by K R Hill
Alma unhooked the oxygen tube from around her ears. “My boy, Connor, you’re a man now, but you’ll always be my boy. Remember how you used to protect Bartholomew on the playground?”
Connor remembered the child in her arms that night so long ago.
Alma touched his shoulder with a feeble hand. “He was the only black boy in your school, and the children used to gang up on him and tease and push him, but he was your brother.” She emphasized the word brother. “And you fought the bullies with Bartholomew right behind you, so they couldn’t get him. That was my Connor.” She patted his hand. “I argued with your father about taking you to boxing lessons when you were so young, but those lessons paid off.”
“I had to fight. You always gave our lunch money to Bart.” Connor hunched his shoulders and smiled. “I was just being a dog guarding my food bowl. If those bullies got to Bart, they’d take his money and I’d go hungry.”
Tia Alma shushed him and waved a hand through the air and laughed, but that made her cough. “No,” she said, pushing away the oxygen mask. “I don’t need that.”
Connor brushed her long gray hair with his hand. “Tia? You said you wanted to tell me something about dad, about how you and Bartholomew came to live with us.”
The old woman strained and lifted up on an elbow. “I did?” She touched her chin as though she was deep in thought. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure?”
Connor smiled, picked up her wrinkled, thin hand. “No, Tia, I’m not sure. Why don’t you get some rest now?” He helped her arrange the oxygen tubes, and positioned the device at her nose. By the time he finished, she was asleep.
Connor stood up and looked around the room. On the walls hung photos of his father, Connor and Bart at different ages. Something, he thought, had aroused her memory. On the phone she said that she had written down what needed to be said, so he searched through the books around her bed, turned on his cell phone flashlight, and looked through the trashcan, but the yellow notebook was not there.
He gently closed the door and turned the knob so that the latch would not click loudly into place. In the kitchen he found the caregiver.
“Did anything special happen to my aunt today?” he asked.
The young woman at the stove stirred a wooden spoon around a steaming pot. Looking at her from behind, he could tell that she had a nice figure, even though she was wearing nursing fatigues.
The caregiver tossed the spoon into the sink, lifted the pot off the burner and set it on another part of the stove. She shook her head and turned. “She ate, played cards for about half an hour, and went for a little stroll in the wheelchair, just like every day. Oh yeah, she got excited when she read the newspaper.” The caregiver faced to the stove and stirred, reached into a cabinet and took out a plate.
“One of these newspapers?” Connor walked across the linoleum covered floor, stopped at the dining table, and pushed around the newspapers laying on it.
The young woman glanced over. “No, Alma was reading the world news and spilled orange juice on it, so Barry threw it away.” She motioned with her chin toward the corner of the room. A trashcan with the plastic liner folded over the top edge, sat against a dark cabinet.
“Barry? Who is Barry?” asked Connor, walking across the kitchen. At the trash can he pulled off the swinging lid and removed a section of wet newspaper. He brushed off some coffee grounds and searched for an article that might jump out at him.
“Barry is the caregiver that was here before me. He summarized Alma’s day in the log.” She spooned oatmeal into a bowl. “He got sick and called out. That’s why I came in early.”
The caregiver opened the refrigerator and rattled around the containers on the door, took out a bottle of Ensure, and walked to the plate of food that she had been preparing.
“So, she didn’t eat or play cards with you?”
“No,” said the young woman. “I read it in the log.”
Connor turned over the newspaper and immediately knew what had jarred Alma’s memory. On the front page of the World News section, was a photo of beautiful young Alma standing beside a Haitian general. A red sash crossed his military uniform, and he wore so many medals that Connor almost missed the small boy at his side. The headline read: General and loot disappear.
“Holy crap,” said Connor as he thought over the facts. His aunt saw a photo from her past. It jarred her memory and she wanted to write down her account of what had happened.
