Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (11 page)

“It’s the third time we’ve seen this in the last two years,” says the ME. “All the victims were young, pretty women, shoes missing, high heels.”

They think it’s a serial killer. Catch whoever it is and they can close three files.

“Is it likely Sofia would know a serial killer?”

“Why not? It happens all the time. They walk among us every day,” he says.

“If that’s the case wouldn’t it be more likely it was somebody who was stalking her?”

“That’s possible, too,” says the ME. What he means is that anything’s possible. But they are already launched on a convenient theory, the danger of which is that they may have already stopped looking for anything else.

“Come on, we gotta go. Leave the man alone, let him get back to work. You’ve seen all there is to see.” Owen ushers Harry and me away from the body, back down toward the path. We leave her there on the ground under the tender mercies of the medical examiner and head back toward Herman and our car on the dirt road.

FOURTEEN

B
ack at Emma’s house, Harry leads the way, down the hall and through the kitchen. Herman and I follow. Emma told Harry where to look for her key to the safe-deposit box during their meeting at the jail this morning before Owen and Noland showed up with the awful news. We’re hoping the key is still there.

We reach the room at the back of the house. It’s dusty and dark, a few papers on the floor. The folds of an old army blanket lie like the undulations in a pastoral landscape under the muted light from the window.

“This has gotta be it,” says Harry. “She said it was the old man’s study.”

There is a rolltop desk against one wall, some large maps on the other.

“Some old stuff,” says Herman.

As I turn around he’s looking at some rifles in a rack on the wall behind me. “Garand and an M-1 carbine, need some cleaning, but they look like they’re in pretty good shape. Man needed a maid,” says Herman. “Somebody to clean house.”

On the wall next to the guns is a small glass display case. Inside is a mounted pistol, what looks like a Luger, and under it two military patches. One of them has what looks like an American Indian motif—a gold thunderbird set off against a diamond-shaped field of red. Under it is a label that reads: “45th Infantry Division—US Army.” But it’s the other patch that catches my eye. It’s the same color combination, gold on red, but the symbol is a swastika.

What the hell? Who was this man, Bob Brauer? “Is that real?” I ask Herman as I tap the glass over the Luger.

He takes a close look. “I’d say so. And probably worth a good piece of change . . . if it’s authentic. I mean vintage German, from the war.”

“Then what’s that?” I ask. I point toward the patch with the swastika.

“Maybe it came with the gun,” says Herman.

“Same color as the other patch? That one says US Army, 45th Infantry. What was up with this guy?”

Harry’s in the closet at the side of the room. He pulls out a couple of pairs of old army boots and tosses them onto the floor. “I’m getting tired. It’s been a rough day. It’s time to be home.”

“You sleeping alone tonight or do you have plans?” I ask.

Harry gives me a look as if to say, “Don’t push it!”

“You just can’t help but pick at it, can you?” he says. “At least I don’t have to go home and tell Joselyn why I turned off my phone—why I wasn’t taking her calls.”

Harry knows how to slip the knife in. I had forgotten about it. Now it comes back with a vengeance. Joselyn will be waiting at the door when I get there. Unable to reach me, she’s probably been calling Sofia’s cell number for hours, trying to find out why dinner was canceled.

“Gimme a hand here,” says Harry. Herman goes over to help him in the closet. There’s not enough room in the closet doorway for the two of them.

“Let me get it,” Herman says.

Harry doesn’t argue with him. He steps out of the way and lets the man do it. Herman reaches down and lifts the heavy trapdoor back on its hinges like it was made of cardboard. “You sure this is it?”

“That’s what she said,” says Harry.

“Damn dark down there. She tell you where the light was?”

Harry looks down at the hole and then back at Herman. Apparently not. “Anybody got a light? Never mind, I’ll just use my phone.”

We’re learning how to spend money. Recently we all got new smartphones and linked them on the company network.

“Did she tell you where the key was?” I ask.

“She gave me some vague directions,” says Harry. “She said she kept it on a nail behind one of the posts under the house. But she couldn’t remember exactly which one.”

“Great! That means we’ll have to crawl under the house and check ’em all.”

“No, she said it was in one of the corners. You could reach it from down in the cellar if you stood on the bottom shelf against the wall. She said it was behind the post.”

“Let’s hope the cops didn’t look there with their search warrant,” I tell him.

