A Simple Suburban Murder (16 page)

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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: A Simple Suburban Murder
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"Not in Chicago. It's an hour's drive. We knew he wasn't at home. He wasn't with anyone he knew, or at least any who would admit it. We decided on the possibility of a restaurant within the area. It was something we had to check. We'd gone to eight other places before this one. We had another ten to go within a fifteen-mile radius. It took awhile to get to everyone who worked that night at each restaurant. It turns out the waitress that served them had off all weekend. We talked to her Tuesday morning."

"She was sure it was Vance?"

"We matched the description she gave us with everybody connected with the case, including yours. She picked Vance's picture out right away."

"There wasn't some anonymous tip?" I asked.

"No. Nor any car chase, shootouts, tear gas, or machine guns. There seldom is." He smiled.

"What I mean," I said, "is it would make more sense to me if somehow Sylvester and Armstrong steered you to Vance."

"How so? You don't like them, but that doesn't make them conspirators in a murder."

"It's the type of thing they would try in order to divert suspicion from themselves."

"We did talk to them again yesterday at your school. In addition to telling us about your evil ways, they told us about the competition in the department. Did you know Evans was in line to be head of the department?"

"No," I admitted.

"He had seniority. Vance saw him as a rival."

"I don't buy that. Vance's job was secure."

"Maybe," Frank said. "What about this then? If what you told me is all true, wouldn't they try to divert the suspicion to you?"

"Probably," I said.

"They didn't. Sure they told us how rotten you are, but when we asked about Vance, they were most helpful. And besides, they had no way of knowing Vance and Evans met that night. I think those two are out of the picture."

"I can't believe that," I said.

"I do agree they've done something illegal." Frank added, "I just don't think whatever it is has anything to do with the murder."

"Maybe not," I said. I let it rest. I had no proof.

Frank said, "I'll want to see that computer disc. We might be able to get into the program." "It's at home," I said.

"I'll send someone by to pick it up later," Frank said. "You can let the police handle it now."

After Frank left I said to Scott, "You need to go home and make a copy of the disc."

"If the police find out they'll be pissed."

I tried my most seductive smile on him. He held up his hand. "That doesn't work with your head all bandaged. Besides, you know that computer stuff baffles me. I'll never be able to make a copy."

"Oh, yes you will. You have to. If necessary you can call me from home and I'll guide you through it."

"Shouldn't I wait here for the doctor's report?"

"This is more important. I don't want the police to get there before we have time to make a copy. You've got the car keys. I can't leave without you. You could be back here in less than an hour, half an hour maybe. Then you can talk to the doctor to your heart's content."

He didn't like it, but he agreed. I explained to him what to do and he left.

One of the few things I let him buy me was the most up-to-date and sophisticated home computer system on the market. I'd worked on the Evans's disc in brief snatches since we got it. I'd had absolutely no success. Now I for sure wanted to keep a copy. It was the last fresh clue I had. Neither the killer nor the police would stop my investigation.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon the transfer from the hospital to home was smooth and easy. The doctor wanted to keep me another day. I convinced him Scott would take care of my every need.

At home Scott got me settled in and comfortable. He spent part of the afternoon installing the state-of-the-art security system he'd bought that morning. This time I didn't object.

He'd called in sick for me that morning. That night I called Sylvester myself. I let him know I'd be out another day. Sylvester was subdued and businesslike. He did not wish me a speedy recovery.

A cop came by around four o'clock to pick up the computer disc. Earlier I'd checked the copy Scott made. It was perfect.

I spent the evening propped in a chair in front of the computer going through all the combinations I could think of to get into Evans's program. I had no more success than before.

I was still sore and tired from the beating so I went to bed early and slept late the next day. By now I was up and mobile, slow but active. I insisted Scott attend a luncheon he had scheduled and that he go to an afternoon photo session for the cover of some magazine. I worked all day at the computer, still no luck. Around eight Scott brought home dinner—take-out Chinese. Afterward I went back to the computer. He worked with me, offering suggestions. It was useless. None of it did any good.

