BAD TIME TO BE IN IT

by David Burnsworth

  Brack looked at Crome. “I’m on my way to you along with a friend named Mick Crome.”

  “Mick Crome? He’s a friend of yours?”

  Crome was about to speak when Pelton held up a hand to cut him off.

  “Yep.”

  The detective asked, “Is he there with you now? He’s involved with this missing-person case?”

  “It’s his girlfriend.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He’s on his way here, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t give a rip if he’s listening or not. Can you control him?”

  Pelton smiled. “I’m not going to say I’ll be able to do that.”

  “You almost went to jail more than once,” Williams said. “Riding with Mick Crome will turn that almost into a definite, you know.”

  “I get that impression.”

  “What about his partner, Carraway?”

  “He’s stuck here. The case has a few tentacles, one of which is in Myrtle Beach. The other is here and it includes the mayor.”

  “No kidding?” Williams asked. “And you believe they’re linked? Anyone else think that? Any cops?”

  “There’s nothing you would be able to call evidence,” Brack said.

  “But you and Crome are heading this way?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “We leave in ten minutes.”

  Crome said, “I’m going alone, Jarhead.”

  Brack covered the phone so Williams couldn’t hear him say, “The hell you are.”

  Williams said, “Did you just throw that back at him? You know he’s been known to kill people.”

  Uncovering the phone, Brack said, “I got this. We’ll call you en route.” He ended the call.

  Crome stepped to Brack, his greater height caused Brack to have to look up. “Just what do you think you got here?”

  “You,” the kid said. “This situation.”

  “You’re funny, you know that? If you hadn’t found Hope that one time, I’d stuff you into that trash can over there.”

  “Put it back in your pants and let’s get going.”

  Crome said, “I been around here longer than you, sonny. I got sources old enough to be your granddaddy.”

  “And they’ve been such a great help so far, let me tell you,” Brack said.

  Crome balled his fists. This kid did not back down for anything.

  Blu stepped in. “We don’t have time for this. Crome, ride with him. Either that or fight it out.”

  Crome chuckled. “Wouldn’t be much of a fight.”

  “Yeah?” Blu said. “Personally I think he’s crazier than you are. Plus he’s only trying to help, which means you’re the one acting like an idiot.”

  After a few more seconds of the stare down, Crome stepped away. “You really don’t give a lick, do you, kid?”

  “No one ever accused me of that before.”

  Crome headed for the door. “Come on. You can drive. I need a nap.”

  Friday morning

  So much for a nap. Crome looked over at the speedometer, saw it crest ninety, and then took in Pelton’s focus on the road, his hands at ten and two on the wheel, and thought this kid was crazier than he was.

  “So who’s this detective source of yours in Myrtle Beach?” Crome asked.

  “He saved my life a few years ago. Doesn’t concern himself too much with the gray area.”

  “No kidding?” Crome asked. He hadn’t met too many cops who wouldn’t collar him for suspicion of an illegal act, i.e. the gray area.

  A squirrel ran out in front of the car. Crome barely had time to register it when the kid made a gentle correction with the steering.

  Crome waited for the inevitable thump underneath but it didn’t come. He looked back and saw the animal run off the road, down the berm, and into the woods. Most people would have jerked the wheel to try to avoid it, killed the animal anyway, and wiped out the car in one shot. The kid had a coolness about him. Blu had said he’d been a race car driver in a previous life.

  To keep his mind off his lack of control at the moment, Crome asked, “So what do you like to shoot?”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Pelton said, “Forty-fives mostly. You?”

  “Nine millimeter Glocks.”

  “Those are nice,” the kid said, “but I like things a little more old school.”

  “Bikes and music, I agree with you,” Crome said. “But firepower, I want the newest, baddest thing I can get my hands on.”

  “I heard you were more of a leg-breaker,” Pelton said.

  Crome chuckled. “Yeah, well that’s only close up. I’d rather it not get that close, truth be told.”

  “Hmm.”

  They blew past the sign saying they’d just entered the Myrtle Beach city limits. Pelton let off the gas and let the compression from the five-liter engine of his Mustang slow them down. Crome preferred original Mustangs made before catalytic converters but this one was meaner than anything he could remember.

  Pelton wheeled his car onto the main drag through South Myrtle and parked at a tourist trap bar and grill.

  They got out of the car and walked inside.

  Crome scanned the bar patrons and his eyes landed on the only one who could be the cop—a short, stalky guy with a receding hairline. The cop gave them a wave and Pelton led the way over to him.

  The cop stood and shook the kid’s hand. Then he turned his attention to Crome.

  “Jim Wilson. I talked with Dorman. He sends his regards.”

  That caught Crome off guard. He’d heard the local cops hated Bert’s Bar and had wanted to shut it down for some time now. To hear one acknowledge that he’d spoken with Bert Dorman, the owner, was something new. Maybe Pelton was right. Maybe this detective really didn’t care about the gray areas. That’s what Bert’s Bar was, one big gray area.

  He shook the detective’s hand. “Mick Crome.”

