1 Twisted Perception

by Bob Avey

  She wagged her finger. “I asked Michelle that very same question. Never got no answer, ’cause she didn’t know. She didn’t know nothing about nothing. Hell, for all she knew he and his whole freakin family could’ve been ax murderers or some crap like that.” She paused before continuing: “And no, I don’t think he had anything to do with it. The little twerp wouldn’t have the nerve. Besides, he hasn’t showed his face around here in six months.” She shook her head. “No. It was those sleazy clubs she worked at that got her killed.”

  “Could you tell me the name of the place where she worked?” Elliot asked.

  “Well, she didn’t just work at one of them. But I’m pretty sure she was at the Starlight that night, the one over on 31st Street.”

  “Was your daughter dating anyone in particular, Ms. Harris?”

  “Heck if I know. She always had some guy or another hanging around. Like I said, I gave up trying to keep tabs on her. And I still wish you wouldn’t call me that. My name’s Amy.”

  Elliot stood. “That’ll be all for now,” he said. “Thanks for your help.” He took a final look around the room, which was littered and stacked with more things than he would’ve thought possible. He felt sorry for Michelle Baker. She hadn’t had much of a life, but as sad as it was, it was hers, and she didn’t deserve to have it taken from her. He thought about asking Ms. Harris if she’d noticed anyone unusual hanging around, but he remembered what he’d already seen outside and changed his mind. Instead he said, “One more thing, Amy. Pour yourself a cup of hot coffee and try to stay sober for awhile.”

  Elliot found the Starlight Club on 31st Street like Amy Harris said he would. As he neared the entrance, he read the sign on the marquee that proclaimed the establishment to be a gentlemen’s club. He paused, contemplating the origin of the root word, gentle. It had been another term for someone above the common people, a person belonging to a family of high social station, of noble or aristocratic birth. Somehow he didn’t think he would find anyone like that inside the club.

  A man named Lance Bossier ran the club. “I’ve got to hand it to you guys,” he said, “you sure are thorough.”

  Elliot stuffed the badge back into his pocket. “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged. “I just got through talking to a cop.”

  Elliot didn’t like the sound of that. “Is that right,” he said. “What was the officer’s name?”

  “I’m not good with names. Hell, around here nobody uses their real ones anyway. He was a fancy talker, though, dressed real sharp. Said he was a detective, just like you.”

  Elliot suspected the club manager was referring to Beaumont, but he had to confirm it. “Did he wink his left eye while he talked, like a reflex action?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” Elliot said, “doubling up on you like this, but what can you tell me about the night Michelle Baker disappeared?”

  “Just another night,” the club manger said, “like all the rest. I was here but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She didn’t come to work the next day, but that’s not unusual in this business. I didn’t know anything was wrong until one of the girls called her house today and talked to her mother.” He paused then continued, “I sure hated to hear she was dead. She was a good kid. If I ever get my hands on the guy who did this, you cops won’t have to worry about putting him away. You can count on that.”

  “Do you have any idea who it might have been?” Elliot asked. “Ex-lover, disgruntled boyfriend, unhappy customer?”

  Lance Bossier shook his head. “If it was anybody else, I’d say any of the above, but not Michelle. She was a real sweetheart. Everybody liked her.”

  “Who else was on duty that night?”

  “Just about everybody. Most of the girls are in the back. You can talk to them if you want. Doubt you’ll get much out of them though.”

  Elliot followed Lance Bossier to the rear of the room where the manger stopped and knocked on the wall before continuing through a curtained doorway. On the other side of the curtain was a crude dressing room with mirrors and vanity tables where the dancers changed into their costumes. Three of the dancers were there, putting on makeup. Lance Bossier introduced Elliot before he went back through the curtain, leaving Elliot alone with the dancers. “I guess you know why I’m here,” Elliot said. “If there’s any information you could give me, anything at all, I would appreciate it.”

  One of the dancers got up and walked over, stopping about one foot away from Elliot. She smiled. “You’re a tall one, aren’t you? You’re even taller than old Lance.” She put her feet together, as if standing at attention and stuck out her hand. “I’m Tami.”

  Even wearing her pink-feathered high heels, she stood about five foot four inches from the ground. Elliot shook her hand. She was flirty to the point of being comical, but Elliot suspected it was nothing more than an occupational hazard. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Were you here Sunday night?”

  “Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But you already knew that, didn’t you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You came to the club that night. I saw you.”

  Elliot shook his head. “You must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been here before.”

  “Are you sure? You look awfully familiar. And I always remember the cute ones.”

  Elliot pulled out his notebook. Tami’s comments didn’t surprise him all that much. Others often came up to him, asking if he was from here, or from there. People found him familiar. He guessed he had that kind of face. “What can you tell me about Michelle?”

  “She was one of the few girls I got along with around here. I’m going to miss her.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  She shrugged. “She was really popular with the guys. Some of the girls get ticked off about that.”

  “Can you recall anything unusual happening that night, something out of the ordinary, customers behaving out of character?”

  She turned away and walked to one of the dressing areas where she sat. Elliot followed her. She stuck out her lips, as if pouting, and began to apply lipstick, a dark purple color that matched her nails. “Do you like to watch movies, Mr. Elliot?”

