Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  “Okay, then.” He parked the car. “Here we go.”

  Bronson stepped out. He stood on the unpaved parking lot, glaring at the covered bridge. Without further hesitation, he headed toward it, past the picnic area and the children’s playground area. Minutes later, he found himself staring at the inside of the bridge. He could almost see Lorraine running toward him.

  Don’t leave me.

  A smile on her face. Her arms wide opened.

  Don’t leave me.

  A shot rang out.

  Don’t leave me.

  Bronson’s breathing came out fast and shallow.

  “You okay, buddy?”

  Bronson nodded.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “A chill. I got a chill, that’s all.” He swallowed hard and turned away from the bridge. “Lorraine died in my arms. You knew that?”

  Mike nodded.

  “As kids we wrote notes and put them on the side of the bridge. As she lay in my arms, she mentioned that. I thought she was relivin’ a childhood memory. Now I’m thinkin’, she must have known she would be killed, so she left me a note. That’s why we’re here.”

  Mike’s gaze drifted toward the bridge. “Show me.”

  Bronson led him to the bridge’s left-hand side, stepped over the guardrail, and held onto the bridge for support.

  Mike gasped. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Fifty-feet below you, that’s Sliding Rock. Ellen told me that creek claims several lives each year.”

  “Then make sure I don’t fall.”

  Mike threw his arms up, ran to Bronson’s side, and firmly gripped his arm. Bronson leaned down. “There’s a rock over there.” He pointed to a smooth, almost flat rock, two feet away from him.

  Mike looked at the area. “There are thousands of rocks over there.”

  “Not like this one.” Bronson pushed it over, exposing a business card. Bronson picked it up.

  Chapter 6

  Mike held onto Bronson’s arm as he stepped over the guardrail and back onto safe ground. “Geez, Bronson, what were you thinking? Did you and your sister really leave notes back there?”

  Bronson looked down at the raging stream and small ledge he had stood on. “Yeah, we did.”

  “Your parents knew this?”

  “Heck no. If they had, they would have killed—” He paused and swallowed a big breath. “—us both. They knew we wrote the notes, but they had no idea where we hid them.”

  Mike nodded and pointed to Bronson’s hand. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a business card for a restaurant called Devono’s Steak House. It’s in Pittsburgh. Ever heard of it?”

  Mike shook his head. “I thought Ellen and I had visited every restaurant in Pittsburgh. Apparently not. Want me to call her, see if she’s heard of it?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Mike whipped out his cell and punched in a number and then pressed another button. “I put it on speaker mode in case you wanted to ask her something.”

  On the fourth ring, Ellen picked up. “Hey, You Hunk, are you ready to come home now? I’m waiting.”

  Mike’s face reddened. He gave Bronson his back and placed the phone close to his mouth. In a low voice he said, “You know I’m always ready and hungry for you—”

  “Then—”

  “But you’re on speaker phone.” He pivoted so he once again faced Bronson.

  “Oops, but I’m sure we didn’t shock Bronson. Did we?”

  Bronson smiled. “Shockin’ me would be next to impossible. I need to know if you’ve heard of a place called Devono’s Steak House?”

  “Wow, I’m the one who’s shocked now. Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Everyone here in Pittsburgh is familiar with it. It’s an up-scale place with fancy prices and food guaranteed to entice the senses.”

  “Why haven’t we been there?” Mike asked.

  “Because city gossip claims that it’s a front for a high society prostitution ring. No matter how good the food is and how fancy the place is, I don’t care to support places like that.”

  Bronson flipped the card and read the name someone had scribbled on the back. “Ever heard of Matthew Devono?”

  “Again, based on gossip, he started out as a pimp, but he moved up the ladder fast. He now owns the place.”

  “Would you be willin’ to compromise your ethics and accompany me for some fantastic food?”

  “Is Mike going?”

  Bronson eyed Mike. He nodded. “He certainly is.”

  “Then count me in. No way am I allowing him to go there without me, single or not.”

