Over The Edge: A Short Joe Beck Thriller, page 1
OVER THE EDGE
A SHORT JOE BECK THRILLER
ALASTAIR BROWN
OVER THE EDGE
A SHORT JOE BECK THRILLER
Published in 2021 by Ablaze Books
Copyright © Alastair Brown, 2021
Alastair Brown has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual business establishments, actual events, or actual locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission in writing of the publisher or author. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, establishments, and institutions referenced in this work of fiction.
Find out more about Alastair Brown by visiting:
www.authoralastairbrown.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
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ONE
I went to Daytona to lay low, to relax and to live, to sit and do nothing but spend the money I had built up lately, and sap up the sun's rays while allowing the bullet hole in my left shoulder I got from the gunshot wound in Las Vegas to heal. I didn't go to Daytona to watch a child get snatched from her mother's arms on the city’s main street or to get caught up in trying to find her before it would surely be too late. But that's exactly what happened.
It was Tuesday morning, nearing late May, a few minutes after eleven o'clock, and a hot ninety degrees. The sky was blue and clear, and the sun was blazing. I was sitting in an open-air, street-side bar on Atlantic Avenue. I was sitting at a table, under a parasol that was open overhead, on a black leather booth enjoying a beer under the soothing cover of the shade. I was wearing a black polo shirt, some navy-blue jeans, and plain black sneakers, and I had a pair of dark sunglasses across my eyes. I could feel the sandy sea breeze brushing on the back of my neck and I could feel the heat in the air licking against my skin. I could watch people walking down the street nearby and I could see the reflection of the sun beyond them, glowing in the windows of the apparel stores across the road. Life was good.
I was sitting alone, tending to a bottle of Bud, watching some sports on a black flat-screen TV that was bolted to a bracket on the stem of the parasol by the bar area to my right. It was a re-run of a football game where the Buccaneers beat the Bengals. It felt good being able to pass the day doing nothing in particular. I drank my beer and casually watched what was going on.
Before long, the brown glass bottle in my hand was nearing empty, the beer inside becoming warmer than you'd like, its level inching toward the bottom edge of the bottle's red label. I killed it with another gulp and gestured to the waiter to send me another.
He was an Italian-looking dude. The only guy who seemed to work there. He was tall and thin with jet-black, gelled hair, and tanned skin. He was dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. He nodded from behind the bar and brought another one out on a round black plastic tray, placing it down on the table in front of me along with a small steel tray that held a white rectangular piece of paper.
“That’s eight forty-five,” he said.
I nodded and pulled my wallet from the pocket of my jeans, slipped a ten from the bill slot, and dropped it onto the little steel plate. “Keep the change,” I said and lifted the fresh bottle of beer, and took a large gulp. It was ice cold and refreshing, soothing on a man's soul. I savored the texture of the bubbles as they swooshed past my tongue.
The waiter nodded his thanks and lifted the steel tray with the cash and the empty bottle from the table and headed off to ring it through the cash register before serving an old guy who was sitting almost inside with his back to me on a stool at the bar.
I took another drink and looked up at the TV screen some more. The Buccs wide receiver danced through the Bengals defensive line and weaved his way to the end zone while a gun-gray Dodge Ram cruised by on the other side out on the street. I caught a glimpse of it in the corner of my left eye and looked over.
There were three young women sitting in the back of the truck. They had blonde hair and white vest tops, sunglasses on their eyes, and bottles of beer in their hands. They had smiles on their faces. One of them flashed me her rack. It wasn't a bad view, a bit like looking at two suntanned cantaloupes bouncing back and forth. She shook them side to side and hollered as they drove past. You've got to love the land of the free.
I grinned and took another drink, and watched them disappear down the road into the collage of people along the sidewalk and into the haze shimmering further along the way down the street as they drove out of sight.
Nothing as spectacular would follow. Just a stream of people in the cars and some footfall along the sidewalk in front of them. People coming and going, heading left and heading right. Men, women, and families. The young and the old, the lazy and the active. Even one woman making heavy work of walking about nine dogs.
As I took another gulp of beer, another woman slowly shuffled into view. She was young-looking and slim, maybe five-four and of average build with tanned skin. She was wearing dark pants over white sandals and a gray sleeveless top over that. Her hair was dark, tied back in a ponytail over her head, a pair of black sunglasses over her eyes. In her arms, she was carrying a baby. It was wearing a pink onesie with a hood up over its head and it was resting against her chest, its little head tucked into her right shoulder.
I presumed it was a little girl, going by the color of the clothes. Other than a brief smile, I never gave them much thought as I lifted my bottle of Bud to neck what was left of my beer and get back to casually watching some football. That is until the minivan screeched in.
