by Bob Avey
Sykes let out a heavy sigh and closed the door. “What do you want, Elliot? And make it quick. I’m kind of busy, in case you didn’t notice.”
Bernie Sykes was pathetic but the sad part was, when Elliot looked at the overweight private investigator he saw himself in ten years. Like it or not, they had a lot in common. Elliot sat on the couch. “Bernie, old pal, I need a favor.”
“What the hell are you getting at?”
“When we talked the other day, I got the feeling you’d like to get out of town for awhile. What would you say to an all-expenses-paid vacation?”
Sykes sat on the bed. “What kind of crap are you trying to feed me?”
“All right,” Elliot said, “let me put it another way. I need your services. I’d like to hire you for a couple of days. I’ll pay your going rate and throw in an extra thousand.”
Sykes rubbed his chin, contemplating the offer. The prospect of cash was piquing his interest. “Why? You’re a pretty good detective. What the hell do you need with a PI?”
“Like I said, I need a favor.”
Sykes retrieved a cigarette from a package on the makeshift nightstand. “I think I’m starting to get it now. You’re in trouble…in some kind of jam. Something’s gone wrong, and now you need old Bernie’s help, is that it?”
Elliot nodded. His hunch about Sykes had been correct. Beneath all the layers of self-induced failure the old sot was a pretty decent investigator. “I don’t have time for idle chitchat. Are you interested or not?”
“Well that kind of depends on what it is you want me to do.”
“Not much really. Just walk in my shoes and be me for a few days.”
Sykes’ face went blank. “I don’t know, Elliot. A guy like you is bound to have a lot of enemies.” He paused and shook his head, “It ain’t worth it.”
“You pull it off, and I’ll throw in another five hundred.”
“Make it a grand, and maybe I’ll think about it.”
Elliot stood and walked over to the PI, stuffing a hundred dollar bill into his hand. “It’s a deal then. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Sykes.”
28
A squat old man with eyeglasses a quarter of an inch thick sat behind a wire cage, engulfed in tobacco smoke. Elliot followed the deliberate pathway through mounds of junk and stopped at the window. “Hello, Bob.” Bob Roderick was a pawnbroker and a pretty fair locksmith. But it wasn’t Roderick’s legitimate talents Elliot was after.
He looked up, studying Elliot for a moment, but said nothing.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Elliot said, placing his driver’s license, along with a photo of Sykes, on the counter in front of Roderick.
With pudgy fingers, the old man fumbled the items into his hands, bringing them close to his face and moving them back and forth as if his eyes were scanning them into his brain. Finally he looked up. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“Make me a driver’s license,” Elliot said, “with his picture on it instead of mine.”
Roderick put the license and picture on the counter, looking as if he might ask, What makes you think I could, or would do something like that?—but he didn’t. He simply went back to whatever it was he was working on.
Elliot went to the jewelry counter, placing his hands against the glass. “You got some pretty classy stuff here. I could ask where you got it. Lots of stolen property floating around the city.”
Muttering quietly, Roderick relit his pipe and shuffled away, disappearing behind a curtained doorway.
Waiting for him to return, Elliot tapped his fingers against the countertop, taking in the surroundings in the same amazed state that always overtook him when he came into the place. It was a museum, a collection of eccentric oddities. He often thought if the building were to tumble down, Bob Roderick’s small part of it would remain unharmed, held in place by its internal stuffing. Elliot shook his head then used his cell phone to book a hotel room on the beach in Panama City, Florida. It was where Sykes wanted to go. After that he called the airport and arranged a flight.
Roderick returned with a metal tray that he placed on the counter. “You’re lucky I’m so congenial,” he said, gingerly picking up the fake license. He placed Elliot’s order in front of him. It was flawless.
“You do good work.”
He grunted. “Always knew you were too much like the rest of us. What are you going to use that for?”
“I need to get into a private club.”
Roderick nodded then relit his pipe and spoke around the stem, “Should be good enough to get your man past airport security.”
Elliot wondered how he knew so much then figured he must’ve overheard him placing his calls. He wondered what other business went on in the pawnshop, but he knew better than to ask. Roderick was a wealth of hidden talents and Elliot left it at that. “Thanks for your help,” he said, then pushed through the door and stepped outside.
Elliot drove back to Sykes’s place. When he got there, Sykes was ready with his bags packed. Elliot was thankful for that; time was quickly becoming critical. Sykes followed Elliot to the airport and once there, they left the patrol car in the parking garage.
Elliot climbed into Sykes’s car and drove him around to the terminal. Before Sykes got out, Elliot handed him the rest of the cash he’d drawn out of the ATM. He also gave him a thousand he’d borrowed from Bob Roderick. “The rest of it will be waiting for you when you get back,” Elliot said.
Sykes stuffed the money away. “See that it is.”