  “It’s a date, then,” Bronson said.

  Mike walked away and talked to Ellen for a few minutes longer. When he disconnected, he returned to Bronson’s side. “You’re thinking Lorraine wrote that name on the back of the card in case something happened to her.”

  Bronson considered the possibility. He should report his finding to the trooper. What’s her name—Cannady? He’d do that, soon as he was sure of the facts. “Exactly what I was thinkin’, but I also realize that I don’t know if that’s her handwritin’. I know nothin’ about my sister.” He turned and headed back to the car.

  Chapter 7

  Ellen called in a couple of favors and got reservations for three at Devono’s Steak House. However, earliest she could get was nine. Bronson and Carol always made it a point to eat by six. “This way you go to bed with an empty stomach, and you keep the pounds off,” Bronson could hear Carol’s warning even though she was still over a thousand miles away.

  Bronson smiled at the memory. He wished he could hear it again, in person.

  “Now what?” Mike sat on the recliner across from Bronson.

  Ellen entered the living room carrying a tray. She set a glass of ice tea on the end table beside Mike and handed Bronson a steaming cup of coffee. “Don’t tell Carol on me, but I actually put in three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and lots of milk. This is a onetime deal so you better enjoy it.”

  “You bet I will.” He reached for the cup and took a swig. Ahh, perfect.

  “We’ve got eight hours to kill before dinner,” Mike said, kicking off his shoes and leaning back on the couch. “We can sit back and relax.”

  “Not me,” Bronson stood up. “I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  “With who?” Mike asked.

  Bronson bent down and picked up his cup of coffee. “With Trooper Ivy Cannady. She’s in charge of Lorraine’s case.”

  Mike reached for his shoes. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Bronson waived his opened right hand. “You and Ellen need some time alone. I can handle this on my own.”

  Mike eyed Ellen and a big grin spread across his lips.

  *****

  Like many of Southern Pennsylvania’s small towns, Whittle City’s history dated back to the oil and steel industries that once reigned in the area. Located in the center of town on Main Street, an old stone building served as the barracks for Troop G. Its façade made the edifice look old, but its inside filled with computers, fax and Xerox machines, informed Bronson this was no backward community.

  Soon as Bronson stepped into the barracks, he approached the glass barrier. The trooper on the other side asked, “May I help you?”

  Before Bronson could answer, Cannady headed toward the front. “Let him in.”

  The trooper buzzed him in, and Bronson stepped through the barrier.

  The trooper offered him her hand. “Detective Bronson, thanks for coming.”

  “You asked me to come. Here I am.”

  “You must have a sense for perfect timing.”

  Bronson flashed a blank look.

  “We just received the warrant to search your sister’s house. Want to come?”

  “Yes, of course.” Bronson eyed the two plain clothes troopers standing by Cannady’s desk. He assumed they would accompany them to Lorraine’s house. “By the way, you can drop the detective part. I’m retired.”

  “I remember.” Cannady
headed back to her desk. “You showed me your retirement badge at the bridge.”

  Bronson nodded but had no recollection of doing so.

  “This is Trooper Hunsicker.” She indicated the smaller of the two and then pointed to the other man. “And Trooper Swanson. You met them at the crime scene. They’ll come with us to search Lorraine’s house.”

  Bronson nodded and felt amazed about how little he remembered about the day his sister died. He shook hands with each of the troopers. “I’m ready if you are.”

  Cannady nodded and led them out.

  Bronson followed them in his rental as they drove through the narrow streets of Whittle City, out toward the edge of town. Ten minutes later, they came to a stop in front of a two-story colonial style white house sitting on a couple of acres. The house itself had two huge wings that tripled the size of the original structure. A fountain at the entry way gave the mansion a touch of elegance.

  Bronson swallowed hard. Her house spoke of wealth. How did she earn the money required to buy and maintain such a monstrosity? He parked besides Cannady’s Ford and got out. “This is it? Her house?”

  Swanson smirked. “You really didn’t know your sister, did you? Where were you?”