  “Sure I do. What does that have to do with Michelle?”

  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, moving her head back and forth, quite pleased with what she saw there. “I like the old ones, you know, with Rock Hudson, Marlon Brando, that sort of thing.” Sorting through a small suitcase, like an overnight kit, she took out a few items and began to apply false eyelashes. “My mother would go to the video store when she got in the mood and rent dozens of tapes. She’d fix popcorn and we’d sit and watch movies all night. I used to fall asleep in class the next day, but it was worth it. You know, like quality time spent together. Happy times like that don’t come along too often, so you have to grab them when you can.”

  Tami’s reminiscing caught Elliot off guard, and for a moment he began to recall his own childhood. “Your mother,” he said. “She sounds a lot like mine.”

  Tami stopped what she was doing and smiled. “That’s sweet.”

  Elliot forced himself back into the present, focusing on the case. “These old movies you mentioned, do they have anything to do with Michelle Baker?”

  She paused for a moment, as if thinking over the question. “I don’t know,” she said. “But there was this guy who was in the club that night.”

  “Someone who drew your attention?”

  She nodded. “Do you know James Dean, Mr. Elliot?”

  “You mean the actor?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Elliot didn’t know if this was going anywhere, but he decided to go along with it. “I’m familiar with his work.”

  “Well, like I was saying, I like old movies. I have quite a collection of things I’ve picked up over the years at garage sales, flea markets, and that sort of thing. You
know, like memorabilia, posters, and stuff like that.”

  Elliot tried to imagine how movie posters would fit in to all of this, but he couldn’t. He wanted to hear more. “Please go on,” he said.

  “Well, like I was saying, there was this guy. He came in alone and sat by himself.” She paused and shrugged. “Nothing unusual about that. Guys do that all the time.”

  Elliot tapped his pencil against his notepad, a habit he was trying to break, and when he became aware of it he stopped. “What was it about him that caught your attention?”

  “James Dean.”

  “Come again?”

  She held an eyebrow pencil in one hand and an eyelash curler in the other, and she moved them up and down together as if she were a band director trying to add emphasis. “He didn’t just look like James Dean, he was James Dean.”

  Elliot began to wonder if he was dealing with a stable individual. “I see. And how is this important?”

  She pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Like I said, I remember the cute ones.”

  Elliot closed his notepad and went to the next dancer. He questioned them all, getting pieces of information here and there, but nothing of much interest. It wasn’t their fault. It’d been business as usual at the Starlight Club. Elliot pushed through the curtain and walked into the club area where the day’s action had already begun. One of the dancers was moving about the stage, stripping to the beat of some hip-hop recording. Elliot thanked Lance Bossier, the club manger for his help and headed for the door. As he was leaving, he heard Tami say, “See you around, Mr. Elliot? I always remember the cute ones.”

  As Elliot walked across the parking lot outside the club, with Tami’s insistence about seeing him running through his mind, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.

  13

  Elliot threw himself, back first, onto the hood of his car just as another vehicle slammed into it. The impact shoved the car sideways, nearly knocking Elliot off the hood. Reaching over his shoulder, he found a handhold in the gap between the windshield and the hood, which kept him from sliding onto the other car. In the same instant, his free hand closed around the handle of the Glock, pulling the weapon just as the other vehicle shot backward then straightened.

  The driver of the vehicle reacted quickly, tearing out of the parking lot before Elliot’s weapon cleared the holster. Elliot fired three shots, taking out the car’s back window and busting a taillight. The vehicle squealed onto the roadway.

  Elliot rolled off the hood and jumped inside his car, then stabbed the key into the ignition. When the car came to life, he dropped it into gear and mashed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The guy had a good start on him, but he could still see him weaving in and out of traffic, going south on Yale Avenue. Elliot followed, turning on the siren and pulling the portable light from beneath the seat, sticking it on the dashboard. Up ahead, the vehicle slammed into another car, but kept going. The driver was putting distance between them in a hurry. Elliot began to wish he hadn’t used the light. Instead of getting out of the way, the other drivers had become frightened, stopping where they were, causing a traffic jam. Within seconds he’d lost sight of the other vehicle.

  Elliot released the tension on the brake pedal, letting the car roll forward until it touched the rear bumper of the car in front of him. The driver looked in his mirror but didn’t turn around. With solid contact made, Elliot eased down on the accelerator, shoving the other car forward. He then changed gears and repeated the process in reverse. When he had clearance, he threw it in drive and cut hard to his left, climbing halfway onto the center median before regaining momentum. However, as he glanced in his rearview mirror he saw a commotion of traffic a couple of blocks behind his present position, and he realized what had happened. The car he was pursuing was heading in the other direction.

  When Elliot reached 36th Street, he headed east just long enough to turn into St. Andrew’s Church, where he did a turnabout. After that, he hopped back onto 36th then shot north on Yale. His gamble paid off. When he reached 21st, he saw the other vehicle. He swerved around a couple of cars, jockeying for position, the maneuver landing him three or four cars behind his attacker. As soon as another gap opened in the traffic, Elliot pressed the accelerator and shot through the opening. He was now right behind the other vehicle.