Harry starts down the ladder. “Don’t let that thing come down and hit me in the head.” He flashes the light from the phone’s screen on the bottom of the open trapdoor.

“I got it,” says Herman. He holds it with one hand as he helps Harry down into the hole with the other. “Watch where you step. Can you see where you’re goin’?”

“Not if I’m gonna hang on to the ladder.” Harry puts the phone between his teeth as he places both hands on the ladder and disappears down the hole.

I give him a couple of seconds. “What’s it look like down there?”

“Shit!” says Harry.

“In other words, the same as up here,” says Herman.

“No, I mean I stepped in shit,” he says.

“You sure?” Herman looks down the hole.

“I know dog shit when I step in it. More particularly when I smell it. You got a handkerchief?”

“Not for that,” says Herman. “You already have my phone.” He looks at me. “What are you contributing to this party?”

“Nothing that I’d want to put back in my pocket.” I look around, see the blanket on the floor, walk over, and pick it up. “It’s pretty dirty.”

Herman snaps his fingers for me to toss it to him. “That’s all right. It’s gonna be a lot dirtier when he’s finished with it. Watch your head,” he says. And he drops it down the hole.

“God damn it! Now I got dust all over me,” says Harry.

“Always complaining, never satisfied,” says Herman. “Wipe your shoes and then turn the blanket over so you can cover whatever’s left on the floor. That way I won’t step in it when I come down.” Herman smiles at me and winks.

“Screw you,” says Harry.

Herman laughs. “Do you see the light switch?”

“Is it fresh?” I ask.

“Is what fresh?” says Harry.

“What’s on your shoe.”

“I don’t know. Why don’t I get down and lick it,” says Harry. “Or if you want to know if it’s fresh, you can come down and check it out yourself.”

“If it’s fresh there must be another way into the cellar besides the ladder. Otherwise how would the dog get down there?”

“No other way I can see,” says Harry. “Just a dark hole down here, cement on four sides. There’s a crawl space under the house, but it’s a good six feet, maybe seven to the top of the concrete on the walls. A small dog is not gonna try and jump that, even if he found a way under the house from the outside.”

“You sure it’s from a dog?” says Herman.

“Let me smear some on the light from your phone. I’ll send it up and you can smell it.”

“Don’t you do it,” says Herman. “I’ll drop the door, put the desk on top of it, and we’ll leave you there.”

“OK, I see the light switch,” says Harry. “Hang on a second.”

“Watch where you step,” says Herman.

“Trust me, I got that figured out.” A couple of seconds later the light comes on.

“OK, time to go down,” says Herman. Quickly he’s onto the ladder heading down. His beefy bulk barely fits through the open square in the floor.

I follow him. At the bottom I step off the ladder and onto the blanket, very carefully.

Harry is already groping around in one of the corners looking for the key, feeling around behind the post set on a concrete pier. The post supports one of the joists under the first floor. You can smell the moist earth from the undisturbed soil under the house.

Herman heads to the opposite corner. He’s tall enough that he doesn’t need to step on anything to feel around behind the post.

I take the third corner. The concrete walls of the cellar are lined with shelves and an occasional warren of boxes filled with assorted rusty nails, nuts and bolts, small pieces of old machinery, discards you never want to throw away because you might need them one day. On the floor by the blanket, like a black snake maybe three feet long, lies an old V-belt, broken so that it no longer makes a loop. The air compressor that it once ran sits in the corner near Harry’s feet, its motor covered with dust and cobwebs.

I look down, put my foot on the bottom shelf, and step up so that I can reach behind the post. I feel around trying to find the key or the sharp prick from the nail that it’s hanging on. It takes a couple of minutes to do a complete frisk of the post.

I finish up and step off the shelf onto the floor when Herman says, “I got it!”

By the time I turn to look, he’s standing there holding a small key between his giant finger and his thumb. “This gotta be it. Looks like every other safe-deposit key I’ve ever seen.”

He’s right. It’s cut from a brass blank, no grooves on the sides, just deep teeth along the top edge, with a wire key ring through the hole to hang it.

“Let’s check the last post just to be safe,” says Harry. “In case there’s more than one key hidden down here.”

Herman pockets the key and checks the last post all the way up and down with his hands on the back side. “Nothing.”