  To Pelton, the detective said, “Did you really have to cruise ninety-five the whole way up here? You know how many favors I had to cash in just to keep my buddies from hauling you to jail?”

  The kid smiled. “I knew you had me covered.”

  Wilson grunted.

  Crome realized the kid really did have some pull. A license to speed was not something easily come by.

  With a wave of his hand, Wilson invited them to sit at his table. “Thirsty?”

  A waiter came over.

  Pelton ordered an iced tea.

  Crome got black coffee.

  The waiter left and Wilson said, “Word is Maureen was taken by someone not from here.”

  “How’d you come by that?” Pelton asked.

  Wilson said, “I personally rolled all my sources. They’re all saying the same thing. It’s someone from out of town because they don’t have a clue. These are people who know everything about everything. If a new cook sets up a meth lab, they know about it before the burner gets lit. They know when the fresh-off-the-bus sixteen-year-old turns her first trick. And they know within minutes which junkie just offed himself with a hot shot.”

  “What else do they know about this?” Crome asked.

  Wilson smiled. “They know that if you find whoever kidnapped Maureen before the police do, you will kill them.”

  Crome thought about that.

  “Look,” Wilson said, leaning in, “some of them are people you know. You might not call them friends, but you know them. Even the ones who got their fingers broken by you are saying the same thing. None of them would show you any disrespect. They all fear you.”

  “You blowing smoke?” Pelton asked.

  “Nope,” Wilson said. “Your friend here has got quite a reputation in these parts. All over the damn state, re
ally. No one who knows him would cross him for no reason. Some might do it for money, but it would take a hefty sum.”

  The waiter dropped off their drinks and left.

  Crome took a swig of his coffee. It tasted burnt but at least it was hot. Not that iced crap Blu liked. He said, “So where should we be looking?”

  Wilson replied, “I would have told you to talk to Skull, but your partner shot him down last year.”

  That made Crome chuckle. “That he did. So who’s running things in the state, now?”

  “With Skull out of the picture, the gangs have taken over. The Columbia Police have their hands full. Same with Charleston, although it’s pretty much moved to the north side of town there.”

  “What about here?” Pelton asked.

  Wilson sat back and looked at Crome. “If you want to know who’s running things here, I suggest you have another talk with Dorman.”

  That was what they drove all the way up here for?

  Crome said, “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “No,” Wilson said. “I have something else.”

  “What’s that?” Pelton asked.

  “We found Maureen’s car. I figured you might want to look it over.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday mid-morning

  Crome had a notion to strangle the detective. What kind of person played a game like that in the middle of a hostage situation? And that’s exactly what they were in. Maureen and Harmony and the murdered mayor. What the hell?

  And before Crome could rip the man’s head off, Pelton leaned in almost face to face with his supposed detective friend. “This isn’t particularly funny, Wilson.”

  The detective gave a smirk. “No, it isn’t. And I’m not trying to play a game here.”

  Crome said, “It sure sounds like you are to me.”

  “Yeah?” The detective looked at Crome. “Well, I’m sorry about that. But what I’m about to give you could get me fired.”

  The kid didn’t respond. Neither did Crome.

  Wilson stood. “Follow me.” They followed him outside to his unmarked Charger. “Get in.”

  Pelton gave Crome the front seat and didn’t crack any jokes about age before beauty or anything like that. In fact, no one said anything as Wilson drove them down the main tourist drag of Myrtle Beach, moving with the summer traffic.

  Nothing about it made sense to Crome. They should be working around the cops, not with them. They should be hauling ass in any direction that gets them closer to finding the women. Logic would say never in a million years should they be riding in a cop car to the police impound.

  Except Wilson didn’t take them to the impound or even the police station. After less than ten minutes crawling along in traffic, he pulled into a Public Parking lot, pressed the button at the entrance, received a ticket, waited until the gate raised, and then drove in.

  Pelton said, “What the—?”

  Crome spotted Maureen’s ten-year-old Honda ahead. Next to it was a spot blocked off by orange cones.

  Wilson pulled up to the open spot and put the car in park. He got out and moved the cones. Crome got out, opened the back door for Pelton, and both of them walked over to Maureen’s car.

  The detective said, “Hold up.”

  They stopped.

  He said, “Let me give you some latex gloves. The car hasn’t been processed yet. And before you ask, there are no cameras covering the lot.”

  It finally sunk in what was going on. The detective was giving them first crack at the car. However he’d been able to swing it, Wilson was acting as if he were one of them and not like an officer of the law. Whatever Crome thought about the man, it all vanished. This guy was as unorthodox as they came.

  They watched Wilson park his car in the saved spot. He got out and opened the trunk.

  Crome took an offered pair of gloves from Wilson, slipped them on, and walked over to Maureen’s car.

  The summer sun was hot and the surrounding buildings blocked them from feeling the ocean breeze.

  “Detective?” Crome asked. “You got a couple screwdrivers?”

  “You know how to get in?” the detective asked.

  “I do,” Crome said.

  The detective gave him a smile as if saying, “Of course you’d know.”

