The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 44
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
“Mostly it connects Hoyle to Alan Caine, who owed money to Mitchell. The cops can ask stoolies all over town and get the same story of Hoyle and Mitchell having a falling-out over who knows what. Derner will see to it.”
He shook his head. “Needs more. Gotta cover the ‘who knows what’ part.”
“I’m listening.”
“Caine gambled. You need markers. With the right dates. Mitchell’s name on some, Hoyle’s name on others, and Caine’s signature on them all to clinch it.”
I got him. “Plant ’em where they’ll be found.”
“So the cops figure Hoyle killed the Caines, one for not paying his debts, the other to shut up a witness. This shorts Mitchell out of his marker money. Mitchell kills Hoyle for shorting him. It’s not what happened, but it’s reasonable. Cops like reasonable, don’t they?”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Glad you agree.”
Derner earned his keep that night. He contacted a specialist and had the guy in the office thirty minutes later. Samples of Caine’s writing came from the address book, and we kept it simple. On various types of plain paper and using different pens the forger wrote several IOUs, signed Caine’s name, collected a fee, and left. I don’t think he said ten words and never once asked a question, the perfect mob employee.
Hat over his face, Kroun stretched on the couch and pretended to nap until it was done. “Ready to go?” he asked, standing.
I’d hoped he would stay at the club waiting for his clothes to arrive while I finished things. Despite orders to babysit him, I didn’t want company. “This won’t take long,” I said.
“Good.”
He left the cigars on the table and strode out. I had to follow.
DERNER had called in additional help for this last errand. As I rolled to a slow stop up the street from a battered parking garage, another car turned the corner and pulled in behind me. Kroun went alert, maybe thinking it was cops again, but I told him it was okay, and we got out into the icy air.
Strome, the stone-faced guy who’d been my lieutenant since I’d taken over for Gordy, got out and stood ghost-quiet. He had shot Hoyle the night before, thinking to save my life, and I couldn’t fault him for that. Of course, given the right circumstances, he’d shoot me without a second thought; it was just another job to him.
He glanced once at Kroun and left it at that; apparently Derner had filled him in. Strome gave me a hard look, though. “You okay, Boss?”
That surprised me. “Yeah.”
He nodded, just the once. Granted, the last time he’d seen me—sprayed with Hoyle’s blood and brains—I’d fallen into a seizure, and it had left one hell of an impression.
Best to change the subject. “That girl who was down there…” Hoyle had kidnapped a little cutie who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time during a murder. She’d been in need of a rescue. It was just her hard luck Strome and I were the ones to do it. “Did he hurt her?”
Strome understood what I meant. “She didn’t say, but I don’t think so.”
“How is she?”
He considered, then shrugged. “Blubbed a little, then made me buy her supper and take her home. Guess she’s okay. Dames.” Clearly he found women to be a vast, if not-too-troubling, mystery.
“Let’s wind this up,” I said, taking the lead.
The garage had a tin roof that bucked and banged in the wind. The place was mob-owned; chances favored the vehicles inside were, too. Hoyle had chosen it as an emergency bolt-hole to hide from the world, and it had almost worked. The whole area was empty of foot traffic, and cars passed it by. The surrounding small factories and shops were closed tight. Every city had deserted pockets like this. They look dangerous and lonely after dark, but are often safer than a bank vault simply because no one’s around to make trouble.
We crowded down a short flight of concrete steps to the basement entry, and Strome handed me a set of keys. On our last visit he’d picked the lock to get in.
From the doorway you could see a light on at the far end of an otherwise black basement. I’d not expected that. It was as though Hoyle were waiting for me to return.
Strome hung back to watch the street. I was highly aware of the bloodsmell tainting the freezing air and tried not to take any in as I entered. There was decay in it and the strong odor of something else unpleasant. Kroun followed, looking around and frowning. He’d caught the scent, too.