“All right, here’s what I want you to do. Once you get inside, call the hotel and make a hotel reservation in your own name. When you get to Panama City, put on a pair of sunglasses and a hat then check into the hotel as me. Go to the room and call the Tulsa Police Department, telling whoever answers the phone that you saw a car that looked like a cop car parked in the garage at the airport. You thought that was a little unusual so you figured you’d better call it in and report it. Give them the tag number and hang up. That’ll get them started on the trail. Once you’ve done that, take off the hat and sunglasses and change clothes. Wear something loud and touristy. Then go back to the front desk and check in as yourself. The hotel clerk will be busy and won’t make the connection, and the cops will be looking for me, not you. You can spend a few days relaxing in the sun.”
Sykes grinned. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’m good at this kind of stuff.”
“That’s what worries me,” Elliot said. “Don’t let me down.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t wreck my car. It ain’t much, but it’s all I’ve got.”
Elliot watched Sykes until he was inside. The old PI could easily drop everything and just go home with an easy thousand. Even worse, he could turn Elliot in, hoping to gain a few favors, even pocket some reward money. Elliot turned onto the roadway. It was a chance he’d have to take.
When Elliot left the airport, it was early afternoon, but he was exhausted. He spotted a bar and turned in, coaxing Sykes’s Monte Carlo around to the back of the parking lot. He got out and walked to the front, listening to music leaking through the painted windows as he neared the entrance. When he pushed open the cheap, red vinyl door, he paused, adjusting to the darkness and taking in his surroundings.
It was a slow night. A few couples snuggled in booths while several singles sat at the bar. Behind the counter, a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard busied himself washing glasses and trying to be inconspicuous as he watched a lady who sat on one of the barstools fumbling for a cigarette. As soon as she brought it to her lips, he was there lighting it for her. She’d been attractive once and still was in the dark, but her youth had disappeared. Except for the bartender and a guy who sat beside her, she wasn’t drawing much attention. Elliot figured five or six more hard years like the one she was presently living might well be her undoing. He sat down two barstools away and ordered a beer.
A few minutes later, Elliot began to feel the effects of the alcohol. In his present condition, th
e cold brew hadn’t wasted any time. He looked in the lady’s direction and nodded; she smiled. The idea of falling asleep in such a dive only to be awakened by the angry prodding of the bartender was even more unappealing than the crazy thoughts running through Elliot’s mind. Not knowing what else to do, he let the fantasy win out and smiled back. And even to his own surprise, he didn’t stop there. He walked over and sat down beside her. “Buy you a drink?” he asked. She looked him over as he signaled for the bartender. “What’ll it be?”
Her smile said she’d heard it all before but was too tired to care. “Whatever you’re having, hon.”
With his conceptual abilities expanded to their limits, Elliot tried to imagine the encounter as a romantic fling, but he couldn’t. Then, like a bad actor in a bad movie, the bartender slapped down their order. “Seven-fifty.”
Elliot slammed down a ten, returning the bartender’s percussive gesture one better, making the glasses jump.
The lady seemed to enjoy it. She laughed, putting a hand on Elliot’s knee. “Don’t mind old sourpuss. Sometimes I think he was born that way. What’s your name, cutie?”
Elliot thought about his answer for a moment then smiled and said, “Beaumont. Jeremy Beaumont.”
She looked him over again. “So, what’s your game?”
Her straightforwardness brought a smile out of Elliot. She’d quickly sized him up, seen right through him. As a cop, he appreciated such a talent. He leaned forward and motioned for her to come closer. “I’ve got a bit of a problem and I need some help.”
She drew back a little. “So you came to me? Why? I don’t even know you.”
“I guess that’s the whole point.”
She smiled, an I-get-that-all-the-time look forming on her face. “What kind of help are you looking for?”
“There’s a hotel just around the corner, the kind that worries about cash and not names.”
“And you’re all alone and don’t want to be, is that it?”
“Not exactly,” Elliot said. “I’m not looking to gain your company, not that your company wouldn’t be entertaining. But I’ve got other problems that need to be addressed right now.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want to check in, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m there.”
“So what’s in it for me?”
“How does fifty dollars sound?”
She shook her head. “Not enough. I’m taking all the risk here. For all I know you could be some kind of pervert or something.”
“All right then, a hundred bucks. Final offer.”
She raised her glass and drained it, then got up and started toward the door.
Elliot followed. As they were leaving, he heard a mumbling and turned around to get a dirty look from one of the men at the bar.
It wasn’t far to the hotel, so they walked. Once there, it wasn’t difficult for Elliot to convince his new acquaintance that sleep was really all he needed. He gave her money for the room and told her to make up a name and sign in while he waited outside. A few minutes later, she brought him the key. He paid her the agreed amount, then said good-bye and went inside, walking through the dirty hallway until he found his room. He slid the key into the lock and opened the door to his new home, and as soon as his head hit the pillow he was out.
29
The cold downpour drove him beneath the alcove of the Mid-Continent Building where he hunkered against the wall in a corner, water dripping from his clothes. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, though he’d obviously been in the rain for some time. Disjointed memories flew through his head as he fought to regain awareness. The lapses were becoming more frequent—a disconcerting notion—yet there was something unusual beneath the surface of his return and he couldn’t quite get a handle on it.