“Then that’s it. We’re good to go.” Harry starts up the ladder. He can’t wait to get out of here.

I follow him.

Herman turns off the light and trudges up the ladder behind me. We lower the trapdoor, put the boots back in the closet, and head out. Harry is out in front walking down the hall toward the kitchen when suddenly he stops and whispers: “What was that?”

“What was what?” I say.

We stand there for moment, frozen in the hallway, the three of us, looking through the door into the kitchen. And then I see it.

“That!” says Harry. “Did you see it?”

“Yes.” Somebody is flashing a light outside in the yard. “Herman?”

“Yeah.”

“By any chance are you packing? Please tell me that you are.”

“That’s the problem with guns,” he says. “You never have one when you need it.”

“Shit!” I say.

“That’s an idea,” says Harry. “I could throw my shoe at him.”

“Gimme a second.” Silently Herman disappears back down the hall toward the old man’s study.

“What’s he gonna do, hide in the cellar?” says Harry.

“Not without me.”

A few seconds later Herman comes back down the hall looking like Rambo. He’s carrying a rifle the size of an elephant gun, enough wood under the barrel to make a sequoia. It’s one of the military pieces from Robert Brauer’s gun rack.

“Is it loaded?” I ask.

Herman shakes his head. “Couldn’t find any bullets in the rack or the desk drawers.”

“That’s all right. You get out there behind him and pound his melon with that and I doubt if he’s gonna argue much,” says Harry.

“How’s he gonna know it’s empty?” says Herman. “You didn’t.”

“You point that at him and he’s either gonna crap and die on the spot or, if he has a gun and he’s feeling stupid, he’s gonna shoot you,” says Harry. “Either way, why don’t you go first?”

Herman steps around us and into the kitchen, headed toward the back door. For a big man he can move quickly, quietly, and with unusual grace. Without a sound he unlocks the door, opens it, and in one fluid motion, raises the muzzle of the rifle toward the source of the light.

I hear her scream almost immediately. “Don’t shoot! Take what you want and go.” It’s the old lady, the neighbor from this afternoon. I recognize her voice.

“Oh jeez! I’m sorry.” Herman lowers the gun. “Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s me,” he says. “Remember? From this afternoon.”

A string of profanities come out of the old lady’s mouth—“shit,” “damn,” “piss”—take your pick. “You scared me to death!” For a moment I think perhaps she’s not exaggerating. She grabs her chest as if she’s about to go to her knees. Harry and I step out the door around Herman and get ahold of her arms to steady her before she can fall.

“Are you all right? It’s just us,” I tell her. “We needed to pick something up for Emma.”

“I thought people were robbing the house,” she says. “I was gonna call the police, but then I thought I’d better take a look, and a big black guy comes out the door and points a bazooka at me. Oh, my God!” she says.

“Relax,” I tell her.

There’s a lawn chair a few feet away. Harry grabs it, puts it behind her, and we ease her into it.

“Are you OK? Would you like a glass of water?” says Harry.

“No. No. Just let me rest for a minute.”

“Take your time,” he tells her. “Make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Herman has stashed the gun. He comes out the back door, walks over and puts his big hand on her shoulder, then squats down next to her so he can talk to her at eye level. “We thought the same thing you did. We saw the light in the backyard and thought somebody was trying to break in. The gun wasn’t even loaded.”

“Oh, boy,” she says, “I’ll tell ya. You could’ve fooled me. I was ready to let you take everything in the house.”

They talk. He laughs, then massages her arm a little. “You sure you’re OK?”

I step away for a moment as she and Herman talk. I walk toward the back door. Harry is standing there just staring down at the ground.

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure,” he says.

“What’s the problem?”

“That, right there.” He points toward the ground right at the concrete footing along the back of the house.

At first I don’t see it. I try to focus my eyes, but they are tired. It’s been a long day. I bend down to take a closer look. There, on the cement in the shadows, is a tiny chain. It is delicate and light, like a piece of lace. At one end is a small plastic fitting. It’s shaped like the plug to a set of earbuds, only this one doesn’t pipe any sound. I stand there staring at it like Harry. I am mesmerized because I know that the last time I saw this, which was Friday morning, it was being used to anchor the miniature chrome trinket, the replica of the Eiffel Tower on the other end of the chain there on the ground, to the headphone jack on Sofia’s iPhone.