Ducking to avoid the low ceiling, I trudged the length of the basement to the curtained-off room at the end. Harsh illumination came from a mechanic’s light hung on a nail. The too-bright bulb hurt my eyes and made the shadows just that much blacker. I cast around, trying not to be nervous about it, but no one was hiding anywhere. It felt like we had company, Hoyle’s ghost perhaps. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be a nice one like Myrna.
I told myself to shut the hell up.
One of the mystery smells was from an electric heater I’d left running. It had burned itself out. The rest was from Hoyle when his bowels and bladder had given way in death. He wouldn’t be coming back. The smell of his advancing decay confirmed it. He lay facedown, a hole in the back of his skull. There should have been more blood, but I’d—
“You waiting to sell tickets?” Kroun asked. The top of his hat brushed the low ceiling. He hunched to avoid problems.
There was an old cot against one wall. I shoved the book under the thin pillow.
“Fingerprints,” said Kroun.
Damn. He was right. I’d been careful about wearing gloves so only Alan Caine’s prints were on the brown leather, but it wouldn’t sit right if Hoyle’s were absent.
Hoyle’s left arm was flung wide. It’d have to do.
Even with gloves on I didn’t want to touch him, but it was unavoidable. His arm was heavy and stiff as I lifted it. Rigor would have worn off by now; this was a result of the cold seeping down from outside. If he stayed here, he could freeze right through.
I pressed his fingers to the book and the IOUs, hoping something would stick. He’d not washed since going on the run. I got a few greasy smears no one could miss. Good enough. I left the book on the floor, dropping it so the papers would spill out, sufficiently obvious to catch attention.
Then I backed away, grateful Hoyle’s face had been hidden. Dying was bad enough, but to peg out in a dank, deserted basement where only your killer knew where to find you…
“C’mon, Jack.” Kroun’s voice jarred the silence. His tone was different. Was this his version of concern?
“Yeah, okay.” I followed him out, leaving the light on. No need to look back; that tableau would be in my head for a long, long time.
Strome would make a phone call to the cops sometime in the morning. He’d ask if they wanted to know where Mitchell stashed Hoyle’s body. The question would make sense to Merrifield and Garza.
Soon after, the cops would give the place a good going-over, find what I wanted them to find and more that I didn’t. Along with the bullet entry and exit holes, the coroner would certainly note the ripped flesh on Hoyle’s throat and wonder at the lack of blood in the corpse. I’d been clumsy and crazy with hunger, but if the guy was good at his job, he might determine the damage had been caused by something akin to human teeth. There was nothing I could do about it. Hoyle’s body was needed to set up a false trail to Mitchell, and that was more important. The authorities would be more inclined to think “mad-dog cannibal killer” than “vampire.” When working as a reporter, I’d seen stranger things while covering the crime beat.
I emerged into the fresh air, thankful to be clear of that claustrophobic tomb. What I’d done there was shameful and would always be with me, but I had gotten good at distracting myself from the darker memories swarming in my skull. In time, the worst of them would fade.
That was what I told myself.
KROUN and I headed back to the Nightcrawler. Strome went off to God knows where to do God knows what. I did not care to inquire.
I drove slowly, certain that Derner would have more minutiae requiring a decision from me. When I’d taken over this branch of the mob, the arrangement was for me to be just a figurehead until Gordy got better, but somehow it had turned into real work. I figured I should get paid for services rendered, and the sum should be offensively high. Derner would squawk, but that was chump change compared to what the Nightcrawler raked in from the gambling in the private club. Gordy would shrug it off and call it a bargain.
Once I had the cash in hand I’d turn the reins over to Derner. Bobbi would be happy. That was all I wanted.
Derner, again on a phone, hung up when we came in. His hands weren’t shaking this time so his aim was better.
“Your car’s back from the shop,” he told me. “It’s parked out front.”
