate that word, Toby? I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Look, I can’t help it if some strange dude decided to take a trip the same day as me. As I said…coincidence.”
“Yet the tickets were purchased at the same time and put on the same credit card.”
“Huh…weird.”
“Where’s Owen Gribble now?”
“Don’t know. Maybe you should ask his father.” He smiled as if privy to an inside joke.
“We found the car you jacked from a hotel by the airport. It was abandoned in Colorado.”
“What? Is that what this is about? I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no car.”
“Your prints are all over it. Prints don’t lie, Toby. What were you and Gribble doing, going to Los Angeles?” Sidarski’s heartburn threatened to eat a hole through his chest.
“How many times I gotta’ tell ya’? I don’t know this damn Gribble.”
Sidarski tapped the table, determined to not let the kid get to him. Yeah, right. Too late. “Tell me something, Toby. After everything you’ve done, after everything you pulled…why would you come back?”
Toby straightened and stuck his chin out, an arrogant rooster. “This is my home, yo! Kansas.”
“Here’s what I think, Toby. I think you and your friend, Owen Gribble, used my backyard to play out some kind of sick, twisted game. I believe you two were involved in several of the vicious murders perpetrated last week in Kansas City. I think you two are depraved animals who should be put down.”
Toby pursed his lips, looking hurt. “Don’t know what to tell ya’, chief. Ain’t true. Ain’t true at all.” A slow smile burned across his face. “If you think it’s true, prove it. I wanna’ hear your proof.”
Sidarski said nothing, buzzed to be let out, and walked into the hallway. The head Fed—Sidarski could never remember his name—said, “Doesn’t look good.”
Of course he was right, as much as it pained Sidarski to admit it. They’d spent the last several days with a fistful of warrants, searching Grainger’s and Gribble’s homes, automobiles, and even Gribble’s storage unit. They found zilch. Sidarski knew they were dirty. He knew they were hip deep in murder. If only he could prove their guilt.
Regarding their “non-existent” backgrounds? Nothing ever turned up, not even from the much ballyhooed FBI databases. Yesterday, one of the Feds told Sidarski it’d be impossible to arrest and prosecute someone if they don’t “exist.” Sidarski had to walk away before he punched the messenger.
“It’s looking like the only thing we can get to stick at this point is car theft,” said the Fed. “We don’t even have any prints on the ‘alleged’ gun.”
“It’s not an alleged gun,” Sidarski snapped back. “The gun exists.” Sidarski walked down the hallway, tossing back a wave. “Enjoy it, fellas, it’s your case now. But I’m telling you…that kid and Gribble? They’re involved in the murders somehow.”
“Got no proof, Sidarski.”
“Just promise me you’ll keep looking into it.” Sidarski didn’t wait for the Fed’s response. It just didn’t matter. After slamming the door to his office, he collapsed into his chair. He swiped the pile of paperwork from his desk to the floor in a heap. Let the Feds put it all in order.
The murder board mocked him, shining under the fluorescent light. He flipped it over so he wouldn’t have to stare at Gribble’s or Grainger’s visages any longer.
Begrudgingly, he owned up to his fault in the entire mess, not that he’d ever admit this to the Feds. Hubris kept him from bringing them in earlier, even though they probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. It still bothered him, though.
Reminiscent of a nostalgic yearning for lost love, Sidarski wondered about the unfulfilled possibilities of the case.
Goddamn it.
Gribble and Grainger.
The ones who got away.
* * *
One month later, Cody stretched out on the cot, thinking about how he ended up in prison.
His lawyer had talked him into copping a guilty plea for stealing the car. She explained with good behavior—and since it was Cody’s “first offense (to which he responded with a huge-assed laugh)”—he could be out in six months or less. Not a problem. Prison hadn’t been that bad, not really. Everyone pretty much left him alone after his first fight. Piece of cake.
His van, back at the apartment, had worried him, though. He’d left his saw, his drugs, his tranq gun, everything that could tie him to the Denver Decapitator murders. But, miracle of miracles, his van apparently disappeared. The cops asked him where it’d gone. He just tossed his hands up and said, “Someone stole it. Crime’s terrible in Kansas.”
Obviously, LMI took care of the van, and Cody had to wonder how much else they covered up. Everything fell into place. Or, rather, “out of place.” As much as the bald Barton cop kept badgering him about the murders, they didn’t have jack on him. So he played the innocent fool. He kept his mouth shut and his stories straight, his best line of defense. No one could ever call him a rat, even though Leon and LMI deserved to be outed.