We went to bed around ten-thirty. Scott gently massaged my various aches. I fell asleep wrapped in his arms.

Dim pounding nudged into my brain. I woke up. I glanced at the digital clock. It was 1:17
A.M
. The pounding continued. I realized it was someone at the front door. I looked at Scott. He slept on. He claims he slept through a tornado once. I shook him. He mumbled. I hurried into some jeans. The doorbell began pealing spasmodically. I shook him again. "Wake up," I said. Scott became semiconscious. "Someone's at the door. It's one in the morning. I'm going to answer it."

 

 

— 7 —

 

I
threw on a shirt and padded through the house. I didn't turn on any lights. Carefully I peered around the curtains that covered the picture window. I could make out a dim figure on the front door step. I felt Scott glide up behind me.

"Big help your security system is," I muttered.

"It's designed for break-ins, not someone knocking on the front door."

I opened the curtain wider to get a better look.

"Be careful," he warned, then whispered, "Can you see who it is?"

"No," I whispered back. The person appeared small and slight. "I think it's a kid." I paused. "Whoever it is is alone."

"There could be others hiding in the dark." Scott sounded ominous. "Let's call the police."

"It's a kid alone. I'm sure of it." I walked to the panel of switches for the outside lights and turned on the porch light.

The pounding and ringing stopped. Scott, in my place at the window, said, "It's Keith Evans."

Immediately I opened the door and let him in. Scott turned on the living-room lights. The kid looked awful. His hair was windblown and ragged. Mud covered his shoes and pants. His coat was torn. Even inside the house he shivered.

Without preliminaries Keith blurted out, "Phil called. He's in trouble. You've got to help."

I said, "Keith, start from the beginning and tell us what happened."

"A little before midnight the phone rang. It was Phil."

I interrupted, "Where was your mom?"

"I don't know. She left around ten-thirty tonight. She didn't say anything about where she was going or when she'd be home. She wasn't back when the call came, or when I left."

"Is that normal for her?" I asked.

"It was real strange."

"Weren't you worried when she didn't come home?"

"No"—he shrugged—"should I be?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully. This was a totally strange family. "What did Phil say?" I asked.

"He sounded real scared. He said to get to you, Mr. Mason. He said for you to come rescue him."

"Where was he?"

"He didn't get a chance to say. Right in the middle of a word the phone went dead. I'm scared, Mr. Mason. Where is he? Why is he in danger? What's going on?"

I ignored his questions for the moment and asked, "Why didn't you call us?"

"I looked on my dad's faculty list. Your address was there but not your phone number. I tried the operator, but you were unlisted. Phil said it was an emergency and not to call the police. He sounded bad. I figured I better talk to you right away. I looked at your address. It didn't seem that far, so I decided to walk it. It was a lot farther than I thought."

"How'd you get so dirty?" Scott asked.

"On the way here I kept tripping over stuff in the dark. I ran into fields or people's yards every time a car drove by because I didn't want somebody to report a kid walking around. I fell into the snow a couple times when I jumped off the road." The storm the morning before had left a couple-inch taste of winter.

"Why not wait for your mom?" Scott said.

"I was scared. I had to do something fast." Then he snorted contemptuously and looked away from us. "My mom can't do nothing. She's a wimp."

"Easy, Keith," I said, "she's your mom. You know we'll have to call her and tell her you're here."

He hung his head. I reached for the phone. He mumbled the number when I asked for it. It rang twelve times before one of the girls answered. I asked for Mrs. Evans. After a few minutes she came back and said her mom wasn't home. I explained who I was and the reason for my call. She remembered me from our visit. She spoke in a scared whisper, but seemed to understand what I wanted. She agreed to leave a note for her mom telling her where Keith was. I spent some time reassuring her. I urged her to go back to bed, which seemed fatuous, but I didn't know what else to say. Then I hung up, wondering where Mrs. Evans was. I decided I couldn't waste time worrying about her. The main problem was Phil. Where the hell was he?

