by L C Hayden
“Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about. Those are the employees lucky enough to be working this shift. Maybe one of them is this Linda Whatever. If not, then I don’t know. No one else is inside the building.” He pointed to a group of bored-looking teens.
“Thanks.” Bronson headed their way. “I was supposed to meet a lady here. Her name’s Linda Randig. She’s in her late fifties or early sixties, about yay tall.” He raised his hand to the appropriate height, approximately to his cheek. “Chocolate-brown eyes, reddish hair, angular, diamond-shaped face. Did you happen to see her?”
“Bronson.” Detective Gorman signaled for him to come.
Bronson continued talking to the teens. “Any of you see her?”
They looked from one to another and shook their heads.
Somebody had to have seen her. “Are there any employees who already went home who had an earlier shift?”
“Bronson.” Gorman’s bright red face told him the detective wasn’t pleased with him.
A tall, skinny waiter stepped forward. “My shift began at four. Me and my buddies came over here for lunch. It’s free, you know. So I’ve been here since around two. Nobody like that has been here since then.”
“Bronson!” The short, sharp command pierced the approaching night.
Bronson thanked the teens and worked his way toward the detective.
Even before Bronson reached him, he began snapping at Bronson. “I expected this to be a routine killer-stalks-ex-cop. Get the facts, file a report, be on my way. I have—”
“Linda Randig is missin’.”
“What?”
“That’s why I came. I was supposed to meet her here. No one’s seen her and I know Carrier was here. That’s her car over there.” Bronson pointed to the Mercedes. “I checked the front and back passenger seats, but not the trunk.” His nerves tightened in a knot. He had promised Linda to keep her safe. He had failed.
Gorman snapped his fingers and two officers rushed toward him. They all approached the car. The trunk looked pristine. No one had made any attempts to break in, but that didn’t mean much.
The officers opened the trunk. Bronson held his breath and released it only when he saw the empty space.
Where was she? Why wasn’t she answering her cell? And what of Eric? What did Jay have to tell him that he couldn’t say over the phone?
Bronson felt the world crumbling around him.
Round Three is almost over.
Who’s going to die?
twenty-six
As far as nights went, this one had all the makings of a perfect one. Millions of tiny lights sparkled in the velvety moonless sky. A touch of a breeze blew away the day’s oppressive heat and called for people to gather outdoors to unwind. Under normal circumstances, Bronson would have been captivated by the night’s enchanting beauty.
Instead, he cursed the night. He didn’t want to have to wait until morning to try to find Linda and Eric. Time had become his enemy. He pressed the gas pedal and watched the needle climb to eighty.
Jay had told him that he had contacted the police. That meant Captain Samuel Marshall was aware of the problem. That should have set his mind at ease, but it didn’t.
Bronson sped even more.
* * * * *
Almost two hours later, Bronson located the address Jay had given him. Nothing distinguished the modest-sized home. The front lawn had been trimmed and watered. A row of yellow and red marigolds led up the pathway. The house, however, could benefit from a new coat of paint. Light shone through the two front windows like eyes luring him in.
Bronson walked up the pathway, staring at the door. His heart pounded in his chest at a steady beat. The front door stood ajar. Was this the norm? Did Jay always leave his front door slightly opened? Bronson didn’t know. A lump the size of a lemon formed in his throat, and he found it hard to swallow.
He took out his gun and held it at the ready. He pressed his back against the wall and rang the doorbell.
No answer.
“Jay?”
He waited and pushed the door all the way open.
He waited some more.
No sounds. No movement. Nothing.
Bronson stuck his head in. The first thing he noticed was the overturned lamp, then the pool of blood that had already started to congeal on the floor. “Shiiit,” Bronson murmured under his breath.
Jay’s body lay on the floor, a spilled can of Sprite by him. His throat had been so severely cut that he’d almost been decapitated. The note rested on top of his stomach.
Bronson bent down and read it:
Harry, Harry, Harry,
Round Three is over and I won again. I can’t believe you let another innocent person die. What’s wrong, hot shot? You’re beginning to bore me.
Benjamin Carrier
Bronson called the police and then snapped the phone shut. He’d had enough. The best defense was always a good offense. He stepped outside. While he waited for the police, he retrieved his pocket notebook and read through his notes, focusing on the details, looking for something he might have missed.
His cell rang and he looked at the caller I.D. Pete Acevedo. Bronson wanted to talk to him. He snapped the cell open. “Bronson here.”
“It’s Pete.”
“Do you know about Jay?”
A long pause followed. “We need to talk. Meet me.”
“Where?”
“There’s an abandoned warehouse outside of town. It’s called Mensa Enterprises. I’ll wait there. I’m already on my way.” His voice sounded almost robotic. Either that or very tired. It reminded Bronson of the voice that informs the listener that his call is very important and to please hold for the next available representative.
As soon as the connection ended, the cell rang again. The I. D. read Restricted Call. “Yes?”
“Harry, it’s me.” Laughter followed. “I won.” The line went dead.
The sound of Carrier’s gloating laughter chilled Bronson like a serpentine hiss.