  Don’t leave me.

  Bronson looked away, hating the tears that glistened in his eyes. “In Dallas, workin’.”

  Swanson opened his mouth to speak, but Cannady wrapped her hand around Swanson’s arm. “Let him be.”

  Swanson shrugged her grip off and stepped toward the house. Bronson, face cast downward, followed behind.

  Don’t leave me.

  Chapter 8

  Bronson found that what intrigued him the most about the search didn’t stem from what they found but what they failed to find. Not a single utility bill or records of payments. No mortgage bills either. Or car payments. Based on the entries of her checkbook, she only bought enough groceries a month to feed her for less than a week. All of these bills had to have been paid, but how? By whom?

  To add to the mystery of the sterile environment, they failed to locate an address book or even a list of phone numbers and addresses.

  A search of the closet revealed a wardrobe filled with designer clothes. The few costume necklaces shared space with finer pieces of jewelry. The medicine cabinet revealed Lorraine had to have been in perfect health, except for an occasional cold.

  Her appointment book told them she volunteered several hours a week at the local Daniel Jenkins School for Boys. Bronson wrote the name down and made a mental note to Google it at Ellen’s house.

  The only picture displayed on top of the mantle or any other place showed three boys playing football. The school served as a background.

  The two messages on the answering machine came from Claudine, an employee at the school, asking Lorraine to call back.

  As with most everyone, Lorraine’s computer was pass code protected and Cannady packed it up and took it with her. When and if they found something, she promised, they would notify him. Bronson would then have to claim the computer, if he wanted it back. He planned to do that.

  As Cannady, Swanson, and Hunsicker were ready to leave, Cannady said, “You can stay here if you want. We’re through with our search. We’re going to talk to the neighbors and call it a day. If we find something, we’ll let you know. You do the same.”

  Bronson guaranteed her he would and walked them to the door. He thought about leaving but decided to wander from room to room, absorbing every detail, getting a feel for the house. Now that he had the keys, he’d come back when he had the time to fully devote his energy to this project.

  Before locking the house, he gave it one last, long glance. Who are you? Who’s Lorraine Bronson? He didn’t know. If the house held any secrets, he promised Lorraine he’d find them. He gently closed the door and headed toward the rental.

  Halfway back to Ellen’s house, a brightly lit baseball field attracted Bronson’s attention. The teams consisted of junior high age boys. The game itself didn’t hold Bronson’s interest. The stands, packed with cheering parents, relatives, and friends, captivated him. He pulled over and parked so that he could watch the game. But his eyes strayed to the stands.

  As a boy, he and Dad had often been part of the spectators. Bonding time, Dad used to say. The two grew closer while Lorraine grew apart from them—and not just Dad, but Mom as well. Each time Lorraine drank, the chasm between Lorraine and the rest of the family widened, an irreparable crack meant to lead to oblivion.

  The week before Bronson’s sixteenth birthday, Dad promised him a spectacular surprise. Bronson knew that no matter what Dad had planned, he’d be happy and if not, he’d pretend to be thrilled. Lately, Dad’s heart condition had deteriorated to the point that Bronson would wake up at night, his body drenched with sweat. The more Lorraine drank, the less Dad wanted to live.

  The day before his sixteenth birthday, Bronson lay in bed trying not to listen to the screaming match going on in the living room.

  “You will not take me out of school and make me go to some stupid private school.” Lorraine’s high-pitched voice grated on Bronson’s nerves, like fingernails scratching a blackboard. “I won’t go. My friends are at Lincoln High.”

  “Your friends are a bunch of losers.” Dad’s loud voice cracked and Bronson sat up in bed, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

  His mother tried to force Dad to relax. “You’re getting too agitated. Think about your condition.” Her smooth voice, interwoven with nervous threads, failed to cover her concern. Bronson swung his legs over the bed, ready to bolt toward the living room.

  “Calm down? Me, calm down? She’s the one who needs to calm down.” Dad’s angry voice penetrated the walls, and something in his tone worried Bronson.