While cooling his heels in prison, Cody had more time to think about what Leon had done. Leon’s gun had been empty. Why? And Leon had told him he was trying to help him, as crazy as that sounded. Maybe Leon was trying to protect him from LMI. Didn’t matter. In his own way, Leon probably thought he was trying to help. Some kinda seriously messed up dude.
“Mail call, Grainger.” The guard slipped Cody a package through the bars, already opened and inspected. No return address. He pulled out a DVD of the film, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. A photo slipped out and drifted to the floor. A picture of Leon’s girlfriend running with the dog Cody’d saved. Cody flipped it over and read, Hope you understand why I did what I did, Toby. As you can see, the dog is doing fine. Best, Old Man.
; Cody stuck the photo on his bulletin board with a piece of tape. He held Leon no grudges; actually kinda’ liked the old bastard.
He must’ve stared at the photo for another hour, grinning like a fool at the dog whose life he’d saved.
* * *
After a month of scouring the national and Kansas news, Leon finally gave up. Surely if the law enforcement officials had made an arrest in the now high-profile Barton murders, they would’ve trumpeted it from the rooftops. He read no reports, saw nothing concrete, just heard speculation from bored reporters on slow news days.
Unbelievably, Cody had dodged another bullet. In the Barton, Kansas crime ledger, Leon found a brief mention of “Toby Grainger’s” arrest for stealing and joy-riding a car to Colorado. There might be something to the good fortune Cody had bragged about, after all; he seemed untouchable even when Leon did try to get Cody arrested.
Leon’s plan had been a hare-brained stunt, one not well thought out. It could’ve ended in many different scenarios, most of them unpleasant. But Leon knew he had to try. The best possible outcome would’ve been Cody’s committal to a mental institution where he would’ve received much-needed treatment. There, he wouldn’t have harmed anyone else. And maybe he could’ve found some of the warmth and humanity he’d been deprived all his life.
Sadly, it didn’t work out as he’d hoped.
Leon walked down the sparsely populated Florida beach, the sand warm beneath his feet.
He missed both Rachel and Cody. Oddly enough—even though it’d been the worst week of his life—they were the closest thing to a family he’d known. At least since his mother.
The tide washed in, crawling up to his ankles. When the water receded, his heels sunk and anchored into the sand. The world around him constantly moved and evolved while he remained in a holding pattern.
He couldn’t do much at this point, so decided to go with the flow. Just lay low. He’d had no luck cracking Wyngarden’s computer, but he wasn’t trying too hard, either. A little vacation had been well-earned. Yet even as his body rested, his mind churned, mulling over leads and planning. Plotting.
Leon and Cody had made a formidable dent into LMI, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d since come to grips with the lives of the men he took that night. It’d been about survival, after all. And, like him, they were all murderers.
But the murder of an innocent man could not be forgiven.
The sun cracked over the ocean like an egg yolk flecked with specks of blood. An ocean breeze nudged Leon as he inhaled deeply, marveling at the taste of freedom. And revenge.
I’m coming for you, LMI. You’ve only tasted a bit of what I’m capable of doing.
The End
Other Stuart R. West Novels Published by
Books We Love:
Murder by Massage
(Book Two of the Zach & Zora Mysteries)
Bad Day in a Banana Hammock
(Book One of the Zach & Zora Mysteries)
Ghosts of Gannaway
Secret Society
(Book One of Killers Incorporated)
Strike
(Book Two of Killers Incorporated)
Stuart R. West is a lifelong resident of Kansas, which he considers both a curse and a blessing. It's a curse because...well, it's Kansas. But it's great because…well, it’s Kansas. Lots of cool, strange and creepy things happen in the Midwest, and Stuart takes advantage of them in his work. Call it “Kansas Noir”. Stuart writes thrillers tinged with horror and horror tinged with thriller, both for adult and young adult audiences. Ghosts of Gannaway is the first of his novels to be published by Books We Love, Killers Incorporated the second. Stuart spent 25 years in the corporate sector and now writes full time. He’s married to a professor of pharmacy (who greatly appreciates the fact he cooks dinner for her every night) and has a 22 year old daughter who’s still deciding what to do with her life. But that’s okay. It took him twenty-five years to figure that out.
Secret Society Page 29