I tried a few more questions on Keith. "Did you get any clue at all from what your brother said that might give a hint about where he was?"

Keith furrowed his brow and thought a minute. "I don't remember anything."

"If you could remember even a small detail," I said, "a background noise, a conversation, a TV, a stereo, maybe even outdoor noises."

He thought again then said, "Sorry, nothing. Only his voice." He gave us a plaintive look. "Are you going to save him?"

"We don't know where he is," I said gently.

"You've got to help him, Mr. Mason. He's in danger."

I considered phoning the police. To them Phil was now only another runaway. Further, I had no specifics to tell them, only a cut-off phone conversation as told by a thirteen-year-old.

The only thing I could think of was Daphne's bar. I got the number from directory assistance and called. The noise on the other end was loud enough that Scott and Keith could hear it from where they sat. The Womb must have been in high gear. My normal tone of voice produced no response. I tried shouting into the phone. Whoever was on the other end couldn't hear me even then. I yelled that I wanted to talk to Daphne. My words echoed around the living room. On the other end the phone slammed down. I tried four more times with the same amount of success. Finally all I got was a busy signal. If we wanted to rescue Phil that night we'd have to drive down there and hope Daphne would talk. I told Scott. He agreed.

"Where're you going?" Keith asked.

"A place that might give us a clue to where Phil is," I said.

"I want to come," Keith said.

"It's not an appropriate place for a thirteen-year-old," Scott said.

"I want to come." Keith was stubborn.

Scott explained to Keith that it was too late for him to be up and out and that he needed to be in bed.

Keith remained adamant.

I decided the kid was in this deep enough and deserved a full explanation. I expected he might not understand all of it. He might lose respect for his brother. I knew for sure I did not intend debating with a thirteen-year-old in the middle of the night. It wasn't up to me to protect the sacred familial sensibilities for him. Mr. and Mrs. Evans had destroyed them for Keith long ago.

We went to finish dressing. I explained my reasoning to Scott. He looked surprised, but thankfully didn't argue. I let Scott tell the kid of the change in plans.

Keith wore a shirt, pants, and socks of mine. The pants had to be rolled up a foot to keep him from tripping over the legs. A rope tied around the waist held them up. The shirt hung down to his knees. For a coat he wore my old marine jacket. In the car he sat between us. I explained everything I knew about Phil's situation to him.

He accepted it all silently. At the end his only question was "Because Phil's gay, does that mean I am?"

I told him no. Contented with that answer, he stared out the window at the passing lights. As we entered the Dan Ryan from I-57, I could see him desperately trying to stay awake.

By the time we exited the Lake Shore Drive on Fullerton his yawns came more frequently. It was a couple minutes before three. Keith stumbled out of the car after us when we parked. Scott started to protest, then swallowed it. Keith had seen this much, he might as well see the rest.

The bouncer at the door tried to stop us. "We're closed and you can't bring that kid in here," he barked.

Scott punched him. The guy plopped backward. Stunned, he sat shaking his head. We went in. The bar lights were up, revealing the scumminess the darkness usually concealed. Daphne stood in front of the bar counting money. She wore an acre of pink chiffon. She looked up. "Christ, you guys." Then she caught sight of Keith. "What the fuck is this? A clown act? Even I don't take them this young." She glared at me. "I told you before to stay away. I meant it. Get out."

The bouncer had recovered, and sidled up next to her. "Marvin, how'd you let these assholes in here?" she asked.

He rubbed his jaw where Scott hit him. He whined, "I tried to stop them, but they got rough."

"Clarence, come here," Daphne called. The bartender from the other night appeared from a back room. He propped himself on the other side of Daphne. She announced to us, "I want you out of here. You can leave by yourselves or we'll put you out. You have three seconds to decide."

"We need to find Phil," I said.

"He's not here. Get out."

"He's in trouble," Keith shouted.

"I don't care. Your three seconds are up. Dump them," she ordered, then added, "but go easy on the kid."

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