From behind him, someone said, “Why is it, Bronson, that wherever you turn up, there’s a body? It’s really making me think and I don’t like where my thoughts are leading.”
Bronson pivoted and faced Detective Samuel Marshall.
twenty-seven
“He was dead when I walked in,” Bronson said.
“So you say, Mr. Bronson.” Marshall held his hands behind him as he watched the photographer snap shots of the corpse from different angles. “Thing is, can you prove it?”
Bronson bit his tongue to keep from snapping at Marshall. “I don’t have to prove it. What possible motive would I have?”
Technicians swarmed around, dusting the place for prints, recording information, discussing the murder among themselves. “Let’s step outside where we can talk a little more freely.” Marshall led Bronson past the living room and out onto the porch.
A cool gust of wind blew, chilling Bronson and rattling the windows. Bronson preferred the cool outdoors to the stuffiness of the house.
Marshall rubbed his upper arms. “We can go inside my car, if you want.”
Not on your life, Bronson thought. From there to jail would be just a hop and a skip away. “Actually, I like the breeze.”
“Suit yourself.” He walked over to the edge of the porch and sat down. Bronson joined him. “Let me tell it like it is. You’ve worked long enough in a law-enforcing capacity to know rumors get started and often are damaging.”
Rumors had destroyed many solid cases and tainted otherwise perfect careers. Bronson, as well as his fellow officers, tried to ignore them but as human beings, they couldn’t help wondering if they were true. The seeds of doubt had been planted. “Haven’t heard any gossip about me,” Bronson said.
“I have. It’s loaded and I’m not sure it’s gossip.”
Bronson felt the vice of his stomach turn a notch tighter. “Explain.”
“First time I see you in action, you’re bending over Pedro’s body, pinning a note on him, whi
ch you claim Carrier wrote and attached to him.” From his tone and manner, Marshall could have been talking about something as trivial as the weather.
Bronson knew he shouldn’t justify that comment with an explanation, but he decided to anyway. “A breeze almost ripped the note off. I was just fixin’ it.”
“So you say.” Marshall raised his hand, the index and middle fingers extended. “Two, all these notes Carrier has left you are fingerprint-free. No one’s seen Carrier leave the notes behind. Hell, no one’s even seen Carrier. Only you. And Carrier, I understand, is a dead criminal who’s resurfaced. Miracles never cease to amaze me.”
Bronson’s mind, wrestling with incomplete thoughts and emotions, struggled to anchor his thoughts. “The Dallas Police Department confirmed his fingerprints.”
Marshall snapped his fingers. “That’s right. They did, but wait, let’s see. Weren’t those fingerprints the ones you sent them?” His eyes were as hard as crystal and he sniffed the air. “What’s that smell? Wait, don’t tell me. I know. It smells like a dirty cop, and one thing I hate more than anything is a dirty cop.”
Bronson stood rigidly, sweat running down his back and chest. “I could never be dirty, goes against my grain, and I have lots of people who would testify to that.”
“For your sake, I hope so. Thing is, it can happen so easily. Take me, for instance. My wife got cancer. Even with insurance, I couldn’t afford the payments. Accepting bribes would have solved my problems. But I stood firm against temptation.”
“I’m sorry about your wife, but I have no temptations.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
Time froze. “Meanin’?”
“I have a witness who’s willing to testify that you and Linda Randig are having an affair.”
“That’s ridiculous. I just met the lady.” Bronson felt his blood boil. What if Carol heard these rumors? “Who’s this witness?”
Marshall screwed up his face. “Oh, come on, Bronson. You know better than that. You know I’m not going to tell you. If I did, I’d have another body in my morgue.”
An icy tentacle of uneasiness pierced Bronson’s heart. “I can’t believe I’m hearin’ this. Even if Linda and I were havin’ an affair, why kill Pedro?”
“I’m going to bend the rules a bit here and tell you what I know. We’ve established that you and Linda are lovers. The rest is speculation, but give us time. We’re working on it. What we think happened is, Mitch found out about the affair and threatened to tell your wife, so you killed him. Only you didn’t see the gardener next door, a kid trying to earn extra money for his mother’s upcoming fiftieth birthday. His mistake was contacting you to blackmail you. Naturally, you agree to meet him in the alley. But instead of handing him money, you stabbed him and then devised this fantastic story about a dead man killing him.”
The information hit Bronson like a straight shot just below his heart. A little grunt escaped him as his mind roared with white noise. “Tell me, do you actually believe this?”
Marshall half-smirked. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what they believe.” He pointed to the people inside the house.
“What about you? What do you plan to do?”
Marshall took a deep breath. “I’m going to gather evidence and when I have enough, I’ll start proper procedure and get the judge to issue a warrant.” He looked at Bronson straight in the eye.
“What about Carrier?”
A small, twisted smile escaped Marshall’s lips, a smile lacking any humor. “I’m going with the assumption that Carrier exists. For now. I know you being from the big city, you’ll think our efforts are insignificant, but you’d be surprised what my men can do. We don’t hold much hope of finding Carrier because I think you resurrected him to cover your dirty deeds. You could have gotten away with it until Jay’s death.”
