The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  “So in other words you don’t know anything, do you, Detective?”

  Miles was still more than a little hot himself about the side of his new car and he wasn’t about to be pushed around, grieving sibling or not. “I’ll tell you what we know for sure. We know you’re a lousy driver and you just wrecked my new car.” Jabbing his finger right back now. “That’s what we know for sure.”

  “Your car? Your car? You’re dancing around the fact that you’ve got blood all over my brother’s apartment, buckets of blood in fact, no witnesses, no body—your words, not mine—and you’re worried about your car? Let me tell you something, Detective, and hear me when I say this: Fuck your car.”

  Mimi walked over, introduced herself to Nichole and said, “Ms. Pope, if you’d be willing to let us take a sample of your blood we’d be able to get a definitive answer as to whom the blood belonged to much faster than we normally could. It will still have to be processed through the lab and all that, but they could begin with random samples and we’d have a conclusive answer much quicker.”

  Nichole gave Miles a parting glare before she turned her attention to Mimi. “How much faster?”

  “We’d be looking at hours instead of days.”

  “Then, yes, of course. Let’s do that. What do I have to do?”

  Mimi took her by the arm. “Just come with me. We’ll get you all set up. It should only take a few minutes.”

  “If that’s my brother’s blood in there, is there any chance that he’d still be alive?”

  Mimi shook her head. “I’m not going to dance around it, sweetie. With that amount of blood…”

  Rosencrantz introduced Miles to Lola Ibarra, the tenant who lived in the apartment directly below Nicholas Pope. She was on the far side of middle-aged, but not too far, Ron thought. She wore a flowered housedress that matched the flowered scarf in her hair, the flowered sandals on her feet and the flowered bracelets on her wrists. The apartment was, Ron discovered, surprisingly well kept and clean. It smelled of pine scented cleaner, incense and coffee. But it was the artwork and absurdity of Lola Ibarra’s decorative choices that caused Ron to bite the inside of his cheek.

  The walls were covered with paintings of Jesus Christ, all on black velvet. They were markedly similar to the Elvis on velvet series, or the dogs playing poker on velvet series, except of course, these all pictured Jesus. Elvis had apparently left the building, took the dogs, and left Jesus behind to fend for Himself.

  There were paintings of Jesus at the last supper, Jesus carrying the cross, Jesus hanging on the cross, Jesus walking on water, Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane and everyone’s favorite, Jesus wearing a crown of thorns with blood dripping down His forehead, the latter a sort of headshot for holy rollers. The only thing missing, Ron thought, was a painting of Jesus Christ in a chicken basket.

  “Mrs. Ibarra, I’d like to walk through the sequence of events with you. Would you tell me what happened, please?”

  “I have already talked with the other man. I cannot remember his name. Detective, um, Happenstance?”

  “That would be Rosencrantz.”

  “Yes, of course. Rosencrantz.” Ibarra tugged at her scarf until it was arranged just so, then pointed to the coffee table in the center of the small living room. “I woke up and sat down on the sofa to wait for the coffee. I boil it on the stove instead of using one of the drippy machines, so it takes a little longer. That is when I saw my statue of the Holy Mother. It had blood on it. I thought it was a miracle.” She crossed herself when she said miracle and it gave Miles the impression that it was a ‘just-in-case’ crossing, like just in case it really was divine intervention and not something quite so simple as evidence from a crime scene.

  “I see. And how long did it take you to figure out that it wasn’t a miracle?”

  “Hmm. I am not sure. I began to pray right away of course. I got down on my knees and prayed like I have never prayed before, I can tell you that. But then I could smell my coffee starting to burn—I had prayed so long that the pot boiled dry—so I had to clean that up. When I came back I was going to pray some more—which I did—and then I went in the bathroom to shower and get cleaned up. I wanted to look nice for Father Peralta, my priest.”

  “And did Father Peralta come by?”

  “Yes. He was the one who told me it was not a miracle after all and that we needed to call the authorities.”

  “And how did he determine that, Mrs. Ibarra?”

