Authors: Michael Brandman

Killing the Blues (6 page)

BOOK: Killing the Blues

6.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

He exercised caution before entering the house. Rollo Nurse caution, he deemed it. He carefully walked the perimeter. He determined that it hadn't been invaded. He opened the door and went inside.

“You can't be too careful these days,” he said, to no one in particular.

He placed his gun on the kitchen counter, then went directly to the cupboard and took down a can of cat food. After emptying the contents into a bowl, he turned the porch lights on and stepped outside.

He picked up the empty bowl and replaced it with the full one. He turned to go back inside but suddenly stopped.

Sitting on the love seat, staring at him, was the cat. Jesse stood frozen in his tracks.

“I'm Jesse,” he said to the cat.

The cat didn't say anything.

“I'll just step inside now,” Jesse said, as he walked gingerly toward the French doors.

Although it didn't attempt a getaway, the cat remained on alert.

Once inside, Jesse watched it jump off the love seat, saunter casually to the dish, crouch down, and eat.

Jesse smiled.

He forced himself to climb the stairs. He lay down on the bed fully clothed. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

T
he Greyhound bus arrived in Boston on schedule. Rollo Nurse collected his things, stepped off the bus, and went inside the depot.

The Paradise bus wasn't scheduled to leave for another hour. Rollo bought a copy of the
Paradise Daily News
and sat down to study it. He leafed immediately to the “Rooms for Rent” section in the classifieds.

“Room to let in private home” caught his attention. “Walking distance to downtown. Nonsmoking. Clean. Quiet. Private bath. Contact Agatha Miller.” It listed a number.

Rollo placed the call from one of the depot's decrepit phone booths. It was the voice of an older person that answered.

“Hello,” she said.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?”

“This is Miss Miller.”

“Miss Miller,” Rollo said. “My name is Donald Johnson. I saw your ad in the paper. Is the room still for rent?”

“It is still for rent. Yes.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and twenty-five dollars per week. It also comes with a refrigerator.”

“Can I see it?”

“What?”

“Can I see the room?”

“You may.”

“Can I see it this afternoon? I could move in right away.”

“You say you want to move in today?”

“Yeah.”

“I see. What time were you thinking?”

“Around three o'clock.”

“Very well, Mr. . . .”

“Johnson,” Rollo said.

“Johnson. Yes. I forgot,” Miss Miller said. “The address is Twenty-four Compton Street. I'll be awaiting your visit. Three o'clock.”

“Yeah,” Rollo said. He hung up.

T
he bus pulled into its slot in front of the Paradise Harbor Ferry Terminal. Rollo was the first to get off. He picked up his bag and went inside.

He bought a Paradise street map at the newsstand. He paid for it, got himself a coffee, and sat down to study the map.

He located Compton Street and traced the walking route from the terminal. He estimated he could make it in less than an hour. Although he would arrive earlier than expected, he set out immediately.

Compton turned out to be more of a lane than an actual street, barely wide enough to accommodate two cars. There were a total of six homes on Compton Street.

Two were grand-style New England Colonials, each set on acre-plus lots, each in pristine condition. There was a slightly run-down Cape Cod, a colorful split-level, and a pair of two-story Craftsman houses. The mature plantings and lush foliage lent the neighborhood a quaint, woodsy flavor.

The Miller house was one of the Craftsmans. It was carefully tended but weathered, sitting in the middle of a small lot. Rollo knocked on the door.

He heard the sound of footsteps, and then an elderly woman peered through the curtains.

“Yes,” the woman said.

“Donald Johnson,” Rollo said.

“Oh. Mr. Johnson. You're early.” She opened the door.

“Yeah,” he said.

The woman, who wore spectacles with thick lenses, gave Rollo the once-over. Despite some misgivings regarding his unsightly appearance, she stood back and allowed him to enter.

“It's nice here,” Rollo said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I grew up in this house. My father built it himself.”

“You live here alone?”

“Ever since my sister passed.”

She showed Rollo to a small first-floor bedroom, situated at the rear of the house, at one time a maid's quarters. As advertised, it was clean, had a half-sized refrigerator and a small private bath.

She showed him the rest of the ground floor, explaining that the upstairs would be off-limits to him. He was, however, welcome to use the kitchen. He would also have use of the sitting room and TV. The backyard would be his to enjoy as well.

She asked if he might like to join her in a cup of tea.

As she stood filling the kettle, Rollo sat gazing at the kitchen with its paintings of dogs, decorative ceramic tiles, and colorful floral arrangements.

“You garden,” he said.

“Why, yes. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“I like flowers. These ones are very nice. Maybe you could put some in my room.”

“That's certainly possible,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'd like that.”

She served the tea. She placed a jar of honey on the table. She brought out a box of Social Tea biscuits. She put some on a dish, which she set down in front of him.

“Help yourself,” she said.

Rollo sipped his tea and ate several of the biscuits.

“This is nice,” he said. “Thanks.”

“What brings you to Paradise, Mr. Johnson?”

“Summer,” he said.

“A vacation?”

“A vacation from Kansas.”

“You're from Kansas?”

“Yeah.”

“And you'll be doing . . .”

“Mostly, I'll be reading,” he said. “Studying the Bible.”

“I envy you your reading,” Miss Miller said. “Ever since this macular thing got me, my reading has been severely curtailed.”

“That's too bad,” Rollo said.