  The driver made a move of his own, slamming on the brakes. Elliot cut to the right, managing to miss everything except the rear quarter panel on the passenger side. The driver used the opportunity of Elliot’s lack of focus to his advantage. He fishtailed, knocking Elliot’s car off course, then turned, going full bore onto a side street leading into a residential neighborhood. Elliot followed.

  He searched the neighborhood but he’d lost sight of the guy. Elliot left the area and pulled back onto Yale Avenue. On more of a hunch than anything else, he sped north, and it wasn’t long until he again found the other car, just barely catching sight of its taillights as it turned east onto Pine. He stomped the accelerator, gaining on his adversary, but suddenly the smell of an overheating engine filled the car’s interior. Elliot knew what the problem was. The radiator had been damaged in the collision and was leaking coolant. It wouldn’t last much longer.

  The driver turned north again when he reached Mingo Road. Elliot followed, but his vehicle was becoming sluggish, and again the driver had evaded him. Elliot contemplated pulling over and calling for help. He passed an area where school buses were stored, then drove by several buildings owned by American Airlines. When he reached the intersection of 44th Street North and Mingo he had a bit of luck. Sitting in the parking lot of an abandoned school was the vehicle he had been chasing.

  Elliot went through the intersection and drove into the lot, parking just behind the vehicle. It appeared to be empty. He decided to shut down his car. It would be awhile before he could get the overheated car started again, but it wouldn’t make it much further in its present condition anyway. When he turned the key to the off position, the engine sputtered for a few seconds, pre-igniting on its own heat, then stopped, leaving only the hiss of steam to show for its efforts.

  Elliot climbed out of the car. He knew he should call for backup, but the way things had been going he decided not to. The traffic in this part of town was minimal, giving a deserted feel to the area. It all seemed a little too easy, and Elliot began to wonder if he’d been led into a trap. Even though the driver had lost him several times, it seemed as though he had wanted Elliot to stay with him.

  Elliot stooped and looked beneath the vehicle. No one was hiding there. He pulled his service weapon and cautiously walked toward the car, edging up to the window and peering through. It was empty. Across the street to his right, and also immediately behind him, he saw patches of weeds thick enough to offer someone natural cover if they chose to hide there. But he saw no movement. To his left was the schoolyard, and beyond that an open area that was the old baseball field. Only unkempt grass played there now.

  It seemed as though the driver of the vehicle had simply vanished, but Elliot suspected he was still in the area. There were plenty of places to hide, but his gut feeling was that the driver was in the schoolhouse. The school had been around awhile, with several additions built through the years. The addition in front of Elliot had a natural rock entrance, but just a few feet up, the yellow metal structure it masked jutted out in defiance. It was a gymnasium. Big blue letters proclaimed the building to be the home of the Wildcats. Elliot started toward it, stepping onto a sidewalk lined with outdoor lights, but when he tried the glass doors he found them to be locked. To his right were two side entrances located about fifty feet apart. He began to walk toward the nearest entrance, but he’d only taken a few steps when he heard a sound coming from above. He jerked his head in that direction, swinging the Glock upward. It was only a squirrel, jumping from limb to limb in one of the oak trees that formed a canopy over the yard. Elliot tried both sets of doors. They were locked.

  When he reached the corner o
f the building, Elliot eased around it and walked across the yard. He was now standing in front of the original structure, the old schoolhouse. It looked a bit like the Alamo, except it was made of red brick. At the apex of the arch above the main entrance a cement block embedded in the bricks read: 19 Mingo 30. As if later designers were bent on destroying the ambiance of the antique structure, a gaudy white metal awning had been constructed to offer protection from the rain for students as they filed into the place. But it was another in-bad-taste addition that caught Elliot’s attention. Two rather large and elongated windows had been built just below the arch to give light to the second story and one of them, the one to the north, had been turned into a doorway. A brown metal stairway led to the unusual entrance. The whole thing looked like a bad afterthought, but the glass to the door had been broken, leaving nothing but the white frame—and it was that which interested Elliot.

  He climbed the stairs, then ducked through the doorway and stepped inside the school. Broken glass littered the red tile floor of the hallway. Elliot didn’t know how long the glass had been there, but something about the way it shined against the dusty floor made him suspect the breakage was recent. He’d brought a flashlight from the car and he switched it on, shining the light up and down the hall. He didn’t see anyone and he noticed that the dust along the floor had not been disturbed except for the shards of glass. The idea of a trap—a deliberate setup—again went through his thoughts, but he couldn’t reconcile himself to the notion of walking away and leaving the building unsearched.

  Elliot had another choice to make. The hallway offered three different directions: straight ahead, to the left, or to the right. He chose straight ahead simply because it was the path to the closest classroom. He walked forward, the hair on his neck standing on end as the sound of glass crunching against his shoes and the floor echoed loudly in the empty expanse. When Elliot reached the door, he turned the brass knob, and when he pulled it open something came at him, falling toward him like the scathing blade of a horse soldier, a Knight Templar bent on guarding his treasure.