  Bronson heard a thump, followed by his mother’s scream. He bolted to the living room but wished he hadn’t. He absorbed each vivid detail with a frightening clarity that would follow him the rest of his life. Dad, on the floor, clutching his chest. Mom, bent over him, her body protecting his.

  “M-mom? D-dad?” Bronson took a step forward.

  Mom looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He’s . . . he’s having a . . . heart attack. Help him.”

  Fourteen year old Lorraine ran out of the room and Bronson dialed 911. As soon as he hung up, he rushed back to his father’s side.

  With a trembling hand, Bronson’s father reached out for his son. “Bring me . . . the signed . . . card.”

  Bronson, unable to move, clutched his father’s hand.

  “He wants the card,” Mom said. “Go get it.”

  Bronson knew exactly which card he was referring to. His father had often told him the story of how he and his father had attended a game at the Yankee Stadium. The game had been the thrill of both his father’s and his grandfather’s lives, until the game was over. Then the Big Event—as they called it—happened. They met Mickey Mantle and he signed the baseball trading card. Bronson’s father always carried it with him as a kid. Now, years later, it stood framed on his father’s desk where everyone could easily see it.

  “Go,” his mother said.

  Bronson jumped up and headed for his father’s desk. He reached for the framed card, and then realized it was gone—and so was Lorraine.

  Bronson dragged his feet as he headed back to his father’s side. How could he possibly tell him Lorraine had taken it? Bronson knelt down by his father’s side.

  “The card, boy . . . where’s . . . the card?”

  Bronson wrapped his hand around his father’s trembling hand. “You want to give me the card for my birthday. That’s my surprise, right?” Tears formed in his eyes, and he wiped them away. “Tomorrow’s my birthday. I want you to give it to me tomorrow. Right now, just get well. Please, Dad, I need you.”

  “Get the card.” Dad had trouble breathing and could hardly get the words out. “Do as I say.”

  “Dad—” Bronson looked away.

  “Why won’t you bring him his card?” Mom
held her trembling hands close to her lips.

  Bronson looked down.

  “No!” Dad tightened his facial features. “You can’t bring me the card, can you? It’s gone.” He did his best to look around the room. His lips began to quiver. “So is Lorraine.”

  “Dad, it’s okay. I’ll get it back.”

  Bronson’s father’s eyes went blank. “It’s too late.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  Two weeks later, Mom died of a broken heart. Bronson saw his sister at the funerals but he never talked to her, and he never saw her after that—until the bridge. He spent the rest of his teenage years moving from one foster home to another, hating Lorraine for destroying the family.

  A thunderous cheer jolted Bronson back to the present. Apparently, one of the team players had scored a home run and the crowd came to its feet, cheering him.

  Good thing they had something to cheer about.

  Bronson covered his eyes. He refused to give in to the tears but they came anyway.

  Chapter 9

  Tourists as well as residents enjoyed the charming, old-world traditions found in Pittsburgh’s South Side. Located in its heart, Devono’s Steak House exuded the same atmosphere of the area it served. Shimmering white tablecloths covered each table. The gold-rimmed china accompanied by gold-plated silverware and crystal glasses promised a succulent meal. Clearly, much too fancy for Bronson’s taste which, according to him, a juicy hamburger and a steaming cup of coffee would satisfy.

  Upon entering the restaurant, the maitre d’ immediately ushered Bronson, Mike, and Ellen to a table near the back. The head waiter, wearing a tuxedo, reached for the neatly folded napkin resting on top of the stacked dinner plates in front of Ellen. He unfolded it by giving it a quick shake and placed it on Ellen’s lap. Then he did the same for Mike.

  Bronson quickly reached for his napkin, placed it on his lap, and flashed the waiter a smile. The waiter smiled back. “Your server will be Mario. In the meantime, I’ll get your drinks.”

  Ellen ordered a glass of wine, Mike a beer, and Bronson a cup of coffee.