  She pointed at her ceiling directly above the statue. A dark stain covered the thin plaster. “He look at the ceiling.”

  “So…no miracle I guess.”

  Ibarra shrugged her shoulders and then crossed herself again. “Who is to say?”

  I am, Ron thought. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to confiscate your statue as evidence in an ongoing investigation. It will be returned but we’re going to have to take it for now.”

  Ibarra waved her hand in the air. “This is not a problem for me. I have a whole box full of them in storage. I sell them on the E-bay.”

  “I’ll have one of our crime scene technicians come over and get it then. In the meantime, please don’t touch it.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Just a couple more questions then, Mrs. Ibarra. Did you hear anything last night or yesterday either outside or in the apartment above you that seemed out of the ordinary?”

  “No, I hear nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “No loud bangs, or thumps, or shouting? Nothing like that?”

  “Si. Nothing.”

  “Huh.”

  “What is this, huh?”

  “Well, I don’t mean to alarm you Mrs. Ibarra, but whatever happened up there, it had to have been violent. I’m just surprised you didn’t hear anything.”

  “I did not hear anything because I was not at home.”

  Miles audibly exhaled and then scratched the back of his head. “I see. And what time did you get home?”

  “Hmm, I would say it was well after midnight.”

  “Sort of late, then.”

  “Si, very late for me. It was bingo night at the church. It was my turn to be caller.”

  “What do you know about Mr. Pope? Did you ever speak with him? Was he friendly with you?”

  “Oh yes. My little Nicky, he was very friendly. A very nice man. Most of the people around here do not like to give you the time of day and to tell you the truth, you would not want it if they did, comprende?”

  “Yes, I comprende. But you and Mr. Pope were friendly?”

  “Yes. He always fix my computer for me whenever I have problem. I think the E-bay messes it up somehow.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Ibarra looked up at the ceiling, either trying to remember, or looking for a sign from Jesus, Ron couldn’t tell for sure. “Three days ago. He carried my garbage to the container for me.”

  “Is there anything you could tell me about Mr. Pope that would help me find his killer, Mrs. Ibarra? Anything at all?”

  Ibarra waved her hands in front of herself. “No, there is nothing. Nicky, he is a nice young man who helped me out sometimes. He said I reminded him of his mother. He had a good job and he worked for the lottery people. He used to tease me and say he knew the secret to winning and that one day he would tell me how to pick the numbers and I would become wealthy.”

  Miles handed her his business card. “If there’s anything else you can think of, call me right away. Keep your doors locked. We don’t know why Mr. Pope was killed, only that he was.”

  “Yes. I will lock my door. There is only the one.”

  “Windows too, Mrs. Ibarra.”

  “Yes. Just the one window too, but I will lock it.”

  Miles thanked her and began to leave, but Ibarra had one more thing. “Señor Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “Nicky, he such a nice boy like I said…”

  “But?”

  “He had some bad friends, I think.”

>   “Bad how?”

  “They like their checkers. I smell the stink right through the window.”

  “Checkers?”

  Ibarra laughed. “It is a Mexican term for low-grade marijuana. What you would call ditch weed.”

  “Checkers?”

  “Si, checkers.”

  “Huh. I’ve never heard of that. What do you call high-grade marijuana?”

  “Chess.” Then she lowered her voice and leaned in closer to Miles. “Is also sometimes just called ‘good shit.’” Crossed herself again when she said it.

  Miles walked outside and found Mimi and Rosencrantz standing together next to the stairs that led to Pope’s apartment. He nodded at Mimi and then looked at Rosencrantz. “What do you know about Checkers and Chess?”

  Rosencrantz didn’t hesitate. “Always go with Chess. Checkers will destroy your lungs. Tastes like shit too. Now Chess, true Chess if you can find it, that’s some really good shit, even though that statement itself is slightly redundant. Why do you ask?”

  “Never mind,” Miles said. “I think I’m just getting old.”

  “Might want to take a look at this picture,” Mimi said, and at the sound of her voice, Miles forgot all about his age. “It’s just a Polaroid. We’ll have other pictures with better resolution later today when we get the digital prints, but you should see this.” She handed the photo to Miles.

  Ron looked at the photo but he couldn’t tell what it was. “I don’t get it. What am I looking at here?”

  Mimi positioned herself next to Miles and that gave him a little thrum. “It’s what we in the business of crime scene investigations often refer to as a clue.” She made little air quotes with her fingers when she said ‘clue.’ “Specifically, it’s the floor underneath the front of Pope’s sofa, just behind the dust ruffle. Is that what they’re called? Dust ruffles? You know, the flap part that hangs down at the bottom? If you lift it up you can see under the couch? Anyway, my guys found this when they moved the sofa. It’s some sort of code.”

  Once Mimi explained it, Miles could see it right away. It was a long series of numbers. The sequence read: 102120103157123 “Is it written in blood?”

  “It sure is,” Mimi said. “Looks like your victim was trying to tell you something.”

  Rosencrantz stepped closer and took another look at the photo. “Trying to tell us what?”

  Mimi let her eyes do a little half roll before they landed on Rosencrantz. “Me and my crew? We just process the scene. You guys are supposed to be the crack investigators. My guess is your victim was trying to tell you who let him bleed out all over the floor. It’d take some balls to write a message in your own blood.”

  When Mimi said the word ‘balls’ Rosencrantz and Miles made a point not to look at each other. “I’ll want a copy of that as soon as you can get it to me,” Miles said.

  Mimi handed him the photo. “You can have this one now. I’ll email the digital ones to you when they’re ready.”

  Miles took the Polaroid from Mimi. “Do that,” he said. “I’ve got to figure out what to do about my car.” He stuck the photo in his pocket and walked away.

  Rosencrantz and Mimi stood there and watched him go. “What was that bit about Checkers and Chess?”

  “Apparently, it’s Mexican slang for pot.” Rosie said. “I’d never heard of it until I spoke with Mrs. Ibarra.” He winked at her before he walked away.

  7

  Shortly after his father passed, Virgil’s family attorney called and informed him his father’s will stipulated that if his mother preceded him in death—which she did—most all of his possessions were to be bequeathed solely to Virgil, save two. He left the majority of his half of the bar in various percentages to three people. Of them, two were employees; Delroy Rouche, their bar manager, and Robert Whyte, their chef. Delroy and Robert were Jamaicans who had been working for Virgil and Mason almost as long as they had been in business. Virgil met them both by chance a number of years ago while on vacation in their hometown of Lucea, a small town about halfway between the tourist destinations of Montego Bay and Negril. They ran a roadside stand that served Red Stripe beer and homemade Jerk chicken to tourists just like Virgil. He’d picked up a nail in the road and the tire went flat almost immediately. When he pulled into their lot to change it out for the spare, Delroy and Robert fixed it for him while he ate their chicken and drank their beer. A friendship developed and when they came to the states to work for Virgil and Mason they transformed what would have been just another downtown bar into a one-of-a-kind Jamaican experience for anyone who walked through the door. Mason’s will stipulated that Delroy and Robert were to each receive fifteen percent ownership in the bar, while nineteen percent went to Murton, who had been a part of Virgil’s family since childhood. The remaining one percent went to Virgil.

  When Virgil walked through the back door of the bar and into the kitchen, Robert handed him a plate of chicken pulled from the bone and covered with his homemade Jerk sauce. “Hey, look who here. It part-time. Good to see you, you. Eat dat chicken. Heal you right up, mon.”

  Virgil carried his plate from the kitchen and sat down at the end of the bar. Delroy was doing what had become known as the Jamaican shuffle. He was mixing two different types of drinks in separate blenders, pulling a pitcher of Red Stripe from the tap as he washed dirty glasses in the sink, all as he flirted with two female customers who hung on his every word.

  Delroy finished the blended drinks for the women then insisted he receive a kiss on the cheek from both before he would allow them to return to their table. The ladies obliged him as if the idea were their own. Then he reached into the cooler, opened a bottle of Mountain Dew and slid it across the length of the bar where it stopped right next to Virgil’s plate. When he walked over, they bumped fists. “Good to see you,” he said. “How dat leg, mon?”

  Before Virgil could answer, a man walked over and began tapping his empty pitcher on the bar top. “Little service be nice.” He was overweight, dressed like a biker wannabe and spoke louder than necessary. “When you’re ready, that is. I wouldn’t want to interrupt a management meeting or anything like that.”

  Delroy turned, the smile never leaving his face and said, “Be right there. Just two Jamaican minutes, mon.” The man grumbled something unintelligible and leaned on his elbows, his back against the bar. Delroy turned his attention back to Virgil and raised his eyebrows into a question.

  “I’m doing okay. Still hurts quite a bit. The pills knock it down though.”

  “Yeah, mon, I bet day do,” he said. Virgil felt the probe of Delroy’s eyes into his own. “When you coming back?”

  “Pretty soon, I hope. Have you seen Murton?”

  “Yeah, mon, he upstairs on the phone.”

  Murton had converted the upstairs storage room of the bar into a workspace for his private investigations office. Virgil was getting ready to tell Delroy he’d be right back when the biker wannabe got tired of waiting for their conversation to conclude. He slid his pitcher down the bar and Delroy reached out and grabbed it without ever turning his head. He picked it off the bar and set it underneath the counter.

  “Just how long is two Jamaican minutes anyway?” the man said.

  Delroy turned and smiled at him. “A week from next Tuesday. Maybe we see you then, mon.”

  The man turned and faced the bar, his cheeks and neck flush with color. “Now wait just a fucking minute,” he said, his finger pointed at Delroy. “Where’s that respect you’re always talking about?”

  “Ha. You get what you give, mon. See you next time. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  The man pushed himself off the bar and started to approach, but Murton caught him from behind and clamped his hand on top of the man’s shoulder. “Time to boogie on down the avenue, Bub.”

  “Who the hell are you, dickweed?” the man said.

  Murton had a merry look on his face. “I, along with these two gentlemen here, are three of the four owners of this fine establi
shment. And if you were paying attention, at all, you might notice about half the people in here are off-duty cops.” Murton spun the man around. “See, you can tell who they are because they’re the ones watching us right now. I can spot them a mile away, but maybe that’s because I used to be one. So what’s it going to be big boy? You want to walk out of here on your own, or do you want us to carry you out?”

  The wannabe tried to pull free from Murton’s grasp, but when he was unable to do so Virgil finally saw his body relax. “That’s what I thought,” Murton said. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.” Murton let go and walked with him to the door.

  Delroy looked at Virgil and said, “Eat dat chicken, you. Heal you right up, mon.” Then he laughed his big Jamaican laugh and went back to work.

  Murton wore a pair of desert army fatigues cut off at the knees, a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt and a battered Panama Jack hat set jauntily to one side. He pulled out a chair, winked at Delroy and waved Virgil over. “What’s shakin’ bacon? Sandy give you the old heave-ho?”

  “Not yet,” Virgil said. “But it’s early. You never know.”

  “You never really do. Hey, love your shirt, man.” Virgil was wearing a cream colored, short sleeved Underdog T-shirt from the old Saturday morning cartoons.

  “Simpler times, huh?”

  Murton picked up a piece of chicken from Virgil’s plate and popped it into his mouth. “You think?”

  The question gave Virgil pause. His childhood had been one of normalcy. There was food to eat, clean clothes to wear, a solid roof over his head, parents who loved him and a grandfather who was the center of his young life. Murton, on the other hand, had not been quite as fortunate. His mother died when he was a young boy and his father—a binge drinking alcoholic brakeman for the railroad—would show his love for his son in ways that would now have Child Protective Services knocking on the door with a court order. “We all play the hand we’re dealt, Murt. I think you’ve done a fine job of it all.” When he didn’t respond Virgil asked him a question. “How are you and Delroy hitting it off?” Murton grinned and took a swig of Virgil’s pop. “Would you like me to order you something?”