Terminal Secret Page 16

  Everyone stared at the man in the video.

  “There are two suspicious people in that video. Me and the guy with the cap and sunglasses,” Dan finished.

  Wallace shrugged his large shoulders. “He could be waiting for a bus. There’s a bus stop on that same block.”

  “He could be. But how far away from a bus stop do you stand? My guess is not very far. If you do, the bus might not stop for you. But your point is noted. Now let’s play the rest of the tape and see.”

  They all watched the fourth rendition of the bus accident, this one excluding the incident itself. The video reached the point where Dan stepped forward for a better view across the street and the man with the cap could be seen staring at Dan.

  “Uh-oh,” Wallace said.

  When Dan jumped into the first lane of traffic the man dropped the newspaper he’d been carrying as cover and headed to the corner. A second later he could be seen entering the crosswalk in the direction of the bus stop. The man stopped at the corner, looked down the block, and then disappeared into the darkness of the side street.

  “Down that street is where you found me on the curb,” Dan said. He looked over at Wallace, whose face grew stern. Emily’s mouth opened just a bit.

  “Any more doubts?”

  “None,” the forensic technician offered.

  “So this guy disappears around the corner, down the street where we found you, and assaults you as you pursue the perpetrator.”

  “That’s right. What we have is a killer and a spotter. And that combination means they are professionals to some degree.”

  “Well, if the dead guy in Virginia whose murder you were hired to solve was also whacked by these two, we may be watching the video of serial killers in action.”

  Dan answered. “Maybe. But serial killers, for all of their fame and glory, are rare.”

  Emily objected. “You mean, those that are caught are rare. I did a thesis on serial killers. At any time there are estimated to be over two dozen serial killers operating in the US. Unidentified serial killers, lurking out there.”

  Dan looked over at Wallace. “See if there are any other video feeds with the guy in the cap and sunglasses from any other stores on M Street. Also, see if you can get the tapes for the same time of day on previous days. If I’m right, someone did reconnaissance. They probably watched Carla just as I was starting to do. They didn’t plan this in one day. If we can get our hands on the tapes from other days, we might catch them on video.”

  “I can get to work on that,” the forensic technician answered.

  “And we need to see if Carla has any injuries consistent with being jabbed by a high-powered auto baton.”

  “Any other orders I’m supposed to take from you?” Wallace asked.

  “Not that I can think of. But while I’m here, can I fill out a crime report for the mugging last night? Just in case my personal effects turn up somewhere.”

  Chapter 25

  Dan and Frank spoke in the small office of J. Paul’s restaurant for five minutes before the manager sprang from his seat to answer a knock at the office door. He whispered to an unseen employee on the other side of the threshold and then cranked his clean-shaven head back towards Dan. “Can you give me a couple minutes? We seem to have a situation.”

  “Take your time,” Dan replied.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  *

  Dan’s eyes danced around the office. From his seat, he perused the schedule on the wall. Then he read the to-do list on the small whiteboard behind the desk. A stack of paperwork leaned precariously on the desk. A change of clothes was balled in the corner on the floor.

  Frank returned and shut the office door behind him.

  “Sorry about that. Ambushed by a small group of a hundred in two tour buses. But it’s early, we can get them fed and out the door in no time. Should make for an impressive evening of sales.”

  “What’s a good number for an evening? Just out of curiosity.”

  “On a really good night, we can do over forty thousand in revenue. Then you have to pay rent, the staff, overhead. Restaurants don’t have huge margins.”

  “You make most of your money on booze, right?”

  “Most of it. Some nights the food does better than break even.”

  “That’s a sign the food is edible.”

  Frank checked his watch. “Now, where were we?”

  “Carla’s background,” Dan replied.

  “Yeah, Carla. She’s good. Great. I feel bad. She’s sweet. She’s also a great worker.”