  Crome didn’t care. In fact, he wouldn’t care if the detective insulted his dearly departed mother at this point. The gift he was giving them trumped anything else at the moment.

  Taking the offered tools, Crome pried the window open, slid his hand in, and opened the door.

  The alarm started honking. The car was a decade old, but even ten-year-old Hondas had theft-deterrent systems.

  Crome bent down in the driver’s footwell and yanked out a couple wires, silencing the shriek.

  “I’m impressed,” the detective said. “You missed your calling.”

  Crome grinned. “Blu and I used to work repo back when we started out.” It was those jobs that kept them in business when nothing else was walking through the door.

  Wilson said, “Hell, Brack. Between your wife and your friend here, nothing is secure.”

  Blu had told Crome that Pelton’s wife was an expert at picking locks and had taught the kid, who apparently was a fast study. The problem was everything today was electronic. Breaching the mechanical systems was the easy part. It was the circuitry that was the real challenge. Crome had bypassed the lock and silenced the alarm, but they wouldn’t be able to start Maureen’s car. It was quite dead.

  Before he did anything else, Crome gave the car a thorough look.

  Pelton and Wilson held back, letting him take it in.

  Nothing appeared out of place at first glance. Maureen took care of the things she owned and her car was no exception. It was old and worn but the interior was clean and vacuumed and she did not let trash accumulate.

  So, when his hand stumbled across a bag underneath the driver’s seat, he knew it shouldn’t have been there and on any normal day wouldn’t have been.

  It was a bag from a big-chain drug store. He pulled it out and examined it. Inside were a receipt and an empty box of pills women took for cramps.

  Wilson said, “What have you got?”

  Crome held up the bag. “There’s one of these places not too far from Maureen’s trailer. She doesn’t leave trash in her car. I’d say this was from the last time she drove it.”

  “We should check their cameras,” Pelton said. “See if they tell us anything. Is the receipt in the bag? It’ll give us a time stamp.”

  Friday, mid-morning

  Blu had a lot on his mind. Crome was barely holding it together. Maureen was still missing and it had been five days. Harmony got caught up in something and had also disappeared. The mayor washing up on IOP Beach may or may not be connected to Maureen’s disappearance. And Billie had not given him an answer on his proposal, nor even returned his calls and texts in over a month.

  Overall, most things were not going well. He worried about the missing women. He worried about his friend. He worried about Brack Pelton getting involved. He worried about Brack’s wife. He worried about Tess. And Patricia. And Billie. And he worried about his daughter. That was a lot for one man to handle at one time.

  Tess sat with him at the rooftop bar of the Pirate’s Cove, both of them facing the ocean. Tourists covered the beach below with a layer of brightly colored towels, folding chairs, and large umbrellas. The atmosphere was one of American optimism, but Blu didn’t feel any of it at the moment.

  Shelby snored softly at Tess’ feet.

  A line of five pelicans glided overhead, momentarily distracting Blu. It had made him happy when a colony of the magnificent birds nested in the marsh by his home last summer. He spent many mornings waiting for the eggs to turn into hatchlings.

  Paige brought him back to realit
y when from behind the bar, she asked, “You heard from Brack?”

  “No,” Blu said.

  Apparently Blu didn’t have a monopoly on worrying. Paige, youthful and beautiful, had begun to show a few lines of concern on her forehead. Blu had the impression that being around Brack Pelton would do that to anyone. Being in business with him might even be worse.

  But, then again, Blu had Mick Crome. When he didn’t disappear for three years on a drunken, violent escapade, Crome defied his friend, tried to go his own way, and only failed at his attempt to alienate those around him.

  Paige stood facing them, her arms folded across her chest. As almost an afterthought, Blu had the impression she wanted more than a one-word answer. He didn’t have it.

  “They’re bound to call sooner or later,” Tess offered.

  It didn’t sound convincing to Blu.

  Blu took a hit on his vaporizer. Until Maureen had gone missing, he’d been weaning himself off of the device. His goal had been to be smoke and vapor free by the end of the year, but it didn’t look like he was going to make it.

  Tess took a sip of her virgin Bloody Mary.

  Paige looked around at all the bottles surrounding her. “I need a drink.”

  Blu’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, didn’t recognize the number, and answered.

  A familiar female voice said, “Blu?”

  It was Harmony.

  Chapter Thirty

  Crome stayed back and watched Detective Wilson badge his way to access the video from the drug store. Normally a warrant was required, but the store manager, a thin woman about Crome’s age who smelled of cigarettes and spoke with a husky voice, seemed to take a liking to Pelton. The kid, to his credit, played it up nicely, thanking the lady profusely and hinting about maybe having to return to view other videos.

  The men crowded around the woman in a small office in the back of the store and watched the computer screen as she loaded the footage from the night on the receipt. They were interested in viewing the cameras inside the store and the parking lot.

  The first video covered the register area. After catching a few glimpses of Maureen walking around the store, it showed her make her purchase with a twenty-dollar-bill and then walk out. At this angle, there didn’t appear to be anyone suspicious following her.