That was good news. I’d had it towed to get new tires and some eager beaver decided it needed to be fancied up. I tossed the keys to my borrowed ride on the desk. “Have someone get these back to the guy on watch at the hospital. I got another car to fix.” I told him about the bloodstains on the upholstery in Escott’s Nash that needed to be cleaned off. No need to explain to him how they got there; this was a messy trade.
“They’ll just replace everything, it’ll be easier,” Derner said. “Like another color?”
“Just match what’s there and have them put on a new steering wheel. The old one’s bent.”
He did not ask how it had come to be damaged either, only made a note. “Your girl’s hotel flat is clean. She can go back tonight.”
Somehow I didn’t think Bobbi would want to do that just yet. “Thanks. I’ll let her know.” I’d tackle the details about my getting paid when Kroun wasn’t around. He might not care, but then again, he might. “Anything else?”
“Everything’s copacetic.” That meant all other business was under control, no immediate problems, but Derner glanced at Kroun as though expecting a cue, mindful there could be more. Kroun just stood in place and looked back steadily, which was confusing until I caught on. He was doing the same thing that the cops had done to us earlier. Stare long enough, and you’ll get the other guy feeling guilty about something.
“My new clothes?” Kroun prompted.
Derner looked relieved. “Yes, sir, got ’em downstairs in a dressing room. The costume lady’s in tonight, I told her to get the stuff packed for you—if that’s okay?”
“Sure, fine. Which dressing room?”
“Uh, not that one.” He meant where Caine had been strangled.
“Good. When she’s done, have a guy put them in Mr. Fleming’s car.”
My, weren’t we formal? On the other hand, he’d just let Derner know I was back up on my rung of the ladder. However temporary, I was to get respect, same as Gordy.
Remembering something I should have asked Bobbi hours ago, I gave an internal wince. “How’s Gordy doing? Any news?”
Derner’s usually gloomy face brightened a little. “I talked with him on the phone for a minute today. He sounded good.”
“You sure?” I knew Gordy could put up a front. There wasn’t a poker player born who could beat him at a bald-faced bluff.
“Yeah, Boss. His girlfriend said he’d be resting for another couple weeks, maybe more, but he was feeling a lot better.”
Okay, Gordy could lie, but Adelle would not. “That’s great.” I’d risked myself, pushing right to the edge to impart one last hypnotic suggestion to Gordy so he’d stay in bed until fully recovered. I’d come that close to blowing up my brain from the inside out, but it was worth it if it kept him alive.
“We’re done, let’s go,” Kroun announced. He’d reclaimed the box of cigars—no one had dared touch them—and resettled his hat.
Fine with me.
OUTWARDLY, my Buick looked exactly the same, just cleaner. The paint and chrome gleamed as though fresh from the factory. There wasn’t a scratch or dent to be found, and I knew there’d been more than a few scars in place the last time I’d seen her. The windows were different, the glass thicker, but that was the only other sign of the special tinkering.
Kroun’s suitcases were on the backseat, and the keys were in the ignition. Just like the cigars, no one had dared touch the car, not while it was under the eye of the club bouncers.
We got in, I tried the starter, and damned if the motor wasn’t running more smoothly than before, and the gas tank was full. I could get used to being the boss with stuff like this as part of the job.
Shifting gears, it took a firmer foot on the accelerator to get her to move the extra weight. Just how much armor plating had they put in? She rode heavy; I had to haul the wheel to make the corners and put the brakes on sooner with more force. The solid-rubber tires gave off a different sound against the pavement, and despite the special shocks, I could feel the change in how they handled the bumps. No improvement there.
I’d just have to get used to things unless I wanted to buy a new ride. That Studebaker came to mind, but there were still plenty of miles left in the Buick. It didn’t make sense to spend the money.
“Wanna stop at the Stockyards?” I asked. If Kroun had further business tonight, he’d made no mention of it.
“Why? You hungry?”
“I could be. You have to be.”
He appeared to think about it. “Guess so. But find a butcher shop instead.”
“Risky.”
“How so?”
“There’s only so many times you can tell the counter guy your wife’s making blood pudding.”