Suddenly he knew why. The thoughts in his head were not entirely his own. And even that didn’t go far enough; he had a residual lingering of her feelings woven throughout his senses. He had come to realize her presence, a product of becoming stronger, but the revelation did little to console him because he also knew what she’d done, what she’d been doing. His blanking out, losing pieces of time, was the result of her manipulation. She’d learned to spread her tentacles into his brain, making him think her thoughts. The idea ran through him like a fever.
He was on to something, and the more he explored it the worse it got. She wanted him dead. The extent of her deviousness amazed him. She’d been trying to throw him off track, get him to worrying about Kenny when she was the real problem. She’d even gone so far as to change her looks…more precisely she’d taken to using other people as she had used him. A terrifying idea, though he had to admit her disguise was a good one. And it had nearly worked. Had he not seen through her with his own eyes he might not have known.
With the exception of the few details he’d managed to hold on to, he knew nothing of the takeover. He suspected it was something like being possessed by a demon, an unseen and unwanted spirit. Of course he never expected her to drag anyone else into their sick little game, especially someone like Carmen Garcia. Other than these reflections—a shadow of her control—he remembered nothing of a big gap of time, a couple of days, perhaps. With that recollection, panic shot through him. He’d been at home with Mother and she wasn’t well. She had, in fact, been quite beside herself. That was where he needed to be, at home where he could find solace, renewing his strength for the battle. She was the problem, and he would look through her current persona and deal with her. This time he would do it right, removing all chances of failure. He straightened his clothes and left the protection of the alcove, walking quickly lest he be too late.
30
Reluctantly Elliot began to come out of the sleep he’d fallen into hours earlier, awakening in a state of confusion. He found his watch. It was 2:00 p.m. He rolled out of bed and started toward the bathroom, his eyes straining to find the unfamiliar path, though as he heard someone pounding at the door, he realized it was that which had interrupted his dreams. He stumbled to the door and opened it just enough to see. The hotel proprietor stood outside the room, waiting impatiently. Elliot struggled into his pants, then opened the door and paid the man for an extra day.
After settling with the manager, Elliot closed the door then jumped into the shower, where he lingered, relishing the cleansing steam until the hot water played out. However, as he twisted the knob to shut off the water, a sensation of desperation shot through him. It was as if someone had tapped into his conscience with a message of doom. It wasn’t a premonition, it was a knowing, a fact-based truth that’d somehow been planted in his understanding. And he knew with certainty that it had to do with Carmen. She had called out to him. He toweled off and grabbed his cell phone. The battery was dead. He looked around, but the shabby room had no phone. He’d spent a lot of time arranging his disappearance, but a moment’s reflection told him he had no choice. He got dressed and made his way to the office, where he found a pay phone. He fumbled some change into the slot and dialed her number. When she answered on the second ring, the sound of her voice soothed him like a powerful drug. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Finally she said, “Kenny?”
“Yeah,” Elliot said, wondering how she knew it was him. “Sorry, my throat’s a little dry.”
After a long pause, she said, “I’ve been worried. I’m glad you called.”
Again desperation threatened Elliot, and a world of emotion swam inside of him. All he managed to say was, “Are you all right?”
“I think so, but I’m scared.”
“Has something happened?”
“It’s probably nothing, just my imagination. Wayne’s been asking about you.”
Elliot felt his heart jump. There was more than a conversation happening between them. It was a connection, unspoken but there just the same. “I’ve been thinking about him, too.”
She paused, and when she spoke again the subject was deepened. “I think we should talk about Nic
k.”
A vision of Nick pushing the bill of his cap up with the blade of the knife, the one in the toolbox, rumbled through Elliot’s thoughts. The look on Nick’s face that day had been unsettling. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s still missing. Have you heard from him?”
“Not since I left Porter.”
“Sylvia Barton saw him just before he disappeared. She said he was acting strange, wouldn’t speak to her. What’s going on, Kenny?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. He’ll show up, eventually.” He was sure Carmen saw through his reassurances.
“Maybe you’re right. I thought I saw him last night, walking along the street outside my house. I called to him, but he didn’t answer. It was dark, perhaps it was someone else.”
Disconcerting thoughts danced in Elliot’s head. “Maybe it was the prowler again, the Peeping Tom.”
“Yes,” she said, “I wondered about that too.”
“Did you call Chief Johnson?”
“No. Wayne thought it was a bad idea. It might sound strange, but I tend to agree with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Charlie’s been acting kind of…well, patronizing.”
Elliot gripped the phone. Wayne had said something along those lines while they were playing ball. He’d been concerned about Chief Johnson going along a little too eagerly with his mother over the prowler issue. The thought ran ice water through Elliot’s veins. Kids were known for their imaginations, but when an eight-year-old tells his mom not to trust the chief of police, something’s not right, especially when that same police officer was as close to the boy as an uncle. “Will you do something for me?” Elliot asked.
“What is it?”
“I want you and Wayne to get out of that house as fast as possible. And whatever you do, don’t tell Johnson what you’re up to.”
After a long pause, Carmen answered, “All right, if you feel that strongly about it.”