On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1)

by Al Stevens

  “What are you doing here?” she asked and went back to writing in the check book.

  “Got bored at the Amanda Bentworth boarding house and nursing home,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “Paying bills.” This time she didn’t look up. All business, that lady.

  “Didn’t you pay bills a couple weeks ago?”

  “Funny thing about bills. You pay them and they just come back. Like mowing the lawn or feeding your cat.”

  “I don’t mow the lawn, and I don’t have a cat,” I said.

  “You don’t pay bills, either. It’s a wonder we’re not both in debtor’s prison.”

  “Both? I’m the one not paying bills.”

  She shook her head. “One of which is my salary. I’ve been warding off the old bill collector myself.”

  I did my best to put on a guilty face, but it didn’t work.

  “I’ll be at Amanda’s tomorrow to look after you,” she said.

  “I don’t like all this attention. Amanda and you hovering over me, bringing me coffee and food, doing my meds, fluffing my pillow.”

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  I went in the office. There sat Rodney at a second desk.

  “Where did the desk come from?”

  “Salvation Army thrift shop. I paid ten bucks for it. They threw the chair in. Getting it up the stairs was the hard part.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I sat at my desk and dialed Buford’s number.

  “Buford, I’m back in the office. Anything happening with your case?”

  I lit my last cigarette ever and tossed the match on the floor. Just because I could.

  “Got a continuance,” Buford said. “Maybe two months before I go to trial. I want this thing cleared up by then.”

  “I’m working on it. How about if I come see you this afternoon? We’ll kick it around.”

  “That would be good. This place is shut down like Fort Knox. I’ll tell the guards to let you through. You still driving that piece of shit station wagon?”

  “Yeah. Rodney’s my driver now.”

  “I guess you heard. That Captain Pugh won’t be bothering your sister any more.”

  That was a surprise. A nice surprise. I couldn’t wait to hear why.

  “No, I didn’t hear anything. What happened?”

  “In this morning’s paper. Had an accident in his boat. Must have been a leaky fuel line and a short circuit. The boat blew up in the middle of the river.”

  “Was he on board?” That would be too good to be true.

  “They think so. Somebody had to have sailed it out there. They didn’t find a body. But then, they didn’t find much else either. He’s on the menu. The fish got him.”

  I didn’t trust the good news. “Could be maybe it wasn’t an accident?” I said.

  “Couldn’t say. But I bet that Penrod murder cop comes to see you about it.”

  “He will. I have an alibi. I was imprisoned at my sister’s house. And can’t get around on my own. Shit, I can barely make it to the john without help.”

  “Yeah. Convenient, ain’t it? Alibi-wise, that is.”

  We hung up, and I told Rodney, “We’re going out this afternoon. But I want to get some lunch first. You can help me down the stairs.”

  “You want me to go for carryout?”

  “No thanks. And don’t you start mothering me too,” I said as we went past Willa’s desk. “Leave that to your mom. And Grandma Willa here.”

  Willa made an audible snort and slammed the checkbook closed.

  We left the office and went to the stairway. Rodney supported me with my good arm around his shoulder and his arm around my waist. He held the crutches in his other hand. We hobbled along like conjoined twins and went down the stairs. It took about ten minutes.

  We went out the front door, and I looked up and down the street. About a block away was an olive drab Chevy parked on the street.

  “Stay with me across the street,” I told Rodney, but I didn’t tell him why. I didn’t think the Army guys would do anything in front of a witness.

  But I was sure they were pissed about their beloved Captain getting hit broadside in the face with a shotgun barrel. Not to mention being blown up.

  Rodney walked with me across the street and into Ray’s.

  “You want lunch?” I asked.

  “No. I had my usual,” he said. He turned and headed back across the street.

  Some things never change.

  I went in and slowly lowered myself into a booth. The lunch crowd had left, so I had the joint to myself. I leaned my crutches against the wall and looked at the menu. Not that I had to, but it gave me something to do.

  Bunny came out of the kitchen and stared at me. It took her a while to figure out who I was. She scribbled an order for me, passed it through to the kitchen, and came over to where I was sitting. She looked at me a while before speaking. She had tears in her eyes. Great. Another woman getting all weepy over a few cuts and bruises.

  “Stan, what happened?”

  “Fell off my skateboard.”

  “Were you in the hospital?”

  “Yeah. Maybe a week. How do I look?”

  “Not good, but better than when you had the hangover.”

  I could always count on Bunny to lighten a dark moment.

  “Nobody told me you got hurt,” she said. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen you. I’d have come to visit you. You got some place to stay?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry.”

  I finished breakfast. Bill Penrod came in and sat across from me.

  “Willa said you were here. She was right. You do look like shit. Who’s that guy working for you?”

  “That’s Rodney. You remember him.”

  “Holy shit! The punker? What a difference! How’d you get him to scrub up?”

  “His idea. Wants to be a private dick like me.”

  “Man, the way you look now, nobody’d want to follow in your footsteps.”