“Huh.” That amused him. “I’ll take the chance.”
“It won’t be fresh.”
“Fresh enough.”
“But—”
“I just got these clothes, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to slog through a stinking stock pen just to get a meal. I’ll make the counter guy forget.”
All right, put it that way.
Only I wasn’t sure where to find a shop. I knew every angle about getting in and out of the Stockyards, but not much about where to buy their end products. “There’s a place near the house. Charles goes there when he wants to cook something.” Which was almost never. The butcher’s was next door to a Chinese restaurant, and Escott was their chief source of income. He loved his chow mein.
Behind us, a car horn blared. I checked the mirror. The vehicle’s headlights flicked on and off. The driver hammered the horn again, rapidly.
“What the…?” If it was a hit, they’d have pulled up even to us without warning. I slowed and stopped at the next corner.
Kroun shifted slightly. The cigar box was on the floor, and he had a gun in hand instead.
“I think I know ’em,” I said.
“Make sure.”
If there was a problem, I did not want to be trapped behind the wheel. I put the car in neutral, pulled the brake, and got out.
The other driver did the same, trotting quick to meet me. He was one of the bouncers from the Nightcrawler. “Derner sent me,” he called.
“What’s wrong?” Something like this could only mean trouble.
The man’s face screwed up with thought, apparently recalling specific instructions. “He said to say your girlfriend said to come to the hospital right away.”
“What’s wrong?” I repeated, my gut going hollow.
“She said to say your partner’s gotten worse, and you’re supposed to—”
I dove back into the Buick.
KROUN at my heels, I charged past the hospital’s main reception. When the elevator didn’t open fast enough, I tore up the stairs to the third landing, finding the right hallway in the maze.
Bobbi stood a few steps from Escott’s door, her posture tense, arms tightly crossed as though to hold herself in one piece. Coldfield had his back to the wall opposite. There was no anger in him. Anger would have been normal, welcome. Instead, he seemed lost, punch-drunk. More than anything, that scared me.
Bobbi turned, tears brimming in her eyes. She didn’t move, just waited for me to come up and took my hand in both of hers. I couldn’t speak. The look on her face…
“What’s happened?” Kroun asked.
“They won’t say,” she whispered. “Relatives only.”
That said just how bad it was.
A nurse inside the room heard and came out. “Are you the family?”
I remembered putting myself down on paper as being Escott’s cousin. “Me. It’s me. Is he okay?” It was a damned stupid question, but the kind that pops out when you desperately want a positive answer. Of course he wasn’t okay, not with so many people in white uniforms milling around in there. They were busy, which was hopeful. It was when they stopped work and didn’t meet your eye that—“What’s going on?”
“The doctor will tell you.” She went back in.
I could feel it swelling, a mix of rage and terror growing too quick and too strong. I flinched when a hand dropped on my shoulder.
Kroun. He shook his head once. That was all. Then he took his hand away.
It was enough.
One instant I was ready to hit the roof, and the next a chill calm replaced the anger. I still wanted to punch through walls, but that wouldn’t help. That was why Bobbi and Coldfield were so pulled in on themselves. They had to be, to keep control. Kroun, on the outside of things, took up a post next to Coldfield.
“Tell me?” he asked softly.
Coldfield blinked. “It…uh…it was Gordy’s man, the one watching the actor. He checked on Charles, didn’t like what he saw, got the nurse, started things moving. When they couldn’t find Fleming, they knew to call my place. Bobbi called the Nightcrawler, and we drove…”
The guard himself came up. “Boss?”
“What’d you see?” He didn’t hear me the first time; I had to say it again.
“I looked in like you asked. His color wasn’t so good, and he was breathing funny, sweatin’ bad.”
But Escott was all right. Just hours ago he had been weak, bruised, and tired, but otherwise all right. A good night’s sleep and he’d be better in the morning…
“I seen it before,” the man went on, shaking his head, not meeting my eye.