Agatha Miller looked closely at him. She found his off-putting appearance and his coarseness unsettling.

“Have you any references, Mr. Johnson? You see, as a woman alone . . .”

“I don't have any, no. I never thought I'd need any,” Rollo said. “See, I was planning to stay at a residence hotel. Then I saw your ad. I'll leave now, if you want.”

Rollo waited for her answer. There would be consequences if she said he had to leave. He looked inward, listening for the voices, waiting for possible instruction.

Agatha Miller considered the prospect of giving up the only rental opportunity that had, to date, presented itself.

In the end, she overcame her reservations and surrendered to commerce. She needed the money.

“That won't be necessary, Mr. Johnson. I'm sure we can work something out.”

Relieved, Rollo said, “That's good.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You're very welcome, Mr. Johnson.”

“Call me Donnie,” Rollo said.

M
olly left the Civic in roughly the same spot. Peter Perkins sat in his Chevy. Jesse was in his Explorer.

The time passed slowly. Jesse was forced to consider the possibility that the parking-lot murder had caused the crime ring to go to ground.

Then he became aware of the presence of a black BMW sedan. It had already circled the parking lot once and was in the process of doing so again.

Jesse noticed Perkins slide lower in his seat.

In the Explorer, Jesse picked up a newspaper and held it as though he was reading.

The BMW circled the lot for a third time, then slowly descended on the Civic. It pulled to a stop. After several moments, the passenger door opened and a smallish, wiry-looking man got out. The BMW drove away.

The wiry man produced a thin plastic sleeve, which he inserted between the window and the door frame on the driver's side of the Civic. Within seconds the door was unlocked and the wiry man was inside the car.

He took a pair of screwdrivers from his tool kit. He used them to remove the center console. He leaned over and reached inside with both hands. He fidgeted for several seconds. The Civic roared to life.

The man readjusted himself in the driver's seat. He looked around to make certain no one was watching. Then he pulled out and drove away.

Peter Perkins took up his position as the lead pursuit vehicle. After allowing the Civic a brief head start, he followed.

After several moments, Jesse pulled the Explorer into the traffic flow. He was a dozen car lengths behind Perkins, who was perhaps six or seven lengths behind the Civic.

The Civic drove east on Paradise Boulevard. At Beach Road, it turned left, heading away from town. Merging with other traffic, Perkins lagged far enough behind so as not to alert the driver to the fact he was being followed.

Jesse lagged even farther behind. He called Perkins.

“That you, Jesse?”

“Yes. Make the turnoff as we planned. Did you call in the BMW?”

“I did.”

“That's good police work, Pete.”

“Thanks, Jesse. Go get 'em.”

About a mile up the road, Perkins turned left and abandoned the pursuit. Jesse continued to follow the BMW.

When it reached Paradise Highway, the Civic transitioned onto it, heading north. Jesse slowed and made the same transition.

Fewer cars were now on the road. Instinctively, Jesse dropped farther back so as to barely appear in the Civic's rearview mirror.

They drove like this for twenty or so miles. Then the Civic turned onto Orchard Road with Jesse a safe distance behind.

Orchard was a rural two-lane highway. It ran through a heavily wooded area that was home to a number of farms that were set far back from the road.

Jesse lost sight of the Civic. He slowed and paid particular attention to each driveway he passed. He spotted the tail end of the Civic only moments before it disappeared around the bend of a rutted pathway. He kept going.

He pulled the Explorer to the side of the road about threetenths of a mile farther on. There was no other traffic. He turned off the engine and called Perkins.

“Track me, Pete,” Jesse said. “The device is activated. When you find the Explorer, park behind it. Alert the troops, as we discussed. If I don't turn up before winter, come find me.”

Jesse got out of the Explorer. He strapped on his service belt and proceeded on foot toward the pathway.

J
esse stayed close to the shrubbery growing on both sides of the rutted driveway. He moved cautiously, stopping frequently to listen. From a distance he could discern the high-pitched whine of heavy equipment.

He had traveled about a hundred yards when the driveway widened into an open field. Jesse inched closer to the brush and edged his way along the perimeter of the field.

Ten yards ahead, he spotted an unpainted barnlike structure with a corrugated metal roof and heavy-duty double doors at each end. The BMW was parked in front.

Inside the structure stood a hydraulic lift, the kind usually found in a mechanic's garage. The Civic sat atop the lift. Fluid was being funneled from the car into a giant drum. The seats lay on the ground, having been separated from the body of the car.

From his concealed vantage point Jesse could see that there was no one in the barn. The only sound was that of the fluids as they flowed from the Civic. He worked his way closer.

From a door located on the far wall of the barn, the wiry man suddenly emerged and headed for the lift. He checked the progress of the fluid drip, then turned his attention to the seats. He covered his eyes with goggles and switched on an electric saw. He began to remove the seats from their frame.

Jesse watched for several minutes. The noise of the saw was deafening. He decided to use it as cover.

He removed the truncheon from his service belt. When he was certain that he wasn't in the wiry man's line of sight, he crawled from the bushes and sprinted toward him.

In a sudden explosion of force, Jesse hammered the truncheon into the back of the wiry man's head. He dropped the saw and pitched forward.

Jesse carefully kicked the saw away. He returned the truncheon to his belt. He grabbed the fallen man and dragged him outside.

BOOK: Killing the Blues

6.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads