On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter 7
 

I always have trouble finding my cell phone when it rings in the car and I’m driving. I’ve usually tossed it on the passenger’s seat because I can’t hear it in my pocket over the sound of the engine. Then it gets lost among the other trash on the seat. Old fast food bags, scribbled notes and directions on bar napkins from months before, gas receipts, my GPS, and the like. By the time I find the cell phone, the caller has given up.

This time I found it only because I had just used it to call Vitole. Amanda was calling.

“What’s up, sis?”

She was crying.

“
Stanley
, I don’t know what to do.”

That was her usual complaint when she couldn’t figure something out.
“About what?”
I asked.

“About Jeremy.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Army Captain I’ve been going out with.”

“Oh, yeah.
Captain Jeremy. Didn’t you dump him?”

“I tried. He won’t accept it. He keeps calling, and today he hung around my office all morning. I’m afraid I’ll lose my job. The last thing he said was that he’d come to my house this evening.”

“Did you tell him you’d call his wife?”

“He said he didn’t care. She’s going to leave him anyway.”

“Did you say you’d report him to his Commanding Officer?”

“He doesn’t care about that either. He has his twenty years in and is about to retire.”

Twenty in and still a Captain.
This guy must be a real piece of work.

“What do I do?” she asked.

“Well, given that he’s about to split up with his wife, might you still want to see him?”

“No, Stanley. I saw his ugly side today. He didn’t take it too well when I told him I had a private investigator looking into him and found out he was married. He scared me.”

“Did he touch you?”

“He followed me down the hall, cornered me outside the ladies room, yelled at me, and pushed me so hard I sat on the floor.”

That got my slow burn going. It takes a lot, but messing with my family is one of the ways.

“When do you expect him?” I asked.

“Tonight some time after supper.”

“Okay. To start, let’s post Rodney there wearing his taco shirt. I’ll explain to him. If that doesn’t discourage the Captain, I’ll take over. Don’t worry. I’ll be parked around the corner from your place.
What’s he look
like?”

“
Sandy
hair.
Fortyish.
Crew cut.
Glasses.
Average size.
Kind of cute.”

Younger than me and probably in better shape.
Hell, my grandmother’s in better shape, and
she’s
been dead for ten years. I’d need an edge, an equalizer.
Time to get old Roscoe out of the safe.

Yeah, that’s right, I named my .38 Roscoe. They don’t pay me for my imagination.

I drove to my office building and climbed the stairs. It was late afternoon. I stopped at Willa’s desk, tossed Buford’s envelope there, and went into my office. She gave out with a war whoop when she opened the package.

Rodney was already
back
from the Cheap Peeper Emporium. He was at my desk again.

“When you gonna get me my own desk,” he asked.

“Where would we put it?
In the men’s room?”

“In here. There’s room.”

“No, there’s not.”

I turned on the Nikon and paged through the images to the ones with Vitole and Marsha Sproles.

“Download these pictures to your laptop and e-mail them to Buford Overbee.”

He got out a cable to connect the camera to the laptop.

“Did you find out anything about the Sproles family?” I asked.

“Not much. They moved into the neighborhood a couple years ago. I couldn’t find where they came from.”

“One other thing unrelated. See if you can hack into the Army computers and find out what you can about Captain Pugh. Do it in the outer office. I need some privacy.”

He took the camera, cable, and laptop and left.

“Close the door,” I said.

I got my pistol out of the safe and checked the cylinder.
Six cartridges.
I don’t know why I checked. I’d loaded it when I first got it several years ago and had never fired it.
But old habits and all that.

I took my private detective’s gold shield from my wallet and pinned it to the holster. From a distance it looked just like a
Delbert
Falls
detective’s shield, which was why I had ordered this particular model from the Internet badge and uniform store.
Thirty bucks and authentic-looking.
But its golden shine notwithstanding, it signified nothing more than to impress gullible clients and people you want to question. Flash
it,
and people open up. For all the clout it gave me, I could have gotten it from a Cracker Jack box.
And saved the thirty bucks.

I clipped the holster to my belt in front just under my jacket. Then I called Rodney back in.

“The Captain is coming to your mom’s house tonight,” I said. “I want you there. When he comes to the door,
speed dial
my cell and leave your phone on the table next to the door. I want to hear everything that goes down.”

“What happens if he gets rough, Uncle Stanley?”

“I won’t be far away. Be as nasal, whiny, and obnoxious as you can be. In other words, be yourself. If he does get rough, make sure I hear it.”

Rodney nodded.

“Keep in mind you’re protecting your mother,” I said.

“Yep.”

I didn’t tell Rodney that the Captain had knocked Amanda down. I wasn’t sure what he would do. Might get
himself
hurt. So might I. But I was going to do something. Not sure what, but something.

“What did you learn about the Captain?” I asked.

“Mentally unstable.
A history of paranoia and obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Manic depressive, too.
A real mess.
He’s on the verge of being discharged on a section eight, whatever that is.”

“That’s when they boot you out of the service because you’re nuts,” I said. “Get over to the house and get ready. Your mom is expecting you. This ought to be interesting.”

I said earlier that I am not tough. That’s true. But I am a good bluffer and an even better actor. My young years as an undercover cop had taught me that. I had been a good undercover cop. The bad guys never suspected I was a cop. I didn’t look like one. I could blend in as the guy who did whatever he was told.

But when the situation called for it, I could act tough.
Especially with backup.

Tonight I’d get a chance to revisit those old skills. I started to get together what I’d need.

Chapter 8
 

The south side of
Delbert
Falls
was residential.
Small single-family houses and inexpensive apartments west of the tracks, and the better homes for the upper middle class on tree-lined lanes on the east side.

Amanda’s neighborhood was south of my office on the west side past the Interstate. Sunset had started and it would be dark soon. I pulled up to the curb near the house and parked where I could see her front door. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait in the car for long. It was going to be cold. She lived in a small, one-story house in a row of identical houses, nothing fancy. My cell phone rang.

“You out there, Uncle Stanley?”

“Yep, just got here.”

“Mom is nervous.”

“Put her on. And bring me your baseball bat.”

Amanda came on. “
Stanley
—”

“Don’t worry, Mandy. Stay back, and let Rodney handle it. I’ve told him what to do. When your boyfriend comes out, I’ll take it from there.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Right.
Keep thinking that thought.”

I hung up, and Rodney was at my car with the ball bat right away. I took it, and he went back into the house. I lit a cigarette. This would be my last one. Or my last pack. They were expensive. I’d have to finish the pack. Can’t let them go to waste.

Waiting and watching from my car reminded me of countless stakeouts, except that tonight I didn’t have coffee and doughnuts. Buford’s booze had worn off. I had a pint of Old Forester in the glove compartment for emergencies in case of snake bite, so I took it out, looked around for a snake, didn’t see one, and took a swig. No more than one, though, I told myself. I needed my wits about me. So I took another swig. I’m weak. So sue me.

At about seven, a silver BMW pulled up in front of Amanda’s house. A fellow fitting Jeremy’s description got out, went to the door, and rang the doorbell.

My cell phone buzzed. This time I found it right away on top of the trash that decorated my front seat. I picked it up.

“He’s here, Uncle Stanley.”

“Okay. You know what to do.”

Rodney opened the door and said. “What do you want?”

I could hear the exchange on my cell phone.

“I want to talk to your mother.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Get out of the way, kid.”

“Or what?”

“Or maybe I move you out of the way.”

With that I was out of my car and headed for the front door carrying the ball bat.

The Captain raised his voice. “Amanda! Get out here. We need to talk.”

Amanda’s voice came from inside the house. “Go away, Jeremy. I don’t want to see you.”

I was just behind Jeremy when he started to shove Rodney aside and push his way into the house. He didn’t see me coming. I swung the bat with all my might, hitting him across both calves. He yelled and went down sideways off the stoop into the bushes beside the door.

“What the fuck—” he said.

“Stay down,” I said. “Stay where you are.”

He sized me up from his position on the ground.

“Says who?” he said.

“Captain, you’re pretty good at pushing women and helpless teenaged boys around. How are you when you’re up against a man?”

He started to get up to show me, but I hit him in the ribs with the bat.
Hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to break anything.
He fell
back,
holding his side, then rose again and braced himself to spring. I let my jacket fall open so that the holstered pistol and shield were in clear view. He stopped and sank back down.

“So she called the cops,” he said.

“No, asshole, she called her big brother. You see, I take a dim view of people pushing my sister around.
A very dim view.
You ever lay another hand on her, and you’ll be taking a dim view too.
The dimmest.
From inside a shallow grave.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Gee,” I said to Rodney. “I must not have done it right. Here he is, on the ground, hugging his rib cage, big assed bruises on his legs, maybe a cracked rib, me standing over him with a baseball bat, and him asking if I’m threatening him.” I turned to Jeremy. “Goddamn right I’m threatening you, asshole! Come around here again, and you get more of the same. Is there any part of that that isn’t clear?”

This was a little more direct than the approach I’d taken with Vitole. I liked it better this way.

Amanda called from inside the house, “
Stanley
, make him go away.”

Terrific.
Now he has my name.

As I said earlier, I’m not a tough guy, but I do have balls.
Comes from years working homicide and robbery.
You always had backup. A murder cop was seldom in real danger. All the action had already happened. They called us in to clean it up. I was out on my own now, no help, no backup, but the balls were still in place and working. It felt good. But if he’d tried to jump me, I would have had to shoot him. Then there’d be paperwork.

“Stay on the ground,” I said, hoping he’d agree.

I looked fondly at the Louisville Slugger in my grip. Rodney and I used to play flies and grounders with it on the vacant lot behind the house when he was younger.
And when I was younger too.
Now the old Slugger was being put to professional use, and I was about to improve my batting average.

I walked over to the silver Beamer and broke one headlight. Then I broke the passenger’s side of the windshield.
Then a taillight.
For the final out I banged a good-sized dent in the passenger’s side door. Then I walked back to the house and handed the bat to Rodney. The Captain was still on the ground staring first at me then at his car.

“I left you enough to see your way home,” I told the Captain. “Make sure you never see your way back. I find you here again, it’s your head, legs, ribs,
anything
I can reach, instead of that pussy Beamer.
And no more mister nice guy.
Next time I break something. Now get the fuck out of here.”

He pulled himself to his feet, limped over to his car, hugging his ribs and glaring at me all the way, and got in. He rolled the passenger window down half way, which got caught up in the damage I’d done, and called out, “You haven’t heard the last of this.” Then he drove away.

Probably true. I went inside.

“If you hear from him again, Amanda, call me. Keep your door locked and don’t let him in.”

“I will. Thanks,
Stanley
.” She gave me a hug, which made it all worth while.

“What’s his job with the Army?” I asked.

“Something to do with intelligence,” she said.

Oh, great. Now I’m certain to hear from him again.

“Hey, Uncle
Stanley,” Rodney said, “I ain’t no helpless teenage boy.
I could have taken him myself.”

“When you tell this story at school, you can tell it that way.”

“I don’t go to school.”

“You should.”

The booze was wearing off. I went home and went straight to bed.