“How did that change things?” Bronson knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
“Jay needed extra money, so when I could, I’d hire him to do odd jobs. I recently hired him to look into your background. He called me today and told me he’d found some very interesting things about your maverick reputation. We were to meet tomorrow. Now he’s dead.” He stepped forward so Bronson could clearly see him. “You’ve got to realize, we protect our own, retired or not. Jay has—had—an untarnished police record. In this community, he’s very much respected and loved. His death will not go unpunished, and the cards are stacked against you.”
Bronson walked away but heard Marshall’s parting words. “Wherever you go, we will find you. You haven’t seen the Two Forks police at work.”
Feeling as though he’d been thrown into a bottomless pit with no hope of escape, Bronson walked faster, rushing to his car, praying he’d get away.
twenty-eight
The silence of the road accompanied by dense air hovered over Bronson as the highway stretched out before him. Anxiety gnawed at him and he wished he could freeze time. But being unfamiliar with the area kept him driving at a slow, steady speed, making sure he could spot the vague landmarks the gas station attendant had given him.
“On your right, you’ll see a bare area where trees have been cut and a new crop of seedlings has been planted,” the attendant said. “That’ll be followed by a cluster of white fir. Shortly after that, you’ll see a dirt road—it’s not labeled. You follow that road for maybe five miles or so. Then you’ll come to a Y. Keep left for another two miles and you’ll see Mensa Enterprises. Can’t miss it.”
Bronson thanked him as he paid for the coffee and candy bar. He turned to leave.
“Hey, Mister.”
Bronson stopped and pivoted.
“You don’t mind me asking. Why are you going there? Used to be a big thing couple of years back. I worked there myself, but the place is empty now.”
“I’m thinking of buying the building. Wanted to see it before money changed hands. What can you tell me about it?”
The attendant shrugged. “Used to be part of that big pharmaceutical lab we have here in town. You know which one I’m talking about?”
Bronson nodded.
“Been deserted now maybe three, four years. I heard Mr. Stein planned to burn it, but I guess he’s selling instead. Makes more sense to me. If you buy and reopen the facility, keep me in mind. Wouldn’t mind having my job back. Being a gas station attendant for the rest of my life isn’t exactly my life’s ambition.”
Bronson opened his candy bar and sipped his coffee. “What did you do for Mensa?”
“I was a gofer.”
“A what?”
“A gofer. You know. Go for this—go for that.”
Bronson smiled. “And what exactly did you gofer for?”
“Mostly deliveries. I dropped off creams and all that fancy goo to rich people’s houses.”
“You ever actually see the product?”
“Nah, didn’t have to. Products were always boxed up. Didn’t have to open them to know there’s cream inside.”
“What can you tell me about Stein or McGory?”
The attendant leaned forward, clearly savoring the conversation. “McGory never showed up. He stayed mainly at the research lab. Stein was the one I dealt with, and if you excuse my French, he’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.”
“Why’s that?” Bronson looked at his watch. He didn’t want to keep Pete waiting longer than necessary.
“He had to stick his nose in everything. He’d personally inventoried each box that left the place, even when I loaded the van myself. Seems he didn’t trust me to do the job right. He’s such a jerk. But I was always real careful to deliver the right package to the right person, specially the ones out-of-town.”
Bronson thought about the creams. If all he did was deliver them, why not mail them? Why the personal touch? “Were there many of those deliveries?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions.”
Bronson shrugged. “What can I tell you? If I’m buying, I want to know what I’m getting into
.”
“Place is deserted now.”
“Right. Anything else you can tell me?”
The attendant squinted as though attempting to remember. He shook his head. “Haven’t been there in about two years, but back then, the place was in a real bad condition. It was a rat’s nest. A fire hazard. Sure you want to go there now?”
Bronson knew he didn’t have a choice.
* * * * *
Soon as Bronson reached his car, he took out the cell and speed dialed Mike.
He answered on the second ring. “Yo, buddy, what mess have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Do you ever answer the phone in a normal way?”
“Do you ever answer any questions people ask you?”
“Should I?” On the side of the road Bronson spotted a deer and its fawn. He slowed down. “I got somethin’. It may be nothin’, but it’s a loose end we’ll need to close.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Seems that some of the pharmaceutical creams were delivered by truck and not by mail. That piqued my interest. Why the personal touch?”
“That should be easy to check,” Mike answered. “I’ll get back to you.”
They disconnected and Bronson concentrated on his driving. Just as the attendant had said, seven miles down the road, he came across an area where saplings of all sizes covered the ground. He wondered how many of those would actually survive.
He slowed down, searching for the dirt road.
A fire hazard, the attendant had said. Now deserted.
Pete had chosen a strange place to meet. Had Carrier been holding a gun to Pete’s head as he made that call? That would explain why his voice has sounded like a robot’s. He’d been scared.
Bronson spotted the road and turned. Images flashed in his mind. Mike running toward the deserted warehouse, crouching. Minutes later, the place a living inferno. Mike trapped. A body burning to ashes, beyond recognition. Mike desperately attempting to find his way out.
A fire hazard, the attendant had said. Bronson neared the area where Mensa Enterprises should be. He killed the headlights.