It happened in a flash. One moment, the woman was strolling along, carrying her baby in her arms; the next, a black minivan appeared from almost nowhere on the road, its tires screeching to a halt by the edge of the curb. It was all black with tinted windows. Next, its side door swung open and a man emerged from within. For a second, he paused in the doorway, crouched over and dressed head to toe in black, a black ski mask over his head. He quickly jumped out onto the sidewalk in the way of the woman and the child and grabbed the baby from her mother's arms.
Thinking fast, relying on instinct, the woman put up a fight. She screamed and yelled for help and tried to grab the man by his black sweater. He pushed her to the ground and, holding the baby tight in his arms, jumped back into the minivan before the woman had even hit the deck. Then, the door was pulled shut behind him and the vehicle got off its mark. With another hellish screech, it sped off down the street.
"What the fuck," I yelled as it all went down. I laid the beer bottle down on the table and stood up from the booth but they were gone by the time I was on my feet. I tried to get a read on its license plate, but it was gone too quickly and my view was blocked by somebody standing between me and the minivan’s rear. I rushed over to the woman's aid as she lay wailing on the scorching-hot sidewalk.
"Hey, Ma'am," I yelled and leaned over toward her. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, visibly in shock, tears streaming down her face from behind her dark shades. She removed her sunglasses and wiped some tears from her bulging, sad eyes.
A couple of passers-by had stopped where they were, looking around, pointing at her, pointing at me, pointing down the road.
“Don’t just stand there,” I yelled. “Somebody call nine-one-one. And help this woman up, for fuck sake.”
The people jumped into action and moved closer toward her.
I looked down the road at the minivan speeding off in the distance, breathing hard from what had just happened. I turned around and saw the woman now up on her feet, an old woman by her side.
The mother of the taken child was shaking with shock and crying with grief. "My baby! My baby. They just took my baby!" she cried. “They just took my baby. Please, help. Somebody, please, help me.”
Down the street, I saw the minivan make a sharp left at what looked like an intersection with another road and negotiate the traffic to turn off somewhere to the left and disappear from sight. I shook my head.
Bastards.
The woman was still wailing where she was stood. "My beautiful little baby. They've taken my little girl."
I walked over and put my palm on her bare left shoulder. Her skin felt warm to the touch. “We’re going to get your baby back,” I said to her.
She just shook her head and cried.
I looked at the others around her. “Has somebody called the cops?”
“They’re on the way, man,” a male voice said.
I nodded and looked into the bar I was sitting in. The waiter was looking over. I made eye contact with the guy and waved him over.
He dashed toward us.
I gestured toward the woman. “Get her a seat and get her glass of water. Try to reassure her until the police arrive.”
The guy nodded. “Absolutely.”
I looked back at the woman and frowned. She was in hysterics. I raised my sunglasses and placed my hands on her shoulders and looked her in her grieving eyes. "Listen to me," I said. "My name is Joe Beck. I'm a private detective. I saw what just happened and I'm going to do what I can to get your daughter back, you hear?"
She just looked at me and cried, managing a brief nod.
"I'm going to help you out," I said to her. "But first, I need you to take a seat in this bar until the cops arrive." I gestured toward the waiter. "This man will get you a seat. Sit tight until the police come. OK?”
She nodded once more, wiping the tears from her eyes.
I looked at the waiter and smiled my thanks. Then, I fished my wallet from my pocket and drew my card from one of the slots. It was the one with my name and number that I give out for people to be able to give me a call. "Here's my card," I said to him. "When she calms down, give this to her. Tell her to use it to contact me with her name and address."
The guy nodded and took it from my hand. Then, gently, one hand on her back and the other gesturing the way to walk, he began to show the grieving woman to a seat next to the booth I had been sitting at.
“It’s going to be all right," I said, offering the woman some reassurance, before turning around to take off down the street.
I lowered my sunglasses back over my eyes and jogged along the sidewalk, passing the windows of the stores nearby, looking left and right, up at the space above their awnings where their signs met their buildings' roofs. I was looking for cameras, anything that might have picked up what had just taken place.
As I jogged along the sun-drenched path, people turned their heads to look. They were useless bystanders, either lacking the initiative to take an active role in what was having to be done or lacking in the empathy to care and give a shit that the woman’s life had just been turned on its head and realize that she was in need of a serious hand.
Further along the road, I saw an exterior camera on the wall of a building across the street, above the sign for the lingerie store that the place housed. I crossed the road between the traffic and winced as my wounded shoulder began to throb. It was still raw and tender and it didn’t take well to being on the move. I brushed the pain off and ducked under the awning above the store’s entrance, away from the sun, and stepped in through the door.