He knew that Alma, as she always did, would have been talking to herself while writing the account. If anyone had been nearby, like Barry, they would have heard the entire story. Now the notebook she claims to have written the story in, along with the location of a fortune, was missing. And right about the time it went missing, her caregiver skipped out on work.
As the young woman approached with a serving tray, Connor blocked her path.
“Your smile disappeared when you mentioned Barry.”
She looked over her shoulder to the stove, then glanced at Connor. “He’s a creep. I mean those acne scars—” She shuddered and shook her head.
“Do you think you can get his address for me?”
“Ha! He’s always hitting on me. He’s texted it to me about a million times.”
She searched though her phone and Connor typed the address into his cell. “I’m going to say goodbye to my aunt,” he said, and walked along the corridor to Alma’s room.
“Oh, Connor,” said Alma, opening her eyes. “I dreamed that you and Bartholomew were working together.”
He took her hand. “We are, Aunt Alma. He works for me. He’s a good investigator.”
She smiled and nodded, her head moving slowly on the pillow. “That’s right. I remember now, Marin Investigations. Are you keeping busy?”
He smiled and nodded. “Yes, Tia Alma, Bartholomew and I are working several cases, but you are more important than any of them.”
Chapter 3
San Pedro, California:
Falsen, a short, stocky man with a bald head, crossed the parking lot of one of those dive bars that line Gaffey Street near the freeway. The sun reflected off the chrome of nine parked choppers and made him squint as he hurried past. As he turned the corner of the dirty brown bar, music thumped through the wall.
Falsen pushed aside the sticky, thick curtain, and stepped into the bar.
He was hardly inside when someone shoved him into a barrel-chested biker with a heavy gut.
The biker spilled his beer. Blood flowed over his lips as he jerked a glass stein from his mouth. The thumping music vanished.
“You broke my fucking tooth,” shouted the biker, his beard hiding most of the skull tattoo on his neck.
“Step aside, friend,” said Falsen. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The biker tried to throw a right hand to Falsen’s jaw, but another man grabbed his arm.
“He works for the Ghrazenkos. Let him pass.”
The biker with the bloody lip muttered something, spit blood and backed away.
Falsen straightened his coat and pushed his way to the bar. As the bartender was hurrying to a back door, Falsen grabbed him. The bartender wore a headband and held his shaking hands in front of his face.
“I didn’t do nothing. I don’t want no trouble with the Ghrazenkos.” He flinched.
Falsen shoved a photograph into his face. “I’m looking for her. You seen her?”
The bartender swore he had not seen the woman. Falsen released the man and walked to the exit.
He had just pushed through the curtain and stepped out into the sunlight when his phone vibrated, and he reached into his pocket.
The first line of the text was an address. The second line read: Tasha X. Men with her X. X meant his employer wanted that person killed. Falsen had never seen his boss order such a flurry of killings. The next shipment, he realized, must be very important to warrant such extreme measures. It was rumored that Teddy Ghrazenko, the son of the crime family himself, was involved wit
h this shipment.
Falsen scrolled through photos of Tasha, and found the one of her playing in the snow. He touched her face, dropped the phone into a pocket, and drove to the address.
It was one of those apartment blocks near the harbor where tenants were constantly coming and going. That would be good, he thought. He’d be just another face to forget.
After parking on a hill and watching the building for half an hour, he walked up the driveway between two buildings, looked around the parking lot and searched for the door he wanted. When he found it, he removed a pair of surgical gloves from a back pocket.
Falsen touched the knife clipped to his belt, reached into his pocket and held the revolver for a moment. He inhaled deeply, telling himself not to think about the things Tasha had whispered during passionate moments.
He twisted the doorknob with slow, cautious turns, a fraction of an inch at a time. When the latch clicked, he opened the door slightly, grabbed the warning bell before it jingled, and entered the hallway, crouching and staring into the darkness, listening for the slightest sound.
Down the hallway he saw a muslin curtain. From the other side of the curtain he heard a man's voice. Tasha answered. As her voice aroused memories, Falsen stood still and shook his head.
“Your boss is weak,” said a man behind him.
Another man stepped through the curtain and adjusted a pair of brass knuckles over a fist. Falsen blinked a few times and looked into the cold eyes of the street thug who stood smiling and adjusting the metal band over his fist.
“So, this is the enforcer everyone is afraid of, the famous Mr. Falsen,” said the man, twisting the shiny brass.
“There’s only two of you. That’s not enough.” Falsen spit on the guy’s leg, grabbed the knife from his belt, and raised his arms into a boxer stance, head tucked behind his arms, the knife held firmly in one hand.
“My friends are taking care of your woman.” The guy with spit on his leg smiled and jabbed, one hand and then the other, quick punches.
The brass knuckles scrapped Falsen’s arms and tore his scalp. Blood flowed down his face.
When the punches came less frequently, Falsen moved in, shoved the knife up under the guy’s chin and twisted it, felt the resistance of the windpipe and vertebrae against the blade. A quick thrust and the guy dropped.
“Help!” screamed Tasha.
Something struck him hard across the shoulder, and Falsen turned, leaning into the damaged shoulder, pain shooting from his shoulder to his toes.
The guy behind him was tall and thin with shoulder length white hair.
Falsen jumped back and crashed against the wall. Blood flowed into his eyes, and he wiped his face. In his pocket he found the little revolver and fired twice through his coat.
The first shot exploded the thin man’s kneecap. The assailant wobbled and tried to swing the club. The second shot created a small red explosion in the middle of his chest. The thin man staggered, dropped to the floor and sighed.
“Falsen, there’s two men in here,” shouted Tasha.
He heard a slap, and Tasha screamed.
“If you come through that curtain, I’ll kill her,” said a man. “Tell your boss to stop that next shipment, and I’ll let her live.”
Falsen backed up a couple of steps and charged through the curtain with the might and momentum of a full-back bursting through a defensive line. He ran straight into a gunman, lifted him off his feet, and smashed him against the wall. The knife cut through the guy’s abdomen and stuck an inch deep into the wall behind him.
The man who’d been barking orders was crouched behind Tasha. He aimed and fired a big revolver.
One of the shots took a piece out of Falsen’s shoulder. It felt as though he’d been hit on the elbow with a hammer. The arm froze. He released the knife and fell to the floor. Laying on his side, Falsen reached over with his left hand, and fired the .22 beneath the bed, at the guy’s feet. Falsen emptied his weapon, firing one shot after the other.
He got lucky. One of the shots blew out the guy’s ankle, and the man crashed to the floor.
Falsen rolled onto his back and supported his good shoulder against the bed. Lurching about, he climbed to his feet and hobbled to other side of the bed. Wounded and shaking and without the use of one arm, he pulled the gunman to his feet and shoved the knife up under his chin.
The gunman dropped, smearing the wall with blood.
Falsen kicked the gun from his hand, sat on the edge of the bed and cut the zip ties that held Tasha to the chair. The black plastic ties were stretched thin over her thick arms. The joints in the chair legs had been pulled apart with Tasha’s fighting. A few more minutes, thought Falsen, and his big, stout woman would have broken free and knocked a couple of the men around.
“Oh, Baby,” said Tasha. “Don’t pass out. Oh, look at your face, your shoulder. You’re bleeding badly.” She slid forward on the chair and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”
He dropped his head forward. “I got the order to kill you,” he told her, “but I have my own plan. I’m going to take over Saunders’s organization. I can sell Ghrazenko’s artwork without Saunders. We’ll move away and live happy on the money. Is that a good plan? Do you want to move away with me, Tash’?”
“Oh, yes Baby, let’s move far away,” she pleaded. “Let’s go before Saunders finds out I’m alive.”
They walked arm in arm across the apartment to the back door.
“I’m going to burn this place down. By the time Saunders finds out that you’re not here, it’ll be too late. Wait outside.”
Flames had engulfed half the room by the time Falsen left the building. Once they were a few blocks away, he took out his cell phone, dialed a number, and said: “I sent the money. Set the plan in motion. Follow the schedule exactly, or I’ll kill you myself.”
Chapter 4
Long Beach, California
The arteries of the city were filling with cars. Most of them were heading toward the freeway to begin the slow roll to LA or Orange County. Connor hadn’t driven far through the morning rush hour traffic, when he realized he needed caffeine. In the parking lot of the first Starbucks he saw, he pulled into an empty space and dialed a number.
Bartholomew answered after the fifth ring. “Am I late for work?”
“No,” said Connor. “How much do you remember about your life before you came to live with me and dad?”
“It’s six in the morning and you ask about that?”
Connor made a half-hearted laugh in his throat. “I know it’s early, but Tia Alma called last night and was going on about dad and hidden money. I think you’d like to be involved with what I’m about to do.”
“What you’re about to do? Wait a minute, big brother. I’ve heard you use that phrase before. Now, don’t be going out and starting a fight with the neighbor like you did in high school.”
“Listen Bart, we both want to know what made you and Alma move in. You blocked it out, and Dad’s gone. Tia Alma is slipping away. Digging into her story might be the only way we get answers.”
“You have to let it go.”
“I can’t. I found something. I’m asking you as a friend to help me.”
“My day is booked. I have to finish the Mantzberg case. Wait, what day is it? Oh yeah, I also have to referee a basketball game at 10.”
“Good. Finish that case and get a check. The office rent is due. Maybe I can referee the game for you.”
“Okay, Boss. If Tia Alma is involved, I’ll back you up,” said Bartholomew. “Where should I meet you?”
“The Starbucks on Bellflower and Spring. I’ll tell you what’s going on when you get here.”
“Give me 30 minutes.”
Connor hung up and tossed his phone to the passenger seat, then opened his door and grabbed the phone and headed in to get a Venti size coffee.
He was sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, watching women with tattoo sleeves, students with laptops, and
a homeless man who walked directly to the bathroom and came out fifteen minutes later with a toothbrush wrapped in a plastic bag, water dripping from his slicked-back hair. Connor was enjoying the people-watching while sipping his dark roast, until a tall young man with a goat beard and a wool cap pulled down to his glasses, blocked his view.
“Can you move to that seat over there, so I can plug in?” The guy held a laptop and pointed to an electrical outlet.
“I’m staying here,” said Connor, setting his coffee on the table.
“But I need—”
“You heard him,” said a large black man.
The student looked the black guy up and down, backed up a step, then turned and went to his seat.
“What’s up?” asked Bartholomew.
“You been pumping iron again?”
“Wait, I can’t think before coffee.” Bartholomew walked to the line at the counter. Five minutes later he returned, glanced around, and answered the question as if he had never left. “I started boxing again, and training hard. What’s this about?”
“Give me your phone.” Connor held out his hand.
Bartholomew smiled, shook his head, and handed over his phone. “I see your PTSD is making you paranoid as ever. Still having those dreams?”
Connor took his phone, placed it on top of his own, and shoved them both in his blazer pocket. “You call it paranoia. I call it being careful.”
“Why am I here?”
“I got a call from Tia Alma.”
Bartholomew nodded and tore the top off two packets of sugar, poured them into his coffee, stirred with a wooden stick. “Well, that’s nothing new, is it? She’s always going on about something.”
“Yeah.” Connor sipped his coffee. “This was different. She mentioned a secret about dad, and a fortune hidden away.”
“Oh boy.”
Connor set the newspaper from the nursing home on Bartholomew’s leg. “It’s different because of this. I think that photograph jarred her memory. She told me she had written down the whole story, including where to find the money, in a notebook. The notebook is missing. A kid named Barry was working when she was writing it down. He called in sick and left the facility in the middle of the night.”