  “What’s up, Bill?” As if I didn’t know.

  “You hear about the boat that blew up in the river? The boat owned by Captain Jeremy Pugh? The boat upon which said Jeremy Pugh probably died?”

  “Yeah. Real shame, isn’t it. I’m all broke up about it. I’ve heard that was a nice boat.”

  “You have anything to do with it?”

  Of course, he had to ask. Just doing his job.

  “Me? Look at me. What could I do? Besides, all my time is accounted for.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The charge could have been set at any time. Could have been detonated from a cell phone. From a sick bed, even.”

  On the one hand I was proud that Bill credited me with having the savvy and balls to blow up a boat. On the other hand, I was uncomfortable being a suspect.

  “You know me,” I said. “I don’t know shit about explosives. Did you find a detonator?”

  “Christ, Stan, we didn’t even find the rudder. That was one hell of a blast. Should have kicked off a tsunami and wiped out the whole fucking town. There wasn’t anything left of the boat.”

  “And no body.”

  “Right. He hasn’t been seen since it happened. His wife is worried sick.”

  “She say anything to you about leaving him?”

  “No. Why?”

  “That’s what he told Amanda when she threatened to call her.”

  “He say why?”

  “No. But I’d guess based on how he treated Amanda, that he was knocking his wife around too. Might be some motive there.”

  “Interesting theory. But she seemed worried about him.”

  “Yeah. No body. Insurance companies make you wait seven years. That’d make anybody worry.”

  “In the meantime, you are still a person of interest.”

  I didn’t like him saying it that way. How many times had the two of us said the same thing to a suspect just to rattle him?

  “Who besides you knows I was having trouble with the guy?” I asked.

/>   “Well, the whole fucking precinct for starters. And whoever your sister told at work. Probably the whole town.”

  “So there’s no chance of you burying it.”

  “No chance.”

  “Those Army guys think I did it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They’re following me around again. They got no boss telling them to do it now, but there they are. Look down the street when you leave. Olive drab Chevy.”

  After Bill left, I finished breakfast and called Rodney to come get me. He was there in about a minute, and we walked across the street. The olive drab Chevy was still there. The glint of the afternoon sun reflected off of binocular lenses through the windshield in the passenger’s side. Or maybe a camera lens. Or a telescopic lens.

  “Watch for red laser lights,” I told Rodney.

  “Huh?” he said.

  As we crossed the street, a black and white pulled up next to the Army car. The cops rolled down their window and talked to the soldiers, after which the Army car pulled out and sped away. Good old Bill. Doing what he could.

  Rodney and I went around the building to my car, which Rodney had parked in the alley. He helped me in, and I gave him directions to Buford’s house.

  Chapter 16

  This time Officer Bob waved us right into the compound, but security was tight at Buford’s. A guard in a black suit and sunglasses was stationed at Buford’s personal gatehouse. He checked our identification and waved us through. Two black SUVs stood in the driveway near the entrance. Another black suit stood at the doorway talking on a walkie-talkie.

  Rodney helped me out of the car and to the door.

  “Wait in the car, please,” I said. He got a disappointed look on his face, which I pretended not to notice.

  The black suit stood aside and let me in. He said that Mr. Overbee was waiting on the patio.

  I went through the house and out to the patio. Buford was on a chaise lounge with Missy on one side and Serena on the other.

  Buford got up and said, “Let’s go in the study where we won’t bore the ladies with business.”

  However this conversation was going to go, he didn’t want anyone else in on it. Neither did I. Especially Missy and Serena.

  We went into the study and sat in facing leather easy chairs. Gravity allowed me to sink into the chair, but I’d need help getting up. I laid my crutches on the floor beside the chair.

  Ramon was there right away with drinks for both of us. We waited for him to leave.

  “You look like shit,” Buford said.

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Any trouble getting in?”

  “No. Bob and the Men In Black passed me right through.”

  “Some of Sanford’s guys. I brought them on after I was outed.”

  “Tell me about the boat bombing.”

  “You mean the boat accident?” he asked, looking away.

  “Come on. You might get an onboard fire from a spark and gas leak, but they said there wasn’t anything left of that boat but flotsam.”

  He took a sip. I took a healthy swallow.

  “My boys had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “Did you read about him being Army Intelligence and Homeland Security looking into it?”

  “Think they’ll find anything?”

  “Not if whoever did it is competent. I understand some of those terrorists are real good with explosives.”

  “Well, his soldier pals think I had something to do with it. They’ve been stalking me.”

  “I’ll tell Sanford. He might be able to discourage them.”

  “Okay, but don’t go blowing up any Army vehicles. At least not in front of my office. I don’t have the alibi any more.”

  He didn’t answer. I had the distinct impression that Buford Overbee would be a good friend to have and a fearsome enemy. I changed the subject.

  “Let’s talk about your case. Did the cops tell you where they found the gun?”