TWO
I walked in through the door to a soothing blast of cool air from the air conditioning unit overhead and racks and racks of lingerie sitting on a beige carpet. I saw everything from corsets to lace bras, granny pants to skimpy thongs. I also saw surprised faces and judgmental gazes from the women browsing the store. They clearly hadn’t expected a rugged, six-five, muscular behemoth of a man like me to just tear in from the street.
I saw a big glass service counter ahead, a female shop assistant standing behind it. She looked young, maybe in her mid-twenties, and she was slim. She had tanned skin and long straight brown hair. Like the shoppers, she was looking straight at me, a puzzled expression on her face. I saw the questions in her eyes.
I removed my sunglasses and walked over, navigating past the women in the store and a couple of pieces that caught the deltoid of my shoulder as I brushed past. I caught the scent of her spicy perfume as I approached.
“May I help you?” she asked, confused.
“Yeah,” I replied and nodded. "I'm a private detective. And there's just been an abduction out on the street. A child has been taken."
The bewildered look on the shop attendant’s attractive face quickly became one of distress. A few of the other women browsing the racks behind me let out gasps and somebody said ‘What?’ I could feel their eyes burning the back of my head and sense their ears attuned to what would roll off my lips.
“My God,” said the shop attendant and she scrunched up her face.
"I saw it happen right in front of me."
'Terrible,' somebody said.
'Awful,' said another.
I heard somebody else name somebody and start a rumor.
“I need your help,” I said to the shop attendant, ignoring what was being said behind me.
"Of course,” she replied and nodded. What do you need?"
"You've got a camera out front with a view of the street,” I said. “I saw it coming in. I need to know if it works.”
The shop assistant nodded. "It does."
"Good," I replied. "Can you access the footage?”
She nodded again. “It’s on the computer, in the office, through the back.”
“I need to see it."
"Follow me," the woman replied and got on the move. She hurried out from behind the counter and led me past a trough of bras and thongs marked down to 99 cents to an unmarked white door by the far end of the store. She pushed it open and led me to a narrow concrete-floored hallway with white walls and no air conditioning.
It’s interesting how the areas where customers see are done up like a curated paradise, while the staff-only zones are made up like destitute shitholes.
We walked down the hall a few paces, sweat forming on my neck, brow, and back, and stepped into a small, windowless, carpeted office with a black fabric swivel chair behind a wall-facing desk, a computer sitting on its surface. The woman sat down on the seat and grabbed the mouse with her right hand. In a few clicks, the live feed of the street out front was shown on the computer's screen. It was grainy and grayscale but as good as we would get. It showed the road and sidewalk from a sort of aerial view.
"Can you back this up four or five minutes?" I asked her, wiping the sweat from my brow. The little room was even hotter than the hallway.
"Yeah," she replied and clicked the mouse some more.
The image on the screen flickered and changed, its timestamp rolling back to 11:07.
"Is this what you need?"
"There or thereabouts," I said, not once lifting my eyes from the screen. As the seconds elapsed in real-time, I saw the same cars pass as before, then the black minivan appearing outside the store on the road. "Pause it there," I said.
The woman clicked the mouse and the footage on the screen froze to a still. It showed the black minivan at a standstill in traffic, a white sedan in front of it, and a gray SUV behind, going by the shades of the vehicles in the black-and-white footage.
“Can you zoom in on that vehicle?” I asked her.
She nodded and clicked the mouse a few times.
The image on the screen zoomed in a tad on the minivan. I studied it for a beat. Through the front windshield, the only window without a tint, I made out the outline of somebody behind the wheel. It was little more than a gray smudge with light hair. I figured it was a woman, that her hair was long and blonde. I couldn’t be sure about her ethnicity, though, other than she wasn’t black. Her face also looked to be obscured by the sun visor.
"Can you zoom in any more?" I asked.
The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, this is as best as it gets."
I winced. "Can you move it back a few seconds?"
The woman clicked the mouse once, twice, a third time, a fourth.
The minivan inched backward on the road, moving further along it to the frames right with each click.
"Stop!" I said.
She clicked it once more to freeze the footage in its tracks.
It showed a similar view of the minivan as before, except this time with a little more road between it and sedan. In the gap, squinting my eyes, I managed to get a read on a license plate affixed to the minivan's front bumper. It looked like 'V14 5P...' something. I made a mental note.
"Can you let the footage play?" I asked. “Forward this time.”
The woman clicked the mouse again and the still shot came to life. The minivan moved forward along the street toward the left of the screen.
"Freeze it again."
The woman clicked the mouse and stopped the vehicle rolling along the screen in its tracks. Its rear-left side was now visible in the shot and I noticed sun damage to the paint on its roof and the top of its body above the side window. It was a sort of white bubbling, some of it thicker at points than others, leaving it looking like burnt ash.