  “Is Carla involved in anything illegal? Drugs? Gambling?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but I doubt it. She works hard. She’s been here, geez, probably seven or eight years. And I can count on one hand how many times she has missed work. Had the flu once, sent her home after she threw up in the alley out back. Took off for a couple of days when her mother had surgery on her leg.”

  “The bartender mentioned she takes care of her mom.”

  “She does. They live together. Has a sister who floats in and out of the house, too. They live in one of those row houses near the old football stadium. Across from Langston Hughes. “

  “You have an address for her?”

  “I do,” Frank answered. He stood, stepped to the desk, and dug through some papers. “220 Twenty-First Street, Northeast. But you can probably find it without an address. The front yard is covered in lawn animals.”

  “Dogs?”

  “No. Fake lawn figures. Those concrete jobbers. Pink flamingos. Shit like that. I dropped her off a couple of times over the years. Carla doesn’t drive. Has epilepsy. Anyway, her mother had a bunch of crap out there in the yard. An angel. A skunk. A bear. Some kind of parrot-looking thing. I think there was a fountain in the corner. Those row houses have small yards, too. Makes it all seem a little surreal.”

  “It sounds easy to find.”

  “Unless the yard has been cleaned up.”

  Dan nodded. “I had one final question.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know Sherry Wellington?”

  “I do. Everyone working on M Street knows her. Or knows of her.”

  “And are Sherry and Carla friends?”

  “Of course. Carla got Sherry her job here.”

  Chapter 26

  The row houses near the old stadium were once a working man’s neighborhood, the housing of choice for neighborhoods in Baltimore, Philly, and northward through Boston. Dan pulled his car to the curb and looked over at the first strip of homes. Ten residences snuggled together before the first access point to the alley broke the monotony and shared roofline. As described, concrete statues littered the yard of the third row house from the corner. The rusted chain-link fence around the tiny front yard had recently been painted silver without any attempt to remove the old rust.

  Dan walked down the uneven sidewalk, the concrete slabs cracked from years of exposure and use. He reached the fenced yard and paused to admire the artwork. A fountain was indeed in the near corner. A garden hose feeding the water feature disappeared beneath a bush near the house. Along the fence were a half-dozen Terra Cotta warriors, standing guard over a litter of concrete piglets and a creature that resembled a leprechaun with a cowboy hat.

  Holy crap, Dan thought.

  He pushed open the gate to the fence and admired the small concrete birdbath on the left. Mildew engulfed the interior of the bowl. He announced himself to no one in particular and set out for the front steps, head scanning left and right. He knocked on the door as he glanced around the porch and back at his car parked on the street.

  On the second set of knocks, the front door opened. A young woman in her early twenties stood on the other side of the still-locked security door. She wore jeans and a gray sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and Dan noted the resemblance between the woman and Carla the waitress. As Dan performed his quick assessment he could feel the tension in the air.

  “Can I help you?
” the woman asked without any facial expression.

  “My name is Dan Lord. I’m a private detective. I’m investigating Carla’s accident.”

  “The cops were here earlier.”

  “I’m not a cop. I’m a private detective.”

  The young lady looked at Dan with suspicion. “Who hired you?”

  “A woman who worked at the same restaurant Carla did. I was investigating a related matter and now I’m looking into Carla’s accident. I assume I have the right address?”

  “You do. I’m Candice. Carla’s sister.”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Candice considered the question and looked down at her attire before replying. “Just give me a second.”

  The girl disappeared and returned a moment later with a revolver in her hand, the smooth wood on the gun’s grip protruding past her pinkie finger.

  Dan’s eyes dipped and then slowly rose again to meet Candice’s. He hoped his deliberate movement let Candice know he was fully aware of the weapon.

  Candice shrugged her shoulders. “You look honest and all, but around here, you can never tell. You still want to talk?”

  “I do.”

  Candice nodded and opened the door. Dan entered the living room. He kept his hands visible and moved slowly.

  “You can sit on the sofa.”

  Dan did as suggested. “I’m sorry about your sister. I met her the other night at the restaurant. She seemed real nice. Real kind.”

  “My momma is a mess. She’s got diabetes and a bad heart. She’s over at the hospital now. Been back and forth all morning. I’m going to pick up her up in a little while.”

  “Are you the designated driver?”

  “My momma hasn’t driven in so long, I can’t remember. Nerve damage in her legs from diabetes. Carla used to drive, then she started having seizures. They let you slide on the first one. But after a couple more seizures, they took her driver’s license away. I’ve been driving Momma to the doctor and the grocery store. Sometimes I drive Carla to work. I’m working nights now, myself, so Carla has been taking the bus back.”

  “Were you here when the police came?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know what they asked?”

  “They wanted to know if Carla is having any problems. Asked if either Momma or me had seen anything strange.”

  “What did your mom say?”

  “Probably nothing. Carla works and takes care of Momma. That’s all she does.”

  “Do you live here, too?”

  “Now I do. I moved out a couple years ago but I came back in the summer. Just couldn’t afford rent on my own. We have three bedrooms. Me, Momma, and Carla. It’s all right.”

  Dan looked across the room at the shelves in the corner. Photographs littered each shelf, picture frames climbing and clawing over one another.

  “You mind if I take a look at the photographs?”

  “Not if you don’t mind me sitting in this chair with this gun in my lap.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Dan stood and again moved slowly and deliberately to the shelf in the corner. There was a picture of Carla in her prom dress, a purple gown that touched the floor. A young man in a tuxedo stood next to her with a broad smile.

  “Who’s the guy in the photo?”

  “Jerome Watkins. Everyone called him Jay. Sometime after high school people started calling him Jelly. Then Jelly Donut. After that, JD.”

  “What do they call him now?”

  “Dead.”

  “I like JD better,” Dan replied. “What did he die of?”

  Candice shrugged her shoulders. “Died of the same thing every other decent guy dies of around here. Bad friends. Wrong place, wrong time. Bad dope.”

  Dan eyeballed another shelf of photos as Candice watched him.

  “My mom said the cops think it might not be an accident. What happened to Carla. They said at first they thought maybe she had a seizure. Maybe she fell off the sidewalk. But Momma said the white female detective was having different thoughts.”

  “I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “You going to find who’s responsible?”

  Dan rubbed the back of his head and the lump that was still pulsating slightly. “I’m going to do my best.”

  Dan turned around to look at Candice. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her hands caressed the revolver in her lap.

  Dan took a box of tissues off the small coffee table and handed it to Candice. He turned slowly back towards the photos before raising his eyes to the rest of the room. He took inventory of the TV, the DVR, and the phone in the corner. He looked over his shoulder and eyed the kitchen and its appliances.

  Candice watched as Dan eyeballed the interior of the home. “You see anything you like?”

  “Just looking around. Is your sister dating anyone?”

  “No.”

  “What about an old boyfriend? Anyone since Jelly Donut?”

  “She had a couple of no-goods here and there. Probably a man or two I didn’t know about. I mean, Carla is a woman. She gets the itch every now and then.”

  “Nothing steady?”

  “Nah. Carla and me don’t bring boys around the house. Momma is just too hard on dates. You could bring Obama in here and she would tell you he ain’t good enough for her girls.”

  “You ever hang out with any of these no-goods, as you put it?”

  “Every once in a while. If they stuck around long enough.”

  “How many of them stuck around long enough?”

  “Not too many. But like I said, she doesn’t introduce most of them to me or Momma. A while back I think she was dating a guy named T-Daddy.”

  “T-Daddy?”

  “I never met him. Not sure what his real name is. I heard her talk about him on the phone. Might have been an older guy. Talked about how T-Daddy had given her a few things.”

  “Anything suspicious in her life you want to tell me that maybe your mother didn’t tell the cops?”

  “Nope.”

  Dan reached into his pocket and produced a business card. He handed the card to Candice, who read it and then put it on the table.

  “How about giving me a call if you think of anything?”

  Chapter 27

  His name was Angel and he was no good. He had lost all goodness before he realized he had had any. A lifetime ago. An exotic, lucrative, but equally soul-damning lifetime ago. Yet Angel was at peace. For him, there would be no redemption. No rehabilitation. Hell was his final stop. And his certainty in his own damnation made life bearable. He didn’t fret over the future. It had been decided. He slept well and looked in the mirror without flinching. There were no visions of spiritual grandeur. All had been vacated.

  Angel sat on the sofa in the living room of the simple rambler, a hundred yards from the two-lane county road just outside of Warrenton, Virginia. The long gravel driveway leading to the house was in need of another load of rocks, most of the initial layer consumed by the earth over time. With five acres of undeveloped forest surrounding the house, the location was perfect for the homeowner and his sole roommate: a large Rottweiler named Peso with a physique and growl that scared away most visitors. The few guests that did make it to the door never realized the real danger was not the dog, but its owner.

  From his position on the sofa, short stacks of white paper filled the coffee table in front of him. On the corner of the table, a half-empty glass of scotch stood next to a nearly full bottle. A large plastic canister of canine jerky treats rested on the sofa cushion next to him. Angel twisted the top off the jar and tossed a jerky treat into the air. Peso’s large mouth slapped together in a mix of powerful muscles and dog slobber.

  “Are you ready to get to work?” Angel asked Peso. The ninety-pound canine responded with a single bark as if she understood she was being beckoned.

  Angel picked up the top piece of paper from one of the short stacks and started reading out loud. “First up is Katherine Hyde. A
ge forty-one. Stage four breast cancer. Estimated longevity less than five months. She works in a plumbing supply office. Makes forty grand a year. Has two children. No husband. No ex-husband. Last intel on the father showed him shacked up with a casino card dealer outside of Vegas. No known life insurance policy. No known religious affiliation.”

  Angel turned towards Peso and tossed the dog another jerky treat. “I see potential. No insurance and no religious affiliation. That’s always good. We certainly don’t need any churchgoers, now do we, girl?” Angel asked. Peso again responded with a single bark.

  “Yes, Peso, she is a strong candidate. Let’s call her ‘Killer Katherine.’ A little more vetting and we may have a winner, here.”

  Another jerky treat. Another bark. Angel reached for his glass of scotch and took a sip.

  “Next up, we have Sarah Turner. We’ll call her Sniper Sarah. Another case of stage four breast cancer. Nasty stuff, this breast cancer. Doctors really need to find a cure, don’t you think, Peso?”

  Another bark of agreement.

  “Sniper Sarah is the mother of one. Has a single surviving family member, a brother in Utah who has joined a radical, end-of-the-world religious sect. She is currently working at a day care center in Maryland. No baby daddy mentioned anywhere in her child’s birth records. She has competed in several half-marathons, according to her Facebook page. That’s good. Physical condition is very important. It leaves open more possibilities for planning and execution…”

  An hour later, the stacks of white paper had been whittled down to three finalists. Angel shoved the unchosen dossiers through the paper shredder and then threw handfuls of the paper strips onto the logs in the fireplace. Peso was asleep on the floor next to the sofa, satiated by three-dozen jerky treats and exhausted from voicing her opinion.

  *

  Angel turned on the TV in the corner of the room and found the DVR menu. He checked to be sure the news had been recorded and clicked on NBC to start his news scan for the evening. He finished his fourth glass of scotch and poured another. He ran through the playback of the news broadcast, switched to FOX, and became excited when he saw the breaking update from News 5 at 5. The image of the red Circulator bus and the caption on the bottom of screen told Angel all he needed to know. By the time the newscaster confirmed the death of a waitress standing in a bus line on her way home, Angel had walked to the desk in the corner of the living room and removed a mobile phone and a plastic bag full of SIM cards. He shoved a new SIM card into the back of the phone, waited for the service to initiate, and then sent a text.