  “In the trunk of my Rolls. Under the wheel in the spare tire compartment. Whoever offed Vitole must have planted it there.”

  That didn’t leave many probable suspects.

  “Who has access to your car?”

  “Me and Sanford.”

  “Anyone else have keys?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  We were getting closer.

  “Do you think Sanford bumped Vitole?”

  Buford stopped. Then he said, “He knew we were having trouble. He knew that Vitole could put me out of business. Sanford could have done it and with good reason. Without me he’d have nothing.”

  Sanford was getting to be a sure thing.

  “Do you want me to work that angle?”

  “I want you to work any angle that gets this ankle bracelet off and these charges dropped. I don’t care if the Pope did it.”

  It surprised me at first that Buford would so readily throw his old friend under the bus. But then, he had a history of doing just that when his own hide was at stake.

  “Did the cops question Sanford?”

  “Not much. He has an alibi.”

  “Didn’t he drive you to Vitole’s house when you went to see him? Is that his alibi?”

  “No. I didn’t want anyone else implicated. Didn’t know what might happen. I was packing. I drove myself.”

  “What’s Sanford’s alibi?”

  “Ramon. They were here shooting pool in the rec room all day.”

  “So, they’re each other’s alibi. What are their full names?”

  “Ramon Sanchez. Probably not his real name. He’s your garden variety undocumented alien. Smartest kid I ever met. The only guy I know can beat me at chess.”

  “And Sanford?”

  “It’s the only name I’ve ever known him by.”

  He put down his drink and looked at me. “I don’t think it was either one of them, Stan, although they’re both loyal employees.”

  “You have a theory?” Sometimes—oftentimes—your best leads come from the people who hire you.

  “My guess is that Vitole was shaking down other guys. One of them probably got to him like we did, only whoever it was took extreme measures to get him off their back. People in witness protection are not usually Sunday School teachers.”

  “How could they have planted the gun?”

  “Any time I was out somewhere. Or when I was in the holding cell. Get the trunk open, plant the piece, don’t leave prints, don’t get caught.”

  “Was the Rolls out of here during your incarceration?”

  “Sure. Selena and Melissa have Sanford or Ramon take them shopping or wherever.”

  “How could the killer have gotten the gun in the first place?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Do you know whether it’s actually yours?”

  “Could be. They haven’t shown it to me. Nothing’s missing from the collection.”

  “Are all the guns in these display cases?”

  “Stan, you can’t open a drawer or box in this house without finding a loaded piece. I’m paranoid about being caught unaware and unarmed. Look down at the side of the chair you’re sitting in.”

  I looked down. The leather chair had a leather holster stitched onto its side. The brown grips of a .32 automatic pistol stuck up out of the holster.

  “Do you have many guests?”

  “I sometimes receive clients here. Ones who already know what I look like.”

  “And who know who you used to be? Could one of your clients be in the same boat you are? Getting shaken down by Vitole?”

  “I suppose anything’s possible.”

  “Could someone like that have taken one of your pieces?”

  “Might have.”

  “And planted it in your car?”

  “That’s far-fetched.”

  “We’ll play hell getting the feds to release a list of witness protection clients,” I said.

  “Penrod said the same thing when I suggested he lo
ok into it. No, the cops are content to have me. They don’t need anyone else. Case closed. Job well done. You used to be in that business, Stan. Isn’t that how it works?”

  “That’s how it works. Can you get me a list of your clients? You can leave out the movie stars and other famous people. Just the ones with vague backgrounds.”

  “That won’t be a long list. I’ll get it together and send it to you.”

  “Was Vitole’s wife there when you visited?”

  “No. He said he was alone.”

  “That’s what he said when I visited. I guess she works. Too bad. She could have told the cops he was alive when you left.”

  It was time to get into the difficult parts of the case.

  “Now,” I said. “We agreed that I should chase down any lead, any hunch, whatever.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the ladies in your life? Missy and Serena?”

  Buford paused. “I never gave that the first thought.”

  “I did. Do I chase it?”

  “Chase it,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

  “Even Missy?”

  “Especially Missy. She’s very protective and has the balls and brains to do something like that. Serena is dumber than a bag of ball peen hammers and doesn’t think about anything past her hairdo, nails, and makeup.”

  “And what do I do if it starts to look like Missy?”

  He stopped and thought about it. “You tell me,” he said. “I handle it from there.”

  I started thinking about opportunity, who had it, who was likely to use it.

  “While you were out that morning, did the others have a way to get over to Vitole’s house?”

  “Yeah. There are several SUVs here. And both the girls have their own cars.”

  “Were they here when you got back?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Were Sanford and Ramon?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  That brought our meeting to a close. I finished my drink and started to struggle to get up from the easy chair, Ramon was there in a flash helping me up.

  “Does he hear everything we say?” I asked Buford.

  “I do not listen, Señor. I only watch.”

  I hoped he was telling the truth. I wasn’t ready for him and Sanford to know they were suspects.

  Chapter 17